27
Fletcher didn’t even have time to reach for the food before Sylva’s long leg slid under Seraph’s seat to kick his ankle. He stifled a groan of disappointment and saw her stand and curtsy.
‘I am feeling a little weak from the smell of all this rich food,’ Sylva said, lifting a hand dramatically to her brow. ‘Mr Rotherham, would you be so kind as to escort me to get some fresh air?’
Fletcher took a moment to realise she was speaking to him, then reluctantly got to his feet and took her arm. The two needn’t have bothered with the theatrics – the nobles surrounding them barely gave the pair a second glance, already devouring the food with as much decorum as they could muster.
To Fletcher, the only silver lining was that he would not need to work out which cutlery to use, for the tablecloth had been festooned with a variety of knives, spoons, forks and other implements he could not recognise. Still, it was the best time to leave, while the rest of the room were distracted.
‘Come on,’ Sylva hissed, tugging him away from his seat and down the long table. They knew where they had to go – a pair of heavy double doors in the side of the room. Fletcher felt a shudder run down his spine as eyes turned to them, for they were the only guests standing. He distracted himself by examining the other foods on the table. To his surprise and horror, the roasted carcass of an entire porpoise was being carved by a mincing footman at the head of the principal table.
Then he saw the people surrounding the poor animal and a new sense of revulsion took hold. Almost all of his enemies were seated there: Old King Alfric, Lord and Lady Faversham, the Forsyth twins, even Didric himself. King Harold sat among them, laughing at a joke his father had told.
Fletcher almost found himself faltering in his pace, but Sylva drew him inexorably onwards, her grip firm on his arm. He couldn’t help but look over his shoulder as they passed. It was fascinating, to see them socialising. Somehow he always pictured them plotting in dark rooms, not enjoying meals together.
Moments later and they were through the double doors, opened by confused servants who weren’t sure where the two guests were going, but were too anxious to stop what could be important nobles.
They were in a long, dark corridor with red velvet carpet. Only a few flickering candles revealed a staircase halfway down the passage. They tugged off their masks, and Fletcher breathed in deep relief.
‘Walk, don’t run,’ Sylva said, taking command of the situation and tugging him behind her. ‘We don’t want to look suspicious, and guests aren’t supposed to go exploring.’
Fletcher panted with shallow breaths, and his palms sweated beneath his white gloves.
‘It must be hard for Harold to keep up his act, day in and day out,’ Fletcher said, talking to steady his nerves.
But he never heard Sylva’s response, because the double doors slammed open behind them. Fletcher caught a glimpse of a guardsman, a candelabra clutched in one hand, a sword in the other. Then he felt himself pulled against Sylva, her hands around his neck, lips seeking his. She kissed him with a fierce abandon, and Fletcher returned it with the same passion. He sank into it, feeling the softness of her body against his. For a moment, nothing else mattered.
‘Just two lovebirds,’ the guard grunted. ‘Nothing to worry about.’
The doors shut with a gentle thud.
Instantly, Sylva pulled away, sweeping back towards the stairs as quickly as possible.
‘Come on,’ she said, looking at him over her shoulder. ‘They’ll expect us to go back soon. Othello and Cress will have to catch up.’
Fletcher followed, a pang of sadness running through him. It had been a ploy – nothing more.
They mounted the stairs two at a time, Sylva going barefoot with her heels in her hands, Fletcher avoiding the train of her dress. It was ridiculous how much material she had to drag behind her.
The corridor they emerged into was darker still, lit only by the glow from the stairs behind them and a single candle in an alcove nearby. They had reached their destination – a set of enormous doors directly opposite the stairway. The throne room’s entrance loomed, dark and ominous.
‘Let’s hope Othello and Cress have begun their distraction,’ Fletcher whispered.
‘Let me,’ Sylva said. Her finger glowed blue and she etched the shape of a keyhole in the air. Slowly, she lowered it over the deep lock on the door and streamed a jet of silvery light into it. There was a loud snap, and then the door swung open with a groan of creaking hinges.
Beyond, an enormous chamber came into view, lit by a beam of moonlight from a skylight. The room was bisected by a line of thick, red carpet, with marble flooring on either side. Pillars of stone lined the walls, cast in deep shadow. But one thing dominated above all else. A throne, made of gold, silver and precious gems, inlaid with mother-of-pearl and skirted with polished wood, was set on a dais at the end of the long, red mantle at the back of the room. Every element on the throne was designed in a mosaic of interwoven demons, the gems forming their eyes, the metals delineating the lines of their bodies. It was magnificent, sparkling even in the dim light. Fletcher could hardly take his eyes from it – he had never seen so much wealth in one place.
Then they saw it, embedded in the floor directly in front of the throne. A black staff, covered by a laced cloth. Their target.
‘Hurry,’ Sylva hissed, oblivious to the splendour of the royal seat. Fletcher followed, the dull thud of their footsteps echoing.
But they were barely halfway across the room when the screech of hinges cut through the air behind them, followed by the slam of the doors.
Fletcher turned, his hand reaching for a sword that was not there.
‘Well, well,’ Rook said, stepping out of the shadows. ‘Look what we have here, Zacharias. A she-elf and a traitor, out for a stroll.’