On This Unworthy Scaffold, Heidi Heilig [best books to read for success .txt] 📗

toward me to bat at the flies that have followed me inside.

Theodora’s greeting is much less effusive. “I’ll take it from here, Leonin.”

She used to call him Leo, like I do; it was only their brother who called him by his full name. Leo doesn’t bother correcting her. He only steps back, letting Le Fleur herd me toward the sleeping quarters, where Cheeky is waiting with a stack of towels, a pot of water, and a furious expression.

“Strip,” she says flatly.

Peeling off my ruined outfit sarong, I give the showgirl a smile. “Shouldn’t there be music?”

“Depends on what sound your head makes when I smack it,” Cheeky growls. “What on earth were you thinking? We run away from grenades, not toward!”

“I didn’t know there was a grenade at the time,” I start, but she holds up a furious finger.

“You didn’t know there wasn’t! Throw that out the window,” she adds as I try to find a place for the sarong. “It’s unsalvageable.”

“You should see the other guy,” I say.

“I think I do,” Cheeky says pointedly. “In your hair.”

She wrinkles her nose as she picks something pink and gelatinous from my scalp. My stomach twists, and my smile falls away. “It’s Le Trépas’s fault,” I say as Cheeky dips a towel in the water. “He’s the one who sent the message.”

“A little tip,” Cheeky says as she wipes blood from my brow. “From someone more experienced with creepy old men. You don’t have to accept every present they send.”

Theodora folds her arms across her chest as Cheeky runs the cloth over my shoulders, muttering all the while. “Why did you get so close, Jetta?” Theodora asks. “Why did his message matter to you?”

I look at her, surprised—isn’t it obvious to her? And if not, how can I possibly explain? The guilt I feel at his escape is a constant shadow—as is his lurking presence at the edge of my vision. Every time I close my eyes, I still see him falling, down, down, down. . . .

“Because I have to stop him,” I say at last. Then I gasp as Cheeky pours water over my head—she hasn’t bothered to warm it. The filth runs down my back in rivulets, dripping through the springy bamboo slats.

“Hard to do if you’re dead,” she says, and I snap.

“If I had died, I might have been spared this conversation!”

“If your own life doesn’t matter to you, what about your brother’s?” Cheeky’s question stops me short—and now I know why she’s so angry. “The minute you die, he does too. And what would your parents do then?”

“My parents?” The girl knows how to hit where it hurts. “That was low.”

“My apologies for reminding you that you have responsibilities beyond Le Trépas,” she says, with a smile like a knife. Her dark eyes flash as she dumps the rest of the water over the stains on the floor. “Try to remember it yourself next time.”

Tossing the dirty towels in the basins, she carries it all out with a huff. My shoulders sag, the wind taken out of me, but Theodora isn’t finished. “We’re not strong enough yet to take the monk on face-to-face,” she says, handing me a clean towel.

“So Camreon says.” How many times have I heard this over the last three weeks? “But the longer we wait, the stronger Le Trépas gets.”

“I don’t think that’s true,” Theodora says mildly. “After all, the dead he raises don’t heal like yours do. Corpses rot.”

“He’s more than happy making new ones,” I mutter, scrubbing myself dry with the rough towel. “Besides, I’ve seen him rip spirits from their new lives with a drop of his blood and a bit of old bone. Now I know why it used to be customary to burn the dead,” I add, tossing the towel into the corner and taking the fresh sarong she offers. “What could he do if he ever got hold of a lock of your hair?”

Theodora’s hand goes to her own golden curls, and she wets her lips. But she doesn’t back down. “I’m more concerned about what he’d do if he ever got hold of you,” she says. “The rebellion relies on you, Jetta. On your fantouches—on your power. If you die, we lose our best weapon.”

“I never wanted to be a weapon,” I mutter as I wrap the sarong around my waist.

Theodora’s face softens. I recognize the sadness there. After all, I had seen her inventions—the avions sketched by a girl who dreamed of flight, built by an armée for a nightmare war. “That’s not all you are,” she says, lifting my hair out of the way so I can tie the knot behind my neck. “You’re a daughter. A performer. A friend.” Her hands are gentle as she releases me. “Know your enemy, and know yourself, or so I’m told.”

As she steps back, her eyes sparkle; I am the one who had told her that, months ago. And now Le Trépas is saying the same to me. “Thanks,” I say, but before I can say more, Camreon’s voice drifts through the screen.

“Can I come in?”

“We were just finished,” Theodora says, sweeping aside the curtain as we return to the sitting room. Camreon breezes past us, pulling off his crown and struggling out of the muddy silk robe. “Are the soldiers settled in?”

“Just a minute.” He returns a moment later, buttoning a fresh shirt over his silk binder. “I almost tripped half a dozen times in that robe. Worst way to die, facedown in the mud.”

His look is pointed, but I wave him off as I take a seat beside Leo. Miu flicks her long tail in irritation at the disturbance. “Don’t bother scolding me. Cheeky did a better job than you ever could.”

“Practice makes perfect,” Camreon replies with a faint smile. “Speaking of the soldiers, I found Fontaine’s field orders. They were telling the truth. The armée is recalling all battalions to Nokhor Khat to help with the deportation. The orders were signed by General Legarde.”

At my side, Leo