A Tyranny of Petticoats by Jessica Spotswood Page B

neighbor’s business was a sure way to ruin their own anonymity . . . and possibly lead to their own demise.
    Klio fluffed her heavy silk skirts, making sure they lay smooth over her crinoline. In the dim light of the hall, her garments appeared black from prim veiled hat to polished, buttoned boot. Only when she moved directly into the gleam of a lamp did the silk’s deep amethyst shade reveal itself.
    At this late hour the streets of Boston were quiet but for the occasional clip-clop of shod horse hooves, a sound so banal by day as to be unnoticeable, now harsh as it cut through the heavy silence. Whitby stood alongside Klio’s cabriolet, holding the carriage horse’s reins. His eyes flashed silver against his ebony face. While his expression otherwise gave nothing away, Klio knew that her coachman was troubled.
    When she glanced at the cab again, Klio noticed that despite the clear, warm night, its curtain was drawn to shield the passenger compartment. Klio looked to Whitby, who gave the briefest of nods. Whatever had perturbed her associate didn’t present a true threat.
    The horse gave a snort and tossed its head as Klio drew near. Whitby tightened his grip on the reins. They had yet to find a horse that grew accustomed to Klio’s scent. Most would bolt should she come too close; if they didn’t try to run, they shied and reared.
    Bothersome animals,
Klio thought.
    Before she could draw back the curtain, the slender tip of a mahogany cane snagged the edge of the thick fabric and lifted it. Klio nearly jumped back in surprise at the visage peering out at her.
    “I pray your forgiveness for calling upon you in this uncustomary manner, Miss Vesper.” Hamilton Stuart tipped his tall hat. “May I have a few minutes of your time?”
    “Of course, Mr. Stuart.” Klio signaled Whitby to take them through the streets. She accepted Stuart’s hand and climbed into the cab.
    “Ah,” Stuart said as she settled beside him. “You do know who I am, then.”
    “That surprises you?” Klio asked. With the curtain back in place, shadows flooded the interior. The lack of light did little to obscure Klio’s vision, if that had been her visitor’s intention. Still, Klio tugged on the fingertips of her gloves, loosening them just enough that she’d be able to strip them off in a moment should the need arise.
    Stuart laughed, quiet but throaty. “I suppose it should not. But tell me, Miss Vesper, did it not surprise you to see me here?”
    “It surprises me to see anyone other than myself in my cab,” Klio replied, then decided against being coy. “Nonetheless, your faction hasn’t sought my services in the past, so yes, your appearance is unexpected.”
    “It’s an appropriate time for unexpected actions,” Stuart murmured. “You’re aware of the Game?”
    Klio peered through the darkness to study Stuart’s features. He looked to be a young man, with dark hair curling at the nape of his neck and an unlined face like porcelain, but Klio knew better. His kind bore the semblance of youth well past the age that death took most mortals. Stuart was likely a century older than she, if not more.
    Rather than speak, Klio nodded. A test to reveal whether the warlock had cast a spell that aided his sight in this dark enclosure.
    The corners of his mouth turned up in approval. “I’m sure you’ll understand the Coven’s interest in the outcome of the Game.”
    “As all the factions are,” Klio said. “Whoever wins the Game determines the course of this nation.”
    “This fractured nation.” The pleased note in Stuart’s voice faded. “We have thrown our lot in with the Union and a future of free enterprise in the West, while our adversaries hope to expand their plantations beyond Texas and Missouri. We are particularly concerned that this war does not cost us the significant investments we’ve made. We want to ensure that none thwart our victory.”
    Klio leveled a sharp gaze at Stuart. “The Game prohibits any