Music and dancing begin and the reception line to greet the royal couple still stretches half way across the room. No one notices when I slip out of the room. Columned archways frame the perimeters of the hallway, offshoots to different parts of the palace. They offer adequate cover where I can observe the corridor as I make my way to the king’s chambers.
When I reach the top of the staircase leading to the king’s apartment, I find both sentries slumped against the wall with their legs splayed out in front of them. I watch them for a moment. The only movement is the gentle rise and fall of their chests as they breathe. A few steps closer and I find half-drunk cups of wine beside each man, the remnants of Fagin’s sedative-laced Madeira spilled on the floor where the cups have dropped.
If I’m lucky, they’ll be out for a couple of hours. The door to the king’s chambers is locked, but it doesn’t slow me down. In less than a minute, I’ve picked the lock and slipped into the room.
There’s no moon in the sky, and no light filters through the leaded glass windows. There’s a dim glow from the banked embers in the fireplace—the servants haven’t yet stoked them into flame before the king retires for the night. The room is in deep shadow; I won’t find what I’m looking for without some help.
Reaching into a pocket hidden in the folds of my gown, I grope for the small pair of night-vision glasses that will help me search the room.
They’re gone.
Patting down the three other hidden pockets produces the same result: nothing. Perhaps I dropped them. Retracing my steps back to the great hall would be risky and time-consuming. I could search for a candle, but I’d need to find a matchstick to light from the fireplace embers. Unless the clouds in the night sky part, allowing moonlight in, I’m out of light source options.
My kingdom for a damn flashlight.
There are shouts outside in the corridor. The unconscious men have been discovered, and the general alarm sounds. The door to the privy chamber bursts open and four guards, armed with daggers, rush toward me.
“Computer, stop program and reset.” Fagin says from the shadows. “Lights to one hundred percent.” On command, the snarling guards disappear in mid-stride and fluorescent lights come up to full power.
“I swear I had those glasses in my pocket when we started,” I say, pre-empting the lecture I know is coming. I don’t need a litany of all the things I’m doing wrong. Fagin, however, is hell-bent on giving a lecture.
“Are you sure?” she asks, dangling the missing glasses on two outstretched fingers. “You left them in the loo during the last break.” She levels a steady gaze at me, brows knitted together in frustration. “Where is your head? You’ve made every stupid mistake a first-year recruit wouldn’t make after a month of training.”
“It’s nothing.” I shake my head to clear it. It doesn’t help at all. I have to move. Standing still, even for a few minutes, drives me crazy. “Let’s go again.” I spin away from Fagin and head for the door, but don’t get very far.
She grips my arm, pulls me around to face her. “We can’t afford distractions. It’s neither an understatement nor a cliché to point out that mistakes will get us both killed.” There’s an edge to her voice that surprises me; Fagin doesn’t get easily rattled. She also doesn’t usually lay hands on me like this. One raised eyebrow from me, and she releases my arm, but her expression remains tense. “How many times must I remind you what’s at stake?”
A ringtone interrupts us—a shrill whistle that reminds me of a demented exotic bird. Fagin shifts from one foot to the other, and a muscle in her jaw twitches. It doesn’t look like she’s done reminding me of the stakes. The newcomer is insistent and the tone sounds again.
“Computer, open door,” she says.
The door to the Sim Room swooshes open and Nico pokes his head inside.
“Looks like I’m in the right place,” he says with a big grin. When neither Fagin nor I return the greeting, he frowns. “Unless, I’m not.” He pauses, then jabs a thumb toward the hallway behind him. “I could leave and come back later, if you like.”
“Stay,” Fagin replies tersely. “Maybe you can get her to focus so we can get through this training simulation.”
Nico’s smile falters. He shuffles his feet as he moves hesitantly toward me and scratches the back of his head. “Bad day?” he asks with a desperate expression that says his morning plans didn’t include being thrown between two fighting women.
“Nothing I can’t handle,” I say, trying to sound nonchalant.
Fagin rolls her eyes. If she weren’t here, I’d push Nico down on the nearest table and straddle him. God, I could use the release after the morning I’ve had. A shiver runs up the back of my neck at the mental image of looking down into his face, feeling his hips nestled between my thighs. “Didn’t expect to see you here.”
“I didn’t expect to be here.” He points at me and sits on the edge of the table where he had just been flat on his back in my brief daydream. “You’re my next assignment.”
His proximity, the way he sits with his legs slightly apart, the scent of shaving cream and soap lingering on his skin: All of it serves as a distraction I’d willingly give myself over to if I could get rid of Fagin for half an hour.
“You’re our co-pilot?” I ask.
“Your pilot, actually,” he replies, looking like he can’t quite believe it himself. “I was promoted this morning.”
Fagin’s brow wrinkles. “I didn’t realize you were eligible
