Page 93 of Winterveil

Julian retched.

Klaudia’s eyes flashed. She turned to Deckard. “What did you do to him?”

“I played another artificially generated recording in his cell. He’ll be fine.”

A recording of what? Giselle wondered. Who was Julian Joyce-Young III’s Achilles’ heel?

“And what was the purpose,” Klaudia said slowly, “of any of this?”

“I’m glad you asked,” said Deckard. “First, it was a test of ingenuity—which you passed with flying colors. You made use of limited resources to rescue your comrades. You’ve proven you have the qualities necessary to be a successful clandestine officer.”

Klaudia’s gaze narrowed.

“As for your compatriots . . .” Deckard regarded Nadiya, still huddled in Giselle’s arms, and Julian, who was wiping his chin with the back of his hand. “It was a test of loyalty. When I first brought them in, I gave them each the same offer: Betray the other, and walk free. You’ll be pleased to know they both courageously endured their predicaments without forsaking their allies.”

Predicaments was certainly a quaint way of saying torture. Giselle wasn’t sure what surprised her more—that Julian had not betrayed Nadiya, or vice versa. Now she caught the two of them sharing a glance, tired but oddly tender.

“And finally,” Deckard went on, “it was a reminder to pay attention to your surroundings, to be ever-vigilant. One of the most crucial skills a clandestine officer has is to be able to withstand the pressure of operating under constant surveillance. You needed to know there is no margin for error. That any small mistake”—he looked between Nadiya and Julian—“could be fatal.”

The double doors slid open once more. A familiar figure emerged.

Nadiya lurched out of Giselle’s grip. In what felt like half the length of a heartbeat she had Crispin pinned against the wall, arm jammed under his chin.

“You,” she snarled. “You sold us out, you little—”

“Nadiya—stop!” It was Julian’s voice, raspy but urgent. “It wasn’t him.”

She turned around, eyes smoldering. “How do you know?”

“Just . . . trust me,” Julian said. A flash of something that looked like guilt crossed his face. “Let him go.”

“It wasn’t him,” Klaudia reiterated, her tone more even.

Nadiya still looked unconvinced. She glanced at Giselle.

“It’s true,” Giselle said softly. “It was . . . that man, in the bowler hat. You and Julian both bumped into him. Crispin didn’t do anything.”

Nadiya’s eyes flickered. “How do you know?” she asked again.

“ ‘We few, we happy few, we band of brothers,’ ” Giselle began, looking to Klaudia for reassurance. When Klaudia nodded, she continued more emphatically, “ ‘For he today who sheds his blood with me shall be my brother.’ ”

Julian’s face lit up with recognition. “The Saint Crispin’s day speech,” he said. “From Henry V.”

“One of the Bard’s most iconic passages,” said Deckard. “About loyalty and camaraderie.”

Slowly, Nadiya eased her grip on Crispin. Her gaze was still dark with suspicion but she eventually allowed him to slide free.

He broke away from her, rubbing his throat and gasping for breath. Julian looked mildly concerned.

“Thank you for your restraint,” Deckard said, a rare tinge of sarcasm in his voice. “Crispin has indeed been here to help you. Had you heeded my instructions—”

“You can’t punish us for trusting you in one moment and then scold us for not trusting you in the next,” Klaudia cut in. “How are we expected to win a game with arbitrary and ever-shifting rules?”

“Who told you this is a game?” Deckard cocked his head.

“My apologies,” Klaudia said icily. “I must have been thrown off by your smirking and riddles.”

Deckard pressed his lips together. “You should be grateful that you were given an opportunity to make mistakes at all. You can choose to learn your lessons now or later—but believe me when I say the real world is not so forgiving. The very least your enemies will be is arbitrary.”