“Never.” He grabbed her hand, liking the feel of her palm warm against his, and continued down the winding stairs. At the bottom, they burst out the hidden door and dashed across the snow-covered grounds toward the woods.
“Can’t we go round by the road next time?” Daffy said, untangling her hair from a craggy, broken branch as they paused by the gate. “Out the front door? Down the steps?”
“And be seen? Or be stopped by Hemstead? Never.”
“You’re so busted, Prince Gus.Forget, my eye. You want to escape without him.”
“You read me like a book. Let’s go.” He punched in the security code and escorted Daffy down Centre.
When she slipped on the cold cobblestone, he caught her by the arm, then linked his through to keep her upright. After all, it was the gentlemanly thing to do.
Besides, his old friend was easy to be around. Especially in the Old Hamlet and at Hadsby, which was like living in a pop-up fairytale. The ancient walls of the castle, the rows of quaint shops along cobblestone avenues, ancient street lamps, mentor-friends who spoke in shorthand and mysterious characters who came down out of the mountains. But only when they were called. Would Emmanuel require a pure heart or a drop of blood to accomplish the royal task?
“Do you think we should tell?” Daffy’s words broke through his thoughts. “Even if we get theTitusrepaired. The work should be documented. I pulled the chair’s specifications from the Royal Trust files and there have been fixes over the centuries. There are pictures and notes. It was treated for woodworm in the late 1800s. And it seems there was new upholstery about the same time. Maybe the fabric isn’t so hard to match after all.”
“I’m of the camp what they don’t know won’t hurt them.”
“Don’t you mean won’t hurt us?”
He laughed, but the sound was brittle. “Maybe. I’m willing to take the fall, but I’m not willing for you to be tangled up in my mistake.”
“Too late.” He glanced over at her. “We’re in this together now, aren’t we?”
“I suppose we are.” And he was glad.
The trouble with Daffy was she got under his skin. No, it was something more. She seemed to fit with him. He woke up the past two mornings thinking of her. Not romantically, although he would consider…anyway, it was more as if he needed, wanted, to see her as soon as possible. And then his day would be right and good.
As they turned onto Wells Line, a sharp cracking fired through the chilled air. Daffy stopped and pulled back on his arm.
“What was that?”
“Ice in the channel.” Gus nodded toward the end of the narrow lane. “The blocks floating down from Scandinavia have hit warmer water.”
“Can we see it from up here? By the Canal Street barrier?”
“Too dark. But if we climb the Hand of God during the light, we can see miles of ice.”
“No, thank you, sir. You go and text me pictures. I’ve seen the path leading around the cliff up to the cleft.” She shivered.
“What if I held your hand?”
“As we both careen over the side?” Her eyes widened at the thought. “Very comforting.”
He laughed. “Don’t tell me you’re afraid of heights.”
“I won’t. But I am. I can see it now, you helping me up the path. I slip, panic, grab your arm—and over we go, twisting and screaming, down to the rocks.”
“Would it be so bad? I’d be the new legend—Prince Augustus of Lauchtenland fell to his death from the Northton Cliffs while holding the hand of his true love.” The words came without hesitation. A wild, unanchored confession. A warm flush flowed up his neck to the top of his head. “Ha, ha, um, you know, so to speak.”
He had to say something. Otherwise she’d think he was serious. Or perhaps not. But still. Any chance she didn’t hear him? He stood at least a foot away. But he couldn’t leave “true love” hanging out there, flapping in the unanswered breeze.
Gus leaned to see her face. Her composed expression communicated nothing.
“Let’s not fall off the cliff,” she said, low and sweet. “I don’t want some eight-year-old lass a hundred years from now cry in class when the teacher relays our tragic story. Come on, we’re late.”
When they entered theBelly of the Beast, Ernst came from behind the bar, patting his broad stomach. “Prince. Sit. Sit. Pints.”
“How about hot chocolate instead, Ernst?”
