by Emma Newman
“Sir Iris, I stand by my decision. Catherine has a great deal to offer, and I think Londinium could benefit from—”
“A great deal to offer? More than children? What utter nonsense is this? Your good standing does not give you the right to carry out ridiculous social experiments in public. Get your house in order, William! I know Catherine Iris is not the one you wanted—Nathaniel and the pretty younger sister would have been quite sufficient to keep our alliance with the Papavers solid—but you must do better with her.”
Being spoken to this way after weeks of being Duke was like being turfed off a sun lounger into a cold pool. Will struggled to shrug off his own shock and indignation so he could try and gain a footing in the conversation. “Sir Iris, please allow me to explain why—”
“I have no interest in what childish thinking led to this mess. I can only hope that the potential you’ve hitherto demonstrated will prove to be more than mere good fortune. I hope you can salvage your reputation in Londinium, otherwise I will be forced to choose a more worthy Iris to take the throne until you have matured. Perhaps a political apprenticeship in the Frankish Empire would be better for you, knock you down a few pegs, get some good sense back into your head.”
Will clenched his teeth. He’d visited the Parisian Court on his Grand Tour, a ruthless, brutal political pressure cooker that turned its young bloods against each other. Duels were as commonplace as hot meals and assassinations rife, but neither bothered him as much as the potential loss of power. He’d tasted a life in which he didn’t have to ask permission for every critical decision, free from the constraints of being the perfect spare in case his brother got himself killed in some hot-headed sword-fight. He wanted to keep it.
But surely the Patroon wouldn’t want to publicly disgrace one of the family? Not one so obviously supported by Lord Iris himself?
“I know what you’re thinking,” Sir Iris’s smile was more a predatory baring of teeth, as if the man had forgotten how to smile with warmth or humour. “That I wouldn’t dare replace such a high-profile member of the family. Perhaps you don’t appreciate how many ways the Irises would benefit from placing another son on the Londinium throne. The Tulipas are very upset with you. Nathaniel may have dealt with that ridiculous widow but that hasn’t stopped the Patroon’s constant demands for compensation. The Rosas will rise again, eventually, and they will direct all of their efforts against you.” He patted a pile of letters to his right. “I have several very promising candidates ready to take your place, and many interesting offers of wealth and favour from the various parties you have wronged. Perhaps it would simply be easier to accept them and send you off to learn some harsh lessons for a couple of hundred years.”
“There is no need to threaten me, sir,” Will said. What a pathetic triumph to finally be able to finish a sentence. He seethed beneath his polite smile.
“Good. I cannot bear disappointment. I would rather keep you in Londinium for now. There are other cities I want to focus on. But if you show one more error in judgement, I will personally oversee every single decision you make in office until I am satisfied you have our family’s best interests at heart. If you fail to keep that wife of yours in check, I will strip you of your title and put someone more worthy on the throne instead. Do you understand?”
“Perfectly. Sir.” Will stood at the flick of Sir Iris’s wrist, shame and anger sitting badly in his stomach. He had never been dressed down so harshly in his life. He’d never complained and had done nothing more than try to be an impeccable son. With each step towards the door, the sense of injustice built until he couldn’t bear the thought of walking out of that room being seen as a stupid child by the most powerful man in the family. He had schemed, taken risks, and even killed a man to claw his way to the life he had now, and the relative freedom it gave. He was not going to lose it all now.
“Sir Iris,” he said, turning before he reached the door. “Please may I ask for your advice in a sensitive matter?”
The Patroon’s hawkish eyebrows raised from a deep scowl to one of surprise. “You may.”
“I believe my wife to be under the influence of powerful Poppy magic, something done to her before our marriage. I think this magic is driving her to behave in the way she is.”
Sir Iris’s eyes widened. “Something that survived the wedding ceremony?”
“My understanding is that it was a form of wish magic put in place before the engagement and somehow triggered after we were married.”
“Could you have been influenced by this too?”
“I cannot be certain, and I don’t want to blame my error in judgement on this, Sir Iris. My wife is a passionate woman, and I’m not so weak as to seek an excuse for my failings in controlling those passions. But I do believe she is driven in an unnatural way and that our marriage would be happier and easier without this magical influence.”
Sir Iris stood and came around the desk. “You were right to raise this with me. I’ll inform our patron.” Another smile, not exactly warm, but better than the one before. “It all makes sense now. Once your wife is put right, I’m sure you will impress me again, William.”
“I will do my very best, Sir Iris.” Will said and then, masking his surprise, he watched Sir Iris offer his hand and shook it.
He left the study filled with relief and a warm glow from winning the Patroon’s hopeful approval once more. He felt a pang of guilt at the thought of Cathy losing the Poppy magic she had preserved even when Lord Iron offered to break it. She evidently thought it benefitted her somehow. But he had to keep the throne and keep her safe. She didn’t see how self-destructive that wish was making her. And once they were freed from its influence, perhaps he could get them back on track, making a family of their own and consolidating their power in Londinium. By the time he stepped back through the mirror into the reflected Tower of London, he was convinced of two things: that he was right to ask Sir Iris for help in dealing with the wish magic, and that it would be best that Cathy didn’t know.
• • •
Whilst Kay and Rupert were off buying things for the office, Max read the article, looked up the address of the newspaper office, and then phoned ahead to make an informal appointment with the relevant journalist. He’d used the mobile phone Rupert had insisted he buy. Perhaps it would be useful after all.
He thought about the article as he walked across the city. It was the first in a series, apparently, claiming that Bath had a hidden history of disappearances that had taken place over the past hundred years that had never been satisfactorily explained. The first article concentrated on prominent trade unionists from Bath and its nearby towns who’d simply disappeared over the twentieth century.
Max knew his father had worked at a foundry in Walcot Street, but had no idea he was in the National Union of Foundry Workers as the article claimed. The picture in the paper was of him and his fellow foundry workers, taken after they’d declared membership of the trade union founded that year, in 1920. Max’s childhood memories were a confusing patchwork of images and sensations. He could still recall the itchy wool of a jumper his grandmother had knitted him, and the short trousers he’d worn with sturdy boots handed down through three generations of boys. By the time they’d got to him there were holes in the soles so big he could put his toe through them. Then his father had got the job at the foundry and everything was better. New boots, full bellies, and his mother smiling again. He couldn’t remember much more than that.
In the Chapter, after he’d been taken from Mundanus, the head of the dorm had hit them with a cane if they talked about their life before. One girl who had wept hysterically for her mother was locked in a cupboard until she stopped and thrown back in there every time she started again. She went on to become a researcher and had supported him on multiple investigations, then was killed by the Sorceress along with the rest of the Bath Chapter.
Max knew that picture of his father was taken the same year that the Arbiter dragged him into the Chapter. He wa
s ten years old and his new boots had scuffed on the cobbles as he’d struggled against him. He knew the Arbiter had taken him from Mundanus because he saw something he shouldn’t near the foundry. Nothing more. After his soul had been dislocated and he was in full training as an Arbiter, the one who took him, Collins, became his mentor. They never talked about what had happened, because it was irrelevant. Thirteen-year-old Max, with a newly fitted soul chain tight around his neck, was no longer capable of being homesick or longing for his mother’s arms or his father’s laughter. He was no longer curious about whether his siblings were well or if his parents missed him.
Now, over ninety years later, Max wanted to find out what happened, unlike anything he’d wanted to investigate before. Something was shifting inside him. He’d gone fishing a week before because the gargoyle had wanted to go. Somehow, once he was at the river, the desire to fish lasted longer than any physical contact with the gargoyle. Without any reason to fish other than enjoyment, Max had started to wonder if the long-term proximity to his soul was having some sort of effect on him. Not that he could say he enjoyed the fishing.
Now he was driven to find out what happened to his family in a way he never had been before. He didn’t feel upset or excited or in need of any closure. It was simply an intellectual compulsion, one that had made the gargoyle so restless and unfocused that it was now pacing the empty office, waiting for his return.
Walking through the city centre, he couldn’t help but keep an eye out for any of the Fae-touched or their staff that he knew by sight. He didn’t see any of them in the mundane city, which was expected, but vigilance was needed now more than ever. There were the usual tourists and residents bundled in coats, hats, and scarves, heads down against the bitter northerly wind. A blonde woman playing the violin on a street corner caught his eye; being young, attractive, and talented, she would be an obvious target. After watching her and the small crowd for a few minutes he was satisfied that none of the parasites had taken an interest.
Rupert had given him a new hat and coat and new gadgets to replace those he’d had from the Bath Chapter on the grounds that, though they worked perfectly, they were apparently “antiquated shit.” Rupert had given him a quick demonstration of each one. As far as Max could tell, the only difference was that they were made of Bakelite and electronics instead of brass and clockwork. Rupert seemed to be offended by the comparison, saying his were far superior to anything Ekstrand had ever made. Max thought it best to say no more on the subject, and at least his pockets clanked less than they used to.
Max wasn’t sure about his new coat or the hat, which Rupert said was better than the trilby, but he was certain that people stared at him less. The coat looked like a more modern version of his old one, had more pockets, and was warmer, too. The hat was lined with fur and had flaps that could be folded down to cover his ears when it was very cold. From the way the gargoyle had laughed at him, Max decided it was better not to wear them that way.
The receptionist recognised his appointment when he arrived at the newspaper’s building on the other side of the city, and directed him to the third floor. He took off the hat and his gloves in the lift and looked at the article photos before the ping told him he’d arrived.
It was a large open-plan office, similar to the space Rupert had hired in Cambridge House, filled with dozens of cubicles. Each one contained a desk, chair, computer, and telephone. It was noisy and filled with people, some rushing around, some at the desks. A couple of them glanced at him and then looked back a second time, frowning, no doubt wondering what such a strange, ugly man was doing there.
Max went to the receptionist for that floor, a man who didn’t give him a warm smile in greeting. “Excuse me, could you direct me to Nita Singh’s desk?”
“She’s over near the back wall, third from the left,” the man said, happy to point and make Max go away.
He picked his way between two rows of cubicles, listening to the conversations, glancing at screens full of words and pictures that held no interest for him. Was this what Rupert had planned for the new Chapter? The two large rooms filled with researchers in the Bath Chapter were serene in comparison. People made notes, pored over books, and wrote up reports in silence, engrossed in their work. The dining hall was different, always as noisy as this place, but that he could understand; it was where the staff relaxed and exchanged stories. How could any work get done in a place like this?
A woman was sitting at the desk that was pointed out to him, her back to him as she typed on her computer. A long black braid ran down her back and her skin was dark brown. When she turned to look at a notepad resting beside her, he saw small white balls tucked into her ears with thin white cables leading from them. It took him a moment to place them as something to do with listening to music. He’d had a briefing about it at the Chapter, not long before it was destroyed.
He went over and tapped her on the shoulder, making her yelp and tear the wires from her ears. She swivelled her chair to face him and he was met with the usual mild shock and revulsion that was rapidly replaced with a professional smile. She stood and held out her hand. “Max?”
“Yes.”
“Hi.” She pulled an empty chair on wheels over from a nearby cubicle and put it near to hers. “Sit down, Max. How can I help you?”
“I’d like to ask you some questions about the article you wrote about the trade unionists.” When she looked at him blankly, he added, “The ones who disappeared over the last century. It’s the first in a series about people going missing from Bath and surrounds.”
She leaned back in the chair, frowning. “I’m sorry, I have no idea what you’re talking about. Perhaps you got the wrong newspaper?”
“This is the Herald?”
“Yes.”
“And you are Nita Singh: [email protected]?”
“I am. But I didn’t write an article about any trade unionists. I’m afraid there’s been some sort of mistake.”
Max pulled the newspaper from where it was tucked under his arm and showed her the page, pointing out her name and email address. Her frown deepened.
“I don’t understand. This is this week’s edition. It must be some sort of error….Could you just wait here a moment? I need to speak to my editor.”
She took his copy with her, striding off to a corner of the room with glass walls partitioning it off from the larger space.
Max pulled the Sniffer from his pocket, palming it until he was sure that no one was watching. It didn’t look anything like the old one, which resembled a small clockwork gramophone. Rupert’s device was a rectangular stick of plastic, about the size of a packet of chewing gum, and seemed too light to be of any use. Keeping his hands tucked in his lap and remaining as still as possible, he touched the two small nubbins on either side of the small rectangle. It started to vibrate, but if it made any noise, it was lost in the room’s hubbub. A tiny orange light flashed in the corner of one of the larger rectangular surfaces. When it turned a solid green, Rupert had told him, it was done. It worked on the same principle as Ekstrand’s device did, sucking in air to detect any residue of Fae magic, but without any need for winding up. He supposed batteries were involved. As long as it did the job, he didn’t care.
Nita soon returned, the frown even more pronounced and her steps hurried. She sat at her desk without saying a word and began typing on the computer. “I don’t understand,” she muttered.
Something new appeared on the screen. Max read it over her shoulder, committing it to memory. It was a list of photographs and what they featured—including the one of his father and the others in the article—a summary of a conversation, and the name and address of someone listed as the source.
Nita swivelled round to face him and he looked away before she noticed he’d been staring at the screen. “I’m so sorry, Mr…Max. I have no recollection of writing this piece but the notes and source details are in the database. We have to keep this in case anything is challenged or there’s legal
action. The entry says I entered all the details last week and my editor says she had a conversation with me about it but…but I can’t remember any of it.”
She handed the newspaper back to him.
“I was hoping you’d be able to tell me more about one of the photographs. Did you get it from a local historian? Someone I could speak to instead?”
She turned back to the screen and scrolled down. “According to the entry in the database they’ve asked to remain anonymous. I’m afraid I can’t pass on any details. Perhaps the library could help?”
He noticed her hands were shaking. The Sniffer stopped vibrating but he merely dropped it back into his pocket as he stood up. “I’ll try there, thank you, Ms Singh.”
He left her sitting at her desk, head in her hands. Once he was in the lift he pulled the Sniffer back out, noting the solid green light on the top. He flipped the rectangle over to the small pale grey display on the other side. In dark grey typeface, a single word confirmed his suspicion.
IRIS.
5
Tom gave the butler his cape and hat, surprised by the silence of the house. Usually Lucy played the piano in the evening and as far as he knew she had no other engagements. “Is my wife at home?”
“Yes, sir,” Grayson replied. “She’s in the drawing room.”
Usually he would go upstairs, wash, and have his valet furnish him with a smoking jacket, all to try and distance himself from his role as Marquis of Westminster. Just as it was important to put on his cape and hat when he left every morning to get into role, he needed to get out of the uniform just as much. But this time, concerned that Lucy’s routine was broken, he went straight to the drawing room.
He opened the door and found the room cooler than she normally preferred. A fire was burning low in the grate and he could see the back of her head where she was seated on the sofa, her blonde hair arranged neatly enough but with a few more strands hanging loose at the sides than he was used to seeing.