by Mackenzi Lee
He seems unmoved. “Is there much of a difference? I have tonics for your feet, and metrical charms my grandmothers can concoct for your ill humor.” He taps his finger at a row of witch bottles on a low shelf, their contents tarlike and frothing.
“Well, I’m not interested. Even if I had coins to spare, they wouldn’t be spent on you and your daft charms.” I start to walk away again before he can say anything more about whatever I’ve got wrong with my head or my feet or my bits, so hasty I sideswipe a cart of oranges behind me, sending a tower of them collapsing in all directions. The cart man starts to shout at me, and I’m so flustered that I immediately forget every word I know in French.
“Sorry,” I say in English. “Sorry. Désolé.” I start scooping oranges off the path before they get stepped on or kicked into the harbor. Two get away from me and plop into the water. I want to sit down where I stand and scream.
One of the oranges rolls down the planking, and a man stops it with the toe of his boot. I’m about to scramble forward and grab it when he reaches down and I catch the flash of a gold signet ring on his finger. The same ring the highwayman was wearing when he and his gang laid siege.
The highwaymen have found us. By some impossible coincidence, we’ve been Dick Turpined and then tracked down. Or perhaps there’s nothing coincidental about it—perhaps Felicity was right and they were looking for us after all. They’ve come for the box.
The man with the gold ring is moving to put the orange back on the cart from the other side, so I scramble out of the way before he can see me and hide in the only place available, which is behind the counter of the apothecary’s stall.
The apothecary doesn’t look down, but his lips pull into a taut smile. “Friends of yours?” he says, and though his eyes are elsewhere, it’s clear he’s addressing me.
“Please, don’t say anything to them,” I hiss.
“Can I help you gentlemen?” he calls. “That’s quite a bruise, sir. How did you come by it?”
“That’s not your concern.” It’s the same voice from the forest, confirmed when the man’s fingers curl over the counter—that ring is unmistakable. He’s leaning over, squinting at the labels on the bottles as the apothecary runs his fingers over them. Don’t look down, I think. Dear God, please don’t look down.
“If I knew the cause, I could better treat it,” the apothecary says. “A bleeding beneath the skin takes a different salve than a slip and fall—”
“I was struck in the head with a fiddle case,” the highwayman snaps, his disdain palpable. “Does that help your diagnosis, mountebank?”
Definitely our assailants, unless there is a rash of tourists using instruments to fend off toby-gills of late.
“Where’d that boy go?” I hear the man with the orange cart shout. My heart’s really sitting on my lungs—it’s getting hard to breathe around it.
“The balm of Gilead, then, applied twice daily, will take down the swelling.” The apothecary almost trips over me as he turns back to the counter. The tin lands a little harder than is natural, but the highwayman must not notice. I hear the chink of coins on the counter, then the men’s boots as they retreat.
The apothecary keeps his face up, but after a moment says to me, “They’ve gone around back toward the city. You’d best go the other way if you’re avoiding them.”
I pull myself up with one hand on the shelves. The bottles tremble against each other. “Thank you.”
The apothecary shrugs. “They look fierce and you look helpless. Do you owe them money?”
“They think I owe them something.” I check to make certain the highwaymen are truly gone—the man with the orange cart has been blessedly distracted by the start of the magic lantern show—then bolt in the other direction, my shoes slapping the damp planking with an empty thwack.
Percy and Felicity are, thank God, right where I left them, still at the table with Percy’s fiddle between them. Somehow Felicity still has a bite of her gibassier left gummed to her thumb and she’s nibbling at it. Percy’s got his head in his hands and is massaging his temples. He doesn’t raise his head, even when I skid up beside them and proclaim, “They found us.”
“Who?” Felicity asks. “Mr. Lockwood?”
“No, the highwaymen. The men who attacked us. They’re here.”
“How do you know it’s them?”
“I saw them. One of them has this ring—I remember it.”
Felicity is already on her feet. “Do you think they’re looking for us?”
“Why else would they be here? You think the group of bandits who attacked us just happen to be strolling through a fair at the same time we are?”
“We need to go, we need to see if Lockwood’s arrived and find where our company is.”
“No, we need to find out if they’re actually after this”—and here I snatch up the puzzle box from where it’s still sitting on the table between them—“and return it so they’ll let us alone.”
“You think we should go looking for the men who were ready to kill us?” Felicity asks. “They’re not going to let us walk away after we give them what they want. We need to get out of here. Percy, are you certain you’re well?”
Percy looks far less well than he did when I left. He keeps squinting, like the light is too bright, and he’s sweating and doesn’t look quite here. I can’t think of another way to describe it. But he stands up, shouldering his fiddle case. “I’m fine. Let’s go.”
“How are we going to find Lockwood?” I ask as we weave through the crowd, Felicity in the lead.
“Do you know where he meant for us to stay?” she asks.
“No, he sent Sinclair.”
“Well, do you know Father’s bank here? We could ask them if they’ve accepted any letters in his name or if Sinclair left word about accommodation.”
“No. Maybe? It’s the Bank of England, I think.”
“You think?”
“Yes, it is. Wait . . . yes.”
“Do you ever listen, Henry, or is everything just sweet nothings in your ear?”
I look up as we round a corner and catch a glimpse of exactly the troop of men we are trying to avoid, down the path ahead of us and coming our way. I grab Felicity’s arm and jerk her backward between two of the tents, nearly tripping myself when my shin catches one of the ropes tying them off. Percy dodges next to me, his fiddle case clutched to his chest. “They’re right there,” I hiss. Felicity peers out from between the tents, then ducks back to my side.
“You’re certain that’s them?”
“I’m certain that one of them is wearing the same ring as the man who attacked us.”
“That’s not a whole lot of certainty, is it?”
“He’s also got the imprint of Percy’s fiddle case carved into his forehead, so how much more would you like?”
Shadows stretch along the pier, preceding their casters, and we all sink back. I try to think small and invisible thoughts, willing them to not look at us, not see us, not turn as they pass. I’d gladly toss the puzzle box at their heads as they go by, but Felicity’s logic makes more sense than mine—they planned to kill us in the forest and I can’t imagine they’d let us go with a Thanks, chums and a pat on the back now. I haven’t yet a plan of what to do beyond don’t get murdered at a seaside fair, but for now, that requires staying out of sight.
The highwaymen file past us, the one with the gold ring in the lead. He’s got his hand over his face, rubbing his temples, but as it drops, I catch a glimpse of his profile and recognition dawns suddenly upon me.
I know him. And he’s most certainly not a highwayman—it’s the Duke of Bourbon.
He starts to turn his head toward us, livid bruise coming into view, and my heart nearly throws itself to its death. But at the same minute, a firework explodes overhead, turning the navy sky bright red. The highwaymen all look up, and Percy, Felicity, and I, seemingly of the same mind on the subject of not getting murdered, duck the rest of the way down the row, then around t
he corner and out of sight.
We stop between two tents, canvas shielding us on all sides from the crowds gathered along the pier. The ground is peppered with stakes wedged into the planks and straining against the ropes strung taut between them. It’s a narrow corridor to walk.
“I know him,” I hiss.
“What?” Felicity replies. She’s got one hand pressed to her chest, breathing hard.
“The man, the highwayman, I saw his face. I know him.”
“Monty,” Percy says from behind me.
I press on. I’m so sure of it and so desperate to finally be useful and right about something that I won’t be interrupted. “It’s the Duke of Bourbon, the French king’s prime minister. I met him at Versailles.”
“Monty.” Percy shifts to my side, his hand brushing my elbow.
“The box came from his apartments.”
“Monty.”
“What is it, Perce?”
“Take this.” He’s trying to press his violin case into my hands.
“Why?”
“Because I think I’m going to faint.”
And then he does.
God bless Percy for the warning, but I’m not as quick on my feet as that. I haven’t got a firm hold on the fiddle case when he collapses, and I sacrifice my grip on it to catch him before he hits the ground. It bounces along the boards, one of the latches popping open with a metallic ping.
Catching him sends me to my knees and we sink down together, my arms under his and his face pressed into my chest. I expect him to be limp as cloth but instead he’s gone rigid. His body’s twisted up and stiff, a contorted sculpture of himself, and it doesn’t look like he’s breathing. The muscles in his chest feel like they’re pulled up too tight to let in any air, and I can hear his teeth squeak as they grind together.
“Percy.” I lay him on the ground and shake him lightly. “Hey, Perce, come on, wake up.” I don’t know why I’m talking to him. It feels like the only thing I can do. His back arches, veins in his neck straining against his skin, and I think maybe he’s coming around, but then he starts to shake. Not just shake—convulse, frightening and out of control. His limbs look like they’re trying to pull away from his body, head kicking at the planking.
And I don’t know what do. I’ve never felt so stupid and helpless and afraid in my life. Do something, I think, because my best friend is writhing on the ground, in obvious pain, but I am absolutely stuck. I can’t think of a thing to do to help him. I can’t even move.
Suddenly Felicity is kneeling beside me. “Get out of the way,” she snaps, and I come back to myself enough to follow orders. She takes my place, grabbing two fistfuls of Percy’s coat and hauling him onto his side so there’s less chance of him slamming into one of the tent stakes as he convulses. “Percy,” she says, leaning over him. “Percy, can you hear me?” He doesn’t respond—I’m not sure if he’d be able to even if he heard. Felicity puts one hand on his shoulder, like she’s keeping him steady on his side, and kicks the fiddle case out of his way. Then she sits back and does nothing but hold him in that place.
“What are you doing?” I cry. I’ve got my hands pressed to either side of my face—a farcical gesture of horror. “We’ve got to help him!”
“There’s nothing to be done,” she replies, and she sounds so calm it feeds my panic.
“He needs help!”
“It should be over in a minute. We have to wait.”
“You can’t—”
I start to crawl forward without any plan of what I’m about to do, but Felicity whips around and skewers me with a glare. “Unless you know what you’re talking about, please stay out of the way and keep quiet.”
I can’t watch it. I can’t watch Felicity being so calm and Percy’s body wrenching and distorted, and me sitting on the ground feeling so goddamn helpless.
It seems like it lasts forever, as though we’ve spent days here, waiting, spectators to what I’m certain is Percy dying slowly in intense agony. His breathing sounds labored and gravelly, and his lips are tinged faintly blue. When Felicity tips him farther on his side, spittle pinked with blood froths at the corner of his mouth. “He’s coming out of it,” she says quietly. She has one hand hovering near the back of his head, as a cushion between his arched neck and the iron tent stakes.
Percy’s body gives a final pull, knees coiling up to his chest; then he vomits. Felicity keeps a good hold on him so that when his muscles loosen, he stays on his side. His eyes are still closed.
Wake up, Perce, I think. Come on, wake up and be alive and be all right. Please be all right.
“We need to get him somewhere close by,” Felicity says, brushing his hair away from where it’s stuck to his lips with a soft touch. That’s either too subtle or I’m not thinking straight, because she looks over at me and snaps, “If you want to help, now would be the time for that.”
I stagger to my feet, so shaky I nearly keel straight back over, and stumble down the path between the tents. I don’t know where to go—there’s nothing nearby but the fair stands, and the highwaymen are probably still prowling, searching for us.
I look down into the slat of sea visible between the planks, just as an orange bobs past, its rind slick and glittering with beads of seawater.
I sprint back the way I went before, shouldering through the crowds all stopped and staring up at the fireworks, until I find the apothecary’s stand again. He’s stepped out from under its awning and is watching the show too, but he turns when he sees me coming. “You return.”
“My friend needs help,” I blurt.
“I’m sorry to hear that.”
“Can you help him?”
“In what way?”
“You’re a doctor.”
“I’m an apothecary.”
“But you know . . . You can . . .” I’m so winded I can hardly get words out. My chest feels corked. “Please, I don’t know what’s wrong with him!”
The apothecary is sizing me up, all the mirth gone from his face. “I think you’re trouble.”
“We’re not trouble, we’re in trouble,” I say. “We’re travelers and we’ve nowhere to go and he needs help and . . . Please, he’s had some kind of fit and he was shaking and he won’t wake and I don’t know what’s wrong. Please.”
My voice gets properly pitchy on that last bit, which must make me sound sufficiently pathetic, or at least sincere, for he takes me by the elbow and says, “Show me where he is.”
I nearly throw my arms around him for that.
I want to run, but the apothecary seems insistent on a brisk walk and I’m forced to match it or else lose him in the crowd. As we clamber through the people with their faces turned to the sky, he asks me to recount what happened, and I give him a tongue-tied version that brings the panic in me back up to a boil. I’m such a wreck I can hardly remember where I’ve come from. All the tents look the same. I’m about to tell him I’m afraid I won’t be able to find Percy and Felicity again when I spot her silhouette, black against the brackish canvas. “Here,” I say, and I lead him between the tents. Another firework pops over our heads.
Percy’s still insensible, but he’s starting to stir. Felicity’s kneeling over him, one of his hands in hers, speaking to him though he doesn’t seem to hear. A watery ribbon of blood and spittle slips from the corner of his mouth and down his cheek. Felicity pulls her sleeve over her thumb and wipes it away. She looks up as we approach, casting a wary eye at the stranger.
“He’s an apothecary,” I explain. “He can help.”
The apothecary doesn’t say a word to Felicity as she shuffles out of his way and he adopts her place, taking Percy’s face in his hands and peering at it, then checking his pulse, then his eyes and inside his mouth. He too swipes his thumb at the blood.
“He’s bleeding,” I murmur, not realizing I’ve spoken aloud until Felicity replies, “He bit his tongue, that’s all.”
The apothecary takes a waxed envelope of smelling salts from the pocket of h
is coat and slips his finger under the flap, all the while speaking to Percy in a language I don’t recognize. His voice is very gentle. “Obre els ulls. Has passat una nit difícil, veritat? Em pots mirar? Mira’m. Look at me.”
Percy opens his eyes, and I let go a sigh of relief, even though it seems to take him a tremendous effort. His gaze is a long way off from us.
“Molt bé, molt bé,” the apothecary murmurs. “Do you know where you are?” Percy blinks twice, slowly, then his eyes slide closed again and his head tips sideways. The apothecary catches it before his face smacks the ground. “He needs rest.”
“We’ve nowhere to go,” Felicity replies.
“I have a boat moored in the canal where you may bring him. I’ll see what more can be done for him there.”
I nod, waiting for someone to do something useful, until Felicity snaps at me, “He’s not going to walk it off, Monty. You have to carry him.”
“Oh. Right.” The apothecary slides out of the way, and I hoist Percy over my shoulder. My feet stumble for purchase on the ground and I almost fall, but Felicity pushes me straight, and we follow the apothecary between the tents.
Beyond the pier, our guide leads us, sure-footed, down a thin, sandy path past the sailing ships and along the riverbank, until we reach a tar-caked dock where a fleet of brightly painted canal boats are moored, neat as harpsichord keys. My arms are starting to shake. My whole body feels like it’s shaking, inside and out.
The apothecary jumps aboard one of the boats, taking up a lantern from the prow before he grabs me by the arm and hauls me after him. Felicity follows with a light step.
The canal boat has a narrow deck with a covered cabin in the center, and I follow him into it. It’s a trick maneuvering both Percy and I through the small door without knocking either of us out cold, and once we’re inside, my head nearly brushes the ceiling. The apothecary leads me to a built-in box bed covered in pieced quilts and a handful of thin pillows. Hanging earthenware lanterns decorate the walls in diamond shards of light that bob and sway as the boat bounces in the water. “Here.” The apothecary pulls back the blankets on the bed, and I ease Percy down onto it.
