“On the contrary,” said Walt, relaxed in victory. “Stories are why anyone does anything. Byatt was living in a story about love denied. Reginald Gatling, idiot that he was, was the hero of a story about the first non-magician to somehow give himself magic. And you, Sir Robert, standing there so angry at me. You think this is a story about the plucky boy standing up against the evil magicians. You think, somehow, that you’ve still got a chance of taking this back from me, because that’s how it should end.” His smile was friendly. “It’s not. And you don’t.”
“Thirst for power,” said Edwin. “That’s old enough to be dull, Walt.”
“Pure foresight isn’t the only way to glimpse the future,” said Walt unexpectedly. “Only the clearest. You want to know the story? There’s something coming. We don’t know what, or when, but we need to learn to use all the power we have. The search for the Last Contract is a project with the backing of the Assembly. This is a story about the magicians of this land coming into the fullness of our birthright, as we were always meant to.”
Something coming. Billy Byatt had said it too. Edwin looked at Walt’s thrown-back head and heard the certainty in his voice, solid enough to carve into bricks and build with. He was right about the strength of stories. Walter Courcey—firstborn, favoured, never second-guessing himself for a moment in his life—had never seen anyone around him as anything but a supporting figure. A tool.
Edwin thought of the paper man he’d created in the library and set waving in an echo of Robin’s movements. The danger of the situation crashed back over him, drawing every muscle tight with fear. The sheer thrill of discovery had kept it at bay when watching the coin take shape. He’d half forgotten that they were here under duress, with no guarantee of safe exit.
“You’re still on the side of the murderers,” Edwin said. “Does the Assembly know how much blood has been shed in the name of this project?”
“I might point out that you’re the one with a dead body in your rooms.”
Not for much longer, Edwin thought grimly. Kitty Kaur would have turned up back at the Cavendish by now, and she didn’t seem one to let a locked door get in her way. He’d written her an explanatory note during the sleepless night confined in his own room, and left it tucked under a brush on his dresser with a scribble of a cat on the fold.
Walt laughed at whatever his expression was. “Really, Win, that peevishness of yours has never been attractive. You should be careful. Another few years of it and you’ll be going down the same road as Mother.”
It was perfectly, exactly Walt: a whiplash of hurt both casual and precise, delivered for no other purpose than because he’d glimpsed a piece of unmarked skin and wanted to raise a welt. Edwin’s fear transmuted into a helplessness that rang through him like a plucked string finding resonances that reached back two decades, a sudden surge, an unstoppable tide. It passed the boundaries of his skin. It burned his feet, and his feet must have spoken to the floor, because there was a sudden crack of wood. One of the floorboards on which Walt was standing slammed upwards as though an elephant had stepped on the other end.
Walt staggered, and fell to the floor.
It was as though Robin had been poised for the opportunity. He took two huge strides and was almost upon Walt, one hand already drawing back for a blow. Walter kicked out, keeping Robin away from his hands, which were moving swiftly. Edwin wanted to help, but he didn’t think he could; he’d only managed to hurt Billy because he’d had time to come up with a plan, and anything he’d just transmitted to the house had been entirely by accident.
The spell Walt was cradling flared into life—a white whip of power, snaking wildly out and around a chair leg. Walt jerked his hand. The chair flung itself across the room and right into Robin—Edwin threw his arms out, uselessly—who toppled off Walt and went sprawling with a grunt. Something that Robin had been holding flew out of his hand and dropped onto the rug with a thud. It was Billy Byatt’s switch-knife, folded open.
Edwin’s stomach lurched. Robin could have fallen onto it.
Walt was back on his feet now. He shook himself like a cat, rubbed at one shoulder, and then let his arms fall loose. Edwin saw his eyes land on the knife and narrow. In the sudden quiet, Robin also stood, darting looks at the knife the whole time.
It felt as though the next move anyone made would smash the air like glass.
“Very well,” said Walt. “You’ve had your try. Are you finished now? You really should have believed me when I told you how this ends.” He looked around the room. “So the house does like you, Win. It’s an impressive place, Sutton. That maze, now—extraordinary. And that cunning little study. I’m sure it has plenty of other secrets, and I do hate to waste any kind of power. Please believe I would feel very bad about burning it all to the ground.”