“No, nothing.” He glanced at Avelyn by the fire.
Jack thumbed in her direction. “What of her?” he whispered. “Is she staying? I thought you told her to stay with Master Flamel.”
“She does what she pleases. There’s little I can do about it.” Which was strictly untrue, and Jack well knew it. Crispin saw the tilt of the boy’s brow and the smirk that didn’t quite bloom on his face as he worked to suppress it.
“Well, good night, sir.” Jack retreated to his pile of straw, where he kicked off his shoes, unbuttoned his cotehardie, and laid it carefully aside. Then he slipped onto the straw, pulling his heavy blanket over himself, and curled, settling.
Crispin sat in his chair and watched Avelyn for a while, her slow stirring of the coals soothing and restful. It occurred to him how good it was having a woman about the place, even though Jack kept his lodgings clean and stocked with food and wine. Still, the feminine silhouette before his hearth was a gentle reminder of his childhood and of the safety and warmth it elicited in his heart. But then, like a bucket of cold water, his chest deadened with the idea that Perenelle Flamel was not at her hearth. The fourth day of her abduction had set, and the uncomfortable sensation of time slipping away was making him wonder if he would fail, if she would never return.
He rose and lightly touched Avelyn’s shoulder. Without alarm, as if she’d sensed him beforehand, she turned her face toward his and offered a warm smile. He couldn’t help but offer one in return. “Avelyn,” he said quietly so as not to awaken Jack, who was already snoring softly in the corner, “shouldn’t you be by your master’s side this night? He must be lonely and in fear.”
She made a drinking motion, and by that he understood her to mean that Flamel had found a way to console himself.
“You’re staying, then?”
Her smile grew and she rose, looking up at him under heavy lids.
“You know you shouldn’t be here.” His hands slid over her shoulders and slowly drew her in. She was warm against him. Her little hands stretched around his back, arms enclosing. “I shouldn’t have let you stay. You have a way of bewitching me. I am not so certain you are not a witch.”
She licked her lips, mouth parted in a wicked smile. He cupped her chin and leaned down, kissing her for a moment before drawing back. “Sweet to the taste,” he murmured. “And moist, like a pomegranate. I think you are a witch.”
She shook her head and slipped her arms free of him, only to twine them about his neck, trying to pull his face down again. But he gently took her wrists and lowered them. He wanted to lose himself in her, in her kisses, in the sweet warmth of her body, but his mind was a whirlwind of thoughts. His smile lagged. “I’m thinking too much of where Perenelle Flamel is tonight.”
She sobered, too, and caressed his cheek in sympathy.
“I wish you could speak, could share your thoughts and insights.” He sat again in his chair and scooted it closer to the fire. He watched the mesmerizing flames for a time as Avelyn knelt beside him, petting his thigh until she laid her head upon it. He lifted his hand and caressed her bright hair in slow, even strokes. “I fear for her,” he whispered. “I have never felt so helpless. I almost poisoned myself, I’ve been perplexed by these clues, and taunted by a madman. I can’t remember feeling so … so useless before.”
Her fingers ran gently up and down his calf. He looked down at her and tapped her shoulder. “I must go. And so should you, back to your master tonight.”
She shook her head and looked pointedly at the bed and then up at him again.
He sighed softly. “Well, do as you will. I might be late.”
She didn’t look back as he rose and donned his cloak.
He glanced at her once more before he left. She was kneeling at the fire again, tending to each glowing coal.
Down the quiet streets of London he crept. Crispin followed the sinewy shadow of a cat down Friday Street, thinking it wise of the lone animal to keep to the walls under the shadow of the eaves.
The cat looked over its shoulder at him once before, with a flick of its tail, it disappeared through a hole in a wattle fence.
Only the rustle of vermin in the dead underbrush at the side of the road and a distant soft hoot of an owl in a tree kept him company. He welcomed the silence. It was familiar, like a comfortable shoe. But it gave him time to think of the knave he was pursuing, to anger at the audacity of his trying to murder Crispin with poison. Cowardly. For only a coward would steal women from the streets and hide behind games instead of facing a man eye to eye. His hand went instinctively to his dagger, where he rubbed the palm of his hand over the well-worn pommel.
He slipped down Old Fish Street and made his way again to the alchemists’ guildhall. The building still stood silent and dark, a turtle that had left its shell behind.
But as his eyes took in the dim street and adjusted to the layered darkness, he noticed a shadow figure silhouetted against the stone and plaster, looking up at the same building. Stepping back out of the faint light from distant cressets, Crispin hugged the wall and watched. The man-for he could see it was a man-ascended the stairs of the silent guildhall, stopped on the porch, and tried the door. When that yielded him nothing, he turned to the closest window and peered inside.
He did not notice a second stealthy figure creep around the corner and come up behind him. Crispin saw a flash of a dagger, and the first man turned in time to halt the descending knife.
Crispin darted out into the street. The man with the dagger looked in his direction, slammed his fist into the face of his victim, and took off. The victim fell, tumbling down the steps.
Crispin paused. Should he go after the assailant? Tend to the victim?
The man on the ground groaned, and it was decided. Crispin knelt at the man’s side, listening with regret as the other’s steps receded into the distance.
He touched a shoulder as the man rolled in the mud. “Fear not. He’s gone. I’m not going to hurt you. Are you well? Can you stand?”
“C–Crispin?”
The incredulous voice came from the shrouding hood. Crispin pushed it back and looked into the bruised face of Henry Bolingbroke.
26
“Henry!” he helped the young man to a sitting position. Henry rubbed his forehead where a goose-egg bump was forming.
“God’s blood and bones!” he swore. “Dammit, that hurts like a sonofabitch. Help me up.”
“Are you certain-”
“Help me up, damn you!”
Crispin took hold of his arm and lifted. Henry suddenly bent double and retched, spitting the bile into the mud.
“I told you so,” said Crispin, unable to resist.
“Just let me stand here a while till the world stops spinning.… Ah, better.”
He turned to Crispin and pushed his hood back fully. Crispin did likewise. “Crispin, thank God you were here. But … why are you here?”
“I should ask the same thing, my lord.”
Henry looked at him, blinked, and shivered. “Your lodgings are near here, are they not? Do you have any of that Lancaster wine left? I could use some.”
“Er … certainly, my lord.”
With an arm slipped through his, Crispin allowed Henry to lean against him as they made their way to the Shambles.
Crispin speculated wildly as they moved in silence. For someone supposed to be in hiding, Henry was certainly turning up quite a bit.
They rounded the corner of the Shambles and hurried along the silent avenue to the sign of the tinker. Crispin helped him up the stairs, though Henry’s strides were surer now. When Crispin opened the door, Avelyn stood by the fire, the poker in her hand.
Jack sleepily raised his head from the pile of straw. His eyes widened when he beheld Crispin and Henry at the door, and he popped up out of his bed, straw flying all around him.