Excerpt

The Ducomte uncurled from the chair, an imposing figure as he stood against the soft light of the dying fire. He held out something that Velody barely recognised at first, a scrap of silk and mesh and embroidered ribbon with a few glum petals and stalks still clinging to it. In the pale bronze light, it was hard to tell that it was supposed to be pink.

She stared at him, suddenly furious. 'Why did you have to ruin that dress?'

He laughed, and the sound of it hummed under her skin. 'Sit down,' he said, almost like the polite gentleman he was trained to be. 'We need to talk.'

It occurred to Velody — a strange, sourceless thought — that he had not stood to intimidate her, but because a lady had entered the room. He would sit again if she did. The thought of sinking into the other chair by the fire terrified her. She reached out to the shelves where she kept her tools in careful order and located a pair of sharp shears by touch alone.

The Ducomte lifted his brow a little at the weapon, but gestured to the seat opposite him. Velody climbed into the chair like a tense animal, her feet coiled under her to spring and flee at any moment, the shears tightly gripped in one hand. 'What do you want?'

'I want to know whose hands made the dress,' he said in a low, almost charming growl. 'I think it was you, but perhaps not only you?'

Velody was tempted to lie, to say that only her hands had touched the gown, but she had an awful feeling that perhaps he could smell a lie.

'There were three of us,' she said. 'I designed it and made the basic garment, the others stitched on the ribbons and wound in the roses.'

'Three of you,' he said with something like a smile. 'Only one of you is a King though. Which is male — the ribboner or the florister?'

Velody almost laughed in surprise, but the intensity of his gaze told her he was serious. 'None of us. We're all demoiselles. I don't think any male hands touched the dress except for the courier's. And yours.'

He tilted his head to one side. 'You saw my little show today.'

'Yes.'

He held out the sad little scrap of pink fabric. 'Did it pain you when I ripped this from her body?'

'Yes,' said Velody. She gripped the shears so hard that the little curved handles bit into the softest part of her palm.

'Where is the King you are hiding?'

'I don't know any Kings.'

The term made no sense to her — Aufleur had always been a city of Ducs and Duchessas. There were Kings and Queens in fairytales — particularly those of Islandser lore — and some of the festival rituals, but she had never heard the word used of actual people.

'He may not know he is a King. There have been sleepers before, who rose through the ranks without tasting the power they held, who quenched the dead without knowing what they did. It bleeds into everything he makes, everything he touches.' The Ducomte's eyes flicked around the room. 'Where are you hiding him, this King of yours?'

'There are no men here,' she said again. What if he tried to search the place? If he didn't believe her now, what could she possibly say to convince him that she told the truth? 'I told you, we don't allow men in the house. Rhian — my friend is afraid of them. You have to go.'

'A pretty story,' he said, dismissing it as irrelevant. 'Is your friend home? Perhaps I should ask her.'

'No!' Velody sat up angrily, glaring at him. 'You won't speak to her, you won't touch her. I won't allow it.'

The Ducomte moved like a cat in a long, sleek leap that had him on top of her, his body covering hers in the armchair. Velody jabbed the shears upwards, but he grabbed her hand and twisted it hard, removing the weapon and tossing it to the floor in a clatter. His face was close to hers, his body pressing her forcefully into the chair.

'You won't allow? I am a Creature King. I do what I like.' He was so close that he purred the words into her skin.

He smelled of cat fur and wood oil and tavern smoke. Velody willed herself not to panic, not to move, not to give him any reason to hurt her. This is how Rhian felt, she thought desperately. This is how she feels all the time.

'If you are a King,' Velody whispered, 'why do you need another?'

The Ducomte smiled down at her as if she had said something clever. 'Garnet's dead. If I can't find another King, they'll make me be the monster. I can't do it. I don't want to do it. I'll make a worse monster than he ever did. But the dress — the dress was made by a King, and I don't make dresses, so someone is lying to me.' He arched his back, leaning away from her even as his deep, dark eyes roamed her face. 'Do you want me to be the monster?'

Did he realise he was speaking gibberish, that his words meant nothing to her? 'I don't want anyone to be a monster,' said Velody. 'Why does anyone have to be the monster?'

The Ducomte crowed like a rooster, bouncing back and away from her. On his feet, he paced the room smartly, round and round, his boots slapping the floor. He spoke rapidly, as if the ideas were coming too fast for his mouth to keep up with.

'There's always a monster — lots of monsters, in truth, but the Power and Majesty has the sharpest teeth and the sharpest bite. Ortheus was the great serpent, thunder and fur and pain, and others came close — came close, but none of them were monster enough. Tasha wanted one of her boys to be King, but she over-reached herself there, and then — and then, and then — and then there was Garnet, the bright-eyed boy, the hardest, fastest monster of them all.' He whirled on Velody, a strange intensity in his face. 'I hope your King is a better monster than Garnet. For all of our sakes.'

It was making no sense, and his speech was such a tumble that Velody wasn't even sure she was getting all the words. Garnets, he talked about garnets in the parade, and that does sound familiar, like something I dreamed once... is Garnet a person?

'Where did your scars go?' she asked.

'Saw them, did you?' replied the Ducomte. 'What a spectacle — a whole parade to witness Garnet's last little joke. He carved them into me, and then he took them away when he gave me my soul back. Damned fool never could make up his mind.' He snapped his fingers so quickly that Velody jumped. 'Did he make anything else?'

'Who?'

'Your tailor King, the dressmaker boy you're hiding under your skirts.' The Ducomte flung open a cupboard and started rummaging inside. 'What else did he make?'

Velody said nothing, afraid of angering him further.

Truth wasn't helping — but what was the right kind of lie to make him leave?

'Aha!' The Ducomte found the chest in the corner and threw it open. It was full of clothing that she had never sold, a few half-made patterns jumbled up with fully finished garments. He leaned over and buried his arms in the chest, embracing the fabrics. 'Marvellous. I can feel him here in every stitch. A rare gift, something made by a King. You have such a wealth of it.' He turned and stared over his shoulder at Velody. 'He must love you, or trust you, very much.'

'I made them,' she said quietly. 'Those are mine.'

The Ducomte looked intently at her. 'You lie very well. I like you anyway. Can I have this?' He was holding a half- finished shirt of black cotton, the collar and cuffs not yet attached, the hem trailing threads.

'If you like,' said Velody. She hadn't finished that piece because Delphine dripped candlewax on it and left a mark. Take anything in this house that you want as long as you do not set foot on those stairs.

The Ducomte grinned at her with all his teeth and unpeeled his limp white festival tunic, buttoning on the black garment instead. It suited him, although the white trousers now looked even more hopelessly out of place.

'There are breeches of all sizes in that trunk,' she volunteered, pointing to her samples chest in the far corner of the workshop. She hadn't taken on a male client in the last year, preferring to work with female customers for Rhian's sake.

The mad Ducomte was quite delighted with this treasure trove, examining and dismissing a dozen pairs before he found the breeches he liked, black like the shirt and close enough to his size. Velody winced when she saw they were the one pair made of leather — expensive stuff from a failed experiment in theatrical costuming. She had planned to re-use the material. Still, if it kept him calm...

The Ducomte pulled off his boots and trousers without a hint of shame. Velody found herself looking away out of politeness. He's a trespasser, she scolded herself. You should take this opportunity to wallop him over the head with a firedog, not sit here blushing about his state of undress!

When he turned, clad entirely in black, the Ducomte was more poised and calm than before. 'These clothes are powerful. I can taste him in every stitch.'

Velody gazed at the proud figure that he made, so different to the tortured, broken man on the Floralia pavilion. 'I can't tell you anything else. I don't have the information you need.'

'Do you not?' The Ducomte padded barefoot towards her, ignoring the abandoned white boots that no longer matched his clothes.

Vain, Velody thought, wondering how she could use that against him. She straightened her back as he approached her, refusing to huddle in the chair like a victim. 'I want you to leave.'

He stood over her, his body tall and unyielding. 'You haven't yet told me what I want to know.'

'I don't know anything!' she exploded. 'None of this makes sense to me — it's just words, half of them in the wrong order, the other half fanciful. I don't know you and I don't know any Kings and you're terrifying me so will you please leave me alone?'

The Ducomte fell to his knees so quickly that she thought he was suffering another attack, but he just knelt there, gazing up at her. From this angle, he was less threatening. Anguish crossed his face. 'Am I already a monster?' he asked her.

I think you might be, and I'm sorry for it. 'It's not for me to say,' said Velody. 'I'm no expert on monsters.'

He knelt there silently for what seemed like a long time, staring into her eyes. 'I don't want to hurt people,' he said finally, in a voice that suggested but I will if I have to.

Velody moistened her lips, speaking carefully. 'So, don't. Don't hurt people.'

The Ducomte smiled a sad little smile. 'You make it sound easy, little dressmaker.'

He talks like someone I once knew. Doesn't he? Why can't I remember?