An entirely new silence sprang into being.
“Ex-executed?” said Maud.
“You do still have a council of magicians?” Dufay demanded.
“The Assembly,” said Adelaide, “ah…”
“They’re the ones doing it,” said Robin. “Or at least supporting it.”
Dufay’s face set. “You choose your leaders terribly.”
“That’s a common human failing, all right,” said Alan, on top of the beginnings of protest from the rest of the table.
“Then how do you intend to stop them?” asked Dufay.
More silence. This one had a depressed feel. Edwin slumped a little further.
“We were hoping you might tell us,” said Robin finally. “But it has to be done. The cost of an act of power shouldn’t be borne by anyone except the person who gains the most from it.” He looked at Jack. In that moment, his steadiness was a gift. “If magic can’t be drawn upon and combined safely, and with consent, then it shouldn’t be combined at all.”
22
The next two weeks were some of the strangest of Alan’s life. And yes, he was including in that the time he’d spent on the Lyric being involved in such things as escaped menageries, theft of hair from corpses in ice rooms, and haggling over jewels and pornography with a hateful aristocrat.
“No, that’s no good. I think you’re making it worse,” said Violet.
Alan opened his eyes and inspected himself in the huge gilt-framed mirror that hung on the wall of Cheetham Hall’s library. He wore a waistcoat into which Violet had stitched one of her illusion disguises. The illusion was based on one of the Hall’s younger footmen; Alan was supposed to look like the man’s shorter brother.
Instead he looked like he had been in an unfortunate slow-motion accident that had altered the geometry of his features. And was still altering them. He couldn’t help lifting a hand to support his left eye where it was slipping down his cheek like melting ice cream. Luckily, his cheekbone was exactly where it should be. And his eyes too. He closed them; that helped.
“Making me queasy,” he said. “I’ll try it again.”
Alan, Maud had pointed out, was once again a potential ace to be played. Bastoke and the others would not expect him to be at the equinox gala at all.
There was, though, the matter of illusion disguises. His perturbation had gone from being useful to an inconvenience, and Edwin now wanted to find out if Alan could suppress it at will. He’d suggested that Alan stop imagining channels and instead imagine being porous. Let the magic sink in and work. He’d even gone out to the grove of tall trees, which were apparently beech, and woven Alan a ridiculous crown of supple twigs and leaves, in case the magic-enhancing properties of that tree made a difference.
Jack had wandered past during that attempt, and his eyes had gleamed with the promise of fifteen comments about Julius Caesar that he was no doubt tucking patiently up his sleeve for when they would be most aggravating.
Now Alan breathed slowly. Yesterday it had worked, a little, when they tried it with the cold-spell. But cold was something Alan felt. He could grit his teeth and imagine himself letting the cold in through gaps in clothing. Illusions gave him nothing to build the effort around, and staring at his muddied reflection in the mirror turned his stomach.
Magic. Magic, flowing down the channels. If only he knew anything about rivers and lakes. There had to be some reason why their water didn’t slowly sink into the ground like rain sank into gardens. He could imagine that and then … imagine the opposite.
“Any better?” he said through his teeth.
“Perhaps we should take a break,” said Violet.
“Why?” said Edwin. “It’s not working yet.”
Alan released all his effort. He turned around from the mirror before he opened his eyes this time, and exhaled with mild longing at the greenery and sky beyond the room’s one enormous window.
Violet made an exasperated sound and pulled off her rings to tuck into the velvet pouch. “Because not everyone enjoys being shut up in one room for hours at a time, and this is obviously taking effort. Keep at it if you wish, but don’t let him push you around, Alan.”
He was Alan again, not Mr. Ross—and part of the team, rather than the hired help or a spy. Perhaps Dufay’s revelations had distracted them all from any leftover mistrust. Alan knew when to count his blessings.
And Christ, what a relief it was, to let himself enjoy these people now. He didn’t have to keep trapping any friendly thoughts like roaches to be crushed.
Violet swanned out. The word particularly fit her elegant neck and long nose, and the white frothy dress that seemed to be the female uniform for a country party at this time of year.
Edwin was in the window seat with a pile of books. He looked around the library as if wondering why anyone would want to leave it. Edwin Courcey could probably find himself at the North Pole and still be able to locate a library. He’d moved himself into the Hall’s, immediately colonised the largest available table with books and papers in the manner of a bird lining a nest, then set about criticising the library’s size and contents. Jack had told him with some amusement that the Earl and Countess of Cheetham did not go in for collecting magical volumes, and apart from a reasonable selection of fiction and poetry, many of the books on the glass-fronted shelves were decorative.
“Probably bought them by the yard, decades ago. Might not have cut the pages of some of them,” he’d added carelessly.
Edwin had been rendered speechless. For all Alan knew, he still hadn’t figured out that Jack had been casting well-aimed stones at his composure.
Now Alan removed the waistcoat and set it aside. “If we can’t make it work, I could always attach an enormous false moustache with spirit gum.”
A bit of a smile appeared. “Or bleach your hair.”
“Fuck right off,” blurted Alan, and—of course—heard a small creak of the library door and a step that paused in the doorway. Knowing his luck, Jack had appeared just in time to overhear that. Alan enjoyed knowing his lordship’s small vanities, and had no intention of handing any information back in kind. The bloody beech crown had been bad enough.
In fact, the figure poised in the doorway was Lady Cheetham. Alan’s cheeks heated. At least Jack’s mother had ten times his manners and would never admit to having heard such language from a guest.
“Your ladyship,” said Alan.
“Alan, I was wondering if you cared to be stolen away to join Lady Phyllis and me for our walk?” The pause, too, was impeccably polite. “You’re welcome to join us, Edwin.”
“No, thank you.”
She nodded. “Robin and Jack should be back from their ride presently.”
No amount of guilt, good manners, or strong magic would get Alan onto the back of a horse. He was happy to leave that one to the aristocracy. But he was used to substantial amounts of walking in the city, and he was determined not to show the grounds of Cheetham Hall any fear or disrespect. Spinet House had eaten people, and it was tiny and young compared to this place. He’d go for walks if that would keep the Hall happy.
Alan escaped the library and went to change. He’d vaguely imagined that country manor parties involved only outfits of unnecessary quality and style. It had not occurred to him to bring mucking-about clothes. Lady Cheetham had cheerfully produced some old garments from when Jack was—well, an age that Alan found hideous to contemplate—and bestowed them upon Alan with apologies for the holes. That line of charity having been established with sophisticated stealth, small piles of loaned clothing suitable for every occasion had been appearing ever since in the bedroom that had been granted to Alan.