She came to stand next to him.
“Vault out from here to behind those trees,” he instructed. “Then come through the front door of the house. I will meet you in the entry hall.”
He did not want her out of his sight. But there was nothing for it: Fairfax’s return had to be seen as an event entirely unrelated to the disappearance of one Iolanthe Seabourne. If he produced Fairfax from nowhere, they would both look more suspicious to agents of Atlantis.
“And the other boys will know who I am?”
“When they hear me say your name they will.” He turned toward her. “I know it is my fault you are here. But please be convincing as a boy—or I will have prepared in vain.”
She glanced at him, her gaze half-admiring, half-mystified. “You have prepared a great deal.”
It was as much a prayer as it was a command.
Mrs. Dawlish’s house was built of weathered red brick, the outlines neat and solid. Above the ground floor, behind a window at the southern end, stood the prince, watching her.
Had he also watched her when she had stripped down nearly to her skin? Was it her imagination or had he looked at her differently afterward? The underside of her chin, where he’d accidentally brushed her, scorched anew at the thought.
He raised his hand in a silent salute and disappeared. All at once she felt exposed. She’d thought her former life precarious; she’d had no idea how sheltered she’d been, protected at an impossible cost to Master Haywood.
She must remain safe, if only so that his sacrifice would not be in vain.
It had rained earlier in this place—everything was soaked. A watery light shone on the damp landscape. In the distance she could make out a grander building than the rest—the school? Farther away, in a different direction, the hulking shadows of what looked to be a squat castle.
She didn’t seem to be in a city—there was too much tree and grass and sky. Nor did she seem to be in isolated countryside. There were other houses. Carriages clattered down a nearby street, carriages drawn by— were they?—she squinted—yes, horses.
Real horses, without wings or a horn on the forehead, their hooves clacking wetly. She couldn’t help smiling slightly, reminded of the picture books she’d loved as a child, stories of nonmage children who had nothing but their wits, their swords, and their loyal horses to accompany them on their adventures.
The carriages were black and closed, some with curtains drawn. The pedestrians in blacks, browns, and drab blues were entirely preoccupied with their own affairs, with no idea that a fugitive was among them, pursued with the full might of the greatest empire on the face of the earth.
The thought was almost comforting: at least no one paid her any attention.
A breeze almost made off with her hat; she clamped it down and began walking. Her new clothes did not move well—too many layers, the cut restrictive, the material inelastic. And without her hair, her head felt oddly light, nearly weightless.
Gingerly, and trying not to look like a foreigner, she stepped onto the sidewalk, only to be immediately accosted by a grimy boy of indeterminate age, waving pieces of printed paper in the air.
She leaped back, primed to run the other way.
“More details from John Brown’s funeral! You want to know about ’em, guv?”
“Ah . . .”
“Read all about Her Majesty’s sorrow. Read it for a penny.”
She found her breath. A newspaper, that was what the boy was waving—newspapers in the Domain hadn’t used actual paper for a very long time.
“Sorry. Never cared for the man,” she said truthfully.
The boy shrugged and continued peddling his wares down the narrow street, which was squeezed in by tightly packed brick houses with steep, pitched roofs.
She came to a stop before the front door of Mrs. Dawlish’s house, black and unassuming beneath an arched doorway. There, she’d made it. Now she only had to pass herself off as a boy. For the foreseeable future.
And under the watchful eyes of Atlantis.
Titus changed into his school uniform in his own room. As he stepped out into the passage, Wintervale’s door opened.
“When did you get here?” asked Wintervale, surprised.
“A while ago,” said Titus. “I have been in my room.”
“Why didn’t you join Kashkari and myself?”
“I was in a foul mood—ran into the Inquisitor today. You do not look too pleased either. What is the matter?”
“My mother. I had to go back home just now.”
Titus asked the obvious. “Does she not usually leave for Aix-les-Bains as soon as you return here?”
“Baden-Baden this time, but she hasn’t left yet. I found her in the attic in a state. She kept saying she’d killed someone and that this time there would be no forgiveness from the Angels. I checked the house from top to bottom: nothing. If she had truly killed someone, you’d think I’d have found a corpse.”
It was not easy being Lady Wintervale’s son. She was not consistently insane. But at times she came close enough.
“Is she still at home?”
“She’s gone to stay with my aunt.” Wintervale knocked the back of his head against the wall behind him. “Atlantis did this to her. When are you going to lead us to overthrow them?”
Titus shrugged. “You will have to organize the revolt, cousin. If I could, I wouldn’t be here.”
Lying to Lady Callista and the Inquisitor was a perennial necessity—Titus took pride in rarely speaking a true word before those two. But lying to his second cousin, equally necessary, had always bothered him. He wished Wintervale weren’t so trusting.
“Why do you think I’m trying to get into Sandhurst?” said Wintervale. “The British fight lots of wars. Maybe there is something to be learned from them.”
Titus also wished Lady Wintervale had not adamantly adhered to the tradition of having a child from one of the Domain’s grandest families study alongside the heir of the House of Elberon. Lady Callista had been his mother’s companion—look how well that had turned out.
“Try not to get yourself killed in one of Britain’s colonial wars,” he told Wintervale. “It would be the ultimate irony.”
“Do I hear mentions of colonial wars?” said Kashkari, joining them, dapper in his impeccably turned-out uniform and sleek black hair. “Is your stomachache gone, Wintervale? You look better.”
“I’m fine now,” said Wintervale.
Lady Wintervale’s unpredictable mental state and penchant for relying on her only child meant that Wintervale often had to invent sudden pains to go back to his room—or clear his room—to use the wardrobe portal.
“Do the two of you want some tea?” Wintervale issued his usual invitation.
“Why not?” said Kashkari.
“I will join you in a minute. I think I saw Fairfax from my window. Let me go down to make sure it is really him.”
“Fairfax!” exclaimed Wintervale. “Are you sure?”
“But your window doesn’t face the street. How did you see him?” asked Kashkari.
“He was walking across the grass. Who knows? Maybe he wants to refamiliarize himself with everything.”
“About time,” said Wintervale. “We need him to play.”
“He still does not feel the strength in his leg,” said Titus, moving toward the stairs. The otherwise charm he had created before he first stepped into the school was fairly watertight: no one doubted that Fairfax existed. All the same, he had better reach the ground floor soon. The boys would not recognize her as Fairfax unless someone said the name aloud; and only Titus could do that. “Who knows whether he will still be any good at sports after an injury like that?”
