It lay innocently within its double prison of muffling woods. A silver hair comb, which looked as though it might be part of a set with the mirror and brush. But none of the other sets had included a comb. And the silver was as bright as if it had been polished just yesterday.
“Edwin.” Adelaide put a hand over his and squeezed briefly. Edwin, who seldom tolerated touch from anyone but Robin, gave her one of his small off-centre smiles.
“Rectification,” he said, and began the cradle.
The silver comb shivered under the rectification spell like the surface of a flicked teacup. When it stopped shivering, it was a small knife—a dagger, in fact—with a sharp-looking blade, and a hilt with a flat pommel. In the centre of the pommel was the simple design of a fern frond.
“Bother. Did anyone else remember to bring a sheath?” said Robin, entirely poker-faced, and Edwin began to laugh. Robin grinned and pulled both Edwin and Adelaide into a huzzah-we-won-the-match kind of hug. Jack appreciated that no attempt was made to involve him.
It did mean that he was checking his watch, about to make another pointed remark about the time, when the door to the Lockroom opened.
Jack looked over. “Violet? How did you…”
Violet looked him grimly in the eyes and stepped into the room. She looked like herself, not the redheaded disguise she’d been wearing earlier. Her hands were pressed together, palm to palm, in front of her body. She was followed by three men, one of whom was holding her firmly by the arm. That man was unfamiliar; so was the one who followed.
Both of them turned their heads, deferential, as the third man entered the Lockroom. He was tall and dark-haired, and dressed as if the world would end if a hair fell out of place or a speck of lint marred his grey suit. His neat footfalls whispered against the floor.
“Well, now,” said George Bastoke. “Once again, Courcey, you’re better than a bloodhound when left to your own devices. I can’t thank you enough. And you are, of course, all under arrest.”
15
“Priez-vous, Hartley,” George added crisply, before anyone else could speak. He pointed at Edwin. “On Courcey at least. And Blyth too, if he looks likely to punch anyone. And…” A flicker creased his brow as he looked at Jack, then cleared. “Ah. Hawthorn. Cousin, you’re not looking entirely yourself.”
The Cooper not restraining Violet was a wiry young chap with pale hair and the nervy air of a racing dog. He cradled the priez-vous and tossed it like a cup of water in Edwin’s direction. Edwin’s hands clapped together, palm to palm like Violet’s. Meanwhile, George cast a negation, with an unfamiliar clause attached at the end, and walked up close enough to Jack that it was impossible to dodge as it washed over him.
Jack smelled burning first. Then he saw the first curl of smoke rising, as if from a cigarette smouldering forgotten between his lips—and then he felt the crawling, piercing heat against the skin of his neck.
“Hawthorn,” said Violet urgently. “It’s a targeted negation—it’s going for the embroidery. Take off the tie.”
Jack unknotted it hastily, pulled it clear of his collar and tossed it to the ground. The grey fabric was eaten through with embers and char where the runes of Violet’s embroidery had been. Edwin had never been able to cast a negation strong enough to do that, when they tested it.
“You have been busy, Miss Debenham.” George still held the negation between his palms. “Is there anyone else here wearing anything they shouldn’t, I wonder?”
And he turned to the three people standing between him and the ledger, and let the spell seep fluidly out until it filled half the room.
Adelaide’s shirtwaist caught fire.
Robin shouted. Edwin jerked. Adelaide herself gave a startled scream and batted at her front and cuffs with her bare hands. Her embroidered illusion-runes were far denser than those on Jack’s tie; there were outright small flames licking at the fabric and thread.
“Bloody— I can’t do anything!” Edwin’s hands spasmed as he clearly tried to start an extinguishing spell on instinct. “Robin!”
“Addy, hold still.” Robin’s larger hands should have been better extinguishing tools, but the runes rekindled themselves as soon as he moved from one patch to another. Adelaide emitted a displeased stream of Punjabi obscenity that seemed very odd coming from the mouth of a mousy white woman.
“Miss Morrissey, I presume. I prefer to see people truthfully,” said George. “If that garment is carrying the illusion, then I suggest you remove it.”
“Remove her clothes?” said Violet.
“Unless she prefers to wait for it to char into rags on her body?”
Adelaide had a murderous gleam in her eye as she hurriedly unbuttoned. Robin removed his own waistcoat. The other two Coopers had found reason to stare at either ceiling or floor, but George remained as patient and unmoved as a marble statue. Adelaide’s chemise and corset had black specks on them when she flung the burning shirt to the ground and the illusion vanished. She hastily accepted Robin’s waistcoat. It hung loosely on her, but at least Jack felt comfortable looking at her again.
“There,” said George. “And now—the knife, please.”
Nobody moved. Edwin’s body shielded the knife and its box from view. Robin had his jaw set, and he stepped into George’s way as George made for the table.
George stopped. That crease appeared on his forehead again. He and Robin were nearly of a height, though next to George’s tailored appearance Robin—with his rolled-up sleeves, missing waistcoat, and pugnacious look—could have been a prizefighter George was inspecting before placing his bet.
“Sir Robert,” said George. “Consider your situation.”
Robin shot a glance at Jack, who shook his head. The last thing they needed was for the rigid potential in Robin’s shoulders and arms to translate into violence. For an unmagical baronet in a room full of Coopers, even one with a superb right hook, that was only going to end badly.
Edwin clearly agreed. He said, colourlessly, “Don’t give them an excuse.” And stepped aside.
With a grunt of annoyance, Robin did the same.
George looked down at the knife, gave a brisk nod, and closed the box. It was small enough to slip into his pocket.
“Hartley,” he said then, “where did you leave the journalist?”
Jack’s heart missed its cue momentarily.
“Skulking in the corridor, sir,” said the Cooper, who had now moved to shadow Robin.
George raised his voice. Not by much. George, like Jack, was accustomed to being obeyed without resorting to anything so vulgar as noise. “Mr. Ross? In here, if you please.”
Alan walked in unescorted by anyone. His gaze met Jack’s and leapt away quick as a whip. He settled himself against the wall next to the door, as if ready for the chance to slip back out again.
“But—you weren’t meant to be here,” said Edwin. “We didn’t need you for this.”
“Oh, no,” said Violet bitterly. “It’s even better than that.”
“Indeed,” said George. “This is exactly where Mr. Ross is meant to be. Where I needed him to be.”
Beneath George’s intensely polished exterior was a strong instinct for showmanship. A smile played on his face as he watched the impact of that on Robin and Edwin and Adelaide.