I pushed the tear away with the back of my hand and whispered, “I think House Orange might know what happened to my brother.”
“Oscar, darling,” Elwa chirped as she ducked by him and into the room. “Don’t worry an inch. I’ll have Matilda ready to go in just a shake. Your face is splotchy, darling,” she said to me. “No need to get worked up about a little trip overseas.”
“I’m sure that’s it,” I said. “All the excitement.” I sniffed and wiped at my face again, making sure there were no more tears to betray me. “Don’t mind me.”
Elwa had already powered her way across the room and was muttering to herself in the bedroom as she unlatched suitcases and began piling in clothing.
“Well, then,” Oscar said, everything about him seeming calm and upbeat, but sharpened somehow. “I’ll leave you in Elwa’s capable hands.” He reached over and took my hand for just a second, and nodded.
He had heard me. I knew he was going to make sure Abraham was okay. Maybe even find out that Quinten was trapped at House Orange.
It wasn’t much, but it might be enough to tip the scales in our favor.
“I will see you at the gathering, Matilda Case.” He squeezed my hand gently, then walked away.
“What happens if Abraham doesn’t arrive at the gathering in time?” I asked Elwa.
“It would be scandal.Scandal.” She chuckled. “But we would recover. If we made a showing with no galvanized presence, that would be a much harder hit to our House reputation. I am certain Abraham will be there. And even if he is not, you will be. So. Worry not, darling. You may even find the event filled with excitement and delight.”
Delight was pretty much the opposite of what I was feeling, but I put on a smile for the cameras, hefted one of the bags, and then followed Elwa to the car.
30
HOUSE ORANGE
Robert Twelfth woke in a body filled with searing pain. Every breath stabbed and caught, every movement crippled. It was such a strange experience, after all the years of being galvanized, that he had thought it was a dream.
But now he knew it was no dream. He was dying. No longer in his own body. Trapped in the failing body of Slater Orange. Barely strong enough to speak.
Robert was strong enough to know that as long as he was in this body, he was the head of House Orange. And his commands would be obeyed.
So he had commanded Abraham Seventh to be brought before him.
And now, finally, his old friend had arrived, walking into the room where he sat in the austere but expensive bed, breathing his last breaths.
“You summoned me, Slater Orange?” Abraham asked, crossing the room with the confidence that had led men into battle and eventually into peace.
“Bram,” Robert said. “It’s good to see you, my friend.”
Abraham paused midstep. He tipped his head down and gave him a long, considering gaze.
“I do not think we have ever been friends, Your Excellency,” he said evenly.
“Not Slater,” Robert wheezed. “I am not Slater.”
Abraham walked closer and stood beside the bed.
“He’s dying, Bram. This body. I’m dying. He traded, he took . . .” Robert inhaled too quickly, desperate to get all the words out, to let Abraham know what kind of danger he was in.
Every muscle in his body cramped and he coughed weakly, unable to get enough air into his lungs to do anything more.
Abraham waited, his expression unreadable.
The coughing eased, leaving Robert light-headed and exhausted. “Water, please,” he whispered.
Abraham poured water from a crystal decanter by the bedside, and then offered the glass to Robert. He had thoughtfully filled the glass only half-full, so it wouldn’t be too heavy for him to lift, and Robert took a sip, amazed at the smooth, cool edge of the glass against his fevered lips. He closed his eyes to savor the cold wash of water down his throat, as it spread across the inside of his chest like a soothing wing of shade.
“Would you like me to call your medical care?” Abraham asked.
