For all her Machiavellian traits, she has chinks in her emotional armor. All but imperceptible to others, they’re as glaring and obvious to me as her tells when bluffing at cards.
Her fingernails are chewed down to the quick.
Dark circles lie in the hollows beneath her blue eyes.
She rubs the right side of her face where the lower jaw hinges; a sign she’s been grinding her teeth nearly nonstop for the last few hours since the thorn in our collective sides put us on a clock.
“Nico,” I say, “any luck finding references in the holograms about when Anne gives Henry limning?”
Nico’s voice buzzes through the CommLink. “Nada. So far, the logs only reference sparse facts we already know: The mini-portrait was painted by Holbein and given to the king as a gift. Nothing more than that.”
“Keep looking,” Fagin says. “While you’re at it, keep eyes on Trevor for the rest of the night and let us know if she gets anywhere near us. I don’t want any more surprises like the one we got in Anne’s chambers.”
“Roger,” comes the reply. “At the moment, the dear lieutenant is in the kitchen turning a pheasant on a spit over an open fire.”
“Is she miserable?” I ask, and Fagin raises an eyebrow. I shrug in return.
“She’s been a mosquito dive-bombing my ear for the last hour. I had to turn the volume down on her CommLink because I couldn’t listen to her anymore.” He pauses, then says with an expectant tone, “And... you’re welcome.”
“I’m sorry. What are we thanking you for?” Fagin asks.
“For keeping Trevor on another CommLink frequency so you don’t have to listen to her.”
“Keep us updated. If she’s frustrated, she might let something important slip,” Fagin replies.
“She’s not likely to start screwing up now that she’s got us all dancing to her beat,” I say.
“Don’t be so sure,” Fagin shakes her head and gives me a knowing look. “Hubris like hers always costs something, and it’s usually a big fat mistake that kicks your ass out of the frying pan and into the flames.” She cranes her neck forward, peering around a gaggle of women clustered together just near a wide, floor-to-ceiling carved wood pillar at the room’s entrance. She gives a subtle nod in their direction. “Madge Shelton and Grace Parker just joined those women. That means the rest of the royal circle probably aren’t far behind.”
“What’s the plan?” I ask. The adrenaline is pumping. I love this juice that kicks up my heart rate and makes my blood race through my veins like wildfire. This time, though, it’s tainted with a sickening jolt of fear: What happens if I fuck up?
If Trevor really does go gunning for Fagin or Nico, I’ll—
“Work the plan,” Fagin says, interrupting my thoughts. “Just like any other mission day. Glean as much information as we can and go from there. Lady Anne likes you, so maybe a simple, direct question about the limning will do the trick.” Fagin says.
“Stranger things have happened,” I say. “There was that time in the French Quarter working a job for the high-rolling pirate buff. Remember?”
Fagin saunters into the Great Hall—I follow close behind—and peruses the sweets table. “The Battle of New Orleans agreement between Jean Lafite and General Andrew Jackson.”
I nodded “I thought it was going to be a lot of cloak and dagger stealth, but all I had to do was talk to that pirate, Reginald Hicks. He told me exactly where—and when—the two would meet. All I had to do was ask.”
Fagin rolls her eyes and the look is unmistakable: She knows when I’m leaving something out of the story.
“Yeah, I know. I had to find him a priest to perform the ceremony so he could marry his sweetheart before the war started.”
“The Pirate Reginald Hicks,” Nico says, cackling with glee. “That gets me every time. It’s like calling a pirate Larry. Or Bob. Or Walter. It doesn’t exactly conjure images of fierce, leave-no-witnesses pillaging and plundering.”
“I’m sure you remember Reggie’s plundering skills were more than adequate,” I say, dryly. “Didn’t he pick your pocket at Laffite’s mansion when you left the ship to check up on me?”
“You went dark for two hours. I was worried.” He expels a rush of air in one large exasperated breath. “And, don’t remind me about Reggie’s skills.” I can actually hear the air quotes he must be making around the last word. “That rat-bastard kept my money.”
“Save it for later, you two,” Fagin says, nodding toward Lady Anne as she, and the rest of her entourage, stroll into the Great Hall. “It’s show time.”
The party reminds me of the training sessions in the Sim Lab version of Greenwich. Same layout for the public spaces, same corridors and staircases and bedchambers. I’m assuming the guards posted outside Henry’s rooms are already on duty, too. Aside from the difference in the item I’m going to acquire tonight—Henry’s rosary will have to wait awhile—there’s one other big difference between the Sim Lab training practice and this job: This time, we’re going in blind.
No days or weeks of practice. No do-overs. Only one shot to get this right.
Fagin and I pick our way through the crowd. Trestle tables are placed end-to-end along the longest walls in the oblong room; this is where the invited guests will sit when they’re not schmoozing and dancing. At the far end of the room is the head table where Lady Anne has joined the king.
“I’m going to check the Madeira and make sure a good amount makes its way to the head table,” Fagin says, then nods toward Lady Jane Seymour. “After that, I’ll start interviewing sweet Jane. Maybe she knows something.”
“I’ll go make myself indispensable to What’s-Her-Name. Maybe I’ll peel her a grape or something,” I say, jerking a thumb toward Anne.
Fagin throws a playful elbow jab to my ribs. “Get moving, kiddo.”
Missions always have an element of déjà vu. Just like the
