Page 77 of The Crimson Throne
“I just wanted you to know you’ll fail,” I say.
And he…
Smiles.
He does not say a word.
He just smiles at me before he turns and walks away.
And that?Thatmakes ice run down my spine.
As soon as he’s out of sight, I lower the bubble of magic and scan the crowd. Samson has done a decent job of lingering by the wall, as if he doesn’t care about me, although our eyes meet with an electric shock.His aura is laced with forest-green concern…
For me.
I hold my palm to my lips and whisper, “Follow him and make sure he goes to his rooms without causing any trouble.” Magic swirls in my palm, the words trapped in a bubble. I lift my hand and blow gently.
To anyone else, it may look as if I were blowing a kiss. But any Leth—and clearly Samson—can see the magic bubble floating. It pops near him, my words audible only to his ears. His eyes widen in utter shock at the magic I sent his way, but then he listens, growing serious.
He nods.
I’m still not sure if I can trust him, but this is simple. And a good test.
Besides, I’ve riled Darnley up well enough now that he’s surely primed for Samson. Darnley is both proud and stupid, a fantastic combination for someone clever like Samson to coerce information out of his slack-jawed mouth.
Samson turns and leaves the party, following the path Darnley took.
I cross the hall to where the fires burn in the hearth. It’s crowded enough that the hall is warm, and near the fires, it’s almost oppressively hot.
But fire doesn’t bother a brownie.
It’s not Kitty I see lurking in the chimney but one of her friends, one who doesn’t really like to talk. Respecting his wishes, I lean close as if warming my hands and say, “I’ll put out a whole pitcher of cream tonight if you and yours watch both the red-haired Englishman and the king consort and tell me what they do.”
A spark pops in the flames. Message received.
Now to go get some cream.
20
Samson
I rip off the masquerade mask, let it drop to the floor, and trail Darnley out of the hall, certain smoke should be pouring from my nose.
I’ve seen all manner of high-and-mighty purebred bastards in Southwark. Men come to partake of the whorehouses while looking down on everyone within those walls, holding their noses up as superior even though they’re the ones forking over money.
That’s how Darnley looks at Alyth. Like she’s obsolete and he’s two seconds from stabbing her clean through and laughing as she bleeds out.
Ironic, in a way.
Because that’s how I look at him.
“Darnley, sir!” I call out as he takes a staircase.
He flails around and stumbles back so he slams into the wall, making a lit torch near him waver in the gust of air he sends up. Whatever sobriety he managed in being furious at Alyth, his cups are catching back up with him now, and he scowls before he recognizes me.
“Samuel!” He claps my shoulder.
Sure, let’s go with that.
