“In the dregs of pleasure,” several voices finish the clue in unison.
There’s a murmur of voices around the circle as the clues are dissected from every conceivable angle.
Silver dress...Crazes men...but, not a woman.
Whatever it is, it strips one’s strength.
Dark woe in dregs of pleasure men love.
Raises high the dearest treasure.
Like a toast at a banquet, maybe?
Silver...garnet...powerful dregs.
“A cup of wine,” Lady Anne says, her words coming in an excited rush of breath. “That’s the answer: a cup of wine. The dress is a silver goblet. Drinking too much red wine is, indeed, a most reckless habit. Those who love it too much, find dark woes in its dregs.”
There are furrowed brows and frowns, then gasps of delight as they realize Anne’s answer is the only one that makes sense. Of course it’s a cup of wine. It couldn’t be anything else. We should have known it right away. The murmur around the circle grows into a buzz of excited chatter.
My eyes are glued to Lady Anne. She’s charismatic—able to influence everyone in her world to give her exactly what she wants. Dangerously cunning. She’s the kind of person who can convince you she has only your best interests at heart while she’s digging your heart out of your chest with a dull spoon. She’s a tormentor, content to cause destruction and death as long as she gets what she wants.
And her daughter will be just like her.
“Magnifique,” I say, pretending to applaud the effort. My brain screams at my heart as I wrestle with vengeance. “It is, indeed, a cup of wine. Do you always have the perfect answer?”
“Yes. I do,” she says, smugly, before calling out to the sluggish servant, “Boy, bring more wine. I’ve worked up a thirst solving our French friend’s clever riddle.”
The boy steps toward Lady Anne, pours a rich, crimson wine into her cup and, in a feigned baritone voice says, “Miracle Madeira, my lady. This is the wine from Calais you love so much.”
I know that voice. My eyes drift up to the servant’s face and I have to fight to control my body, my expressions. Disguised in men’s clothes, and staring down at me with a piercing gaze, is Becca Trevor.
Chapter 16
“Shit,” Nico says. “Trevor, what are you doing there?”
Trevor smiles and gestures toward my empty goblet with the wine carafe in her hands. “I brought wine, mademoiselle. Would you care for more or have you had enough?”
I shake my head, a gesture anyone, except Fagin, would interpret as declining the offer. I recognize the same sentiment burning in Fagin’s eyes: Don’t do it. Don’t go there.
“You’re wearing your CommLink, aren’t you?” Nico says.
In response, Trevor smiles and throws a glance up to the hidden camera embedded in the corner.
“Get your scrawny ass back to the ship, now,” Nico continues. “This isn’t part of the plan.”
Fagin extends her cup toward Trevor, facing her squarely, and then says to Anne. “Are your servants in the habit of addressing the ladies of your court in such a manner, Your Majesty? In France, such impertinence would be punishable by flogging.”
It takes a minute to realize that I’m holding my breath, an action usually reserved for moments when I’m distracting my mark with some misdirection or another before picking their pocket. On the exhale, I’d have the wallet out of the pocket or the bracelet off of the arm and be on my merry way.
I’m not sure what will happen if I exhale now: Trevor’s next move could bring the entire mission crashing down on us. If Becca’s cover is blown, how the hell are we going to get her out of the Tudor court without risking our own exposure?
“Boy,” Anne says, “What’s your name?”
“Cesario, Your Grace.”
“Cesario?” Anne looks perplexed, like the name doesn’t fit the lanky youth standing in front of her. “Are you English or Italian?”
“Both, Your Grace,” Trevor says. “My uncle lives near the River Avon, and he writes plays. He suggested the name to my mother, who has relations in Verona.”
Nico breaks in. “You stole a name from Shakespeare for this bullshit? Leave the classics alone. Maybe use Matahari or something else, next time you decide to scupper our operation. Or how about this?” He bites each word off like he’s snapping clean through iron bars with his teeth. “There better not be a next time.”
Lady Douglas steps forward, wringing her hands. “This is my responsibility, Your Grace. Young Cesario is here on my account. It was not until the boy arrived at court with a letter from my late, dear sister that I learned she left behind a ward in need of care upon her death. If it please, Your Grace, I gave him work in the kitchens so he could earn his keep.” She pauses, her voice shakes. “If he distresses you, I can find another position for him.”
Anne dismisses her concerns with a wave. “If the boy is now your ward, Lady Douglas, he is welcome at court as long as he remembers his position.” She turns to Trevor. “Can you do that? Never speak to my ladies unless they address you first.”
“Of course, Your Grace. My apologies. I seek only the health and safety of your guests while they’re here.” Trevor says. “And that they see this visit as a very...profitable one.”
Trevor is like a splinter that works itself into you so deep that nothing dislodges it. It just sits there, below the skin, festering. “We don’t need your help,” I say. “Leave us to our own affairs.”
“I am at your service, my ladies. My desire is your happiness.” Her eyes have grown dark and dangerous. Like a shark’s.
“Of course,” Trevor continues, a sardonic grin pulls the corners of her mouth upward making her look sinister. She’s enjoying this way too much. “I’m sure you’re both capable of accomplishing all you set your mind to doing.”
Lady Douglas wrings her hand and takes a tentative step toward us. She says to Lady Anne, “Madam, with your permission, I’ll
