him, she'd walked away with a sensation like fish-hooks ripping her throat and chest. But it didn't hurt any longer. What she felt now was a lack of sensation, as if whatever she was feeling under the numbness was so vast that she could not compass it. She thought of a bad burn, bad enough that sensation failed, only the red ring around the injury still alive enough even to sting. "Henri LeBlanc, I presume?"
"It's a good name," Prince Henry of England answered. "And as much mine as any."
Garrett pressed her fingers to her wrist, to assure herself that her heart was still beating, and went to him. She didn't realize that she had been braced for his cologne, the scent of citrus and ambergris, until she smelled damp wool and tobacco instead. "France has been without kings for a long time, Henry. Don't you think taking the name of a conquering ancestor when slipping over borders unnoticed is a little gauche?"
He leaned his shoulders against the closed door and didn't answer.
Garrett drew herself up, though he still topped her height. "What are you doing in Paris, Henry?"
He drew his hands from his pockets and folded his arms, frowning behind the scruffy beard. She could see him deciding what lie to relate. And she saw the moment when he decided not to bother pretending she wouldn't catch him at it. "I don't suppose you'd believe I followed you here?"
She shook her head, because it was expected, and fiddled with an
earring for something to do with her hands. "That's Paris mud on your boot," she said. "And it's been frozen since I got here. Would you care to
try again?"
"I could ask what you're doing here. Other than patronizing overpriced restaurants."
"Oh, it was well worth the price." But he wouldn't be diverted. He stared at her until she stepped back and folded her own arms over her corset. The defensive posture mashed boning into her skin with a pressure in direct proportion to the thinning of his mouth. Finally, she sighed and let her arms fall. "I'm here to commit treason, Henry. What did you think?"
"I assumed it was something like that," he said, and stepped away from the door. "Are you going to invite me to sit, Abby Irene? Or must I hover at your threshold?"
Wordlessly, she turned sideways and gestured to the chairs beside the fire, the exact mirror of those in hers-and-Mrs. Smith's room. The hotel no doubt purchased them in bulk. He waited for her to seat herself, with a courtesy beyond his rank, and then perched opposite, his elbows on his knees. "I'm here to stop a war, if I can. But I can't exactly get caught doing it."
"It's a war I need, you—" she stopped herself. She couldn't remember exactly when they had slipped into English, but under no circumstances could she call him your highness here.
"So you've gone over entirely to the rebels? There's no hope for us?" He sounded tired when he said it, however. He leaned back in his chair, closed his eyes, and folded his arms behind his head, the sleeves of his jacket rasping against the shirtcuffs. His cap rested on his thigh. She heard the banked fire pop.
"Phillip would not be so calm—"
"Fuck Phillip," Henry said. "I'm not the heir anymore. I have the luxury of being an embarrassment now. You want to get the colonies out from under Duke Richard and his cronies—"
"I wouldn't quite put it that way."
He didn't even crack an eye, and she realized with some trepidation that she'd just bluntly interrupted—and contradicted—a prince. Of course, Henry wouldn't be Henry if he cared about such things, except when it was useful to care. That pang in Garrett's throat—ah, there it was, finally. The pain. "Of course you wouldn't, Abby Irene," he said. "For some reason, you never did notice what a twat Richard was."
"I have now," she shot back.
This time, Henry laughed. And then he sat up. "Come back to England with me. You're not going to change the world, you know. And your little revolution is doomed, and silly also."
Garrett wished she had a brush in her hands. It was the sort of conversation that called for the dismissive symbolism of hair-combing, if ever she'd had one. She shrugged. "Henry, I've made up my mind."
"You're still with your wampyr."
"I am."
He hesitated, but after that moment forged ahead. "I was wrong about him. You will extend, I hope, my apologies. What I said to and about