“Thank you so much. Lovely place,” I tell the frowning archivist, and hurry out of the room.
When I appear in Wraye’s doorway, she seems surprised to see me so soon.
“That was quick. Did you find what you needed?”
I shake my head. “The records aren’t quite what I’m looking for. Too much detail. I’ll try the National Library, and the new Ivera University Library, when it opens.”
“That’s a good idea.” Wraye disappears through a side door for a moment, and then comes back with a tray of coffee cups, handing one to me.
“What are you working on right now?” I ask, sitting down and taking a sip, keen to take the attention off myself.
Wraye settles herself back behind her desk. “There was a tree planting and a charity gala yesterday, and writing up the releases for those events is keeping me busy.”
“Oh, interesting.” I want to talk her into covering the stories that really matter to Paravel, but I already made the mistake of speaking my mind to Rasmussen and arousing his suspicion. I dread the thought of Wraye going home to her husband and telling him that Lady Sachelle has radical ideas.
“There’s also an international human rights conference in Hungary this December, and I’m helping to choose a delegate to represent Paravel. They’ll need to be properly briefed if they’re going to speak for the King.”
My ears perk up. “Paravel’s going? That’s wonderful news, but do you think there’s been enough done to—”
There’s a knock, and I turn around in time to see Rasmussen appear in the doorway. His gaze falls on me, and his eyes narrow.
A moment later, he looks up at Wraye. “Your Grace, I was wondering if I could take a look at the photographs from the German Chancellor’s visit on Monday.”
“Of course. I’ll email them to you now. Are you interested in the event?”
“No. I want to look at the faces in the crowd.”
Hunting for dissidents, I presume.
“Thank you, Your Grace.” Rasmussen’s gaze lands on me again, and he continues in his same unassuming tone, “Lady Sachelle, can I see you in my office?”
“Why?”
Out of the corner of my eye, I see Wraye glance up from her computer. Anything strange that happens here will be reported back to the Archduke over the dinner table tonight. Devrim, Lady Sachelle and Mr. Rasmussen had the strangest confrontation in my office today. What do you think that’s about? You don’t suppose he suspects her of anything, do you? And then Levanter speaks to my father about his suspicious daughter, bringing on another heart attack.
“Thank you for the coffee, Your Grace.” I stand up, collect my bag and follow Rasmussen.
Deep breaths. He’s got no idea what I was up to and why. He reaches the door to his office first and holds it open for me. I catch the scent of his cologne as I brush past him.
As soon as the door is closed and we’re alone, he holds out his hand to me. “Give it to me.”
I tighten my grip on my handbag. “Pardon?”
He reaches for my bag and pulls it out of my grip.
“Hey! You can’t do that.”
He ignores me and starts going through it, like I’m at the polytechnic again and he’s a professor who hates me. I’d be furious if I weren’t sick at the sight of him flipping through the objects inside my bag. My sunglass case. A hand mirror. My keys. He’s going to find my notebook with the stolen map any second. I’m screwed.
Rasmussen gives up a moment later and puts my handbag aside. I stare at it, until I remember that I tucked the plans into my notebook, and I left my notebook laying on Wraye’s desk.
Without asking, Rasmussen starts to frisk me. His hands slide around my collar and down my shoulders, his movements practiced and peremptory. I try to step away, but he grabs my upper arm and holds on tight, his gaze narrow and accusative.
“What are you looking for? This is an illegal search. You have no grounds to suspect me of anything.”
“It’s not illegal.”
“It is in decent countries.”
Rasmussen smiles coldly and doesn’t answer. He wears his beard short and clipped. The suit fits too well across his shoulders not to be tailor-made for him. I spoke to Lady Aubrey at Court a few weeks ago, around the time of the dressage competition. She seemed irritated with Rasmussen, and told me he was a truck driver during the People’s Republic. I remember doubting her then, and I doubt her now.
Maybe he did drive trucks, but given what he’s become under the new King, there has to be more to it.
Finally, his hands come to rest on my waist, no longer searching, but holding me.
“Get your hands off me.”
His thumbs draw slow circles on my hips, and he purrs in my ear, “I didn’t find anything, after all. So, tell me, have you been a good girl today?”