Page 17 of Deven and the Dragon
“It’s certain enough,” Fiora interrupted him. “That’s good magic. Solid magic. My father cast those spells himself. Someone in the house must have gone to town to shop, stopped into a bookstore, mentioned that his master liked books…or something along those lines. It’s a meaningless bit of conversation anyone could offer. And then that stupid council asked around for anything, grasping at straws, and told Deven to pretend to be an avid bibliophile to gain my trust. Although I do have trouble believing his enthusiasm for the library was fake.”
He didn’t want to believe it, more to the point. All those oddly prurient fantasies he’d spun about Deven in his library…to think those were based on a lie would be both disheartening and humiliating.
Andrei sighed, his bony shoulders slumping. “I don’t want to believe anyone in your household could betray you, either. And yes,” he said, holding up a hand to forestall further argument, “you make a fair point. I admit I was so angry at the thought of betrayal by one of our own that I didn’t stop to think it through, but you must grant the possibility. One that I will entertain in the back of my mind without belaboring the point further, for now. But you, my lord, must be doubly on your guard with Deven. Whatever you choose to believe, I am quite sure that he’s willing to lie to gain your favor.”
Fiora felt that it had been a long time since he knew anything for sure. Was that what it meant to grow up and grow older? To slowly lose all certainty, until only the knowledge that one was an old curmudgeon remained? He ought to ask his father in his next letter home. It might make him laugh.
“All right,” he said, rather than discuss it for even an instant longer. The thought of lies and insincerity and cold, calculating greed lying behind Deven’s friendly exterior made him sick to his stomach. “I’ll be careful. Thank you.”
It was a clear dismissal, and for once Andrei heeded it. With a nod, he turned and went back downstairs. Fiora slowly dressed and followed Andrei down, not even looking up once at the stars.
Chapter Eight
Nearly two morefull days passed before Deven could put his plan, such as it was, into action. He had to wait until Lord Fiora was in the tower; he had to wait until Lord Fiora was probably alone, which meant Andrei was out of the way and it wasn’t mealtime, when servants would be attending him; and he had to wait until nightfall, because he instinctively knew Lord Fiora would be even crankier in the daytime than he was at night.
The first day passed quietly, with Deven simply wandering around the castle trying to get a better idea of the servants’ schedule with regard to Lord Fiora’s tower, without making it look like he was paying attention. Andrei seemed to spend most of his time up there, which made Deven suspect that was where Lord Fiora had his study.
By the morning of the second day, though, Deven was getting impatient. The clock was ticking on Peter’s life. He needed to do something, or he was going to go insane.
Maybe Andrei’s theory about his boredom in the castle wasn’t completely wrong, now that Deven thought about it.
Accordingly, Deven slipped away down the hill just after lunchtime, telling Fred, who was dozing at his post by the front door, that he had to run into Ridley to see his aunt and that he wouldn’t be back for dinner. Fred nodded and went back to sleep.
Rather than going to the Jolly Tankard, though, Deven took a fork in the road that led off through hedgerow-bordered meadows to a small farm he knew two miles or so outside of Ridley. The farmer was home, Deven handed over a few coins, and in return he shouldered a large, wriggling bag.
By the time he’d returned to the road, hiked all the way back up the hill, and taken the most roundabout way possible around the side of the castle through the woods, the sun had sunk behind the hills to the west. It was still mercilessly hot, though. Deven set the bag down in the shadow of the kitchen-garden wall and wiped the sweat off his forehead with his sleeve, crouching down to stay out of sight.
He carefully peeked into the bag. Nine sets of bright eyes glared up at him. Clearly the rabbits hadn’t enjoyed the walk any more than he had.
Well, they’d get their supper soon enough. “Don’t look at me like that,” he hissed. “There’s more lettuce than you can shake your tails at right over the wall.” A few disdainful nose-twitches were the only reply.
Deven waited a few more minutes, calculating the timing. His observations yesterday had suggested that Lord Fiora took his dinner around sunset. He was likely eating right then, and Andrei was probably with him, since Deven had absented himself. He’d need to get upstairs and clean up a bit; no point in trying to seduce a finicky aristocrat with a shirt all soaked in sweat and every inch of him streaked with road dust. Also, he had the sinking suspicion some of the damp on his back was rabbit urine, though he was trying very hard not to dwell on it.
Mrs. Pittel would be just sitting down for her nice cup of tea and putting her feet up after supervising the dinner preparations. Poor Mrs. Pittel. Deven had heard her wax poetic about her kitchen garden: its gloriously fluffy lettuces, perfectly shaped carrots, and round, pearl-like cabbages. It was her pride and joy, defended with steely-eyed vigilance against pests of all kinds.
Deven felt like an ass, but he couldn’t help it. The furor she’d raise would be in direct proportion to the perceived injury, and he needed a truly magnificent distraction.
As soon as he thought Lord Fiora and Andrei would have had the chance to get their meal well underway, Deven moved. The gate to the kitchen garden was fastened with a simple latch, so he snaked his arm over the top and lifted it, carefully not making a sound. The gate swung open silently at a slight push. Bless Mrs. Pittel and her insistence on having everything just so, including oiling the hinges of her garden gate.
One by one, he extracted the rabbits from their damp and smelly little prison and pushed them through the gap. He left the gate open a few inches to make the invasion look like an accident, confident that they’d stay where the food was. Snatching up the bag, Deven crab-walked his way around the corner of the wall, standing and running full-speed as soon as he was out of sight of the scullery door.
It would likely take a few minutes before anyone found the rabbits, but Deven still needed to hurry. He stashed the bag in some loose dirt under the plinth of a statue of a bulging-eyed mermaid (and God, what had Baron Marlow’s ancestor been thinking, when he ordered that thing?), since he doubted anyone would voluntarily come near enough to it to notice. Deven made his way through the side door to the drawing room and into the hall, keeping a sharp eye out, but no one was about. All the servants would be eating their own dinner.
He made it to his bedchamber unnoticed, breathing heavily, and twisted the key in the lock.
With both windows open to let him hear when the outcry started, Deven stripped and washed, making sure to remove any trace of rabbit.
He was just straightening a fresh coat when he heard Mrs. Pittel’s screams. “Monsters! You little bastards, I’ll put you all in a stew! Sofia, Irina, come quickly!” And then, the cry Deven had been waiting for: “Andrei! Help!”
Deven slipped out of his room and took a shortcut to Lord Fiora’s tower, a zigging, zagging corridor that included several little flights of steps for no apparent reason. He came to a halt right around the corner from the tower stairs, flattening himself against the wall.
A moment later he heard quick footsteps and angry muttering, and smiled to himself. Andrei exited the tower and disappeared down another corridor, taking the most direct route to the kitchen.
Deven slipped out of hiding and set off up the stairs.
The stairwell itself was narrow and twisting, but doors led off of landings set at regular intervals, with each level having its own room or suite. Deven ignored the first several doors. Lord Fiora would be near the top.
Finally he reached an open door, and he peeked inside. Two place settings were laid on a table in the center of the room, which looked like the study Deven had assumed must be up here: a broad polished desk with a few papers strewn across it, a sideboard with glasses and wine, and some sets of shelves holding ledgers and boxes. By the few scraps of dinner remaining on the plates, he had timed his rabbit release well.
