Charlotte shivered as the grim reality of their situation set in. Maybe they would be lucky, maybe there wouldn’t be any sort of battle. It was difficult to remember that she once thought of battles with a romantic frisson of excitement; now, with the reality looming, the prospect brought only dread.

Their tiny army was already making its preparations, jostling together alongside the massive urn that Robert swore contained the secret entrance to the tunnels. As Miles peered through the hole in the side of the urn, in whispered conversation with Lieutenant Fluellen, Charlotte caught Robert’s eye. He immediately detached himself from his fellows and strode towards her.

And Charlotte realized that something rather alarming had happened. She no longer heard trumpets when she looked at him. There were no more fanfares or imaginary banners. He was just Robert, not a mythical knight in shining armor, not a hero in a storybook. The old infatuation had died, but what had replaced it was even more debilitating; like the bitter winter wind, it stripped through all her outer layers, biting clear to the bone.

It was fortunate that he had no idea, Charlotte thought, as he strolled over to her, tall and golden and radiating martial energy. It would hurt badly enough in the morning when he remembered that he was he and she was she and that he really wasn’t that enamored of her after all. It would be even harder if he knew just how much she cared. Harder for both of them. She knew him well enough now for that.

“We’re off to slay your dragons,” he said wryly. “Or dragon, as the case may be.”

Once Charlotte would have thought it a charming turn of phrase; now she felt a whisper of superstitious dread. This wasn’t a tale out of one of her books. There was no armor to guard him, no enchantments to protect him, no happily ever after to ensure his safe return.

“Is it very dangerous?” she asked, knowing it was a ridiculous question even as she asked it. Of course, it was dangerous.

“No,” he said, and she knew he was lying through his teeth, lying right through the broad, reassuring smile he donned like armor. “There are three of us, after all.”

But there might be three of them as well. Their putative opponents had the advantage of knowing their terrain. Down in the darkness of the caves, who knew what might happen?

Nothing had really changed; tomorrow morning would still be tomorrow morning, but all that paled into insignificance against the gaping hole in the side of the urn that led into caves of unknown peril and treachery.

Charlotte clutched Robert’s arm, her fingernails biting through the thin fabric of his sleeve. “Be careful.”

“Rob!” Lieutenant Fluellen called softly, only his head sticking out of the back of the urn. “Any day now!”

“Coming,” Robert called back, and rolled his eyes for Charlotte’s benefit.

Charlotte was in no mood to be so cheaply diverted. “You should go,” she said, very seriously. “I won’t keep you.”

With one finger, Robert gently lifted her chin. “Don’t worry,” he said softly. “We’ll be back.”

And then, before Charlotte could say anything else at all, he grabbed her to him in a quick, fierce embrace. Although he had removed his cloak and coat, she could feel the heat radiating through his shirt as he clasped her to him, his arms like bars of iron around her back. Throwing caution to the winds, Charlotte wrapped her arms around his neck and kissed him back, kissed him good luck, kissed him good-bye, kissed him forgiveness, kissed him everything she had meant to say and hadn’t.

Through it all, the trumpets sounded. They hadn’t gone away after all; they had only changed their tune.

As suddenly as he had embraced her, Robert released her, putting her from him with sure, resolute hands, making sure she was steady on her feet before letting her go again. The air felt even more frigid cold without him.

“Good luck,” she croaked.

With one last wave and a jaunty grin, Robert disappeared into the urn and down into the tunnels of the Hellfire caves.

Chapter Twenty-Eight

Charlotte stood like a pillar of salt, staring at the empty urn, until a loud and pointed clearing of the throat shook her out of her reverie.

“Do I take it that you two have reconciled?” said Henrietta.

Reconciled didn’t seem quite the right word for it. Despite the lingering tingle on her lips, she couldn’t help but remember that night on the roof of Girdings, when Robert had seemed just as attentive — until he disappeared. Just as he had before. It was beginning to look like a habit.

“Not really,” said Charlotte.

Henrietta’s eyes glinted like a cat’s in the dark as she groped for the handle of the church door. “Then what do you call that?”

“A lady’s favor to a knight going into battle,” Charlotte said honestly. “I didn’t have a scarf to give him, so a kiss had to do.”

“Hmph,” said Henrietta. “I doubt you’ll see him complaining about the substitution.”

The door swung open behind her, moving soundlessly on well-oiled hinges, revealing the oddest sort of church Charlotte had ever seen. In place of pews, there were armchairs, curved and curled at the arms in the Egyptian fashion. Alchemical symbols decorated the font, including a serpent chasing its own tail in an intimation of eternity, and Judas Iscariot leered down from the ceiling as he savored the Last Supper. But it wasn’t the bizarre or even the blasphemous that made Charlotte bump into Henrietta’s back as they both froze in the doorway. It was a small and homely detail, one that under any other circumstance wouldn’t have warranted the slightest bit of notice.

A lamp was burning at the far end of the nave.

Charlotte felt Henrietta’s fingers clamp like a vise around her upper arm. Soundlessly, she pointed upwards. Following her gaze, Charlotte stared in wide-eyed incomprehension. There was a man slowly but steadily climbing down a long ladder propped against the wall. Mercifully, his back was to them. He also had a bulky object hanging from one arm. A bag of some sort?

With a jerky movement, Henrietta yanked on Charlotte’s arm, whisking them both around the door in a flurry of damp fabric. Charlotte stumbled and caught her balance on the side of the church, feeling the stucco siding scrape against her palm.

Pointing back at the door, she mimed confusion.

Every muscle on alert, Henrietta reminded Charlotte of nothing so much as a horse about to bolt. “Guard,” she mouthed soundlessly.

Even without making noise, Henrietta managed to convey a decided air of triumph. Charlotte had no doubt she was inwardly dancing a jig, complete with pipers piping and lots of lords a-leaping.

Charlotte pointed back towards the mausoleum, framing the words, “Should we . . . ?”

Henrietta gave an abrupt shake of the head. Narrowing her eyes meaningfully, Henrietta lifted her hand and brought it down in a chopping motion.

Charlotte held up both hands, palm up. It was all very well and good to talk about knocking out the guard, but with what? He wasn’t particularly big or burly — in fact, he looked fairly small and malnourished — but for all that he was small, he might be fierce. And armed. They couldn’t very well just bash at him with their reticules until he pleaded nicely for pardon and genteelly submitted to being tied up.

Reaching into the folds of her pelisse, Henrietta whipped out a long, metallic object. At least, she tried to whip it out. The little curly bit — the trigger? — caught on the folds and Henrietta had to pause mid-flourish to disentangle herself. It was not a sight to fill Charlotte with confidence. But what were their other alternatives? By the time they made their way through the tunnels, the man might be gone, along with whatever information he might have. If they were going to strike, it needed to be now.

Meeting her friend’s eyes, Charlotte lowered her head in a brief nod. “If I distract him,” she whispered, leaning forwards so they were practically nose to nose, “can you hit him?”

“With the gun or with a bullet?” whispered Henrietta.

“Either,” Charlotte hissed back.

Henrietta paused just a moment too long for confidence before bringing her chin down in a nod. But it was the best they were going to do. The cavalry was all underground.

“Ready?” whispered Henrietta, tilting her pistol at a jaunty, if not exactly useful, angle. “Go!”

What she lacked in force, she might make up in sheer insanity. They did say beginners were lucky, didn’t they? Feeling like an idiot, Charlotte did the most distracting thing she could think of. She swooped down the nave of the church waving her arms above her head and shrieking like her grandmother’s maid on a particularly bad day.

The first screech got the man’s attention. The second made him lose his grip. Twisting around to see a madwoman flinging her arms in the air, the man on the ladder lost hold of the bundle tucked underneath his left arm. Fumbling for it, his other hand wrenched free, the sweat of his palm leaving a wet trail on the worn wood. An expression of open-mouthed shock transfixed his face as he hung suspended in space, rocking back and forth with his feet on the ladder as he flailed his arms for balance. Charlotte skidded to a stop, her last shriek ending in an apologetic cough. With the inevitability of a tree toppling in the forest, the man went over, striking his head on the stone floor with an unpleasant crunch.

Wincing, Charlotte flung herself onto the ground beside him. There was a bloody spot on the side of his head — a head which, it appeared, had not been washed all too recently — but he was still breathing. He also smelled quite heavily of tobacco. Charlotte wondered if he had realized that he lost his pipe. Of course, at the moment, that was probably the least of his concerns.