No one would ever rain on Anne’s parade, so to speak, because they wouldn’t throw one for her in the first place.
“Spotted Mary Boleyn, yet?” Nico says.
Turning in the saddle, I crane my neck to scan the caravan trailing behind me. There are dozens of conveyances: horses with single riders, open-air wagons, and people on foot. Behind a cadre of the king’s men—privy counselors and noble lords—I spot several coaches creaking along, bobbing and dipping with each small rut in the road.
“She’s probably in one of those closed coaches behind us. I don’t see her in any of the open wagons.”
I hear him moving around the ship’s cockpit. “There’s a message from Fagin. She wants you back at the ship.”
“Did she say anything else?”
“Nope. She’s being tight-lipped.”
A drop of water splashes against my cheek. Soon there’s a steady drizzle of cold rain, the kind mixed with sleet that will sting if its velocity picks up.
“Dodger, you’ve got about five minutes before the skies open up on you.” Nico says. “Some serious weather is moving in fast from the ocean. Get your ass back here.”
“On my way.”
The ride back to my ship is long enough to allow me to ruminate on the problem of Fagin. She used to share the reasoning behind her directives, so I understood the goal of each step of the plan and how it got us to the big payoff for the job. I get that we’re reduced to a shitty one-way shorthand—courtesy of Becca Trevor’s meddling—where Fagin gives orders and I’m supposed to obey. I can see the anger and frustration in her eyes over being as hog-tied as I am.
Since this mission began, there have been times she looks at me with an emotion—if my intuition is right—I’ve never before seen in her: true despair. I’ve seen Fagin put on a great show of pretend anguish over the years; her tears are the perfect distraction so a young, nimble-fingered protégé can pick a pocket, or slip into a room, unseen, to pilfer whatever needs pilfering.
When this is all over, I’ll sit her down, a bottle of Miracle Madeira between us, and make her spill everything she can’t tell me now about Trevor and the Benefactors. Nobody fucks with Fagin on my watch and gets away with it. One way or another, I’ll get my Fagin back.
Chapter 13
A pair of young women slither past me on their way to the wine buffet. I turn to follow, moving with the casual grace that allows me to melt into large crowds. The venue for Lady Anne’s French coming out party is cheek-by-jowl stuffed with people. In a crowd like this, which includes elite English and French luminaries, I can become unremarkable and utterly forgettable. These are perfect conditions for a little light thievery before the real party begins.
The girls are young, probably sixteen or seventeen years old, and have already learned the art of blending pouty-lipped flirtatiousness with the piety of vestal virgins. The quintessential Renaissance contradiction: Project the aura of being supremely fuckable while maintaining the purity required to obtain an advantageous marriage.
Men in the room swarm around them like honey bees to pollen-heavy flowers. While the noblemen’s amorous pursuit of the girls is driven by knowing their rich daddies will pay handsome dowries, the girls’ nubile bodies and Botticelli faces are a bonus no one with eyes could ignore.
They’re not twins, but have worn matching outfits; celestial blue velvet gowns cut to highlight the delicate kirtles of ivory silk beneath their skirts and pulled through fashionable slashed sleeves. Also on display are their ample breasts, which look one deep breath away from a serious wardrobe malfunction. They look like they just stepped out of a Renaissance painting.
More germane to my interests than their clothes are their jewels. Ropes of perfect sapphires wrap around their throats and wrists, and the most glorious diamond earrings dangle from their dainty earlobes. The antiquated clasps of the necklaces look easy enough to manipulate, but the bracelets look easier. Right. Bracelets it is, then.
I stand behind the most flirtatious girl, close enough to smell both the pomander filled with fragrant herbs and spices that hangs from her waist and the pungent body odor it’s meant to disguise. She’s a giggling mass of energy aiming all her feminine charms at two men at the same time—one French, the other English—both seem equally enamored with her.
The crowded room provides precious little elbow room, and she’s preoccupied enough with the men to be oblivious to my presence. This should be a breeze.
The girl leans in to whisper to the Frenchman and I lean into her; a discreet nudge into the middle of her back to knock her slightly off balance. The girl, no time to steady herself, stumbles forward. I grab her by the waist, an attempt to soften her landing as she falls.
“Pardon et moi.” I pull her around to face me. Her cheeks are flushed with surprise and embarrassment. “Please forgive me.”
I make a great fuss over her, smoothing the front of her puckered gown and the strands of hair that have tugged free from the front of her French hood with one hand while the other hand drifts down to her wrist.
A quick pop of my thumbnail under the edge of the clasp and the diamond bracelet falls into my cupped palm. I give the flustered girl a quick hug, and another apology, as I slip the bracelet into a hidden pocket in my gown and hustle myself to the opposite side of the room.
In. Out. Done.
“Give it back.” Fagin’s voice has a hard, sharp edge to it. She never used to treat me like a toddler caught raiding the sweets cupboard. From the day she recruited me, Fagin encouraged the prolific application of my thieving skills,
