The King stroked the rim of his goblet. “The Tatters are incapable of using magic wisely. We can’t let them run wild with it.”
Bathsheba’s pale eyes sparkled. “The King descends from Merlin, and I from Nicholas Flamel. If you go back far enough, you can trace our lineage back to the gods themselves. It’s why we are able to use magic for this beauty you see around you.” She lifted a delicate white hand toward the sky. “Those of lesser breeding will only use Angelic for violence and depravity.” She nodded toward Celia. Or Lady Celestine, as she was known here. “Unfortunately, Celestine’s mother wasn’t from one of the gods’ lines. She was from a gutter family, and therefore magical knowledge has driven her mad.”
Celia merely shrugged and took a sip of wine. A sense of unease welled in Thomas’s gut. She was fine before she arrived here.
Asmodeus leaned in, his mouth hovering near her neck. “Her beauty makes up for her lack of wit.” He turned to Thomas, pointing a fork speared with a piece of rabbit. “The gods intend to cull the Tatters. It’s the natural way of things. Without disease, they would outbreed us, and our society would degenerate into savagery.” Triumphant, he shoved the meat into his mouth, chewing with a lopsided grin.
Sir Caspar nodded. “It’s true. Those of peasant stock, while inferior in every other way, have hardier constitutions. It’s what happens when you live among the animals, I suppose. They are quite good at reproducing.”
The King snorted. “Unlike my wife.”
Bathsheba looked down, her face blanching to an even paler shade of white.
A silence rolled over the room like a dense fog, until the King shifted and raised his cup again. “This is no time to dwell on my wife’s difficulties. As I said, we are here to celebrate! Tonight is a night of amusements.” He emptied his goblet. “Thomas. Tell us how you learned to read.”
Thomas blinked at the non sequitur. He swallowed a mouthful of stuffed quahog. “I learned some at school, and some at home. Like everyone else.”
Next to Asmodeus, the woman in yellow tittered, rising from her seat. A monarch butterfly circled her head. Maybe it isn’t a non-sequitur after all. Maybe there’s something funny about my literacy.
Sir Caspar lowered his chin, a twinkle in his eye. “Thomas. Tell us about the great city of London.”
Thomas shook his head. Where to start? “Well, it’s two thousand years old, founded by the Romans. They built a wall enclosing a square mile—”
He felt something touch the back of his head and turned to find the yellow-garbed woman jerking back her hand. She giggled.
Did she just touch my hair? He swallowed, his mouth going dry. Oh God. I am one of the amusements. A wave of bitterness washed over him. They weren’t really going to send him home, were they? And what of Oswald—was he still here?
He looked toward the King, who licked cranberry sauce off his fingers. “Your Highness. Where did you say you sent Oswald?”
“Are you questioning him?” Asmodeus barked.
“To his home, of course.” The King threw his hand up. “What else would I do with a Tatter boy? My tastes turn to the fairer sex, I assure you.”
Asmodeus and Sir Caspar roared with laughter.
Thomas’s new admirer leaned closer, inspecting his face. She smelled like the ocean. “His eyes are quite dark.”
“Fortuna, don’t get so close,” Bathsheba tutted.
Fortuna bit her lip, stepping away. Don’t get too close. Like he was some sort of zoo animal. He could almost taste his own resentment. He picked up his goblet, draining it. If I’m destined to die here, at least I’ll get in one last delicious meal. He took a large bite of turkey, the meat rich and savory.
But if they’re lying, then what’s really happened to Oswald? They’d either killed him, or he was still at the hands of his torturers. The idea was enough to put him off his food. He stared at his plate, nauseated.
CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE
Fiona
Fiona pushed open the door and a cool breeze chilled her skin through her worn T-shirt. She was going to find out what Tobias had been up to, and she’d convinced Alan and Mariana to join her on her mission.
Two guards stood ten feet away, bracketing the entrance to the garden. To the right, the guard with the mustache chewed gum, humming quietly to himself. To the left, the pale behemoth stood immobile, no flicker of life on his face.