“Is there a problem?”
“I told Lady Anne I would fetch a doctor,” I say, careful to keep my voice steady. Fagin looks me up and down, then tilts her head as she meets my eyes. She’s looking for something. Keep it together. “Are you starting to like her?”
“Are you kidding?” I feign disgust. The truth is: I’m beginning to feel something warm towards Lady Anne. I wouldn’t go so far as to label it liking her. “No. If the doctor doesn’t show up, I don’t want him telling the king or Lady Anne that I never spoke to him. I’ll get to the ship as fast as I can.”
Her eyes narrow and she considers me a moment longer. “Don’t take long. Doesn’t sound like whatever Nico wants us to see can keep.” She pauses when she spots something over my shoulder. “Uh-oh.”
When I turn to see the cause of her exasperation, I’m greeted by the sight of Becca Trevor clearing dishes from the tables. Trevor casts furtive, smirking glances in our direction like she has more nasty secrets she’s just dying for us to find.
“Go on,” I say. “Get back to the ship. I won’t be long.”
I wait until Fagin’s out of sight, then slip from the room when Trevor’s back is turned. Once in the corridor, I take the data pad out of my pocket and tap the video loop file.
“Dodger?” Nico’s says, concerned. “Your LensCam feed just flickered off and back on. You okay?”
“Yeah. Probably just a glitch.” Another lie to add to the first one.
“Get back to the ship and we’ll have a look. You might need a new pair.”
“Be there soon. I have to find the doctor.”
“Roger,” Nico replies.
Without another word, I mute the CommLink mic, too.
Two guards—both new to court—stand watch at the king’s chamber door. I flash my most alluring smile. “Is this where they hide court’s most handsome men? Sentry duty?”
They puff up their chests, reveling in my attention, yet somewhat wary of an unaccompanied woman’s presence outside the king’s apartments.
“I have a message for the king,” I say. “From Lady Anne.”
The beefier of the two narrows his eyes. “None but the king or his counselors are allowed in his chambers without permission. If you give the message to me, I will give it to the king.”
Fat chance, buddy.
I slip the letter out of my pocket and hold it up. “Surely, we can make an exception for love’s messenger. The letter bears Lady Anne’s seal and she told me to place it in the king’s prayer closet myself. If I can count on you to help complete this task, I would be ever so...” I walk my fingers up the beefy man’s chest as I speak, and brush my index finger across the tip of his nose. “...grateful to you.”
The men exchange wary looks. The skinnier of the two gives an apologetic shrug. “We have our orders, my lady. You cannot enter unaccompanied.”
“Then, there is the way for me to complete my task and for you to obey your orders. If you escort me inside, then I won’t be unaccompanied, will I?”
They still look hesitant, so I play the ace with my most doleful expression. “Our future queen will be displeased if I fail her, and it would be most unfortunate if they placed any blame on your shoulders for my failure.”
The beefy man shakes his head and, just as I reach into my pocket for the hypo spray, he unlocks the king’s door. “I will escort you, my lady. I am Cupid’s most humble servant.” He smiles at me and ushers me into the king’s apartments.
Nico’s warning rings in my ears. I could have philosophical conversations with myself for the next year about morality and the terrible responsibility we have to keep time in its place, and still come back to the same conclusion: Having my parents alive is worth the risk of a one-way ticket to a prison planet.
With trembling hands, I place the letter on the padded rail of the small kneeler in the king’s prayer closet. “Gotcha,” I say, softly.
“I beg your pardon, mademoiselle?” Beefy man says, confused.
“Nothing. Thank you for your help,” I reply, and kiss his cheek before slipping into the corridor and down the privy stairs.
The whole thing took less time than I thought—who knew the guards would be willing accomplices in the name of love—but it was still too long an absence for Fagin.
Her voice booms in my ear. “Dodger?”
“On my way,” I say, as I sprint down the corridor.
“Get a move on, kid. Nico found the transporter signature, and he’s got a clip of the assailant, unmasked. You need to see this.”
#
When I get to the ship, I find Fagin and Nico wound tighter than a three-day clock.
“Look. Right there,” Nico says, projecting the three-dimensional hologram image onto the small conference table in the ready room.
A three-inch-tall image bolts through the winter-decayed landscape of Greenwich Palace’s gardens. The figure is clad in black, head-to-toe. His face is visible, in profile, and is covered in black. Behind him, a swirl of russet-colored taffeta and me in hot pursuit.
“John Wilkes Booth, I presume?” I ask, feeling the same sense of frustration I did when I chased him through the gardens for real.
“Booth was a successful assassin,” Fagin replies. “Our guy isn’t.” She pauses. “Can we increase the image quality?”
“A bit.” Nico moves a spare window with sweep of his hand, then zooms the video footage screen with a reverse pinch motion and the image expands. “Magnifying image one hundred percent.”
While the resolution is somewhat pixelated, the shape of the executioner’s mask is identifiable. “That’s our man,” I say.
There’s a shaft of brilliant multi-color light and a shot of me plowing through swirling mist just after the attacker disappears. The next shot is a flying blur that lands in a half-frozen mud puddle.
Nico air taps the rewind command and the scene backtracks to
