“I serve as warden of the city prison. Rather grim, I know.” That was not what I was expecting. He shuffles his chips between his thumb and forefinger, then tosses a few on the table for the caster. “Good for those poor children to have some company after all they’ve been through with their parents.”
I’d hardly call either of the Robleses a child, but I don’t correct him.
There’s a tap on the table in front of me, and I look up. The caster is frowning. “Your wager, sir.”
“Ah, just a moment.” I lean in to the warden. “I’m quite concerned about Dante, actually, I haven’t seen him since his father died, and he’s been so tight-lipped about it ever since—”
“Died?” the warden interrupts. “He hasn’t died.”
“But he’s . . . What?”
“Sir,” the caster says, “the wager.”
I try to swat him away. “My friend’s on his way—”
“Sir—”
“What do you mean, he isn’t dead?” I demand.
The warden looks rather alarmed by my vehemence, but says, “Mateu Robles is a Hapsburg sympathizer, jailed for refusing to aid the House of Bourbon when they took the crown.”
My heart is really going now. “You’re certain?”
“I’ve been charged with his care by the king. He’s housed in my prison.”
“Do his children—”
“Sir,” the caster says, “if you won’t be wagering, I’ll have to ask you to leave.”
“Fine, I’ll . . .” I stumble to my feet, searching for Percy. He’s a hard fellow to miss, but the crowd is thick and the air smoky and I am more than a bit flustered. “I’ll be right back,” I say, partly to the caster, but mostly to the warden, then shoulder into the crowd. He’s alive is thumping through me like a heartbeat, and I’m tripping myself trying to work out what this means. Mateu Robles is alive, though both Dante and Helena had assured us he was dead. Dead as Lazarus, and here he is, risen again.
I do two laps around the hall before the realization that I can’t find Percy kicks its way through my discovery. He’s not at the chips table, or at the bar where I left him. I can’t think where else he would have gone, and I’m starting to get frantic.
Where are you, Percy?
And then I spot him, slumped on the ground beside the door, his head between his knees and his hands shoved into his hair. My heart stands still for a moment, then begins to pound again for a new reason entirely.
I shove through the crowd, with no care whatsoever for who I’m smashing into, and drop to my knees beside Percy. I touch his arm and he starts more than I expected. When he looks up, his face is drawn, thin beads of sweat gathering along his hairline. “Sorry,” he murmurs.
“What’s wrong? Is it . . . ? Are you about to . . . ?”
He pushes his face into the crook of his elbow. “I don’t know.”
“Right. Well . . . right. How about, maybe . . . maybe . . .” I don’t know what I’m supposed to do. I’m fishing bare-handed in my stream of consciousness for some way to take charge of this situation and be what he needs, and I’m coming up empty. Do something, you imbecile. “Let’s go,” I say, which seems like a good place to start, and I help Percy to his feet. He sways unsteadily, though that might just be the crowd jostling us. I slide his hand around my arm and lead him out of the hall, the truth about the Robleses taking second place to Percy.
Everything will always be second to Percy.
I’m not certain if he’s about to fall into a fit, or how long we’ve got if he is, or if there’s anything I can do to stop it. He’s clutching my arm as I lead him down the stairs and through the lobby, into the courtyard, which—thank God—is cooler than inside and nearly deserted.
In one corner, a grove of lemon trees clings to the stone wall, branches bowing under the weight of ripe fruit. I walk Percy over, hoping there’ll be a bench or at least a hefty rock, but he doesn’t seem to give a whit about the seating, for he sits down on the grass, then falls backward with his knees up and his hands over his face. He’s breathing rather fast.
“Please, not now,” he murmurs, so soft I’m not certain he knows he spoke aloud.
I’m fighting the urge to go fetch Felicity because she’s so much better at this than me—probably would have if it didn’t mean leaving him on his own. I haven’t a clue what to do, so I clamp onto the first idea that arrives before I have a chance to really consider it: I crouch down at his side and put a hand upon his elbow. It is perhaps the least comforting place upon which a comforting touch can be bestowed, but I’m committed to it now, so I don’t move.
I am doing the wrong thing, I think. I am doing the wrong thing and I am going to do the wrong thing and I am never going to be what he needs.
For a time, we’re both silent. Above us, the canary-yellow lemons sparkle among the leaves, their rinds swollen and slick with starlight. Interwoven with the glittering chatter from inside the opera house, sounds of the city play from the other side of the courtyard wall—the clack of carriages and the soft shush of fountains emptying their throats. The thin peal of a watchman’s voice sings the hour. Barcelona is a handsome symphony all its own.
“Are people staring?” Percy asks. His breathing is evening out, but he still looks poorly.
“No.” I glance around the courtyard. A lady and a gent perched near the wall are giving us a glare that plainly implies we interrupted what was about to be his hands up her skirt. “Want me to lie down as well? It’s less strange if there’s the pair of us.”
“No, I think it’s passed.”
“Certain?”
“Yes. I just got a rather odd feeling and I thought it might be coming on.” He sits up, closes his eyes for a moment, then opens them again, and I nearly collapse with relief. “You can go back inside.”
“Absolutely not, we should go.”
“I’m fine, I promise.”
“Come on.” I climb to my feet, brushing my hands off on my coattails. “Back to the house.”
“What about the others? Shouldn’t we tell them?”
“They’ll work it out.” I hold out a hand to him, and he lets me pull him to his feet, a little unsteady on the slippery grass.
We take a hired carriage back to the Robleses’. A few streets from the opera house, Percy nods off, his head slipping onto my shoulder, then down to my chest. When the hack stops, I sit for several minutes longer before I shrug, very lightly, so that he raises his head. “We’re here.”
Percy sits up, pushing his knuckles into his forehead. “Did I fall asleep?”
“A bit. Ah, look, you’ve gone and slobbered all over my jacket.” I take a swipe at my lapel.
“Dear Lord. Sorry.”
“You were only asleep five minutes. How’d you manage to drool that much?”