I’ll give Trevor credit for one thing: She reads the room rather than blundering ahead. As she studies my face—and Fagin’s and Anne’s—her expression flickers from steel-eyed smugness to something else. Realization that she’s outnumbered, maybe? Whatever it is, it’s enough to convince her this is not a hill to continue climbing, let alone die on.
“As you wish, my lady,” Trevor says to Lady Douglas leaving behind an air of tension so thick, a one of King Henry’s hunting knives couldn’t hack through it.
Fagin and I have just enough time to exchange “what the fuck” looks when Trevor’s voice breaks over the CommLink. “You think you’re so smart, the three of you.”
“Trevor, get your ass back to the ship, pronto, or this escapade is going in my own report to the Benefactors,” Nico cuts in. “I’ll make sure they know you nearly blew the whole deal to smithereens just now.”
“They won’t give two shits about your report, Garcia. I’m their proxy, so what I say goes. Remember that I said I changed two mission parameters after you sabotaged me the first time? Here’s the second one: Dodger has until tomorrow morning to obtain Lady Anne’s portrait miniature and bring it to me.”
Fagin inhales sharply. A new deadline is a serious snag in our carefully laid plans. She looks like she’s wracking her brain, with little success, for a way to compress the timeline in the meticulous plans we rehearsed. The current plan is as tight as it can be.
“If you’re even a minute late, Dodger, Fagin and Nico will pay the price for your failure. Believe me when I say: I have punishments in mind that will make them cry for mommy.”
“Melodrama isn’t necessary to make a goddamn point!” Nico says in a rush of angry breath.
“While I do love good theater, this isn’t melodrama. If Arseneau fails this task, I’ll take it out of your ass. Fagin’s, too. Fancy a long stretch in maximum security on a prison planet after we get home? I can arrange that.”
A crowded room is the world’s worst place to listen as to your world goes to shit and you’ve got to keep a straight face. Fagin and I trade looks and for a moment, I consider storming out of the room to chase Trevor down.
“Dear Clémence,” Lady Anne says, her dark eyes flood with concern. Guess my poker face needs work. “What is it that troubles you so? The color is gone from your cheeks and you’re trembling.”
“The next shipment of our Madeira is late because of storm in the channel,” Fagin says, putting a protective arm around me. “We’re worried there won’t be enough wine for the banquet tonight.”
Trevor keeps yammering in my ear, continuing to argue with Nico. “You three clowns don’t call the shots. I do. I can add time limits to deliver an item. I can add so many items to the list that you’ll die of old age before this mission is done.”
“This is crazy,” Nico says. “Nothing you’re doing makes sense if the goal is to acquire the objects on the list and get back home.”
“You keep forgetting that stealing the artifacts is only half of the mission. The other is making our wayward Dodger a cooperative and obedient asset.”
“Then why make it harder on her?” he asks, his voice filled with a lover’s fierce protectiveness.
“Because obedience is forged in fire,” Trevor snaps. “Besides, is payback for the three of you fucking with me in Calais. Don’t blow this deadline or you won’t like what comes next.”
A gentle touch on my arm grounds me back into my surroundings. Lady Anne smiles at me, and her empathy and warm are as surprising as a burst of sunlight in a storm. Her comforting gesture makes me squirm in my seat; she’s not supposed to be nice. She’s supposed to be a bitch bent on world domination, or at least her little corner of it. I find myself liking her, a little bit, in spite of myself.
“If we don’t have enough wine for the banquet tonight,” she says. “We’ll serve the best Madeira early, then offer lesser wine when the courtiers won’t know the difference. Dear girl, don’t worry. All will be well,” Anne says, with a note of finality. She holds my hand. “I will welcome the king home and give him this token. All of you,” she sweeps an arm around the room, “make yourselves beautiful. We have a feast to attend.”
Chapter 17
Rain drives against the stained-glass windows at the far end of Greenwich Palace’s great hall, making the images seem eerily animated when lightning strikes. It’s mesmerizing. The colors flicker and fade in staccato rhythm against the fluid motion of the water as it cascades down the glass in sheets.
Another immutable gray day in England. There’s not a window in the palace that permits more than a murky glimpse of the gardens. Even if the storm abated, there wouldn’t be much to see. The landscape is withered. Dead. Autumn’s color and crispness have been exiled by early winter’s carrion of muted brown hedges and trees defrocked of their clothes.
Defrocked is exactly how I feel. I’ve been stripped bare of every shred of autonomy, every last ounce of freedom. Trevor might as well parade me around the palace on a fucking leash. It’s a wonder she doesn’t make me beg her permission to breathe.
Throngs of courtiers file into the Great Hall for the evening’s festivities: another banquet celebrating Anne’s triumph with King Francois. It’s been the Party That Never Ends since we left Calais. King Henry has worked overtime ensuring the point of Anne’s elevation to queen is driven home ad nauseam.
It has gotten pretty damn old, pretty damn fast.
“We’ve been in tougher spots,” Fagin says as we survey the room and the courtier circus as the pecking order rears its ugly head.
For a moment, my mentor seems like the Fagin of
