The urge danced into Alan’s mouth to ask her whether he emitted the aura of someone who was likely to disapprove, and if so, could he blame the Catholicism? And also, did she and Maud really think they’d managed to behave on that ship like two people who weren’t fucking?
Maud saved him before either question leapt free.
“Oh, fiddle,” she said with warmth, and pulled Violet’s hand to her mouth to drop a pointed kiss on it. “He was such a good sport on the Lyric, and we’ve already trusted him with the secret of magic and the Last Contract. I think we can trust him with this.”
That easy assertion slid between Alan’s ribs.
“If you say so, O General,” said Violet. A delighted shriek came from Maud as Violet grabbed Maud by the waist and dipped her, then leaned down for a closemouthed kiss that belonged more to the theatre than real life. Maud laughed into it, and kept laughing when she was set back onto her feet.
Alan smiled. He felt at home among couples like this, who had nothing quiet or sedate about the way they loved.
Speaking of which.
“If you were wondering,” Alan said, looking at a point just past Edwin Courcey’s shoulder, “you and Sir Robert don’t have to be subtle around me either.”
It was a pause filled with the wariness of half-wild creatures. Alan had to move his gaze in the end simply to know if Courcey was looking at him or not.
“I don’t think anyone’s ever described Robin as subtle before,” Courcey said. “He’ll enjoy the novelty.”
Maud departed, and Violet perched herself on the arm of an overstuffed chair. “Sorry,” she said. “I love Maud, but she does rather bully you into intimacy once she’s decided you’re hers. You don’t have to be on first-name terms with us if you don’t wish it.”
Alan hesitated, considering the retreat thus offered, but it was too late now. He would just have to hold it firmly in his own mind that he was not their friend, merely the hired help. At least it would be easier to remember that in the absence of Maud, whose irrepressible likability slid under one’s guard.
“After the Lyric, there’s no point standing on ceremony,” he said. “I’m fine with it if you are.”
Violet gave a small smile and nodded. After a moment, Courcey—Edwin—did as well.
“So,” said Alan. Nonna Sofia’s rosary was in his pocket, but he liked to gather information before he revealed any. “I’m here. Talk me through the business.”
Edwin, clearly one of nature’s explainers, did so.
Of the three items that comprised the Last Contract, they had the cup—yes, Alan vividly remembered a lot of haring around an ocean liner after a parrot’s water bowl—and the other side had the coin. It was at least theoretically possible to triangulate the position of one of these items through magic, as that was how the coin had been located in the first place, although Edwin didn’t know how to do that. （His narrow face pulled into an expression that conveyed his dislike of not knowing.） His hope was that having two of the three would make things simpler.
“Things want to be complete,” he said. “It’s a law, of sorts, in magic. Broken items want to be whole. Sets want to be together. And the coin, cup, and knife were stored together for most of their existence. They were only separated by the Forsythia Club a handful of decades ago.”
Alan nodded. He’d been present when the ghost of Mrs. Navenby, the third member of the Forsythia Club to die, had told the story of how she and her friends first discovered and then re-hid the three items.
“So, what’s your plan?” he asked. “The other side wants to use it for power, and you don’t, but—what do you want? Can you melt the things down, at least?”
“We can’t destroy the Last Contract,” said Edwin, looking aghast. “It’d take a vast amount of magic, and in any case—it’d be breaking the contract itself. No magic for anyone.”
“We want a better hiding place,” said Violet. “Ideally somewhere that nobody can ever get at again, not even us.”
“Oh? Found one of those, have you?”
“No,” said Edwin. “I have hopes of making them unusable, somehow. Preserving the contract itself, which is vital for the continuation of magic, but making it—less tangible. Perhaps it can be transferred. Or perhaps the need for anchoring silver was part of the working. I don’t know enough. And I’ll work on it for as long as it takes, but a new hiding place would at least keep the contract from being exploited out of greed in the meantime.”
“Seems like the knife is well hidden already,” Alan pointed out. “Can’t it stay there, wherever it is?”
“That’d work if Bastoke and his friends didn’t know that Lady Enid had it,” said Violet. “If someone’s going to pull Spinet apart in the search, it should be me.” She smoothed a hand over a chair. “At least I care enough to do it gently.”
“Right,” said Alan. “That’s why I’m here.”
Edwin beckoned him over to the desk, which was a sturdy masterpiece of carpentry. The edges undulated and swept into curlicues at the corners, with engraved ferny leaves bordering the dark leather surface. The wood’s warm, glossy polish made it look barely used. Something to be looked at. Something that sang of wealth.
Spread out atop it were sheets of drafting paper covered in lines and figures.
“Plans of the house?” asked Alan.
“Of a sort,” said Edwin. “I’m no architect. We’d hoped the original designs might be in James Taverner’s files, but we can’t find them. I made these with a sympathy spell.”
“Like how Maud found the silver on the Lyric,” said Violet. Bright lines cast on the wall; Alan remembered that too. “But Spinet’s fussier than an ocean liner.”
“That’s one word for it,” muttered Edwin. “The plans make even less sense than the house. The sympathy did the best it could, but … there are no passageways drawn where we know there are some. Two rooms overlaid on the same spot. Rooms that seem to be missing entirely.” He tapped the nearest piece of paper. “The missing bits are the most promising, if we’re looking for hiding places for the knife.”
“Most of the house’s magic has to do with access,” said Violet. “A lot of doors and rooms won’t open, or show you their full contents, unless you meet the right conditions. Or sing the right tune.” Rueful. “The staff know a lot, they’ve helped us fill things in, but much of Spinet was built expressly for Mr. and Mrs. Taverner. The last time I was here myself, I was sixteen. It seemed so different when Lady Enid lived here. And she knew all the tricks. There was a room you could stand in and whisper, and another room where someone could hear everything you said, clear as day.”
“And for all we know they might be different rooms, by now,” Edwin said. “Violet, I still think the orrery—”
Alan cleared his throat. He didn’t have all day, even if they did; he had a deadline to meet this afternoon and would already have to write faster than usual. But all the throat-clearing accomplished was to invite himself into what was clearly a well-worn dynamic. Violet turned a look of playful exasperation onto him.