“He has no loyalty to magicians, or to our family. I’m hardly bound to show any in return.”
Amazingly, Edwin let out a laugh. “Be honest, Walt. I beat you once and you still can’t stand it. So. I suppose you’re going to kill me in a corner somewhere, and Bastoke will pretend the power came because you asked the contract nicely?”
“Oh, no. It’s important that this happens in public.”
“In public? In front of everyone? These are normal, decent people,” said Maud heatedly. “Most of them won’t see murder as a means justifying an end!”
“You have a naive view of normal people, Miss Blyth,” said Walter. “Public executions of dangerous criminals have always been well attended. They still report on hangings in the papers. That’s not murder. It’s the world being set right.” He gave his brother a look that was chilling in its satisfaction. “But I wouldn’t put our father and sister through that, Win. Don’t trouble yourself that they’ll have to watch you die. They’ll see exactly what we want them to see.”
Morris had been stolid through all of this, keeping his eyes on Edwin. Now he said impatiently, “Courcey. Mr. Bastoke will be waiting.”
“There are still people on the bridges,” said Walter with a glance out the windows. “And I’d hate for Win’s friends not to know exactly what’s going on behind the illusion that everyone else will see.”
Edwin was right. This was about Walter enjoying himself. Showing himself to be on the clever side. And drawing delight from Edwin’s fear, just as he always had.
“Not three people, or three deaths. Three wounds. They’ll be shallow and symbolic, as far as everyone will see.” Walter made two slashing motions with his hand, and Edwin flinched. “And how good of Mr. Courcey here to volunteer, as repentance for what he did to the Barrel.” A final motion, this one an outright stab. Walter’s fist rested on Edwin’s chest, over his heart.
“No,” whispered Maud.
Edwin looked his brother in the face and his jaw moved, but he said nothing.
“So you kill him up on that stage and an illusion of him does a tap dance, I suppose,” said Jack. He felt sick.
“Or faints,” said Walter carelessly. “And we say the Coopers have locked him up for everyone’s safety, and in a few years—who will remember? Who will care?”
Beyond the people in this room. Behind Walter’s smile was the unspoken promise that they, too, would be locked up as criminals—or killed, or secret-bound, or memory-wiped. Whatever George and the Coopers found most expedient.
“If you go ahead with this—if you kill him,” said Robin, white-lipped and flat, “I will destroy you, Courcey.”
“Once we have the contract to draw on,” said Walter, “you may try to do whatever you wish.” He nodded at Morris. “All right. Time for the show. Strengthen that priez-vous on him, Morris. He’s managed to get out of it before; I won’t let that happen again.”
Morris nodded and released Edwin long enough to do the spell. The tendons stood out on the back of Edwin’s hands and he winced.
Walter said to Edwin, “And just to be certain there’s no repeat of whatever extravagant nonsense you weren’t strong enough to control at the Barrel: Morris will stand guard outside of this little cave, where he has a good view. The first hint of trouble from you, Win, and Morris will step inside and slit Blyth’s throat. Foreseer or not.”
“Go to hell,” choked Maud.
Edwin met Robin’s eyes with a desperation that made Jack want to yank his own gaze away, it was so private and so raw.
Walter smiled at them all. “You’ll notice I’m still not harming you, Sir Robert. I’m simply telling you a fact.”
And he took Edwin by the arm and marched him out of the grotto. Morris followed.
29
Alan didn’t know what was happening, but he suspected that something had gone spectacularly fuckity-buggerin’ wrong. As his cousin Berto would put it.
He’d taken Jack’s signal and passed it on to the disguised Edwin, then made a direct line to look busy near one of the food tables again. From here his role was flexible. Backup if needed. Running messages to Lady Cheetham, if for any reason they needed her.
He had hoped for something a little more hands-on when it came to revenge. But his family would prefer him alive to dead, and death was what he’d be courting if he threw himself unnecessarily into a magical fight.
There was also the prospect of after. After they reclaimed and transformed the Last Contract. Bastoke and Courcey weren’t the sort to let themselves be thwarted without seeking their own revenge, and the longer Alan’s involvement could be kept from them, the safer the Rossis would be.
Alan did intend to watch as George Bastoke was magically chased off Jack’s land, though. Perhaps he’d throw something at the bastard’s retreating back.
It was hard to miss George’s speech, delivered from ten feet in the bloody air. Alan’s heart beat hard as he stacked empty glasses onto a tray. The invitation down onto the lake—onto the lake?—had clearly not been extended to servants, and he’d look obvious hurrying after them now. Surely Edwin and Violet would be seizing this window.
Seconds turned into minutes. The crowd on the lawn was disappearing as all the magicians moved down and to either side. The air visible past the balustrade had taken on a thin haze like morning mist hugging the Thames.
There was certainly noise, but it was excited in a pleasurable way—not as if anyone had collapsed. Not as if any kind of fight were happening.
A couple of the other maids had taken advantage of this unexpected change in the party’s plans to run up to the now-empty terrace. They were gazing down, leaning on the balustrade railing.
“Sod it,” Alan muttered, and went to do the same. It was late enough now that the sky was fully dark apart from the glowing bulge of the moon, and cool enough that he was glad of the breeches beneath his skirts.
And down on the lake, it was winter. Pale bright light from more magical lanterns illuminated the scene, glimmering on ice-bridges and the solid, iced-over lake surface. The ice had the rough and sturdy appearance of a natural winter freeze, and none of the delighted throng appeared to be having trouble keeping their footing.
Inhaling the rising air gave Alan a strange, hard pang of childhood memory. His father opening the ice chests to haul out metal tins of ice cream, or solid blocks of ice to be chipped and shaved into treats. Chill mist wreathing Alan’s face. The last time this memory had hit was in the ice room on the Lyric, when he was snipping a lock of hair from a corpse. This air was equally cold, as if giant-wafted fans were driving the chill upwards and away from the magicians.
George Bastoke strode up onto an icy stage at the other end of the lake. It was too far for Alan to make out his face, but that unhurried, long-legged gait gave him away.
“Fuck,” said Alan, with feeling.
Where was everyone else? Down there, surely. Alan scanned for Violet’s yellow hair and pink dress, or a glimpse of pale green that could be Maud. He had no hope of finding Jack in a crowd full of tall, brown-haired toffs in tailcoats. Especially when they were all facing away from him.