Alan thought with a pang of Bella and Caro.
“You’re sure, Addy?” said Edwin.
“I’m sure.”
“Thank you.” Violet untangled herself from Maud to throw an arm around Adelaide. “That would—thank you.”
So Violet wrote a letter nominating Adelaide to act on her behalf and Jack witnessed it, and then they did something magical with a wax seal and a piece of Violet’s hair, which would apparently prove Adelaide’s delegation to deal on behalf of Spinet House.
The day didn’t improve much from there. The general mood remained angry and despondent. Edwin lost his temper with himself several times working on his complex spell to transfer the properties of the Last Contract to the Lady’s Oak. Jack gave everyone a brief and depressing outline of George’s intentions and threats, and then took himself off to the village for a meeting with the Hawthorn estate manager.
Alan shut himself in his room and wrote a story that was dark and fantastical even by his usual standards: an occultist who summoned a demon to grant him untold wealth but was unable to keep it constrained to his will, and instead became the demon’s sexual plaything. There was blood in this one, and fire, and the sense of a punishment that couldn’t be escaped. Alan waited for the occultist’s pain and fear to turn to searing lust beneath his pen, waited for the moment when the narrator lost himself in the freedom of pleasure—but the story fought him.
Finally he put the pen down in puzzled irritation.
In his head was Jack’s voice. You used me as a rod to make stripes on your own back.
Alan muttered a curse and ripped the pages out of his notebook and into small pieces. He wrote the Roman stories for pleasure and for profit, and yes, sometimes to vent his frustrations, but always from a place of hunger rather than real hurt.
He was here. He would do whatever it took for revenge: his own, Spinet’s, and everyone else’s. That was all he could do about it now.
After an early dinner full of short tempers, it was clear that everyone was on the verge of disappearing to different corners of the Hall again, or simply giving up on the day and going to bed. But Lady Cheetham ushered them all—even Lady Dufay, who’d eaten nothing but a large plate of rare roast beef drowned in horseradish—into the largest sitting room.
It was unclear whether this was going to be an encouraging talk, a lecture on good manners, or an excruciating parlour game designed to raise spirits. The butler, Blake, entered with a tray: a bulbous dark bottle with a cork stopper, and a set of crystal glasses no larger than eggcups. He set it down on a small table near Lady Cheetham’s hand and was dismissed with a nod.
“Polly.” Jack was doing one of his long-legged sprawls in his usual armchair, like a wet spider that someone had draped there to dry. His eyes were fixed on the bottle. “Are you sure this is a good idea?”
Perhaps they were to get horrendously drunk on expensive liqueur. Alan’s interest increased.
“Everyone’s nerves are close to snapping, and Violet has had some horrid news,” said Lady Cheetham calmly. She removed the cork stopper. “In three days’ time, my murderous nephew will be attempting a political and magical power grab on my own lands. These problems will still be there in the morning. None of us is about to climb onto a horse or make any major financial decisions. So tonight we will enjoy ourselves for a few hours.”
“Exactly how strong is this drink?” Robin asked, glancing at Maud.
Lady Cheetham poured the first cup. The liquid was pale greenish yellow. “Primrose wine, and not strong at all. But it’s the imbuement on the primroses before steeping that has the effect. Traditionally,” she added, lifting the cup, “you pay for your drink with a truth. Who will volunteer?”
“Can the wine tell if you’re lying?” Alan asked, wary. He had purloined for a seat the enormous cushioned footstool that matched Jack’s armchair.
“Honour system,” said Jack. “Everyone gives their truth first, then you all drink.”
“Fascinating,” said Lady Dufay. She had agreed, when indoors, to swap her anoraks for an enormous blue-and-brown quilted dressing gown of Lord Cheetham’s. She refused to relinquish her ancient boots. “It’s a version of one of the guest-right ceremonies. Elf-wine would poison you if you lied about meaning your hosts no harm.” She extended an imperious arm with a thin hand at the end. “There are mice in the folly. Truth.”
“My apologies, Phyllis,” said Lady Cheetham, delivering the glass. “I can have the groundskeepers lay warding charms. Or traps, if you prefer.”
“No need. Don’t mind them.”
“Me next!” said Maud. “Violet, dearest, I have entirely lost that bracelet of yours with the turquoise and gold. You know how I am with losing things. I have been looking, and looking, but I think we have to assume we’ll never see it again.”
She accepted her cup with a grin of triumph.
Most of the truths were of that nature: small things, small confessions, rewarded with a glass of primrose wine. Alan could see why. Today had thinned their skin. Anything sharp or personal might make a wound through which too much could come pouring out.
Alan thought carefully and said, “I write fiction as well as journalism, under another name.”
“How mysterious.” Lady Cheetham twinkled approvingly at him. “Anything I might have read?”
Alan did not look at Jack.
“I don’t think I know you well enough to say, your ladyship,” he said, and took his glass. The crystal was heavier than the delicacy of the cups suggested.
Lady Cheetham looked down at her tray. Only two cups remained. “Who’s left?”
“Me,” said Adelaide. She stood, shoulders back. She might have been about to recite a poem. Instead she walked over to where Robin sat and Edwin perched on the chair’s thick arm. “You two are to be careful. My parents expect a wedding, Robin, and if they don’t get one they’ll take it out on your corpse. That said…” She looked Edwin dead in the face. “Here’s my truth. If you get yourself killed, I’ll break the engagement myself.”
Robin was a picture of shock, and Edwin was worse.
“… what?” said Edwin weakly. “No. You wouldn’t.”
“Fetch one of your truth-candles and try me,” she said. “I’m not a doll or a pet, to be left behind for comfort if you decide to martyr yourself. You don’t get to use me as insurance.”
Edwin clutched his glass like a lifeline. He glanced, for some reason, at Jack.
“Not to mention how the rest of us might feel if you died. How I might—”
She took a breath. Edwin had progressed to gaping unattractively.
“I’m going to hug you,” Adelaide said, in what Robin called her maharajah’s-daughter voice. “I won’t if you say no.”
After a moment, Edwin nodded. He even stood from the chair arm and gave Robin his glass of wine. He looked like he was readying himself for a blow, but Adelaide said, “Right,” and folded herself around him. Edwin’s face went into her hair. His hands trembled on her back.
Alan didn’t know where to look. It was a private moment, but there was a reason Adelaide had done it in public. They were witnessing a promise.