Is killing really so easy for her? Does she think about it for even a moment before snuffing out that light?
I move toward the half-lit steps and stumble again, this time on something that jumps up and smacks me in the face. My right cheek throbs. I feel down the length of a wooden shaft with both hands.
A fucking rake.
I don’t fancy using the knife nestled inside my boot. Knife fighting is so much more intimate than other types of combat, requiring eye-to-eye contact at close range. I’m not sure I can be eye-to-eye with an opponent—even Trevor—and feel the knife’s edge pop the delicate skin in surrender. A weapon with a longer reach would be better.
For now.
I hold the rake into my body to keep it from bumping and thumping against the wall as I make my way up the stairs. There’s no door at the top, only a wide, rectangular opening to the next level. I poke my head up to peer over the threshold.
Sturdy ropes loop themselves around and through hoists and pulleys used to raise filled bags to the floor above. Various milling tools are strewn on nearby workbenches or tucked into corners: wooden shovels and scoops, more winnowing rakes, hammers and chisels for working on the cog wheels of the gears.
Two sets of enormous round stones used to pulverize grain into meal take up most of space on the far side of the room. With all the machinery and stacks of flour bags, there are several places where a skinny girl like Trevor could lurk unseen.
Planks set in the rafters far enough below the ceiling that she could hide there, too. On the floor, sticking out from behind the grinding stones are a pair of motionless legs. I ease into position, next to the body, and check the man’s pulse.
Trevor’s body count is up to four, counting Lady Anne and Thomas Wyatt.
A voice drifts down from the rafters. “Just can’t leave well enough alone, can you? I have things all planned and you go and screw them up.”
I walk the perimeter of the room, eyes on the ceiling, and hold the head of the rake forward, ready to deflect the first strike when it comes.
“Something didn’t go according to plan, Trevor? How disappointing for you,” I say.
“Were you born with that remarkable sarcastic streak or is that a skill you learned on the streets?” Her voice moves; now it’s coming from my left.
“Both,” I say, looking upward for some hint of movement that might reveal her position. I nudge a set of pulleys out of my way and hear the metal squeak as they swing behind me.
Carter breaks into the conversation. “Trevor, we have reinforcements converging on that mill as we speak. Giving yourself up now would be the wiser move.”
“Let’s discuss wise moves for a moment, shall we?” Her tone doesn’t sound defeated or even slightly concerned. In fact, she speaks in a victor’s tone, like she believes it’s all over but the crying. “There’s a trained assassin with his eye on Lady Anne. If your men spoil my party, she’ll be dead before you can say ‘Shakespearean tragedy.’”
For a long moment, no one moves. No one speaks.
Carter says, “Delacroix, are you in position?”
“I’m with Lady Anne and the King in the Great Hall,” Fagin replies.
“Anyone suspicious-looking?” Carter asks.
“They’re all suspicious-looking. They’re all back-stabbing courtiers working to advance their own interests.” She snorts. “If there’s are assassins here, they’re blending in too well for me to spot them.”
“You’ve been at court for months and you still can’t tell the players without a scorecard?” Carter says, in a skeptical tone.
“It’s fucking Christmas,” Fagin replies. “More people here for the holiday, so that means a lot of new faces.”
“Until we find Trevor’s people, you stay glued to Lady Anne. You’re her new knight in shining armor.”
I smile. “Lucky me.”
“Are we agreed, then?” Trevor says. “Your boys stay out or your precious timeline still goes to hell. This is between The Dodger and me.”
Silence.
“Carter,” Trevor says. “My patience is thin.”
“Fine, we’ll play it your way for now,” Carter says, grudgingly. “Don’t think for a second that you’re walking out of there unscathed.”
“Yes, my dear commander,” she says, a lilt in her voice. “I am.”
“We all know you can transport out of here any time you want,” I say, taking a few hesitant steps forward. Eyes still aimed at the rafters. “What kind of game are you playing?”
“I want the opportunity to kick your ass. Call it my own personal vendetta.”
“Have you cleared this cage match with your bosses? From what I hear, they had a very specific purpose for me.”
“They did, yes.” Her voice comes from ten feet further ahead of me and off to the right.
She moves almost as silently as I do.
“I’m all ears. I’d love to hear more about it.”
“I won’t light myself on fire to keep you warm.” The voice moves again. “You could have been content with saving your parents and lived happily ever after. Isn’t that what you wanted?”
“It’s true. My parents were never murdered. But the only ’ever after‘ I saw was a future where they probably never lived at all. Turns out, changing shit that’s supposed to happen creates all kinds of...other complications.”
“See.” She draws one syllable out into at least four. “Your dizzying intellect has revealed a cosmic truth: Be careful what you wish because it might come true.” The echo of her soft laugh reverberates off the timbers. “They say fate is a fickle temptress, but what about people who don’t believe in fate? Just because you don’t believe in something doesn’t mean it’s not true.”
Ahead of me, dust drifts down from the rafters. I freeze, listening for the groaning squeaks of floorboard joists from the weight of her footfalls. No sound comes.
“If I wanted an existential philosophical conversation, I’d go climb a fucking mountain and find a
