“That’s probably a good bet,” Nico says, in a chagrined tone. I picture him rubbing the back of his neck the way he does when he’s embarrassed or flustered. “That data feed wasn’t jammed. I’m sure we broadcast it back home.”
“Can we trace the attacker back to his ship? They’ve got to have a transport around here somewhere,” I say.
“I’m tracing the transporter’s sub-space signature. It’s very faint, so I don’t know if I can pinpoint their location or not. Maybe I can get close enough that our geo-probes can pick up any other energy pulses that might indicate a camouflaged ship.”
“This is bad,” Fagin says, still pacing. “Really bad.”
“Calm down,” I say, still shaking from the encounter with the assassin. “You’ve told me a million times, getting flustered is a waste of energy.”
Fagin looks at me like I have three heads. “Flustered? Someone tried to kill a key historical figure years before she’s supposed to die. I’m way past ‘flustered,’” She stops pacing and glares at me. “Why aren’t you more upset?”
In the last few months, I’ve seen sides of Fagin I never knew existed. My once-unflappable mentor is slipping into increasingly agitated and paranoid states. The Fagin before me now is terrified, bordering on unhinged.
“I am upset.” I say. Just not in the same way you are. I want to say those words aloud. But if I do, the whole sorry mess will pour out of me.
Chapter 21
“I thought the government put a lid on intertemporal assassinations,” Nico says when we return to the ship. “Once the GTC gets wind of this, there’ll be so many Observers on the ground, we won’t be able to tell the locals from the time travelers.”
“Are you sure the data feed of the chase in the garden got through?” I ask.
“I filter as much as I can, especially when you guys are somewhere you shouldn’t be. But if there are too many unexplained breeches in communication feeds and protocols, there’s a metric fuckton of questions to answer when we get home. It’s better to let the mundane feeds go through with no interference. Going up the stairs after dinner was supposed to be a mundane event.”
“So no filter?” I ask.
“No filter,” he confirms.
The best- and worst-case scenarios for swarms of Benefactor proxies sent to evaluate the situation plays in my head. Whether or not this staircase incident stays a curious blip on the radar or explodes into a full-blown investigation, the assault on Anne complicates things.
If the assassin wasn’t Trevor, then who the hell was it?
I’m so caught up in my own head, I hear only part of Fagin’s question. “—frame the attack as court intrigue by the anti-Boleyn faction?” She rubs her chin.
“Nope,” Nico says. “The broadcast feed included the attacker’s transporter sequence. The assassin is a time traveler.”
Fagin blows out a sharp exhale. “Nico, keep a Comm channel open to see if you can pick up GTC’s chatter. Let us know if you find anything on the transporter signal. Maybe we’ll get lucky and pinpoint their location so we can figure out who the hell they are.”
“Aye, sir.”
“Got eyes on Trevor?”
“She’s in the kitchens scrubbing pans.”
There’s a sharp cry from Anne’s bedroom. Fagin and I rush into the room to find her ladies propping her up in a cloud of pillows. They arrange her like she’ll break if they move her the wrong way. Mary Boleyn, busy stuffing a pillow behind Anne’s head, catches sight of me. “Mademoiselle, has the doctor arrived? My sister’s injuries must be treated.”
“Not yet, my lady. I’m sure he will be here soon.”
Anne pushes herself higher on the pillows, wincing from the effort. The pinched expression relaxes when she spots me. “Clémence, come.”
My feet feel like they’re encased in lead. The last place I want to be is anywhere near this bed. I take a full minute to drag myself to her side.
“How are you, my lady?” I ask.
Anne strokes her belly. “All will be well. I’m sure of it. I am forever grateful for your bravery. You and Madam Fagin saved my life.”
Fuck me. Did I just become her hero?
Tears slide down Anne cheeks. The ladies-in-waiting huddle closer, their comforting tones mingling with Anne’s whispered prayers for a male heir.
If I don’t plant this letter fast, I’ll lose my nerve and any chance of saving my family.
Extricating myself from Anne’s grasp, I say, “My lady, allow me to fetch the doctor. He is too long in coming.”
Anne keeps my hand in her grasp and pulls me toward her. She plants a kiss on my cheek. Reflexively, I pull back and brush my fingertips across the spot, still warm from her breath.
“Soon, I will bear the king an heir. He will be his father’s son and sit on the throne one day.” Her voice cracks with emotion. “We have you to thank for it.”
Swallowing hard, I push myself to stand on quivering legs and somehow drop a curtsey without falling over. “Your servant, madam,” I say, then gesture toward Fagin and the exit. “With your permission, I will fetch the doctor.”
She nods, gratitude spilling down her cheeks.
By the time Fagin and I reach the corridor, the Wyatt letter feels as heavy in my pocket as a millstone around my neck. Its gravitational pull dragging me down. In my other pocket, a sedative hypo spray in case I run into guards in the king’s apartments and a small data pad to send instructions to the ship’s computer. One tap on the display and Betty will run the looped video file in my LensCam feed so Nico thinks I’m anywhere but in King Henry’s chambers.
If I don’t plant this letter today, I’ll never do it.
By the time we reach the Great Hall, where lower-ranking courtiers linger over their meals, Fagin has quickly outpaced me. When she realizes I’m
