The smile that lit his eyes left me breathless.
He leaned in, and I could almost taste his scent on my tongue. Salt and wood shavings. Snow and smoke. And somehow . . . the winey tang of overripe apples.
“Hope,” he whispered. His eyes darted from my eyes to my lips and back, as if he couldn’t see everything at once. “There’s something I need to tell—”
A furious cheer erupted. We both turned to see the royals marching down the central aisle, a long trail of nobles in their wake. I leaned forward, thrilled to see the crabbed, dark figure of Sister Hectare take her place behind her queen.
Standing, I leaned over the waist-high railing, scanning the top of each head to see if I could recognize my mother. There were too many, crowded in too close. Agitated, I huffed and stretched out a little more.
“Come on,” Bran scrambled to his feet. “We should probably get—”
The flimsy barrier gave beneath my weight. As if in slow motion, I watched it tumble, snagging against the silk drapes as it plummeted to the abbey floor, the crash lost in the tumult of cheers and song. I had time for one, oddly calm thought before I pitched headfirst off the edge of the platform.
I’m sorry, Mom.
A rip of pain knifed through my hip as I jolted to a gut-wrenching halt. Above me, Bran crouched at the platform’s edge, straining as he gripped the gray hem of my skirt and one, booted foot. Blood flooded my brain, filling my ears with the pounding of my own heartbeat.
“Oh God, oh God, oh God.”
“Hold on,” he growled. “I won’t let you go. I swear it.”
High above the marble floor, Bran cursed under his breath. His fingers dug desperately into my ankle as I swayed upside down. If anyone looked up, they’d see me, a gray pendulum against scarlet silk. My heart boomed, missing beats. Blood swelled my face as Bran began to haul me up, inch by painful inch. He reached out and grabbed my flailing hand. With a great heave, he jerked. I flew up and landed smack on top of him, nose to nose on the splintery platform.
Quaking with shock, I tried to form a coherent word. “I . . . I didn’t . . .”
“You know,” Bran panted as he stared up into my face, “If you wanted to get on top of me, you could’ve just said. No need for such dramatics.” The flippant words were all Bran. But he negated them by wrapping me in his arms.
Electric flicks of adrenaline sparked across the back of my tongue, making my teeth chatter. Bran squeezed tighter, and despite what had nearly happened, I began to feel safe. To feel alive, as if up until that second, I’d only been pretending to live.
After a long moment, while our breaths synced and Bran’s arms trembled with strain and something else, I became acutely aware of the long lines of his body pressed beneath mine.
“So,” I answered him, teeth still clacking as I rolled off and rose on jittery legs. “Yeah, the next time you save me from diving off a hundred-foot drop, I’ll remember to ask.”
I knew immediately I was in a lot of trouble. At the tavern, Collum and Phoebe were embroiled in a fierce argument. Phoebe whirled away from her brother and rushed to me, enveloping me in one of her spine-cracking hugs.
“Crap on a cracker, I’m glad to see you,” she whispered. “Collum’s pure furious you left.”
When I had extricated myself, I turned to face Collum. In the dusk of evening, only a small fire pit lit the empty tavern. It shadowed his features, though I could tell by his stance that he was livid.
“Well,” he asked in a deceptively calm voice, “if you don’t mind my asking, where in blazes did you go?”
“Bran took me to the coronation,” I said. “We—”
“I told you they’d be back, Coll,” Phoebe hurried to intervene. “See? Everything’s fine, so don’t get your breeches in a knot.”
Collum brushed his sister aside and moved across the three feet that separated us. Bran started forward, but Collum stopped him with a raised hand as he stared down at me.
“So,” he said in a deadly voice, “without a word, you just run off with some stranger?” His upper lip curled as his gaze darted to Bran. “This Timeslipper boy whose own mother wants to give you to Becket? What if it had been a trap?”
“It wasn’t—”
“Do you have no thought for your own safety? Or at least for the mission we’ve come to carry out?”
“Nothing happened,” I lied. “Look, Collum, I know we shouldn’t have gone. It was stupid, but Mom—”
“‘Stupid’ doesn’t begin to cover it,” he roared. “You are my responsibility. I swore an oath to Lu to keep the both of you safe, and I plan on keeping that promise.”
Bran grunted at that, but I ignored him as Collum raged. “I cannot believe you’d take a chance like that. Not when we’re going after Sarah tonight.”
“Oh, you have a lot of room to talk,” I shouted back. “You’re a hypocrite, going all superhero, trying to steal that freaking dagger. Talk about stupid?” I was shaking, all geared up to say a whole lot more. But the words dried in my throat when I saw anguish pinch the skin between his earnest hazel eyes.
“You’re right,” he said, nodding. “Aye. I betrayed this mission. Lost my wits when I learned the Nonius might be near. It’s just that I—I’ve wanted to find it for so long.” Collum dropped onto a three-legged stool, head in his hands as he mumbled. “But look what happened. I failed, and endangered everyone in the process. What do you think would happen to Sarah . . . to Lu . . . if I lost the two of you?”
My cheeks burned as shame wormed through me. After the stunt Collum pulled, how could I have been so selfish? All that mattered was stealing Mom away from that monster, and getting us all home safe.
“I’m sorry, Collum,” I said, meaning it. “It won’t happen again. I swear.”
Standing, he raked his hands through his short hair. “As do I,” he said. “So let’s put all the nonsense behind us and focus on the mission, yeah?” He looked from me to Phoebe, and finally to Bran.
Bran gave a mock salute. “Aye, sir,” he said. “I’m always up for an adventure.”
Chapter 37
WE REACHED THE PALACE OF WESTMINSTER IN AN EARLY WINTER DUSK. Fat flakes lazed down to rest on our hair and shoulders as our horses’ hooves crunched and squeaked on the new crust. The moon peeked out intermittently from behind high, racing clouds, transforming the falling snow into a silver rain. From the lights and sounds coming from inside the enormous building, it appeared the place was already in full-out party mode.
After dropping our horses with the groomsmen, I shivered inside my thick cloak. Admittedly, the deep plum skirts and ash bodice of my gown were lovely, though the raw silk was little protection against the cold.
“You realize this is completely insane,” Bran whispered at my side. “Bringing him with us.”
I glanced back at my friends following close behind. The walnut juice we’d used to dye Collum’s blond hair and stain his freckled skin gave him an odd, monochromatic look. But if they were looking for him at all, on this night of celebration, it would be as a blond, not a brunet. The masks everyone wore also covered eyes and noses, leaving only the lower half of the face exposed.
Plus, who would imagine someone who’d tried to steal from the king would be idiotic enough to return to the scene of the crime?
I kept stealing glimpses of Bran. Dressed all in black, with whorls of silver threaded throughout his tunic, he looked like a finely made sheath. Slim and supple. Lethal. A circular pin secured his dark cloak at the throat. Crafted of beaten silver, it held an opal the size of my fingernail.
I realized with a little jolt that it must be his lodestone. I hadn’t seen it before. I frowned, wondering then when he’d have to get back to his own entrance point. If his mother would be there. If she would try to block him. The thoughts fizzled away when his eyes behind a leather mask fixated on my mouth.
“What?” I swiped at my chin. “Do I have a smudge or something?”
“Yes,” he said in a sultry
tone that rumbled along my nerve endings. “Right there.” He edged closer and brushed aside a wayward curl Phoebe had left hanging by my ear. When his thumb skated along the edge of my lower lip, something pulsed deep inside me, stretching, waking.
The harried guards at the door barely gave us a second look. Revelers tumbled out of the packed Great Hall into the entrance portico. Masks—bedecked and feathered, or with beaked noses and grotesque horns—shielded all the partygoers.
“Well met.” A sloppy drunk in yellow hose, purple tunic, ridiculous spangled mask careened over and slapped Collum hard on the back. “God save the King, eh?”
When Collum didn’t answer, the man frowned. Staggering a bit, he peered up at Collum, face hidden beneath a plain cloth mask and cowled hood. “Did you hear me, man? I said God save His Grace our good King Henry.”
I froze, but Bran didn’t bat an eyelash. “God save the King!” he boomed, and plucked the goblet of wine from the man’s hand. He downed the contents, belched loudly, and swiped a hand across his mouth before gesturing dismissively to Collum. “You must forgive my brother, good sir. He is naught but a feeble idiot and cannot speak.”
Collum’s head shot up at that, but the man only guffawed. “Perhaps on Yule Night the king will declare him lord of misrule. Come”—he snatched hold of Collum’s arm and tried to tow him toward the Great Hall—“let us introduce him to the king now. Oh, this will be right good fun.”
A ball of terror rose in my throat. If the king laid eyes on Collum, it was all over. He’d be cast back into that hole and hung. Collum shoved the drunk away. The man tripped over his own feet and stumbled back, affronted.
“Here, now. What’s this?” he thundered, swaying. “Do you know who I am? Why, you bumbling imbecile! I shall have you thrown in chains for laying hands on me!”
My feet felt stuck to the floor. I couldn’t breathe. Phoebe, however, was magnificent. Without missing a beat, she inserted herself under the man’s arm.
“Milord,” she cooed, “surely I am more interesting than some addle-witted fool? Perhaps, if you were to go inside and grab another goblet of wine, we might share it?”
The drunk’s angry snarl was immediately replaced by lust as his gaze dropped from Phoebe’s upturned face to her low-cut bodice.
Collum let out an agitated rumble. The man’s attention wavered, but Phoebe was on it. She rose on tiptoe and planted a kiss right on the creep’s wine-stained mouth. His glassy eyes widened behind the mask.
“Aye.” He draped an arm around my friend’s narrow shoulders. “Right you are, mistress. A cup of spiced wine would go a long way to wet this parched throat.”
Phoebe ducked from under his arm but gave him a hearty smack on the butt. “Away you go. Find us a cozy spot, aye? I’ll be right along.”
Drunkie lolled away, leering.
I gaped at my friend. “Wow. That was amazing.”
Phoebe gave a saucy wink and with an exaggerated sway of her narrow hips, sashayed toward the steps.
Watching her performance, Bran and I exchanged a grin. When his arm brushed against mine, a little thrill ruffled through me. Collum groaned as he followed after his sister.
“Come on, dove,” Bran said, tucking my hand into the crook of his elbow. “Let’s go save your mum.”
Still smiling, feeling lighter than I had in days, I hurried up the steps toward the queen’s chambers.
Eleanor was waiting for us. The moment we presented ourselves, she curtly dismissed her ladies and servants. The high noblewomen of England glared as they filed by in their brilliant courtly best. The servants followed. One, in a plain white wimple, ducked her face as she scurried out the door.
Sister Hectare reclined on a lush divan at the end of the queen’s bed, furs piled on her tiny form. Except for two hectic spots on her protruding cheekbones, her skin was ashen.
She looks worse. So much worse.
The cough confirmed it. Queen Eleanor herself held the linen cloth to her mentor’s mouth. When she drew it away, it was spotted with red.
“She overtaxed herself.” The queen fussed, mopping at the nun’s brow. “I told you the coronation would be too much for you. You are ill and should’ve stayed abed.”
“And miss the moment the crown of England was placed on my sweet girl’s head?” Hectare croaked. “Not likely.”
The queen’s regal manner had morphed the instant her ladies left. Now she just looked like a scared little girl. Her voice verged on panic as she muttered, “Where are Rachel and the apothecary with that tisane? They should have been here long ago.”
“Your Grace.” The words came out squeaky, too high. “Where is my . . . cousin? Where is Lady Babcock?”
Disgust rippled across the queen’s lips. “Sir Babcock, that horrible little cretin, claims his wife too ill to leave her chambers. Even at his queen’s command.” Her thin lips pressed white together. “But worry not, I’ve sent my man to fetch her. She shall be here anon. No one disobeys my order.”
My diaphragm constricted, pressing against my spine. Too ill?
The queen scanned the room. Her gaze lingered on Collum, his face shaded by the cloak. “Who is that man? Why does he hide his face?”
I looked to Phoebe and her cloaked, hooded brother, clustered together near the now-closed door.
“He is with us, Your Grace.” I so hoped that would be explanation enough.
Eleanor stared hard at Collum for a moment as my pulse pounded in my temples. Yes, the queen had agreed to help us, but I wasn’t sure how far that help would extend if she knew Collum was the very thief who’d stolen from her husband.
Hectare squinted blearily at Collum, then came to our rescue. “Never mind him, my girl. It is time. Give them the dagger.”
All movement in the chamber ceased. I don’t think anyone even breathed.
“It’s here?” Bran asked in a reverent whisper.
We’d been prepared to beg. To somehow make them understand how important it was that we took the dagger with us. If that didn’t work, we’d have had to steal it. With my mother’s bracelet gone, it was the only way.
Hectare nudged the queen with a gnarled hand. Eleanor stood, then from a nearby table retrieved a carved ebony box. As her ermine cloak glided along the rushes, a delicate scent of summer roses and nutty herbs drifted up.
When Eleanor withdrew the blade from its sheath, a walnut-size opal seized the candlelight and cast it back in blue and green shimmers that sparked across the beamed ceiling and tapestried walls. It was as though someone had captured the moon and imbedded it in the golden hilt.
My hand flew to my chest. Beneath the fabric of my bodice, the lodestone warmed against my skin. Bran reached up to clasp the cloak pin at his throat.
“My bracelet,” Phoebe murmured.
From his place near the door, Collum quietly studied the ring on his right hand.
“Yes,” Hectare said into the silence. “Our world is not yet ready for such a thing as this. It holds a power the ignorant might use for ill. I think it best that it leave this place. But . . . may I see it for a moment first?”
The queen stared down at the dagger, mesmerized.
“My child?”
The sister struggled upright on her cot, her stern command breaking the dagger’s hold on Eleanor. With a grimace, she thrust it back into the sheath and handed it to Hectare.
The nun slid the blade out just enough to examine the hilt. She tilted her head, frowning. “I must have misremembered. I thought . . .” Hectare pursed her lips, and a thousand wrinkles radiated outward. “No matter.” She slipped the blade home and held it out to me. “This old memory is not what it used to be. Take it.”
Blindly, I snatched the dagger and handed it off to Collum. He stared down at the blade. I saw his shoulders bunch and his head bow as he rubbed a thumb over the stone.
Something was gnawing at me, though. Something about the stone. I tried to focus, but as each moment ticked by, a queasy trepidation began to build ins
ide me.
Why isn’t my mom here yet?
“Hectare would speak with the two of you,” Eleanor called, waving Bran and me over. The queen looked wrung out, heart-bruised. “Do not tax her,” she warned in a voice cracked with grief. “For I think she does not have much time left. I must find out where Rachel has gotten to. It is not like the girl to tarry.”
The queen’s footsteps dragged as she went to confer with the guard at her door. Bran and I knelt by the nun’s cot. When I looked into her face, grief coiled through me at the dusky color around her lips.
“I’ve given much thought to you since we met, child.” Sister Hectare spoke in a crackle. Paper ruffling in a breeze. “In my long life, the Lord has seen fit to grant me many gifts. When I look at those two over there”—she gestured to where Collum and Phoebe spoke quietly together—“it is as though I am seeing them through a long tunnel. It was the same with this Celia.”
She coughed, wheezy and weak. Her rheumy gaze switched back and forth between Bran and me. “The two of you now, you are clearer to me.” Hectare reached out and clasped my hands between hers. Her palms felt like silk and sandpaper. “The same yet different from the others.”
A chill raced across my shoulders. I glanced at Bran, but his eyes were riveted on Hectare.
“None of you belong here.” My hands bunched inside the old woman’s skeletal grip. Her gaze fixed with Bran’s as she finished. “Though you two are not so far away as the others. It is difficult to explain, though I see in the young lord’s eyes he knows of what I speak, yes?”
Bran’s response was so quiet, I barely heard. “I do, Sister.”
Spent, Hectare fell back on the pillows. Exhaustion pulled at her parchment lids, but the corners of her mouth lifted.
I turned to Bran, but he wouldn’t meet my eyes. “What’s she talking about?”
“Ah,” came Hectare’s creaky whisper, “the girl does not know.”
Bran closed his eyes. “No, Sister,” he said. “Not yet.”
Chapter 38
Into the Dim Page 23