“No, we need to find out if they’re actually after this”—and here I snatch up the puzzle box from where it’s still sitting on the table between them—“and return it so they’ll let us alone.”
“You think we should go looking for the men who were ready to kill us?” Felicity asks. “They’re not going to let us walk away after we give them what they want. We need to get out of here. Percy, are you certain you’re well?”
Percy looks far less well than he did when I left. He keeps squinting, like the light is too bright, and he’s sweating and doesn’t look quite here. I can’t think of another way to describe it. But he stands up, shouldering his fiddle case. “I’m fine. Let’s go.”
“How are we going to find Lockwood?” I ask as we weave through the crowd, Felicity in the lead.
“Do you know where he meant for us to stay?” she asks.
“No, he sent Sinclair.”
“Well, do you know Father’s bank here? We could ask them if they’ve accepted any letters in his name or if Sinclair left word about accommodation.”
“No. Maybe? It’s the Bank of England, I think.”
“You think?”
“Yes, it is. Wait . . . yes.”
“Do you ever listen, Henry, or is everything just sweet nothings in your ear?”
I look up as we round a corner and catch a glimpse of exactly the troop of men we are trying to avoid, down the path ahead of us and coming our way. I grab Felicity’s arm and jerk her backward between two of the tents, nearly tripping myself when my shin catches one of the ropes tying them off. Percy dodges next to me, his fiddle case clutched to his chest. “They’re right there,” I hiss. Felicity peers out from between the tents, then ducks back to my side.
“You’re certain that’s them?”
“I’m certain that one of them is wearing the same ring as the man who attacked us.”
“That’s not a whole lot of certainty, is it?”
“He’s also got the imprint of Percy’s fiddle case carved into his forehead, so how much more would you like?”
Shadows stretch along the pier, preceding their casters, and we all sink back. I try to think small and invisible thoughts, willing them to not look at us, not see us, not turn as they pass. I’d gladly toss the puzzle box at their heads as they go by, but Felicity’s logic makes more sense than mine—they planned to kill us in the forest and I can’t imagine they’d let us go with a Thanks, chums and a pat on the back now. I haven’t yet a plan of what to do beyond don’t get murdered at a seaside fair, but for now, that requires staying out of sight.
The highwaymen file past us, the one with the gold ring in the lead. He’s got his hand over his face, rubbing his temples, but as it drops, I catch a glimpse of his profile and recognition dawns suddenly upon me.
I know him. And he’s most certainly not a highwayman—it’s the Duke of Bourbon.
He starts to turn his head toward us, livid bruise coming into view, and my heart nearly throws itself to its death. But at the same minute, a firework explodes overhead, turning the navy sky bright red. The highwaymen all look up, and Percy, Felicity, and I, seemingly of the same mind on the subject of not getting murdered, duck the rest of the way down the row, then around the corner and out of sight.
We stop between two tents, canvas shielding us on all sides from the crowds gathered along the pier. The ground is peppered with stakes wedged into the planks and straining against the ropes strung taut between them. It’s a narrow corridor to walk.
“I know him,” I hiss.
“What?” Felicity replies. She’s got one hand pressed to her chest, breathing hard.
“The man, the highwayman, I saw his face. I know him.”
“Monty,” Percy says from behind me.
I press on. I’m so sure of it and so desperate to finally be useful and right about something that I won’t be interrupted. “It’s the Duke of Bourbon, the French king’s prime minister. I met him at Versailles.”
“Monty.” Percy shifts to my side, his hand brushing my elbow.
“The box came from his apartments.”
“Monty.”
“What is it, Perce?”
“Take this.” He’s trying to press his violin case into my hands.
“Why?”
“Because I think I’m going to faint.”
And then he does.
God bless Percy for the warning, but I’m not as quick on my feet as that. I haven’t got a firm hold on the fiddle case when he collapses, and I sacrifice my grip on it to catch him before he hits the ground. It bounces along the boards, one of the latches popping open with a metallic ping.
Catching him sends me to my knees and we sink down together, my arms under his and his face pressed into my chest. I expect him to be limp as cloth but instead he’s gone rigid. His body’s twisted up and stiff, a contorted sculpture of himself, and it doesn’t look like he’s breathing. The muscles in his chest feel like they’re pulled up too tight to let in any air, and I can hear his teeth squeak as they grind together.
“Percy.” I lay him on the ground and shake him lightly. “Hey, Perce, come on, wake up.” I don’t know why I’m talking to him. It feels like the only thing I can do. His back arches, veins in his neck straining against his skin, and I think maybe he’s coming around, but then he starts to shake. Not just shake—convulse, frightening and out of control. His limbs look like they’re trying to pull away from his body, head kicking at the planking.
And I don’t know what do. I’ve never felt so stupid and helpless and afraid in my life. Do something, I think, because my best friend is writhing on the ground, in obvious pain, but I am absolutely stuck. I can’t think of a thing to do to help him. I can’t even move.
Suddenly Felicity is kneeling beside me. “Get out of the way,” she snaps, and I come back to myself enough to follow orders. She takes my place, grabbing two fistfuls of Percy’s coat and hauling him onto his side so there’s less chance of him slamming into one of the tent stakes as he convulses. “Percy,” she says, leaning over him. “Percy, can you hear me?” He doesn’t respond—I’m not sure if he’d be able to even if he heard. Felicity puts one hand on his shoulder, like she’s keeping him steady on his side, and kicks the fiddle case out of his way. Then she sits back and does nothing but hold him in that place.
“What are you doing?” I cry. I’ve got my hands pressed to either side of my face—a farcical gesture of horror. “We’ve got to help him!”
“There’s nothing to be done,” she replies, and she sounds so calm it feeds my panic.
“He needs help!”
“It should be over in a minute. We have to wait.”
“You can’t—”
I start to crawl forward without any plan of what I’m about to do, but Felicity whips around and skewers me with a glare. “Unless you know what you’re talking about, please stay out of the way and keep quiet.”