by Megan Derr
Lifting his eyes to the ceiling, Max replied, "Yes, it is. Strictly speaking it is a small quantity of extremely difficult to come by goblin blood heavily diluted in a special preservative solution. Not all that strange a thing to find in a lab devoted to studying goblins and magic theory, though it is an expensive thing that took me a great deal of time to obtain."
Kelcey winced. "My apologies."
"It is not your fault I am clumsy, though would it trouble you to make noise when you walk, sir?"
The winced turned into a little smile. "I am afraid it is a habit I cannot break, my lord."
"I sincerely doubt you have ever tried to break it."
Kelcey's smile widened, but he only asked, "Did you say magic theory? Your sister never mentioned you studied that. She said you were an expert on goblin biology and the chemical weaponry they used in the war."
"Chemical weapons, bah," Max replied. That was what he was required to call them, but he—and many others—were well aware they were, for lack of a better term, magical attacks, using science and weaponry far too advanced to belong to the human world. "If she did not mention my true studies, it is because she gets as tired as me of people reacting in precisely that manner." Standing up, Max shoved his stool under the table before stalking over to a cabinet that held cleaning supplies. Pulling out a sharp-smelling unguent made for cleaning up blood and a rag, he stomped back over to the table and began to carefully clean up the mess. He threw the shattered bits of glass into a metal bin to join the fallen remains of three jars and two beakers. At the rate he was breaking things, he would have to make another run to the chemist's shop soon.
"What manner? Surprise? I am not allowed to be surprised that you study such a controversial branch of science? That was part of the reason my parents rebelled, you know. They did not like that the governments of the world hide the truth about the Hollow Wars. Their belief was that if they would lie so thoroughly about a terrible event that spanned fifteen years then they likely lie about everything else and put all of us in more danger. I would have thought Lady Mavin would have mentioned you study magic for that reason alone. I am surprised I was never told to sever the relationship, given the crown still largely regards me as a traitor, though I was party to none of my family's plots."
Max said nothing as he finished cleaning up the spilled blood, throwing the rag in a bin for special cleaning and returning the unguent to the cabinet. Slowly returning to the table, he replied, "I don't study magic. I study magic theory, which is the idea that humans will eventually be capable of using what we presently call 'magic'. And it is science; we simply call it 'magic' because we do not yet know what else to call it. Once upon a time people thought fire was magic. And I, like many other 'crackpot scientists', think that the Hollow Wars—what most of us call the Goblin Wars because that's what they actually were no matter what the government says—were a first indication that we will someday possess such abilities ourselves."
"You truly think so?"
"How else to explain our strong resemblance to them, the way we were able to use their own weapons against them despite not really understanding what we were doing? We still do not understand much, though most of that can be laid at the feet of our dear governments, who prefer to pretend that largely unexplainable events never happened and blame a fifteen year war on made-up or heavily altered events, and people who either never existed or whose lives were egregiously warped. I do not venture so far as to say we will someday evolve into goblins, gods forbid, but will we eventually reach an equal state of magical ability and superior senses? Most assuredly. All my theories are sound, no matter what you or anyone else thinks." He snatched up his notes from the day's experiments and strode to his desk, dropping heavily into his seat and thumping the papers down before he went digging for ink and pen to properly transcribe everything. A shadow fell across his desk a few seconds later. "I am going to strangle you if you do not start making noise when you walk."
"We just discussed this," Kelcey replied. "I'm sorry, I did not mean to imply you were a crackpot or anything of the sort. My surprise was only that you studied something so controversial when you seem such a … non-controversial sort, for all you are very much like your sister."
Max laughed. "Non-controversial? Me? My parents wanted a nice, quiet, proper heir to follow in their footsteps, and instead they got an heir who brought wild animals into the house and smoke and drank and danced with anyone, and a little copy of her who liked to combine dubious substances just to watch them explode. My parents were not even surprised when I began to express interest in the Goblin Wars. They said given the number of 'witches' in the family, it was inevitable another such problem would crop up eventually." He rubbed the back of his hand where he still bore a faint scar from his first explosion at the age of twelve, remembered long lectures about discretion and trying to minimize the embarrassment he would cause them if he could not leave off his foolishness entirely.
He maintained that if they had not wanted him leaving off explosions (for the most part) in favor of the Goblin Wars, they should not have left Uncle Carter's journals lying about where anyone could find them. What were attics full of dusty trunks and crates for if not poking about? The discovery of the journals detailing thoughts and studies regarding the truth about the wars had provoked in Max a lifelong obsession, and he would stay his course no matter the ridicule and derision and accusations of insanity that met him.
"Your sister is full of controversy, but Mavin always spoke of you as the sibling who was smart enough not to stir up trouble every single place you went. I remember Lord Peterson said something snide one day about you and your studies, not realizing she was nearby, and … well, he looked very small by the time he was allowed to slink away. I never knew why he was speaking of you at all."
"He is a very sore loser," Max said. "I was gone these past three years on a special research expedition at a newly discovered Goblin Wars battleground. I am still writing up papers and finishing experiments that pertain to it. Fully funded and a chance for prestige that men would cheerfully kill to possess, and I not only beat him for a place in the expedition, I trounced him soundly."
Kelcey leaned against the edge of his desk, practically sitting upon it, and Max hastily looked down at his notes lest he get caught staring. Did the man have to fit his breeches that damned well? They nearly tipped from fashionable to obscene. Why was he still there, anyway? Max started to ask, then caught himself, worried the question would sound like he wanted Kelcey to leave—which he did, except he didn't.
Silence stretched on, save for the rasp of pen against paper. Finishing one sheet, Max set it aside and shuffled his notes to assess how best to transcribe the next session. Should he ask Kelcey to stay for dinner? Was there a dinner to stay for? When was the last time he had bothered to eat dinner?
"Have you heard from Lady Mavin at all?"
Oh. That was the real reason for his visit. He should have realized. Kelcey had made it clear at their last encounter that he wanted little to nothing to do with Max. Of course he would only pay a call to inquire after those persons he did care about. "I have not, but I'm certain she is being cautious, given all I have learned about her Lord Ridley in the past fortnight. You are not the only to have abandoned an engagement, and Lord Ridley's family is decidedly more hostile about the matter. She also knows better than to give me any hints as to her whereabouts; I have a well-honed knack for locating her."
"I hope she's doing well, because she is probably going to be miserable once she is dragged home to face everyone."
Max shrugged. "She'll weather it, she always has; she thrives on it." He finished transcribing his notes and set the papers and pen aside. Standing, he looked at Kelcey—and froze at the look on his face. "What?"
"You … look quite different than the few other occasions I saw you. Reminds me how often I arrived to take Lady Mavin out and she was not even dressed properly for receiving. With anyone else it would be scandalous, but I thi
nk the two of you it is simply … you. Too distracted for such trivial things as propriety." His mouth quirked with a fondness that made Max's stomach roil, as it was obviously all for his sister, and he didn't want to bloody fucking hear about his sister in scandalous disarray when her fiancé arrived to whisk her away for an evening about town. He did not want to see Kelcey smiling fondly about Mavin when Max wanted to drag him downstairs to his bedroom, strip him, and ride him until they passed out from exhaustion. That Kelcey could inspire him to such ridiculous things as jealousy despite everything was just one more piece of madness.
Stomping across the room, he snatched up his jacket where he had left it by his work station, then spun sharply on his heel to glower. "You are welcome to stay for dinner, sir, though I cannot promise it will be a terribly exciting one. Excuse me for a moment, I will go and make myself more presentable."
He left quickly, ignoring it when Kelcey called out after him, fleeing down to the second floor into the safety of his bedchamber. Movement caught his eye, and he saw himself in the mirror, grimaced at the messy hair, wrinkled and stained clothes. He had not even bothered to put on stockings, let alone shoes, that morning in his eagerness to try a modification to his latest experiment he had thought of while drifting off to sleep.
Bah. Max stripped off his clothes and cleaned up with the pitcher of water on the washstand near his bed, wiping away ink and a smudge of unguent that would leave his skin stained purple for a week—and he had thought he'd managed to be careful.
He frowned at the various scars and burns that marred his skin. Nothing terribly major, save the one on his side from a flying bit of metal during the one explosion that had not been his fault. Bah, and double bah, and to hells with everything. Spinning away from the pitcher, he stomped to his wardrobe and yanked out suitable clothes—as suitable as he would get, anyway. Max combed his hair, ran his fingers through it, dithering yet again over its length. He would prefer to cut it short as he had kept it abroad, but the fashion was long …
Clearly two weeks was not sufficient time to overcome his attraction to his sister's former fiancé. Why had Kelcey returned? Could he not have remained gone so Max was not reduced to acting like a perfect imbecile?
Heaving a sigh, Max did up the buttons of his jacket, defiantly refusing to wear any sort of neck cloth; damned if he was going to be made to feel as though he were choking in his own home. Finally, he delved back into a world of frustration and confusion, heading down to the main floor. "Where did Master Kelcey go?" he asked Hugh.
"He is in the study, my lord."
"Thank you. I do not suppose a belated supper could be put together?"
"The kitchen is working on it, my lord. I took the liberty of having it prepared when Master Kelcey arrived." He started to speak, hesitated, then gave himself a small nod and finally said, "It is good to see Master Kelcey making friends. He's always been lonely, but not by design."
Max nodded, not having the heart to tell a fond old man that Kelcey considered him nothing of the sort and simply wanted word of his former betrothed. Damn his sister. Max wondered if he would be this tied up in knots if they were still getting married, and was quietly grateful that he would never know the answer to that question. He would rather die than pine after his sister's husband.
Ugh. He was not pining. It was impossible to pine after someone he scarcely knew. Lust, certainly. But pine? He was simply being melodramatic.
He left Hugh and reluctantly headed into the study—and lingered in the doorway when he found Kelcey immersed in a book. The study had only been completely unpacked a few days, and the entire place smelled of dust from the warehouse the books had been stored in while he was gone. Max hated to admit that he hardly remembered most of what he possessed anymore; they were a mix of books he had purchased himself, gifts from nearly every birthday and gift-exchanging holiday, and inheritances from two aunts and a great uncle.
The book Kelcey held had to be one of the history books; they were the only ones large enough they could be used to bludgeon someone to death. Max stepped further into the room, grateful the rug muffled his steps, and watched as Kelcey moved to a chair and sat down to read. Max had never seen someone so enthralled with something as simple as a book. Most of what Max read so devoutly were manuals and journals of other scientists, studies of past experiments, papers on the latest goings-on in the scientific community. They were work, however much he enjoyed them.
Max very carefully avoided thinking about all the penny novels he had read while he was abroad. He got sick of looking work in the face every single day, and they had been the only form of entertainment available most of the time. He would never, even under pain of death, admit that he had been stupidly fond of the little fifteen part series entitled The Highwayman of Hawkwood.
Ugh, he was going to have to clobber himself, there was simply no help for it. Giving up on secretly watching Kelcey, he walked across the room to the bar and poured himself a generous measure of gin. He heard the book snap shut behind him, but did not hear Kelcey's footsteps—and was not remotely surprised when he turned and found him only a couple of paces away. Max lifted his drink in silent question.
"Please, if you do not mind."
"Why should I mind?" Max asked, pouring a second glass of gin and handing it over before retreating to the relative safety of his enormous desk. "I have no idea what we're having for dinner, but I am assured there will be a dinner."
Kelcey laughed; the sound trickled down Max's spine like melted butter dripping on his fingers from fresh bread. "Are you not generally permitted dinner?"
Max huffed softly over the rim of his glass. "I normally am too absorbed in my work to be worth the bother. They leave a cold platter for me to find in my room. But civilized company requires civilized practices. What book were you reading? I did not mean to interrupt."
"I believe ignoring my host would count as uncivilized," Kelcey said, mouth curving in a handsome smile. "It was a history of the royal family. I am told that it is either an ominous interest, or a morbid one, depending on the person opining upon the matter."
"Better to face such matters than avoid them on principle," Max replied. "I think in your position people most often tend toward one extreme or another: either show avid interest or a vehement disinterest." It sounded sad to him, reminded him too much of the way his sister clung to several of their parents' belongings—not because she needed them in any way, but because it was all she had of two people with whom she had never gotten along but had always wished she could. Max was sorry only that they had died. He did not hate his parents, but he had loved his sister more and detested seeing her cry. They were the only ones who could ever hurt her so, and Max had never been able to forgive that.
Kelcey took a swallow of his gin. "Lady Mavin said much the same, but I think she has an inordinate fondness for the strange and questionable."
"I will not deny that," Max said wryly, draining his glass and setting it aside before he went for more. The very last thing he needed was to be inebriated in front of Kelcey. He was an honest drunk, and that would only lead him to making a great fool of himself. He would blow up his house if he woke up after a night of drunken confessions. "It does not make our words any less true."
"I know, and I thank you." Kelcey stared into his glass, swirling the gin around in it, mouth drawing down. Silence stretched on, and Max wondered if he had said or done something wrong. He was just about to apologize when Kelcey looked up again. "My lord, I—"
A sharp rap on the door made him jump, and Max almost laughed, except that Kelcey looked so disgruntled and relieved all at once that it left him too baffled to tease.
Hugh cleared his throat. "My lord, dinner is ready."
"Thank you, Hugh." Max rose and moved around the desk. "Shall we?"
Kelcey nodded and rose to follow him out of the study and across the hall to the breakfast room, since Max saw little point in using the enormous dining room.
He faltered in the
doorway, barely avoiding Kelcey crashing into him, scowling at the way the servants had gone to unnecessary trouble. His breakfast room had been laid with all the fine dining accoutrements, even a good tablecloth and candelabra he hadn't known he owned. Fine porcelain and gleaming flatware had been set out along with sparkling crystal glasses and wine pitchers filled with what was clearly his best stuff.
What the devil had gotten into them? Evidently his staff did not have enough to do if they were going to such needless trouble for a hastily prepared meal. Taking his seat, Max thanked the footman who set bowls of fragrant mushroom soup before them and poured the wine. He took a deep swallow—yes, definitely his best stuff. If his staff was that bored, he would find something for them to do.
For the moment, he simply enjoyed his wine and tried not to gawk like a halfwit at Kelcey, who looked even more the mysterious highwayman in the flickering candlelight. Max could recall quite a few scenes in those silly books that began in precisely such fashion, the main character dining with a noble that she knew was the highwayman, though he thought his secret safe. The reveal always came after a great deal of clothing had been removed so that someone—usually the highwayman—was forced to flee whilst practically naked.
And the very last thing he needed was to be thinking about Kelcey in such a state. Though if it were to happen, at least there would be no fleeing except perhaps to his bedroom.
Max drained his wine and reached for more himself, waving off the hovering footman. "I did not know my kitchens were kept sufficiently stocked for such a meal. I think the servants are excited to have something to do. Feeding me requires little more than a loaf of bread and hunk of cheese." He traced the rim of his glass. "And a fair amount of gin."