I’m tempted to retch upon his shoes, but I ask him a question of my own, ready to be done with this dance and with him altogether. “Tell me, have you had the chance to meet my dear friends Mr. Alexander and Mr. Stephens?”
“I don’t believe I have.” He pulls me so close that I smell onions on his breath. “But you should forget about those gentlemen. Perhaps you and I could be friends instead?”
My cheeks flame. “I think not!” I should slap him — twice, even, and very hard — but I won’t spare him another second.
“Mademoiselle —”
“Au revoir, Monsieur Duchamps.”
Free from his filthy hands, I gulp down a glass of champagne, but it does little to wash away the memory of the Frenchman. I take comfort in knowing that I won’t have to speak with him again, because he didn’t utter the code phrase I needed to hear. That leaves me with Congressman Crandall. I need to find him. He has to be the Raven . . . unless Uncle Ambrose has made a mistake.
I frown at that thought. Could it be possible that the spy’s true identity has slipped through my uncle’s fingers? If so, the Raven could be anyone, a district judge or a foreign diplomat or someone else entirely. My eyes flicker over the parlor, and I wonder if he’s here, sipping our champagne or smiling at our other guests. I dart quick glances over my shoulders.
Don’t be premature, I tell myself. I must still speak with the congressman.
Smoothing my skirt, I search for our butler to tell me the whereabouts of the congressman, but when I pass by the servants’ staircase another idea tickles at the back of my mind. I could run to my room and stow away my uncle’s letter before Sophie or Grandmama inquires about it again. It wouldn’t take long. I take the stairs two at a time and reach into my pocket . . .
And find it empty.
My pulse halts. My gaze claws down the hallway, but I don’t find the slip of paper. I hurl myself toward the staircase to retrace my steps, but when I walk past Grandmama’s bedroom, my feet lurch to a stop. I blink hard. My grandmother is nowhere in sight, but her room is occupied. From her windowsill, two dark eyes fix on mine.
The eyes of a raven.
The creature hops onto my grandmother’s desk and settles next to the bedroom key that she must have forgotten. At first, I wonder if the bird has lost its way, but when I try to shoo it through the window, I notice a piece of parchment tied around its leg. I go still. Uncle Ambrose mentioned that the Red Raven used a raven to correspond with the Confederates.
While the bird cleans its feathers, I tiptoe toward it and remove the parchment and read:
Have you gleaned more information concerning our enemy’s troop movements? It may be time to arrange for another afternoon tea . . .
I stumble away from the desk.
Another afternoon tea?
“So here you are.”
I jump and spin around. My grandmother stands in the doorway, her chin tipped high.
“I don’t believe I granted you permission to enter my quarters, Elizabeth,” she says.
My face drains of color. “Grandmama?” My instincts tell me to apologize quickly and exit even more so, but I can’t ignore the letter in my hand. I thrust it behind my back, but Grandmama clucks her tongue at the sight of it.
“I see you’ve been trespassing where you’re not welcome.” She doesn’t even address the parchment or the bird. “What do you have to say for yourself?”
“What . . . what do I have to say for myself?” There’s a wobble in my voice. Another afternoon tea. Those words echo through me once again. “Why has this raven flown directly to your room?”
“How dare you question me,” she snaps, and drags me toward the door. “We’ll address your punishment later. For now, we’re needed downstairs.”
“That bird —”
“Is none of your concern.”
“But —”
“Hush!” Grandmama halts in front of the window to give me a good shake, and the moonlight illuminates her from hairline to toe.
I try to speak but can’t form any words.
“What are you gawking at?” she demands.
Goose bumps cover my skin, and I stare at my grandmother’s dress. It’s bloodred silk. Red, her favorite color.
“The letter was intended for you, wasn’t it?” I whisper.
Grandmama snatches the parchment from me. “That’s my private correspondence, and I’ve no need to explain myself.”
“Then you don’t even deny it?”
She merely picks at a loose thread at her wrist. “I’m well acquainted with Mr. Alexander and Mr. Stephens, if that’s what you mean.”
I brace a hand against the canopy bed. At last I’ve heard the words I’ve waited to hear all night, but they weren’t whispered by Blackgrace or Crandall or Duchamps. Uncle Ambrose was wrong. We were both so very wrong.
Grandmama lets out a noisy sigh. “There’s no use in lying to you. Your sister may have inherited my looks, but you were blessed with my mind.”
“Blessed?”