Page 87 of Crown of Tides and Fury

“I pick up the linen order twice a week, so aye, they do. I’ve never given them the address. I’ve never been followed home. I know to watch for such things.”

Wickham stood, put his finger to his lips, pointed to the jacket, and signaled for Alwyn to give it to him. “Lennon, love, would ye ask Kitch to meet me in the war room?”

Alwyn shed his coat, then handled it like it was a dead cat, touching it as little as possible. “I’ll just go see to our tea, then?”

Wickham slapped him on the shoulder. “Aye, my friend. My dear friend. Ye do that.”

I ran to the dining room, where everyone sat waiting for news. They took one look at my face and jumped to their feet, fearing the worst. I shook my head. “No spies,” I said, short of breath. “We think Alwyn’s jackets have been bugged. Kitch? Wickham wants you in the study.”

After a brief but subdued celebration, he and I hurried to the war room. I worried that if some sort of device wasn’t found in the jacket, Wickham would be looking at Alwyn again. Or Meral and Reem, which seemed horrible even to suggest.

Wickham sat at a table. He’d already cut into the white coat. The collar had been sliced open. In one hand, he held a knife. In the other, a small disk the size of a dime. On his face, a happy grin that brought out all his dimples, and maybe a few new ones.

* * *

12:50 pm…

How was it I was the only one aware of the time?

Ten minutes to one. If there was a chance that little pinfeather was capable of transmitting sound, there was an equal chance Griffon Carew would be standing in the street, expecting the chat he’d been promised.

I’d gone to my room two times to brush my teeth and check my makeup, only to end up changing my clothes again. Though the day was warm, I wore a vest and a jacket—just in case I got scooped up into the sky for a ride around the British Isles.

Of course that wouldn’t happen. Of course he wouldn’t be out there. But what if?!

The last time I’d changed, I’d left the money belt on the nightstand, more for the way it made me look than anything. The pinfeather was tucked back inside. I didn’t want to skew the test. If Griffon did show up, it couldn’t be due to me carrying the feather to the edge of the property again.

Of course, I was tempted to do just that, to take advantage of Wickham allowing me out there. But I didn’t want the team to have yet another reason to suspect Griffon—or a good reason to take away the feather…

I stood in the foyer, dancing like I needed to pee and suppressing the urge to holler at Wickham. “He hasn’t forgotten,” I whispered, just as Wickham, Kitch, and Persi marched out of the hallway, coming from the study.

“Nay,” Wickham said, “We havenae forgotten.” Then he smiled. Behind the smile, a buttload of pity.

“I know he won’t be out there,” I said, before he had a chance to. “But we have to be sure, right?”

“Aye. We must be sure.” He gestured toward my waist. “Ye left the feather?”

“I left the feather.”

Ivy came running through the arch, breathing hard. “Oh, good. You didn’t leave without me.” She looked at me and blushed. “I just want a peek,” she said. “I haven’t seen him yet, remember?”

“He’s probably not coming,” I said.

Ivy’s gaze cut to her husband. “So that’s why you’re letting me go.”

Kitch offered me his own brand of pity, tugging on my jeans, jostling me like a teasing brother, bobbing his eyebrows knowingly, like I was sneaking off to meet my boyfriend. “Good luck.”

Persi scowled at both men, then stomped away.

“Dinnae fash,” Wickham called after her. “No doubt we’ll all be back before tea.”

* * *

Since neither Alwynnor his spy-jacket had been present when Wickham invited Griffon to meet us on the road, we weren’t expecting Orion to show up unannounced. I had my silver blade in my boot, just in case.

I watched nervously as the gates slowly opened to reveal an empty road with nothing but wild trees and shrubbery on the other side. This part of town was usually quiet, not bustling with cars like the city center. In Oxford, most people relied on buses and bikes, and few cars ventured out to the west towards the large, isolated estates unless they were headed for the freeway—the M40—that would take them into London.

That day was no exception. The only sound came from a light breeze that chased a bunch of dry leaves across the road. Storm clouds hung low overhead, and there was a zingy flavor to the air that brought to mind spiced apple cider, freshly sharpened pencils, and harvest dances in Wyoming.

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