fingertip, sending him a glance.
“What? No comments about my charming manners?”
“Er …” He seemed dazed in the firelight, watching me. “No.”
I placed the china plate on the floor. Gilt traced its rim, a ring of golden light, and the fire before us sighed and worked its way along the final orangey bit of log.
“You never told your father.” I didn’t make it a question. “About me. What I am.”
Another frowning, thin-lipped look.
“He said there’s a boy in the stars who speaks to him in his dreams. Who told him what I am.”
“A boy in the stars,” he repeated slowly.
“How could that be? Could Jesse … do that? Come to him like that?”
“You’re asking me about Jesse?”
“Well,” I said, and stopped, a little flustered. “Well, there’s no one else to ask, is there?”
Armand lowered his gaze. After a moment, he began to tap the pie plate thoughtfully with one finger. “All right. I think … I suspect it must be true. You’ve never told Reg about any of it, and I haven’t, so aside from Jesse, there really is no one else who knows the truth, right?”
I shook my head.
“There’s your answer, then.” He gave the plate an extra tap. “Unless he’s a bloody good guesser.”
“Or a bloody astute lunatic,” I countered, unthinking.
The words hung between us. I winced and ventured a look back at him, but the lunatic’s son was staring bleakly into the fire.
“I’m sorry, Mandy. I’m a moron.”
“No harm done,” he said, but he sounded just as bleak as he looked.
I tried to rally. “That means, then, that somehow Jesse really does talk to him. That everything that your father said that Jesse said is true. That Aubrey is alive and imprisoned somewhere. That I’m meant to fly to him.”
“To rescue him,” Armand finished.
I shook my head again. I didn’t dare blurt out what was I was thinking now: That is truly, truly insane.
I played with a fold of the blanket draped along my knee. I ran my hand over it, the center of my palm, thinking hard.
“No,” I said finally. “It can’t be done. I’m supposed to fly across the front? Across Europe, into the thick of the war, dodging zeppelins and bombs and aeroplanes and God knows what? I mean, we don’t even know where Aubrey’s being held.”
“East Prussia,” said Armand. “Schloss des Mondes. It’s a medieval ruin. Apparently they converted it into a prison camp.”
I stared at him, mute, and he lifted a shoulder.
“He’s a nobleman and an officer, a prisoner of war. Rules of the game say they have to tell us, just as we have to tell them about our prisoners.”
“They just—give you his address?”
“Something like that. So we can send him aid parcels. Extra clothing, food. Sweets. Cigarettes. Things to trade. Since he’s an officer, he’s likely to have some enlisted bloke as a servant, so you send things for him, too.”
I couldn’t help it; I let out a laugh. “Does he even need rescuing?”
Armand lifted his head. “I think he must,” he said, quiet. “If Jesse says so.”
And that was the end of my laughter.
“You should get back to Iverson.” He climbed to his feet. “Try to get some rest. We’ll work out a plan soon.”
Work out a plan. As if it was all going to be so, so simple.
Maybe it would be, for him. After all, Jesse hadn’t told the duke anything about Armand coming along, had he?
“I didn’t have a chance to sell your pinecone yet,” he said, walking a few steps away from me. His voice had taken on a flat, businesslike tone. “I’d meant to go up to London today, but then the wire came.”
“I understand. I couldn’t take the money now, anyway. I can’t carry it when I’m smoke.”
“No. Of course not.”
“Perhaps, if you’ve managed to sell it by graduation—”
“Fine.”
He turned in place, looking at me from across the room. I clutched my blanket to my chest with both hands and gazed back. I was suddenly, acutely aware of how
“What? No comments about my charming manners?”
“Er …” He seemed dazed in the firelight, watching me. “No.”
I placed the china plate on the floor. Gilt traced its rim, a ring of golden light, and the fire before us sighed and worked its way along the final orangey bit of log.
“You never told your father.” I didn’t make it a question. “About me. What I am.”
Another frowning, thin-lipped look.
“He said there’s a boy in the stars who speaks to him in his dreams. Who told him what I am.”
“A boy in the stars,” he repeated slowly.
“How could that be? Could Jesse … do that? Come to him like that?”
“You’re asking me about Jesse?”
“Well,” I said, and stopped, a little flustered. “Well, there’s no one else to ask, is there?”
Armand lowered his gaze. After a moment, he began to tap the pie plate thoughtfully with one finger. “All right. I think … I suspect it must be true. You’ve never told Reg about any of it, and I haven’t, so aside from Jesse, there really is no one else who knows the truth, right?”
I shook my head.
“There’s your answer, then.” He gave the plate an extra tap. “Unless he’s a bloody good guesser.”
“Or a bloody astute lunatic,” I countered, unthinking.
The words hung between us. I winced and ventured a look back at him, but the lunatic’s son was staring bleakly into the fire.
“I’m sorry, Mandy. I’m a moron.”
“No harm done,” he said, but he sounded just as bleak as he looked.
I tried to rally. “That means, then, that somehow Jesse really does talk to him. That everything that your father said that Jesse said is true. That Aubrey is alive and imprisoned somewhere. That I’m meant to fly to him.”
“To rescue him,” Armand finished.
I shook my head again. I didn’t dare blurt out what was I was thinking now: That is truly, truly insane.
I played with a fold of the blanket draped along my knee. I ran my hand over it, the center of my palm, thinking hard.
“No,” I said finally. “It can’t be done. I’m supposed to fly across the front? Across Europe, into the thick of the war, dodging zeppelins and bombs and aeroplanes and God knows what? I mean, we don’t even know where Aubrey’s being held.”
“East Prussia,” said Armand. “Schloss des Mondes. It’s a medieval ruin. Apparently they converted it into a prison camp.”
I stared at him, mute, and he lifted a shoulder.
“He’s a nobleman and an officer, a prisoner of war. Rules of the game say they have to tell us, just as we have to tell them about our prisoners.”
“They just—give you his address?”
“Something like that. So we can send him aid parcels. Extra clothing, food. Sweets. Cigarettes. Things to trade. Since he’s an officer, he’s likely to have some enlisted bloke as a servant, so you send things for him, too.”
I couldn’t help it; I let out a laugh. “Does he even need rescuing?”
Armand lifted his head. “I think he must,” he said, quiet. “If Jesse says so.”
And that was the end of my laughter.
“You should get back to Iverson.” He climbed to his feet. “Try to get some rest. We’ll work out a plan soon.”
Work out a plan. As if it was all going to be so, so simple.
Maybe it would be, for him. After all, Jesse hadn’t told the duke anything about Armand coming along, had he?
“I didn’t have a chance to sell your pinecone yet,” he said, walking a few steps away from me. His voice had taken on a flat, businesslike tone. “I’d meant to go up to London today, but then the wire came.”
“I understand. I couldn’t take the money now, anyway. I can’t carry it when I’m smoke.”
“No. Of course not.”
“Perhaps, if you’ve managed to sell it by graduation—”
“Fine.”
He turned in place, looking at me from across the room. I clutched my blanket to my chest with both hands and gazed back. I was suddenly, acutely aware of how
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