Twelve
The boy who turned the enormous meat spit walked across the kitchen with a bowl in his hands, his brow furrowed, his steps careful. He was small and slight, only nine or ten years of age.
He was also the filthiest damn kid Beau had ever seen.
A cap that was once white but was now gray with soot covered his head. His cheeks were smudged with spices; his clothing was grimed with batter, butter, gravy, and grease. He looked like he hadn’t bathed in a year. Maybe two.
Watching him, Beau thought about his brother, who was only two or three years older. Even when they’d been on their own, he and Matti, sleeping in barns and stables, stealing eggs from henhouses and apples from orchards to stay alive, Beau had tried to keep the little boy clean. He would find a stream to bathe him in, or a horse trough where he could at least dunk his head.
He’d made sure Matti was clean the day he’d taken him to the nuns. He’d been thin and ragged—they both had—but he’d been well-scrubbed.
Matti didn’t know why they were at the convent, not at first. When Beau knelt down to tell him, he’d thrown his arms around Beau’s neck and wailed. When Beau tried to explain that he needed food, a fire, a warm, dry bed—things Beau couldn’t give him—Matti said he’d rather starve than be without his brother.
Don’t leave me here, Beau, please, please don’t. I want to come with you …
Don’t cry, Matti. Please don’t cry. I’ll come back for you. As soon as I can. I promise. I swear …
The nuns had taken the boy then, peeling his arms off Beau, and Beau had walked away. It was like cutting out his own heart.
His promise to Matti echoed in his head now.
“Move, kid,” he said under his breath. He had a bead on the onion basket, all the way across the kitchen, and the dirty spit boy was blocking his view.
Beau was sitting at the baker’s worktable. Again. After fetching him from the stables, Valmont had placed a meaty hand on his back and shoved him toward a stool. “Sit and stay,” he’d said to him, as if he were some mangy mutt.
But Beau didn’t want to sit. Or stay. He needed to get to the onion basket and fish out the key he’d hidden inside it. The urge to get over the mountains to his brother was so powerful, it hurt. He felt like a fox caught in a cruel iron trap, so desperate to escape, it would chew its own leg off.
He’d broken into dozens of shops and mansions and escaped undetected. Picked diabolically intricate locks. Slid watches out of the pockets of their owners. All he had to do now was dig a key out of a basket—a simple task, yet seemingly impossible. There were so many people in the kitchen slicing, sautéing, plating, saucing, and garnishing, he couldn’t move a muscle without ten of them seeing him.
“Come on, kid. Get out of the way,” he hissed.
But instead of moving out of Beau’s sight line, the boy walked up to him and set down the bowl he was carrying. Beau recoiled slightly, expecting any child as crusty as this one was to stink like a dung heap, but he didn’t. In fact, he smelled good. Like butter-basted chicken. Roasted chestnuts. Bacon drippings.
“For you. I helped Chef make it,” the boy said, a shy pride swelling his skinny chest. He pulled a spoon from his apron pocket, set it next to the bowl, and then he was gone, making his way back to the fiery realm of hot ovens and crackling spits.
Beau looked down at the bowl; it contained beef stew. He didn’t want it—his nerves had killed his appetite—but he picked up the spoon anyway. Not eating after working all day would look odd; it might make Valmont suspicious, and Beau could not risk that. He spooned up some stew, blew on it, then shoveled it into his mouth, ready to swallow it down quick. Instead, his eyes widened and his stomach gave a long, growling purr as the meat melted like butter on his tongue. The tender chunks of carrot and potato, the tiny pearl onions collapsing into the dark, winey sauce—they tasted of something more than themselves. They tasted of patience. Of time taken. Of care.
He took another bite and as he did, he was gripped by a memory so strong, it squeezed the breath from him. He saw a woman. She had a smiling face and kind eyes. She was singing to him, her voice warm and low. He could smell her—vanilla, butter, almonds—as she took his face in her hands and kissed the top of his head. Losing her had nearly killed him. But it had taught him, too. He’d learned how to wall his heart up, brick by brick, so it could never be broken again. No one was allowed inside the wall now, no one but Matti.
“Do you want some bread?”
The words tugged Beau back from his past. He looked up and saw Camille sliding a plate toward him. Thick slices cut from a large loaf lay upon it. He thanked her, ripped a slice in half, and dragged its soft, craggy edge through the sauce.
“Rémy can get you more stew,” said Camille, nodding in the boy’s direction.
“Rémy’s his name?” Beau said. “Does he ever take a bath?”
Camille cracked a smile. “He’s not fond of water.”
She resumed her task—piping icing flowers onto a pair of cakes—and Beau let his gaze settle on her. She was petite, full-figured, and handsome, surrounded by the tools of her trade—a scale, pastry bags, bowls of icing, wooden spoons, spatulas, nutcrackers, and picks. He’d felt the rough edge of her tongue earlier in the day, but her brown eyes were warm and there was a sadness in their depths.
Sad people are kind people, he thought. Keep her talking. Get her to open up. Maybe she’ll tell you something useful.
“They’re pretty,” he said, nodding at the cakes.
But before she could thank him for his compliment, a deep voice behind him barked out a command. “Finish up, thief. And see to your dishes. As soon as I’ve served dessert, I’m taking you back to your room.”
It was Valmont. He walked to the other side of the table, picked up a chocolate torte on its porcelain stand with one hand, a chestnut cake with the other, and carried them out of the kitchen.
Beau cursed silently. He only had minutes to get the key but still no way of doing it. He gobbled down the rest of his meal, then carried his dirty dishes to the sink, lingering there for a few seconds to ask the kitchen boys if they needed help, but they shook their heads. His frustration growing, Beau glanced around. Camille was in the pantry. The chef was straining the contents of a stockpot. Rémy was wiping down the spits. The others were all busy finishing service. No one was watching him. His eyes shot to the doorway leading to the great hall. Valmont wasn’t back yet but could be at any second. It was now or never.
Beau started walking, his gait slow and nonchalant even as he was fighting down the urge to run. Bit by bit, he closed the gap between himself and the basket, his hopes lifting with every step. Twenty feet … fifteen … ten … he was almost there.
And then the kitchen doors swung open, and Valmont appeared. His eyes skewered Beau. “Where do you think you’re going?”
Beau stopped. “I want an onion,” he said innocently.
Valmont’s bushy brows shot up. “You want an onion?”
“I get hungry during the night.”
“What about an apple?”
“I like onions,” Beau said.
Valmont’s scowl remained on his face, but his skeptical expression softened slightly. Beau felt excitement surge inside him. The key was his. “Just a small one,” he rushed to say. “I can get—”
But Valmont cut him off. “Rémy!” he shouted. “Toss me an onion!”
The boy hurried to the basket, then grabbed a large onion and lobbed it. Valmont caught it and handed it to Beau.
Beau forced a smile as he took it. “Hey, a big one. Thanks.”
“Let’s go,” Valmont said, giving him a push.
Beau’s heart sank as they set off; his plans had disintegrated like a sandcastle in the waves. That key, the one he was now walking away from, was his only hope.
After Valmont had searched him earlier and returned to the castle, Beau had decided to have a look around. He’d made his way from the stables to the castle wall, and followed it until he found a set of stone steps notched into its side. They led up to a narrow walkway that ran along the top of the wall. He’d scrambled up the steps, and then he’d run the entire length of the wall. It had taken him over two hours. While he was up there, he’d discovered that Arabella had not lied to him about a bridge.
Outside the wall, the moat surrounded the castle in a long, unbroken ring, and there was nothing—no drawbridge, no footbridge—traversing it. Inside the wall, the castle’s grounds appeared to be endless. They held gardens and pastures, barns for livestock, fields, a lake, and a forest. He had stopped at one point, taking in the illogical, impossible vastness, and it had seemed to him as if Arabella’s domain was its own universe, contained and self-sufficient, with no need of the outside world. The thought had chilled him to his marrow.
Arabella didn’t lie to you about a second bridge, andshe might not be lying about a tunnel,either, a voice inside him had said. He’d squashed it. He needed there to be a tunnel.
The path to Beau’s chamber was long and winding, and the lantern Valmont carried did little to dispel the gloom that pooled in the hallways and stairwells. They walked in silence, Beau trailing behind his captor, until finally, after about fifteen minutes or so, they reached the small tower room. As Valmont unlocked the door and ushered him inside, Beau saw that the bed had been made. A warm fire burned in the hearth. There was a fresh jug of water on the table and a clean glass. A taper burned in a tin candleholder.
The room was cleaner, warmer, and more comfortable than any in the dank rookeries where he’d lived with the thieves, yet he despised the sight of it. It made him feel as if he were an animal being shut up in a cage.
“If you think I’m so damn dangerous, why not lock me out?” he angrily asked as Valmont bade him good night. “Make me sleep in the stables? If I’m such a risk to everyone’s safety, why keep me here?”
Valmont didn’t deign to answer, but as the door closed, he muttered something. It was hard to hear him over the rattle of the key in the lock, but Beau was able to make out a few words.
“It’s not for our safety, thief. It’s for yours.”