“Someone would have to tell him, then,” Laurent said, and turned on his heel to walk smartly away. He always did need to have the last word.
Charon looked to the sky. The sun was already setting. That didn’t give him long before the barricades at the gates would close to people leaving the harbor. He’d passed the Last Willow Inn about half an hour’s walk to the harbor. A fast horse could get him to the next village by midnight, where he could trade for a new one. If he were lucky, he could make it to Duciel in time for the wedding. Whether Yves would listen was another matter.
Charon set down his tools where the others would find them, rolled back the sleeves of his white linen shirt, and made for the harbor gates.
Three days before the wedding, Yves’ family returned to Duciel.
They came with a stream of visitors eager to attend the strangest retirement party of a courtesan’s career, eyeing the banners and ribbons blanketing the Pleasure District with a mix of confusion and delight. Yves invited Sunny and Harriet to the opera with Raul, and his mother surprised them all by asking to come. She sat between Yves and Raul while Sunny stared in awe at the singers below, and even bought Sunny an engraved woodcut of a scene from the opera. Yves could tell by the hard line of her mouth that she was trying to do better by them, evenif she clearly still didn’t seem to like the idea of Sunny yearning for the city.
Yves hugged her awkwardly as they left the opera. “This’ll be all Sunny talks about for years,” he said.
“Oh, I’m certain.” Sybil sighed. “That man, Raul. Heisnice…”
Yves leaned in closer, watching Raul and Harriet listen to Sunny babble about the opera with slightly dazed expressions.
“But is nice enough?” she asked.
Raul nodded thoughtfully as Sunny showed him the woodcut, and Harriet gave Yves a reassuring smile.
“I don’t know,” Yves said. “I suppose he’ll have to be.”
Charon traded his second horse at a small village with nothing more than a mill, a wheat farm, and a collection of small houses huddled around the creek. He hadn’t slept more than an hour or two, and his boots were thick with mud from the road, but exhaustion had turned to a heady burst of energy that carried him down the overgrown lane and through the village. One of the farmers who worked the fields stopped to offer him water, and Charon looked at the proffered cup for a few seconds before he realized what it was. He downed it at once and handed it back, and the farmer looked up at him with a worried frown.
“What’s happening?” she asked. “Is it news from the harbor?”
“No,” Charon said. “Nothing like that.” He caught her eager look, and an impulse took hold of his weary mind. “The man I love is getting married in three days.”
“What?” She turned to look back at the other farmhands working the fields. “And you’re…”
“Trying to stop the wedding,” Charon said, “if I can get to Duciel in time.”
The farmer gazed up at him, holding the cup tight in both hands. “If you go to Riversedge, my cousin Lou has the fastest mail cart in Staria. I bet he can get you halfway to Duciel faster than buying another horse. Just tell him Quinn sent you.”
“Thank you,” Charon said. Quinn shrugged and looked down, a blush rising on her cheeks.
“Well,” she said, “it’s the least I can do. I hope you get there, sir.”
“So do I,” Charon said, and urged the horse toward the sloping valleys beyond.
Two days before the wedding, the king invited Yves to tea.
“I’m glad you could come on such short notice,” he said. King Adrien wasn’t as magnificent in person as his portraits and mosaics made him out to be. Yves had seen him plenty of times in passing—it was simply a consequence of knowing Sabre, who’d been practically a brother to Adrien for most of their lives—but he hadn’t really had a proper conversation with the man. Up close, he was just another submissive, excepthehad the power to destroy half of Staria with one wrong decree. Yves didn’t think he would have the stomach for that kind of responsibility, personally. Adrien had to be more ambitious than a courtesan to actually want that life.
“If I passed this up, I think half the Pleasure District would kill me,” Yves said. He tried not to pick at the pastry on his plate and looked down at the teacup on the tray beside him. “Is that from Katoikos?”
“What? Oh, the teacup? No.” Adrien lifted his and examined it, trying to find the pattern stamped on the inside. “It’s from Arktos. They keep bees in the south, and a diplomatic envoy sent this set with a cart of honey. It’s a rare delicacy there, I believe. I remember Charon—you know Charon. He worked with you, didn’t he?”
Yves’ stomach lurched. “Y-yes, he did.”
“I spoke with him about it once,” Adrien said. He set down the teacup. “He seemed rather fond of honey himself. Do you know if he was truly an Arkoudai?”
“Was?” Yves cleared his throat and took a hurried sip of his tea.
“Sabre said something odd when he left for crown business earlier,” Adrien said. “Something about you both leaving the House of Onyx at the same time. That’s a spot of bad luck for old Laurent, isn’t it?” His eyes twinkled with good-natured humor, but Yves couldn’t even muster a smile.
“Yes,” he said, into the rim of his cup. “Bad luck indeed.”
“Good for you, though,” Adrien said, looking into his teacup. He hummed softly to himself in the uncomfortable silence. “You’re the hero of the hour, it seems, and you’ve found quite a match for yourself. You must truly love this man to leave Duciel at the height of your popularity.”
