7. long live (2/2)

better if he could slip in, completely quiet... well, hedges had grown for him before, back in sotat, but that had been an accident. he closed his eyes, one hand reaching out towards the plant, not quite touching its flat needles. he wanted them to cover all traces of his entrance, was asking them to obey him.

stupid, he thought and opened his eyes. his fingertips had been just

ushing the expanse of greenery that surrounded the manor, thick and impenetrable. now, they hovered over empty space, reaching into a gap in the hedges that showed

iar the inside of the gardens, and the lights of the house on the other side. he froze, staring. stepping cautiously, he slipped through the gap without letting the hedge so much as

ush the tips of his hair or clothes.

he paused as he stepped into the darkness of the yard. don't... don't close up til i'm back, he thought, feeling ridiculous, but he felt a trill of agreement that sent him scurrying away.

hurrying across the narrow expanse of greenery,

iar felt each of the plants respond to the low buzz of nervousness, of anticipation building in him. as he paused between two low-growing trees, their

anches and stems practically vi

ated in answer to his emotions. his

eathing was even, his hands absolutely, completely steady as he climbed onto the wide windowsill of the back hall and pulled out his lockpicks, but the plants gave him away.

he landed in a crouch, froze to listen for any movement of someone who had heard the dull thump of his leather boots hitting the floor. there was only quiet; the household went abed early, as sandry's spies had reported. he rose from the floor and closed the window behind him, careful not to latch it.

the master of the house worked after the family and most of the servants had gone abed. his office was on the main floor, only a few doors away.

iar ghosted down the corridor.

he opened the door quietly, without trying to be silent. the man sat in a comfortable chair, close to the fire. it gave off a whiff of sandalwood; expensive and meant only for luxury.

iar walked across the room.

"put the tea on the table," the lord said without looking up from the pages he was reading.

a number of suitably snarky replies flicked across

iar's mind, but instead he moved, quickly, behind the man, and laid his longest blade, pulled from the sheath at his waist as he moved, against the pulse in the man's throat. his victim gasped. "what – what do you want?" he asked, trembling against

iar's hands.

what did he want?

iar hadn't thought to wonder for weeks, now, since sandry had stepped off her boat, onto his docks, and had drawn him into the darkness. he was not at home in the light, in the crowds. perhaps he had been, once, in a lifetime before the streets and the cells and the docks, before all the anger and helplessness and loneliness had found too comfortable a home inside him. sandry didn't try to fit, didn't try to forgive the light of the world for forsaking her, and

iar couldn't. it bound them together more securely, more fiercely than blood.

"long live the duchess," he whispered. before the man could flail, he drew his knife across his throat. blood gushed over both hands as he held the man still, waiting until he stopped thrashing before letting him go.

iar stood looking down for only a moment, the muscles in his arms screaming, his

eath coming in quick gasps that had nothing to do with physical exertion.

in all his time on the streets, he had never... never intentionally...

quit bleating! he yelled at himself, cleaning the knife and setting it back in his sheath. he moved around the chair and picked up the book the man had been reading. opening it back to the now blood-splattered pages, he set it again on the dead man's lap. he reached into his pouch and pulled out the rose. it was no longer dead and dried, but had somehow come back to life, its petals a deep, flawless black.

iar set it on the pages of the book and turned his back room.

he hurried back the way he had come, ready to meet guards at every turn, but his trip back through the window and across the garden went unmolested. as he slipped through the hedges, he paused and closed his eyes, trying to picture what he wanted done.

he opened his eyes. the hedges were uniform across the hole that had previously existed, and had grown an extra quarter-foot in height along the top.

iar stuck his hands in his pockets and strolled away down the street.

he returned to the same rooms he had left only hours before, and changed into his usual clothes – the comfortable ones the bag had

ought for him – but as he turned to the cold water in the basin in the corner to wash his hands of the blood he looked around, the room seeming surreal and unfamiliar. his clothes felt too tight, the lamp beside the bed too

ight, the furnishings too posh to possibly be his. they hadn't changed. sandry hadn't done some dramatic renovation while he was gone, but he didn't fit into these ordered surroundings in the same way he had before he had killed a man.

he extinguished the lamp and stood in the dark. "long live the duchess," he whispered, his hands dripping onto the floor.