To Sketch a Sphinx - Rebecca Connolly Page 0,51

we must wait.”

“What about Castleton?” another, much lower voice asked.

“His plan was idiotic and selfish,” the first voice answered. “There will be no assistance for him. British justice can have their way with him. He is of no use to us now.”

A murmur of voices reacted to that, though no clear answers.

“What about our key?” a new voice asked. “Has our hand received what is needed there?”

Hal looked at John in confusion. “Key?” she breathed. “Hand?”

“Codes?” His voice was softer than a whisper, and she could hear his head shake.

“Our key was no longer secure. They have been removed from their post for the sake of the cause and will soon find themselves at work in another way.”

“How?”

“If you needed to know, you would.”

“Sorry for my tardiness,” a new voice interjected. “J’ai vecu.”

“Vous ne me verrez pas mourir,” the room replied in a strange unison.

What in the world was this? Hal had never heard the familiar Faction phrase used as a greeting and come with a response. Where had that come from?

“You shall not see me die,” John recited in the same barely audible voice as before.

“I know what they said,” Hal hissed as her mind spun on it. “I do know French, thank you.”

John breathed a laugh. “I was simply reciting.”

“Well, don’t!” Hal tried to relax against the wall, her head leaning back against it.

“What news from Calais?” inquired someone. “Are we ready for the next wave?”

Hal shook her head. They were never going to get anywhere just listening; they would likely only know what was already known.

They needed something new.

“We have to find out who is in there.”

“How?” John shifted closer, the side of his body nearly flush with hers. “We can’t wait outside the room for them to come out.”

Hal shook her head, the motion brushing her face along his shoulder. “No, and we can’t distinguish voices.” She exhaled and laid her head against him. “I have to go in there.”

“What?” John hissed, his voice nearly too loud for their secrecy. “No!”

Hal shifted to face him, reaching up to cover his mouth, her eyes on his, barely discernible in the dark, but there all the same. “Yes, John!”

He shook his head emphatically beneath her palm.

She gripped his coat in one hand, arching closer. “Yes! I have an excellent memory, it is true, but only if I see things! I have to see them, John, so I can draw them.”

His hands flew to her upper arms, his grip tight. Beneath her palm, his mouth was still, and he didn’t struggle, which she took as a surrender of sorts. She slid her hand to his jaw, wishing there was more light, just enough to see him better.

“Ange…” John pressed his lips to her brow, lingering and resting his mouth at her hairline, breathing unsteadily against her skin. “I can’t…”

Hal stroked his jaw softly, her eyes fluttering shut. “I have to. You have your gifts, and I have mine. I need this to be of use. You know that.”

“I know,” he whispered, his lips pressing against her in a warm, lingering kiss. “Doesn’t mean I have to like it.”

She smiled at that and nuzzled close, inhaling his scent. “Well, no. And I have no doubt they’ll send me away quickly.”

“I hope they do.” John sighed and broke from her skin. He cupped her cheek with one hand and gently rubbed his thumb there. “Be careful.”

She nodded in his hold, turning her face and kissing the palm quickly. “You, too.” She smiled, hoping he could feel it in his palm, then stepped aside and strode by him, desperately trying to ignore the last lingering feeling of his fingers on her arm.

Exhaling, she exited the corridor, squaring her shoulders. She would only have a moment or two, and she would need to make it count.

She fixed a polite smile on her face and pushed through the ajar door to the card room.

All conversation stopped, and all eyes fell on her.

Perfect.

Twelve men sat between three card tables, all grouped closely together, cards in hand, though it was not clear if anyone was actually playing. Had she not been listening a moment ago, she would never have known treason was occurring. Indeed, had she not seen Leclerc among the group, knowing the letters he carried, she might have doubted that these were the men whose conversations she’d heard.

“Oh my,” she gasped in bright English, looking at each man in turn, though taking care not to linger long enough for concern. “I was looking for