Free The Master of Misrule by Laura Powell Page A

the cage of briar-swords, and layered over this anguish was the new one of Misrule’s wheel of flame, the trials that must lie ahead. But she couldn’t think of any of that now, mustn’t think about it, or else it would be like sinking into the snow again, not into peaceful oblivion, but cold and pain, where the black bonds tightened and tightened.…
    “Oh, there you are,” she said brightly when Blaine appeared at the corner. “Good to see you’re traveling light.”
    “That’s kind of the point when you live on the streets.”
    Yes, no doubt about it: this was going to be a disaster.
    Only a few streets away, Cat was passing a corner store when her palm prickled, letting her know that a threshold had appeared close by. She didn’t think she would ever be able to wholly ignore the Arcanum’s call, to go past a threshold without feeling an itch to see what lay on the other side. This time, she wondered if some knight had already used itto play their card, and what Misrule’s disorder might cost them in the Game.
    But it wasn’t just the Game’s other players who were at terrible risk. It was everyone going about their business around her, unaware that all their hopes and fears and plans for the future were about to be gambled away.
    On impulse, Cat veered off her way home and began walking in the direction of Trafalgar Square instead. Bel had been in training at Alliette’s today, and should be finishing around now. Though Bel wasn’t big on coddling, her self-assurance was the generous kind, and comforting in itself. She had a way of dismissing difficulties with a snap of her fingers and flounce of her hair; just by being with her, Cat felt the world’s rough edges smoothed out.
    Alliette’s was a very different affair to the Palais Luxe, the distinctly unpalatial casino opposite their flat. It was a Georgian town house with awnings in black and green, and a concierge almost as stately as the High Priest. Bel had enjoyed describing its glories to Cat; apparently, the splendor of the décor was outshone only by that of the clientele. “Royalty, too!” she’d said gleefully. “Well, once or twice. And mostly the foreign sort.”
    Cat went round to the staff entrance. Bel was just leaving, in the company of a muscular bartender. She was doing her special laugh and shaking out her hair in a way that would have been sure to make Greg, her most recent boyfriend, look even more doleful than usual. Cat quite liked Greg, with his kind, drooping face and disreputable store of local knowledge, but it was starting to look as if Belhad moved on. Bel had a low boredom threshold—it was the same with men as with jobs and places. They had spent the last twelve years moving back and forth around the country, often for no reason other than Bel “getting the itches.”
    “The sad fact is,” Bel was saying to her friend, “part of me still believes that round one of these corners, I’ll find a street paved with gold.”
    He laughed. “Every immigrant’s dream.”
    “And it’s high time I woke up from it. Specially since here and now’s my second attempt at surviving this city.”
    “So what happened the first time around?”
    “Trouble, that’s what.”
    “Man trouble?”
    Bel matched his flirtatious tone. “Is there any other kind?” Then, turning, she saw Cat. She looked startled. “Puss-cat! What are you doing here?”
    “I was just, y’know, passing. Thought I’d walk you home.”
    Brief introductions were made, goodbyes said. Cat and Bel sauntered along St. James’s and toward Trafalgar Square.
    “You never told me you’d lived in London before.”
    “Didn’t I? There’s nothing much to tell.”
    “But you’ve never even mentioned it.”
    “Yeah, well.” Bel cleared her throat self-consciously. “Attempt number one didn’t count for much. Ran out of money, options, mates. Trouble, like I said. So this time around I wanted a whole new start.” She aimed a playful kick at a pigeon.