Into the Dim (Into the Dim, #1)(76)

The harried guards at the door barely gave us a second look. Revelers tumbled out of the packed Great Hall into the entrance portico. Masks—bedecked and feathered, or with beaked noses and grotesque horns—shielded all the partygoers.

“Well met.” A sloppy drunk in yellow hose, purple tunic, ridiculous spangled mask careened over and slapped Collum hard on the back. “God save the King, eh?”

When Collum didn’t answer, the man frowned. Staggering a bit, he peered up at Collum, face hidden beneath a plain cloth mask and cowled hood. “Did you hear me, man? I said God save His Grace our good King Henry.”

I froze, but Bran didn’t bat an eyelash. “God save the King!” he boomed, and plucked the goblet of wine from the man’s hand. He downed the contents, belched loudly, and swiped a hand across his mouth before gesturing dismissively to Collum. “You must forgive my brother, good sir. He is naught but a feeble idiot and cannot speak.”

Collum’s head shot up at that, but the man only guffawed. “Perhaps on Yule Night the king will declare him lord of misrule. Come”—he snatched hold of Collum’s arm and tried to tow him toward the Great Hall—“let us introduce him to the king now. Oh, this will be right good fun.”

A ball of terror rose in my throat. If the king laid eyes on Collum, it was all over. He’d be cast back into that hole and hung. Collum shoved the drunk away. The man tripped over his own feet and stumbled back, affronted.

“Here, now. What’s this?” he thundered, swaying. “Do you know who I am? Why, you bumbling imbecile! I shall have you thrown in chains for laying hands on me!”

My feet felt stuck to the floor. I couldn’t breathe. Phoebe, however, was magnificent. Without missing a beat, she inserted herself under the man’s arm.

“Milord,” she cooed, “surely I am more interesting than some addle-witted fool? Perhaps, if you were to go inside and grab another goblet of wine, we might share it?”

The drunk’s angry snarl was immediately replaced by lust as his gaze dropped from Phoebe’s upturned face to her low-cut bodice.

Collum let out an agitated rumble. The man’s attention wavered, but Phoebe was on it. She rose on tiptoe and planted a kiss right on the creep’s wine-stained mouth. His glassy eyes widened behind the mask.

“Aye.” He draped an arm around my friend’s narrow shoulders. “Right you are, mistress. A cup of spiced wine would go a long way to wet this parched throat.”

Phoebe ducked from under his arm but gave him a hearty smack on the butt. “Away you go. Find us a cozy spot, aye? I’ll be right along.”

Drunkie lolled away, leering.

I gaped at my friend. “Wow. That was amazing.”

Phoebe gave a saucy wink and with an exaggerated sway of her narrow hips, sashayed toward the steps.

Watching her performance, Bran and I exchanged a grin. When his arm brushed against mine, a little thrill ruffled through me. Collum groaned as he followed after his sister.

“Come on, dove,” Bran said, tucking my hand into the crook of his elbow. “Let’s go save your mum.”

Still smiling, feeling lighter than I had in days, I hurried up the steps toward the queen’s chambers.



Eleanor was waiting for us. The moment we presented ourselves, she curtly dismissed her ladies and servants. The high noblewomen of England glared as they filed by in their brilliant courtly best. The servants followed. One, in a plain white wimple, ducked her face as she scurried out the door.

Sister Hectare reclined on a lush divan at the end of the queen’s bed, furs piled on her tiny form. Except for two hectic spots on her protruding cheekbones, her skin was ashen.

She looks worse. So much worse.

The cough confirmed it. Queen Eleanor herself held the linen cloth to her mentor’s mouth. When she drew it away, it was spotted with red.

“She overtaxed herself.” The queen fussed, mopping at the nun’s brow. “I told you the coronation would be too much for you. You are ill and should’ve stayed abed.”

“And miss the moment the crown of England was placed on my sweet girl’s head?” Hectare croaked. “Not likely.”

The queen’s regal manner had morphed the instant her ladies left. Now she just looked like a scared little girl. Her voice verged on panic as she muttered, “Where are Rachel and the apothecary with that tisane? They should have been here long ago.”

“Your Grace.” The words came out squeaky, too high. “Where is my . . . cousin? Where is Lady Babcock?”

Disgust rippled across the queen’s lips. “Sir Babcock, that horrible little cretin, claims his wife too ill to leave her chambers. Even at his queen’s command.” Her thin lips pressed white together. “But worry not, I’ve sent my man to fetch her. She shall be here anon. No one disobeys my order.”

My diaphragm constricted, pressing against my spine. Too ill?

The queen scanned the room. Her gaze lingered on Collum, his face shaded by the cloak. “Who is that man? Why does he hide his face?”

I looked to Phoebe and her cloaked, hooded brother, clustered together near the now-closed door.

“He is with us, Your Grace.” I so hoped that would be explanation enough.

Eleanor stared hard at Collum for a moment as my pulse pounded in my temples. Yes, the queen had agreed to help us, but I wasn’t sure how far that help would extend if she knew Collum was the very thief who’d stolen from her husband.