Before Heloïse could answer, a shout and fast feet thundered down the hall outside. «Sœur Heloïse! Sœur Heloïse! Dans le salle des duels, Sénateur Chang est gravement blessé! (In the dueling hall, Senator Chang is seriously wounded.)»
She opened the door at once. «Gravement? (Seriously?)»
«Oui!» answered the messenger, a tearful maid of thirteen, «et tous les docteurs sont occupés en bas. Viens vite! (Yes, and all the doctors are busy below. Come quickly!)»
I had no doubt the Chevalier had arranged the convenient timing of the injury, but the same laws of courtesy which would not permit the men to roughhouse in the Sister’s presence also would not allow her to ignore a soul in need.
“You must excuse me, Father, Mademoiselle Saneer,” she bobbed a curtsey. “I am needed elsewhere urgently. I shall return to check on you when next I’m free.” She made the Chevalier meet her eyes, not easy eyes to face. “You will take proper care of these two, as mon Seigneur Jehovah’s guests?”
The Chevalier raised his gloved hand as if to take an oath. “I shall see to them according to my duty.”
The little Sister was no fool. “May I have your word, then, Chevalier, no harm will come to them?”
Her persistence grated on him. “Very well, you have my word. Now, run along, Sister. Blood does not wait.”
She offered the stranded pair a reassuring smile. “You may trust the Chevalier to keep his word. Good luck to you. I’ll keep you in my prayers.”
With that she rushed away, and decorum with her. You have never seen such dark grins on a pack of men.
“Now,” the Chevalier began, “where were we? Ah, yes. Unlawful intrusion.”
“Hey, look, the priest’s a Cousin.” Three of the pack pawed at the loose tails of Carlyle’s Cousin’s wrap, as circling bandits play with the skirts of a maiden they hunger to unwrap. “She’s definitely not supposed to be here.”
Here again, reader, I must apologize, since I have accustomed you to assigning Carlyle ‘he.’ Cousins are ‘she’ by default in that house, and the exception for Carlyle had not yet been ordered.
“Are you enjoying straying out of bounds, Cousin?” One reached as if to stroke Carlyle’s hanging hair, but instead snatched the disabled tracker from his ear and dangled it just out of reach.
“Hey!” Thisbe cried, off guard. “That’s so not okay!”
The Chevalier carried a cane as well as a sword, and wielded it with expert menace. “I fear it is not your place to make rules in another’s house, Mademoiselle Intruder.”
Thisbe rose, and with her boots was almost tall enough to face the Chevalier eye to eye. “Red Zone or no, taking a tracker is Blacklaw illegal!”
The Chevalier looked to the others, and all laughed, raucously, as if she had made a brilliant joke. “I don’t think you’re the one who wants to call the law in here, Mademoiselle Intruder into a Level One Romanovan Alliance Security Compound whose unlawful breach is punishable by…” He looked to his compatriots. “What is it for Humanists? Five to ten?”
“Ten to fifteen years or five hundred thousand euros,” one supplied.
The answer freshened the roses in the Chevalier’s cheeks. “Of course, if you meant no harm by the intrusion, we might overlook it, if appropriately persuaded.”
Like Lesley, Thisbe has no practice dodging when one of these creatures swoops in serpent-quick to kiss her hand. Blush erupted, intense enough to show on her dark Indian cheeks, and her poise changed too, standing straighter, as if remembering her own anatomy beneath her silk suit, and her pride in it. She looked to Carlyle, who had pulled his feet up onto his chair, as if it were a life raft with sharks circling round. “What persuasion do you have in mind?” she asked.
The Chevalier leaned close, closing his eyes a moment as he tested the scent of Thisbe’s shampoo. “Let us, just you and I, go see if we can’t find one of the household polylaws. Surely they can advise us on the situation. And who knows? Perhaps we’ll come up with something on our own along the way.” He raised his hand to stroke her cheek, while his body leaned close enough for their thighs to share warmth. Thisbe froze, as Mercer Mardi froze once, hoping the killer would not spot her in the shadows.
“Thisbe,” Carlyle urged, “call on your tracker. We need help.”
If glares could kill, this would have been Carlyle’s earthly end. “You doubt my word, sensayer?” The Chevalier turned on him. “I promised Sister Heloïse that you would not be harmed.”
“Thisbe!” Carlyle tried again.
“Thisbe,” the Chevalier repeated, planting a fresh kiss on her hand and others further up her arm in an inching line. “A superb name, Thisbe. More parents should be brave enough to name their daughters after women men have died for, don’t you think?”
Thoughts and adrenaline mixed in Thisbe’s mind as the kisses crept so slowly toward her throat. Fly, says Virtue. Knock his hand away. Kick him in that too-conspicuous crotch. Fight. Call, as trackers can, the fierce and instant law whose agents will swoop from the heavens angel-harsh, and whisk you away from this strange man whose blush is rising to match yours. Thisbe smiled. “What about my sensayer?”
The Chevalier’s eyes rolled across to Carlyle, as to an unwanted sibling. “The Cousin is sick, is she not? Let her recover here. My compatriots will give her the very best of care.”
“Thisbe!” Carlyle cried out as three of them dug their fists into his clothes as if to rip the wrapping from a birthday package. “We have to get out of here!”
“Stop! That sensayer belongs to Julia Doria-Pamphili!” I was so out of breath as I burst in that I could not keep my words from becoming a shout. I made it in time. Barely, but I had made it in time.
“Mycroft?” Thisbe, Carlyle, and the Chevalier called my name in unison, then eyed one another in some surprise.
“Carlyle is Julia’s apprentice,” I repeated, still panting, “and this Humanist is a privileged courtier of His Grace the Duc de Thouars. They would not want their creatures spoiled.”
The Chevalier’s confederates were quick to release Carlyle, while the Chevalier himself spun toward me, in the same motion taking Thisbe in his arms. “Why did they not say so themselves?”
“Because, sir, this is their first time in the civilized world, they do not yet know its ways.” I lowered from my back a sack heavy with fabric. “I am to take them to Madame.”
In the hush, quick-thinking Carlyle managed to snatch back his tracker.
The Chevalier arched perfect eyebrows. “Madame is expecting them?”
“Impatiently, Chevalier.”
How crestfallen his sigh. “Alas, dear Thisbe, such a summons one dares not ignore.” He would not leave her without at least one proper kiss as prize. He took it slowly, time enough for a succubus to have sucked the soul out of its prey if such was its aim. He smiled when done, but Thisbe smiled deeper. “Perhaps another time.”
Nodding to his men to follow, the Chevalier strode through the door. I was wrong to say there was no touch of the feminine in the company, for, male or female, all of them moved with that artful grace we associate with ladies and dancers, and wielded their blades as gracefully as ladies do their fans. On exit, the Chevalier glared at my Servicer’s uniform with proper scorn. “You mustn’t let clients see you like that in the halls, Mycroft,” he warned.
“I won’t, Chevalier.”
I cannot comment on his final expression, for I am not permitted to raise my eyes to one of his rank. I bowed low as I closed the door behind him.
“What are you doing here, Mycroft?” Thisbe asked—no, the tone was grim, more an order than a question.
I did not look at her. “Patronage is everything here. When in trouble, invoke the highest ranking person you’re associated with.”