Necessary Sacrifices

by R. L. King

  They didn’t speak again until they’d been seated at a small table with a view of the street. They ordered drinks and made small talk until after the waiter had taken their orders, and then Imogen looked up from her wineglass. “Alastair—” she began.

  “Imogen, listen,” he said. “You don’t have to explain or justify anything to me. I’m always delighted with the chance to have lunch with you, but—”

  “I know that,” she said. “I know I don’t. But I just wanted the chance to talk to you alone. And not just about Clifford, either. But let’s start with him.”

  “Imogen—” Stone felt awkward, watching her uncomfortable, nervous expression. It was almost as if she were afraid to say what she’d brought him here to say, which wasn’t like her at all.

  “No, let me say this. Sorry—with everything that’s been going on the last few days, my head isn’t exactly where I want it to be. But I really want you to understand.”

  “Of course,” he murmured. “There’s no need to explain—you know that. But I’ll listen to whatever you want to tell me.”

  She glanced up from her napkin. “What do you think of him, Alastair?”

  “Of Clifford?”

  “Yes.”

  “Er—” He struggled for the words. “I—barely got to know him at all. He seems… respectable,” he finished, a bit lamely.

  “Respectable. Yes, he’s that. You were going to say ‘boring,’ weren’t you?”

  “Of course not.”

  “But you were thinking it.”

  “I wasn’t,” he protested, not altogether truthfully. “But what I think of him doesn’t matter. All that matters is what you think of him.”

  She picked at her salad. “I met him a few months ago, at one of Dad’s charity things. He used to be in finance, but now he teaches the subject at the University of Reading. He comes from a good family—Dad approved of him. Well, as much as he could approve of anyone who wasn’t you, anyway.”

  Stone sighed. “He never got over that, did he?”

  “I don’t think he ever would have done. He never said anything about it, of course, but he didn’t need to.” She chuckled again, this time a little self-consciously. “I think he thought he was being terribly subtle, but blind people could see it was one of his fondest wishes.”

  “Imogen—”

  She reached across the table and took his hand, this time giving him a genuine smile. “It’s all right. It’s not as if we’re pining for each other or anything. We worked it out years ago.”

  “We did,” he agreed, but perhaps not with the level of conviction he’d have preferred. “You made your choice, and I accepted it.” He gripped her hand. “I love you, Imogen. I always will. Nothing will change that. But you’ve moved on, and so have I. I’m just happy we remained friends. That would have been the hardest part for me, if you’d shut me out completely.”

  “Never,” she said, shaking her head. “I could never do that. But Clifford—”

  “Does he love you?” Stone asked.

  She nodded, this time meeting his gaze squarely. There was the old Imogen back, strong and full of resolve—the Imogen who could stand up to her father. “He does,” she said in a firm tone.

  “Is he good to you? Does he treat you well?”

  “He treats me like a queen. He’s kind, clever, loving, funny—and before you ask, he’s not after the family fortune.”

  “I wasn’t going to ask,” Stone said, though the thought had occurred to him.

  “He’s not. His family has plenty of money of their own, and he’s not at all pretentious or posh or crass.” She gave him an impish smile. “He drives a ten-year-old Mercedes, because he likes it and he never got ’round to buying a newer one.”

  “Well, then…” he murmured, in an amused that settles it tone. Then, more seriously: “Does he know about the…family secret?”

  “No.”

  “No?” That was a surprise.

  She shrugged. “Why should he need to? Especially now, with Dad gone? I did my best to stay away from all of that.”

  Yes, as I know all too well, came the quick thought, but he squelched it. He met her gaze again, and asked the question he didn’t want to ask, but had to: “Do you love him?”

  Her answer came after a pause, but he could tell it wasn’t one of indecision. It was more as if she was taking care to ensure she used exactly the words she wanted to. “I do,” she said at last. “I feel comfortable with him. We haven’t made anything formal yet—and at this point with everything going on with Dad, it will probably be quite some time before we do—but I can see myself spending my life with him.”

  Deep inside Stone, something clenched a little. He ignored it and squeezed her hand again. “Well, then, I’m very happy for both of you. I wish you all the best.”

  “You’re sure you’re—all right with it?”

  He leaned forward. “Imogen. That’s an absurd question. Who you choose to be with is none of my business.”

  “I know. It isn’t. But even so—I want your blessing. That’s all. It won’t change my mind either way, but…it’s important to me.”

  He picked up her hand and gently kissed it. “Imogen, love, of course you have my blessing. I want nothing more than for you to be blissfully happy for the rest of your life. If Clifford can do that for you, then you two absolutely have every blessing I can give you.”

  Tears glittered in her eyes. “Thank you, Alastair. You don’t know how much that means to me. I hope you two will get on. I know you don’t exactly travel in the same circles, but—”

  He chuckled. “He probably won’t approve of me.”

  “You’d be surprised. Maybe you’ll get the chance to talk a bit before you head back home.”

  The waiter appeared to whisk their salad plates away and bring their entrees. She watched him as he worked, and her gaze followed him until he left the room again. “There’s—something else I wanted to talk to you about, as well.”

  “Oh?” Stone raised a questioning eyebrow. He’d expected the conversation about Clifford, but figured that topic would dominate the meal.

  Surprisingly, she looked even more uncomfortable now than before. “I don’t even want to think about this, but it’s not as if I can push it under the rug and ignore it.”

  “What is it?”

  “I feel morbid even talking about it.”

  “Imogen—just tell me. Whatever it is, if I can help, I will. You know that.”

  “Well—I know it’s going to take some time to settle Dad’s estate, especially since he died so suddenly and no one had any time to prepare. It’s quite enormous—I doubt I even have an idea of how enormous. As his only child, I’m sure quite a lot of it will fall to me—whatever he hasn’t designated for the staff or his various charitable organizations and other philanthropic and educational causes.”

  Stone nodded. “No doubt. I suspect there will be quite a lot of university buildings being named after him in the next few years.”

  “I’m sure that’s true. But—” She met his gaze again, resolved but unhappy. “What am I going to do about the London place, and Caventhorne?”

  Stone almost asked her what she meant, then caught on. “The magic.”

  “Yes. Well, that’s most of it. I can’t sell them—not with the portals and all those secret areas I can’t even get into. I can’t even turn Caventhorne over to the National Trust, for the same reason. I certainly don’t want to live there. I’m sure he’ll have left enough money to keep them going indefinitely, but it seems a shame to leave them empty, with just the staff knocking around in them. I’m not even sure how much of the staff will want to stay on, if they’re not doing anything meaningful.”

  Stone thought about that as he sampled a bite of the delicious risotto. She was right, of course—it was one of the biggest problems with
wealthy mages, especially those who died without magical heirs: what did you do with their houses when they died? It was easy enough to dispose of collections of magical paraphernalia—if nothing else, they would end up in places like Eddie’s library, to be used for the good of the magical community as a whole. But teleportation portals were fixed in place and couldn’t be moved without destroying them, and even then if you did the job inexpertly they could cause quite a bit of damage to the surrounding area. “Your father didn’t have any magical associates who might be interested in the place?” he asked at last.

  “Not that I’m aware of. Most of his mage friends weren’t nearly as wealthy as he was—and most of them were his age or older. That would just be passing the problem off to someone else when they’re gone.”

  “So you wouldn’t want to move into the London place, at least?”

  “No.” She took another bite and dabbed delicately at her lips with her napkin. “I’m quite happy with my own place in town. And…well, if anything does happen with Clifford, he’s got a place in London and a small country house in Kent.” Her hand tightened on her napkin and she returned it to her lap. “As I said, it will be quite some time before I have to concern myself with any of this, and I’m sure Kerrick will keep things running smoothly at both the London place and Caventhorne for as long as he needs to. But—”

  “But you’ll need to deal with it eventually,” Stone said. “I understand. I’ll do whatever I can to help—just give me a call when you know the details. We’ll work it out somehow.”

  “You don’t think I’m morbid for thinking about it already?”

  “I think you’re practical. Better than being blindsided by it when everything’s settled.”

  She took his hand again. “I’m so glad to talk with you, Alastair. You always did have a way of helping me work through things. I wish I could be as calm about everything as you are. You never seem to get agitated about anything.”

  He almost laughed at the absurdity of her statement, but stopped himself. He squeezed her hand instead. “If you only knew how wrong that was. I’m a bit like a duck, really—I might look unruffled on the surface, but you can’t see how fast I’m paddling to keep myself upright.”

  That got a genuine smile. “You’re such a dear. Thank you for listening to me.”

  “Always.”

  They spent the rest of the lunch talking about anything but Desmond or Blakeley or the upcoming service, and when they left to meet the car outside, Stone was pleased to see that Imogen looked as if some of the weight had been lifted from her shoulders. Still, he felt a bit guilty about being happy he could help her in ways Clifford Blakely couldn’t, even though he hadn’t been lying about what he’d said. Imogen had been alone too long, and with no particular conceit he suspected he might be part of the reason for that. If she had finally found someone who brought peace and pleasure to her life, his blessing had been nothing but genuine.

  As he watched the driver help her into the car—more propriety even though she didn’t require it—something deep and primal stirred deep inside him. He would never tell her this, of course; it was none of his business, she wouldn’t take it well, and he wasn’t particularly proud of it, but it was there nonetheless.

  Clifford Blakeley had better be worthy of her.

  When Stone got home later that afternoon, he found Verity perched on one of the stools in the kitchen, nibbling a cookie and chatting with Aubrey. “Hey, Doc. How was your lunch?”

  “It was quite nice. Did Aubrey give you the tour?” He glanced at the caretaker, who was stirring something in a pan on the stove.

  “Yep. He showed me around the house—at least the parts that weren’t magic or warded—and around the grounds a little. This is an awesome place you’ve got here.”

  “That’s quite charitable.” He took a seat across from her. “Obviously he didn’t show you the parts we can’t afford to repair.”

  “Like I said, that’s part of its charm.”

  “You’d fit right in over here, then,” Stone said wryly. He glanced at Aubrey again. “So—did she ask you all sorts of questions about my childhood?”

  “Only a few, sir.”

  “Restraint. I’m surprised.”

  “Excuse me, sir,” Aubrey said. “Must fetch something from the pantry.” He made himself scarce with surprising speed.

  Verity chuckled, watching him go. “Don’t worry—I didn’t ask much. Mostly we just looked around the house, so your secrets are safe. He did show me some photos, though.”

  “Photos?”

  “Only a few,” she assured him. “Nothing embarrassing. But you did look cute in your little boarding-school uniform with the short pants.”

  Stone sighed. “Verity…”

  She glanced toward the door Aubrey had departed through, and sobered. “So—everything okay?”

  He flashed her a questioning look.

  “You know—with Imogen.”

  “Oh. Yes. Everything’s fine.”

  She watched him for several moments, then hopped off the stool. “Great, glad to hear it. I know you don’t need more stress in your life right now.”

  CHAPTER THIRTEEN

  The night before Desmond’s funeral, Stone took Imogen up on her offer for him and Verity to stay at the London house. They settled into two large rooms and shared a pleasant early-evening meal with Imogen and Clifford.

  When it was over, he let Kerrick, who had come down from Caventhorne to take care of things until the service, know he’d be out a while. Ever the discreet professional, Kerrick didn’t ask him where he was going.

  He didn’t mention it to Imogen or Verity; he wasn’t sure why not, except that this was something he felt he should do alone. He decided not to take a cab or the Tube and instead walked to his destination, even though it was several miles. He’d catch a cab back when he was finished, but for now the brisk walk would give him a welcome chance to be alone with his thoughts.

  His destination wasn’t far from the cathedral where Desmond’s service would be held tomorrow. He’d been surprised when Imogen told him it would be at St. Paul’s, and begun to suspect that William Desmond had been an even more important personage than he’d ever known.

  He’d never paid particular attention to his master’s pedigree, beyond where it related to magic—it was another area where his characteristic curiosity didn’t extend, much like when he’d mentioned to Verity that he’d felt no strong desire to delve into his own family history. He supposed it was a failing, in a way: most people were more interested in the details of the people around them than in abstract subjects, but apparently he hadn’t—up until now, at least—been one of them.

  As he approached the staid, quietly dignified building he’d been heading for, he wondered if perhaps he should make an effort to change that. He’d give it some thought, but not now. Now, he had other things on his mind.

  Stone paused in the chapel’s doorway before entering, surprised that his heart rate had picked up. He always felt uncomfortable in places of worship—even this one inside the funeral home, a fraction of the size of the enormous one where the service would be held tomorrow morning—as if he were an interloper who didn’t belong and wasn’t welcome.

  At this time of night the place was dimly lit, with only sconces along the walls and a series of candles providing illumination. With its rows of carved wooden pews and elegant, understated decorations, it felt at the same time impersonal and intimate at the same time. To Stone, it felt as if the place were holding its breath, waiting for something to happen.

  The casket rested on a bier in front of the altar, surrounded by flowers and flickering candles. Carved of dark wood, it reminded Stone of Desmond himself, and his ways: strong, unadorned by excessive decoration, but unquestionably of the finest materials and craftsmanship obtainable. Kerrick’s influence, no doubt.

  He
remained in the doorway longer than he should have, unable to force his feet to move. At last he drew a deep breath and began walking, his hard-soled dress shoes echoing hollowly on the tile floor. With each step that carried him closer to the casket, he grew more tense. Around him was silence; he didn’t see any other mourners seated in the pews.

  It wasn’t until he’d drawn within a few steps of the bier that a tall, black-clad figure drifted out from one of the side wings.

  “Welcome,” the man said softly.

  Stone stopped before he reached the casket and glanced at the man. Tall, sturdy, and gray-haired, he wore a simple black suit with a crisp white shirt and gray tie. Even though he wasn’t a priest, he projected a comforting, clerical manner. “Good evening. I’ve just come to—” he indicated the bier “—pay my respects before the service tomorrow.”

  “Of course. I won’t disturb you. If you have need of me, I’ll be nearby.”

  “Thank you.” He doubted there would be any reason he’d have need of the sort of assistance the man could provide, but he remained where he was until the other had drifted back into the shadows before approaching the casket.

  Whoever had worked on Desmond had done a good job. He lay on the pale-gray silk as if he had simply decided to take a brief nap, his hands folded neatly, his eyes closed, his face calm in its final repose. He was dressed in a fine suit of dark blue, every line of his clothing and accessories immaculate, his hair neatly arranged. They had certainly used makeup to make him look more lifelike for the mourners, but it was by no means obvious. He looked as if he were merely sleeping.

  Stone stared down at his old mentor, his thoughts a jumble as they careened back and forth between memory of his shock and horror when he’d discovered Desmond in the study and more pleasant days—his apprenticeship; their years of magical collaboration; their late-night discussions of magical theory over too many cups of strong coffee; Desmond’s none-too-subtle attempts to bring him and Imogen together. Stone had never known for sure whether these attempts had been due to some previously unrevealed romantic streak or because Desmond had wanted to cement the joining of two of the oldest and most powerful magical lines in Britain—perhaps it had been a bit of both—but he’d found it oddly charming that his resolute, draconian mentor had always seemed so pleased to see the two of them together. That was all in the past now, though, and would have been even if Desmond hadn’t died so unexpectedly.