“Good girl,” Henry says, brushing a finger across the tip of my nose. “Make peace with your mother and all will be well. I will speak to my sweetheart about finding you a husband.”
“Again, Your Majesty is very kind.”
“Come, let’s rejoin the banquet, and I will find you as many handsome, virile dance partners as you can stand.”
I let him lead me back to the Great Hall and before we enter, I stop and pull him to face me. “I’m grateful for your kindness and discretion. I am forever in your debt.” Biting my lip like a schoolgirl, I throw an arm around his broad shoulder and kiss his cheek. He’s thrown slightly off-balance against my inertia, and he laughs before extricating himself from the embrace. He bows and I curtsey in return.
“If you’re done playing footsie with the king,” Trevor says in a brittle tone, sounding galled that I wasn’t tossed into the Tower with the sleeping guards. “Are you going to do something about the limning the king has in his pocket?”
Leisurely strolling into the great hall, right behind King Henry, I cast a discreet glance downward. The LensCam rest on the portrait miniature tucked securely in my palm before stowing it in the pocket sown into the side-seam of my kirtle.
Nico sighs. “Damn, you’re good.”
Trever offers a disgruntled snort in response.
“Now, if you’ll excuse me,” I say, “the king has commanded me to dance.”
Sometime after midnight, I stroll back to the ship. Everyone has waited up for me. Nico, his athletic frame more relaxed than I’ve seen him in days—no doubt the result of smashing Trevor’s deadline and releasing the tension of the last few hours—sits in the crew lounge with Fagin and Trevor. All have abandoned their Tudor clothing for more comfortable, utilitarian apparel.
Nico wears jeans and a black QUEEN t-shirt—the night we spent together after that concert in Budapest still makes my heart skip a beat. “We Will Rock You” indeed. Both Fagin and Trevor wear loose black athletic pants and long-sleeved hoodies.
Nico pulls me into a tight embrace, kisses my check, and whispers against my ear, “You’re gonna give me a fucking heart attack one of these days. You know that, right?”
Nico doesn’t immediately release me, so Fagin leans over and squeezes my shoulder, then sweeps a finger across my brow, like she did when I was little. “Good job, kiddo.”
Only Trevor is caustic in the face of my triumph; she looks like she just swallowed battery acid. She leans a hip against an adjacent club chair and glares at me.
Nico, one arm still around my shoulder, points an accusatory finger at Trevor and, if his expression is any indication of his intent, looks ready to tear into her. I give him a quick squeeze and shake my head. Nico backs off, giving me room to run.
There’s nothing sweeter than proving a douchebag wrong. I keep my eyes on the lieutenant as I pull the first item slowly out of my pocket, bead by fucking bead.
Henry’s rosary.
I lower it slowly, letting it coil in a spiral on the melamine surface of the dining booth table. It is an ancient spiritual relic, after all. Or will be in a few hundred years. It deserves to be treated with care.
Trevor’s eyelids flutter, perhaps in exhaustion—or irritation— and she tilts her head to one side. Her eyes narrow as her gaze flits down toward my pocket then back up to my eyes.
She doesn’t wait well.
Pulling Lady Anne’s limning from my pocket, I let the gleaming silver locket—adorned with the raised initials “AB”—dangle at the end of the black cord. Trevor reaches out for it, and I pull it back just out of her grasp.
“Let me make something clear: If you continue threatening Nico and Fagin, or ever talk about my family, again, I will kick your ass so hard they’ll feel it back home. Then, I’ll strand you here. I’ll shove you so deep undercover that an Observer team could search for centuries and still not find you.”
“Big words from a—”
“Look in my eyes and tell me if you think I’m bluffing.”
She stares at me, wide-eyed, and finally blinks.
“Say it: I believe you’ll kick my ass and strand me here.”
She laughs, and I shove her into the wall so hard that her head hits the paneling with a solid thunk. For good measure, I put my knee into her groin and press my forearm into her windpipe just enough to get her attention. “You want war? Get ready because it’ll be ugly and bloody, and you’ll wish you’d never even heard my name. Keep threatening people I love, and I’ll start fucking with people closest to you.”
“Dodger,” Fagin says. “Enough.”
We stand toe-to-toe for a few moments longer before I step back. Trevor extends her arm, palm up—there’s a slight tremor in her pinky finger.
“Not until you say it,” I say, still dangling the necklace just out of reach. “Say: I believe you’ll kick my ass and strand me here.”
No answer.
I begin to count. “One.”
She swallows and says in a low growl. “I believe you’ll kick my ass and strand me here.”
“Good,” I say, in as patronizing a tone as I can manage. I drop the portrait miniature into her outstretched hand. “We understand each other. If you’re smart, you’ll agree there can only be mutually assured destruction in a private war between us. Detente is the best we can hope for, I guess.”
“Next time—” Trevor begins, her voice thick with what sounds like either anger or humiliation. Probably both.
“If you’re smart, there won’t be a ‘next time,’” I reply.
She snatches the rosary from the table and deposits both it and the limning into a velvet pouch. She turns on her heel and strides off in the direction of her quarters.
The tension rooted in my neck and shoulders feels excruciating. I roll my head from side to side, trying to release it. Fagin comes up behind me
