Lelou adjusted his glasses. That was usually a warning signal. ‘Virgins? Isn’t that the bait for Unicorns?’ he twanged.
‘Are you now going to teach me treasure hunting?’ Nerron hissed at him. ‘I’m sure you’re as good at dealing with Albian spies as you are at teaching Louis his ancestral history.’
The Bug wanted to retort something, but Louis found his new task as irresistible as Nerron had hoped.
‘I’ll find a virgin for the Goyl.’ His smile was smug, as befitted a prince. ‘But then that head is mine.’
Lelou pressed his thin lips together, and Eaumbre shot Nerron a knowing glance before he followed Louis, but all three disappeared into the narrow alleys, and Jacob Reckless was less than a stone’s throw away.
Nerron hid in an archway opposite the inn, but he had to change his position several times because some upright burgher stopped to stare at him. He was just beginning to pray for a mounted Goyl squadron to sweep through this sleepy street when he saw Reckless step out of the inn with a woman. The colour of her hair left little room for doubt – it was the vixen. Nerron usually didn’t find human women attractive, but she was as beautiful as everybody said. He wondered whether she and Reckless were a pair. What other reason could there be for taking a woman on a treasure hunt, even if she was a shape-shifter? Women were either unfathomable, like the Fairy Kami’en had fallen for, or they were weak, like his own mother, who’d become involved with an onyx and had made her son a bastard. Sometimes you convinced yourself that you loved them, but they could never be trusted, and in the end all one really desired was their amethyst skin. Never mind . . . The vixen turned her horse westwards, while Reckless took the road south. Excellent. Things would be much easier with him on his own.
counting, Jacob.
He took some of Alma’s powder, but his hands were shaking so badly that he spilled most of it.
Damn, damn, damn . . .
Where was Fox? Getting a couple of horses shouldn’t take that long. When there finally was a knock on the door, it was only the landlady’s youngest daughter.
‘Monsieur?’ She had mended his waistcoat. Her hands reverently brushed over the brocade before she handed it to him. The waistcoat had been a gift from the Empress, and the girl’s dress had probably been worn by her older sisters before her. Cinderella. Except in this case, the girl’s own mother played the role of the evil stepmother. Jacob had seen how she ordered her youngest about. And here Jacob himself had sold Cinderella’s real glass slipper to the Empress. Maybe Dunbar was right. Jacob could still hear the Fir Darrig’s angry voice in his ear: ‘You treasure hunters are turning the magic of this world into a commodity only the powerful can afford!’
The girl had done her job well, and Jacob put his hand on his gold handkerchief to pay her. The coin that came from it was even thinner than the previous one, but the girl stared at the golden piece as though he had brought her a glass slipper after all. Her hand was rough from cleaning and sewing, but it was as slender as a Fairy’s hand, and she looked at him with such longing, as if he was the prince she’d been waiting for. And why not, Jacob? A little tenderness to fend off death? You’re still alive now. But all he could think of was when Fox would return.
As he opened the door for her, the girl stopped and turned around. ‘Oh, and I found this in your waistcoat, Monsieur.’
Earlking’s card was still spotless white. Except for the words on the back:
FORGET THE HAND, JACOB.
Jacob was still standing there, staring at the card, long after the girl had left. He warmed it between his hands (no, it was not Fairy magic), soaked it in gun oil (the simplest way to detect Silt or Leprechaun spells), and rubbed it with soot to rule out witchcraft. The card stayed perfectly white and kept displaying just those four words: FORGET THE HAND, JACOB. What the hell was that supposed to mean? That the Goyl already had it?
Jacob had seen many writing spells behind the mirror: threats that suddenly appeared on your skin, paper that filled with curses after a wind dropped it in front of your boots, prophecies that carved themselves into the bark of a tree. Gnome, Stilt, or Leprechaun hexes . . . magical pranks filled the air of this world like pollen.
FORGET THE HAND. And then what?
When Fox returned, the landlady was explaining to Jacob how to get to Gargantua. The city had a library that collected everything about the Kings of Lotharaine, and Jacob hoped to find some clues about the hand there – or maybe get news that the Goyl had already been there . . .
He decided not to tell Fox about the moth’s second bite. She looked tired and was strangely absent-minded. When he asked her about it, she claimed it was because of the horses – they weren’t really very good. Saint-Riquet was more the place to buy good sheep. Still, Jacob sensed there was something else on her mind. He knew her as well as she knew him.
‘Come on, tell me. What’s the matter?’
She avoided his eyes.
‘My mother lives not far from here. I was wondering how she’s doing.’
That wasn’t all, but Jacob didn’t press her any further. There’d always been a tacit understanding between them to respect each other’s secrets, an agreement that the past was a land they both didn’t care to visit.
‘It’s not a big detour. I could meet you in Gargantua tonight.’
For a split second, he wanted to ask her to stay with him. What’s the matter with you, Jacob? And of course he didn’t. It was bad enough that he himself had never gone to see his mother until it was too late. It had been all too easy to pretend she’d always be there, just like the old house and the apartment full of old ghosts.
‘Sure,’ he said. ‘I’ll be in the hotel right by the library. Or do you want me to come with you?’
Fox shook her head. She only ever spoke very reluctantly about why she’d left her home. All Jacob knew was that the fur was not the only reason.
‘Thank you,’ she said. ‘But I’d better do this alone.’
Yes. There was more, but her face did not invite Jacob to ask.