Free The Dream Thief by Shana Abe

metal-laced grille and the black interior of the coach.
    “Lia.”
    She moved into view, a dim, pale
shape, wrapped in dusk.
    “We’re headed east of Pest,
for—Jászberény—”
    His mouth twisted around the
foreign word; he heard the Roma’s subtle snort. But Amalia only nodded and sat
back. From the depths of the carriage her voice sounded very sweet.
    “That’s good, then. Keep on.”
    She did not come forward again.
He allowed the panel to slide shut, turning once more to stare at the horses.
    It was his imagination. He could not smell the winter rose of her from here.
    But the animals in front of him
shivered and tossed their heads.

    Reaching Jászberény devoured most
of the day. They breached its outskirts just as the sunlight was beginning to
slant into long, heavy rays, throwing shadows sapphire-rich across the
buildings and roads.
    It was an ugly place, with little
of the airy glamour that had marked the cities dotted along the Danube;
instead, there were boardinghouses and crooked streets and taverns belching
smoke from their chimneys to cloud up the dusk. People actually stopped and
stared at the coach as the driver maneuvered their way through the troughs and
potholes that pocked the roads. It wasn’t difficult to find the better part of
the city: a single wide square of pillared shops and businesses, flanked by a
butcher’s quarter and a park with a pond and a few November-dried trees.
    Zane chose a hotel in the middle.
He couldn’t read the name on the sign, and he didn’t care. He’d seen enough of
inns to know that this one would have fleas and gilt and a chance at letting
two rooms together. It was enough.
    He leapt down and over a mud
puddle, glad to stretch the ache from his unused muscles. A pair of doormen
were already rushing forward, but Zane reached the carriage door first. He
turned the handle and—without even meaning to—held his breath.
    Skirts and petticoats rustled
from within. She lifted a gloved hand to him and emerged cautiously, hoops
first, a dainty foot forward, the hood of her mantle pulled low over her face
and her hair. As soon as she was standing, the wind twirled between them; her hood
flipped back and the horses let out a whimpering protest. Zane motioned the
Roma to the back of the hotel. With a crack of the whip, the coach rolled away.
Lady Amalia stood unmoving on the sidewalk, one hand cupped over her mouth and
nose. She threw him a short, distressed look.
    “What?” he said, forced to
exhale.
    Her brows pinched together. “It
reeks.”
    He angled his face away and tried
a deep breath, relieved to smell only town and evening frost. “No more than any
other place.” He shrugged at her expression. “You said this would do.”
    Her chin lowered. He saw her gaze
flit to the alley that led to the butchers’ quarter, where a sign depicting a
slaughtered pig swayed helpfully from a post. The alley entrance was narrow and
already layered in gloom, a liquid line of runoff and water reflecting a
silvery sheen down the middle of the flagstones. A pair of cloaked figures
splashed briefly into view, shattering the silver into pools.
    Ah. Zane knew what would be
prowling in those shadows. He knew now what Amalia sensed, the death and hunger
and those faceless, impoverished people. It was a stench that lurked in the
blackest crooks of his memory, and always would.
    He kept his home in Bloomsbury as
clean as a monastery. He kept a maid, and Joseph to cook, and enjoyed the
luxuries of delivered coal and ice and imported fruit from sun-warmed lands. He
used his wiles to gain himself whatever he wished, be it silk or jewels or
paintings, and he was cold and clear enough in his own heart to make no false
apologies for any of it. Zane earned what he had, as sure as a baker earned
coin for his bread; he had been raised to steal, and if he didn’t do it,
someone else surely would. He kept a careful order in his realm of shadows,
made certain his people followed a strict set of