“The Blyths are not magicians,” said George. “I hardly think their presence at the gala is appropriate.”
“I understand Sir Robert is a valuable unbusheled foreseer for the Assembly,” said Lady Cheetham in tones of surprise. “Surely he deserves to attend.”
Lord Cheetham’s frown was undimmed. George put a hand on his arm. “It makes no difference, sir. I have everything under control. Although,” he added, looking at Jack, “it does surprise me that your little party of criminals is missing its ringleader. Aunt Polly, will you still deny that Edwin Courcey is staying at Cheetham Hall?”
“I will gladly deny it,” said Lady Cheetham. “I haven’t seen Edwin Courcey for years. Shall we go inside, Leo? The staff have so much to do today. And you must be in need of refreshment.”
A flicker passed over George’s face as Lady Cheetham led everyone through the front doors. Jack fell in at his side.
“Left the bulldog in London, did you?” said Jack. “I imagine fancy parties aren’t his cup of tea.”
“He’ll be where I need him to be,” said George, and strode ahead.
Jack had thought the day might drag, but instead it raced. The Hall was a mound of activity and preparation. By late afternoon there’d been so much magic done in the house that the back of Jack’s mouth fizzed.
He dressed early to give Oliver the rest of the evening off, squiring his mother around the party.
“And be careful,” he said. “If anything looks like trouble, you take your mother and leave.”
Oliver was too well trained to ask questions. He knew that trouble was expected and that Jack and the others had something clever planned, and he’d been firmly warned off interacting with Joe Morris. Other than that, Jack wanted him well out of it.
“Yes, my lord.” Oliver delivered a final critical smoothing to the back of Jack’s formal tailcoat. “Have you seen Mr. Ross?”
“No.”
Oliver grinned. “Proud of the job I did on that one.”
Now it was Jack’s turn to firmly squash his curiosity. He went to his own mother’s dressing room and found her almost ready, clad in elegant pale blue with a great deal of black gauze overlay and black lace flowers, with black gloves to the elbow. At Jack’s nod, she dismissed her lady’s maid, saying that her son could help her with her jewels.
Jack lifted the sapphires from their case. Necklace, earrings, tiara. Her wedding present from Lord Cheetham. She turned her back to him obligingly.
“I made a promise to Mr. Ross,” Jack said, looking at the white hair at the nape of her neck and the delicate clasp of the necklace. “I need you to fulfil it, if I can’t.”
He explained about Alan’s family and handed her their address in an envelope; she gave him a look, but took it.
“If things go poorly enough that neither yourself nor Mr. Ross makes it through, I expect to have other matters on my hands. But yes. Of course.”
“You know you don’t have to do anything tonight, Polly. Be a hostess. Focus on protecting the guests and soothing the land if anything happens. Don’t do anything rash. The Hall needs you.”
The look intensified to a Look. “It’s very sweet of you to want to protect me, my dear.”
That was not agreement. Jack thought of her saying, of Elsie, I was her mother. He considered starting the fight about which of them was most allowed to die for the other, and resigned himself to losing it in the same breath. He leaned in to kiss her cheek instead.
He found Alan adjusting glasses on a table set beneath a twinkling string of lights that faded from one colour to the next. Shadows were long and the daylight was beginning to change. The first guests were expected at any time. Everyone had a task, and there was nobody close by.
Jack tapped Alan on the leg with his stick.
“I see you’ve accepted your station in life. And about time too.”
Alan paused, turned, and dropped Jack a vindictive bob. For a beautiful artist’s muse of a young man, he made a rather unfortunate girl. The shortness of his hair was disguised by a white cap, and he blended perfectly, no magic required, into the stream of black-and-white-clad maids who were putting the finishing touches on the preparations.
“If you tell me it suits me,” said Alan, “I will stab you in the throat.”
Jack swept a look up and down the black dress and white apron. “I prefer you in red. You look like an underfed magpie.”
Alan returned the look. Jack’s formal evening suit was also magpie shades, but Oliver had ensured that the satin lapels of his tailcoat shone like dark water against the ice-white of shirtfront, waistcoat, collar, and bow tie.
“You look like a nightmare,” Alan said softly. For a moment his face was a portrait of hunger, and Jack understood exactly what he meant. The pull of a danger you could inhabit and then wake up from. “Be careful,” Alan added.
“The benediction of the evening. You as well.”
“Morris was wandering around the grotto and the lake earlier,” said Alan. “Came within a few yards of me and didn’t so much as blink. Looks like underfed magpies aren’t his type either. I ducked into the grotto afterwards to see if they’re using it as a hiding place, but it’s clear. I suppose they think we might be hiding Edwin in there. And,” anticipating Jack’s rather more vehement repetition of the be careful sentiment, “I’m armed.” His hand dipped into a hidden pocket of the black dress—thank you, Oliver—and emerged with a vicious little flick-knife.
“Borrowed this one from my cousin Berto before I left town,” said Alan. “And the dress comes off quick if I need to run.” He lifted an edge of black skirt to show riding breeches. Something else purloined from Jack’s youthful wardrobe.
“Show me the cradles again.”
Alan made four subtle shapes with his hand, one after the other.
They were ready. There was no other benediction to give. Edwin had been right: they’d all known they were signing up for a fight. If Jack couldn’t command his mother against taking risks, on his behalf or anyone else’s, he certainly had no hope of it with Alan Ross. I forbid you to be hurt. I forbid you to die.
Useless.
Music floated faintly across from the direction of the Hall.
“Here we go,” Alan said.
Sunset. Here they went. The Earl and Countess of Cheetham would be on the Hall’s front steps, where each arriving magician would do a small act of magic—a light was traditional—and be formally granted guest-right before being directed in through the house to the grand ballroom. Tonight it was no more than a way station, where they’d be served glasses of punch dosed with a particular imbuement from Whistlethropp’s to banish fatigue until the sun rose. Another tradition.
Jack met up with Maud, Violet, and Robin in the ballroom, and they toasted with their own cups of punch. Maud’s eyes were keen and determined above her mint-green-and-silver gown. Violet’s gown was subdued, for her: a remarkably tasteful pink that left her upper arms bare and which was intricately decorated with beads ranging from pale pearl to deep fuchsia.
“I think,” said Robin to Violet, “I’ve had a vision about that dress. Wish I could remember it better.”