Lust And Power

The invitation had left a red crescent in Mara Voss’s palm by the time the carriage stopped before Blackwater House.

Its wax seal - an eye split by a silver line - had pressed through the glove she wore for the occasion. Beyond the window, Larkhaven climbed in terraces toward the sea, its wet streets shining beneath gas lamps. Blackwater House occupied the highest terrace, where the city’s oldest families had built their mansions to look down upon the harbor and everyone who worked it.

A footman opened the door.

“Miss Voss.”

Mara stepped into the rain.

The invitation had forbidden her name from the guest list. It had promised entrance through the eastern gate, no escort, no questions. It had also carried a sentence written in a hand she had not seen in eleven years.

Come if you want the truth about the Voss fire.

She had come.

Her boots struck the marble steps. Music drifted through the open doors, strings playing something soft and expensive. Candlelight trembled in every window. Men in black coats and women in silk moved behind the glass like figures in a lantern theater.

At the top of the stairs, a woman in a pearl mask held out her hand.

“Invitation.”

Mara gave it to her.

The woman examined the seal, then Mara’s face. “You are expected.”

“By whom?”

The mask tilted. “That is the first question everyone asks.”

“And the answer?”

“By the person who sent it.”

The woman returned the card and stepped aside.

Mara entered the gala.

Heat brushed her cheeks. Hundreds of candles burned in silver branches along the walls, their flames bending whenever the doors opened to the sea wind. The mansion had been built around a central hall with black-and-white floors, carved balconies, and a staircase that split in two beneath a painted ceiling. Every surface gleamed. Every guest seemed to know where to stand.

Mara did not.

She kept one hand on the small velvet purse at her hip. Inside lay a narrow knife, a folded photograph, and the invitation. The photograph showed her father outside the Voss countinghouse the night before the fire. Beside him stood a younger version of the gala’s host, Lucien Vale.

Lucien Vale, merchant prince, patron of judges, owner of half the harbor’s warehouses.

The man who had vanished from Larkhaven the morning after Mara’s family burned.

She had spent three months tracing his return through shipping records and whispered names. Then the invitation had appeared beneath her door.

Now she had to get close enough to ask why he had summoned her.

A waiter passed with champagne. Mara took a glass, though she did not drink. The crystal was cold against her fingers.

“Miss Voss?”

She turned.

A tall man with a narrow face stood beside a pillar. His smile was polished, but his eyes moved over her dress, her gloves, the line of her shoulders.

“Forgive me,” he said. “I am Lord Arlen Fitch.”

“I have not heard of you.”

“Then I have failed at being important.”

“Perhaps you have succeeded.”

His smile tightened. “You have your father’s tongue.”

Mara set the untouched champagne on a passing tray. “Did you know him?”

“Everyone knew Adrian Voss.”

“They knew his name.”

“And his debts.”

The music continued behind them. A violinist drew a bright, thin note that seemed to scrape across Mara’s skin.

Fitch leaned closer. “It is unwise to speak of the dead at Blackwater.”

“My father is not dead.”

“No?” His gaze flicked toward the upper balcony. “That is not what the city believes.”

Before Mara could answer, a bell rang once from somewhere above. Conversations softened. Guests turned toward the staircase.

Lucien Vale appeared at the top.

He wore no mask. His hair was silver at the temples, his black evening coat cut close to a body that had not yet surrendered to age. A ruby fastened his collar. He rested one hand on the banister and surveyed the room with the calm of a man inspecting property.

Then his gaze found Mara.

The crowd seemed to shift around her.

Vale descended slowly. He did not hurry because no one in the room expected him to. When he reached the floor, a woman in emerald silk touched his arm and whispered something. He ignored her.

“Miss Voss,” he said.

His voice was lower than she remembered. She had heard it once through a half-open office door, on the night of the fire. She had been sixteen, hiding beneath the countinghouse stairs while her father shouted at someone.

Vale had said, You promised me the ledger.

Mara’s fingers tightened around the velvet purse.

“Mr. Vale.”

A flicker passed through his eyes. Recognition, satisfaction, perhaps both.

“You came.”

“You invited me.”

“I did.”

“Why?”

“Because you asked the question before you arrived.”

Mara looked around the hall. Faces had turned away, but ears remained angled toward them. Surveillance did not always require hidden lenses or hired men. Sometimes it wore diamonds and pretended to be bored.

“I want a private conversation,” she said.

Vale smiled. “Everyone wants something private at a gala.”

...