“And I, especially, do not try to help you chat them up,” Isobelle added. “Unless you need my help, that is.”
“No,” Olivia snapped. “No unless. You stay here until they’re down. We’ll get to the cell and try to locate the key. No heroics, remember?” Olivia sighed, then muttered, “It will be a miracle if this works. I don’t like bringing you two into it.”
“Well, a miracle is required,” Isobelle said. “And anyway, we’re all you’ve got.”
“Rarely have I so sorely felt the lack,” Olivia replied glumly. She was dressed in a simple gray servant’s dress, her hair braided back neatly, and she held a small basket of freshly baked custard tarts.
Gwen was dressed in the simple black clothes she wore beneath her armor, with small patches of mail at her elbows and knees. The trousers clung both alarmingly and delightfully to her legs, and to her... above her legs...
Isobelle had given careful thought to her own outfit. Something dark, to blend in with the shadows, but she might only assist on one jailbreak in her lifetime—she wanted her look to be memorable.
She had settled on a black mourning dress with minimal ruffles. She had left off the underskirts, which interfered with the drape a touch, but meant she was able to move more freely, and as they prepared to descend the stairs, she pulled her black veil down over her face.
“What are you doing?” Olivia whispered, her eyes widening in disbelief.
“I glow in the dark,” Isobelle pointed out, carefully twitching the netting into place. “Behind this, I am one with the shadows.”
Olivia surrendered and lifted the basket of tarts. “I will feed these to the guards,” she whispered. “Once I give the signal, Gwen,you take a look at the lock and search for a key, and Isobelle, you speak to the women. You have two minutes, and then we’re leaving.”
The pair of them followed the maid as she continued down the stairs, halting at her hand signal and letting her walk on alone.
“Who goes?” called a rough male voice.
“Just me again, boys. Anyone for dessert?” Olivia’s singsongy tones paused, and then there was a giggle. “Notthatkind of dessert, Alaric! Cheeky. Look, the cook’s just pulled these out of the oven. Gather round.”
She’d been down here every night for a week, and, like the ravens one of the stableboys trained to join him for breakfast, the guards had learned to arrive promptly for their treat.
There was a short silence as they ate, and Isobelle risked a peek around the corner, spotting Olivia chatting in a low voice with a group of four men in castle guard uniforms. As she watched, one of them stepped back, leaning against the wall with a bewildered expression. Then he looked down in surprise as his knees gave way, and he slithered down until he was seated.
“What—” one of them began, and then went silent.
Gwen grabbed Isobelle by the waist, pulling her back out of sight. The touch of her hands created a flutter of sparks that ran all the way down to Isobelle’s toes, via several interesting stops along the way. Isobelle caught her breath, but forced herself to keep her mind on their mission, and not on how viscerally Gwen’s touch had affected her.
Then Olivia appeared, her basket now almost empty. “They’re out,” she whispered. “They won’t remember anything about tonight, much less the tarts. But none of them have the keys on them. Go on, I’ll keep watch here.”
Silently, Isobelle and Gwen went on. The passages below the castle itself were hewn out of solid rock, and the builders seemed to have gone out of their way to make the place miserable. Jagged edges were waiting to snag the unsuspecting passerby, and drops of something cold and too slimy to be water fell from the ceiling at unpredictable intervals. Their footsteps sounded far too loud, echoing off the walls as they made their way past the first few empty cells, the doorways thrown open like big, black mouths waiting to swallow you up.
Then they found a doorway blocked by a huge metal grate, and Isobelle slowed to a halt, squinting through the bars for a glimpse of anyone inside.
Gwen took a torch from its sconce and handed it to Isobelle. “Hold this,” she murmured. “I need light to work with.”
Isobelle angled it obligingly, and Gwen dropped to a crouch to inspect the lock on the doorway—made of metal, it was well within her wheelhouse. And making new friends was within Isobelle’s, so she began her appointed task.
“Ladies?” she whispered carefully. “Are you in there?”
A form appeared from the shadows—a woman all in black, or else so filthy she might as well have been—shielding her eyes from the flame. “Who the hell are you?” she asked, wise enough to keep to a whisper as well.
“Friends,” Isobelle said simply. “The guards are asleep, for now. Have any of you seen which guard holds the key, or where they keep it?”
“You’ve got to be kidding me,” someone muttered from farther back in the cell. “Rescue finally arrives, and it’s fancy ladies playing at being spies.”
Gwen looked up from her work. “You would be very surprised by what a fancy lady can get done,” she murmured, amusement warming her voice. “There’s steel under all that gilt.”
“Oh, that’s a lovely thing to say,” Isobelle whispered, flushing. “You know, so many people think—”
Gwen cut her off gently by taking hold of her hand and giving it a squeeze that saidlet’s focus on the task at hand, shall we?and Isobelle gave her a squeeze back to convey that she quite understood, but very much appreciated the compliment. Gwen then redirected Isobelle’s hand so the torchlight fell back on the door, which she continued to examine.
“Right,” Isobelle said. “Keys?”
