Chapter 28
Lem
The door of the musty cellar is unlockable, thanks to Agatha’s ministrations, so the ruffian binds our limbs and tosses us in like a couple of potato sacks.
My efforts at resisting, as per usual, are that of a squalling infant protesting bathtime.
It’s nothing for him to secure my arms to my sides with my own guitar strap, then bind my feet with a coil of rope.
Henry—still mostly unconscious—gets treated likewise, although I think the ruffian makes his knots a little more secure.
Which is insulting, really. Just because I’m not much for boxing doesn’t mean Henry is better at escaping than I am. For all the ruffian knows, I could be masterful at unpicking knots.
I’m not, of course, but I could be, so the haphazard way in which he restrains me is offensive.
“I’m sorry,” I say when I hear Henry groan.
“Ugh.” Henry tries to lift a hand, realizes he’s bound, and groans again. His eyes dart around the low-ceilinged room with its piles of smelly produce in cobwebby corners.
“I suppose that’s the gnawing you meant?
” I tip my aching head toward the door, where a set of perfect bite marks surround what’s left of the hinge.
Even with the broken nose and the other unfortunate circumstances I find myself in, the corner of my lips tick upward.
That’s my Agatha. Clever, resourceful, unstoppable.
I don’t pursue this line of thought, as it implies she has no need of me. I prefer to cling to my delusion that I can do something for her, besides throw myself at her feet like the miserable beggar I am and plead for scraps of affection.
“I’m sorry,” I repeat, my face falling back into a frown. “I should have thought that through. I should have known—”
Henry shakes his head, scowl matching mine.
“Don’t waste time apologizing. The main thing is we’re together, and since the door is completely unsecure, thanks to your charming wife”—he tries to angle his body to face me but grimaces in pain and slumps back against the wall again—“we should be able to break out of here without a problem as soon as it’s dark. ”
I manage to wriggle my body from seated until I’m lying on the floor. When I try to roll, however, the guitar gets jammed under my left armpit, leaving me half-twisted and unable to move either forward or back.
Henry barks a short, bitter laugh and leans his head back, closing his eyes. “Give me some time and I’ll get these knots worked out.” He sighs, a bone-deep sound. Guilt pierces me.
My cheek presses against the cool dirt floor. I wonder how many spiders will take up residence in my guitar before we’re out. If we ever get out. “This is all my fault.” I swallow. “I didn’t think—”
“It’s mine,” Henry interrupts. “I was the one who wanted you to meet a fairy.” His forehead furrows. “What did she do to you, anyhow?”
I let my eyes drift across the small cellar.
“I told her I didn’t want—didn’t deserve to—” A harsh fit of coughing overtakes me.
I nearly forgot about that restriction. “I can’t talk about it.
The marriage was a stroke of luck. Bad luck,” I add belatedly.
Agatha didn’t deserve this. Although—perhaps, if I wouldn’t have wandered along when I did, she’d be worse off?
Henry makes a scoffing sound. “You’re the only one who would call marrying her bad luck. Did you even look at her?”
My brows pinch together. I didn’t mean it was bad for me. “She’s more than just a pretty woman!”
“And yet, she said you’re going to annul it?”
“Of course I am,” I say. I make another effort to roll off my side. It does not work. “She deserves more!”
Henry is silent for several long moments. “She figured out we’re brothers.”
“She would.” I snort. “She’s terribly clever.
” Which, again, is why we must find someone to annul this.
I see now that I can’t just pass her off to Mansfield, but I’m sure there’s a worthy person for her somewhere.
Or she could come to Rhylorria and sing at the opera house.
And I could creep to the darkest corner of the building and listen and bask in her success, then sneak away to whatever lowly life waits for me while she’s the object of adoration and applause. As she should be.
Henry is quiet. I flush when I realize how lost in thought I’ve gotten. “Er, did you say something?”
He chuckles. “Thinking about your lady love?”
“She’s not my lady love, she’s my wife.”
Henry chuckles again. “So, what exactly is your plan?”
“We’ve been over this,” I say crossly. My nose still hurts, and now my neck is getting stiff from lying on this floor. “I have no plan besides freeing Agatha.” Somehow.
“Did you tell her about the wolpertinger?” Henry asks. His tone is casual—too casual.
I narrow my eyes. We don’t talk about the wolpertinger, except for veiled references to when I became the prince or ever since that happened. I’m too ashamed, and I’ve always presumed Henry was too angry about it.
It shouldn’t have happened. I shouldn’t have killed it. I shouldn’t be the prince.
I’d trace the scar on my cheek if my hands weren’t bound and my cheek wasn’t fusing with the dirt floor. And if I still had the scar.
Bright light blinds me as the ruffian peels back the sagging door. I blink against the sudden brilliance. He stoops and enters the room, his boots kicking dust right into my already-watering eyes.
“Time to go, minstrel,” he rumbles. He hooks me by the collar, ignoring Henry. “The master has some questions.”
Agatha
I suppose, in some way, the duke’s desire for me has come true: I feel much more humble than I had mere weeks ago. Not, perhaps, in the way he meant. But humbler, nonetheless.
I don’t think I can rely on myself to rescue Lem. I think I need to enlist help.
It’s not something I’m used to doing. Melusine ensured that I was well-equipped to handle nearly anything.
But, as she did not bestow upon me the Gift of Being Able to Wrestle Men Much Larger Than Myself, and I doubt the duke will listen to anything besides brute force, I admit that I require someone to aid me on my quest.
Bert and Berta would be on my side, if only their village was close.
If I could let their horde of children loose into Mansfield’s estate, he’d be so overwhelmed that Lem and I could scoot away without another thought.
Or, if I had more time, I could possibly rouse an army of kind-hearted strangers through the power of song.
Surely someone in our audience last night would come to my aid, if I could but locate them.
However, as discovering Lem seems to be a matter of urgency—and Mansfield is liable to send his thug out to kidnap me from the street, were I to begin crooning on a corner—I turn to the next best option: Count Chrestowine.
Chrestowine’s estate is, properly, not in Glen Violet at all; he owns a mountain to the south.
But there’s not enough gambling down there, I suppose, so he keeps a narrow little townhouse right in the heart of Glen Violet, his fingers on the pulse of the city.
I’ve never been there—I doubt it’s fit for ladies—but I’ve seen the address when I brought Father his letters, so I turn back downhill at the next crossroads, walking with a more purposeful stride this time.
I’m covered in a layer of fine sweat by the time I find the correct street.
My steps slow as I stroll past narrow, bright-painted houses, built wall-to-wall, and watch the numbers on them.
I pass a good dozen before spotting the count’s number on a modest navy one.
A smart white gate separates it from the street.
It swings inward noiselessly when I nudge it.
The tiny yard on the other side of the low fence is simple grass, not overly manicured, with a glossy-leaved bush standing sentinel by the front door. Everything looks neat and well-kept, fine without being ostentatious. Chrestowine has good taste.
I don’t suppose, actually, that he’ll particularly approve of me, cobwebbed and sweaty as I am.
I wish I wouldn’t have turned my back on the inn so quickly—I should have at least asked the innkeeper for some water to wash my face.
There’s probably cellar dust clinging to my temples, but it’s too late now. I’ve already grasped the iron knocker.
The count must have a servant posted right inside the door, for it opens almost before I’ve finished knocking.
“Yes?” Inside the entry, a footman in a dark suit and well-polished boots stares at me expressionlessly.
I should have expected that Chrestowine would have this sort of staff, the kind that’s so scrubbed of individuality that a guest might not even remember they’re present.
A forgettable servant is quite useful when you’re in the business of …
whatever he is in the business of. Father didn’t ask me to read those particular letters.
I don’t curtsy to the footman, but I do bring my dimples into play. I’d like to see if I can break the servants of the slippery count.
The footman’s expression doesn’t change—much. But his eyes do widen a fraction, almost-but-not-quite flickering over my frame. That’s as much as I’m going to get out of him, so I announce myself.
“Lady Agatha Montberger for Count Chrestowine.” I feel a trifle dishonest referring to myself with the title which I shed with marriage, as if I’m being unfaithful to Lem. But without his royal status, he doesn’t even have a surname. How else would I introduce myself? Mrs. Agatha Nobody?
That … actually sounds appealing.
Enlist Chrestowine’s help, get Lem away from Mansfield, convince him to take me back to Rhylorria, and I can slip into my new role of Agatha Nobody. It sounds relaxing.