Into the Dim (Into the Dim, #1)(54)
Alongside the procession, hundreds of mounted soldiers bore blazing torches, lighting the frigid night until the fat snowflakes glowed like bits of fire falling from the sky. Shouts and cheers rang out. The smells of horse and ice and burning pitch. The jangle of bells on tack as people’s cheeks and fingertips froze.
It wasn’t far down the road called the Strand to Westminster that—in this bygone age—still lay a few miles outside the city proper. Based on the sprawling hamlets and great estates we passed, it wouldn’t be long before London outgrew its walls completely, and the great Abbey and Palace became the center of town.
I burrowed deeper under the musty furs. Every exhale turned to a cloud of frozen mist that iced my blood in a world gone cobwebby and cold. In the orange haze, Collum rode beside us on a sway-backed mare. He seemed twitchy and anxious. I’d never seen him nervous before. I did not care for it.
Dismounting, we merged with the crowd as they flowed toward the castle’s entry. Phoebe’s emerald dress—purchased secondhand at market—suited her auburn hair and pale, freckled skin to perfection as she puffed beside me. “Let’s just find Sarah and get the story from her, okay?”
My own gown of rich indigo, embroidered in whorls of scarlet, swept down in a cascade of plush wool. With Phoebe’s needle, the long, belled sleeves, lined with crimson silk, draped to the ground in swooping elegance.
When I’d come down the steps at Mabray House, my hair braided and pinned in place by Alice’s clever fingers, Collum had stared at me for a long moment before mumbling a begrudging “You’ll do.”
The knot on my forehead from my previous tumble pulsated. The freezing wind whipped at the filmy veil as—for the hundredth time—I adjusted the bronze circlet that ringed my scalp like a torture device.
Phoebe glanced over at me. “You all right, then?”
“Peachy.”
People lined up before the torchlit entrance to the Palace of Westminster, dressed in their glittering, courtly best. Butterflies cartwheeled in my gut as we joined the queue of invited guests.
She’s here—I know it. My mother’s here and she’s married.
Phoebe gave me a concerned look as we crossed the scoured cobbles and mounted the steps. “It’ll be okay, Hope. Honestly. We’ll find Sarah, and then . . .”
My eyes never stopped scanning the crowd. Not her. Not her. Not her.
“Oh,” Phoebe said, “so I shagged the groom in the hayloft this afternoon after going to the market. Had to do it. Little ‘lady and the stable boy’ fantasy of mine. I don’t think Doug will mind, do you?”
“That’s nice,” I said absently. Then her words made it through, and I rounded on her. “Wait. What?”
My friend’s eyes crinkled as she exchanged a glance with her brother.
“Paying attention now are we?” Collum said. “We have a mission to complete. Quit whinging about, and get on with the job at hand.”
I wanted to smack him, but he was right. Nodding, I picked up the hem of my skirt and entered the Great Hall, determined to find my mom so we could get the hell out of there.
The long, rectangular hall was decorated for royalty. Trestle tables stretched the length of the room, set with pewter plates. Multitudes of candles glowed from deer-antler chandeliers that were twined with ivy and gold cloth. The astringent essence of evergreen wafted down from swags stretched across the sweeping rafters. Cinnamon-and-clove-scented steam boiled up from vats of mulled ale.
The delicious aromas, layered with the reek of stale sweat and dirty hair, made the place smell like Christmas at a hobo’s house.
Liveried servants passed among the guests with platters of steaming beef and pork. Spiced meatballs floating in tureens of hearty sauce. A savory, fatty smell flooded the air as trays of roasted goose and ornately decorated peacock were presented. At the head of the room, a dais dripped with scarlet and gold silk, waiting for the king and queen.
“We’ll split up,” Collum ordered, eyes scanning the crowd. “Cover more ground that way.”
At our answering nods, Collum’s gaze flicked back and forth between us, before fixing on me. His hazel eyes looked oddly sad as he whispered, “Take care. No matter what happens, get Sarah out, and make sure you’re at the glade on time.”
“What . . . ?” I started, but he pushed off into the crowd without another word. My pulse thrummed as I gave Phoebe a questioning look. She shrugged, frowning, as she moved off.
As each person passed that wasn’t my mother, I grew more frantic. I skimmed the crowd, desperate for the curve of her familiar cheek. The slope of too-broad shoulders beneath colored finery.
“Mistress Hope.”
I turned to find Rachel’s William Lucie looking resplendent in a blazing azure tunic, yellow diamonds stitched at the cuffs and along the hem. “I wish to thank you.”
He took two goblets from a passing servant and offered one to me. “I know what you did for my . . . for Rachel.”
“No,” I said, “you have it wrong. Rachel helped me.”
“I think we both know that’s not true.”
William captured my distracted gaze. “Rachel is . . . my friend, and Eustace Clarkson tried to hurt her. I shall take that up with him in due time. But that’s not why I wanted to speak with you. I came to warn you, Mistress Hope. Warn you that someone’s been making enquiries about you.”