“I won’t go.” Elodie took Albin’s hand and tugged him toward the northwest corner of the great hall, the corner not far from the unguarded entrance. The windows high in the wall barely glistened. The day had almost ended.
When they reached the corner she—thoughtlessly—faced Albin with her back to the entrance. “We can’t leave,” she whispered. “Zertrum will explode if I don’t find the—”
“You, Lady El? A mansioner? We enact the great events after they—”
“I’m a detecting dragon’s assistant and a mansioner.” She felt proud, declaring herself.
“Apologies, Lady El, but we must leave. Your parents would want you to, and I serve them.”
Doubtless they would. There was no answer to that, but she couldn’t go.
Albin went on with his argument. “Your safety means more to them—and to me—than the life of anyone on Zertrum.”
“Listen . . .” An idea was coming. She felt its approach but couldn’t grasp it. “Er . . . all the guests will leave . . . and if the thief—or thieves—is a bee, he or she will leave, too, with some excuse. The thief will go, if not tomorrow, then soon, because the Replica has to be sold or its worth doesn’t matter. Right?”
“I suppose.” Albin folded his arms.
“Er . . . but the brunkas and the other bees won’t stop looking for him or her or them. Um . . . it won’t matter to them that Zertrum has already spewed.”
“We’ll be safe at home, eating your mother’s excellent pottage.”
She’d be herding geese, and by then Masteress Meenore or His Lordship or both might have died in the volcano.
The idea arrived, although she hadn’t expected it to be so frightening. “The thieves will want to be safe, too. Because of them, we’ll still be in danger.”
Albin wasn’t used to deducing. “How do you come to that?”
“Because the thieves will plot to silence everyone who was here during the theft. Don’t you see? There are clues even if we don’t recognize them yet. One may be that Mistress Sirka tried to dose Dror-bee—I mean, Goodman Dror—with what she says was a love potion, or that Master Robbie’s grandfather was the last thief, or that Ludda-bee hates everyone and everything except cooking. Or something else.”
Albin’s eyes were tight on her, concentrating as only a mansioner can.
“The innocent will go home. Some of us will try to forget, and some of us will try to remember. One morning, you or I or Master Robbie or another of us will sit up in bed with all the pieces fitted together.” Her heart began to gallop. “The thief will dread that morning, and he or she—who will have killed many on Zertrum—will have the wealth to kill us, too, not in person, but by using hirelings. You may not come back from fixing a fence. I may not return from herding. Master Uwald may be poisoned. Master Robbie may seem to have run away. Mistress—”
“Enough. I understand.”
“One more thing. If everyone stays here, that can’t happen. We’re safest here.”
He thought about it. “Lady El, Lady El. All right. We stay. For now.”
She took his hand and turned to go back to the others—and discovered her mistake. She had stopped observing.
The entrance, without the rainbow glow, remained unguarded, and the great hall had half emptied.
Lambs and calves! Had the thieves escaped already? Escaped with the Replica?
Mistress Sirka continued to tend High Brunka Marya, who had been moved onto a pallet. Ursa-bee and Goodman Dror hovered nearby.
Several other bees, not in pairs, searched the shelves and cupboards. Deeter-bee watched from a bench by the fireplace outside the kitchen.
But Masters Robbie, Tuomo, and Uwald, as well as Johan-bee and Ludda-bee, were gone.
“Albin, did you see anyone leave the Oase?”
“My eyes were on you, Lady El.”
She called out, “Has anybody gone out?”
Ursa-bee answered, “No one, little mistress.”
Relief flooded her. “Oh, good. Thank you.” Trailed by Albin, she went to the entrance, leaned against the heavy door, and felt the cold of a November evening penetrate her shoulders.
Albin smiled fondly at her and said a mansioner’s proverb: “‘A butterfly cannot portray a bear.’ You can’t be a guard, and I know only stage fighting.”
“We have to stop whoever comes.”
“Very well.” He bowed his most elaborate bow. “I hope the farmer’s helper doesn’t have to die for the heroine.”
From the door that led to the corridor, Johan-bee entered the great hall carrying a longbow, with a quiver of arrows on his back. What’s more, he’d strapped a sword around his waist. As awkward as ever, he strode stiffly toward the entrance.
Johan-bee was the thief?
Her masteress had never deduced or induced him as a villain.
Armed as he was, they’d have to let him go.