After she left, neither of them spoke for a while.
Then the prince slowly let out a breath. “Saturday evening I meet with the Inquisitor.”
CHAPTER 13
IOLANTHE AND THE PRINCE UNDERTOOK a battery of test vaults and determined that she had a solo range of twenty-seven miles, enough to cover the distance between London and Eton in one vault.
Saturday afternoon, to keep up the pretense of heading home to Shropshire, she took the train to London. From there she vaulted to a broom cupboard at school, where the prince waited.
“Anyone following you?”
She shook her head.
The prince gave her a dose of vaulting aid. “Let us go then.”
Their first vault took them to a musty-smelling, cramped space not very different from the broom cupboard they’d left behind.
“Where are we?”
“Somewhere inside the bell tower of a cathedral in Birmingham. Let me know if you need a few minutes.”
She shook her head, determined not to show any weakness. She lasted two more such vaults before her head spun. It didn’t matter where she was now—another long-disused room by the look of it. She leaned against the wall and fought her nausea.
He checked her pulse, his fingers warm and light on her wrist. Then he gave her a powder as sweet as pure sugar.
“What is it?” she mumbled.
“Something that will make my kisses taste like chocolate.”
Until now, neither of them had referred to the kiss. She had been trying not to remember it—the imminent meeting with the Inquisitor meant she would finally see Master Haywood, and that was plenty to occupy her mind.
But she had relived the kiss. And every time she had, lightning had shot through her.
I wish we had met under different circumstances, he’d said.
Did he wish daily—hourly—that he’d been born someone else, and not burdened with this crushing purpose? She would, but she could not tell about him. His true emotions were buried at the depth of an ocean trench, undetectable to anyone but himself.
“Your kisses will only ever taste like wet dog.”
“Know a lot about that, do you?” he said amicably.
What kind of person are you, to live without honor or integrity?
Obviously, the kind chosen for what others are too decent to do.
She signaled that she was ready to vault again. After two more vaults, despite the remedy, her head pounded in agony.
He helped her sit down. “Put your head between your knees.”
“Why are you still standing?” she asked, grumpily envious, her eyes half-closed.
They were outdoors. The grass beneath her was soft and green, the air cool and moist, with the distinct, salty tang of the sea.
“You might be handsome as a god, but I vault like one.”
She wished she had the energy to glower at him, even though she felt strangely like smiling. “Where are we?”
“Cape Wrath, Scotland.”
“Where is that?”
“The very north of Britain, five hundred some miles from Eton.”
No wonder she felt so awful. Five hundred miles was generally considered the upper limit on daily vaulting range. For them to have come so far in less than a quarter of an hour was something marvelous—and possibly fatal.
She lifted her face. They were on a craggy headland overlooking a gray, restless sea. The wind was so strong she had to remove her hat. Her short hair blew about wildly.
He crouched down, held her chin between his fingers, and peered into her eyes. She knew he was only checking the size of her pupils, but the act was still overwhelmingly intimate, one long locked gaze.
If she weren’t careful, she might delude herself into believing that she could see all the way into his soul.
She drew back from his hand. “Where is the entrance to your laboratory?”
“Over there.” He tilted his head toward a lighthouse in the distance.
She came to her feet with a wobble. “What are we waiting for?”
The last time they were both in his laboratory, she still had her hair, and her opinion had not yet turned against him. Titus did not miss her hair, but he did miss the way she had looked at him, full of trust and reliance.
She lifted a hand and touched a jar of pearls. Her face was tilted up—he remembered putting on her necktie and brushing the underside of her chin. He remembered the sensation of heat rushing along his nerves, the softness of her skin.
She turned around. “Where’s your canary?” she asked, pointing at the unoccupied birdcage.
He pretended to stir the potion before him. “I sold it at the songbird market in London. It was a prop; I do not need it when I am at school.”
“A prop for what?”
He handed her the potion. It had matured well, the alarming purple goo of the night before now oatmeal-like in color and smelling pleasantly of nutmeg. “For you.”
She eyed the potion warily. “You aren’t trying to turn me into a canary, are you? Human transmogrification spells are hugely unstable, not to mention dangerous to the subject.”16
“I have a workable transmogrification spell.”
“Tested on yourself too?”