Devon De Luda wondered, and not for the first time, if Genevieve Hargrave, the Duchess of Rochelle, was insane.

“Stop! Stop!” she shouted while hammering her fist against the roof of the carriage.

She shot a sharp look his way and commanded, “Make him stop!” Then she pushed her head out of the window and yelled up at the driver, “Rein in those beasts, for Maribor’s sake. Now!”

The coachman must have assumed an emergency, halting the carriage so abruptly that Devon flew against the opposite bench. The moment the wheels stopped, even a bit before, the duchess launched herself out the door and raced away, skirts hiked, heels clacking.

Abandoned and dumbfounded, Devon nursed his banged knee. As ducal cofferer of Rochelle, Devon usually performed duties revolving around coins and notes. He didn’t welcome his newfound responsibility of looking after such an impulsive whirlwind; he preferred an ordered, predictable existence. But nothing had been normal in the city since the new duchess’s arrival.

Maybe she is, at least a touch, mad. It would explain so many things.

Devon considered simply waiting in the carriage, but if anything happened to her, he would be blamed. With a sigh of resignation, he climbed out of the carriage and followed the duchess.

Darkness had settled in early, the spring days still short; like prosperity, the season of rebirth had been slow to arrive in Alburn. The rain had stopped, but an evening mist crept in from the sea, ensuring that everything remained damp. Cobblestones glistened in the light of streetlamps, and the world beyond the carriage smelled of wood, smoke, and fish. A smattering of puddles created an obstacle course for Devon’s new shoes, and as he picked his path through them, he tugged the collar of his coat more tightly around his neck. Inside the carriage, it hadn’t been warm, but the evening’s air was bitterly cold. They were on Vintage Avenue, both sides bordered by reputable three-story mercantile shops. On the curbs, dozens of carts lined the street, where migrants sold a circus of wares. Colorful scarves, embroidered saddles, and fresh-roasted pig were sold side by side. As always, a seedy crowd had gathered in the chaotic hive of commerce—few could afford to do much more than look at the scarves and smell the pig.

The duchess trotted down the line of merchants. She bustled through the crowd, most of whom stopped short and stared in wonderment at this heavyset lady in satin and pearls chugging down the thoroughfare, her heeled shoes clip-clopping as loudly as a horse.

“Milady!” De Luda chased after her. “Where are you going?”

The duchess didn’t pause or slow until she reached a rickety cart holding up a rack of clothes. There she halted, panting, and stared up at the display.

“It’s perfect.” The duchess clapped. “That vest, the one with the satin front and floret pattern. You see it? It’s not my taste at all, you understand, but Leo will love it. The print is so bold and vibrant. And it’s blue! It’ll be exactly what he needs for the Spring Feast. He’ll definitely be noticed in that. No one could wear that vest without standing out.”

Devon had no idea who she was talking to, and perhaps she didn’t, either. With the duchess, it rarely mattered. While Devon spent more time with Her Ladyship than many, he hadn’t seen her often. The duchess sought him out only when she required advice on ducal economics, which had brought them together only a few times—although more often lately as she had embarked on a new endeavor. Even so, a dozen summonses, a few carriage rides, and a talk or two hadn’t provided him enough information to know, much less understand, the new duchess. Devon doubted even the duke understood the actions of his new wife.

“Hullo! You there!” she shouted to the merchant, a dark-skinned Calian with shifty eyes. They all had the same way about them as far as Devon was concerned. Calians were devious savages who dressed in the costumes of cultured society but fooled no one. “Hullo! How much for the vest? That blue one up there on the rack, the one with the shiny brass buttons.”

The man beamed a lecherous grin. “For you, good lady, just two gold tenents.” His voice was thick with an untrustworthy far-eastern accent, every bit what Devon expected—the sort of voice Deceit itself would use.

“Outrageous!” De Luda balked, shuffling up behind her. That was the trouble with these cart-shop merchants: They swindled the innocent and inexperienced. They talked as if unbelievable, once-in-a-lifetime deals were being offered, but later the swindled buyer would discover the diamond was quartz or the wine, vinegar.

“I’ll give you seven silver tenents,” the duchess replied. “Devon, give this man seven silver tenents and—”

The merchant frowned and shook his head. “For seven silver, I have a nice handkerchief for you. For a gold tenent and eight silver, I could part with the vest.”

“Your Ladyship, it’s unseemly for the Duchess of Rochelle to haggle in the street with a—” He scowled at the Calian merchant, who waited for the slur that didn’t come. Normally, De Luda wasn’t shy, but in the past three months, he had discovered that the duchess took issue when people were insulted in her presence, no matter how well deserved the remark.

“I don’t care. Leo will be thrilled, and oh, how I can’t wait to see him in that vest! Don’t you think he’ll look marvelous?” When the merchant lowered the garment from its hook, she spotted a bright-yellow coat that had been hidden behind. “Dear Maribor! Would you look at that jacket? It’s even more divine!”

Grabbing Devon’s arm, she shook it violently, overwhelmed with enthusiasm. This wasn’t the first throttling at her hands, but he knew a firm jostle was infinitely better than a hug. Her hugs were notorious. The duchess passed them out so liberally, and so violently—even to the staff—that many an individual changed course after spotting her in the halls of the Estate.

“I must have them both. Leo’s birthday is coming up, and that jacket will make him feel young again. He’s turning forty, you know, and no one likes crossing that threshold. I nearly cried the morning I turned thirty. Time sneaks up on one, doesn’t it? Pounces like a wicked cat from the shadows when you least expect it. And thirty is a ditch compared with the canyon that is forty. But I don’t have to tell you that, do I? Leo needs the vest and will love that jacket. These are not the garments of a stodgy, no-account, forty-year-old duke; it’s the attire of a young and handsome man whose star is rising.” The duchess glared at the merchant. “One gold, no silver, for both jacket and vest.”

The merchant laid out the vest out on the counter before them, shaking his head. “My dear lady, this is imported silk from eastern Calis, extraordinary workmanship. For months, it rode in a caravan through the panther- and cobra-infested jungles of the dreaded Gur Em.” He accompanied his outlandish tale with hand gestures as if putting on a children’s show, going so far as to reach out with claws when he mentioned the panther. “Many died delivering this rare and beautiful cloth. Only master seamstresses are granted access to such material, for one wrong snip or a misplaced cut could result in a devastating loss. You, of course, appreciate the skill required to create such a masterpiece, so I’ll part with it for one gold, six silver for the vest, and an additional two gold for the coat.”

The duchess ran a pudgy hand over the shimmering material. “I think not, but the bit about the master seamstresses was a nice touch.” She gave him a friendly smile—the only sort she knew how to make. “This is common Vintu silk, farmed in the Calian lowlands along the southern coast of the Ghazel Sea. It sells in Dagastan for five silver dins per yard in any number of thrift shops. But sometimes, in spring mostly, you can find a bundle for four and some change. The parcel this came from was likely imported via the Vandon Spice Company and bought wholesale for three silver a yard and shipped here in less than two weeks as part of their usual rotation. Granted, the VSC likes to add exorbitant markups, and I’m sure that raised the price considerably, but there were no panthers, cobras, or deaths.”

Devon was stunned. Duke Leopold’s new wife, who insisted on being called Genny rather than the more formal Genevieve, was full of surprises—most of them disturbing and more than a little cringeworthy—but the duchess’s command of the mercantile industry was undoubtedly vast.

Still, the Calian didn’t lose a beat. He frowned, spread his hands apart, and shook his head. “I am but a poor merchant. Such a great lady as you won’t even notice the loss of a few pitiful coins. Yet for me, this sale could feed my wife and poor children for weeks.”

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With those words, Devon was certain the Calian had won. The merchant had read the duchess correctly and properly spotted the weakness in her defense.

Genny took a step closer to the man, tilted her head down to eye him squarely, the ever-present smile growing sharper. “This isn’t about money,” she said with a glint in her eye. “We both know that. You’re trying to cheat me, and I’m trying to undercut you. It’s a game we both love. No one can convince you to sell for less than your minimum profit, and you can’t force me to pay more than I’m willing. In this competition, we are equals. You don’t even have a family, do you? If you did, they would be here helping to—”

A commotion cut through the crowd. A small boy, thin and dirty, darted through the throng of shoppers. The waif clutched a loaf of bread to his chest as he skillfully dodged through the forest of legs. The cry had alerted the city guard, and a pair of soldiers caught hold of the kid as he struggled to crawl toward a broken sewer grate. They hauled him up, his legs free and kicking, bare feet black as tar. No more than twelve, he was a wildcat: twisting, jerking, and biting. The guards beat the boy until he lay still on the cobblestone, quietly whimpering.

“Stop!” The duchess charged toward them, hands raised. Being a big woman in a large gown, the duchess was hard to miss, even on busy Vintage Avenue. “Leave that child alone! What are you thinking? You aren’t, are you? No, not thinking at all! Of course not. You don’t beat a starving child. What’s wrong with you? Honestly!”

“He’s a thief,” one of the soldiers said, while the other pulled out a strap of leather and looped one end around the boy’s left wrist. “He’ll lose his hand for this.”

“Let him go!” the duchess shouted, and, taking hold of the child, she wrenched his arm free of the soldier’s loop. “I can’t believe what I’m witnessing. Devon, do you see this? Is this what goes on? Outrageous! Brutalizing and butchering children just because they’re hungry?”

“Yes, Your Ladyship,” Devon answered, “the law states . . . your husband’s law states that a thief forfeits the left hand for the first offense, the right for the second, and his head for the third.”

The duchess stared at him with an expression that could only be described as flabbergasted. “Are you serious? Leo would never be so cruel. Surely the law doesn’t apply to a child.”

“I’m afraid so; there are no exceptions. These men are merely doing their jobs. You really should leave them to it.”

The boy cowered into the skirt of her gown.

The guards reached out and took hold of the lad again.

“Wait!” The duchess stopped them as she spotted a man in a flour-covered apron. “Is this your bread?”

The baker nodded.

“Pay him, Devon.”

“Excuse me?” Devon hesitated.

She planted a hand on her hip and set her jaw. Even though Devon had worked only sporadically with the duchess, he’d learned this meant: You heard me!

Devon sighed, and as he walked toward the baker, he opened his purse. “This doesn’t change the fact that the boy broke the law.”

The duchess pulled herself up to her full height—which was considerable for a man and astounding for a woman. “I asked this boy to fetch me a loaf of bread. He obviously lost the coin I gave him, and since he didn’t want to fail in his assigned duties, he resorted to the only option available. I’m merely replacing the money he lost. Since he was acting on my request, your issue is with me, not him. Please feel free to submit any complaints you might have to the duke. I’m certain my dear husband will do the right thing.”

The baker stared at her for a brief instant. His mouth opened to answer, but survival instincts beat back his tongue.

She looked around at the others. “Anyone else?” She glared at the guards. “No? Well then, good.”

The soldiers scowled, then turned away. While Devon was paying the baker, he heard one of them mutter “Whiskey Wench.” The words were said softly but not quietly enough. The soldier wanted her to hear.

###

The carriage rolled on again with the duchess slumped in her seat. Being a large woman and having little room in the coach, she couldn’t slouch much before her knees pressed against the opposite bench. “Just a child. Can’t they see that? Of course they can, but do they care? Brutes, that’s what they are. They would have cut off that boy’s hand—chopped it off right there on the silk merchant’s stool I suppose. That’s the type of barbarity doled out in this city? Children are crippled because they are starving? That’s no way to run a duchy, and I’m sure Leo doesn’t realize how inappropriately his edicts are being measured out. I’ll talk to him, and he’ll clarify the law. With stupidity like this, it’s no wonder Rochelle is floundering. Such punishment only inflames dissent among a populace. Will the boy be a better citizen with one less hand?”

“Not a boy,” Devon said, rocking beside her as the carriage rolled and the horse’s hooves clattered.

“How’s that?”

“The thief wasn’t a boy, not human, I mean. He’s a mir. Didn’t you notice his pointed ears? He’s likely a member of some criminal organization. That’s how they operate, a colony of rats that haul their catch back to a central nest.”

“We have mir in Colnora, too, Devon. The boy’s heritage doesn’t change a thing. He’s still a destitute, starving child. It’s as simple as that.”

“Simple, you say?” Devon struggled to keep as civil a tongue as the baker had. He would have preferred to point out that it was she who was being a simpleton, but that would be going too far. The duchess often rubbed his fur the wrong way, and as a result, he usually said too much. Fortunately, he’d gotten away with comments that most people in her position would find disrespectful. With anyone else, he might have lost his tongue by now, and it was not without a sense of irony that Devon realized the same attitude which had saved the mir child had worked in his favor as well. “You haven’t been with us very long, Your Ladyship. You don’t understand Rochelle. How things work, I mean. This isn’t Colnora. Nothing is simple here. We have the problems of any major city, but we’re packed closely together, and this is home to four separate and distinct races.”

“The Calians aren’t another race, just another nationality.”

“Regardless, Rochelle is unique in its collision of diversity, and added to that are the rigid trappings and traditions of a bygone era. This city is resentful of changes that have occurred over the centuries. We are a lake with layers of sediment. At the bottom are the mir, and they’re down there for a reason.”

“You disapprove of my intervention on behalf of that child?”

“That mir.”

She frowned. “I guess you don’t think I should have added the pork and cheese, either? Would you have preferred that I send him on his way with a pat and a wave? Better yet, I should have just let him be mutilated, yes? You believe that because the mir are unattractive and unsophisticated . . . because they don’t fit in . . . that they should be shunned? Is that it?”

The duchess wasn’t speaking about the child anymore, and Devon wasn’t about to step into her trap. “I think you should have just bought that horrible vest and given it to your husband.”

The duchess folded her arms across her massive bosom and let out a humph. “Why? Why was saving a child so wrong?”

Devon shook his head. “Mir aren’t like us, my lady, and neither are the dwarves or Calians. They’re creations of different gods, lesser gods, and it’s wrong to grant them the same privileges enjoyed by the blessed of Maribor and his son Novron.”

“You’re wrong; they are the future of this city!” she declared with conviction. “If golden wheat grew wild on your farm, you’d cultivate it in the hope of profiting from a natural crop. That’s just common sense. When one is desperate as we are, one must leverage every asset . . . not merely the pretty ones.” She scowled so that her lips appeared squeezed by full cheeks. “So, I’m guessing you also don’t approve of what I just told the merchant guild. A little late to make your opinion known, Devon. Care to weigh in on my marriage to Leo? It’s only been three months; perhaps you will change his mind, and he’ll ask the bishop for an annulment.”

De Luda sighed and rubbed his temples. “I’m simply trying to point out that you are inexperienced and naïve.”

“Inexperienced? Naïve?” The duchess let out a deep chuckle. “I’ve hammered out deals on a pirate ship in a storm while downing shots of Black Dog. Back in Colnora, I have a neighbor who is one of the most renowned thieves in the world, a man rumored to toss rivals off Amber Falls during summer barbecues. But he’s also an excellent customer, and the people he invites to dine aren’t innocent, so I overlook his transgressions. As for naïve, do I look like a rosy-cheeked debutante?” She waited, but he said nothing. “Of course not. I’m a heifer too old to milk and too tough to butcher. Do you think I got where I am by being blind? I’m not pretty, nor polished, definitely not quality stock as people tend to say. I’m the Whiskey Wench. That’s what the soldier called me, isn’t it? That’s what everyone says, right? I know what they think. I’m not oblivious to the whispers about why Leo chose me. Well, I’ve heard worse, believe me. I’m a woman. We always hear worse. The starched-shirt-and-tight-hosed dandies around here are dandelion tufts next to what I’m used to dealing with.”

Devon took a deep breath, then another. “I merely meant that you are too naïve about the ways of Alburn, and Rochelle in particular. Ours is a complex and dangerous city. Your Colnora is a free and open municipality where merchants flaunt their independence. Rochelle is old, congested, and choked by tradition and bureaucracy. This city is filled with hidden places and dark secrets. Too many secrets, and it’s unforgiving of mistakes. We still believe in the traditional ways and in ancient-world monsters. I assume from your interest in the blue vest that you’ve heard about our murdering ghost.”

“My hometown has its fair share of bogeymen, as well, Devon. I’ve personally lived a whole summer in a city terrorized by gruesome murders that took low- and highborn alike.”

“The murderer was a man?”

“What else?”

Devon nodded. “In many places, paying heed to superstition is merely a habit. For instance, in Colnora, when someone tosses salt over their shoulder after an accidental spill, they don’t actually expect to fend off a demon creeping up behind them.”

“Are you trying to tell me that Rochelle has literal demons stalking people?” She raised her eyebrows and displayed a lopsided smile. “Do they have fangs and bat wings? Do they spit fire?”

“I’m saying wise people stay indoors at night and dress their children in bright blue to ward off evil. And despite that, citizens of this city are mutilated—a great many as of late. Myths are too often rooted in truth, and we—”

The carriage came to an abrupt halt. They hadn’t yet crossed the bridge leading to the Estate. “Why are we—”

The door on Devon’s side ripped open. Cold air rushed in, damp and clammy. In the dark, he saw a pair of cruel eyes, malevolent and evil. He recoiled, pushing away and fighting to retreat, but there was nowhere to go. He died with the duchess’s screams ringing in his ears.