When Gregory found Gwynyfer, she was leaning against a wall, talking to a girl dressed in wild, swooping pheasant feathers — one of the Ex-Empress’s maids-in-waiting who’d danced some mortality mazurka in the procession. The girl’s face was painted with black spirals on each cheek.
Gwynyfer saw Gregory and gave him a little curtsy. She excused herself to her friend (“Miss Gwynyfer bids a fond farewell to the dear Miss Rose. May the gods settle like butterflies upon her skirts.”), pushed herself off the wall, and sauntered over to Gregory, wrapping her shoulders in a woven shawl.
“Are you okay?” Gregory asked.
She answered, “It’s shiver-making.”
Gregory nodded seriously. Coolly, as if he wasn’t boasting, he said, “We were standing right next to Gugs when it happened.”
“Poor Gugs,” said Gwynyfer, shaking her head.
“We were right there. He just — it was weird. There was a bang, and he looked around, and then … We thought he was staring at the ground. But he was collapsing.”
“That’s awful. Dying in a crowd, surrounded by others — terrible. When I die, I want Death to print me a private invitation.” She smirked at the tackiness of public collapse.
Gregory wanted to be able to laugh, but he was a little shocked. He just stared at her. It seemed like she was making a joke out of Gugs’s brute fate. He tried to smile. He could tell it wasn’t very convincing.
Gwynyfer looked around. “Where’s your potty little friend?”
Suddenly, Gregory felt protective of Brian. He didn’t want her to laugh at him, to despise him. He looked around on the street, hoping Brian wasn’t following him. “He’s busy,” Gregory said. “Investigating.”
“Of course,” she said. “Always investigating. Danaan love a duck.” She took Gregory’s arm. He couldn’t believe his luck. Her arm was so light. She was saying, “Have you heard they think it might be Lord Dainsplint?”
“It’s … Oh, yeah. Yeah. They do think so. Because of, really, what we’ve been saying for the last couple of days. About who had an alibi. I mean, it’s our investigation that’s really made them suspect Lord Dainsplint.”
She skipped a couple of steps, dragging his arm with her. “It is too, too very thrilling,” she said. She sounded like one of the women of the Court, but her grin was a girl’s.
Gregory didn’t know what to think. He still felt the shock of Gugs’s collapse — and couldn’t believe Gwynyfer didn’t feel it — but then again, there was her arm touching his, and people were looking at him with envy, and there she was herself — the descendant of a goddess, a fairy duchess wanting to walk out with him along the garbage-lined avenues of this elfin metropolis. It was like something from a daydream.
Guards ran past, blowing whistles.
Gwynyfer’s striking eyes widened. “They’ve found him!” She grabbed Gregory’s hand and ran.
There they were, he thought, holding hands, running through the crazy city. Weird, elephantine beasts of burden swayed in the streets, pulling carts. Cages full of chickens teetered in courtyards. She yanked him through a slim gate in a fence and over a piece of rough ground where ragged grass grew, littered with rusting cans. “Whoa, Nelly!” he said, almost tripping.
“Come on! Shortcut!” she cried. “The hunt’s in full cry!”
She pulled him under a curtain hung in an arch — and ducking, he laughed, because she’d almost tangled him up and lost him. She laughed, too, tickling his knuckles — and he realized he was having a great time.
They slid down an embankment and clattered through a passageway, swerving to avoid men with a tub of steaming water. They heard the piercing whistles of the guards nearby.
They scampered down a stone staircase and ran through the shacks at the edge of the city. The air was filled with blue smoke. They tumbled across the main street, now looking left and right to see if they could catch the pursuit. The guards were nowhere to be seen.
They wandered down an alley.
Their hands were swinging between them now. There was no more dragging. Gregory loved the slenderness of her fingers. He loved that they were enjoying the same rhythm in their arms.
He didn’t know when he’d felt better.
Until someone grabbed him by the collar and yanked him to the side.
Gregory stumbled — pulled Gwynyfer after him. She yelped.
Gregory saw the muzzle of the pistol before he saw who held it.
It was Lord Dainsplint. He held the gun near Gregory’s temple. “Topping!” he said with slightly crazed and frantic good cheer. “Hostages!”
“I don’t suppose that you’re innocent,” said Gregory, “and that we’ve made some kind of terrible mistake?”
“I fear that, no, I am guilty, and you may find it hard to keep your head wholish.”