The farmhouse came into view. Smoke curled from the chimney. Thick snow capped its rooftop, and the morning sun painted its walls in shades of gold.
“Bisch?”
“Yes?”
“The Baroness. What she said about trusting us—” I hesitated. “Does that mean you trust us, too?”
His hands seemed to squeeze the steering wheel a bit tighter as his eyes darted from the road tome. Then, as he pulled the car to a stop in front of the farmhouse, he said, “I trust the Baroness’s judgment. That is enough.”
It wasn’t exactly a ringing endorsement, but from Bisch, it was something.
I got out of the car and walked toward the farmhouse door. Behind me, I heard Bisch lighting a cigarette.
Inside, Thomas was probably still asleep.
I pushed open the door and went to find him.
37
Thomas
Iknew I should’ve slept longer, but despite the drugs the doctor had forced down my throat, I had too much adrenaline coursing through me to rest properly. When I had shut my eyes, my dreams replayed the night before on an endless loop. Some part of my subconscious mind then offered one disastrous version of the Council session after another, doom-filled predictions that claimed all our efforts had been for naught.
So I rose on unsteady legs and made my way back into the living room. The Baroness sat by a roaring fire, snuggled beneath a woolen blanket. Her eyes were fixed on the flames, though I doubted she was actually watching the wood burn. I sat on the end of the couch closest to her, not wanting to be alone as we waited for news.
The radio played Mozart.
According to the CIA woman, it had been playing Mozart for the last hour—a string quartet, delicateand precise, utterly at odds with the tension coiling through the farmhouse. Every few minutes, an announcer would break in with weather reports, traffic updates, and the mundane business of a wintery morning.
And every few minutes, we would all stop breathing, waiting for news that didn’t come.
“They should have announced something by now.” Marcus stood by the window, his burly arms crossed as he watched the road as if expecting trouble. “The Council convened at ten. It’s almost noon.”
“These things take time,” the Baroness said, pulling the blanket up to her chin while somehow maintaining the aura of imperial grace. “We Swiss do not rush important decisions. It is one of our more admirable qualities, would you not agree?”
“It’s also one of your more infuriating ones, if you ask me,” Danny muttered.
“Patience, gentlemen.” The Baroness allowed herself a thin smile. “Swiss sensibility will win the day. It always does.”
Despite her confident tone and the air of command that settled so easily across her shoulders, her eyes still stared blankly at the flickering flames, even as she spoke words meant to inspire. I watched her fingers, watched the way they pressed against each other, white at the knuckles. I caught the way her eyes kept drifting to the radio, thenaway, then back again. Her imperial mask was firmly in place, but beneath it, I knew the Baroness was as terrified as the rest of us.
Will came and sat beside me, close enough that our shoulders touched. He’d returned from his phone call with Manakin a short time ago, his face giving away nothing. When I’d asked what Manakin said, he’d just shaken his head. “I’ll fill you in later. Let’s see how this plays out first.”
Now he was silent. His hands rested on his thighs, fingers tapping an irregular rhythm completely at odds with Mozart’s cadence. I reached over and stilled them with my own hand.
He glanced at me, something grateful flickering in his eyes.
“What if it’s not enough?” Eddie asked. He was the youngest of the American team, barely twenty-five, and he’d been pacing since dawn. “What if they just bury it? What if the Council votes for emergency powers anyway?”
“Then we will find another way,” the Baroness said.
“That’s not good enough,” Eddie said.
“No.” She met his eyes. “It rarely is.”
The Mozart continued.
A minuet now, light and playful.
