“What’s this?” Trevor moves in close, I can smell the ale from breakfast on her breath. Her eyes are wide in surprise. “Nothing else to say?”
I shake my head, take a slow step back. She advances another step, and I realize she’s backing me into one corner of the room. “Come on. Where’s that infamous Arseneau back chat? You act so big and bad only when there’s no one around to challenge you, but really you’re just a child playing dress-up in mommy’s clothes.” Her tone is a whining taunt, and a startling realization slaps me in the face.
I side-step Trevor as she moves forward another half pace. “Why are you goading me? It’s like you’re waiting for me to fail.”
“Stop gaping, Clémence,” she snaps. “It’s melodramatic and if your face freezes that way, I will have zero pity for you.” Her expressing changes to an unnerving smile as her eyes go narrow and cold. Her chin dips toward her chest as she speaks. “Why would I want you to fail? It’s my job to ensure you complete the Benefactors’ tasks. If I’m a bitch, it’s in the service of my employers’ best interests. Slack discipline means shit results. Fight me and you fight them. I’m sure we both agree that would be a mistake of legendary magnitude.”
It looks like she’s one loose screw away from being completely unhinged. This is crazy. She is crazy. Another realization slaps me. What if there are cameras already planted in these rooms? What if the Benefactors are watching right now?
My eyes flit up to the high corners of the salon ceiling, then around at the furnishings, including the flower vases and bookshelves. No surveillance equipment immediately visible, but it doesn’t mean it’s not there. I’ll get Nico to run a tech sweep later.
I lick my lips, trying to ease the cotton-mouth dryness, but it persists. “Something’s not right with you or this whole mission. I don’t know what it is, but I’m going to find out.”
“It’s quite simple,” she says with a sigh that punctuates her boredom with our conversation. “Get your head out of your ass. Do exactly as you’re told. Complete this mission to my exact specifications. Before you consider your next move, heed this tiny piece of advice: Think twice before fucking with me again. Or you’ll find out how creative I can be in making your life more of a living hell.”
Chapter 12
Salt hits the back of my throat in a blast of chilled air rolling in from the bay. I have a complicated relationship with the sea; it has given freedom with one hand and stolen precious people from me with the other. I love the wild tang of brine on my tongue and the expanse of a wide-open horizon as I gaze out from the bow of a powerful ship. I love the comforting memories of Papa bounding down the gangplank, ready to sweep Maman and me up in his arms.
Flashbacks of Maman and me huddling together for warmth in a single bunk as our prison-ship sailed toward the American colonies terrorizes me. Even worse than those melancholy memories are those of the horror-filled screams of passengers as that same ship sank from beneath us in a storm. Before journey’s end, the waves dragged Maman down and I was orphaned.
After Maman’s death, irony and some fickle deity conspired to sell me into indentured servitude on a merchant ship, of all things. For two years, I endured life at sea with the brutal Captain Bartholomew and relived the horrific memories of losing Maman every time angry storm waves swelled beneath the hull.
When I’m on a mission, I bury these recollections; the numbness that comes from stuffing them deep enough so they’re not open and raw is a relief. Far from being immobilized, this detachment usually allows me to get jobs done. Focus hasn’t been my strong suit of late.
It occurs to me that stuffing all this rage wasn’t the best idea. It’s also possible that I’m full of shit and the hours I’ve spent scouting around this dock waiting for King Henry’s ship to make port have given me far too much time to navel-gaze.
“Nothing,” I say to Nico through the CommLink. “No sign of The Swallow.”
“Patience, Dodger,” Nico says, his voice warm and reassuring in my ear. “We have a few more minutes. They should be here soon.”
October 11, 1532. Ten o’clock in the morning. That’s the moment Lady Anne Boleyn’s most ardent effort to sway French support for her impending marriage, and elevation to England’s queen, begins. It’s also the moment my personal nightmare kicks into high gear. I’m not sure what feelings will assault me the moment I lay eyes on the living, breathing Lady Anne. The acid in my stomach is already building, forcing its way up my throat in a long, slow burn.
“Where’s Fagin?” I ask.
“With the Vicomte and his wife at The Staple Inn. She’s letting them sample the Miracle Madeira again. They’re nervous that the first batches we served them were flukes.”
“I’m sure she loves that.”
“Gotta keep them happy until after the banquet. While we’re waiting on the Tudors, mosey over to that ship on your left so I can record some data for the historical holograms through your LensCams.”
“Mosey? I’ve never moseyed anywhere in my life.” I say, walking toward the ship. The deck hands are busy moving large barrels into a block and tackle rigging, and shouting directions to the men waiting on the dock. It sounds like they’re speaking a Scandinavian language, possibly Flemish. “I may stroll or amble or even sashay, occasionally, but “mosey”? Never.”
“That’s what I love about you, Dodger. You never miss an opportunity to be a smartass.”
“I did yesterday. Trevor reminded me, for the millionth time, that she owns me on this mission. I had to chew the
