The Master Suite was silent save for the ragged breathing of Alistair Croft. He was exhausted, his face gray with the effort of fighting his own nervous system. Victoria held the notepad, her pen hovering. They had decoded half the alphanumeric string.
“Next character,” she whispered urgently. “Is it a letter or a number?”
Alistair’s hand twitched on the duvet. He lifted his index finger, trembling violently.
Suddenly, the double doors crashed open.
Lady Beatrice stood in the frame, swaying slightly, a half-empty glass of scotch in her hand. Her eyes were glazed, but they narrowed as she looked at the bed.
“Who are you talking to?” she slurred, squinting into the dim light. “I heard voices.”
In a split second, Alistair’s finger collapsed. His face went slack, his eyes glazing over into the vacant stare of the invalid. He played the part of the vegetable perfectly–a survival instinct honed by fear.
Victoria didn’t jump. She smoothly dipped a cloth into the water bowl on the nightstand and wiped Alistair’s forehead.
“I was reading to him, Beatrice,” Victoria said calmly, though her heart hammered against her ribs. “And cleaning him. The night nurse called in sick.”
Beatrice stumbled forward, gripping the bedpost. She leaned over Alistair, searching his face for any sign of life. Alistair didn’t blink. He didn’t breathe. He was a stone.
“He looks… different,” Beatrice muttered, her paranoia spiking. “He looks like he’s plotting.”
“He’s paralyzed, Beatrice,” Victoria said firmly, standing up to block her view. “Go to bed. I’ll handle the King.”