Exile for Dreamers

by Kathleen Baldwin

  Miss Stranje leaned very close, not so hawkish this time. No, now she peered at me with the ferocity of an eagle homing in on a helpless rabbit. I will admit to feeling just a little bit afraid. “You mean Napoleon asked you to come and dream for him.”

  When Gabriel heard what Miss Stranje said, he came to a sudden halt and stood very still at the end of the divan. “What did you tell her?”

  Some perverse part of me wanted to point out the advantages. “Perhaps it would be the best place for me. Locked in a room where I can’t hurt anyone”—that someone being Gabriel—“and with Emperor Napoleon eager to interpret these maddening dreams of mine.”

  “Don’t be a fool,” snapped Ravencross.

  “I’m not a fool.” I huffed. “There are far worse situations in the world than being housed in a palace.”

  I thought his glare might be hot enough to blind me.

  Miss Stranje sat back and crossed her arms, wearing a smug half smile. “You needn’t concern yourself, my lord. She told Lady Daneska no.”

  “Of course, I did.”

  Gabriel’s shoulders relaxed. “Well, why didn’t you say so?”

  Miss Stranje answered for me. “I should think it was to get a reaction from you, my lord.” She turned to me and patted my shoulder. “At least now we know what the dream with the silver bowl meant.”

  “Still doesn’t explain the confounded bees.” Captain Grey rubbed at the stubble on his jaw and stared out the window.

  * * *

  That night I couldn’t face going to see Daneska in the dungeon. My encounter with the bees still had me too flustered. She was bound to sense my agitation, and knowing Lady Daneska, she would needle me until I accidently gave something away, or broke her arrogant nose with my fist. Either way, I simply couldn’t take the risk. For those reasons Miss Stranje assigned Jane the task of bringing our prisoner her supper, but not before I discussed with them an idea that might assist with our current dubious plan.

  After much debate, we chose to implement both ideas simultaneously.

  The next morning, I brought Daneska her breakfast. The hunk of dry bread looked crustier, and the porridge much thicker than it had been yesterday.

  “More wine, I see.” She flicked her finger against a glass of dark red port. “I had wondered why Lady Jane brought such a generous portion last night. To help you sleep, she said. But now, here is an equally generous portion with my breakfast.”

  “Be grateful it isn’t gin.” I set the tray down, not caring that some of the wine splattered her.

  “Merci.” She did a mock curtsey without getting up from her pallet. “I am most appreciative that you are using a wine, albeit an inferior one, to induce a drunken stupor rather than gutter swill.” She laughed at her own quip. “But if you suppose I will tell you where Ghost hides, you must try harder than this.” She clucked her tongue and turned away from the tray in disgust. “As if one cup of wine would loosen my tongue.”

  “I told them as much.” That wasn’t true, but I hoped flattery might lull her into overconfidence. The wine had been entirely my idea. I knew from experience how Dani relaxed and became far more talkative after a glass or two of liquor.

  “At least you knew better.” She lifted the glass and turned it, until the slender rays of light that shone through her window caught on the ruby liquid. “There’s nothing else in it?”

  “You’re worried about poison?” I asked.

  “No, silly. Laudanum. One stupor to make a prisoner talkative is as good as another, non?”

  “Thank you for the suggestion. Sadly, we don’t have your expertise when it comes to extracting information. This is merely wine.”

  “How disappointing.” She stared into the cup. “This is because Miss Stranje, despite the rack and whips she has for show in her elaborate discipline chamber, does not have the stomach for torture.” She took a swig of the wine. “I would not have thought her so soft.”

  “She’s not soft,” I shot back. “Far from it. She wouldn’t have any qualms about clamping you on the rack and giving it a good crank. And I’d have helped her, too. No, you have Seraphina to thank for this. It was she who objected.”

  “That one.” Daneska exhaled with disgust. “Seraphina, little mouse, she was always so weak.” I noticed she slurred the word “always.”

  “Shut your mouth, Dani. Better yet, drink up or put some food in it. I don’t have all day to watch you eat.” I crossed my arms and leaned against the door, brooding. “And anyway, you’re wrong. Sera’s not weak. Shy, perhaps, but she’s not weak at all.”

  Daneska nipped at her stale bread crust, ignoring me.

  Irritated, I blurted, “That girl is more intelligent than you, or anyone else I know. In fact, it was Sera who convinced us that no matter what we did to you, you would simply lie and send us on wild-goose chases. She was right.”

  “Oui, but I was so looking forward to it.” She pretended to pout. “Cursed little white mouse, I should’ve stepped on her when I had a chance.” She ripped the hunk of bread in half. “But you are wrong, Tessie, ma chère. Intelligence and strength—these two have nothing to do with each other. How do you say…” Daneska’s speech lurched awkwardly, and despite her affected French, I noticed her Slavic accent becoming far more dominant.

  “Oh, yes, now I remember. These two are not bedfellows.” The chains on her cuffs clinked as she raised both hands, weighing each attribute. “It is possible to be clever without having courage.” The manacles rattled and she winced.

  I grabbed her arm and inspected it. “Blast. These irons are cutting into your wrists.”

  She jerked out of my hold. “Why do you care? You said it yourself: my head will soon be on a pike. What are a few scrapes on the wrist compared to that?”

  “I don’t care. I shouldn’t. You’ve done the same to others. And much worse.” I tore a strip of cloth from my underskirt and stuffed it between the rough iron edges on the inside of her wrist. “I saw Sebastian after you were done with him, and I’ve seen Mr. Sinclair’s scars—” I flinched, having let his name slip out.

  “Ah! The young protégé of Monsieur Fulton.” She brightened, all of a sudden too keen, too sharp. “So you are hiding him here. That explains all the hammering and sawing I hear. He is building something, a weapon perhaps?”

  I dropped her wrist. “It explains nothing.”

  She twittered, a high plinking sound that plucked at my nerves. “Oh, but it does, mon amie. It explains all.” She leaned back against the wall. The wine relaxed her guard at least that much. “So your young Ravencross, is he helping with this project, as well?”

  “Enough talk about my friends.” I brushed my hands off, trying to remove the grime of her blood and the rusting irons. “You haven’t told me anything about your illustrious paramour. How fares Ghost?”

  She smirked. “What you really want to ask is where fares Ghost.”

  I frowned. She was not nearly drunk enough.

  Dani crooked her finger and leaned forward, pretending to tell me a secret. I knew better than to go along with her.

  “Come,” she cajoled. “I shall tell you where he is.” When I didn’t fall for her gambit, she threw her hands into the air in a noisy clatter of chains and another brief grimace. “Here. There. Everywhere. He is a Ghost, n’est-ce pas?”

  This was all a grand lark to her.

  Miss Stranje had forgotten to confiscate my knife this morning. I whipped out my dagger and lunged at Daneska. Yanking her to her feet, I growled, “This is not a joke, Dani. If the wine doesn’t loosen your tongue, perhaps this will.”

  I aimed the tip of the blade directly at her eye. She quivered in my grasp. For an instant, she looked afraid. Then fear vanished and, once again, Lady Daneska cared for nothing. “Put down your blade, Tessika. I will tell you the truth.”

  Even though her voice had lost its malicious pitch, I didn’t lower my knife. I inched it closer.

  “Before you cut my eyes out, look into them and
see if I am telling you the truth.” She didn’t even blink. “I have no reason to lie, Tess. I don’t know where he is.” She didn’t, I could see it.

  “But you do know where he might be,” I said.

  “Ja, a thousand different places. Enough to keep you running to and fro for the next century. But I can tell you this … I know where he will be.” She continued to meet my gaze, steady and unflinching. “He will come for me. Soon.”

  I let go.

  She leaned against the wall a moment longer. “Whether it is to kill me, or set me free, that I cannot tell you.” She slid down the wall and sat stiff-backed on her pallet. “He will not allow me to remain here. It is too dangerous for him. And for our emperor.” She shrugged and put her Countess of Deceit mask back on. “It is possible I may know a few things of interest to Lord Wyatt and his persuasive friends in the British government. One way or another Le Fantôme, Ghost, he will never let them take me to London.”

  “Lucien wouldn’t kill you. He’s your lover, your paramour for more than two years. He wouldn’t.”

  “Ah, but he would.” She chuckled quietly. “Ghost weighs all things against what must be done. There is no room in his world for idle sentiment.”

  I sheathed my knife and sank onto the pallet beside her. “If that’s true, how can you love him?”

  Her perfect brow pinched. She turned up her nose at me as if I had the plague. “Who said anything about love?”

  “But…”

  “Oh. I see your confusion. You thought I went away with him out of some foolish romantic notion. Love.” She spat the word. “Fah! It weakens the mind. Poor Tessie, you are so hungry for the stuff. Me, I would rather eat this gruel.”

  And she did. She picked up the bowl and let the thick gray paste run into her mouth, like a snake swallowing a rat whole.

  I stood, needing to get away from her. “I don’t believe you. I remember all those nights, how happy you were when you talked about him. How desperate you were to sneak out and rendezvous with him.”

  She blotted her mouth on a corner of her skirt. “How else was I to convince you to help me, and him to make me part of—” She suddenly realized what she was about to admit aloud.

  As if I didn’t already know. “The Iron Crown,” I said flatly.

  “Bon,” she answered with a slight lift of her brow. “Then you understand. Love has nothing to do with it. I do not believe in such paltry nonsense.”

  Love, paltry?

  “How sad for you,” I said, and meant it. What a barren existence life would be without love. I’d seen love transform my mother’s face, her love for my father, for our forests, for me, and in those moments graced by that paltry sentiment, she’d found freedom from the horrors of her visions. I’d witnessed the joy in Gabriel’s face when he’d looked up at me in the garden. Nothing would ever take that shining glimpse of love away from me. Not even death.

  “No.” She sneered. “Stop! Get that hideous look off your face. You will not pity me.” She slammed her fist against the dungeon wall, and through gritted teeth roared, “Don’t you dare feel sorry for me.”

  I turned away, staring at the window, any place but at her. Because I couldn’t stop pitying her.

  I reminded myself how cruel she was, what a vicious liar, a traitor, even a murderer, and yet all I could see was how broken she was.

  Daneska calmed her anger, as if a cooling breeze wafted through the stifling air of her cell. She took a long swig of her wine. “My dear, gullible Tessika. It is I who feels sorry for you. This feeble thing you call love, reality burns it off as the sun does the morning fog.” She lifted the wineglass, silently toasting the walls of her cell. “Love weakens you. It impairs your judgment. And worst of all, it forces you to sacrifice things you should not sacrifice.”

  Daneska tapped her forehead. “If you must love something, love yourself. Trust in your own wits, not a man. You and your wits, these two things can be counted on not to betray you.”

  I sighed. “And they won’t kill you in the night.”

  “Exactement,” she whispered, and grabbed what remained of her crusty bread, turning it round and round in her fingers. “They will not kill you in the night.”

  She sat very still, still enough that I heard her shallow breaths, and a drip of moisture slide from a blackened crack and plunk on the floor. “C’est la vie. He must do what is necessary.”

  “Will you fight him?”

  She met my gaze, sober as a hanging judge. “But of course.”

  “Truly? You would kill him, your lover, the Grand Knight of Napoleon’s Iron Crown?”

  “I don’t understand this question.” She tilted her head, squinting at me, sincerely confused. It wasn’t the wine. That simple question had truly baffled her “But of course I would. What else is there? I do what I must to survive.”

  She would. I saw Daneska differently then, like a strange mythical beast I didn’t understand. Dangerous, treacherous, but she also looked fragile, friendless, and so utterly alone.

  “Then I will help you.”

  She scoffed at me. “And how would you do that?”

  “I could kill Ghost.”

  “Impossible. You are good, ma chère, but not good enough to best him.” She shook her head. “Besides, there is still the chance he may decide to help me escape.”

  She looked down, studying the bread she had now torn into bits in her lap. Hesitation didn’t sit comfortably on her features, the muscles and pathways for it had never fully developed. “He might.”

  “Might. Which do you think it will be?” I asked.

  She masked her uncertainty with sangfroid and weighed the two invisible answers in each hand, chains clanging as the scales tipped one way and then the other. “It is too difficult to guess. I would not place a wager on either one.”

  I planted my hands on my hips and smirked. “I know you better than that. More than likely you would place bets on both.”

  “Ah. Très bien. So I would.” She laughed, not her high, fake ear-shattering titter. She laughed honestly, and the sound nearly broke my heart.

  Time to leave.

  I picked up the tray. “Decide, Dani. Which shall it be? Do you want me to help you kill him? Or are you going to take a chance that he will help you escape?”

  Twenty-three

  TRESPASSERS

  Jane and Miss Stranje waited for me around the corner from the discipline chamber. I handed Jane the tray, and confessed to Miss Stranje, “You were right. About the two sides of the same card, I mean. I don’t hate her anymore.”

  I didn’t. I felt sorry for her.

  “I’m sorry.” Miss Stranje sighed, and then she did something she rarely does. She hugged me.

  I pulled away in surprise. “I don’t understand. I’ve forgiven Dani. I thought that’s what you wanted me to do. Why are you sorry that I still care about my friend?”

  “I’m not sad about that, Tess. I’m sorry that the love you have for your friend still causes you so much pain. And that it will most assuredly continue to do so.”

  True, Daneska could hurt me now. Now that I cared about her again, I was vulnerable. But then I realized that whatever bad thing Daneska might do in the future would hurt whether I forgave her or not.

  And I could certainly count on her to do something bad.

  We walked up the stairs without speaking, until Jane asked, “Did Lady Daneska say anything of use?”

  “Yes, she swears Ghost will come for her. Here.” I pressed my hand against the wall to steady myself, suddenly unnerved as I remembered the dream of Lucien in these very passages. It made my chest burn to think how vulnerable Stranje House was. If Daneska was right, he might show up any day.

  Any moment.

  “She’s convinced he won’t allow her to be taken to London for questioning,” I explained. “I believe her. She also said it is just as likely that he’ll kill her as rescue her.”

  “Good heavens.” Jane rubbed a chill from her arm as if the
shadow of Ghost were already upon us. “And this is the man she ruined herself for.”

  Miss Stranje continued up the stairs, slower than before, as if contemplating one fact on each step. “Daneska has a point. Ghost will need to solve the problem one way or the other. Regrettably, killing her may prove more expedient than rescuing her.”

  “We can’t let that happen,” Jane blurted. “Not here. I don’t like Daneska any more than you do, but we can’t let him murder her under our very noses.”

  “We won’t.” I didn’t tell Jane that if it came down to it, I would help Dani kill Lucien.

  “How? Stranje House isn’t fortified well enough.” Jane squeezed forward, pressing up beside us on the narrow stairs. “Yes, we’ve put latches on the secret entrances, but there are any number of windows. And Tess is proof, they are often the easiest access points. We can hardly post a guard at every window.”

  “Calm down, Jane.” Miss Stranje opened the door out into the gallery. “We will arrange her escape before he comes. We should be able to manage that before much longer. Did you let it slip that Mr. Sinclair is here?”

  “Yes. She tumbled straightaway to the idea that he’s helping us build a weapon of some kind.”

  “Wait.” Jane grabbed my arm. “If she knows he’s here, doesn’t that put him in danger? Ghost will want him out of the way, too, or recaptured.”

  Miss Stranje answered for me. “It’s a risk we have to take. It was the perfect opportunity to plant a clue that Britain is preparing defenses against Napoleon.”

  Jane rushed out in front of us, set the tray on a side table, and stopped us with her arms out wide. “But don’t you see, if Ghost could slip in here to murder Daneska, he could do the same to Alexander, I mean, to Mr. Sinclair.”

  Unaffected, Miss Stranje passed around her and kept walking. “That’s highly unlikely, Lady Jane. He has protection. He’s almost always accompanied by one or the other of you.”

  “What good is that?” She followed after her. “Tess is the only one of us with enough skills to do anything to save him if he should be confronted by Ghost or one of his hired thugs.”