by Emma Newman
“And this is Mr Frederick Persicifolia-Viola.” He gestured to a barrel-chested man who appeared to be in his late forties, with greying black hair and dramatic mutton chops.
“Call me Freddy!” he said cheerfully, coming over to pump Will’s hand up and down. “Bloody mouthful that name is. Here’s the wife too then, how do you do?”
He grabbed Catherine’s hand and for a moment Will thought he was going to bite it off, but instead he kissed it in a way that made her recoil and left a damp mark on the silk.
“How do you do,” she said as politely as she could in the circumstances.
“M’wife is over there.” He pointed rather rudely at a woman half his size who also looked half his age. “George, come over here, there’s a good girl.”
She glided over gracefully with no embarrassment showing on her delicate features. Her hair was ash-blond, her eyes also blue. She was attractive, but nothing about her appealed to Will. There was something too mask-like about her face.
“I’m Georgiana. Enchantée,” she said as Will kissed her hand. He didn’t like the way she smiled at Catherine, as if having decided her superiority over her already.
“Sherry?” Bartholomew offered.
“Please,” he replied.
“I’d like another,” Freddy said, thrusting out his empty glass. “Helps build the appetite, what?”
“Indeed,” Bartholomew replied, his smile perfectly polite.
“So, Aquae Sulis not good enough for the man who destroyed the Rosas, eh?” Freddy swallowed the sherry in one shot and waited for a response, along with everyone else in the room.
“Well, the Season peaked,” Will replied nonchalantly. “After that evening, I knew nothing interesting could possibly happen there for at least another ten years.”
It earned a smile from Tulipa and a guffaw from Viola and he felt the first test had been passed. As he sipped the sherry, he heard the Tulipa wife complimenting Catherine’s dress, the colour in particular.
The butler announced that dinner was to be served and they went through another set of doors into a dining room, sparkling with silver and crystal but smaller than he expected.
“We prefer to dine in a more intimate space when meeting new friends,” Margritte said, as she guided him gently towards his seat.
The Tulipas were, as hosts should be, seated at either end of the table. Will was placed at Margritte’s right. Georgiana sat on his right, between him and Bartholomew. Freddy dropped into the chair directly opposite him, Catherine to his left and on Bartholomew’s right. He had the feeling she had the worse deal, and didn’t like the fact that she would be under Tulipa’s scrutiny all evening. However, the fact that they had both been placed to the right of the hosts, considered to be the place for honoured guests, was a positive sign.
It started well enough. The soup was good, eliciting a flurry of comments, and wine was served, which distracted people for a few moments.
“So are we to understand that you have taken permanent residence in Londinium?” Georgiana asked.
“That’s right,” Will replied.
“What a difficult time to move here,” Margritte said. “Everyone is still in shock about the Rosas. So many social events have been cancelled.”
“Especially the ones the Rosas were planning.” Freddy emptied his glass before the starter had even been cleared. “Of course, the Agency are having a bloody field day, nicking all their properties and raking it in.”
“Where are you going to be living?” Georgiana asked.
“Lancaster House,” he replied and watched the reactions with interest. Only Bartholomew was truly inscrutable, the rest were both impressed and envious to varying degrees.
“That’s a beautiful property,” Margritte said.
“What a challenge for a young bride,” said Georgiana, smiling at Catherine.
“The most challenging thing isn’t choosing the new décor,” she said and Will’s stomach tensed. “It’s finding one’s husband when there are so many rooms.”
The ladies tittered. Freddy twisted in his chair to look at her more closely. Will admired the way Catherine ignored his disgraceful behaviour.
“So which family were you from before the Irises got hold of you?” he asked.
“The Rhoeas-Papavers,” she replied.
“Ah, the red poppy lot, yes.” Freddy waved one of the attendants over since his glass remained empty. “Well, the thing you need to know about Londinium is that there’s no Master of Ceremonies or Censor, which means we can have a lot more fun.”
“What Freddy is trying to say,” Georgiana cut in, “is that Londinium is less socially prescriptive than Aquae Sulis.”
“Oh, I don’t believe that for a moment,” Catherine replied and a chill descended over the table. Seeming oblivious as she winkled another sliver of lobster out of its shell, she continued, “It just won’t be so blatant. Every social group has implicit and explicit rules about behaviour, but without a Master and Censor, the most influential of the Ton will control Society instead. It will be just as rigid, only less open.”
She looked up when no one spoke, right at Georgiana. Then she glanced at Will and added, “That’s what my uncle said anyway.”
“Well, he would say that, wouldn’t he dear?” said Margritte. Will gave Catherine as discreet a smile as he could. Good catch, Catherine, he thought. He noted that their hostess knew Lavandula was her uncle. She’d done her research.
“And your uncle is…?” Freddy asked, who clearly hadn’t.
“The Master of Ceremonies,” she replied. “He’s my mother’s brother. Of course he has an opinion on absolutely everything.”
She was more able than she thought herself to be. Will felt a rush of relief and hope for the future. If he could just bolster her confidence, she was intelligent enough to be a real asset.
He noticed a look from Bartholomew when she said it. Yes, he thought, that’s how I got the property. He could imagine the calculations Bartholomew was making: strong family with wealth on his side, massively influential and powerful uncle and aunt on her side…was he being reconsidered as a threat?
“The city has been shaken to the core by the fall of the Rosas,” Bartholomew said. “We’re still coming to terms with it all. It’s a very uncertain time.”
“It’s about bloody time if you ask me,” Freddy said after tipping the last dregs of the second glass down his throat. “Bloody Roses had their fingers in everything. We couldn’t fart without one of them claiming the right to tithe it.”
Catherine laughed at that, whilst Margritte took a sudden interest in her wine glass and the slightest sigh escaped from Freddy’s wife.
“It will be interesting to see how things settle,” Bartholomew said and the third course was brought in.
The conversation skirted around the Rosas a little more before Will gently steered it towards safer topics such as their honeymoon and the delights of London.
“Wonderful place,” Freddy said. “Owe every one of my grey hairs to it. M’wife says I visit it too much but every time I go back there something has changed. Fascinating.” He turned to Catherine. “Soho is a very different place now, of course.”
“Full of media companies and restaurants now, I understand,” she said breezily, but Will noted how Freddy had dabbed at his mouth with the napkin, laid it back down on his lap but not brought his hand back up to his cutlery. Moments later Catherine’s back straightened and her jaw clenched.
Just as Will was about to say something, Freddy sniggered to himself and the left hand came back up to take his fork again. Catherine was frowning at her meal, a gentle flush in her cheeks, and it took everything in him not to yell an accusation at Freddy.
“What exactly is a media company?” Margritte asked.
“Another mundane way to make money out of something utterly incomprehensible,” Georgiana replied.
The conversation then divided. Margritte, Freddy and Georgiana sucked Will into a discussion about
what the mundanes got up to in the city, whilst Bartholomew spoke at length with Catherine. Will did his best to maintain a presence in the former whilst listening in on the latter. It seemed mostly about Aquae Sulis at first, and the Lavandula connection, then he heard the names of some composers, and as the meat was served it sounded like they’d moved onto philosophy. Catherine was bright-eyed and animated by the time the fourth course was over. She seemed to be actually enjoying the conversation with the host. Will just prayed she wasn’t saying anything inappropriate.
He suspected she was eager to hold a close conversation with Bartholomew to exclude Freddy as politely as possible. He was gulping down the wine like a man just rescued from a desert and had the table manners of a goat. How his wife could stand it, he had no idea.
Just as the salads were being served he noticed Freddy’s hand below the table again. Margritte was consulting the butler about wine, while Georgiana was drawing Bartholomew’s attention away from Catherine, who was also looking at Freddy’s hand out of the corner of her eye. Catherine met Will’s eyes across the table and he tried to convey that he knew what was happening. Catherine slowly and deliberately looked down at a fork, drawing his gaze. He watched her slide it beneath her napkin and then, with impressive subtlety, lower both below the table line. Freddy was too busy pretending to listen to Margritte to notice what Catherine was doing.
Will considered saying something, but was too captivated by the way Catherine held his eyes. Then, as Freddy’s hand moved too far to the left, she raised an eyebrow as if to say, “Speak now or never,” and then jabbed the prongs into Freddy’s flesh.
He roared and his hand flew upwards, overturning his plate. Will kept his attention on Catherine, who was putting the fork back calmly with a satisfied smile.
“Frederick, really!” Georgiana shrieked. “Whatever is the matter?”
Freddy looked at Catherine, who turned to look at him, the smile not leaving her lips. “Is something wrong?”
“Did you manage to get any sleep?” Petra asked from the doorway as Max discarded the blanket.
“I did, what time is it?”
“Three in the morning. We had to put the gargoyle in the scullery for a few hours, it was wearing the carpet out.” She passed him his walking stick. “I think it was excited. Mr Ekstrand is just fitting it with some new bracers now.”
Max stood, ready for the familiar twinge whenever he moved his leg after a period of rest. “What for? Is something wrong with the old ones?”
“No, I’ll let him explain. He’s waiting for you in his study.”
“Which one?”
“The one he lets people into.”
Max followed her down the hallway, past the assortment of decorated doors and the monitoring room, to one near the end. It was made of plain wood with “Private, no apprentices, no owls” engraved upon it. Max wasn’t aware there’d been any problems with owls. Nothing had filtered through to the Chapter anyway.
Petra knocked. “I have Maximilian with me, Mr Ekstrand,” she called through the wood.
“Bring him in!”
Max followed her, finding the Sorcerer lacing the left bracer of a new set on the gargoyle’s wrist. “Just wait till you see this,” it said with a grin.
“Keep still.” Ekstrand tied the last knot in the leather. “Good. Walk over there.”
He pointed at the far side of the room. On first glance it looked like an average study with its large desk, shelves of books and comfortable chair, but Max’s trained eye spotted the tiny lines of formulae inscribed on the bookshelves and the slight discrepancies in wear indicating there was something concealed beneath the silk rug. The gargoyle walked across the room to the far bookcase. Silently. Over rug, over wooden floorboard, the usual clunking of heavy stone was gone.
Ekstrand beamed and looked at Petra, who rewarded him with a delicate round of applause. The gargoyle appeared to be equally delighted.
“Very useful,” said Max, nodding.
“Well, it is Thursday after all, technically speaking,” Ekstrand said, looking very pleased with himself.
“Now you can take me with you,” the gargoyle said. “When you check out the Agency.”
“I was planning on going alone,” Max said, but Ekstrand shook his head.
“I read your report on what the puppet told us about this Agency. I don’t like it, not one bit. We’re not going to visit these people in the usual way.”
The usual way, the one that Max had been trained in and that had been used by the Chapter for over a thousand years, involved walking up to the residence in question, in either Mundanus or the Nether, and knocking three times slowly whilst wearing the knuckle-duster he always carried in his pocket. Everyone in the Great Families knew what it meant, the rules associated with it and the penalties of refusing access.
“Can I ask why, sir?”
“Something one should never do, when dealing with something completely unknown, is make assumptions,” Ekstrand said. “I too planned to send you there to demand entry and see what in the Worlds they get up to, but when I saw the Tracker’s resting location, and put it together with the facts in the report, I concluded that we cannot assume these people respect the rules.”
“They’re of Society, and therefore not innocents, so they’re still bound by those rules,” Max said. In the Split Worlds there was no such thing as exemption; the Treaty bound Society, the Fae and, in their own way, the Sorcerers.
“But that’s another assumption. Why do we not know about them? Have they deliberately hidden themselves from scrutiny? If so, why? What are they hiding?”
“You want me to go in covertly?”
“Yes.”
“With a walking gargoyle?”
“Yes. It’s much quieter now, aren’t you?”
The gargoyle nodded earnestly. “And I can hit hard too. Not that we’ll need to hit anyone. Hopefully.”
“And what if we’re discovered?”
“Well, then it’s time to hit them with the full force of the rules and remind them of your status.”
Max nodded, understanding perfectly. Apply the rules when most convenient to him. Not usual, but hardly unheard of. And with no innocents involved, he wasn’t going to argue.
“You said something about the location making you worried. Where will I be going?”
“Three quarters of a mile from the northernmost border of the Heptarchy, near Stirling.”
“It’s an area under dispute, a no-man’s-land,” Petra added. “The Sorcerer of Northumbria still has occasional skirmishes with the King of Caledonia. There’s an uneasy truce that hasn’t been broken for the last century, but neither seems willing to back down over a stretch of land between them.”
“Which just happens to be where the Tracker ended up?” Max asked and both Petra and Ekstrand nodded. “I can see why you’re being cautious, sir. You suspect this Agency might be exploiting the conflict and preventing either side’s claim to win out?”
“Exactly,” Ekstrand said.
“It would be a way to have a location outside any formal jurisdiction,” Petra added. “It would also explain why this Agency has escaped attention for so long.”
“They have enough resources if the puppet is to be believed,” Max added.
“Cathy hasn’t lied to us at any point,” the gargoyle said, eliciting a raised eyebrow from Ekstrand.
“There’s just one issue with this, sir.” Max wanted to keep everything focused on the task ahead rather than on any inappropriate attachments being formed by the gargoyle. “If the Agency is located in a place outside anyone’s jurisdiction, won’t that make it difficult to fall back on the rules if we’re discovered?”
Ekstrand rubbed his chin. “Good point. Better not be detected then, not until we know more about them. They may be utterly harmless, nothing more than a supplier of staff and furniture.”
“You don’t actually believe that, do you?” the gargoyle asked.
“No. Not for a mom
ent. So be on your guard, don’t get caught and if you do…don’t mention me.”
13
Once the roving hand was back in its rightful place, Cathy enjoyed the rest of the meal much more. Bartholomew was every bit the perfect host and she had the feeling he was actually enjoying their conversation. Freddy had laughed outrageously and clapped her on the back as if she were a fellow member of a gentlemen’s club. He didn’t try to touch her again.
William seemed to approve of her solution to Freddy’s behaviour and yet again she found herself noticing how handsome he looked in his smart frock coat and cravat. She endeavoured to focus on Bartholomew for the rest of the evening and, whenever she caught herself glancing through the candlelight to check on William, she reminded herself that falling for her husband would not help her plans to graduate and carve out a career in Mundanus.
Once the dessert dishes were cleared, the last moment Cathy had been dreading arrived: the retirement to the drawing room whilst the men smoked cigars and drank port. With only two other ladies, both of whom knew each other well, Cathy knew there would be a horrible amount of attention focused upon her. She didn’t want to make a mess of it, but if she truly didn’t care, why be worried?
The lavishly decorated drawing room had chairs that were comfortable enough.
“Now, tell us truthfully,” Georgiana said, sitting next to her. “Are you settling in well? Is there anything we can do to help?”
Cathy didn’t believe the offer for a moment. She’d fallen for the same trick played by her sister too many times; Elizabeth would pretend to offer help in order to discover a weakness and then exploit it at the first opportunity.
“That’s very kind,” Cathy replied. “But nothing has proved insurmountable yet.”
“Well, the Agency make it all so easy, don’t they?” Margritte said, sitting opposite them. “As long as one has good taste and a good judge of character, they take care of the rest.”
“They definitely make it easy—easy to be conned,” Cathy said.
“Whatever do you mean?” Georgiana narrowed her eyes and Cathy wondered if she was about to make her first catastrophic mistake of the evening.
