I turn to my partner and smile broadly. He is handsome, and his inner tune is a steady predictable rat-a-tat-tat snare beat. I suppose I ought to be dazzled by his elegant manners, his dark hair, his regal superfine coat, and smart-ish eyes. I ought to be. Trouble is, I keep glancing down the line of dancers, hoping to see unruly honey brown curls, to catch a glimpse of a certain someone’s impish smirk, his eyes glinting with mischief, and the music of his elusive soul teasing and running away.
The set ends, and I have no time to escape before Lady Jersey’s nephew requests my hand for the next set. I manage to smile politely, but all the time I am wondering, how long?
How long until they play the waltz?
The answer to that question is one hour and thirteen minutes. I know because I counted each slow-ticking second. Also, there is a massive gold-gilded clock on the fireplace mantel which I checked before, after, and during each turn in the dance set.
At last, the musicians tune their instruments for a promenade. I stand on the sidelines and rock up onto my toes, peering out across the crowd, searching for the one face I want to see more than any other, listening for the melting notes of his inner music, wondering if he, too, hears the promenade beginning.
He taps my shoulder. I know it is him before I even turn around, I recognize the way his touch ripples through me and strikes my soul, making it ring with delight. I whirl around, unable to keep from beaming at him.
Without a word, he bows and holds out his arm.
Finally.
I’m not sure why dancers must promenade before a waltz, except it is the custom, and who am I to argue with English customs? The waltz is considered scandalous by the more prudish matrons in the beau monde, but not so here, not in the Prince’s domain. Here, it is de rigueur—all the rage. Prince George adores anything teetering on the edge of scandal. And so, we brazen couples march around the ballroom floor as near to the walls as possible, marking out our territory. Mayhaps it is a polite way of saying to the other guests, step back, please, this is where we intend to perform this outrageous dance.
Here is the delicious part, his arm is around my waist the whole time. Lord Kinsworth leans down and whispers, “I am delighted to see Lady Daneska did not poison you, after all.”
I pretend to be astonished at the news. “Apparently not. Although . . .” I squint as if suddenly finding it difficult to see. “Now that you mention it, the candlelight does seem to be dimming unexplainably, and I profess to a certain amount of dizziness. Any moment, I may collapse.”
He tightens his hold around my waist. “You needn’t fear. I will catch you if you faint. Although, I suspect it isn’t poison making you swoon. I’ve been told I have that effect on ladies.”
I try not to smile.
Truly.
But that confounded grin of his does me in. Besides, it feels good to laugh. And why should I not? If these are to be my last days, I ought to soak up every minute of joy left to me.
The waltz begins in full, and Lord Kinsworth swoops me up in his arms. We fly around the room, soaring to the accompaniment of the music. Every measure lifts our hearts higher. We leave speech adrift on the wind. No need for words. Our souls are singing in perfect harmony, beating as if we are one person instead of two. Whirling so fast, everything else is forgotten.
There is only music.
Our music.
And this divine lightness of our souls.
I savor the feel of his strong arms guiding me, holding me as if I am a rare and delicate treasure. We glide into another turn, and he murmurs against my cheek, “My beautiful nightingale.”
Once again, I wonder, if he can read my mind? What is it about him, this rahasy, this puzzling man who has captured my soul? His words skate through me, etching a tune of joy on my entire being, warming me, even though I shiver. And with that shiver, a new thought races into my mind, overpowering all else—a crashing cymbal, a gong of awakening.
I do not want to die!
Not now.
Never in my life have I felt this incredible sense of being wanted. How can I give up this euphoria, this happiness?
I cannot.
Losing all of this is unthinkable.
He whisks me into a close turn, and I cannot stop myself from asking him, “What if we were to run away?”
“Run—?” Kinsworth misses a step. He stops to correct it and stares down at me. “But what of Miss Stranje and your assignment? The Prince and—”
“Why are you saying this now?” I shake my head. “Earlier today you wanted to send me away to Stranje House. What if we ran away instead? Right now. Tonight.”
He tries to catch up to the music, but his timing is off, he misses another step. “Maya?” He stares at me as if he cannot believe I am saying such things. “Do you know what you are suggesting?”
Yes! I am suggesting I stay alive for more than three days. I am suggesting we choose happiness over our duty. Over England. Over . . .
The foolishness of this thought crashes over my head—a cold soaking wave of reason. If England falls to Napoleon, what joy would either of us have? What future?
I am a fool.
There is only one hope. If I love Kinsworth, I must go to this meeting with Napoleon, and I must persuade the Prince to hold on to his people’s future, to Kinsworth’s future, to Miss Stranje’s and my father’s future.
No matter the cost.
I am a bird in a cage. I must sing to save my friends.
A lump swells in my throat, threatening to strangle me. The music no longer warms me. It burns. Every note, a scorching reminder of lost joy. I turn away from Ben’s imploring eyes and focus on the walls as they blur past.
Deafened by grief rising from my soul, blinded by a keening hopelessness, I fail to notice the odd stillness invading the ballroom. A few seconds pass before I realize our waltz has slowed. Two couples near us have stopped dancing altogether. I snap to attention in time to see the Prince wending his way across the dance floor. He taps Lord Kinsworth on the shoulder. Ben seems as startled as I.
“A word, Lord Kinsworth, if you please.” Prince George inclines his head to me. “Apologies, Miss Barrington, for the intrusion. Your fiancé is needed on an urgent matter.”
Kinsworth seems flustered. “Certainly, Sir.”
“Good man.” Prince George claps Ben on the shoulder but continues to address me in a cryptic hushed tone. “Bye the bye, Miss Barrington, if you would be so good as to stand ready near first light, your assistance may be needed as well.” He taps the side of his nose as if we are playing a game of charades. “Mind, we are not yet certain, but it may be.”
I can guess what game is actually at play. I curtsey to indicate my obedience. “I am yours to command, Sir.”
Lord Kinsworth offers me his arm and guides me off the ballroom floor. “We will discuss that other, er, matter later.”
Too late.
There is only one path now.
And because I love you, only one choice.
I lift my hand in a silent farewell as he follows the Prince through a side door.
First light will be upon us in only a handful of hours. I’ve preparations to make. Where is Sera? And Miss Stranje? She must be advised immediately. I hurry off to find my companions, my fellow soldiers, in this bloodless battle we are waging.
Bloodless for now.
Unless we do something, it won’t stay that way for long.
I push blindly through the peacock-y guests, hunting for my friends. Listening for their voices above all the other pointless clucking. Where are they? I stop and lean up, sorting through all the noise until I hear Miss Stranje’s comforting cadence, and follow the sound as a deer runs towards the stream.
The three of them are cloistered in a quiet corner of the room. As soon as I approach, Miss Stranje looks up, and concern furrows her brow. “What is it? What’s wrong?”
I cannot help myself; I clutch her arm. Except I am not a child, I must be braver than that, a warrior. A
lioness. I let go and marshal my emotions. “Prince George intends to meet Napoleon in the early hours of this very morning.”
“This morning?” Lady Jersey narrows her goldfish eyes at me and blinks rapidly as if, surely, I must be mistaken. “You’re certain?”
“Yes.” I lift my chin. “He instructed me to be prepared to leave at first light.”
“Oh, of all the pigs’ bottoms in all the world! Why must that addle-pated twit be at the helm of . . .” She clamps her lips tight for a moment, and her neck flushes a fiery shade of red. “This won’t do. It won’t do at all.”
She flips open her fan and waves it so fast it creates a breeze. “I lay this at your door, Miss Barrington. Good heavens, child, you practically healed the man entirely. We were better off before your attempt to poison him. Perhaps you should concoct more tea and this time make it a bit more deadly—”
“She’ll do nothing of the kind.” Miss Stranje glares at Lady Jersey.
Our grand patroness purses her lips, her tinny war drums patter with irritation. But to her credit, rather than attacking, she backs off, fanning herself.
Miss Stranje pats my arm protectively as if bracing me for a fistfight, but she addresses the others. “At this point, we must rely on Miss Barrington’s persuasive skills. She is our best and only weapon.”
One of Lady Jersey’s brows arches skeptically.
Miss Stranje ignores her. “Tonight, just before we left the inn to come to the palace, our runner returned with an answer from Captain Grey. Given the change in the situation, he and his men plan to sail the new steamship and intercept Napoleon as soon as possible. Unfortunately, it will be two more days before the ship is seaworthy. It seems unlikely they will get here in time.”
“Highly unlikely.” Sera rubs her chin while calculating the possibilities. “Even with steam powering the warship, they’ll be sailing against the tide once they pass Margot. Unless they leave port immediately, it would be impossible for them to arrive in our waters in time to stop Napoleon.”
“There you have it.” Miss Stranje turns back to me. “We are relying upon you, my dear Maya.” She places her hand on my shoulder, warm and reassuring, it hums through me, infusing me with some of her strength. “Do not forget how skillfully you infiltrated the Iron Crown Stronghold in France.”
“Oh yes,” Lady Jersey mutters. “I’d nearly forgotten the stronghold incident. Hmm,” She collapses her fan and surveys me with more respect.
“Yes. And it was no small feat. Miss Barrington lived and worked right under their noses for several days.” Miss Stranje consults her small pocket watch. “And now it is almost two. Which means, we only have three hours till sunrise.” She snaps it shut. “I suggest you retire straightway, Maya. You must prepare for the most important battle of your life. Lady Jersey, Sera, and I will remain here to discuss options. If we devise a new strategy, we’ll send word to you immediately.”
Before I turn to go, Sera snags me in a brief but fierce hug. She whispers something, but I cannot quite hear her words. Fear is hissing too loud in my ears.
I slip out of the ballroom and make my way down the dimly lit corridors to our rooms. Unlocking the door, I half expect Lady Daneska to be waiting inside. Perhaps I am hoping she will be there and put an end to my turmoil. But the room is profoundly empty. I am alone. All alone, except for the distant sound of music echoing through the palace, and the muted song of darkness outside my window.
I ought to change into traveling garments, but what does one wear for a clandestine meeting with the Emperor of France and the Prince of England?
Dressing can wait.
I must calm my mind. As Miss Stranje said, I must prepare. Meditate. I move closer to the window. The night is a deep black and full of the thick stillness of the hour. I do not light the lamps because the moon and stars are more soothing candles. The moon perches low on the horizon, a lovely crescent with sharp points on both ends, just like my choices. There is no easy way for this mission to end.
My reverie is cut short by a tapping at the window—a tapping that cannot, should not, be possible. We are two tall stories up, and yet the tapping persists. A bird, perhaps? But no, I sense a much larger being. And the songs emanating from beyond the glass, though dark and unsettling, are surprisingly familiar.
I open the sash and look down into the face of my friend. “Tess! What—?”
“Don’t just stand there,” she growls. “Lend me a hand.”
I clasp her wrist, and with one quick movement, she lunges over the mantel and leaps onto the floor beside me.
“How did you—?” I poke my head out of the window and stare down at the terrifying distance to the ground, and not a rope in sight. Turning, I gawk at Tess. Clothed in a midnight blue running dress and with her dark wavy hair, she looks like Mother Night herself. I give up on the question of how. It is, after all, Tess.
I lean out of the window again, to see if anyone is following her. “Is Lord Ravencross with you?” I heard he took rooms here in Brighton.
“No.” She frowns at me as if I’ve gone daft. “Why would he be?”
I don’t know. I am still surprised to see her climbing by herself in the dark. I wonder if her fiancé has any idea she goes out in the middle of the night and does things, like climbing the palace walls. If he knows, does it worry him? I accidentally blurt the last. “Doesn’t he worry about you?”
“Phfft.” She scowls at me as if I am being foolish. “He says it’s everyone else who is in danger when I’m around.”
And he is right. Which brings me to a more pressing question. “What are you doing here?”
She turns away and brushes the dust off of her black leggings. When she finally straightens, I see by her expression and hear in the low woeful notes plunking from her soul, that whatever news brought her here, it will be bad tidings.
“I woke from a dream,” she begins.
This cannot be good.
“Tell me,” I say, busying myself with lighting a lamp on a nearby table; not at all certain I truly wish to hear about a dream that made her climb a two-story palace wall in the middle of the night.
Tess fiddles with the dagger strapped to her thigh, before facing me squarely. “It’s a trap,” she blurts.
I drop onto the end of the bed and sit, hands folded in my lap, preparing for the worst, and calmly ask, “What do you mean a trap? Explain.”
“I don’t know. You know how my wretched dreams are.” Tess shoves back a lock of her dark hair. “Nothing is ever perfectly clear. It’s always as if I’m in a fog.” She steps back into the shadows, drawing a deep breath as if it might banish whatever vision haunts her. “Then, suddenly, I see things. And . . .”
And she feels things.
Awful things. People dying. Tess often wakes screaming. She told me once that it is as if she is the person being killed. I can’t imagine living through such horrors. “What did you see?”
“You. You’re going out in a rowboat tonight, aren’t you?” She says this in an accusatory tone as if I am doing something shameful. “With the Prince.”
“Yes, Prince George has summoned me.” I stare up at her. “We are to meet Napoleon. I suppose the meeting could be at sea. I do not know. Although, we won’t be leaving for the parley until early morning.”
“You can’t go. It’s a trap. You have to stop them. If you don’t, Ghost will capture the Prince. At least, I think that’s what will happen. I saw Ghost there. And Daneska.” She thumps her fist against her thigh counting off the participants in her nightmare. “You’re there, Lord Kinsworth, Prince George, and there’s a gun.” She frowns and looks away.
“A gun? Who has the gun? Ghost?”
She nods, staring blindly into the shadows. Tess’s inner music is often more than I can bear. Tonight, the turmoil inside her erupts like waves smashing against rocks, cymbals crashing, violins scraping wildly. “He shoots. Everything was so dark, but I saw a flash of fire from the barrel, smoke, choking smoke, and
. . .” She covers her eyes with her hands. “There’s blood, Maya, so much blood.”
“Wait. It’s dark?” I rap my fingers soundlessly against the bed covers. “You say it is dark in this dream. These things occur at night?”
“Yes. What of it?”
Hope sings through me. I sit forward. “Then it cannot be today’s meeting. We do not leave the palace until first light. Dawn. You see? It will no longer be dark.”
She slants her head, listening intently. I hear a little of my hope spilling into her.
I press forward. “Most likely, your dream warns of a future event. Another night. I’m certain it must be foretelling what occurs a few days after the meeting with Napoleon.”
“No!” She whirls in close and glares at me. “No. It felt immediate. Urgent. It has to be tonight—I’m sure of it.”
“But that is impossible.” I point at the window she just came through. “This night is nearly gone. It will be light in three or four hours.”
“I don’t understand.” She shakes her head. “The sense of it all going horribly wrong felt so strong. I didn’t even wait to tell Miss Stranje. She hadn’t yet returned to the inn. I ran straight here.”
Her words confirm what I have already guessed. Tess knew nothing about the sudden change in the Prince’s parley with Napoleon. “What of Napoleon? Did you see him in the dream?”
Tess shakes her head. I stand and moderate my voice, using soothing notes to calm her agitation. “Miss Stranje is still in the ballroom with Sera and Lady Jersey. Would you like me to go and get them?”
“No.” She slumps into a chair. “I must be mistaken. Except it seemed so real, so immediate.”
I scoot a dressing chair close and sit next to her. “Tell me what you saw exactly.”
“I told you. You were in a small boat with Lord Kinsworth, the Prince, and someone else, maybe more than one—I don’t know. Then, suddenly, you are standing on the deck of a tall ship. A sloop of war, I think. And Ghost is there.” She rakes her fingers through her hair. “Were you expecting him to be present at the negotiations?”
“It has always been a possibility. He is, after all, leader of Napoleon’s Iron Crown. Although, I rather thought he’d be lurking behind the scene, hidden in some secret lair, keeping his presence inconspicuous.”
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