The maids usually woke them around seven. The hour bell had sounded midnight not long before the attack. She’d listened to each of the twelve long chimes when she’d been lying awake. “I have cylloroot powder that will knock him out for at least twelve hours,” she said. It was one of the supplies in the kit that Eloisa had given her for her Ais-Seann. “If he’s found here alive, then there’s a chance he’ll be interrogated. Have to tell someone else what he was sent here to do.”
“Or else whoever sent him will just arrange for him to die, too,” Cameron said, prodding the man with his toe. He didn’t stir. Still unconscious, then. That would make things easier.
“Maybe, but we can take the chance. We have to leave him here, dead or alive. It will be hard enough for us to get out of the palace. We’ll never manage it with a dead body. Though perhaps we should tie him more securely. Make sure he can’t get away if by some chance he does wake.” She was hardly an expert with herbs after all.
“All right. I’ll find things to secure him with; you get the herbs,” Cameron said.
She smiled at him gratefully and then whirled to get the cylloroot.
She mixed it carefully with some water, avoiding breathing any of it in, and carried the glass into the bathroom. Cameron had pulled the man closer to the basin, which was connected to several sturdy pipes, before he’d gone back into the bedroom to find more cravats to use. She could hear him rummaging through the drawers.
She watched the man for a moment, but he didn’t stir. Still unconscious, then. Sophie bent over him, intending to pry his mouth open and pour the liquid down his throat. But before she could, he lunged upward, and his hands fastened around her throat.
She dropped the glass as her breath was cut off, heard it shatter as she fought for air, the room going dark around her. Then Cameron was there, and the grip at her throat loosened as something warm sprayed across her face. She fell backward, landing with a thud on the tiles, which made her teeth rattle.
When her vision cleared, she saw a severed hand lying on the tiles near her feet and Cameron standing over the bathtub, wiping the sword in his hand clean with one of their towels.
“Is he dead?” she managed. Cameron nodded, and she rolled to her knees and vomited onto the floor.
Cameron picked her up and carried her back into the bedroom, putting her down on the rug before the fire. Then he came back with a damp cloth and wiped her face. The cloth came away red, and she realized she and her dress were splattered with a shockingly bright spray of blood. Cameron put down the cloth and picked up the Iska decanter, pulled off the top, and passed it to her.
“Drink,” he ordered. “Three good mouthfuls.”
She obeyed, and the warmth of the liquor hitting her stomach burned away some of the panic. The earthy taste scoured the bile from her mouth as well. She wiped her lips with the back of her hand and put the decanter down. “He’s really dead?”
“Yes.” Cameron bared his teeth then in something that was probably meant to be a smile but was far more feral and terrifying. “There wasn’t time to be subtle. He was strangling you.” He rose then and tossed the cloth back through the bathroom door. His shirt was blood-spattered, too.
“Change your dress,” he said. “Pick something dark. Do you have a bag that’s easy to carry? Something with a strap maybe?”
She nodded. She had a leather satchel that held embroidery or painting supplies when Eloisa decided to take the ladies outdoors for the day. “It’s not terribly large, but yes.”
“Good. We need valuables. Money, your jewels. Whatever will fit, then whatever else you want to take that will fit and that’s not heavy. Not clothes. We can buy those. Wear boots, not shoes. And a cloak. A dark one.” He held out a hand and helped her to her feet. Kissed her. “We will be all right,” he said, and then turned to start packing.
Madame de Montesse’s shop was in darkness as they walked past it. Sophie’s pulse was roaring in her ears, but she had to trust that the illusion—the cloaking ward—that Cameron had used to enable them to get out of the palace by walking inch by agonizing inch quietly through the hallways and out into the gardens still held. Cameron led her down the next street and then through three separate alleys before he stopped in front of a high wooden fence with no gate that Sophie could see.
“Where are we?” she whispered.
“Unless I’ve lost my sense of direction, this is the rear yard to Madame’s building. As far as I know, she lives over the shop. Let’s hope I’m right.” He nodded at the fence, face just a pale blur. “We need to get over this. I’m going to have to let the illusion drop when I let go of your hand. Can you see any wards on the fence?”
“No.” She didn’t want to let go of his hand. The strong, sure warmth of it was the only thing that had stopped her from collapsing into hysterics at certain points of their flight from the palace. But she loosened her grip on his fingers as he stepped away from her. There would be no panicking. No giving in to the fear. They could do this. They would get away. Be safe. Even if she didn’t know how just now. She stared at the fence but didn’t see even the faintest hint of magic. “Can you see any?”
Cameron shook his head. “No. Good. You’re stronger. I thought they might be too subtle for me. All right. I’ll give you a boost. Drop down on the other side and stay there until I come over, too. I’ll throw your bag over once I’ve helped you.”
“Who’s going to help you?” she said.
“I’m at least a foot taller than you,” he said. “Plus I’m a Red Guard. I’d be a laughingstock if I couldn’t get myself over a mere six-foot fence.” He crouched down. “Here. Put your foot in my hands.”
Sophie obeyed, trying not to think about what might be on the soles of her boots after the circuitous route they’d taken out of the palace and down to Portholme. So far it seemed that no one had found out they had left. There were no unusual lights or sounds coming from the palace, no squads of Red Guard charging through the city streets.