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Lila wasn’t sure who started it. A member of the Bullstow militia, if she had to guess. One clap turned into two, and the militia and senators broke into applause.
The heirs joined in out of politeness.
Lila fought the urge to stare at the floor. Gracefully, she inclined her head.
The applause petered out.
The militia turned back to their unhelpful witnesses, and the heirs resumed their endless shuffling around the ballroom, still gossiping, perhaps gossiping more now that Lila had returned.
Lila was grateful not to be in charge. The highborn were annoying enough when their events hadn’t been spoiled by the militia and the poorer classes.
“No telling who might have gotten shot if you hadn’t taken down the gunman,” her father grumbled. “The heirs should be more grateful.”
“I saved Oskar, Father. He was the only target.” A worry nagged at her, though. What if the gunman had planned on a second target? Everyone knew what the white coat and breeches meant in the Allied Lands. Most knew what it meant outside of the Allied Lands too, especially in the empire. The German and Italian kings would never dare attack the prime minister of a commonwealth nation, would they?
She held on to her father a little tighter. She couldn’t lose him. Not today. Not ever.
“One lone assassin sent for a slave,” her mother mused. “Odd that. He didn’t seem that professional. Even Lila managed to pin him.”
“Thanks, Mother.” Lila stared at the spot where the stranger had died, now mopped and cleared of blood and foam. “I’ve never seen someone last so long after being hit by a tranq. He must have taken a suppresser before the auction. That’s neither cheap nor easy to come by.”
“Loyalists?” her father asked.
“Loyalists wouldn’t want Oskar to return to Germany. King Lucas himself might have given the order. I can’t think of anyone else who would go after him.”
Her mother took a glass of wine, offered by the frantic auction house staff. A LeBeau heir had finally taken
charge in Olivia’s absence, intent on soothing the crowd with booze and food. Little sandwiches and pastries now circled the room.
Beatrice handed Lila a glass, inclining her head at Lila’s hands. Her fingers had begun to shake.
Randolphs didn’t tremble before other heirs.
Lila took a long sip of the wine. She needed to get out of the building. She needed to get back home and trace the snoop’s message. She had to find Reaper’s partner and figure out the game before another message appeared on her palm.
“This is exactly why I didn’t advertise Oskar’s sale and why I wanted to get rid of him so quickly,” her mother said. “One slave is not worth the increased security costs, no matter the bragging rights. The others are fools if they bid at all.”
Lemaire cocked a brow. “Just say the word, and my people will take Oskar.”
“Have you told your security detail that?” Lila asked.
“They’ll adjust.”
“How can it be that no one’s shot you yet?”
“Henri, I’ll not give you the boy. I’d never have another successful auction again. You can’t promise to sell things and not sell them.”
Six LeBeau blackcoats brought Oskar back to the stage, for the LeBeau now running the show must have been eager to conclude the auction. The blackcoats stood on either side of him, covering the ragged bullet holes in the stage, their stern gazes panning the crowd.
The auctioneer walked to the podium, weaving a tad on his feet. He carried a glass of amber liquid with him, and the militia eyed it knowingly. Perhaps they’d taken a drink or two as well. The people of the Allied Lands weren’t used to bullets, not unless you’d taken a tour in the infantry, and few among the highborn joined the military.
The auctioneer tapped on the microphone. After a brief speech about the LeBeaus’ commitment to security, he opened a folder and began to read quickly, giving them a brief outline of Oskar’s medical history, his parentage, and his skills. Oskar stared at the floor, reddening as the auctioneer mentioned he suffered from anxiety and stomach problems.
Tristan must have endured the same as a child, listening as some stranger read details of his personal life to a bored crowd.
Had he gone red, too?
Lila tried to catch the boy’s eye again, but he refused to look up. He just kept his hands in his pockets, fidgeting as fifteen-year-old boys tended to do.
