Spindle Fire (Spindle Fire #1)(17)

As they’re offered seats in Binks’s office, Gil reaches over and squeezes her hand. “Short,” he whispers hurriedly. “A bit of a belly, large nose, ridiculously dressed including a chaperon with a feathered tail trailing down the back of his head . . .”

He stops talking and lets go of her hand as Binks enters the room moments later, closing the door.

“So,” he announces, sitting down almost silently. Isbe imagines he has trained even his chair to wear a poker face, to reveal nothing. “What business do you seek here?”

“We’re here for answers,” Isbe blurts out. “About the sleeping sickness.”

“What help do you think I can give you?” Binks asks stiffly.

Gil is the one who answers. “Faerie magic, sir,” he says. “We thought someone like you might know something about this affliction we’ve been hearing of.”

Binks taps something against his desk. Possibly a large ring. Isbe longs for Aurora, as she has moment after moment, day after day, since leaving the palace—especially at times like these, when her sister would have been by Isbe’s side, slyly tapping everything she was seeing into Isbe’s palm.

“Hmmm,” Binks says at last. “I’m afraid I simply can’t help you.”

Isbe sits forward. “But—”

“However, since you’ve come all this way, may I at least offer some entertainment in the form of a game? I’d invite you to my gaming room, but it’s woefully low on furnishings at the moment.”

“We’re not here to play.” Isbe can barely contain her fury. “My sister, the princess, may die. We need your help.”

Binks taps again. He must be wearing several heavy rings. Isbe begins to realize he is lightly hammering a sort of pattern. “Who did you say you were again?”

She sits taller. “I’m Isabelle of Deluce. Daughter of the late King Henri of Deluce.”

Binks makes some sort of weird gasping, snorting sound. “The bastard girl. Ah, of course. I remember you.” And then, more quietly, as though studying her intently: “Of course. Struck blind as a child. Yes. Yes.”

She feels a tiny whoosh of breeze and a flicker of light and shadow, as if he’s waving his hand in front of her face. She knows that gesture—he’s testing whether she really can’t see him.

“Stop that,” Gilbert says, and Binks sits back again in his seat. “Can you or can you not help us?”

“Help you how?”

“By telling us what faerie might have the strength and motivation to have—”

“So they kept it a secret from you, did they?” Binks says. “Interesting. Perhaps they thought it best. Perhaps they didn’t take it seriously. To be honest, none of us did.”

“Take what seriously? What do you know?” Isbe demands.

“That Violette,” Binks says, seemingly to himself. “I wouldn’t believe she could do it. There’s something else at work here too, I’d wager. I’d wager quite a bit that there’s more to it. What a scandal. What a scandal.”

“Please,” Gil insists. “Tell us what you know. Is there a faerie called Violette we should speak to? Would she know more about the source of the sickness and how to end it?”

“Oh, I doubt that,” Binks spits out. “If you could even secure her attention, which I also doubt. Hmmm. Are you sure I can’t interest you two in a little game? I could make it worth your while, of course. . . .”

“Worth our while how?” Gil’s voice has turned deeply suspicious.

But Isbe senses an opportunity. “We will play one of your games, on the condition that if we win, you will tell us the entire story of Violette and the sleeping sickness—every single word of it. Everything you know.”

“And if you lose, I get a tithe of luck from you. Or better yet,” Binks says, “from you.” He clearly means Gil. “The girl doesn’t quite strike one as lucky, now does she?” he asks with a laugh.

“No,” Isbe says firmly. She can’t let Gil risk his luck for her. “I’ll be the one to play.”

“Absolutely not,” Gil interjects. “The game is between you and me, not Isabelle.”

“Gil,” Isbe hisses. She feels a wave of nausea. Gil’s never been that good with cards. Isbe may not be able to see them, but when she and Aurora partnered against visiting nobles in the past, her incredible memory meant they almost always won.

“Very well, then.” Binks is tapping his desk again. One-two-three-four-then-the-thumb. One-two-three-four-then-the-thumb. One-two-three-four-then-the-thumb. Switch hands. “Fox and geese? Or . . . knucklebox? Hmm. No. Heart of harts. One of my favorite games,” he says, pulling a stack of cards from his desk and shuffling them.

Not heart of harts, Isbe thinks. She’s somewhat familiar with the game: a hellishly complex one that depends on reading the opponent’s facial cues, counting, knowledge of actual hunting strategy, risk management, and sheer random luck of the draw.

Binks deals the cards, and Isbe tries not to hold her breath as he and Gil play round after round, the lord’s servant continuously entering to refill Binks’s goblet of ale. The cards make a satisfying smack as they hit the table—must be a thick, valuable set. Gil is a conservative player, much to Isbe’s relief—in no round does he bid on a stock card, while Binks throws in plenty of coins each round in the hope of increasing the value of his hand.