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“I told her we were in a rush, gave her a rough estimate of Eszter’s size,” Sparrow said. “There’s no way I was risking her just to have a better-fitting tunic.”
Farkas didn’t answer, but his jaw clenched like he was biting back the worst response he could think of. He looked at Eszter. She gave him a single nod. That girl had more steel in her bones than some agents I’d worked with for years.
Thomas cleared his throat. “Where’s the pilgrimage leaving from?”
“Church of the Sacred Heart,” I said. “Three days from now. The priest is known to let in late arrivals if they have the right paperwork. We’ll show up morning-of, where I’ll introduce us as new recruits under letter from the bishop. You’re injured. Farkas is silent. Eszter plays the sweet mute niece. Sparrow’s the nun. Egret’s . . . trying to be less Egret-like.”
“Tall order,” Thomas said.
“I’m versatile,” Egret replied.
I bit back the easy joke.
Farkas stopped his pacing and sat. “I still think this is madness.”
“Of course it is,” I said. “But so was coming here to get you out. So is staying here. So is trying to fight them. So is any plan we haven’t already watched fall apart.”
Thomas looked at me then with that calm, assessing stare I’d seen a hundred times across briefing tables and war-torn alleys.
“It will work,” he said. “If the crowd’s big enough, if we blend well enough, if no one gets curious.”
“The Soviets are always curious,” Farkas said.
“No one ever said miracles weren’t part of the plan,” Sparrow replied.
Thomas chuckled. “Just don’t expect me to walk too far. I’ve only got one good arm and half a bottle of happy juice.”
“You walking in pain, maybe with a little limp, will play into our roles,” Sparrow said. “We’re just simple folk going on a religious journey, nothing more.”
“And you’ve got me,” I said. “That’s at least a third of a miracle.”
“God, I’m going to be sick,” Egret snarked.
Sparrow chuckled.
Eszter shot Egret an annoyed snarl only a teenager could muster.
49
Thomas
Ihadn’tsleptwellindays, but I’d slept enough—enough to sit up without the room spinning, enough to pull on my stolen cassock without whimpering like a child. My shoulder still throbbed, dull and insistent, but I’d had worse. This time, at least, I had Will’s hands buttoning the collar for me.
“You’re pushing it,” he said.
I didn’t answer right away, just let my head fall forward so our foreheads touched as he straightened the cloth across my chest. Once my outfit was in place, he moved to makeup. I’d never seen Will apply a false face, and doubted his handiwork would fool anyone up close, but surrendered to his watchful gaze and somewhat steady hand.
“I can walk,” I muttered as he drew lines across my forehead, then smeared them with his thumb. “I don’t need to run a marathon, just walk at the pace of old people.”
He didn’t argue, but his hands lingered on my collarbone like they wanted to stay there—like he didn’t trust the world to hold me upright.
I wasn’t sure I did either, if I was honest with myself.
Sparrow entered the room, dressed in her habit. It was plain, black, and far too modest for the fire behind her eyes. She didn’t need makeup to mask her identity. The nun’s outfit did the trick nicely. She handed me a small wooden cross on a leather string.
“For effect,” she said. “It’ll help to look the part.”
“Do I look the part?”