The Merry Men Masquerade

2. The Breakout

The first thing Ronan noticed when he stepped past the hallway was how bright it was.

He fought his every instinct not to turn on his heels as he was forcefully wrapped up in a golden halo. They had always operated in the dark – entirely unseen or a vague memory, a back spotted running away and nothing more. Now, hopelessly surrounded and encased in the light of a hundred candles, he'd lost his power. A mask didn't feel like enough.

"Eyes up," the rookie whispered at his side. "They can probably smell fear."

It was meant as a joke, but Ronan jerked his chin up guiltily. He stared at Robin's back and drew on his words from moments before for solace – trust in me, trust in me, trust in me.

They forged ahead along the outskirts of the floor, where the ladies and gentlemen lacking the means or the mood to dance floated between conversations. Keeping enough distance to avoid any interaction past nodding and smiling was a welcome part of the plan, but they weren't as invisible as Ronan had hoped. The idea was to observe without attracting scrutiny, but already, eyes lingered on the blackbird in their midsts. He supposed that, too, was part of the plan. Still, his skin crawled under the attention.

He kept his eyes and ears peeled for anything that might point them toward a Van Doren. Time crawled by with little spoken between them, but after minutes of eavesdropping on passive conversations and a full circle of the floor, they had yet to learn anything of substance. Robin edged deeper, further into the inner circle of the ballroom floor, until they had a clear view of the waltzing pairs. The space around them narrowed.

"We'll have a better view from the second floor," Robin said through a feigned smile. He started to shift that way, checking on his teammates over his shoulder, and came face-to-face with the profile of an older man who hadn't been there a moment before.

The man jumped, lowering his handheld mask in surprise. "Oh, my apologies," he said around lip-drowning mutton chops. "I was only trying to get a better view of my grandson."

He gestured toward an adolescent boy near the center of the floor, arm-in-arm with an older girl who shared his violent shock of red curls. (Falsely) taking Robin's appeasing smile for encouragement, he went on to say, "He's a tad young to attend such an event, but he is terribly fond of dancing, and the Van Dorens are good friends of mine."

The boy beamed as bright as the chandelier looming above, and his partner – maybe a sister – giggled at his enthusiasm, and their grandfather looked as if they'd hung the sun, and Ronan was not envious.

The man glanced back at Robin as his words hung, unanswered, and the lull tipped just this side of uncomfortable.

Robin blinked. Ronan wilted.

"Did you say you know–"

"I, for one, think it's delightful to see the esteemed youth attending these events," the rookie interjected. He plowed on, trite and saccharine, before the man could think it rude. "Age is no dictator of maturity, and your grandson is clearly well beyond his years. Personalities like his give me hope for the future of this kingdom."

Ronan faked a cough behind his fist to cover a snort as the rookie raised the charm to blinding levels, continuing with pearly teeth flashed in a cloying smile. "What a pleasure to find you this evening, Sir Carmichael. It seems only fitting that such a fine occasion should bring us together again."

There was no way he could've learned the man's name in the afternoon they'd spent preparing for this job – Ronan sure as hell didn't recognize his face – but he said it with confidence. Ronan hesitated, and so did the man – Sir Carmichael, apparently.