plenty of gold in them crates we took.”
“Well, thank you for the glass pane,” Elle said, trying to divert his attention from the papers. “It was very kind of you to save it for me.”
Atticus nodded. “Always makes me sad when they strip a ship,” he said. “Makes me feel like someone’s died.” He turned to leave the cabin, casting a final long look at the papers she was holding in her arms.
The moment the door was locked, Elle flung the journals and notes onto the bed and regarded them. She shook her head in frustration at her stupidity. Allowingsomeone like Crow to see those notes was just about the most foolish thing she could have done.
She picked up the fork that was on her dinner tray. It wasn’t the ideal tool for the job, but it would do. She dragged the mattress off the bed and, using the tines of the fork, she unpicked the stitching on the side until she had a space that was big enough. Carefully she slipped the journal into the stuffing. She tucked the innards back and folded the canvas cover over as best she could. She lifted the mattress back onto the frame and pushed the open side against the hull. She would sew up the hole as soon as she managed to find a needle, but hopefully the hiding place would do for now.
Carefully she made up the bed again. With a little luck, if they decided to search her, Dashwood and his crew might overlook it in favor of the trunk.
After stowing the rest of the journals back in the trunk, she sighed and flopped down on the narrow bunk. The metal frame and the thin mattress groaned in sympathy under her.
How could she have been so careless?
The only way she could convince them to let her go was to make them believe that she was of no value at all. That was already difficult, given that Dashwood believed she might be worth something because of her title and connection. If rumor got out that she was in possession of treasure maps, there was no way these men would let her go. She closed her eyes in frustration. Her means of escape had just slipped away a little further.
CHAPTER 8
PARIS
Patrice Chevalier was not amused. The source of his discontent lay on the starched linen tablecloth next to his cooling cup of café au lait. It was a telegram.
He shook his head and stared out of the finely arched windows of his Paris apartment. Up here, he had a most excellent view of the Avenue des Champs-Élysées.
Outside his windows, the citizens of Paris were going about their business. Fine ladies wove in and out of the elegant shops, with servants and automatons to carry parcels in tow. Steam cars rattled over the cobbles, their rivets and metal glistening in the thin, wintery sunshine of a morning in early November. The people below were like sheep, he decided. They were prone to traveling in herds, and utterly oblivious to the impending disaster that was threatening to befall the world.
The Oracle was missing.
Patrice sighed in frustration and picked up his cup. This was not the way he wanted to start his career as Grand Master of the Council. Damn and blast that woman.
Somewhere deep inside the building, an expensive-sounding doorbell rang. In fact, everything about Patrice Chevalier’s new apartment was the height of sophistication. Situated in the most desirable of neighborhoods, the imposing baroque building spoke of a grandeur andaffluence, and his view of the city had caused more than one lady caller to suffer from the vapors the moment they entered.
There was a soft knock on the finely painted gilt-edged door.
“Entrez,”
Patrice said.
At his command, Mr. Chunk, his right-hand man, appeared. Mr. Chunk was a man who had lived his entire life under an unfortunate name. Contrary to his nomenclature, he was lithe and athletic in the scrappy, stubbly kind of way that was typical of street fighters and pugilists. He was short and compact with sinewy muscles that played under the fabric of his shirt, no matter how he tried to hide them. Mr. Chunk also had the
“Well, thank you for the glass pane,” Elle said, trying to divert his attention from the papers. “It was very kind of you to save it for me.”
Atticus nodded. “Always makes me sad when they strip a ship,” he said. “Makes me feel like someone’s died.” He turned to leave the cabin, casting a final long look at the papers she was holding in her arms.
The moment the door was locked, Elle flung the journals and notes onto the bed and regarded them. She shook her head in frustration at her stupidity. Allowingsomeone like Crow to see those notes was just about the most foolish thing she could have done.
She picked up the fork that was on her dinner tray. It wasn’t the ideal tool for the job, but it would do. She dragged the mattress off the bed and, using the tines of the fork, she unpicked the stitching on the side until she had a space that was big enough. Carefully she slipped the journal into the stuffing. She tucked the innards back and folded the canvas cover over as best she could. She lifted the mattress back onto the frame and pushed the open side against the hull. She would sew up the hole as soon as she managed to find a needle, but hopefully the hiding place would do for now.
Carefully she made up the bed again. With a little luck, if they decided to search her, Dashwood and his crew might overlook it in favor of the trunk.
After stowing the rest of the journals back in the trunk, she sighed and flopped down on the narrow bunk. The metal frame and the thin mattress groaned in sympathy under her.
How could she have been so careless?
The only way she could convince them to let her go was to make them believe that she was of no value at all. That was already difficult, given that Dashwood believed she might be worth something because of her title and connection. If rumor got out that she was in possession of treasure maps, there was no way these men would let her go. She closed her eyes in frustration. Her means of escape had just slipped away a little further.
CHAPTER 8
PARIS
Patrice Chevalier was not amused. The source of his discontent lay on the starched linen tablecloth next to his cooling cup of café au lait. It was a telegram.
He shook his head and stared out of the finely arched windows of his Paris apartment. Up here, he had a most excellent view of the Avenue des Champs-Élysées.
Outside his windows, the citizens of Paris were going about their business. Fine ladies wove in and out of the elegant shops, with servants and automatons to carry parcels in tow. Steam cars rattled over the cobbles, their rivets and metal glistening in the thin, wintery sunshine of a morning in early November. The people below were like sheep, he decided. They were prone to traveling in herds, and utterly oblivious to the impending disaster that was threatening to befall the world.
The Oracle was missing.
Patrice sighed in frustration and picked up his cup. This was not the way he wanted to start his career as Grand Master of the Council. Damn and blast that woman.
Somewhere deep inside the building, an expensive-sounding doorbell rang. In fact, everything about Patrice Chevalier’s new apartment was the height of sophistication. Situated in the most desirable of neighborhoods, the imposing baroque building spoke of a grandeur andaffluence, and his view of the city had caused more than one lady caller to suffer from the vapors the moment they entered.
There was a soft knock on the finely painted gilt-edged door.
“Entrez,”
Patrice said.
At his command, Mr. Chunk, his right-hand man, appeared. Mr. Chunk was a man who had lived his entire life under an unfortunate name. Contrary to his nomenclature, he was lithe and athletic in the scrappy, stubbly kind of way that was typical of street fighters and pugilists. He was short and compact with sinewy muscles that played under the fabric of his shirt, no matter how he tried to hide them. Mr. Chunk also had the
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