The Alchemist of Souls (Night's Masque, #1)(51)

Item: one treasonous letter from the Spanish.

Item: one initiation into an illegal secret society.

Item: one murder of a skrayling, witness to.

Brushing the soot from his hands, he turned to leave. Should he do as he had vowed and sleep in the side-chamber tonight? Perhaps not. It would only cause more trouble and besides, the skraylings were not so monstrous, in truth. He had seen far more noisome creatures begging on street corners, and they were God's children also.

He suddenly realised he had not had the old nightmare last night, despite the close presence of the ambassador. On the contrary, he had slept better than he had since learning about this job. Perhaps it was relief that the waiting was over. Or perhaps it was just the calm before the storm.

The next day, Coby rose at dawn. Master Naismith might have delegated most of her work to Master Dunfell, but that did not mean she could not keep an eye on the secretary herself. What did he know about the theatre? Sooner or later he would slip up, and then what? Naismith and his men would get the blame, of that she was sure.

First order of the day was to head over to Bankside so she could be at the theatre before anyone else arrived. The actors were usually late to rise, but Dunfell no doubt scorned such idleness. Fortunately Master Naismith had given her a spare key to the back door of the theatre before Dunfell took over, and she had neglected to return it.

Shoes in hand, she crept in stockinged feet down the stairs, hopping over the creaky tread halfway down. On the first floor, snoring came from Master Naismith's bedchamber; the room opposite, where Master Parrish was sleeping with the two apprentices, was silent. At the bottom of the second flight of stairs she paused to put on her shoes. The sound of a brush scraping on hearthstones came from the kitchen, which meant their maidservant was already awake and at work. Coby's stomach grumbled. Perhaps she had better eat breakfast first. With Master Parrish to watch over them, there was much less chance that Philip or Oliver would come downstairs early with the same idea, and no one else was likely to be up at this hour, not even Mistress Naismith.

She wandered into the kitchen, trying to look nonchalant, and took a heel of yesterday's bread from the pantry.

"Morning, Jacob," Betsy murmured, brushing her hands on her apron.

"Uh, morning," Coby replied in her best Philip-surly voice, and sat down at the table.

"You're up early."

"Uh, yeah. Get us some ale, will you?"

The girl bobbed a curtsey, and returned with a tankard and a smile.

"Going to the fair today?" Betsy asked, sliding onto the bench opposite and pushing the tankard towards her.

Coby looked up, noting the girl's intent expression and the mock-coy way she rested her chin on her hand. She cursed under her breath. Sometimes her disguise was far too convincing.

"No." Coby stuffed some bread in her mouth and washed it back with a mouthful of small ale.

"What about tomorrow?"

"I doubt it."

"Sunday?"

"Certainly not. I shall be at church on Sunday, as you should be."

Betsy pouted. "Never mind. Master Philip will take me. If I ask him."

"Philip's going to the fair?"

This was more interesting. They were supposed to be rehearsing for the next three days, thanks to Master Dunfell, who was convinced everyone would forget their lines by next week. She would have to remember to warn Master Parrish to keep an extra-sharp eye on the apprentices.

"Oh yes. He promised me a half-angel to spend all to myself." Betsy sighed. "What colour ribbons should I buy for my hair, do you think?"

"Green," Coby replied without thinking. Betsy's copper hair looked good with green.

"How do you know so much about what women should wear?" Betsy asked, her eyes narrow with curiosity.

"It's my job to," Coby said quickly. "I make up the costumes for the stage, remember?"

The girl's mouth formed an "oh", then a look of guile crossed her features and she looked sidelong at Coby through lowered lashes.

"I wish you would take me, Jacob," she murmured. "You're much nicer than Philip."

Coby was saved by the sound of movement upstairs.

"Got to go," she said, draining the tankard and stuffing the rest of the bread in her pocket. "Tell Master Naismith I've gone to the new theatre, would you?"

After breaking his fast Mal was summoned to the lieutenant's lodgings. He was shown into the same dining parlour where he had met Lodge a few days ago, now bright with morning sunlight. Leland was still at breakfast, leafing through a pile of papers with one hand whilst the other held a spoon that dripped congealing porridge onto the tabletop. Mal stood to attention, hands clasped behind his back, and waited.

"I hear you saved the ambassador's life yesterday," Leland said eventually, frowning at a document he had just picked up.

"Well, yes I suppose–"

"Effingham says you killed the man."

"I didn't intend to, sir," Mal said. "But–"

"No?" Leland put the porridge spoon down and looked up at Mal. "Just mortally wounded him by accident, eh?"

"No, sir. But he would not back off, and I feared for my own life as well as that of the ambassador."

"Hmm. Well don't let it happen again."