Dante, in contrast, lights like a struck flint. “We—do you think—would he? What about Helena?”
“You needn’t tell her,” I say. “She can’t hand it over if she doesn’t know you’ve got it.”
Dante taps the tips of his fingers together. He’s practically bouncing in his chair. “We’d have to get you into the prison. They won’t let him have visitors. But—but he’s here, in Barcelona. They’ve all their political prisoners in one hold. Would you—could you do that? For me?”
“So we get the cipher and then we leave here,” Felicity interrupts. “At once. This is getting dangerous.”
“Yes,” Percy says, and I nod. If there’s an alchemical treatment in Venice—or better still, an honest-to-God cure that can rid him of this forever and knock Holland permanently off the docket—I want to be out of here and on the road as quick as possible.
From the street outside, there’s the clatter of a carriage pulling up to the walk. Felicity twitches the drapes open and peers out. “Helena,” she says.
Dante scrambles, his foot catching a pewter cross hanging from one of the drawers and wrenching it out of place. “You mustn’t tell her what I’ve said, or that we’re—that we’re going to see—see my father. She’d murder me.” I’m not sure if that’s literal murder or figurative; he looks terrified enough that it could be either.
The front door opens, and a moment later the study follows. Helena appears, a silhouette blacker than the hallway darkness, like ink poured into oil. There is just enough light on her face to see that the first thing her eyes go to is the Baseggio Box on the desk before she looks at each of us in turn. “You’re all here,” she says.
None of us seems keen to offer an explanation, so Percy steps up. “I was feeling ill,” he says, and I expect he’ll launch into a good lie as to why this mysterious affliction required the entirety of our party except for Helena to accompany him home, but that’s all he says. That straight-edged silence settles back into place.
“Did you enjoy the opera?” Felicity pipes up.
“Operas tire me,” Helena replies. She looks to the box again, then says, “Dante, may I have a word before bed?”
Which is our cue to depart. Dante gives me a pleading look as we shuffle by him, and I return a raised eyebrow that I hope is a vehement reminder not to spill our plot to Helena. As dedicated as he might be to seeing his mother’s heart stay out of the hands of the Bourbons, he’s already proved he’s not the sort to hold up well under pressure.
Percy goes straight into our bedroom, but Felicity calls me back before I can follow. She glances down the stairs to be certain Helena and Dante are still in the study, then says, “Tell me what you’re plotting.”
“Me? I never plot.”
“All you’ve been doing since we arrived is plot! Why did you offer to get the cipher from Mateu Robles? That was uncharacteristically benevolent.”
“How dare you. I’m the most benevolent person I know.”
“Monty.”
“The benevolentest.”
“Don’t play thick—you don’t fool me.”
Now it’s my turn to check for the Robles siblings approaching before I speak. “If we can get that box open and get the key, we can go to Venice and use the panacea for Percy so he can be cured of his falling sickness and then he won’t have to go into an asylum.”
“There are far better solutions for avoiding institutionalization than this. And solutions no one had to die for. And incidentally, none of them have to do with you.” She pokes me in the chest. “In fact, none of this has to do with you, it’s to do with Percy. Perhaps he doesn’t want this.”
“Why wouldn’t he want it? He’d be well. It’ll make his life . . .”
Felicity quirks an eyebrow at me. “Make his life what? Worth living? Is that what you were going to say?”
“Not exactly in those words.”
“Asylum aside, I think he seems quite fine as he is.”
“But he’s not—”
“But he is. He’s been ill for two years and you didn’t know because life goes on. He’s found a way.”
“But . . .” I’m floundering. But he’s going to Holland, but I don’t know how to help him if not for this, but perhaps he can handle it but I don’t think I can. “We should still speak to Mateu Robles. Even if we can’t . . . for Percy . . . I think . . . we could help. Someone.”
“Yes, someone.”
“So we’ll go see him tomorrow.”
“And then we need to leave here—whether to Venice or back to Marseilles to find our company, we need to go. We’re getting in too deep.”
She starts up the stairs, but I call after her, “So. You and Dante.”
She pivots back to me, and I give her what I know from experience is my most annoying smile. I expect her to flush, but instead she performs one of her spectacular eye rolls. “There is no me and Dante. Particularly if you’re being grammatical about it.”
“Do I sound like I’m interested in the grammar of the situation?”
“Whatever the case, you’re wrong. There is only Dante, full stop. And me, full stop.”
“So it wasn’t you who rubbed your foot up his leg in the box and got him to sneak away from the opera for a bit of a romp?”
“I would have stopped it long before any romping began. I had a plan until you burst in.”
“Plan? What plan?”
“Well, they both knew more than they were letting on—that was apparent—and Dante seemed more likely to crack. And since my usual strategies weren’t working, and he clearly seemed rather sweet on me—”
“Clearly, was he?”
“Oh, please. Men are so easy to read.”
“And here I thought you were a paragon of frail English womanhood. Turns out you’re a temptress.”
She tugs at a loose thread on her cuff and lets out such a violent sigh that it raises the fine hairs trailing down around her ears. “I was rather bad at it.”
“Seemed like you were doing fine to me.”
“I think I chipped his tooth.”
“Well, as with any fine art, practice is required. Rome wasn’t built in a day.” I hope that might make her laugh, but instead she frowns down at the floor. “Was it good, at least?”
“It was . . . wet.”
“Yes, it’s not the driest of activities.”
“And uncomfortable. I don’t think I’ll be trying it again.”
“Information by way of seduction? Or kissing in general?”
“Both.”
“Kissing gets better.”
“I don’t think it’s for me. Even if it’s better someday.”
“Perhaps not. But I think you’ve more in your favor than your skills as a jezebel.” I nudge my toe against hers until she consents to look up at me, then give her a smile—of the less-annoying variety this time. “Far, far better things.”
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