Page 17 of A Slipper in the Smoke
Pip frowned, silently admonishing himself for his lack of knowledge in that department, and making a mental note to ask Susan to school him in the branches of the royal family tree later. “She was married before?”
Lucia nodded. “To our second cousin, Duke of Ferdinand. Nice chap. Good with kids.”
“What happened?”
“He died. Hunting accident, I think. She cried beautifully at the funeral.” There was a gleam in her eyes that didn’t quite match her words.
“What is it?” Pip prompted.
“Well, she’s something of a black widow, isn’t she? Two husbands dying in their prime.”
“You can’t possibly think she had anything to with—”
“Hmm, maybe not the king, although I’ve heard the rumours, but the first one…”
Pip had heard the rumours too, but he didn’t like to give weight to them. The palace said that the rebellion had killed the king, but he remembered his parents discussing it in hushed voices. Spartan spies, or something, had been discovered in the palace at the same time, and his father couldn’t work out for the life of him why the palace hadn’t reported that.
“Unless Sparta was in league with the rebels,” his mother had responded. “But I can’t see why that would be the case.”
Lucia smiled, shaking her head. “We ought to stop gossiping so. The walls have ears, dear Pip. I would hate to invite a similar accident…”
Pip shivered, remembering once more why they would never have worked even if Lucia had been inclined towards men, and hoping someone suggested something light to pass the rest of the evening with. A game, a dance, a distraction. Something.
The evening wore on; a few guests retired. Mira remained absent, as did General Bestiel—her right hand man—as well as Nero and several of the court officials. That lent less credence to the idea that Mira and Nero were having an affair, but what on earth could they be discussing? Nero’s mother, reigning monarch of Firenze, was in attendance. Surely Mira would go to her for political matters?
Pip tried to forget it, but his mind was still stuck on Lucia’s words, the chill that came with them. He couldn’t dispel them, couldn’t shake it. He was certain he’d never be able to sleep at this rate.
It was getting late. Deciding that a little walk and some quiet would do him good, Pip slipped away from the rest of the party and headed towards the kitchens. He could summon the staff at the ring of a bell, of course, but he fancied the exercise and didn’t want to disturb anyone if they were busy.
A servant turned the corner and barreled into him, spilling the glasses on the tray she was carrying. Pip managed to grab most of them before they fell, covering himself with wine in the process.
“Your Highness!” she shrieked. “I’m so, so sorry—”
“It’s fine, it’s absolutely fine,” he assured her, taking the tray from her grip and placing it on a nearby table. “Although I daresay laundry might be a little annoyed with us—”
“Let me fetch you another jacket, Your Highness—”
“It’s quite all right. You have another job to do. The laundry is right along here, is it not? I’ll save you a journey.”
Tears sprang to the girl’s eyes, and he wondered what reception she usually received for a mishap. She hadn’t even done anything wrong. “If you’re sure—”
“For certain. Please. Do not worry yourself. I shouldn’t really be down here anyway. It was entirely my fault.”
The girl muttered a thanks and dipped back into the kitchen. Pip turned towards the laundry room, stripping off the stained jacket and depositing it in one of the labelled baskets. He looked for something else to wear in the meantime—the wine had gone straight through to his shirt—but couldn’t find anything clean except for a servant’s livery.
Pip pulled it on. It was a good fit.
A part of him was tempted to see if it would get him all the way down the lifts and into the city, but he thought that might be pushing his luck. Still, the uniform offered him a little more freedom than he’d had since his arrival. What would he like to see that he hadn’t been shown?
He’d been shown galleries and gardens, research wings and barracks. He’d been treated to displays of manoeuvres and fine pageantry. He hadn’t seen any real craftsmanship, though, any real beauty.
The workshops.
Pip had always admired the skill of the clockwork creations, in the way others ogled art in a gallery. He had no head for gears, no clue as to their inner workings, but marvelled at them nonetheless.
It couldn’t hurt to take a look, could it? All the workers would have left by now. He’d hardly be disturbing anyone.
It was a quiet rebellion, but he’d take it, setting off before he could think the better of it. He passed a couple of people on his way towards them, but not one of them even looked at him, like the uniform rendered him somehow invisible.
