“No.” Beau dragged Anouk to the cellar staircase, out of earshot of the others. “Absolutely not. I’m not okay with this. How are you okay with this? I’m not okay with this.”
“We don’t have a choice.”
“You made him fall in love with you. You! Not with Cricket.”
“Beau, this is a good thing. He’ll do whatever I ask. Mada Zola helped me rewrite the love spell so that it’s a particularly devoted type of love. He’ll fall all over himself to please me. You saw him back there, worshiping at my feet. He’s practically our—”
“Our slave.” Beau spat the word.
She rested her hands on her hips. “Temporarily. We made the elixir potent but not long-lasting. It’ll work two, maybe three days; we need only one. Besides, how long have we been slaves to him? Fetching him tea, polishing his boots, staying awake all night in case he passed out and needed to be carried to bed? Don’t you remember how he snapped his fingers at you like a dog? How he pawed at Cricket? It’s only fair he gets a taste of what it’s like to serve.”
Beau folded his arms. “We aren’t going to free ourselves by imprisoning others, even crétins like him.”
But Anouk knew that falter in his voice. Was he jealous? His confession was still fresh on his lips, as were their kisses from the night before. He had to know that this thing with Viggo wasn’t real love. Still, he glowered at the wall.
She poked the top button of his shirt and said softly, “Easy, there, or I’ll work the spell on you too.”
He caught her hand at the collar of his shirt and held it. On flat ground he towered over her, but she was perched one stair higher, and for once they were eye to eye.
“It wouldn’t work on me.”
“You don’t think me capable?”
“Try all you want. Whisper the strongest love spell you know. They’d only be words—I’m already in love with you.”
Anouk felt her cheeks burn in that pleasantly unpleasant way. She wrapped her other hand around his, squeezed almost painfully. “Tell me again that you didn’t kill her.”
“I didn’t.”
“Then who did? You know something.”
His jaw tightened. Something wavered in his eyes, but then he shook his head.
“Who else was in the house that night? Tell me, Beau.”
But he wouldn’t.
She let go of his hands, frustrated and a little angry. If he’d only tell her the truth, horrible as it might be, maybe she could return those words he’d said to her. Only a fool . . . and I’m a fool. For now, all she could do was look at him and see a person she might not know at all.
“We don’t have time for this.”
She pushed past him down the stairs into the cellar, where Hunter Black was trying to reason with Viggo, who had for some reason collected a small pyramid of wine bottles in the center of the room. When he saw her, his face brightened.
“Anouk! My trésor, my cœur. Look—for you I have gathered the finest wines. Only the best for you.” He collapsed to the ground, then inched forward on hands and knees to kiss her toes. Taken by surprise, she jerked backward and accidentally kicked him.
“Oh! Sorry, Viggo.”
He cradled his chin. “Oh, no, my puce. No, no. It’s my fault. I thoughtlessly let my face get in the way of your foot. A thousand apologies.”
Beau sighed. “This is going to get old fast.”
“Not for me,” Cricket said, popping another cookie in her mouth.
“Get up, Viggo.” Anouk felt uncomfortable. She glanced at Viggo’s wristwatch. Three o’clock in the morning. “Beau, were you able to make a map of Castle Ides?”
“I tried, but it makes no sense. It’s almost like the rooms in the paintings intentionally don’t match up. Like the floor plan changes.”
“Let me look at it,” Cricket said. “You’re used to following tidy little road maps where everything’s perfectly to scale. Thievery work is often . . . less precise.”
“We’ll have to hurry,” Anouk said. “We don’t have long to figure out how to break into the most well-protected structure in the Haute.” She couldn’t hide her yawn. “And I need coffee.”
“Allow me to make it for you, my chère.” Without waiting for a response, Viggo sprinted up the stairs, taking them two at a time.
“I have to see this.” Cricket ran after him, followed by Beau and Petra and Hunter Black, though Anouk grabbed the assassin’s arm.
“Hunter Black, wait a minute.”
He practically growled down at her small hand on his coat. She was suddenly very aware that they were alone in the dark cellar and that very recently he’d had a knife pressed to her neck.
“I know you don’t like what I did to Viggo. But you need this plan to succeed as much as the rest of us do. If we don’t get that spell, you’ll lose your humanity too. Besides, the love spell is only temporary. It’s not real.”
“Clearly,” he snarled. “He’d never love you.”
Maybe someone else would have bristled at the barb, but Anouk saw his mask slip another inch. He was like a wounded creature lashing out at anyone but his master.
“We need you, Hunter Black. At the very least, you need to keep Viggo from making an ass of himself in front of the Royals and giving us away. You’re one of us. Like it or not, we’re a family.”
Hunter Black toed one of the wine bottles, sending it rolling across the floor.
She took that as a yes.
She extended her hand. “We only have to work together until midnight.”
He grudgingly shook it. “Midnight.”
Upstairs, they found Cricket studiously drawing out a map. Every inch of the sitting-room floor was covered with paintings that showed the different rooms in Castle Ides. Cricket had scrawled a rough blueprint on the inside of her forearm, and Mada Zola and Petra were helping her fill in the blanks from their memories.
Anouk picked her way across the floor, holding her arms out for balance, trying not to step on any paintings.
“Breaking into Castle Ides won’t be easy,” the witch warned. “It looks like a regular ten-story building, but in reality, this same building exists in ten different cities at the same time, a type of portal. The only way to access the upper floors is here”—she pointed to a rectangular chamber on the map sketched on Cricket’s arm—“through the building’s elevator. Each floor leads to a different city. Rio de Janeiro is the sixth floor. New York is the second. Tokyo is the third. The elevator—”
“Coffee!” Viggo carried in a tray holding a pot of coffee that smelled like burned sugar, nearly stumbling on the paintings on the floor. He poured Anouk a cup. She took a sniff and grimaced.
“The elevator,” Mada Zola continued, “is guarded by the Royals’ proxies, called the Marble Ladies. You’ll need to present your invitation to them at the front desk.”
Viggo reached into his pocket and took out an elegant paper invitation, wiggling his eyebrows enticingly at Anouk. She pushed the coffee away.
“The Royals inhabit the penthouse floors,” Mada Zola explained. “Once you get there, you’ll be closely watched. Guests are escorted at all times by lesser Royals, which will make it difficult for you to get to the spell library. And Beau is correct—the floor plan of the penthouse is set to change every hour, on the hour.” She turned to Cricket. “You’ll have to keep a close eye on the timing to understand how the rooms rotate.”
As Mada Zola explained the rotation schedule to Cricket, Viggo sank onto the divan next to Anouk and begged, “Give me a pistol, mon amour. Out of all of us, I’m the only one who can use it.”
She eased a few inches away from him. “No pistols. You might be able to use it, but magic in Castle Ides is highly concentrated. There’s no telling what bringing technology into that place might do.”
Cricket finished writing out the map on her arm and announced, “So, then, while Viggo is distracting the Royals, I break into the spell library and steal the beastie spell. That’s it? Easy.”
“I’m afraid not,” the witch said. “The spell library doesn’t contain books but tens of thousands of bound folios holding the spells. It would take days to search through them all.”
“They must be cataloged somehow,” Anouk said.
“Yes, by magic. And they can be located only by magic.” She went to the bookcase and took out a glass jar with something small and spindly inside: a captive dragonfly. “I don’t normally use insects—that’s dirty Goblin magic—but they have their uses. The Royals use enchanted fireflies to locate the spells, but this will do the job just as well. With the proper whisper, it will lead you to the correct folio.”
Cricket reached for the jar, but Mada Zola held it back.
“My darling Cricket, even as a cat, you were prone to recklessness. That might serve you for more action-oriented spells, but this one requires a quiet disposition. Anouk, you must perform the spell. I’ll write it out for you. It isn’t easy, but I have faith in you.”
Anouk carefully tucked the jar in her pocket.
“So all that’s left,” Cricket said, “is figuring out how to sneak past Prince Rennar’s own penthouse apartments and into the library without having escorts. Any ideas?”
The cat clock was ticking. They needed to leave soon, let Beau drive like the wind, make up for some precious lost hours. Anouk paced, stepping around the paintings like puzzle pieces, looking at the haunted faces staring back, the beautiful ballroom filled with dancing Royals and musicians to play for them and—
“Servants.”
“What was that?” asked Mada Zola.
Anouk picked up the heavy painting of the ball. “Look—these figures in the background, dressed in black. They’re servants, aren’t they? And servants don’t have escorts. No one bothers to notice the maids. Even in the painting, they’re just sketched-in figures. That’s how we get from the elevator to the spell library and back—disguised as servants.” She turned to Viggo and Hunter Black. “And once we steal the spell, I’ll signal to you two that it’s time to go. I’ll bring a tray of tea to the salon. Lavender tea if everything is good, bergamot if there’s trouble.”
“We’ll need maid uniforms,” Cricket said.
Anouk peered closer at the maids in the painting. Each wore a plain black dress, a white apron, and a lace veil covering half her face. The painting didn’t show the detail of the specific buttons or hems or shoes, but she guessed that Royals never looked closely at the staff. They wouldn’t notice small missing details.
The bed sheets, Anouk thought. Those are white. And the curtains are dark velvet.
“Do you have needle and thread, Petra?”
Petra gave a laugh. “Do I look like I do needlepoint?” But then she thought. “We have gardening wire.”
“That’ll do. We’ll have to take down these curtains.”
“They’re purple, not black.”
“A little magic will change that. Besides, no one will be looking at us. They’ll be too busy looking at Viggo being . . . Viggo.” She waved in his general direction; he was adjusting his ridiculous slouchy hat in a mirror.
She turned to Beau. “And you’ll need to stay outside in the car and keep it running in case we need to get out of there quickly.”
“Impossible, cabbage. I’m going with you.”
She rested a hand on his shoulder. “We all have to play to our strengths. You breathe, sleep, and dream cars. Sorry, but it isn’t up for negotiation.”
He didn’t look pleased, but he didn’t argue. “And you? Once you locate the folio for Cricket to steal, what will you do?”
The others’ jobs seemed so clear: Beau, the getaway driver; Cricket, the spell thief; Viggo, the distraction; and Hunter Black, their bodyguard in case anything went wrong. Where did she fit into all of this? A maid and a cook—that’s all she’d ever been. And yet there was something about bringing them all together that did feel like baking: gathering disparate ingredients—a thief, a driver, an assassin—and mixing them in just the right ways at just the right times while keeping a close eye on the clock.
“What I do best,” she said. “Keep things tidy.”
She went to the clock on the mantel, counting the hours on her fingers. “We have less than a day to drive to Paris, steal the spell, and return. As long as absolutely nothing goes wrong, we can pull this off.”
She started to take down the velvet curtains. There was no time to sew entire costumes by hand, but she’d once seen Mada Vittora cast a trick to stitch a Goblin’s mouth shut. She remembered the spell. It wouldn’t be perfect, but they were short on time, and the maids’ costumes had to stay together for only a few hours.
“As long as nothing goes wrong?” Cricket muttered. “We’re so screwed.”