A man stood among those shards. He had whirled around when the door opened; his clothes were dark, and a fog-mask obscured his face. There was a soft crunch and skitter as his movement shifted glass underfoot.
“Hands—” Jack started to say, but then his muscles went rigid—he couldn’t even twitch a finger against the trigger—and he almost toppled over. Damn. Easy enough for an intruder to anchor an immobility charm in front of the doorframe, wasn’t it?
“Where’s the cup and the knife? We know you have ’em both. Where are they?”
It wasn’t Morris’s voice. Jack had been half expecting his cousin’s loyal agent to be the one dirtying his hands with his work. A bland, tense city accent. Perhaps somewhere south of the river. Jack also couldn’t speak at the moment to answer the bloody question, so the masked man wasn’t as bright as Morris.
The crackle of a spell washed over Jack. A negation. Violet.
All his muscles relaxed at once. Unfortunately, this meant that he both stumbled a little and dropped the gun.
Jack cursed and bent for it. The masked man dived for the nearest thing resembling cover, which was a tall standing wardrobe. He wrenched the door open as if to use it as a shield, and Jack straightened with the gun in hand, and—
Afterwards, he struggled to remember exactly what he’d seen. Violet would say that the intruder climbed into the wardrobe. To Jack’s eyes, it looked as though something had snagged the man’s sleeve and pulled him in, like a piece of factory machinery. And what happened after that—the way the wardrobe seemed abruptly half its own height, then seemed to become a standing cabinet with elegant gaps and drawers, then back to a wardrobe again—happened so fast, in a dim room, that it could have been one of those bizarre visions the mind threw out when it was trudging up the shorelines of sleep.
The sound was distinct, at least. A bloodcurdling shout, cut off even more alarmingly by a wet noise. And then silence.
Real silence. That musical chord was gone as well.
Violet and Jack looked at each other. Dawn had begun to trickle in through the window. Violet looked bloodless in the soft grey light.
“I’m not touching it after that,” said Jack. “You’re the mistress here, not me.”
Violet swallowed hard and eased her way across the room, following an uneven pattern on the floor. Forward, across—ah. Moving like a knight.
“Maud worked this one out,” she said. She paused again in front of the wardrobe and settled her shoulders, visibly pulling on a persona, then yanked the door open.
And slammed it shut again almost as fast.
“Oh, no. No thank you. Oh fuck buggery hell.” New York shoved into Violet’s vowels when she was being unladylike. She put the back of her hand to her mouth and retched, twice. Jack began calculating a knight-path in case she outright swooned, but Violet straightened with a determined and paper-white expression.
“That can be dealt with later,” Jack said. “Let’s check on the kitchen.”
It didn’t sound as though the man—or what remained of him—was in danger of going anywhere. Nor was the glass on the floor. Jack would send some of the stronger-stomached servants to clean up later.
The kitchen was no longer under siege, and Maud and Oliver had made their way there. Oliver was worriedly clutching a tin of biscuits. Dorothy had vanished, but a kitchen maid was busy scooping coal into the largest stove. Given the hour of the day, the house’s guests were crowding out what would very shortly be a working kitchen. Jack announced that they were moving into one of the parlours, where at least arses could be parked on comfortable chairs.
“Bring the biscuits,” he added to Oliver.
“They didn’t like being shot at,” said Maud to Jack once they’d relocated. “Or having a fire set at their feet. They took off in short order.”
Jack nodded to Oliver, who turned pink at the implied praise.
“What happened upstairs?” Maud asked.
“Someone got in. The house … dealt with it.” Violet went to sit next to Maud, who responded to some invisible signal and wrapped an arm around Violet’s waist. Violet dropped a kiss on her hair.
“He must have come down from the roof, to access that window,” said Jack. “You’ll have to strengthen the wards up there, Violet.”
Violet stifled a yawn. Everyone’s guidelights blinked out as the hall clock began to chime six o’clock. The sky was properly lightening now. Jack might be able to snatch a few more hours in bed.
The last strike of the clock melded into yet more music, though at least this time it was a melody instead of a held note. It announced that someone or someones recognised as friendly by the house wards had entered through the Bayswater tunnel.
“Early for a visit,” said Violet. “I hope nothing’s gone wrong on their end.”
“Oliver, bring them through here and then go and dress,” said Jack, giving up on the prospect of sleep. “I’ll be up to wash shortly.”
Soon afterwards, Oliver ushered three people into the parlour. Or rather, he scurried in the wake of Sir Robin Blyth, who was moving with urgent strides towards his sister, and managed to actually do some ushering on behalf of Edwin Courcey and—Jack blinked—Adelaide Morrissey. All three were in full evening wear, including a cloak over a deep red gown and white gloves on Adelaide, and they had the tight-eyed, radiant dishevelment of people who hadn’t touched their beds.
“Don’t you look splendid, Addy,” said Maud. “Oh, it was the Home Office ball, wasn’t it?”
“Yes, and one of the undersecretaries hosted a truly lethal party-after-the-party,” said Adelaide. “When Robin dragged us away there were people asleep in the ornamental fountain.”
“I had a vision. One of the urgent ones. You’re unhurt? All of you?” Robin peered with concern at Maud, who said hastily, “Yes, yes.”
“I see our assistance is unnecessary after all,” said Edwin. He looked particularly pinched. The idea of Edwin Courcey, of all people, attending an all-night social affair that left guests draped over fountainry was bizarre.
Jack settled himself further into his armchair. “You may inspect us for holes, though there might be complaints were I to disrobe. Or perhaps you wish to see if memory holds up.”
He let his gaze catch on Edwin’s. The man’s jaw set and annoyed colour filled his cheeks, but the only motion of his eyes was pointedly down to Jack’s bad leg and up again. An interesting showing of claws. This particular mouse of a magician had changed since taking up with Robin Blyth. He was becoming more fun to tease.
“Shut up, Hawthorn, there are ladies present,” said Robin without much rancour.
“His lordship is more than welcome to make a spectacle of himself. I doubt anyone here is interested enough to comment.” Adelaide’s dark brown eyes did a good line in a skeweringly superior stare. There was a giggle from Maud.
Violet let out a sigh and stretched her arms above her head. “Well,” she said, “I’d better tell Mrs. Smith there’ll be six for breakfast.”
* * *
“Only one battle wound this morning, Hawthorn,” said Violet, when Jack arrived in the breakfast room. “Oliver’s improving.”