Page 13 of The Crimson Throne
I’d take some perverse joy in destroying the damned thing. In getting to crush whatever the item is beneath my boot.
Cecil hums. “You do not understand the full breadth of fae magic, Samson. If we have the item that cursed you, I have people who work for me who could study it, learn the magic used to enchant it, and break it. The magic on the item as well as the curse on you.”
My spine goes straighter as the carriage rocks. “You said fae curses can’t be broken.”
“No. I said it was unlikely that your curse would be broken. And it was, given you had lost the item. But now?” His eyes spark, the first sign of life, but I don’t trust it. Can’t let myself.
I lost the item because I was a child, a scared kid, you prick.
My hands curl, knuckles burning still. “Where is it?”
“Ah.” Cecil leisurely parts a curtain on the window. We’re rolling over a bridge now. I don’t know which one. Still in London. “That is where this differs from my usual tasks for you.”
My insides cramp with agitation, but I don’t let it show.
“How so?” He’s making me ask. Drawing it out.
“This item”—he lets the curtain fall, slanting us back into dim grayness—“is in a collection amassed by one of Queen Elizabeth’s enemies. Telling you this is a matter of national security, Sammy. Can I trust you with the enormity of this task?”
“If you didn’t think you could, I wouldn’t be here.”
Cecil blinks at me. Then barks a laugh.
He settles back against the seat. “Fair enough. The item that cursed you has been collected by Mary Stuart.”
My eyes widen. The Scottish queen?
It’s the last thing I expected him to say. I was waiting for a pissed-off lord in a high-end neighborhood in London; wouldn’t be the first time he had me con a rival of his.
ButScotland?
Ever since the Scottish queen popped out a male heir, tensions have been sky-high in London. Elizabeth has gone runaway with paranoia, and people who aren’t even doing anything related to Mary are getting dragged in on accusations of supporting her.
I sit there, wondering if Cecil’s trying to get me killed.
“It is suspected that Mary is amassing these fae weapons in order to attack our queen.” Cecil levels a look at me. “I need someone to infiltrate the court and confirm. And if the fae weapons are in her possession, I need someone familiar with their magic to remove them.”
“What?” It kicks out of me, a punch of breath. “Infiltrate a foreign court?”
“I have tried to place my usual workers in the Scottish court,” Cecil says. “People fluent in multiple languages, in all courtly customs. But none have been able to give our queen what she needs. Which is why we are turning our focus to you. You have proven yourself adaptable, if nothing else, and I believe you will succeed where others have failed.”
“But I don’t speak Scots or French even.” He hears how wrong this is, right? Sending a bastard son from the slums of London out on a spy mission?
Cecil smiles, and it shuts my body down hard.
“You are concerned,” he says. “I understand. But you will be given all you need—travel arrangements, funds, information, a cover for your crudeness and lack of formality. The way is carved for you. All you must do is walk it. But”—he bends closer, so close that I can smell a hint of onion on his breath—“if you refuse, the ramifications, I fear, would be brutal. If Scotland were to succeed in assassinating our queen, it would throw England into peril. Innocents would suffer—innocents like those whom I paid to release from prison. How many whorehouse orphans are living in the slums now? What sort of end would they meet duringwartime? Most of the boys are old enough to join the front lines, I suspect.”
I hold my breath, hold it until it burns.
Cecil wants to stoke me to show emotion, wants to poke and poke, but I won’t give him the satisfaction.
I also won’t let him have leverage on Hal and Oskar.
The bag of coins I stole back off the prison guard when I hugged him jingles as I dig it out of my pocket.
I toss it on the bench seat next to Cecil. “They don’t owe you. They’re not part of this.”
Cecil raises an eyebrow at the bag but doesn’t take it, just lets it sit on the bench like it’s unimportant. Like it isn’t enough to pay for a week’s worth of food. I could’ve slipped it to Oskar, but this way, Cecil’s got nothing to hold over them.
