He raised his hands to either side of Alan’s head. Alan put up his own hands as if he could fight it off, and his eyes screwed shut. His lips pulled taut over his teeth. It didn’t look like pain so much as the effort it took to pick yourself up and keep fighting when you were bruised in every limb and tiredness was hibernating in your bones.
George frowned.
It occurred to Jack that if he were Alan Ross then he wouldn’t have told George Bastoke one single thing about the existence of perturbators.
“Sir?” said Hartley.
“Not to worry.” George drew himself upright. The yellow of the spell brightened and pulsed around Alan’s curling hair. Alan’s eyes flew open for a shocked moment. He gave a guttural cough, as if spitting out seawater, and then collapsed in a heap at George’s feet.
The image flashed before Jack of a secret-bind slipping between his sister’s unmoving lips. His body jerked as if struggling up from sleep.
George had Hartley drag the unconscious Alan to lie against the wall, out of the way—“Have him taken outside later. Leave him on a park bench, or in a gutter outside a pub.” George then cradled another spell that took the form of glowing white chalk, and sketched a series of runes onto the nearest piece of wall. They shone bright and then disappeared.
“What does that do?” asked Edwin, who was still Edwin even when arrested and in peril.
“A summons,” said George.
Jack caught Robin’s gaze. The question was whether they ought to try anyway—whether desperation and numbers might let them overcome the Coopers before reinforcements arrived. They could open the door, but with Edwin and Violet hand-tied and unable to sketch runes, they’d be stuck navigating the Barrel’s physical space.
“What do you plan to do with us now?” Jack asked his cousin.
“That depends on how cooperative you plan to be,” said George. “The simplest path forward would be for all of you to make a voluntary blood-oath that you will never try to put your hands on the Last Contract again, or to interfere in any way with its use.”
Violet, Adelaide, and Robin all spoke at once, variations on a theme of violent disagreement.
Jack didn’t say anything. Neither did Edwin; he was staring at his hands as if he would drag them apart through force of will, even if it tore the skin bloodily from his palms. As Jack watched he raised his gaze to the map on the wall. He almost seemed to be staring past it, as Robin did when having a vision.
“No, I didn’t expect you to like that,” said George, meanwhile. “But the Coopers are not an unreasonable institution. The offer will remain open.”
The door handle glowed and the door opened yet again. This time it admitted Walter Courcey and Richard Prest.
“Now it’s a party,” said Robin. “And nobody thought to bring the champagne.”
A spasm of a smile happened on Edwin’s face. At least part of his senses were in the room with them. His gaze was still miles away. And he hadn’t looked over when his brother entered the room—that, more than anything, raised the hairs on Jack’s arms with something closer to anticipation than fear.
“Deputy Chief Minister. Courcey,” said George. “Do come in. As we were warned, an attempt has been made today to brazenly steal the knife of the Last Contract from this room, where the Coopers have been safeguarding it.”
“Safeguarding?” said Prest. “I thought you were still searching.”
“Need to know only, sir,” said Walter. “You can see from today’s unfortunate events why it had to be kept secret until we had all three pieces.”
“We caught four of them in the room, with their hands on the knife,” said George. “Miss Debenham—you remember Miss Debenham, sir?—had already lured away a loyal employee of the Barrel under some ruse.”
“Yes, I remember. You’re a disgrace to magical society, young lady. And to your family.” Prest frowned severely at Violet. She managed a theatric bow in his direction.
“I do try.”
“Would you like to tell me I’m a disgrace to my family as well?” asked Adelaide in her most gilded tones.
“My family’s mostly dead,” offered Robin.
“And mine already thinks I’m a disgrace.” Edwin’s attention was back in the room. “The feeling is mutual. Isn’t it, Walt?”
Walter smirked. “Non-magicians, an ex-magician, and someone who can barely make a light in a dark room. It’s not a surprise that you’ve been after the power of the Last Contract and doing terrible things to get it.”
It was a spiteful slip in his calm, reasonable facade—but Walter was a bully at heart. He couldn’t resist the urge to send out tormenting prickles, especially where his brother was concerned. George cared far more to preserve the image of himself as a true gentleman.
Now George picked up smoothly, addressing Prest. “We have reason to suspect these villains, as well as Blyth’s sister, were responsible for the deaths of several people already, beginning with Reginald Gatling and his aunt Flora Sutton, and including Mrs. Elizabeth Navenby. As you’ll recall, they have come into several inheritances in quick succession. I wouldn’t be surprised if they somehow brought about Lady Enid’s death as well, leaving Spinet House in Miss Debenham’s hands.”
Violet gave a strangled yelp of rage. “You’re responsible for all those deaths! And likely Lady Elsie’s too!”
That made Prest blink. The two Coopers exchanged a puzzled look.
George’s gaze swung, unhurried and untroubled, towards Jack.
The two of them looked at each other. Hatred soaked Jack like petroleum. The hinges of his jaw ached with tension.
“Lord Hawthorn,” George said. “You were there when your sister died. Did I kill her?”
Jack could try his best, could shove his tongue out for everyone to gawk at, but what difference would it make? The Deputy Chief Minister had been brought here as a witness, and had already decided whose version of events to trust. And no secret-bind told you who laid it. George could spin whatever story he wished.
Jack said nothing. There was no point.
“There,” said George. “What happened to my cousin was a tragedy. But the Alston twins were always somewhat unbalanced. Wild magic. Not fit for proper use. Everyone knew it.” A pause. “I’m hardly out here blaming you for my father’s death, Hawthorn, am I?”
To anyone else in the Lockroom that would have sounded like a reasonable, if oblique, argument. The unfairness of it lodged in Jack’s throat.
George turned to Hartley and the other Cooper. “I think enough has been said. Lock them all up. We’ll get to the bottom of this plot.”
“All right, Bastoke. Carry on, and keep us informed,” said Prest. He paused as he turned to go, and nodded at the unmoving form of Alan. “What’s wrong with that one?”
“A memory charm that took him a little too strongly,” said George. “He shouldn’t have been unbusheled in the first place, but he’ll be no trouble in future.”
And then a lot of things happened very quickly.
“Edwin’s up to something!” said Walter, sharp, and—