Air of Treason, An: A Sir Robert Carey Mystery (Sir Robert Carey Mysteries) by P. F. Chisholm Page A

now. The tune was complex but he had support from the pipes. Someone with a very fine strong voice, a clear tenor that allowed the notes to flow like water.
    It was M. le deputé again. There he stood, sight-singing the complex tenor line and the bassos coming in again now to wind about the stem of his voice like dark green snakes.
    There was another damned tear in her eye. Again! Because his voice did bring the blue blue sky of the South with it, somehow, the vivid intense lapis lazuli that you never saw in the grey North and she missed it and she missed her children.…
    She could not even cough. She had to stop breathing. She caught that tear, too, no more please, M. le deputé, my heart will not stand it and in any case it’s all your fault that I’m still here in the Northern wastes.
    Thank God the boys were singing now, one of them sharp from nerves, the men, too, weaving and parting and finally coming in sequence to an end against Carey’s sustained note.
    Just a little silence afterward, that heartbeat of silence the people needed to bring themselves back from the land of music, the highest compliment any audience could give. Then ordinary applause, the Queen smiling and clapping her embroidered gloves as well.
    The adult musicians were grudgingly approving, the boys staring up at the Courtier. The senior chapel man shook Carey’s hand. The Queen said something that sounded complimentary about her cousin at which Carey promptly stepped forward and went down on two knees to her, his lips moving although Emilia couldn’t hear what he said.
    The Queen laughed and gave him her hand to kiss which he did and stayed on his knees. Again his lips moved and the Queen tapped his nose playfully—but possibly quite painfully—with her new Chinese fan. He rose, bowed, stepped back, bowed again as the Queen too turned aside to speak to another person on his knees, looked wry and rubbed his nose, sneezed.
    The Queen was now talking to Essex again and the chapel men started singing once more to the chapel master’s nod, a song that only needed one tenor and was easy. Emilia started manoeuvring toward Carey through the crowds now sweating in the heat from the candles. Such a very fine piece of manflesh, she thought coldly, what a pity to kill him. But still, it had to be done. First Essex, though.
    She barged neatly past two dowdy women making for the banquet table with jellies and creams. She got in front of Carey as he reached to take his goblet from his servingman. She made sure she was turned away from him so he would suspect nothing and he trod on the back of her gown as he was supposed to.
    “Oh!” she squeaked as she heard the pop of one of her points. She turned and was surprised to see him, of course. “Monsieur le deputé,” she trilled, “May I speak to you?”
    She said it in Scotch, on the grounds that she spoke that language better and it might give them a little privacy while not excluding the young servingman whom she had suddenly, just that moment, recognised as her contact. More of the English Court would speak French than Scotch, that was sure. Also she wanted Carey to remember their affair and even feel guilty, if possible.
    He bowed slightly, his eyes hooded. “I’m so sorry, have I torn your gown, Signora?” he asked. “You know how clumsy I am.” Like most men who called themselves clumsy, he wasn’t at all. And he had apologised for his clumsiness before, in Scotland. Ai, her stupid heart had started beating hard again.
    “No, no,” she told him. “It was me, I was pushing in front of you because I want one of the rose almond creams that I love so much.”
    He smiled, reached a long arm over the scrum of women and brought out a pretty little sugar paste bowl full of rose cream. Emilia took it quickly. It had a little carved sugar paste spoon sticking out of it and she started eating it immediately, very quickly and carefully. Actually it was wonderful, smooth and sweet and creamy with the