Rationally, she knew she had never, not for a moment, been in real danger. And therefore there was no reason for her to shake and gasp with the relief of survival.
Which only made her loathe him more.
“Are you all right?” he asked.
Her arm shot out, wrapped around his ankles, and yanked. He went down hard, hitting his shoulder on the corner of the table. She leaped on top of him and took a swing at his face. He raised his arm in defense. Her fist connected with his forearm, a solid smash that jarred her entire person.
She swung her other fist. He blocked her again. She lifted her knee, intending to drive it somewhere debilitating.
The next thing she knew he’d heaved her off his person. She immediately relaunched herself at him. He’d just got to his feet; she knocked him back down.
“That is enough, Fairfax.”
“I will tell you when it’s enough, you scum!” She slammed her elbow toward his teeth.
Foiled again.
She grunted in frustration and head-butted him. He caught her face in his hands. Since both his hands were busy, she finally landed a blow at his temple.
He winced—and retaliated by pulling her head down and kissing her.
Shock paralyzed her. The sensations were huge and electric, as if she had called a bolt of lightning upon her own head. He tasted angry, famished, and—
She leaped up, knocking over a chair. He remained on the floor, his eyes on her, eyes as hungry as his kiss. She swallowed. Her fist clenched, but she couldn’t quite hit him again.
He rose to his feet with a grimace. “I know how you feel. I was in there last night, in honey above my head.”
She stared at him.
“Why do you look so surprised? I said I would experiment with you, not on you. Everything I try on you, I try on myself first.”
Of course she was shocked. The idea that anyone would voluntarily subject himself to such torture . . .
He was suddenly at the door, listening.
“What is it?”
“Mrs. Hancock. She is outside, talking to someone.”
A minute later—just enough time for him to do something about the cut at his temple and Iolanthe to right the fallen chair and a few other things knocked askew by their scuffle—a rap came on the door. The prince, with a tilt of his head, gestured for Iolanthe to open the door.
“Why me?”
“Because that is the nature of our friendship.”
She twisted her mouth and went.
Mrs. Hancock stood at the door, smiling. “Ah, Fairfax, I need to speak to you too. I have a letter for you from your parents.”
It took Iolanthe a full second to grasp what Mrs. Hancock was saying. Fairfax’s nonexistent parents had sent a letter.
With slightly numb fingers she accepted the envelope. The paper inside was faintly lavender in color and smelled of attar of rose. The words were written in a pretty hand.
My dearest Archer,
Ever since you left for school, Sissy has not been feeling well. She must have become accustomed to your presence at home during your convalescence.
Will you be so kind as to come home this Saturday after class? Sissy will be thrilled to see you. And I am sure that will make her feel herself again in no time.
Love,
Mother
“My parents want me to go home on Saturday,” Iolanthe said to no one in particular. Where was she supposed to go? And who was behind this letter?
“Yes, they also sent a letter to Mrs. Dawlish to that effect,” answered Mrs. Hancock. “You may take a short leave, if you wish.”
“Bother,” said Iolanthe. “Sissy was perfectly fine when I left. I’ll bet she’s only pretending.”
That seemed like something a boy of sixteen who’d been stuck home for three months with his little sister might say.
“Then stay here,” said the prince. “Besides, you are supposed to help me with my critical paper Saturday.”
He sounded enormously peevish.
“I’m afraid you won’t have time Saturday for your critical paper, Your Highness,” said Mrs. Hancock. “The embassy has requested leave for you too. There is a function they would like you to attend.”
“God’s teeth, why do they insist on this charade? I rule nothing, isn’t that punishment enough? Why must I attend their functions and be paraded around?”
“Come, prince, how terrible can it be?” Iolanthe said, playing the part of the affable friend. “There will be champagne and ladies.”
The prince released his bed and plunked himself down on it. “That shows how much you know, Fairfax.”
She knew he was playacting, but still she shot him an irate glance. Mrs. Hancock’s sharp eyes took it all in—no doubt exactly as the prince intended.
Iolanthe mustered a smile for Mrs. Hancock. “I’m sure by tomorrow His Highness will be in a more receptive mood. Thank you for coming all the way to give me my letter, ma’am.”
“Oh, it was nothing at all, Fairfax. And good day to you too, Your Highness.”
After she left, neither of them spoke for a while.
Then the prince slowly let out a breath. “Saturday evening I meet with the Inquisitor.”
CHAPTER
IOLANTHE AND THE PRINCE UNDERTOOK a battery of test vaults and determined that she had a solo range of twenty-seven miles, enough to cover the distance between London and Eton in one vault.
Saturday afternoon, to keep up the pretense of heading home to Shropshire, she took the train to London. From there she vaulted to a broom cupboard at school, where the prince waited.
“Anyone following you?”
She shook her head.
The prince gave her a dose of vaulting aid. “Let us go then.”
Their first vault took them to a musty-smelling, cramped space not very different from the broom cupboard they’d left behind.
“Where are we?”
“Somewhere inside the bell tower of a cathedral in Birmingham. Let me know if you need a few minutes.”
She shook her head, determined not to show any weakness. She lasted two more such vaults before her head spun. It didn’t matter where she was now—another long-disused room by the look of it. She leaned against the wall and fought her nausea.
He checked her pulse, his fingers warm and light on her wrist. Then he gave her a powder as sweet as pure sugar.
“What is it?” she mumbled.
“Something that will make my kisses taste like chocolate.”
Until now, neither of them had referred to the kiss. She had been trying not to remember it—the imminent meeting with the Inquisitor meant she would finally see Master Haywood, and that was plenty to occupy her mind.
But she had relived the kiss. And every time she had, lightning had shot through her.
I wish we had met under different circumstances, he’d said.
Did he wish daily—hourly—that he’d been born someone else, and not burdened with this crushing purpose? She would, but she could not tell about him. His true emotions were buried at the depth of an ocean trench, undetectable to anyone but himself.
“Your kisses will only ever taste like wet dog.”
“Know a lot about that, do you?” he said amicably.
What kind of person are you, to live without honor or integrity?
Obviously, the kind chosen for what others are too decent to do.
She signaled that she was ready to vault again. After two more vaults, despite the remedy, her head pounded in agony.
He helped her sit down. “Put your head between your knees.”
“Why are you still standing?” she asked, grumpily envious, her eyes half-closed.
They were outdoors. The grass beneath her was soft and green, the air cool and moist, with the distinct, salty tang of the sea.
“You might be handsome as a god, but I vault like one.”
She wished she had the energy to glower at him, even though she felt strangely like smiling. “Where are we?”