“Words cannot express my delight,” he said. “Will you be leaving soon?”
That hushed the crowd. Into the silence came Cooper’s loud stage whisper. “What did I always tell you, Rogers? He isn’t a piddling prince. He’s a grand prince.”
Lady Callista laughed softly, as if Titus had said something funny. “Your Highness, indeed, all too soon we will be leaving. So we must enjoy to the fullest what time we have together. The regent and I—and I am sure the Inquisitor too—are eager to meet your friends.”
Only then did Titus notice Nettle Oakbluff amidst the Inquisitor’s minions. She scanned the gathering with the wild-eyed greediness of a gold rusher, ready to find the one nugget that would lead to riches and glory. Next to her was Horatio Haywood, wan and unsteady on his feet.
Titus broke into a cold sweat. The Inquisitor had realized that he must keep Iolanthe Seabourne nearby. The Irreproducible Charm prevented her image from being drawn and disseminated. But it could not prevent her from being recognized by those who knew her.
Thank goodness she was away at her picnic with Kashkari and Wintervale.
Would that distance be enough to keep her safe?
“We have been provided a list of all your known associates, sire,” said Lady Callista, smiling. “We are determined to greet them all.”
Iolanthe and Wintervale lay on a small knoll by the Thames. Kashkari had been with them earlier, but had left for a walk.
Fat, fluffy clouds drifted across a perfect blue sky. The river shushed and soughed against its banks. Warm sunlight fell gently upon Iolanthe’s skin.
She opened her eyes, grimacing. She must have fallen asleep. And even after such a short nap, her hands—her entire arms, in fact—hurt. She tried to tell herself that it was a good thing—more pain probably implied a more fierce struggle between her potential and what remained of the otherwise spell. But it was taking too long, and her mastery over air was still questionable.
“Damn it,” exclaimed Wintervale, startling her.
“What’s the matter?”
He sat up. “Remember what Kashkari said about the tennis tournament?”
“That today is the perfect weather for bouncing a vulcanized rubber ball on grass?”
“That and he wants to hold it next Sunday,” said Wintervale gloomily. “I forgot I have to take a short leave that day.”
Iolanthe’s foot twitched—boys usually only took leaves to visit their families. “I thought your mother was in Baden-Baden.”
“No, she came back last week. I didn’t say anything about it—idiots like Cooper won’t understand why she chooses to remain home on the Fourth of June.”
“Oh,” she said.
“You don’t have to look so alarmed, Fairfax,” said Wintervale, looking a little put out. “Most of the time she is all right. In fact, she—already back, Kashkari? You didn’t go far.”
Kashkari sat down between them. “The strangest thing happened. I hadn’t gone five minutes before someone appeared out of nowhere and said that I’d stepped out of school boundaries and I’d best turn back. I walked north a couple of minutes, then turned west again; a different person popped up to tell me I couldn’t pass.”
Iolanthe frowned. The resident houses relied on a number of daily checks to make sure boys weren’t absent without leave, but nobody patrolled Eton’s ill-defined boundaries.
“That’s ridiculous,” huffed Wintervale. “This is a school, not a prison.”
“Gentlemen! You have been summoned.”
They started at Sutherland’s booming voice. He had not come alone; with him was Birmingham, their house captain.
“I’ve never seen such pomp and circumstance in my life,” complained Birmingham, a broad nineteen-year-old with a well-developed mustache. “Frampton made me come personally, in case Sutherland isn’t enough of a messenger to fetch you three.”
“Fetch us to what?” asked Kashkari.
“To the traveling court of Saxe-Limburg,” answered Sutherland. “I always thought Titus was one of those princes with an acre to rule. Guess I was wrong.”
“His family came?” Iolanthe was alarmed. He hadn’t mentioned anything.
“What?” cried Wintervale at the same time. He, too, knew that there was no such thing as the traveling court of Saxe-Limburg. Or Saxe-Limburg altogether.
“Just a great-uncle, but what a dame he brought,” said Sutherland. He turned to Birmingham. “Did they ever say whether Helen of Troy is the great-uncle’s wife?”
“I’ll wager she’s just his mistress—Europeans.” Birmingham remembered himself and turned to Wintervale, who, like the prince, was also said to be from a small European principality. “No offense.”
“None taken,” said Wintervale, still looking flabbergasted.
“Let’s go, gentlemen,” said Sutherland. “It took us a while to find you. His Highness must be getting impatient.”