but…”
“But it’s not your home,” he supplied.
“No, it isn’t.” She sighed a little and smiled. “I should be on my way back now.” She started to stand up.
The carriage, just passing by, stopped.
“Why don’t we give you a ride?” He put both hands on her shoulders and pushed her back down against the bench. The door opened and another man jumped out. He held a black sack in one hand, and rope in his other.
Roulette’s ears went flat and she twisted in the man’s grip, pulling away and starting to stand again, but the men grabbed her arms.
“Let me go, you—”
The sack came down over her head, and her nostrils flooded with the scent of cinnamon. She screamed, still twisting, trying to keep her arms from being pulled behind her back. “Get her up quick,” the first man muttered.
They lifted her up into the carriage, and she kicked wildly. Her foot connected with something soft but solid, and she heard a clatter and a curse. This gave her a little satisfaction, but didn’t save her from being shoved face-first against the carriage’s wall. She screamed again, her panic rising. Someone tied her wrists together as the carriage rolled off at a much faster clip.
“Let me go!”
“Shut up,” someone—the second man, she guessed—yelled above her. Then pain lanced through her side as she was kicked. Kicked by someone with a boot. She curled away, sobbing, and tried desperately to clear her head.
Cinnamon oil, definitely. She’d read about this trick—it blocked the nose of kidnapping victims with a good sense of smell as effectively as the sack blocked their eyes. It could also partially mask more nefarious chemicals, but no matter how hard she tried she couldn’t hold her breath for long. It didn’t stop the burning in her nostrils. She kept herself from crying now, tried to keep her breathing shallow and even, and tugged on her wrists and jerked her head from side to side, trying to shake the sack off.
“Stop squirming like that,” the first man’s voice said. “It’s tied loose, but you got a big fat muzzle that’s holding that bag in place, animal girl. So just sit quiet until we get where we’re going. Just a couple minutes.”
Roulette shut her eyes against the cinnamon fumes and finally just sagged in place.
When they pulled her out of the carriage and marched her into—somewhere—she didn’t struggle; it likely hadn’t been more than a five-minute ride, but the fumes had made her start to feel light-headed and a little nauseous.
The floor became bare, cold stone, very much like the Aid Society’s. For a moment the feverish thought that it was the Aid Society flittered through her mind, that somehow they were all in on this together, but that didn’t make much sense. And she doubted Lisha was that good an actor.
Someone shoved her down into a wooden seat and yanked the sack off her head. Her eyes watered so much she could barely see, and even after several heaving breaths all she could smell and taste was cinnamon.
“Stay still,” the man in front of her—the one who’d first approached—commanded.
“So this is what killed Jerald?” someone else—the second voice from the carriage—said, tone bitter.
“Did a hell of a number on him.”
“Time to pay attention,” the first one said, slapping her cheek twice lightly and snapping his fingers in front of her face. “How did you get into Jerald’s room?”
Her vision had started clear; she tried to focus on both faces.
“How’d you get your hands on his herani?” the other one asked.
The first one shot the second a warning glance, then looked back at her. “How’d you even know where to find him?”
“He let me in.” From what she could see, the room they’d taken to her was still in use as a warehouse. Boxes were pushed up against a few walls, and some drawings had been pinned to one of those walls. Architectural plans?
“He let you in,” he repeated, then sighed. He knelt down in
“But it’s not your home,” he supplied.
“No, it isn’t.” She sighed a little and smiled. “I should be on my way back now.” She started to stand up.
The carriage, just passing by, stopped.
“Why don’t we give you a ride?” He put both hands on her shoulders and pushed her back down against the bench. The door opened and another man jumped out. He held a black sack in one hand, and rope in his other.
Roulette’s ears went flat and she twisted in the man’s grip, pulling away and starting to stand again, but the men grabbed her arms.
“Let me go, you—”
The sack came down over her head, and her nostrils flooded with the scent of cinnamon. She screamed, still twisting, trying to keep her arms from being pulled behind her back. “Get her up quick,” the first man muttered.
They lifted her up into the carriage, and she kicked wildly. Her foot connected with something soft but solid, and she heard a clatter and a curse. This gave her a little satisfaction, but didn’t save her from being shoved face-first against the carriage’s wall. She screamed again, her panic rising. Someone tied her wrists together as the carriage rolled off at a much faster clip.
“Let me go!”
“Shut up,” someone—the second man, she guessed—yelled above her. Then pain lanced through her side as she was kicked. Kicked by someone with a boot. She curled away, sobbing, and tried desperately to clear her head.
Cinnamon oil, definitely. She’d read about this trick—it blocked the nose of kidnapping victims with a good sense of smell as effectively as the sack blocked their eyes. It could also partially mask more nefarious chemicals, but no matter how hard she tried she couldn’t hold her breath for long. It didn’t stop the burning in her nostrils. She kept herself from crying now, tried to keep her breathing shallow and even, and tugged on her wrists and jerked her head from side to side, trying to shake the sack off.
“Stop squirming like that,” the first man’s voice said. “It’s tied loose, but you got a big fat muzzle that’s holding that bag in place, animal girl. So just sit quiet until we get where we’re going. Just a couple minutes.”
Roulette shut her eyes against the cinnamon fumes and finally just sagged in place.
When they pulled her out of the carriage and marched her into—somewhere—she didn’t struggle; it likely hadn’t been more than a five-minute ride, but the fumes had made her start to feel light-headed and a little nauseous.
The floor became bare, cold stone, very much like the Aid Society’s. For a moment the feverish thought that it was the Aid Society flittered through her mind, that somehow they were all in on this together, but that didn’t make much sense. And she doubted Lisha was that good an actor.
Someone shoved her down into a wooden seat and yanked the sack off her head. Her eyes watered so much she could barely see, and even after several heaving breaths all she could smell and taste was cinnamon.
“Stay still,” the man in front of her—the one who’d first approached—commanded.
“So this is what killed Jerald?” someone else—the second voice from the carriage—said, tone bitter.
“Did a hell of a number on him.”
“Time to pay attention,” the first one said, slapping her cheek twice lightly and snapping his fingers in front of her face. “How did you get into Jerald’s room?”
Her vision had started clear; she tried to focus on both faces.
“How’d you get your hands on his herani?” the other one asked.
The first one shot the second a warning glance, then looked back at her. “How’d you even know where to find him?”
“He let me in.” From what she could see, the room they’d taken to her was still in use as a warehouse. Boxes were pushed up against a few walls, and some drawings had been pinned to one of those walls. Architectural plans?
“He let you in,” he repeated, then sighed. He knelt down in
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