One for All, page 29
A BLUR OF colors. Multiple sets of hands on mine, lifting me, carrying me, helping me. And then everything was still.
Portia’s bedroom. Théa knelt in front of the chair I was in. Aria rested against the window frame. Portia, arms akimbo and a familiar, steely determination in her face, let her eyes travel from Aria, to me, then back to Aria. “Well,” she said finally, “what is this I hear about a masked thief?”
“I should have told you—”
“We should have told you,” Aria said, cutting me off. “We share the blame.”
“Oh, so you kissed Monsieur Verdon, too, then?” Portia asked archly. An uncharacteristic stammer escaped Aria’s lips before Portia shook her head and turned to me. “Well?”
Once I started speaking, it was impossible to stop. Even if I could, I wouldn’t want to—after everything that happened, after how strong they’d made me, they deserved the truth. We were sisters in arms. The four Musketeers. No more secrets.
Portia and Théa remained silent for the most part, interjecting every so often with a question—Théa’s questions accompanied by animated shock or horror at appropriate moments. She also valiantly defended Henri when Aria voiced her suspicions of him being the masked thief. “How could you say such a thing? After everything he’s done for the Order? You’re wrong; I know you’re wrong!” Her small face contorted under her corkscrew curls, freckles brandishing themselves like weapons.
But all Aria responded with was, “I don’t trust him.”
“We still haven’t heard about Verdon,” Portia said as Théa sucked in another breath. Aria looked to Portia with a tentative smile. Portia’s eyes widened, and she turned away. “By all means, argue with Aria later. I want to get caught up before something else exciting happens we’re not privy to.”
Théa huffed but didn’t complain as the subject moved on to Verdon, as I unraveled the tale’s thread as best I could. When I arrived at my evisceration in Madame de Treville’s study, Théa frowned. “But how did she find out?”
The answer stalled between my teeth. But Aria squared her shoulders. “I told her.”
“I don’t believe it,” Portia said. “No, wait, I can believe it; it’s just like you to jump to conclusions.”
“I didn’t have an option. I have to jump to conclusions.”
“What a ludicrous thing to say,” Portia retorted.
“As a Musketeer, I lose no matter what,” Aria said. “Protect the King: let the monarchy flourish. Let La Cour continue to struggle. Don’t protect the King: be responsible for the nobles blaming La Cour and hanging the ‘traitors.’ And then the deaths that would follow in the power vacuum. I might not agree with Madame de Treville on most things, but she’s right about that. About who will be the first people to die when nobles decide they want more power. The fan maker, Tania’s father, the blood on the King’s mirror … either way, I betray what I care about.” Her breaths tightened; she looked like she might cry. “But my father’s face when Madame de Treville came to him with the offer … he was so proud. He will never let me repay him. But I can give him this. A daughter in the Musketeers…” She wiped her tears, cleared her throat; Théa had looked very confused during the last part of Aria’s speech but now seemed distracted by her display of emotion, such a rarity. “So I picked the choice with the fewest immediate casualties,” Aria finished.
“It’s not just about those things, though,” Portia said emphatically. “Tania isn’t some casualty. You’ve forgotten there’s a third thing to fight for. The most important.”
“What?”
“Us,” I answered for Portia. “That’s who we fight for. Us.”
Silence stretched paper-thin. Théa glanced at me in discomfort. Aria looked at Portia like Portia had run her through the heart.
“Maybe … maybe you’re right,” Aria said finally.
“What was that?” Portia’s eyebrows nearly reached her hairline.
“I should’ve let Tania explain first.”
“Your inability to trust anyone nearly resulted in her being thrown out of the Order,” Portia retorted. “What kind of Musketeer does that to a sister in arms? We never let each other fall.”
“Even when one of us falls for her target?” I whispered.
Portia snorted. Her gaze was forgiving, though. “Especially then. I wish you’d come to us … we could have helped.”
“What could you have done?”
“I don’t know,” Portia answered truthfully. “I can’t say I’ve ever thought about what I’d do in these kind of circumstances—I’ve never been attracted to a target, not even the reasonably polite and handsome ones. Even thinking about those men in that way…” She shuddered.
“Although Portia might not be able to imagine herself in your place,” Théa said, taking over, “she would’ve helped you. I would’ve, too—I mean, I don’t know how, but I would’ve tried my very best!”
“Tania knows what I meant,” Portia grumbled. “So, Verdon,” she said. “You love him?”
The question hit me like the flat of a blade, and I blinked as I struggled for words. “I don’t know—I’m not exactly sure what that’s supposed to feel like. I have feelings for him, I do, but I’m not sure how to explain them.”
“Can I ask a question?” After I nodded, Théa continued. “What did it feel like? You know … the kiss? Was it like the stories?”
“I thought it was,” I said. “At least, when it happened, I thought it was.” I chewed at my lip.
“He’s seen me dizzy before. He’s helped me before: That’s why we were outside in the first place. He knew how to help me. He’s thoughtful, attentive. He knew I wasn’t feeling well. And yet, that’s when he chose to kiss me—and when we kissed, it’s not like I could have pushed him away and risked him never speaking to me again, never telling me the information we need to know. And I don’t know how I feel about that. Because I care for him, I do—”
“Did he try anything untoward? If he forced you I’ll—” Portia started.
“No, Portia,” Théa said firmly as she looked at me. “Tania,” she said, more softly this time, “it’s okay to not know how to feel.”
“Why don’t we—”
“It’s fine; I’ll be all right. Truly,” Théa said, cutting off Portia’s worried interjection. “Well, maybe fine isn’t the right word, no.” She stopped herself. Took a breath, her expression settling in surety. “But you don’t have to protect me from this, Portia, I won’t fall apart if we talk about these things. I want to be able to help Tania like you helped me.”
Portia stood and smoothed her skirts, but not before she grabbed ahold of Théa’s hand, squeezed it, and helped her to her feet. “Right, then. We trust each other, from here on out, with everything. No more secrets?”
“No more secrets,” we all repeated. Portia was too caught up in worrying over her hair to notice how pained Aria’s whisper was. How her eyes followed Portia collapsing into the seat before her vanity and yanking a strand of hair away from her forehead.
Théa retreated to the full-length mirror to check her recently mended hemline. Aria leaned against a bedpost, arms folded. And Portia stabbed hairpins through her locks. Sighed loudly each time.
“Is something the matter?” Aria asked finally.
Portia met Aria’s eyes and blushed. “I haven’t gotten a full night of sleep in weeks. And it’s showing. Dieu, I hate winter.” She gestured to her face.
“What are you pointing at?” Aria asked.
“Well, you know … it’s all well and good having these”—she reached into the dip of her bodice to adjust her breasts—“for distracting targets, but my lips are dull, even with rouge. And I think this puffiness may very well be permanent.” She touched the skin below her lash line and winced. “Alas, my bright youthful beauty might never recover, but at least I sacrificed it in service of a good cause.”
“Don’t be ridiculous,” Aria said.
Portia spluttered as she twisted to see Aria: blistering, indignant. “That’s easy for you to say,” she finally choked out. “Look at you!”
“Would you listen to me for once?” Aria shouted. “You’re beautiful. Always have been. Always will be.”
Portia flushed. “I don’t think you’re—”
“Well, I do think!” Before there was time to blink, Aria strode to the vanity chair, pulled Portia to her feet. There was a beat. And then: Portia’s arms around Aria’s waist, Aria’s hands in Portia’s just-fixed hair, kissing each other like they’d been waiting to for months.
“What was that new design you wanted to show me in the other room?” I asked Théa.
“Design?” Théa squeaked. “What des—oh yes, that design!”
We exited quickly; Théa gaping back over her shoulder, giving me her arm for support when I stood. She finally unleashed a slew of words at the end of the hall: “I had no idea! Did you have any idea? They’re always arguing, and I thought they didn’t even like each other, but people who don’t like each other don’t do that!” Her eyes were as wide as supper plates.
“No,” I said with a laugh. “I suppose they don’t.”
Théa fidgeted. “Oh. I’ve gone and ruined things, haven’t I—I didn’t mean to bring up the whole—that is, we already talked about it and you shouldn’t have to explain yourself over and over—”
“I’ll be okay.”
“Tania,” she said, very serious all of a sudden. “You should know that we would’ve never let Madame de Treville turn you away, no matter what you did. We are Musketeers, and we’ll stumble at some point, but we’ll always find our way back to each other.”
A bang reverberated around the room, like the sound of many doors opening and closing all at once, combining together to make one thunderous crash. The noise reverberated in my throat, my ribs.
“Everyone! Come quickly!” Henri.
I looked at Théa in horror. We had talked through the evening; it had to be nearly midnight. Why would he be calling for us now? Unless …
Théa flew to the rack on the far wall. I hurried after her and took two swords, including my own, from her extended hands.
We met the others in the hall. “What on earth was that?” Portia asked.
“Henri called for us,” I explained.
“We didn’t hear anything but the crash,” said Aria as she gratefully accepted a sword from Théa.
“Your fault for being so distracting,” Portia countered as she took the remaining sword.
“Please! Hurry!” There was Henri again.
Aria headed to the adjacent door. “I’ll help Tania with the pulley.”
“But if we’re being attacked, if the trade ring has sent soldiers or spies or assassins or even worse, you’re a better duelist than me,” Théa insisted.
“Something worse than soldiers, spies, and assassins?” Portia said. “I certainly hope not. What’s left … dragons?”
Théa threw a frustrated scream back at Portia as we raced through the door, her fingers locked round my arm. I arranged myself in the seat. She lowered me down as usual. “Faster!” I shouted up to her.
The next moment, I was plummeting. I scrunched my eyes shut, heart near my throat. It wasn’t an honorable death, but at least it’d be over quickly. At the very last second, the pulley tugged sharp at my waist. I stopped a few feet from the ground. Everything was pounding, crashing, tumbling.
“Sorry!” she yelled.
“The second time, Théa. The second time!”
As soon as I extracted myself, I shot to the door. I was ready for whatever was on the other side. Papa’s guidance in my heart, my sisters’ voices surrounding me, I withdrew my sword and forced myself into the unknown.
“I thought I was going to have to come and find you myself!” Madame de Treville announced as I rushed through the doorway. “Mon Dieu, child, put that sword away. You know you’re supposed to keep the point down if you’re not fencing. You’ll take someone’s eye out.”
“But I—we thought we heard,” I stammered. Théa burst through the door with a roar, knocked into the side table, and sent the familiar porcelain vase flying, lilies making a wide arc before crashing to the ground. Splinters of ceramic and decapitated blossoms littered the floor.
Madame de Treville grabbed us by our elbows, pulled us toward the library. “Théa, cease your antics before you break everything in the hallway.”
“Does that mean no one’s attacking us?” Théa asked breathlessly.
“What gave you that idea?”
“The crash,” I said. “We thought there might be a duel, or—”
“Henri bumped into a bookshelf and somehow managed to knock three of them over. He reverted to dramatics, what with the shouting and carrying on, but I suppose it’s understandable, given the excitement.”
“Excitement?” I asked.
We arrived at the library. Bookshelves gutted on their sides. Henri looked like he’d been run over by a carriage. Ink smeared across his forehead, his chin, his hands; even a few curls were doused navy blue black. He waved to us with hands full of papers. Which, of course, sent them flying every which way.
Madame de Treville sniffed with displeasure at Henri as he scrambled to grab the papers, before she turned to us. “Henri believes he’s cracked the code.”
CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE
“YOU WHAT?” PORTIA asked once we assured her we weren’t in immediate danger. Aria’s eyes still darted from person to person, as if she didn’t trust what she saw and heard.
“Tell us,” Madame de Treville said to her nephew, who was scurrying around the room, trying to get a handle on the stray papers. “It’s not as if it’s the midnight before a likely assassination attempt.”
The crown dipped in blood. Papa’s bloody face.
My chest constricted. Had we found the answer?
Henri grabbed the last paper from the carpet, straightened, and tried to rearrange the pages into a semblance of a stack. “My first step was reviewing the academic source texts Théa got from the university library—they’re brilliant! You were all searching for a direct link between the lyrics on the fan and other sources, so I thought the most helpful thing for me to do would be to focus on the proverb’s history: who first said it, that sort of thing. While I didn’t find who the proverb is attributed to, I did discover a compilation of famous proverbs. I saw his name in it—Bacon. And that’s when I remembered.” Henri reached for one of the books on the table, lifted it reverently. With a start, I realized I’d seen the book before—the day Henri had given me the map of Lupiac. One of the philosophy texts he used to practice English. Of the Proficience and Advancement of Learning, Divine and Human, by Francis Bacon.
“Are we supposed to be looking at something?” Portia said.
Henri was confused. “Don’t you see?” he said. “The lullaby! Pigs. Bacon. The line about the pigs is a tip-off to use Bacon’s Cipher. Now, the book is dense. I hardly understood most of it at the time. But I did remember the discussion of ciphers…”
“Why?” Aria cut in sharply. “What makes ciphers so interesting? What use do you have for them?”
Henri blinked. “The theory of puzzles is fascinating?”
“Henri,” Madame de Treville cautioned, “please continue with your initial train of thought.”
“Right. So once I made the connection, I went back to my own book and found the page I remembered. And then I read it what felt like a hundred times, until I got a firm grasp on the concept.”
“Bacon’s Cipher … is it complicated?” I asked, moving to look over his expanse of shoulder. I felt him tense beside me. A lump rose in my throat.
Henri cleared off the table, pushing aside stray books and parchment before fanning out the papers in one large arc. We crowded together, skirts fighting for space. “With a Bacon Cipher, each letter of the alphabet is represented by a five-character sequence comprised of 0s and 1s—in the case of the inventory slip, 0s are capital letters, and 1s are lowercase letters. So T, for instance,” he said. “T is any five-letter sequence that can be translated as 10011. Bacon created a whole list of sequences that map onto the alphabet.”
“So that’s why the Comtesse gave those fans away?” I said, my words sounding like a question, but the threads were weaving together as I spoke. I sat in one of the chairs surrounding the table.
“Right.” Henri flipped the page over, growing more animated as he explained the process. “Since the information was hidden in an inventory slip, and not formatted in full sentences, the 0s and 1s are harder to distinguish between. And even if someone were to note all the capitalized letters that seemed out of place, the resulting text would be gibberish.”
“They were for the nobles in on the plot,” I breathed out. “Everyone who received smuggled goods could’ve received that inventory slip; there were a handful in that one box alone. But the nobles at the top of the scheme probably wanted to be selective as far as who could decode the message on the slip, so they didn’t let anyone know which cipher to use until the Comtesse’s gathering. The lullaby on the fans. It was a signal!” A horrible thing to be happy about—and yet I was beaming at the realization that my brain could pull it all together.
“That means I was right, you know,” Théa said. “About the pigs being literal.”
Portia rolled her eyes. Next to her, Aria was grasping and releasing the hilt of her saber. Her shoulders taut. “You’re lying.”
Henri startled, dropped a piece of charcoal, which Madame de Treville caught before it tumbled to mark the carpet. “What?” he asked.
“Aria, he figured out the cipher,” Théa tried to say.
But Aria wasn’t finished. A sharp glare to match her knife of a tongue. “That’s what he wants us to think. We’ll fritter away our remaining time using the wrong cipher. We’ll be left with no message. No information. Not enough hours before the Winter Festival to do anything other than wait for the King to breathe his last breath.”
“Aria, what on earth are you talking about?” Madame de Treville said.
Aria hesitated. And then she looked to me. She needed me. If Madame de Treville knew we hadn’t told her about the thief, if Madame de Treville knew it was Aria who insisted on keeping it all a secret because she suspected her … she would be the one in our mentor’s office, waiting to hear if she had a future with the Order. My sister in arms.
