Ardsley had trained himself to wake up earlier than he really preferred, as several of his tasks as a valet needed to be done before his master woke. That was especially true on this trip as Zoing was not along to take care of the tea-making (the little blue construct could be downright dangerous about defending the tea kettle from interlopers.) As he hadn't slept especially well in the first place, it was easier than usual this morning. They had indeed been given a suite of rooms on the top floor, with some overlooking the ocean, and the main sitting room had the proper accouterments for setting up a breakfast tea. Despite his state of mind the night before (thoroughly muddled, making his normal procedure of memorizing the layout of their floor, gauging how accessible the windows and doors were to potential intruders, noting how many places in his own quarters could be used to conceal weapons and encryption materials, borderline impossible) he had requested that a hot-water urn and the makings of a light breakfast be brought into the sitting room. Gil generally expected at least tea, and while Boris might be paranoid about needing tasters it was sensible to control what went into their food as much as possible.

Plus, he thought, lighting the coals for the hot water and considering his options with the fresh eggs (untampered, still in their shells), he was increasingly convinced the major reason Sparks needed minions was without them, it was entirely possible they'd starve to death from sheer forgetfulness. Once they were in the madness place things like food, water, basic hygiene, and clothing frequently came in distant also-rans to whether or not a common household toast rack had the conductive ability to channel four million volts. They needed their household staff, and not just laboratory minions, or there'd be far more Sparks found naked, cold, and dehydrated, slumped over the latest plans for a device that would turn entire towns to cheese.

Rather than only the one or two per year on the Castle alone.

Unlike the Castle, where Gil had as many broadsheets from cities across the Empire sent to him as was feasible, and there was always a stack of papers his father thought the heir to the whole business should be reading, there was nothing to place on the tray for reading material. Ardsley suspect Boris might have some of those 'important papers' along, but if the disagreeable man didn't feel like informing him or leaving them out, they wouldn't be troubling Gil. Considering the turn the situation had taken, anything that kept Gil from getting annoyed was fine with him. He'd deal with Boris Dolokhov's temper if that was what it took.

The eggs were just done poaching and he had them on the toast and the tray arranged when the door to Gil's room opened. "You know, they could probably have fixed that for you," he said. His voice sounded slightly raspy from sleep, but Ardsley had learned never to make the mistake of thinking a Gil willing to talk to you was anything other than an alert Gil. "Going on the dinner here last night, their kitchen could probably manage eggs and toast."

"I'm certain they could, sir, but much as I'm loathe to agree with Herr Dolokhov, it did seem prudent to control as much of our food ourselves as is feasible." He filled a teacup and added a dash of milk, a little more ostentatiously than was really necessary. "Besides, as I know how you take your tea, training someone else for just a few days seems . . . excessive."

"I suppose it does." Gil sipped the tea and nodded approvingly. "And Boris might worry about everything but that doesn't mean he's wrong."

"An excellent point, sir." Ardsley watched as Gil took a piece of toast and egg and slouched into one of the plush chairs by the fireplace, clearly heedless of crumbs. "So far it doesn't seem as if there's much to worry about, but that can always change."

"And there definitely is something strange going on. Oh, stop standing on ceremony and eat," he added, sounding genuinely annoyed. "At least have some tea. It's not like I don't know you have to eat. I've seen you do it."

"You weren't my employer at the time, sir." He poured himself a cup anyway, as it was easier than arguing. Sitting would still be taking things too far.

It also meant his back was safely turned and he was still adding milk and sugar when Gil asked, "So what sort of plans do you and your Miss La Capere have while you're here?"

The sugar tongs clattered against the bowl and he only just stifled a curse. "Well, sir, I hadn't thought it wise to make any commitments without knowing your plans. I am, after all, responsible to you first–"

"Oh, for God's sake, Wooster." Gil set down his teacup. "I seem to recall in Paris you never having a problem finding time for her."

"That was Paris." And while most of it had indeed been blissful, they'd also nearly been killed, though Gil of course didn't know that. "Here . . . I'm just your valet. She's a countess's goddaughter. It's not as if I'm here as a guest."

"And she was so conscious of social class she 'fainted' on your arm last night," and Gil went so far as to mime the quotes around the word, "and you spent nearly a half-hour helping her recover. Clearly, the lady is utterly horrified by your relative lack of social position."

No one did sarcasm quite like a Wulfenbach.

"Really, Wooster, just because some of us are doomed to have our personal lives dictated to us down to the last detail doesn't mean you should be a martyr just for the sake of it. Believe me, you're not missing out on anything." Gil slouched further down in his chair, contemplating his toast and egg as if it were the source of his misery.

"With respect, sir, you never seemed like the type to lack for female company." Though also in fairness, he'd never observed Gil actually being the rakehell he presented himself as.

"Company's one thing. Someone my father approves of to marry? That's another matter." Gil stared morosely at the toast. "I'm not just Gil Holzfäller any more. My decisions have serious consequences for the Empire. And while there's nothing I can do about that, there's no reason you should make yourself miserable just so I don't feel singled out."

Before Ardsley could think of another excuse, and given Gil's apparent mood they were only getting weaker, there was a knock at the door. In spite of himself he tensed automatically, then forced himself to relax and looked at Gil. "Sir?"

"Well, answer it." Gil smirked in spite of his apparent mood. "Maybe it's your Melisande."

"Sir, really," but he had to admit he half-hoped . . . when he opened the door, however, he found another of their host's liveried servants. The man bowed respectfully, in a sincere way Ardsley had never quite managed himself. "Yes?"

"I beg your pardon," and the servant also neatly managed the line between self-effacing and unctuous. "I apologize for disturbing everyone so early, but I have a message, sir." He indicated the envelope on his perfectly-balanced tray (gold, not silver, though Ardsley imagined it had to be plating. No one was that wealthy.)

"I can take it to Herr Wulfenbach," he started to say, but the servant politely interrupted.

"Excuse me, sir, but the message is for an Ardsley Wooster." His smile didn't waver. "From one of the other guests, Mademoiselle La Capere."

It took all the self-control he had left not to snatch the letter off the tray. Ardsley turned to look at Gil, and nearly jumped out of his skin as he realized his employer had snuck up behind him. Gil could apparently be as stealthy as he wanted-that or Ardsley was losing his touch.

"For me?" he said.

"If you're Ardsley Wooster." The servant held up the tray. "The lady did request I wait for a reply." Ardsley took the envelope and turned away from both of them, not that it would stop Gil looking over his shoulder if he wanted. The servant simply waited, discretely, and pretended to not be interested.

Melisande had written in French, clearly assuming the letter might be opened and read by someone other than him. As such it contained none of the personal or intimate content he craved, but knew was too risky to send. As he skimmed the familiar handwriting, even the perfectly proper, almost primly formal words were enough simply being from her. "She asks, sir, if I might join her for a horseback ride this morning and would I meet her at the stables at eleven o'clock." Automatically he glanced at his watch, despite knowing there was still plenty of time. "If you need me this morning, sir, I'll of course decline, and as she doesn't mention having her godmother along as chaperone I'm not entire certain it would be-"

Gil snatched the letter away with a speed that would have done even Dolokhov's enhanced reflexes proud, and skimmed it even as he was turning to the waiting servant. "Please inform the mademoiselle that Mr. Wooster will be delighted to take her up on her invitation, and will gladly meet her at the stables at the hour she suggests." The man bowed politely, tray tucked under his arm, and departed, presumably to deliver the message.

"Sir, really, I appreciate-"

"Honestly, Wooster, I realize you're trying to be a proper English gentleman's gentleman, but sometimes you take it much too far." Gil, much to Ardsley's relief, handed the letter back. "Now, do I really need your constant attendance here? Yes or no?"

"Well, I suppose no-"

"And did the lady go to the trouble of sending a lovely invitation?"

"Yes, she did, but-"

"And, your relative social statuses and whatever terms you may have parted on in Paris notwithstanding, do you appear to still be quite in the lady's favor?"

"It's really not that simple, sir-"

"Nonsense. It's perfectly simple: she's interested, you're interested, you have an ideal opportunity to get reacquainted, and I'm not letting you waste it simply out of a pathological English need to stand on ceremony!" It wasn't quite a Spark in full voice, but Ardsley'd found that the Wulfenbachs, father or son, didn't seem to have to resort to that kind of coercion often anyway. "Now, are you going or not?"

"With that sort of permission granted, how could I refuse?" In spite of himself, he wanted to laugh. For the future tyrant of Europa, Gil used his powers in interesting ways.

"Good. I'm glad that's settled." Gil went back to his tea, holding up the cup for a refresher. "And if by some chance anyone questions the appropriateness of a 'mere valet' attending on a countess's goddaughter, you inform them that you are the personally-selected First Assistant to Baron Wulfenbach's son, and that is worth any three of their lordlings."

"Yes, sir." He went to get the teapot, glancing surreptitiously at the note like the lovestruck young minion he was supposed to be (and in fact was.) As the sheet of foolscap caught the light, he noticed an odd sheen to the paper between the words.

Realized someone else would likely read it, indeed. That's my professional girl.

Slipping the note into his pocket, he refilled Gil's teacup. "If you don't mind, sir, as I am apparently going riding this morning, it would probably be best if I put on more suitable attire."

"Hm? Oh, yes, probably a good idea." Gil gave him a sly, sideways glance. "Perhaps you ought to make sure there aren't too many buttons and layers. You wouldn't want your Melisande to get frustrated and give up. For that matter, have you suggested she try your English fashions? It's probably warm enough here."

"Sir! Really, I-we're just-I'm not planning-" He hated being reduced to babbling, but sometimes Gil managed anyhow. Considering how, compared to home, continental Europeans layered their clothing as if every day were February in Stockholm, they seemed to feel perfectly at ease teasing about very intimate subjects that were really none of their business.

"Please. I'm not blind, and I certainly wasn't blind in Paris." He grinned. "You two could barely keep your hands off each other. I seem to recall that last week I scarcely saw you, as you and your Melisande wanted to be alone."

Was there a touch of envy in his master's voice? "Well, at the time, we hardly knew when we'd see each other again. If ever. She wasn't precisely happy about that."

"Obviously, she's revised her opinion." Gil smirked over his teacup. "Go ahead. I think if I decide I want more toast, I can manage. Or I'll just ask Boris. He could probably make tea and toast at the same time."

Ardsley shuddered, imagining the look on Dolokhov's face if asked to fix Gil breakfast. Worse, how he'd take it out on the valet who'd been skiving off his duties and caused the indignity. "I do hope that won't be necessary, sir." Still, he took the opportunity and retreated.

As he'd suspected when Dolokhov took charge of assigning rooms, his was . . . less than ideal. At least it would have been less than ideal, having to go through the small butler's pantry, down a narrow hall past one of the rooms Dolokhov had given to the security detail, and into a corner room with two rather small windows, one of which did indeed overlook the sea, while the other opened directly into the branches of an umbrella pine. And while the furnishings were still quite nice by most standards (a carved four-poster with dark green hangings, a dark wood wardrobe, a simple wash stand and a small secretary desk) they weren't nearly as luxurious as some of the others in the suite. Elegant it wasn't, but as privacy suited his purposes, he hadn't complained.

Besides, complaining would only have made Dolokhov happy.

He sat down at the desk and opened his toiletries kit, taking out the canister of tooth powder. Spreading the note from Melisande on the desk, he unscrewed the bottom of the canister and dusted the powder concealed in the lower compartment across the paper, and as he did saw the ghostly silver-black letters come into view between the lines of her conventional message. So, besides passwords and secret signals, Lord M_ was also giving her the standard tool kit. On his last visit home, he'd known she'd done the Service some sort of favor, something involving the late Duke of Devonshire, but she'd implied it was relatively simple, though it had necessitated eliminating the Duke. In defence of herself and others, so she'd said. Apparently he ought to ask for a few more details.

Our suite is two floors below yours, overlooking the garden. Well, that made any private meetings slightly more difficult. When I went into the hall this morning I ran into a footman, who seemed anxious I not wander about unattended. They seem very concerned with keeping guests under observation. I've drawn a map, as much as I've figured out, of where our suites are in relation to each other and to places like the casino floor. I marked areas that seem as if they don't want anyone looking in. We can talk more on our ride, if they let us out of their sight. (And I hope they do, love.)

Below, the invisible ink revealed a quickly-sketched map, and it did appear there would be few chances to casually meet in passing on the way to their rooms (and that was of course for strictly professional purposes.) Clearly she'd had more time to examine the hotel and memorize the layout than he had, given their fashionably-late arrival. There did seem to be an unusual number of marks indicating someone was guarding that area-perhaps not calling themselves a guard, but keeping guests out nonetheless.

Ardsley refolded the letter and placed it in the bottom of his toiletry kit, where no one was likely to be looking. The invisible ink would fade again shortly, but it didn't hurt to be cautious. In case they were snooping he did make sure to leave the top lid of the tooth powder loose and hooked by a thread to the top. He'd know someone was rummaging by the inevitable mess. That done, he went to the wardrobe and tried to think what he'd brought that would be suitable for horseback riding. He hadn't actually packed with the resort's amenities in mind. Or, he thought, as he unbuttoned his waistcoat and noted, yet again, it had far too many fastenings for practicality, and for Melisande.

The Count's stables were, of course, as sumptuously appointed as everyplace else they'd seen so far. There were high windows, covered with gilded metal grate, to allow the fresh breeze off the sea into the stalls, and he could see there was a riding hall at the center of the building with neatly-raked footing and high padded walls to protect the horses and riders both. As Ardsley approached, he saw a rider on a chestnut mare with a bright-white blaze and socks (obviously the Count employed very competent grooms) circling in the hall at a quick, light canter. He realized it was Melisande, and he noted she was riding astride, in rather familiar split skirts. From the nimble way her horse was circling and swapping leads and how still her legs and hands were, the Duchy at least still considered riding the real animal a vital skill for the properly-brought-up.

She saw him standing at the gate and the smile on her face almost made him forget everything other than how good it was to be with her. "Ardsley!" She reined in her horse and trotted her to the gate. "I'm so glad your master let you come." She wore the broad, uncensored smile of a happy young woman who was simply glad to see her beau. Between her teeth she hissed in English, "The groom over there has been watching me the whole time. I told him we won't need an escort but he says, very respectfully of course, he has to see you ride first to be sure of that. Wouldn't want us hurt."

"Naturally they wouldn't." He raised his voice. "So am I. But with the Count's staff, he has very little need for me during the day, as he's not working on any projects while he's here. And I think he's patting himself on the back for his match-making, or making-up enabling, whichever he thinks it is." He managed not to laugh at the thought of how little they needed any help in that department, if Gil only knew it.

Melisande was visibly smothering a laugh, too. "I asked the groom to find you a quiet horse. I know the English don't ride much."

"The Glass City isn't really the ideal environment for horses." How they'd deal with all the waste, never mind where on earth they'd get hay and grain to feed them, were questions beyond even her Majesty's cleverest Spark advisors. "I did learn to ride, though. Apparently not as well as you."

"Everyone in the Duchy rides," and she appeared to catch herself, "well, everyone with land. I used to ride with Cousin Alexei when we were children. He was always trying to come up with ways to improve the experience . . . I'll take a real pony over a mechanical one any day."

Remembering some of the fat, furry, and he half-suspected fire-breathing beasts of the northern Scottish islands, he wasn't necessarily sure he'd agree. "There are worse methods of transportation." He wondered if there was some way to arrange for James to learn, when he was older–knowing Melisande, she'd probably adore those ponies . . . .

"Sir," and the groom used the same soft, respectful tones as the other staff, "at the Mademoiselle's suggestion I took the liberty of saddling this horse for you." He was holding the reins of a tall, rangy bay with a roached mane (less to grab, Ardsley thought uneasily. ) "He's quite gentle, and safe for anyone to ride."

"Thank you." He took the reins, and thought the horse gave him a very skeptical look. "I'm sure we'll be fine."

"The mounting block is over there, sir," and the groom pointed discretely to a small step.

Ardsley felt a somewhat-unreasonable flush of embarrassment. "I can manage, thank you." He probably made a greater fuss than necessary over adjusting the irons and double-checking girth (though partially that was also good sense-never trust any mode of transportation to strangers) before, with only a modicum of scrambling, swinging up into the saddle. After a moment's slightly embarrassing fumbling, he had the reins organized and some sense of control.

Melisande, who had either out of pity or some sense of wifely duty refrained from laughing, reined her mare in beside him. "Ready, dearest?"

"I think so." The horse snorted, and he automatically grabbed for mane that wasn't there. "I think maybe we should keep to a steady walk."

"Just a leisurely stroll." Melisande turned her most appealing smile on the groom. "Thank you. We'll return in an hour or so."

"If you wish, Mademoiselle, I would be happy to ride along as a guide." The groom made it sound like a simple favor, common courtesy to a guest.

She didn't bat an eyelash. "Really, it's an island. I doubt we'll be lost, and we'll stay on the well-marked paths. I'm sure we'll be fine."

"If you wish, Mademoiselle. Please, around the ring so I can be certain Monsieur will not require further assistance."

Ardsley gave the bay a nudge with his heels. The horse flicked an ear back at him and actually slouched, cocking one back foot to rest it. Ardsley grimaced and tapped a bit harder. The horse seemed disinclined to acknowledge his presence. "Perhaps this one was a bit too docile?"

Wifely duty or no, Melisande was clearly struggling not to laugh. "Keep a tight leg, love. And be ready to let him go forward."

"What are you going to–" He didn't have time to finish the question as Melisande leaned over and gave his horse a firm slap on the rump. His mount jumped and plunged forward, and he only just kept his seat as it broke into a short-strided jolting trot. He could hear Melisande laughing and had to admit he probably didn't look as competent as the groom expected from someone who didn't need a chaperone to hold them on the horse. Summoning up everything he could remember, he sat deep, pushing his heels down, and took up the reins tighter. The horse snorted, but came back to a walk and kept moving.

Melisande, without any visible urging, brought her mare alongside. "See? You just need to show him who's in charge." The gelding tossed its head and pinned its ears at her horse, who gave him the evil eye and a flick of her own ears in return. The bay sighed audibly and dropped its head. "There, just like that."

"Of course she's in charge," Ardsley said, "she's a mare."

"Well, lucky for him he's a gelding, then, he doesn't have to worry about impressing her." She smiled over her shoulder, and her smile had a teasing little edge that told him the horse might not have to worry, but that he might think about impressing the mare's rider. He knew that was probably not the wisest idea, but he did wonder if perhaps a little trotting, maybe a little jump over any convenient downed log, might not be entirely out of the question.

Melisande pointed her mare for the open gate, and headed out at a brisk trot. The rhythm of posting at the jarring gait was coming back to him, and he gave the horse a firmer tap with his heels to keep up. The groom looked as if he wanted to protest, but they were out of the riding hall and headed down the drive before they could be saddled with yet another minder.

It went without saying they would put distance between themselves and the buildings before speaking too freely. Still, the stables weren't quite out of sight before Ardsley asked the one question he hadn't had time for last evening. "How's James?"

Her smile answered before she could speak. "Growing like a weed. He looks more and more like you every day, and that's not just a mother's opinion. He's already working on crawling, and I read to him in English, German and Russian." Her smile crumpled just a bit. "Well, I'm sure Aunt Delilah is mostly reading to him in English. Probably textbooks about engines and stories about Miss Thorpe, though she's rather picky about those."

Ardsley chuckled. "Have you met Jack Tarwell, a.k.a. Jolly Jack Tar, yet? Aunt Delilah's rather fond of him–so is Miss Thorpe, come to that–and he doesn't always come off quite realistically. Though now that I've read the Heterodyne books and actually met the Baron, I think Jack ought to count his blessings. It could be much, much worse."

"But the Baron allows them to be published," and Melisande sounded sincerely puzzled. "If he doesn't like them, I would think . . . ."

"That he'd be burning the cities where they're published to the ground as a lesson?" Ardsley shook his head. "They're harmless, and if it means people underestimate him, so much the better as far as he's concerned. Really, I'm not nearly as surprised as I used to be by how reasonable Gil can be, for a Spark, anyway. I suppose it stands to reason–only someone who wasn't as completely out of control as the rest of them could manage to put down all the rogue Sparks in Europa. No one expects an invader to deal with your flame-generating half-sentient moat full of gelatin by just having the Mecha Mole Brigade tunnel under it."

"I suppose that's what really makes him dangerous. And less likely to blow himself up by accident, too." Melisande sounded halfway wistful. "So why is he taking such an indirect route with Count Vercordi?"

"Partially to test Gil." That was the simple part. There was little doubt the Baron was prepping Gil to someday take over what he'd built, and dealing with uppity nobles was a major part of that. "But I think they don't know entirely what's going on here. The invitations certainly make it look like there's something someone acting against the Baron would want–but since the Count isn't a Spark and isn't known to hire them, what?"

Melisande's expression darkened. "There are certainly enough places they don't want visitors wandering . . . I wondered almost if it was a trap for us, those of us invited. Present all the non-Sparks who show an interest in bettering themselves as a trapped gift for the Baron."

"If that's his plan he's going to be badly disappointed." Ardsley eased his horse back to a walk, and Melisande matched him. "No one here is making any sort of trouble that the Baron would even notice. Abducting you all and presenting it as a favor would only annoy him. No, he undoubtedly has something else in mind."

"Bankrupting us all?"

"If you can't be the most powerful despot in Europa, might as well be the richest?" It had a certain logic to it. "Except he has to realize that if he doesn't have this interesting thing he's promised everyone, they aren't going to take it well. So he must have something, at least as a distraction."

"And he definitely doesn't want the surprise spoiled." They were riding towards the north side of the island, where the village was supposed to be. "But I think you're right, he's going to be unpleasantly surprised if he causes some of these guests serious disappointment. I don't think you and I are the only ones here who aren't what we're pretending to be."

"So far, besides your aunt and your lovely self, I am reasonably certain Lady Oyone is actually an intelligence agent for the Emperor. Besides the obvious alias, listening to her speak she's very good at asking clever questions without sounding clever. She got more out of Gil than I would have expected, unless he was letting it on purpose."

"I would guess those hair sticks of hers are tipped with something more serious than lacquer," Melisande agreed, "at least, that's what I would do. Do you think I'd look nice with hair sticks?"

"I prefer your hair down myself." Down, in dark, rich waves, spread out on a pillow or hanging down her bare back . . . . Ardsley realized she was smiling a very knowing smile at him.

It vanished quickly, though. "I was seated near Sir William Franklin for dinner. Interesting conversationalist, but obviously a con artist. An American, honestly." She shook her head. "If you want strange, now, Signore e Signora Valentine."

"Strange?"

"For a start, if he's Italian I'll eat my hat." And she was wearing a rather flattering veiled tricorn riding hat, too. "She's definitely not-if anything my guess is she's Russian. Second, I have the odd feeling they're not here just to play cards and buy whatever the Count's selling. Valentine avoided the dinner last night and from the way his lady neatly avoided straight answers my guess is he was poking around places he shouldn't be. I can't think of any of the city-states who have the resources to run agents these days."

"Not one of your uncle's?"

"Not unless he's not telling Baba Anya about them. Or she's lying to me that she doesn't know them." She turned away a bit, but he still saw the way her smile crumpled. "I'm still not used to having to doubt everything she tells me."

Ardsley felt a sharp stab of guilt, not unlike the night before. Still, considering the circumstances . . . "Do you trust her?"

She looked up sharply, and the automatic denial died unspoken. "Entirely? No. She's better than I am and always has been. But Lord M_ trusted her enough to go along with this scheme, and don't forget he did let me leave."

"He has James as a hostage." Ardsley surprised himself with his sharp tone. "He knows you'll come back if you have a choice. I'm just not certain he was necessarily weighing the risks quite correctly."

"If you mean the situation, well, that's your 'master's' fault for crashing the party," Melisande teased. "If you mean thinking the cooperative mission was a setup . . . well, I'm as guilty as he is. But then I do need something to keep myself occupied. My husband, after all, is constantly away on foreign office business."

"If it makes you feel any better, I have it on good authority your husband would very much like to be at home, coming up with ways to keep your utterly occupied without ever leaving the house." He was rewarded with the sort of look-lowered gaze, smiling up through her lashes-that he knew meant she'd been thinking along exactly the same lines, and he wondered how isolated these woods really were. "Where are we going right now, exactly?"

Melisande looked down the trail they were following as if gauging distance. "The driver who brought us from the docks seemed very determined to make the village sound terribly boring."

"So naturally you planned to have a look at the first opportunity." Exactly what he, or any good agent, would have done.

"Naturally. If I remember the airship approach, we should go this way." The trail that meandered off to the north looked narrower and less-traveled than the main path, which was veering southeast. Melisande, of course, was already turning her mare for the darker path.

Ardsley gave his own mount another nudge with his heels, and the bay grudgingly picked up his pace. As he drew alongside, he leaned towards Melisande and asked in a much lower tone, "You're armed?"

"Just the small pistol, and knives in both boots." Her lips barely moved. "I didn't want to overdo things. You?"

"My drop piece and knife. It's hard to hide weapons on the Castle so I don't have many."

"There's always improvisation," she replied, "and I do know you're good with your hands."

Focus, Ardsley. "Hopefully we're not going to need any of them. Maybe it's just a village, and the Count is just attempting to bilk rich visitors without Sparkish means of taking revenge out of their money, and we can just enjoy an unexpected vacation." He saw the look she was giving him. "Well, it's possible."

"Keep your gun hand free, just in case." Melisande kept riding down the trail towards the village, and Ardsley once again found himself prodding his mount to keep up.

As they reached the first sharp curve in the trail, that took them out of sight of the main path, he heard a faint snap, like a twig cracking, and he turned. There was relatively little underbrush here for someone to hide in, but he could have sworn he saw a shadow vanishing at the corner of his vision. But when he tried to spot the source of the movement, all he saw were trees and a few shorter scrub pines. Melisande had turned in her saddle to look as well, and he saw the same thought he had echoed in her eyes–no matter where they were on this island, they could never assume they were completely alone.