by Emma Newman
Bertrand tried to launch himself at Max but the cuffs held fast and he kicked the chair instead. “I’ll see you hanged!” he yelled as Max put the pin of the door handle into the wall. “I’m a Viola, damn you! I’m not common filth! You can’t treat me this way!”
Max left the man to shout alone. By the time he was back in the room above the mundane pub, Cathy was coming up the stairs after seeing the all-clear signal from the gargoyle.
A very sweaty Oliver waited nervously where Max had left him. “Gosh! That was dreadfully thrilling. I felt like one of those spies I saw in a mundane film on my Grand Tour. I thought I did rather well.”
Max pulled the bug off the Peonia’s jacket and dropped it into a pocket. “The Second Sons are over. You’re off the hook.”
“Oh, that is splendid news. I…I don’t suppose you could put in a good word with the Duchess? Let her know how I helped?”
“I already know,” Cathy said from the doorway. “Thanks, Oli. That was brave of you.”
The Peonia beamed at her and then bowed. “I am your servant, your Grace. Now, if you don’t mind, I’d very much like to drink the best whisky they have in that bar downstairs until I stop shaking.”
Cathy moved aside for him. Once he was gone, Max went over to her. “Your husband wasn’t one of the Second Sons. And Bertrand was planning to kill you. Whatever you said to him worked. He was desperate.”
“Thanks, Max,” Cathy smiled. “That’s a massive weight off my mind. There’s no way Nathaniel will marry the daughter of a disgraced criminal. He’s too proud for that.” She looked at the floor, frowning a little. “I hope Charlotte meant it when she said this would be the best-case scenario. It’s the only one I could come up with.”
Max nodded and opened the window to let the gargoyle in. It went straight to Cathy, who embraced it. She let it go and took a deep breath. “Well, I should get back home before Carter has an aneurysm. With any luck, Will won’t be home yet, and he won’t know I’ve been gallivanting all over London with you.”
The gargoyle sniffed at her and the space around her. “Don’t go yet,” it said. “Something’s not right with you.”
Max pulled the Sniffer from his pocket, agreeing with the gargoyle. “Do you feel any different to normal?”
“I’ve got a headache, but that’s stress.”
The Sniffer’s light glowed green and Max flipped it over. “There’s Iris magic active on you.”
She frowned. “But I haven’t…” Cathy brushed the choker at her throat with her fingertips. She was still wearing it and her Nether clothing beneath her cloak. She paled. “What kind of magic? Could it be my wedding ring?”
“I don’t like the look of that necklace,” the gargoyle said. “You should take it off.”
“But Will gave this to me this morning.”
“Feel any different afterwards?”
Cathy shrugged. She was usually more certain of herself.
Max rummaged in his pockets for one of the new gadgets Rupert had given him as a low growl started in the back of the gargoyle’s throat. “How’s your husband?” it asked her.
“Oh, he’s fine,” she said brightly. “Wonderful, actually.”
The gargoyle’s growl got louder and Max looked at what was upsetting it—her eyes. The pupils were far too dilated. Her cheeks flushed at the mere mention of Will. His fingers closed around an unfamiliar shape and he pulled it from his pocket.
“I want to test you,” he said. “I think you’ve been Charmed, and I assume that, seeing as you don’t know how, you want to know what it’s doing to you?”
“It’s obvious,” the gargoyle snarled.
Cathy looked from it to the gadget nervously. “Will it hurt?”
“No. Stand still.”
When he reached for her hair she flinched away. “No! The Irises will know if you touch me. Tell me what to do with it.”
Back when Rupert had demonstrated what to do with it on Kay’s hair, she’d said it was like mini hair-straighteners, but he wasn’t certain if Cathy would understand the reference. He certainly didn’t. Max directed Cathy to separate out a lock of her hair and then run it between the two little arms of the detector, pinching them closed and then pulling it down the length of her hair. After it beeped, his phone buzzed and he checked the screen. The results were displayed on it.
“You’ve been exposed to two massive doses,” he read. “One in mid-November and a second one that started a couple of days ago. Both have the same signature, and by the look of you now, I reckon both were Charms designed to make you feel strongly attracted to someone.”
Cathy’s face drained of colour. “What?” she whispered.
“I suspect that choker is Charmed too,” Max said. “There’s a background reading here that’s definitely Iris, very strong, and different from the attraction Charms. You should take it off.”
She fumbled with the clasp, shaking. It finally came free and as soon as it was away from her throat the gargoyle hooked it with a claw and whipped it away from her, sniffing at the sapphire. “It’s this. It’s first-gen, I just know it.”
“From Iris himself,” Max said to Cathy, who by now was so ashen-faced he thought she might pass out. “I can confirm that if I take it with me for testing.”
“Mid-November?” she whispered. “Attraction? Are you sure?”
Max nodded. “Positive. It’s all stored in the hair, like some mundane drugs. That’s why Ekstrand took your hair to test when he first met you. He wanted to know what Charms were active on you. There were none then. Now you are being magically influenced to find someone attractive to the extent that it will impede your judgement, make you susceptible to their suggestions, especially if those are leading to intimate contact with them, and—”
Cathy staggered away, turned around, and vomited into a waste bin. She drew in a rasping breath and then vomited again. “Oh God,” she groaned. “Oh God, I thought that was real. That night…that night with the strawberries—” she vomited again, heaving until there was nothing left.
The gargoyle dropped the choker in Max’s palm and went over to her. “Are you okay?”
Cathy went to a nearby chair and leaned against its back, shivering. “No. I am very not okay.”
“Want me to go and break his face? I can do that. Just say the word.”
“No,” Max said. “No one is breaking anyone’s face without the permission of the Sorcerer.”
She looked at Max. “What about Poppy’s wish magic? Is that in my hair too?”
“Wishes granted directly by the Fae are different,” he replied. “They’re not something inhaled or digested. They influence the soul directly, without any physical component. You either drank or ate something that contained these Charms, or inhaled them, in a perfume or cologne, or made skin contact with something holding the magic.”
Cathy squeezed her eyes shut. “I thought he was different. I believed him. Oh God, I still feel like I want to go home to him!” She retched again, even though her body had expelled everything it could.
“It’s the Charm,” Max said. “Your husband, I take it?” At her nod, he said, “And you saw him this morning?” She nodded again. “And he said he would see you tonight, intimating—”
“We’ve got the bloody idea!” the gargoyle said. “No need to rub it in, for heaven’s sake!”
“I’m simply trying to help Cathy understand that the desire to return home is seated within the Charm’s effect and shouldn’t be trusted. He has implanted a suggestion that when they are reunited, the lust created by the Charm will be sated, therefore—”
“Enough!” Cathy yelled. “That’s enough,” she said again, more quietly. “I understand.” She stood up, straightening herself, her hand on her stomach, her face still grey. “I see the truth of it now. Thank you. For opening my eyes.”
The gargoyle padded after her as she headed for the door. “Where are you going? You’re not going back to him, are you? Cathy?”
She st
opped, kissed the top of its head, and sniffed as tears started to fall. “No. I know what I have to do now. And it doesn’t involve that bastard.” Her voice cracked as she said it, but Cathy pulled the cloak tighter around herself, gave him and the gargoyle one last look, and walked out.
27
Will bounded up the steps to the front door two at a time and smiled at Morgan as the door opened. “Morgan! Good evening! Has the Duchess dined? I’m famished. If she’s already eaten I’d like something quick, cold cuts perhaps, and wine for both of us. We are not to be disturbed until the morning.”
It was only when he handed his cane to Morgan that Will noticed the look on his face. “I’m afraid her Grace isn’t at home, sir. An Arbiter was waiting for her when she returned from the wedding. They had a conversation in the drawing room, and then the Arbiter insisted she leave with him. Alone.”
Will tore off his cape, furious. Why was it so damn hard to spend time with his own bloody wife? Then he stopped, chilled. “Insisted she leave? He didn’t arrest her, did he?”
“No, your Grace! Nothing as terrible as that. But when Carter pressed to accompany her, the Arbiter wouldn’t permit it. She seemed concerned about something, nervous perhaps, but not under duress.”
“How long ago was this?”
Morgan checked the grandfather clock behind him. “Over four hours, your Grace. The Duchess said she would be back by seven at the latest, but…”
It was almost nine. He’d been waiting to see the Patroon for hours, then once everything was resolved he’d gone to his mother and sister to give them the good news. They were in such a state, he’d stayed until their nerves had settled and his father returned home. He’d never seen him look so haggard. Then his father had insisted Will debrief him and they’d got into a rather involved discussion about Aquae Sulis and then Jorvic. Will had elected to use a Way to Bathurst Stables and return on the last leg by carriage, seeing as he’d left the city via the stables and didn’t want there to be any gossip about his not having returned home.
Even if he’d stepped straight through a glass into his study, Cathy would have been long gone. “Which Arbiter? Faulkner?”
“No, your Grace, the one who visited before. His name is Max. My impression is that her Grace has known him for some time. I understand he was involved in the recovery of her uncle. Not that I attend to gossip, your Grace, but—”
“From Aquae Sulis!” Will’s teeth clenched. The same one who’d arrested his father? Was this some personal vendetta against his family? No. The Arbiters were incapable of such things.
“Inform me the moment she comes home,” he said, and went to his study.
He poured a brandy, unable to shake the feeling that something terribly important was happening and he knew nothing about it. He downed the glass and poured another, running through options in his mind, discarding each one as soon as it was considered. He could contact Faulkner, but the same problem as before stayed his hand: a London Arbiter would have little idea of what Max was investigating. Surely visiting the Duchess was way out of his jurisdiction? Perhaps a formal complaint would be in order. He doubted it would bring Cathy home any faster, and he didn’t relish the thought of having to tell Faulkner that his wife was tangled up in something he had no awareness of. It would be too humiliating.
There was no one else to ask for help. Tom wouldn’t have any idea what an Aquae Sulis Arbiter was up to either, and Will didn’t want anyone else to know that he had no idea what she was doing or where she was. He heard the clock strike nine. Was he overreacting? Surely any moment she would walk back through the door and tell him all about it. And then they would make love. He scowled. He should have done it that morning and made themselves late. It was only Elizabeth’s wedding, after all.
A parlourmaid knocked and asked if he wanted a fire. At his nod, she did her work at the grate before drawing the curtains to give a semblance of nighttime. She curtsied, lingering a little longer than necessary to look at him with barely disguised lust before leaving reluctantly.
Will shut his eyes. This damn Charm was being wasted; the one person it was designed for wasn’t there. He went over to the fire, warming himself, willing Cathy to come home. He twisted the ring on his finger, imagining its twin on hers and then, out of nowhere, he remembered Elizabeth coming to his study and telling him about the conversation she’d overheard between Cathy and the Arbiter. On a phone. In the nursery wing.
He abandoned his glass on the mantelpiece and raced up the stairs, heading straight for the nursery wing. If he could find her phone, he could call the Arbiter, demand to know where his wife was and that she be brought home immediately.
After whispering the Charm at the green baize door, Will stepped through. He saw the warm glow of Sophia’s night light down the corridor and heard Uncle Vincent moving around in the bedroom across the hall from hers. Will slowed, walking quietly, having no desire to explain himself to his uncle.
He went to the schoolroom, closed the door, and switched on the light. Dismayed, he took in the hundreds of places a mobile phone could be hidden away, and there wasn’t even any guarantee she kept it in here. He paused. She wouldn’t keep it in the main house, as that would mean every time she used it she would have to smuggle it into the nursery wing. That wasn’t impossible, but hardly practical.
Assuming she kept it in the room Elizabeth had heard her speaking in, it would have to be somewhere that wasn’t used in everyday teaching. That eliminated the dozens of drawers and boxes that were easily accessible to both Vincent and Sophia.
There was a Charm for finding things that had been hidden, but Will couldn’t bear the thought of going to Tate and asking her for one. He went to the walk-in cupboard in the corner, one that he’d never seen Vincent or Sophia go into, and switched on the lamp inside it. There were several shelves, filled with books and paper mostly, but deep enough to hide things behind what was on view. He grabbed one of Sophia’s little chairs, stood on it, and began to rifle through the topmost shelf.
It didn’t take long to find. Will focused on the two shelves out of Sophia’s reach and sure enough, there was a mobile phone wrapped in a square of felt. At first glance it looked like a random piece of crafting material that had simply fallen out of the box next to it.
As soon as he switched it on Will checked that the ringtone was set to silent, glad that his Grand Tour had been so recent; he knew how the mechanism worked. His father—his brother, even—wouldn’t have had a clue. It took him a minute to work out the interface and where the call logs were stored, but he was soon skimming a list of calls received and calls made. There were more of the latter, presumably because she had to keep it switched off so it didn’t make any noise during the day, but there were only two numbers that had been called, listed as “Max” and “Sam.”
Why was his wife phoning them in the first place? Then the screen lit up with an incoming call from “voicemail.” Will accepted it and listened.
The first was from Max, a few days old, warning her that she was likely to be attacked. If only she’d picked that one up. He grudgingly admitted to himself that perhaps a direct line to an Arbiter looking out for her wasn’t entirely a bad thing. He saved the message and listened to the second that had been left a couple of days ago, bristling at the sound of that man’s voice. Sam. Lord Iron now. Whatever he called himself, Will hated the worry in the man’s voice.
“Cathy, Dame Iris has just taken all the people from the asylum with her. They wanted to go, and I didn’t think I could stop them. Look…she said you’re going to have a baby. Are you? Are you sure you’re okay? I can be with you in just a couple of hours, just say the word. You don’t have to stay there, even if you’re pregnant, okay? Just…just call me and let me know you’re all right.”
Will stabbed the end call button, seething. What business was it of that man’s to call his wife and say such things? And why would Eleanor say Cathy was pregnant before she was? Was it simply confidence, having made the plan
with him already? Or was it because Eleanor wanted Lord Iron to know that Cathy was pregnant by her husband, so that he would stop hankering for her? What better way to put a man off another’s wife?
He should have run that man through when he had the chance, before he was changed into…whatever he was now. Yet again, a moment of patience and mercy was coming back to haunt him. He should have made Cathy pregnant and killed the man who clearly wanted to be her lover, and none of this would matter now. Will breathed in and out slowly, resting his forehead against the doorframe, getting a grip on his rage at Lord Iron and at himself. At least he understood now why Cathy was keeping in touch with him; she’d used him to care for the people she’d rescued from the asylum. His trust in her remained intact.
He wanted her home. He wanted to hold her close and shut everyone else out and just be with her, make her his completely. He found Max’s number in the contacts and called him.
A standard network voicemail message played after a few rings. Damn! He ended the call, not having planned a message. He could always leave one later. He switched off the phone and put it back where he’d found it. There was nothing to do but go back into the Nether and wait.
• • •
The cemetery was not where Max had planned to spend the rest of his evening. He’d delivered the Viola to his Patroon with a full and damning report of his crimes, gone back to Bath, and filed his report. As he dropped it onto the tray on Kay’s desk he felt a sense of completion, the closest thing he could relate to satisfaction. He knew the Second Sons were gone and that no more innocents would be at risk from them. He had found the man responsible for his father’s death and that of many others and done all he could to see him punished. George Iris would age and die in Mundanus, and Max would make sure he never took another person ever again.
