The key was done.

Genny finished it more out of habit and a sense of accomplishment than anything else. She had no idea if it would work, and only a mild desire to test it. Curiosity was the only driving force now. Escaping felt almost counterproductive. Better to be killed and retain a thread of hope than live and discover the truth. In a choice between the murder of her body and a murder of her spirit, she suspected the former might be best. At least she wouldn’t be forced to suffer needlessly. Besides, if it worked, the key would only open the collar. The shackle around her throat was held fast by a warded padlock, but the door’s lock was a tumbler, and she didn’t know anything about those.

She rubbed the key with her thumb. “You did a good job, old girl,” she said aloud, and she wasn’t just referring to the key.

She was alone again. Mercator and Villar were both off to the meeting, which meant that Genny didn’t have long to live. If they decided the way Villar wanted, Mercator would return to perform her final task. Genny wondered if she would follow through with it. While she’d never killed anyone, Genny imagined it wouldn’t be an easy thing to do, but it was clear that no point in Mercator’s life had been easy. The mir hadn’t said a word, but that last argument with Villar, how he looked at her, and what he didn’t say told Genny everything she needed to know.

Mercator would kill her. She wouldn’t like it, wouldn’t want to, would probably apologize and possibly cry as she dragged a knife across her throat, but she’d do it. Mercator was a survivor, and her sort did what they had to.

Genny looked at the key. She thumbed it, feeling where the rest of the teeth had been, noting how smooth it was. Her old trunk key was now a skeleton key. The problem with warded padlocks, like the one that held the collar, was that they only had a few configurations for the obstructions, or “wards,” that made it impossible to turn any but the correct key inserted in the hole. With so little space in each mechanism and so many unique locks to make, some were bound to be identical, which meant keys for one could open others that used the same design. Worse, almost all warded locks left the first notch unobstructed so that a universal key—a skeleton key—could be used. This was handy for when a key was lost, or when someone had hundreds of locks to deal with and didn’t feel like carrying hundreds of keys.

Genny had learned this after discovering a consistent discrepancy in her inventory. Her warehouse in Colnora had a fine-looking warded lock, big and new, but a locksmith explained how useless the thing was to anyone who knew the first thing about how locks worked. This was bad news in a city that was home base to the Black Diamond Thieves Guild. She replaced the lock with a far more expensive and elaborate version, and the thefts stopped. Genny thought nothing more of the matter until she woke up with a collar locked on her neck and an old chest key in her purse.

How many noble duchesses know how to pick a lock? How many have potential skeleton keys in their wrist purses? So what are the odds Mercator and Villar used an irregular ward lock? Genny felt her odds were good, but getting the collar off was only half the battle. The other was the door.

Mercator opened it for every meal. The mir wasn’t very big, but Genny had never been in a brawl. She didn’t know how well she would fare, and she honestly didn’t want to find out. That’s where the sharpened coins came in. If she could . . .

But why bother? I gave all my love to a man, and received only lies. What do I have to look forward to now?

Genny decided to stop looking away and face the unpleasant truth that some people, no matter how hard they try, never get what they desire the most.

She tossed the key, letting it skip across the stone into the corner.

----------------------------------------

Genny heard someone. Quick steps rushed up and flew into the room on the other side of the locked door. She held her breath. This was it. Whoever had come was there to end her life. The door would open and she would see a knife, or a sword, or a—

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“Can you write?” Mercator asked.

Genny was confused.

“Do you hear me? Can you write?”

“Are you talking to me?” Genny asked.

Mercator was moving around outside the door, shuffling loudly. She appeared to be in a hurry. “Of course I am!”

“Don’t take that tone with me. How am I supposed to know? I’m locked in a room.”

Mercator paused, took a breath, and began again. “My apologies, but I’m in a bit of a rush. And you should be, too, if you want to get out of here.”

Get out of here? Is this a trick? Doesn’t make sense. Why trick me?

“Yes, I can write.”

“Wonderful! I need you to do something for me, and for yourself.”

Genny slid to the door and peered out the central knothole. Outside, Mercator flipped over piles of wool. She was searching for something in a mad dash.

“I need you to write a letter to your husband.”

“Are you serious?”

“Yes.” Mercator found a feather and cut the end of the quill with a small knife.

“Why, I’d love to, dear. Can I tell him where I am, and give him your best wishes?”

“Do you know where you are?” Mercator set the knife back down, then reconsidered and stuffed it in her belt.

“No.”

Mercator found a sheet of parchment and grabbed it up. “Then I suppose not.”

“What do you want me to say?”

“Tell him what we talked about; ask him to do what is right; and mention something that only you two share, so he’ll know the message came from you.”

“Wait. What? Leo doesn’t know I’m alive?”

“There’s a rumor to that effect.”

“A rumor? You don’t know? Why don’t you know? By Mar, are you serious?”

Mercator opened the door and set the parchment and quill before Genny. “We think the duke never received our first note and that’s why he hasn’t done anything. But if you can convince him . . .”

If that’s true . . . does that mean . . . could Leo love me after all?

Genny’s heart leapt as she took the paper and quill. Then she hesitated.

No . . . she thought. It doesn’t explain everything else: him keeping his distance, our separate beds, his failure to defend me.

“Leo doesn’t love me,” she told Mercator, an admission that brought tears. “He married me so he could be king. This won’t change anything.”

“You don’t know that.”

Genny bowed her head and sniffled. “Yes, I do. I pretended he cared, but it’s not true.” She set the quill down and wiped her face with the back of her hand.

Mercator sat down opposite her. “Maybe you’re right. Maybe he doesn’t love you, and only married you to better his chance for the crown. Makes sense. But he still needs you if he’s to become king. And if he’s crowned, then you’ll be a queen.”

“I don’t care about that. Never have.”

“You should.”

“Why? Why should I care? If he doesn’t love me, if this has all been a charade, if all he wanted was a crown—”

“It could save your life.”

“I’m not sure I want it saved. If the only person who ever said they loved me, doesn’t . . . I’m not sure life is worth living.”

Mercator’s tone lowered, her eyes growing stern, nearly angry. “It’s not just your life at stake.” She changed from hectic jailor to disapproving teacher scolding a petulant student. “If the duke doesn’t agree to reforms, there will be an uprising followed by a retaliation. Hundreds will die, maybe thousands.” Mercator picked up the quill. “I don’t care if the duke doesn’t love you, and right now you shouldn’t, either. You have the power to save lives. Your Ladyship, isn’t that worth pretending he loves you for at least one more day?”

Genny looked down at the parchment and sniffled. “As pathetic as it sounds, you’re the closest thing I have to a friend in this city. Call me Genny.” She sniffled again and reached out and took the quill. “I need ink.”

“I don’t have ink.” Mercator said, then smiled and looked at her arms and hands. “But, Genny, I think I can manage something.”