the fallen chair and a few other things knocked askew by their scuffle—a rap came on the door. The prince, with a tilt of his head, gestured for Iolanthe to open the door.
“Why me?”
“Because that is the nature of our friendship.”
She twisted her mouth and went.
Mrs. Hancock stood at the door, smiling. “Ah, Fairfax, I need to speak to you too. I have a letter for you from your parents.”
It took Iolanthe a full second to grasp what Mrs. Hancock was saying. Fairfax’s nonexistent parents had sent a letter.
With slightly numb fingers she accepted the envelope. The paper inside was faintly lavender in color and smelled of attar of rose. The words were written in a pretty hand.
“My parents want me to go home on Saturday,” Iolanthe said to no one in particular. Where was she supposed to go? And who was behind this letter?
“Yes, they also sent a letter to Mrs. Dawlish to that effect,” answered Mrs. Hancock. “You may take a short leave, if you wish.”
“Bother,” said Iolanthe. “Sissy was perfectly fine when I left. I’ll bet she’s only pretending.”
That seemed like something a boy of sixteen who’d been stuck home for three months with his little sister might say.
“Then stay here,” said the prince. “Besides, you are supposed to help me with my critical paper Saturday.”
He sounded enormously peevish.
“I’m afraid you won’t have time Saturday for your critical paper, Your Highness,” said Mrs. Hancock. “The embassy has requested leave for you too. There is a function they would like you to attend.”
“God’s teeth, why do they insist on this charade? I rule nothing, isn’t that punishment enough? Why must I attend their functions and be paraded around?”
“Come, prince, how terrible can it be?” Iolanthe said, playing the part of the affable friend. “There will be champagne and ladies.”
The prince released his bed and plunked himself down on it. “That shows how much
She knew he was playacting, but still she shot him an irate glance. Mrs. Hancock’s sharp eyes took it all in —no doubt exactly as the prince intended.
Iolanthe mustered a smile for Mrs. Hancock. “I’m sure by tomorrow His Highness will be in a more receptive mood. Thank you for coming all the way to give me my letter, ma’am.”
“Oh, it was nothing at all, Fairfax. And good day to you too, Your Highness.”
After she left, neither of them spoke for a while.
Then the prince slowly let out a breath. “Saturday evening I meet with the Inquisitor.”
CHAPTER 
13
IOLANTHE AND THE PRINCE UNDERTOOK a battery of test vaults and determined that she had a solo range of twenty-seven miles, enough to cover the distance between London and Eton in one vault.
Saturday afternoon, to keep up the pretense of heading home to Shropshire, she took the train to London. From there she vaulted to a broom cupboard at school, where the prince waited.
“Anyone following you?”
She shook her head.
The prince gave her a dose of vaulting aid. “Let us go then.”
Their first vault took them to a musty-smelling, cramped space not very different from the broom cupboard they’d left behind.
“Where are we?”
“Somewhere inside the bell tower of a cathedral in Birmingham. Let me know if you need a few minutes.”
She shook her head, determined not to show any weakness. She lasted two more such vaults before her head spun. It didn’t matter where she was now—another long-disused room by the look of it. She leaned against the wall and fought her nausea.
He checked her pulse, his fingers warm and light on her wrist. Then he gave her a powder as sweet as pure sugar.
“What is it?” she mumbled.
“Something that will make my kisses taste like chocolate.”
Until now, neither of them had referred to the kiss. She had been trying not to remember it—the imminent meeting with the Inquisitor meant she would finally see Master Haywood, and that was plenty to occupy her mind.
But she
Did he wish daily—hourly—that he’d been born someone else, and not burdened with this crushing purpose? She would, but she could not tell about him. His true emotions were buried at the depth of an ocean trench, undetectable to anyone but himself.
“Your kisses will only ever taste like wet dog.”
“Know a lot about that, do you?” he said amicably.
She signaled that she was ready to vault again. After two more vaults, despite the remedy, her head pounded in agony.
He helped her sit down. “Put your head between your knees.”
“Why are you still standing?” she asked, grumpily envious, her eyes half-closed.
They were outdoors. The grass beneath her was soft and green, the air cool and moist, with the distinct, salty tang of the sea.
“You might be handsome as a god, but I vault like one.”
She wished she had the energy to glower at him, even though she felt strangely like smiling. “Where are we?”
“Cape Wrath, Scotland.”
“Where is that?”
“The very north of Britain, five hundred some miles from Eton.”
No wonder she felt so awful. Five hundred miles was generally considered the upper limit on daily vaulting range. For them to have come so far in less than a quarter of an hour was something marvelous—and possibly fatal.
She lifted her face. They were on a craggy headland overlooking a gray, restless sea. The wind was so strong she had to remove her hat. Her short hair blew about wildly.
He crouched down, held her chin between his fingers, and peered into her eyes. She knew he was only checking the size of her pupils, but the act was still overwhelmingly intimate, one long locked gaze.
