Page 45 of A Swirl of Shadows
No matter the personal cost.
Fitzroy seemed to sense her thoughts. “I don’t think that Grentham would—”
“Never mind Grentham and his impenetrable scheming for now,” said Arianna. “Let us concentrate on the task at hand—which is to find the stolen medallion.”
They moved on and started to circle a massive classical statue of Athena when Fitzroy caught her arm and drew her to a halt.
“Shhhh,” he warned.
Arianna saw a lone lady up ahead. Like them, she was standing in the shadows of a sculpture—this one an imposing fragment of a Doric column—but still it was obvious that she wasn’t dressed for a fancy ball. In fact, she was wearing a rather strange outfit—an oriental caftan made of mulberry and black striped silk and a Cossack-style cap fashioned out of raven-dark crushed velvet. And she was staring down at her hands, as if lost in thought . . .
A sudden flicker of white explained why. The lady was holding a slip of paper.
“It’s Mrs. Schuyler,” whispered Fitzroy.
A booming voice, rumbling with concern, cut through the stillness. “Katya?”
It was Tsar Alexander, realized Arianna.
The staccato sound of footsteps on the marbled floor followed the plaintive call, growing louder and louder . . .
Mrs. Schuyler started in alarm. Looking flustered, she quickly thrust the paper into the burgundy-colored sash wrapped around her middle and hurried away in a rustling of silk.
Arianna held her breath as she saw the note slip free of the fabric and flutter down into a crevasse at the column’s base. She felt her brother stiffen and then shift.
She took hold of his arm as he started forward. “Wait.”
The murmur of voices echoed in the adjoining gallery, then gave way to more steps.
After several minutes of silence, Arianna relaxed her grip. “Let us move, but slowly.”
They crossed to the stone column at a casual pace and made a show of circling it to admire the proportions. At the crevasse, she paused and pretended to snag her skirts. Bending down, she fiddled with the fabric, managing to retrieve the note and fist it in her fingers.
Fitzroy continued to patter on about engineering as they moved away but fell silent as they began to retrace their steps.
“Aren’t you going to read it?” he finally asked.
Arianna looked around and spotted an alcove holding two paintings of voluptuous nudes by Peter Paul Rubens. Quickening her steps, she moved into the space. He followed.
The air thrummed with pent-up tension. The paper sighed as she opened her hand and unfolded the note.
Damnation.
Her brother altered his stance just enough that he, too, could see the writing.
It took them both only a moment to read it.
Be forewarned—time is growing short for you to uphold your end of the bargain and deliver what you promised. Fail us at your own peril.
Fitzroy swore under his breath and expelled a hiss of disappointment as she tucked it into her bodice. “Yet another maddeningly vague clue.”
“We ought to return to the ballroom before our absence stirs any speculations,” she said calmly.
He dutifully offered his arm.
Another turn, and the music was suddenly louder, the pop of champagne and the gaiety of the crowd adding their own reckless melodies to the lilting notes of the violins and cellos.
“Have you any idea what the message means?” asked Fitzroy.
