Jack had long ago trained his own face to hide more, the more he felt. Helpful for an army officer who was no more immune to fear than any of his men but needed to pretend otherwise. By now it wasn’t deliberate. It simply set into place as he looked at Alan and his mind flew back over the last fortnight, searching for—what? Clues? Proof?
A truth: Alanzo Rossi hated anyone with unearned power who wielded it against others.
And another: Alanzo Rossi would swallow a great deal of what he hated, if it helped him support his family.
Someone had cracked an eggshell full of molten glass on Jack’s sternum and had left it to trickle down between his ribs. It burned when he inhaled.
George went on, “Very careless of you all to have left him roaming around London after that voyage, without so much as a secret-bind, so that anyone could approach him with an offer of work.” He tutted. “You see, Hartley, Rolfe? This is the sort of thing the Coopers exist to prevent.”
“Yes, sir.”
Robin managed two furious strides towards Alan before Hartley intercepted him with a cradle half-begun and raised warningly. Even then, Robin looked on the verge of barging right through him, but he stopped and glared at Alan over Hartley’s shoulder.
“An offer of work,” Robin spat. “And then you came and made Maud the same offer, and this whole time you’ve been playing the spy and reaping the rewards from both sides.”
“The man’s a common thief, Sir Robert,” said George. “Were you expecting a shining diamond of integrity?”
Nothing shifted in Alan’s face either. He looked sallow and tightly wound. One of his hands twitched as if about to clench into a fist.
“I don’t understand,” said Adelaide to George. “If Mr. Ross told you where the knife was, why didn’t you come and fetch it yourself? Why let us go ahead with this entire scheme?”
“To catch us handily in the act, I presume,” said Edwin.
“A happy extra,” said George. “But no.” He looked at Alan. “Well, Mr. Ross? Where is my cup?”
“Miss Debenham brought it,” said Alan tonelessly. “Ask her.”
Violet’s hand went to her mouth.
“What?” said Edwin.
“Fuck,” spat Violet. “Fuck you, Alan Ross, and fuck every generation of your fucking family and fuck us for helping you when you said you were in need.”
The silent, burly Cooper holding Violet’s arm—Rolfe—took a tiny step away, as if her obscenity might be catching.
“Miss Debenham.” George held out an open palm.
“A note was delivered to me early this morning,” said Violet to Edwin. “A note from you. It said that you wanted the cup on hand, just in case—that you might need it for an affinity spell. A last step in finding the knife, if it had been split into pieces like the coin was. The note said to bring it along, and … not to tell anyone.”
“And you didn’t talk to me about it?” Edwin all but shouted.
“It was written in your hand,” she snarled. “Do you think I don’t know it by now?”
“It was me,” said Alan. Still with no expression in his voice at all. Alan, who forged references for his sisters, and who’d said of Jack’s letter to the Roman, I could reproduce the handwriting exactly. Who’d sat at Violet’s table as they planned all of this, writing with Edwin’s notebook open in front of him.
“Miss Debenham, I won’t ask again.”
Violet’s fists clenched and her gaze flicked to the door. She was more cautious than Robin, but her temper was worse when it was roused.
“Don’t lose your head, Violet,” said Jack sharply. “Hand it over.”
Her angry look transferred to Jack and altered. For all Jack knew, he was about to be accused of working with Alan and George, given what Violet suspected about his feelings— ex-feelings—oh, to hell with it.
Jack said, “Ross is a dirty rat working for bigger rats, and he’ll get what’s coming to him in the end. There’s no point fighting when the odds are so poor. We’re all still alive and unhurt. Be sensible.”
Violet swallowed hard.
“Fuck,” she said again, now thick with misery, and rummaged in a pocket of her skirt. She pulled out a velvet pouch and then, at George’s gesture, undid the drawstring to tip a small silver bowl onto his waiting hand.
The cup of the Last Contract had barely changed when Edwin cast rectification on it. The fern design had appeared, engraved on the inner surface, a circular pattern beneath the brim. Otherwise it was still a bowl, the size of one of Maud’s cupped hands, and had spent several years inside the cage of a parrot called Dorian.
A proper smile spread across George’s face as he turned it to and fro, then took the bag from Violet. Now he had all three: coin, cup, and knife.
They’d set out today to be ahead by two pieces and had instead lost all of them in a handful of minutes.
“Excellent work, Mr. Ross,” said George.
“We’re done?” Alan said shortly.
“Yes. You’ve fulfilled your end of the deal.”
Alan pushed off the wall and came to stand in front of George.
“Waiting to be paid?” Violet shot at him. “Go on. Let’s see you put your paws up and beg.”
Even more colour had left Alan’s face. Jack had seen this look on men approaching an unexploded grenade.
Alan said to George, with familiar defiance, “Do you need me to stick my tongue out, then?”
Jack found himself licking his lips. Alan had asked him—How much did it hurt?
Because George didn’t believe in carelessness or mercy. He’d not employ an unmagical man and then leave him able to talk about it afterwards. Alan would have known that all along.
“No.” George tucked the bowl in another pocket and began to cradle. The spell was a soft, sickly yellow in his hands. “I’ve had reason to find the loopholes in secret-binds recently. Myself, I prefer something a little more definite.”
“What the bloody hell do you mean, definite?”
“Language, Mr. Ross,” said George. “Don’t let Miss Debenham drag us all into vulgarity. When was that voyage of yours?” One finger moved, defining a clause. “Let’s have the last four months, to be safe.”
“The last four months of what?” Alan’s voice rose.
“Of your memory,” said Edwin. He didn’t even sound vindictive about it. He was eyeing the yellow spell with unease.
“What—no—” Alan tried to retreat. The oh-so-helpful Hartley got in his way. “That wasn’t part of the deal.”
“People lose their memory from knocks on the head every day.” George nodded at Hartley, who took Alan by both shoulders. “I’m sure your dear family will fill you in on anything important.”
Alan stopped struggling. Despite his exceedingly mixed feelings, most of Jack wanted to growl in dismay, watching the fight drain out of that fierce, flawless face. He was abruptly certain that Alan hadn’t been paid a penny. George wasn’t wasteful. He didn’t operate by quid pro quo when he could get the same results through other means.
“There,” said George. “It’ll be over before you know it.”