Damian looked put-out. “You don’t have to put it like that.”
“Saphie…” Catalin repeated quietly. That’s right, he remembered now. “You’re High Priest Cutler’s daughter, aren’t you? Saphira Cutler? You lead prayer ceremonies at the palace sometimes…”
“You remembered!” Saphie beamed at him. “I’m sorry I couldn’t talk to you properly then, but I probably would have gotten caught.”
“… we have talked before, though…” Catalin frowned at her.
“That’s right!” Saphie nodded. “Last year, I treated you when you were sick, remember?”
Right, High Priest Cutler’s daughter was a licensed doctor. That would be why he didn’t remember. He’d done his best to put that incident out of his mind. “Oh. Thanks, I guess.”
“Oh, no need to thank me!” Saphie giggled. “You weren’t sick. I poisoned you.”
Catalin’s jaw dropped. “… excuse me?”
“Sorry!” Saphie sounded anything but. “But I had some errands in the palace that I couldn’t quite take care of during a prayer ceremony… not the least of which was checking to make sure you had Celeste’s crest. And I hardly had any business being in the slave quarters, did I?”
“How did you even-” Catalin started to ask.
“With my little friends, here!” Before Catalin could see what she was doing, Saphie was holding a long, thin needle between her fingers. “I’m sure you know by now that the Fourth Division Commandant, as well as being the lead medic, is expected to specialize in poisons.”
“Oh.” Catalin felt a strong urge to slam his head against the wall. “So you’re supposed to be an Imperial Guardian, too?”
“Uh-huh!” Saphie pulled her collar aside so that her own pendant was visible. “I hope we can work well together!”
“Work well together. Riiiiiiight,” Catalin drawled. “Explain this to me. How am I supposed to work well with someone who poisons me? Or, for that matter, holds me at knifepoint and throws me out a window? Are you two insane? You seriously expect me to trust you?”
“All right, all right, that’s enough of that.” Victor finally stepped forward and spoke, with a weary sigh. “Damian, Saphie, stop teasing him. He’s not up for it, and I don’t blame him.” When the pair nodded, having the decency to look contrite, he stepped up to Catalin, kneeling on the floor next to him. “How ‘bout we get all this jewelry off you, kiddo?”
Catalin surveyed this Victor person warily. He’d never actually met anyone who used the word “kiddo” and didn’t say it condescendingly, but for some reason, the older man seemed sincere. The way he spoke to Catalin put him at ease against his will, and he could sense, at least, that Victor was a bit more grounded in reality than Damian or Saphie. The air about him that Catalin originally thought was imposing seemed warmer now, more paternal.
Tentatively, Catalin offered his wrists to Victor, who pulled a small, thin tool from behind his ear and began to jiggle the lock.
“Sorry it took me so long to come get you,” Victor continued, “but we knew that your abduction would be a high-profile crime. The only time we’d be able to get in without being noticed was the Unification Day ceremony, and security was a lot tighter a few years ago than it is now. We had to wait until we were sure we could do it. There we go,” he said cheerfully as the manacles popped open and fell to the floor. As Catalin massaged his bruised wrists, Victor asked, “How about we take care of that collar next?”
“You can’t pick that,” Catalin said immediately. He’d tried it numerous times, himself. But the collar only came off when he had to get fitted for a new one, and it was built to last until then.
“Won’t know until we try, though, right?” Without waiting for an answer, Victor leaned forward and begun to work at the collar. Too tired to protest any further, Catalin let him do it.
After a minute or so of working quietly, Victor asked, “You probably don’t remember me, do you?”
Catalin blinked, surprised. “No,” he answered simply.
“I figured as much. You were about two years old.” Victor smiled. “Celeste brought you and your sister to the palace when my wife was pregnant.”
“Palace?” Catalin only made the connection at that moment. “… Gwendolyn Doyle’s husband was named Victor.”
Victor’s smile bridged into a grin. “Was? I still am.”
