After the Benefactors descended on us like angry gods from Mount Olympus, she changed from the pragmatic entrepreneur who’d do anything to help me succeed to a puritanical, rule-following lackey. It makes for a tightly-wound Fagin. If I didn’t love her so much, I’d spike her wine along with Trevor’s.
It takes a few minutes of searching the banquet hall to find her; she stands near the buffet where the Vicomtess d’Auvergne zealously orchestrates the distribution of Madeira to the nobles gathered for the feast. There’s a throng of courtiers crowded around her, but Fagin remains as calm as a buoy floating effortlessly on the frenzied wave of activity around her. She peers at me over the rim of her goblet as she drinks.
I look away. “I have no idea what you’re talking about.”
“Don’t play games with me,” she says, dryly. “Return the bracelet.”
Merde. She saw it. “You’re the one who said robbing the English blind could be my revenge. You said—”
“I know,” Fagin interrupts. “But what Trevor might miss reporting to the Benefactors, hidden cameras could pick up. You must follow orders exactly, and that means anything not on the acquisition list is off limits.”
“My skills are rusty. Gotta keep myself nimble for the real work.” As rationalizations go, it’s not a bad one. But Fagin sees right through it.
“Give it back or I will,” she says. “Going off script is dangerous for all of us and you know it.”
In a test of wills, it’s almost an even draw between Fagin and me for who would win. We’re both stubborn. Both can hold a grudge. But Fagin holds the purse strings, so she wins.
It takes numerous glares from Fagin to swallow my pride and work my way through the throng of courtiers between me and the Botticelli girls. When I reach them, I slip the sapphire bracelet from my pocket, stopping to finger the perfect, smooth surface of the stones before letting it slide down my skirt to the floor.
I tap the girl on the shoulder. “Mademoiselle, I think you dropped something.”
She follows my gaze to the floor and squeals in dismay. “My bracelet,” she says. The Frenchman bends down to retrieve it, then fastens it on her wrist. “I would have walked away never knowing it was lost. It would devastate me to lose this; it’s a gift from my father.” She clasps my hand in hers and kisses one cheek, then the other. “How can I thank you?”
“No need to thank me,” I say in a voice so syrupy and fake it makes my teeth hurt. “Knowing you’re reunited with a cherished gift is reward enough.”
If I had let her, the girl would’ve kept kissing my cheeks and expressing her gratitude long enough that I might have changed my mind and stolen the bracelet back. She wears stacks of identical bracelets, it’s hard to believe she would have missed one. My stomach churns with too much anger and frustration as it is, so I take my leave as quickly as I can.
“That wasn’t so bad, was it?” Fagin says, as she watched me stalk toward the wine steward. I shoot her a dark look and she brushes it off with an eye roll. “Take a walk around the room. You’ll feel better.”
It doesn’t make me feel better. In fact, it makes me feel worse because it has been a long time since I’ve been hog-tied like this. To compensate, I can’t resist slipping a bracelet off of another woman when Fagin’s back is turned. Now, I feel better.
The great hall of the Staple Inn is bathed in the light of two thousand candles suspended from the ceiling by twenty enormous iron candelabras. Fires in twin hearths, one on each end of the room blaze in their grates making for a warm and cozy venue in contrast with the darkness outside and rain that falls like a curtain over the windows. Gold wreaths studded with diamonds, pearls, and rubies line the walls, and gold tissue is draped over every stationary object in the room and even a few non-stationary objects; several English ladies have co-opted sheets of tissue, wrapping them around their shoulders like fur capes.
It’s a cheery venue. It’s festive. It’s disgusting.
Galling, actually, considering the wealth in this room is in stark contrast with the humbler dwellings of Calais a few streets away. Even more irritating than the decor is the necessity of strolling around this grand room, smiling and making polite conversation with enemies I’d just as soon gut as look at. I wish I could treat this like just another job, but my God...I feel dirty among them. I feel trapped.
I want to tear these golden walls down with my bare hands.
“Is it just me or is this decadence so extreme, it’s vulgar?” Nico says, echoing my thoughts. “There’s so much wealth in this room, I’ll bet it could feed the people of Calais for a generation or more.”
For all the vitriol in his tone, Nico’s voice in my ear is comforting. At least I know I’m not alone in loathing this whole situation. “Two-hundred and fifty-six years, six months, and eight days until the barricades arise,” I say.
Nico goes quiet for a moment, then adds, “Vive la révolution.”
“Thank you for the social commentary,” Fagin cuts in. “Can we nix the judgment and get back to our jobs, please? Any sign of Mary Boleyn?”
“Not yet,” Nico replies, sounding like Fagin has just poured a bucket of cold water over his protest. “You’ll know when the royals show up. Trumpets will sound and there’ll be the sweet smell of greed and naked ambition in the air.”
“Nico—” Fagin says.
“Yes, ma’am. Shutting up, ma’am,” Nico snaps and the line goes silent.
“Speaking of greed and naked ambition, where is Trevor?” I say, scanning the room for the dimwitted lieutenant. If things went to plan, she’s passed out in her crew quarters, sleeping off the
