by Emma Newman
“Rupert…” she whispered. “Don’t hurt that man.”
He didn’t reply. They both watched the butler walk a few steps and glance back at the house as he probably did every time he left it. He stopped and wheeled around, his back to them as he scanned the house and its infestation. Calmly, but with more speed than when he’d left, the man went back inside the house.
“Shit,” Rupert said, scratching the stubble on his neck. “They’d better break through soon or—”
“You have to call them off,” Margritte said. “That man’s in there now. If you do whatever it is you plan to, he’ll be killed as well.”
“All staff know the risks,” Rupert said, keeping his eyes on the screen. “I could have had staff in my place when he attacked—I had a guest! He almost killed you.”
“That doesn’t give you the right to murder a man who happens to work there.”
“A man who knows what Ekstrand is like and helps him to murder—”
“Don’t be so ridiculous.” Margritte went to him and touched his arm. “This is wrong, Rupert, you must see that.”
He looked down at her hand and stared at it until she started to pull it away. He pressed his own hand over it and held her there, now staring into her eyes. She saw that his were hazel, with flecks of brown around the iris, and her instinct was to get away before he tried to kiss her. As his eyes started to close and his head leaned forwards she looked at the screen, desperate to see something that would distract him.
The door opened and the butler emerged, this time wearing an apron and long rubber gloves, holding something made of brass that looked like a cross between a plant sprayer and a rifle.
“Look!” she said, as grateful for the distraction as she was concerned for the butler.
Rupert let her go and clasped the sides of his head with his hands. “That can’t be—”
Margritte backed away, as slowly as she could, so as not to draw his attention. When she was out of his reach she watched the butler spraying at the clusters of insects. Whatever was in the device was cleaning the insects from the stone walls as easily as water washing chalk off a blackboard. Rupert made a series of agonised groans, transfixed by the sight of his failure. He hung his head when the last of the swarm was removed and didn’t look up again until the butler came back out of the house with a dustpan and brush and proceeded to sweep up the detritus left by Rupert’s failed assassination attempt.
“Fuck!” He yelled and slammed his fist onto the keyboard, making the image of the butler play backwards, before he threw an empty tea mug at the button at the corner of the screen and made it black again. He leaned against his desk, hunched over the computer, shaking his head and muttering to himself.
Margritte stayed still and silent, as did the golem.
Eventually Rupert straightened up and turned to her. “Well. That was fucking embarrassing.” He shoved his hands in his pockets. “That cock always was good at warding. Seems he actually deserves that reputation. I brought you here for nothing.”
She didn’t agree but she didn’t say so. “Perhaps you should open a Way for me. I think you need to be alone.”
He sighed. “I said I’d sort out William Iris after this. Ekstrand’s going to be a hard nut to smash into fucking smithereens but I don’t see why you should have to wait any longer.”
“I don’t want to kill William,” she said hurriedly.
“Not right away, I understand that,” Rupert said, nodding. “You need him to clear Bartholomew’s name first. I just figure that if he’s tied to a chair, horribly sleep-deprived and scared out of his tiny mind, he’ll be more willing to do that for you.”
Margritte nodded. She didn’t want the boy to just carry on with his life with no punishment for his crime but after seeing Rupert’s behaviour she was feeling less certain of how to go about it. Asking nicely wouldn’t get what she needed, though. “He’ll be protected by his patron, I don’t see how I could get him to—”
Rupert held up a hand. “Don’t worry about that. All you need to do is get yourself alone in a room with him. Let me know the time and place and I’ll do the rest.”
“And what about the Irises that live here?”
“When we move against William we’ll take them into custody too, otherwise Iris will use them against us. I won’t hurt them—they’ve been good to the university for a long time. But you said it yourself—William Iris is working with Ekstrand to take over Albion. We can’t be too careful about the other Irises already here.”
“Are you sure you want to do this, Rupert? The university has already lost the Rosas.”
He shrugged. “Shit happens. I was thinking about giving you Magdalen when the Irises go down. If you want it.”
She would be the first woman to have a position of power in Oxenford. “Not Lincoln?”
“I want Alex to stay as Vice-Chancellor and you to have your own college.”
So that was it; he wanted her to give up on taking the throne back. “I’ll think about it.”
He opened a Way for her and she stepped through, greatly relieved to see him remain on the other side. “See you soon,” he said and gave a sad smile before it closed.
She let out a long breath and rang for tea. Getting William Iris to meet her seemed impossible; he would expect revenge or foul play. The rattle of a Letterboxer made her jump and she realised how tense the time with Rupert had made her. He was offering her the chance to show everyone that a woman could have responsibility outside the household. If she made a success of it, the cause could be reignited. But could she accept in the knowledge that Bartholomew’s dream would never be realised and there would never be a Tulipa on the Londinium throne?
Once the letterbox disappeared she picked up the letter and was surprised to see a fleur-de-lys on the wax seal. She opened it and looked at the end of the letter first: “Catherine Reticulata-Iris”, with no mention of her new title.
She wanted to meet. Margritte knew it was the opportunity she needed to get to Will. Just as she was about to pen a reply there was a knock at the door.
“Please don’t be Rupert,” she whispered and then invited the caller in after tucking Catherine’s letter into the top drawer of her bureau.
Georgiana Persificola-Viola swept into the room wearing an austere black dress and the first genuinely joyful smile Margritte had seen on her face for many years.
“Georgiana?”
“Oh, Margritte,” she said, rushing to clasp her tight. “The most wonderful thing has happened. Freddy is dead!”
19
Max decided to put his efforts into learning more about the Agency whilst waiting for Ekstrand to have a good enough day to tell him where the tracker was located and thereby the location of Faulkner’s Chapter. The gargoyle had managed to wait two days before convincing Petra to go into Ekstrand’s study and take the reading herself. Max had been in the middle of the tour of the upper floors of the Agency Headquarters at the time, aware of what the gargoyle was doing but unable to stop it. By the time he’d got back the gargoyle had the location and Petra hadn’t seemed concerned about their activities.
As Max followed Derne into another room lined with more filing cabinets, the gargoyle was posted in the Nether, watching the Chapter Master’s movements. It was the third day of the gargoyle’s surveillance and a pattern had already emerged. Max planned to make his move the next day.
Max located the right drawer and pulled the file from the cabinet as Derne watched in silence. Cathy had led him on an interesting paper trail and between them they were uncovering more dirty nooks in Fae-touched society than in an abandoned house. The latest was a secret asylum in Mundanus.
“This isn’t a breach of the Treaty,” Derne said as Max scanned the top page. “There’s nothing to state that those who are no longer innocent cannot be returned to live out the rest of their days in Mundanus.”
“Are you concerned about something, Mr Derne?” Max looked up from the page at him. “I never said
anything about the Treaty, or any breaches.”
Derne cleared his throat. “I find this rather difficult.”
“Yes, I suppose you would,” Max replied. “This asylum is staffed by your people?”
“Of course. No innocents are involved at all.”
“There’s no information about visiting hours.”
“Of course not. Nobody visits these people.”
“What if someone wanted to.”
“I find that highly unlikely.”
“I find it hard to believe that these people have no loved ones who worry about how they are.” Max flipped a page and saw the latest name Catherine was looking for in the list of patients. “Or do the loved ones have no idea where this place is either?”
Derne’s frown deepened. “The Patroons know where it is and whether they choose to share that information with the relevant parties is up to them. We merely provide a safe environment. Being alive for hundreds of years can take its toll. Some people simply cannot maintain the clarity of thought required to survive in Society and so it’s kinder to them to let them rest in a quiet, peaceful location.”
“Far away from the rest of Society,” Max said. “To die.”
“To age naturally,” Derne said.
Natural aging terrified the puppets and Max wasn’t under the impression they would voluntarily choose it over life in the Nether. The Chapter had speculated about the fate of various individuals who’d been picked up in Mundanus confused and terrified by how it had changed. Now he knew where they’d gone, but had no Chapter to report back to. “So you put them in Green Dale Asylum when you know they can’t be put to better use here?”
Derne merely smiled.
“The techniques you use on the ones in the basement don’t work on them, I assume, otherwise this asylum wouldn’t exist. And you don’t have any ethical concerns about the way you brainwash the people taken by the Collectors?”
“Should I?” Derne asked without any hint of remorse. “No one else has complained. We take great care and give a great deal of thought to where people are placed once they’ve come to terms with their change in status. Society requires a steady turnover of staff, Mr Arbiter. Better that we take them from within the Nether than from the streets of Mundanus. Surely you would agree with that?”
“But there are staff from Mundanus.”
“Only a handful and only taken in when a breach made it imperative. Never against their will, I can assure you.”
Max closed the file. “I’m taking this with me.”
Derne sighed. “Can I at least take a facsimile so that our records aren’t damaged any further?”
“I’ll return it soon,” Max said, not wanting to give them a chance to cut or change any of the information within. “I want to see your files on the children born into the Agency.”
Catherine had told him what her bodyguard had said and asked that it be looked into as well. The gargoyle had been dying to go and see her in person, no doubt to tell her how the Agency ran their premises, but Max had been deliberately keeping them apart. Max hadn’t anticipated children being involved with the Agency other than the ones who had the misfortune of being young when their family was cast out of Society, but that happened very rarely. No doubt there was a current glut of minors, since the Rosas had fallen from grace en masse, but Catherine had made it sound like they were born and raised there.
Derne hadn’t moved. “Could that be another time? I have a meeting.”
“Then get someone else to show me.”
With a grim expression Derne mumbled, “Follow me.”
The main reason Max hadn’t anticipated children was because of the strict segregation he’d observed in the upper floors of the building. The male and female staff-in-training slept in separate dormitories divided by a corridor policed by a guard. Considering that some of those people must have known each other in their previous lives Max could understand the caution.
Another room, again full of files. Max scanned the drawer labels, which contained date ranges instead of alphabetical ordering. “Where do you get the babies from, Mr Derne?”
“Hasn’t anyone explained to you how children are made?”
“I’m immune to sarcasm as well as Fae Charms,” he replied. “Let’s get to the point. You keep your employees separated. Everything is so tightly controlled here I can only assume these babies are planned.”
“They are.”
“So people in marriages before their change in status are allowed to continue to sire children?”
Derne looked away, scratching the bridge of his nose.
“You’ll get to your meeting much faster if you just lay it all on the table, Mr Derne. Surely you’ve realised by now that we’re going to learn everything about what you do here, whether it’s with your cooperation or not.”
Derne’s nostrils flared. “We match the parents to obtain the children most likely to have the qualities we require.” When Max remained silent he added, “Every new arrival is evaluated and allocated to the positions they would suit the most. You’ve seen the notes made using our annotations at the front of each file. Those with a very specific cluster of skills and natural abilities are filtered into the programme you saw in the basement to maintain the building.”
“You breed the kind of people you need and raise them to be servants,” Max said.
“Yes,” Derne replied, relaxing when he realised there was going to be no need to justify himself to an emotionless man. “It’s most efficient.”
“And the parents? Do they have any say?”
“No. And they’re not involved in the lives of their children. It’s less complicated that way.” Derne sniffed and rolled onto his heels and then onto his toes. “Charms are used so it isn’t traumatic for those involved. We’re not barbarians.”
Max wondered how Catherine would react when she heard about this. He knew the gargoyle would have a lot to say. It always did.
“How long have you been doing this?”
“Hundreds of years. The only people who’ve done it longer than us are the Fae themselves. But you must know all about that.”
Max didn’t say anything. He knew the puppets arranged their marriages but had always assumed it was just as it was for the innocents: for the mutual benefit of the families to increase their wealth and influence. That the Fae might be involved in pairing people off to have children suggested they planned ahead and that was not something that sat well with his idea of them. They were flighty and mercurial, obsessed with a person one minute only to abandon them in disgust the next. If they were selectively breeding it meant they were looking for a particular combination of features, like the Agency. Like dog and horse breeders. But what for?
“Thank you for your cooperation,” Max said. It was time to go and meet Cathy.
Will read the letter a second time and leaned back in his chair. Amelia had been telling the truth. Even though he’d believed her at the time, there was still a doubt, still a fear she was saying whatever she needed to at the time to stay his hand. He would have a son within the year, just not the one Iris wanted. For the briefest moment he considered a ruse to pass off the child as Cathy’s but immediately dismissed it. Lord Iris would be able to tell, surely? It was too much of a risk.
Amelia was tucked away in a mundane country house, under guard and stripped of all Charms and artefacts. His man’s report said she was eating and sleeping well and wrote to Cornelius every day, handing the letters to the butler in the hope that she would gain permission to send them at some point soon. They were burned straightaway, in accordance with his instructions. She didn’t know her brother was already dead.
“It’s a merciful death,” he’d said to Cornelius as he poured the hemlock into the glass. “The way Socrates died.”
“It’s bloodless, not merciful,” Cornelius said. “You prefer to kill me like a woman would. It seems you’ve lost your taste for swords.”
“No,” Will said. “I just want you to d
ie slowly.”
Cornelius didn’t beg for his life but just picked up the cup and drank it swiftly. “You can go now,” he said with stained lips but Will shook his head.
It was a long time to sit in a room with a dying man but Will had to see it done, had to be certain he really was dead. Near the end Cornelius said Amelia would never forgive him for killing her brother and Will had simply smiled. “I will never forgive her either.”
He took the report on Amelia to the fire and threw it into the flames. He wanted the child to be brought to him immediately but what would he tell Cathy? There had been illegitimate children in both Mundanus and the Nether for as long as there had been marriage. Other families took the children in, even though they could never reach the higher echelons of Society, but he knew that was an impossibility in his own. His patron would not approve and his firstborn son would have the dubious status Sophia endured: an open secret within the household, yet hidden from the Patroon and without recognition in Society. No doubt Cathy suspected Amelia was his mistress before the revelations about their treachery, but bringing physical proof of it into her home would be so hurtful. He only wanted her to be happy.
A footman brought him a note on a silver tray. It had been delivered by a messenger who was waiting for a reply. Will recognised Faulkner’s handwriting and opened it.
Frederick Persificola-Viola was found dead in a mundane massage parlour in Soho in the small hours of this morning. He appears to have suffered a heart attack and the mundane emergency services were unable to resuscitate him. I found traces of Charms suggesting foul play. In light of our previous conversation regarding this individual, would you like me to pursue?
“Tell the messenger the answer is no. No further attention required.”
“Yes, your Grace,” the young man replied and left after a swift bow.
