“A cure-all,” Felicity explains. “An item or a compound that is a remedy for mutiple ailments, like a bezoar or ginseng.”
“Robles is well known in Spain,” Ernesta says. “One of the last great alchemists in the court before the crown changed hands, though of late better known for killing his wife.”
Felicity lets out a small squeak at that.
“He killed his wife?” Percy says hoarsely.
“An experiment gone wrong,” Ernesta says. “An accident, but she died by his hand all the same.”
“But the box didn’t come from Mateu Robles,” I say. “I stole it from the king of France.”
“You stole it from the Duke of Bourbon,” Felicity corrects, though the detail seems a bit irrelevant—I think she just enjoys rubbing it in that I’m a thief. “He’s the one who’s after us.”
“What’s in it?” Percy asks. He’s sitting up now, arms folded around his knees and leaning forward for a better look, like the box has changed since last he held it.
“Something with alchemical properties most likely, which makes it valuable,” Ernesta replies. “Or dangerous. Or both.” She shakes the box lightly beside her ear, like it might announce its own name. “Not a compound, though. It sounds to be a single item.”
“Couldn’t someone break the box open?” Felicity asks. “It doesn’t look very sturdy.”
“The boxes are often lined with vials of acid, or some other corrosive substance. If the box is broken, the object inside is destroyed.” Eva says something, and Ernesta nods. “She says that it must be returned to its owner.”
And then they both look at me.
“By who?” I ask. “Us?”
“You are the thieves.”
“Monty’s the thief,” Felicity says.
“No, I am the second thief. Which I think cancels out my thievery.”
“This box carries cargo likely more precious than you can imagine. It must be returned to Mateu Robles.”
“Then you take it. You know more about it than we do.”
Ernesta shakes her head. “We have been expelled from Spain. We indulge in practices outlawed by the crown, and we cannot return without consequences.”
“You’re Spanish?”
I can feel Felicity resisting the urge to roll her eyes. She’s practically vibrating with the effort.
Ernesta, for her part, does not roll her eyes at me. “We’re Catalonian,” she says.
I’m not sure of the distinction, but for fear of outright mockery from my sister, I move forward like that makes sense. “And you think this professor is in Spain?”
“The Robleses are an old Catalonian family. They were in the court at the same time as we were, but they were expelled when the House of Bourbon won the throne, and they returned to Barcelona.”
“And you want us to take it to them there?” I ask.
“Absolutely not,” Felicity interrupts, shaking her head so vehemently her plait whips the bedpost behind her. “I’m sorry, but we can’t. We need to find our company and see that this is returned to the king of France.”
“It doesn’t belong to him,” Ernesta says. “It must be returned to the professor alone—no one but him.”
“But surely there’s a reason the king had it,” Felicity argues. “And we can’t travel! We’ve no money and our cicerone is waiting for us here and Percy’s been taken ill—we can’t go anywhere if he’s unwell.”
Percy stares down at the quilts, tugging at a loose thread between the patches, and for a moment I think he’ll protest, but he keeps silent.
Felicity opens her mouth, like she’s got more reasons we can’t ferry alchemical compounds south queued up, but she’s interrupted by a sharp rap at the cabin door, followed by Pascal flinging it open. He’s flush-faced and breathing hard, like he’s been running. “Soldiers,” he pants. “Marco ran down—they tore apart the fair and they’re headed this way.”
My heartbeat stutters. It’s rather clear who in this room they’re after.
The thought occurs to me that if they are the king’s men, and if they are truly after us, and if they are being led by the duke, this might all be resolved by giving them the box. Though there seems to be equal odds they’ll slit our throats and drop our bodies in the sea, and I’m not risking that. But more than that—alchemy and panaceas and cure-alls are knocking around in my mind. If there’s anyone who can help Percy—perhaps even keep him from the asylum—it may be this family and their mad little box. And I’m not handing that over.
“We can’t give it to them,” I blurt out.
Felicity and Percy both look to me. So do the grandmothers, Ernesta wearing an expression that conveys this was such an obvious statement it’s redundant.
“They might kill us for stealing it,” I say quickly, “and if it doesn’t belong to the king and it contains something that could be dangerous in the wrong hands . . . I think we should wait.”
“We’ll hide you,” Pascal says.
Outside the cabin, I can hear the guards’ boots slapping the dock. “Come out, now!” a familiar voice yells. The duke is definitely here. “All of you. Empty the boats.”
“I think Monty’s right,” Percy says. “We don’t give them the box.”
I turn to Felicity, who looks as though she thoroughly disagrees, but throws up her hands in surrender. “Fine!”
Neither Ernesta nor Eva seems particularly troubled by the hordes of soldiers boarding the boat. Which is good because I’m short on a plan but have an abundance of panic.
11
The king’s guard boards our boat—I can hear their shouted instructions through the walls, and the floor pitches each time one of them climbs aboard. Pascal is out on the deck attempting reason, but it doesn’t sound like they’re particularly keen on hearing it. The word fugitives gets tossed around a few times, and harboring, which I have a strong sense is not in reference to the boats. I pray they’ll bypass the cabin altogether and we won’t have to test our disguise, but then I hear the stairs creak and a moment later the door is tossed open.
“You were instructed to disembark.” The Duke of Bourbon strides in, decked in livery of the king’s guard, with a rapier at his side that looks like it could do a fair amount of damage if swung about. He’s distinctly more ruffled looking than he was when I saw him at the palace, his nose burnt by days in the sun and his head unwigged. His hair is a short, coarse gray that curls in the back.
“Apologies, gentlemen.” Pascal darts through the soldiers to Bourbon’s side. “But these women are not permitted to go onto the deck.”
Zounds, it is beastly hot under this veil. The air is smoky with the incense Ernesta lit, making it hard to see and harder to breathe, and the clothes we stripped off the bed were not meant to double as skirts—the fabric is slick, and I’ve got one hand on my back like I’m a hunched-over old woman when really I’m just trying to keep the damn rug swathed around my waist from becoming both indecent and incriminating.
“Why?” Bourbon taps his foot in the direction of Felicity, who’s wrapped up in what a few moments ago was a wall hanging and has a cushion cover over her head like a veil. “Woman, show us your face.”