The Alchemist of Souls (Night's Masque, #1)(70)

"I – There were rehearsals."

"Yes, all day. Everyone went home for supper this evening."

"I don't remember," he groaned.

"You don't remember going home?"

"No. Where am I?"

Coby sighed. Perhaps she had hit him too hard after all, and knocked his wits awry.

"At the Mirror. Why were you stealing our manuscript?"

He looked up at her with unfocused eyes.

"You're that Dutch boy who works for Naismith. What are you doing in my house, and why am I tied up?"

"You are at the theatre," Coby said through gritted teeth.

"Am I?" He looked around, puzzled. "What am I doing here?"

"That's what we'd all like to know," she sighed.

It was useless; she would not get any sense out of the man tonight. Picking up an armful of cushions she went out onto the balcony and closed the doors behind her. The rain had cleared the sky, and stars twinkled in the cloudless black. She lay down, pulled the cloak over her head to muffle the sound of her captive's shouts for help, and prayed for dawn.

CHAPTER XVIII

Mal woke slowly, stiff with cold. The brazier had gone out in the night, and his back was no longer numb from the skrayling salve. He rolled onto his side. Needles of sunlight pierced the seams of the tent, threading the gloomy space with lines of sparkling dust. The blue silk panels on the tent walls glowed softly.

He rubbed his eyes. Kiiren sat behind the brazier, watching him with those catlike amber eyes. Had he been sitting there all night?

"Good morrow, Catlyn-tuur," Kiiren said. "You sleep well?"

"Tolerably," Mal replied, grimacing. He shifted into an upright position. "I have to go to church today. I could be fined if I don't."

"Of course you go," the skrayling replied. "You must spend time with your people."

Mal needed no further prompting; he thanked Kiiren and left for Southwark as soon as his own clothes were returned. His shirt was in a sorry state, so he gladly accepted Kiiren's offer of a plain linen tunic in its place. It felt a little odd, wearing it under his doublet, but hopefully no one would notice.

He attended service at his parish church of St Mary Overie, hoping to see Ned there, but oddly there was no sign of his friend amongst the congregation. He thought to ask Mistress Faulkner, but she was with a gentleman friend whom Mal had never seen before. Well, good for her; a poor widow deserved companionship in her old age.

After the service he went straight to Bethlem Hospital. Sandy was in much better health than he had been two months ago, though still rather thin and unkempt. As the weather was so hot today, indeed too humid to be cooped up indoors, the nonviolent patients had been allowed out into the courtyard, to see the sky and feel the sun on their faces. Sandy, however, remained in his cell.

"I would like the keys to my brother's shackles," Mal told Mistress Cooke.

"Oh, I can't do that, sir. Master Cooke says the bad cases ain't to be let out, no matter what."

"I will take responsibility for my brother."

The matron shook her head, her chins wobbling. "I'm sorry, sir."

"I would reward you for your pains," Mal said, taking out his purse. "Let us say, an extra week's fees?"

The woman's eyes lit up at the gleam of silver.

"Just for an hour, mind," she said, tucking the coins into her soft, freckled bosom. It would be a bold thief who dipped for that.

Mal took Sandy out into the courtyard and sat him on the bench under a great linden tree. His lute was left behind at the Tower, alas, but a few pence procured the loan of a draughts board from the warder.

When Mal returned to the bench, Sandy had something cupped in his hands and was examining it closely.

"What have you there?" Mal asked, sitting down next to his twin.

Sandy held up his hands. Perched on one palm was an enormous hawkmoth with dusky pink-and-black wings. The moth's feathery antennae quivered.

"Very fine. Perhaps you should let it be about its business, though. Whatever that might be."

He set out the board and pieces and let Sandy make the first move.

"They are treating you well?" Mal asked. He prodded a counter forwards.

Sandy shrugged. A lock of dark hair fell over his face, and he pushed it back absentmindedly – a painfully familiar gesture.

"I'm sorry I didn't visit last week," Mal said. "I have a new job, and there was much to do in preparation."

"You didn't come yesterday either," Sandy said, hopping his piece across several squares.

Mal stared at him. "You know about that?"

"I heard the girl telling someone, out in the hall. He sounded angry."

"Probably one of Leland's men." Mal did not voice his real concern, that it could have been another assassin. Had his plan inadvertently thwarted a second attack? "I'm sorry about that. I was supposed to come here with some other people, but I thought they would rather go to the fair instead."

Sandy nodded. "I would rather go to the fair than come here."

"I did bring you something," Mal said. He produced the Bartholomew Baby, retrieved from his knapsack after the hasty retreat from the Tower. It had broken in half and some of the gilt had rubbed off, but Sandy's face lit up when he saw it. Taking it from Mal he glanced around the courtyard, broke off a piece of the lady's gown and stowed the rest of the gingerbread doll inside his shirt.