Page 12 of The Crimson Throne
No home.
No better prospects.
I’ve got nothing. Truly, deeply. Nothing but this wretched curse wreaking havoc on my body.
I rub my chest, every bit of me aching.
“Come along.”
I blink up, and Cecil’s sliding back in the carriage.
“Samson,” he snaps.
But I hesitate, my skin prickling in a cold breeze. “I—”
“Now.”
Jaw leveling, I haul myself up into the carriage. Cecil tugs the door shut, encases us in shadowy coolness—this’d be awful during the summer months.
A moment later, the carriage starts to move at a steady, swaying pace.
Cecil sends me letters when he’s got a job for me—my ma made sure I could read. Before she was a working girl, she was a lady’s maid, and she wanted me to have a chance of getting out of Southwark. Cecil writes his letters in a code of his, one of the few things he taught me, and when I get whatever item he orders me after, I send a similar letter back. He shows up in Southwark, collects the fae magic, tosses me a payment, then he’s gone.
So sitting in silence, the carriage taking us God knows where, is more unnerving than waiting in the Clink was.
I don’t ask where we’re going though. Don’t so much as drop eye contact.
Cecil’s pale gaze glints at my motionlessness. My nonreactive state. I don’t break for him, and it reminds me with a stab that I got all my lying and manipulating from him. Lord knows my ma, rest her soul, couldn’t have lied her way to a mouthful of water in a downpour. But from the moment I met Cecil, it’s been painfully clear we’re cut from the same cloth.
Every time I lie, every time I hurt people.
It’s all Cecil.
With the luxury of someone who’s soaked in self-importance, he tips his head and, at last, speaks. “Your curse is still causing trouble for you, is it?”
It’s not a question that needs answering.
He nods like I spoke. “How desperate are you to break it?”
My mouth opens, confusion muddling my thoughts, but—
Hope.
Hope makes a sudden firm grip around my throat.
Because if he’s asking that…
I came into contact with one of these damned fae items as a child, just before Ma died. These bloody awful bits of magic are the reason I’ve been floundering to survive even more than normal people in Southwark, the reason I’ve not been able to keep control of myself, the reason I can’ttrustmyself. Because some sneaky little fae imbued magic in an item, and I don’t even know what the item was, and now I’ve got this rage in me that takes over, and I gotta live with it for the rest of my days.
Because that’s how fae magic works. It’s nasty and volatile, digs in like a jagged sword and leaves a scar on your soul. Fae items are rare, so most people don’t know about them, and with good reason; the fewer people interact with fae shit, the better.
“There’s no way to break it,” I say, testing.
Cecil’s lips quirk, but his eyes stay deadened, bored almost. “My contacts have received reports of a fae item that causes people to lose consciousness and attack those around them.”
Heat rises up the back of my neck, spreads out across my face, and I know I’m flushing red; it’s a trigger response, one I always try to keep a tight lid on.
“Where? In Southwark?” Immediately, I recoil. “What’s it matter if we find it though? How could it break what it did to me?”
