“I’m a thief, not a murderer,” I seethe.
“We’ll let historians debate that point,” he says with a crooked grin. Then he speaks into the CommLink. “Someone check Garcia and Delacroix. Make sure they don’t have weapons on them.”
“We confiscated all phasers on their ship,” comes the reply.
“Check again,” Carter says. He turns back to me. “Alert me the moment you get eyes on Trevor. Understood?”
I hate feeling useless. On every job since I was fifteen years old, if I wasn’t the one in control of the mission objectives, I was at least up to my eyebrows in the action. This time, I’ll be up to my eyebrows in vegetable scraps and chicken gizzards waiting for the action to happen.
Given that I’ve been relegated to the sidelines and relieved of my only weapon, I’m ready to spit nails by the time Carter—posing as a visiting nobleman insisting on his own servant preparing his food—leaves me in the hands of the master cook.
Turns out the kitchen isn’t just one room, it’s a suite of rooms each dedicated to a specific part of a meal: bake houses for baking bread, pastry rooms for pie-making and cakes, the roasting room where dozens of chickens, pigeons or other fowl and meat, are roasted on open-fire spits. There are the boil houses for cooking soups and stews, a confectionary room for creating sweets both grand and humble, and various larders for storing all of the foodstuffs.
Because Henry’s court feeds several hundred people a day—nearly a thousand during holidays— it takes an army of people to prepare and serve the food for several meals each day.
The master cook assigns me to the boil house, preparing onions and other sundry vegetables for a stew. The boil house, while large and open, is closed off from the outside world. The windows are too high to see out, and there isn’t a direct line of sight into any other rooms of the kitchen suite. Of all the rooms I could’ve been assigned to, it looks like I’m in the blind spot.
“You’ve got to be kidding,” I hiss into the CommLink. “Carter, how am I supposed to keep my eyes open for Trevor if I’m stuck in here? She could come through one of the other rooms and I would never see her. She could be halfway up the king’s privy stairs by the time we realize she got through the palace door.”
“She won’t get by us, Arseneau. Relax.”
“Relax, my ass. How am I supposed to redeem myself if I’m not actively involved in catching Trevor?”
“Don’t leave your post unless you’re given the word, Arseneau” Carter says. “And keep this line clear for mission commands.”
The CommLink fills with other chatter: orders from Carter to Nico to modulate the encryption codes on the live audio and video feeds so the Benefactors can’t hack into our feeds; orders to the security details to get into position in the gardens and inside the palace; another command for me to stay put.
Fagin confirms she stopped Original Timeline Me and picked her pocket. Fagin has my fake letter.
“You didn’t feel a thing,” Fagin says over the CommLink. It makes me smile. God, she’s good.
One letter down, one to go. Things are going according to plan. As long as we stop Trevor, the timeline changes should heal themselves.
Chopping potatoes and onions would be cathartic in exorcising my tension and anger if it weren’t welling up inside me with the bludgeoning force of a firehose.
Incremental changes to the angle of sunlight streaming through the windows is the only indication of the time passing; several hours, at least, since I’ve been holed up in here.
Finally, a perimeter sentry in the gardens breaks in: “I’ve got Trevor,” he says. “North side of the palace. Looks like she’s headed to the king’s privy garden, not the kitchens.”
Fuck Carter’s orders. I’ll be damned if I let things happen to me without a fight.
I carefully place the chopping knife—a seven-inch blade with a smooth wood handle—into my boot. I slip out of the kitchen, stride down the hallway leading to the kitchen gardens. Once outside, I sprint toward the location where Trevor was seen.
As I approach the North corner of the palace, closest to the king’s apartments, I spot her: Dressed as Cesario, she strides toward the privy gardens. We’re separated by little more than a hundred yards and some tall topiaries lining the path leading to the privy stairs. Moving parallel to her, I work my way around the spiral-sculpted shrubs, hoping to cut her off before she gets anywhere near the king’s door.
Her head is on a swivel, perpetually scanning her surroundings. Her gaze stops on me. She slows, watches me for several moments. I keep moving, and hope I look like a palace servant on an errand, and she will relax and move on.
She stops. Studies the cast of characters milling around the gardens. She settles on a man casually inspecting the contents of a merchant’s loaded cart—he’s one of our team in disguise and occasionally casts discreet glances over his shoulder at her. Trevor’s gaze drifts back to me.
Our eyes lock long enough for suspicion to firmly lodge itself in her brain. Whether or not she knows it’s me, wariness changes her trajectory.
She turns away from the palace and heads in the opposite direction, her gait set at casual stroll.
I follow.
“Arseneau,” Carter’s voice says in my ear. “What the hell are you doing? Get back to the kitchen.”
“This is my life, Carter. I’m going in and you can’t stop me.”
“Got your six, Dodger,” Nico cuts in, “Keep your eyes open.” Then to the commander: “Carter, she knows these palace grounds. Since she’s already in pursuit. You could waste resources sending your men after her, or let Clémence in the hunt for real.”
I smile. There’s my boy.
“Murdock,” Carter says, ignoring Nico. “Get Mademoiselle Arseneau back to the kitchen.”
The man inspecting the carts moves towards me.
Trevor tosses a quick look over her
