by Emma Newman
• • •
It was almost midnight when Sam returned to Cheshire. Petra was at the hotel in Bath, hopefully feeling better by now, and Cathy was back in Londinium, satisfied with Max’s telephone number and being a step closer to negotiating some protection from the Agency. Cathy promised she wouldn’t tell anyone about Ekstrand’s death, even though it hadn’t occurred to him how sensitive that information was until she explained that the Fae-touched in Aquae Sulis would have a field day if they knew.
He couldn’t stop thinking about the way Petra had changed. None of it made sense. Even if he accepted that Ekstrand had overlooked a Fae spell or curse or whatever had been done to her, why did she still seem so strange after he broke it? What did the spell actually do, apart from making her grief so severe? Had it made her love Ekstrand? It would explain why his passing caused unbearable grief. But why would anyone associated with the Fae make a woman devoted to a Sorcerer?
All the times he’d seen Petra before, she’d seemed happy and fully autonomous. She’d stood up for him against Ekstrand; she wasn’t just a devoted servant.
And then there was the way she spoke to him at the end of the visit. Like the Prince had spoken to him in Exilium. There seemed to be a longer title for him—or rather, a formal job description, known by those involved in magic. Master of the star and blood metal? It sounded stupid, and yet…something in those words spoke to a deeper part of himself.
Nah. He was just getting carried away.
Halfway home he’d texted Des, asking who the Lord Iron was before Amir and where that man lived. He didn’t recognise the name mentioned in the reply—though Des told him he was a famous man in his day, even buried in an iron coffin—but he did recognise the address. Amir had simply moved into his estate and extended the house. Sam called Des then, eager to know more, but Des said he had no knowledge of any notes or artefacts left to Amir by the previous Lord Irons. When Sam asked if he could find out if the previous Lord Iron’s PA might still be alive, or maybe some member of staff he could ask, Des had laughed. “He died in the 1890s, sir.”
“But I asked for the one before Amir.”
“He was, sir. Amir took on the mantle of Lord Iron in 1891.”
That had to be a mistake. Amir hadn’t looked much over forty, if that. Not over a hundred years old.
But…what if they lived longer? Surely Mazzi would have mentioned that? Why did it feel like there was a massive gulf between the way the Fae and Petra saw him, and the way the rest of the Elemental Court did? Was the truth somewhere between the two, like most things? Or was he in the horrible position of the Fae and Sorcerers knowing far more about what he was and actually being the most knowledgeable source?
Most of the household was asleep when the car pulled up, but as usual, Eleanor was standing outside the front door, despite the bitter cold.
“You look tired,” she said to him as he got out of the car. “Did you have a good day?”
“I saw Cathy,” he replied, going over to her. “She asked me to pass this letter on to you.”
Eleanor peered at it. “Perhaps you could be good enough to put it on the table in the hall for me. Is she well?”
“Yeah, very.”
“You like her.”
“She’s a good friend.”
Eleanor stared at him with pursed lips. “Hmm. Well, time for bed.”
She followed him inside, collected the letter he left for her, and headed for the stairs.
Sam pulled off his gloves and looked at the hallway. Which parts of the house were original? Could he learn something from what was built here before, left behind by the previous Lord Irons?
“Eleanor,” he called, making her stop halfway up the stairs. “Do you know anything about architecture?”
“I can tell my Doric from my Corinthian.” At his blank face she said, “A little. Why?”
“Can you tell me which part of this house is older than the rest?”
She turned and came down a few stairs until their faces were level. “My dear man, ‘older’ is a relative term. Do you mean older than this part, or older than the east wing, or the oldest part of the whole house?”
He frowned. “It’s not just one old house extended around the late eighteen hundreds?”
She smiled. “Oh, this is going to be an education for you. Get a torch. I’m going to take you on a tour.”
• • •
Sir Iris actually smiled when Will entered his study. At least, Will chose to believe it was a smile, rather than indigestion. It was hard to tell.
“Sit down, William,” he said, gesturing to the same chair in which Will had squirmed a couple of days before. “I trust the gem meets with your satisfaction?”
“Yes, thank you, Sir Iris. It’s perfect. It’s being set into a piece of jewellery and will be given to Cathy before our next public appearance.”
Sir Iris gave a nod. “I have something else to give you before you leave, but before that, tell me what I need to know about this business with Margritte Tulipa.”
“Margritte and I had some difficulties, but we resolved them.”
Sir Iris raised an eyebrow, fixing that hawk-like glare on Will. “Perhaps I should be more clear. Nathaniel has told me what happened at the Hebdomadal Council when he took the city. Sir Tulipa has told me what he thinks happened there. Both of them mention you being present and you being the reason why Margritte was taken into custody, but neither of them have explained what happened to you before that to my satisfaction.”
“Before I do, I feel you should know that Margritte was overcome with grief, following the death of her husband.”
“The lawful challenge and execution of her criminal husband,” Sir Iris interjected, “carried out with the blessing of Lord Iris and in accordance with the laws of Londinium.”
“Yes,” Will said, increasingly uncomfortable. “She made some poor choices that resulted in…” He looked at his Patroon, at the set of the ancient man’s jaw, the way he was scrutinising him. Skimming over the details to protect Margritte simply wasn’t going to work. “Sir Iris, I fear that if I begin this story, I will have damned Margritte Tulipa by the end of it.”
“If you speak the truth, it sounds like she’s already damned herself.”
“I feel she lost her reason, in her grief and rage, without her husband to guide her. She recovered and we made amends. Nathaniel judged swiftly and in the heat of the moment, which he is entitled to do, as Chancellor. However, I feel it should be known that Margritte went to the Hebdomadal Council to turn herself in and put everything right.” Even as he spoke, he realised he’d have to reveal more than he wanted. How would he be able to explain anything about the huge holes in his story without condemning her?
“Why are you trying to protect her?”
“I…feel somewhat responsible, considering what I did to her husband.”
“What you did to her husband? Why make it sound as if you are guilty of something unsavoury? He sent an assassin to kill your wife!”
“But Margritte did not, sir. She had shown nothing but kindness to myself and my wife during our first days in Londinium.” He paused. How could he explain his sense of duty to Margritte without revealing how the Rosas had successfully duped him into thinking Bartholomew had sent the assassin? It would make him seem like a fool in the eyes of a man as cold and uncaring as the Patroon. “However, I understand that you need to know what happened before you speak to her Patroon.”
“Nathaniel said you were beaten.”
Will felt his cheeks flush with shame. “I had a split lip and a bruised eye when I saw Nathaniel. I think he feared I’d been hurt more than I had.”
“He saw enough to know you’d been mistreated.”
“Yes, Sir Iris, I cannot say otherwise.”
“I grow tired of feeling I need to winkle this story from you like a piece of lobster meat from a claw. Do you want me to assume you were foolish enough to fall into the hands of a woman, mad with grief, who str
uck you hard enough to split your lip?”
“No, sir, I do not!” And then it all unfolded in his mind. He had to tell him everything, despite what he’d just agreed with Margritte, otherwise he would look like an incompetent child. In light of the threat Sir Iris had made the last time he was in that study, he simply couldn’t risk it. Sir Iris sent Nathaniel to find him—he even gave him his sword to get him back and take Oxenford if he could—because he knew something had happened to him. Without a sufficiently terrible crime committed against Will, Nathaniel’s seizure of the throne would look more like the brutish act it actually was, rather than one of political retribution. Will rubbed the replacement wedding band he’d acquired to disguise the fact that Rupert’s trap had destroyed the real one. Of course, Sir Iris knew something more than a grieving widow was involved. He was just waiting to hear how he explained it.
“Margritte Tulipa used my wife’s better nature to arrange a meeting between myself and her. She’d been trying to coax Londinium residents to live in Oxenford and destabilise my Dukedom, so I thought that clearing the air would be preferable to any further escalation of her grievance with me.
“Before the meeting, I procured every Charm I possibly could to protect myself. I can produce a list, should you wish to review it. I took armed footmen, one of whom had taken a Clear Sight Charm, and agreed to meet with her at a mundane inn between Oxford and London on neutral territory as a gesture of goodwill. I took all of the precautions one can before meeting with a potentially hostile individual. Alas, none of them are effective when that individual is a Sorcerer.”
Sir Iris’s shock was mildly gratifying. “I beg your pardon?”
“Margritte Tulipa persuaded the Sorcerer of Mercia to help her try to force me to make a public announcement absolving her husband of guilt. He broke all of the Charms and magical artefacts on my person and literally opened the floor beneath my feet to drop me into a prison cell.”
“So that’s what destroyed your wedding band,” Sir Iris said.
“And my sword, sir, to my shame.”
“There is little to be done when a Sorcerer intends one harm, William.”
“It was his men who inflicted the injuries. Whilst I was tied to a chair and unable to defend myself.”
“Even after this, you forgave her?”
“She realised she’d gone too far. When she saw that I was hurt, she came to her senses. As I said, Sir Iris, it was the madness of grief. She released me, despite the Sorcerer’s protestations, and insisted on going to the Hebdomadal Council to answer for her crime and assure everyone that I was safe. She is a brave and noble woman. She just lost herself for a while.”
Sir Iris leaned back in his chair, still regarding Will closely. “And why did you not come to me after this?”
“To what end, sir? To complain like a child? I forgave her—and besides, Nathaniel had taken her into his custody, insisting it was an Oxenford matter. I had no intention of doing anything but supporting my brother’s judgement. As for the Sorcerer of Mercia, not even Lord Iris could make a complaint against his behaviour. I felt it best to let Nathaniel make his judgement in his own time and to focus on consolidating my own rulership. As you know, sir, I have had a lot on my mind of late. Better to move forwards than to dwell on one woman’s mistake.”
“I’m sure Sir Tulipa would have agreed with you, were collusion with a Sorcerer not involved. Thank you for making me aware of this. Terrible shame about the sword. It was a fine blade. Irreplaceable. Have you commissioned another?”
Will hadn’t even thought about it. His blade was hundreds of years old, with its own history before it was passed to him. He had no idea who to commission a new one from, as his had been a magical weapon Charmed to look and feel like steel. “I haven’t yet had the opportunity.”
“I’ll see to it. And I will bear that sword in mind when discussing compensation.”
Will almost said that he didn’t feel compensation was necessary, but that was guilt rather than reason. As far as his Patroon was concerned, he was an innocent man, one who’d avenged his wife and maintained his family’s honour and proven himself in a righteous duel. Margritte had colluded with a Sorcerer to take the Duke of Londinium prisoner, having him beaten before reevaluating her actions and belatedly trying to make amends. When he thought of it like that, he feared for Margritte.
“Is there anything else you feel I should know, William?”
Will shook his head, knowing that it was all out of his hands now. It was as if he’d taken a handful of seeds he’d hoped to nurture himself and tossed them into the grinding of wheels of power at a level above him. It was foolish to have even tried to help Margritte. “No, Sir Iris. I can only repeat that Margritte and I have made amends, and that she sought to put things right.”
“Yes, yes,” Sir Iris said, disinterested. “Now”—he opened the top drawer of his desk and took out a blue velvet pouch—“I have been instructed to give this to you.”
Instructed? There was only one who could instruct his Patroon to do anything, and Will was uncertain whether it would be a gift that he’d want to receive. He accepted it from Sir Iris, pulled open the drawstring, and tipped the contents onto his palm. A golden wedding band sparkled in the sprite light.
“Lord Iris commanded me to tell you that he is pleased that you are seeking to protect your wife from unsuitable influences and trusts that you will give him what he has asked for very soon.”
Will removed the mundane replacement and put the new wedding band on his finger, feeling it adjust to a perfect fit. “I am his obedient servant, sir.”
“I look forward to seeing you make your mark on Londinium, William. You may leave.”
He stood, bowed, and then went to the door.
“A word of advice, William,” Sir Iris said as he reached for the door handle. “An excess of sympathy will not serve you well as Duke. Especially for the weaker sex.”
“I will bear that in mind, Sir Iris. Thank you.” He left and closed the door behind him in relief.
As he walked away, he reviewed the conversation in his mind, checking every detail he could recall and convincing himself he hadn’t put a foot wrong. Nathaniel’s reputation was intact, he’d told the truth, and he had explained losing his wedding band and sword in the only way that could have satisfied his Patroon that he wasn’t incompetent. The only risk to him now was that Margritte, having realised he’d gone against his word, would reveal that he’d been hiding her. What if she told the Patroon about the confession she’d got from him inside the Sorcerer’s prison, that he knew Bartholomew was innocent and that the Rosas had successfully duped the mighty Irises?
The fear melted away when he realised how the words of a woman known to associate with a Sorcerer would be regarded. After his testimony, nothing she said would be trusted. He was safe and his family was as strong as ever. It didn’t make the ache in his breast go away.
• • •
Sam had been lifting floorboards, clambering in the loft space, and examining scratched marks on the stone lintels above several doors in the east wing of the house for over an hour. Eleanor directed him, slipping back into a role of authority that evidently came naturally to her. She was educating him on the long history of the house, which she believed was first constructed in Norman times. One of the original windows was still there in one of the back bedrooms in the central section of the house, one she was convinced was Norman in design.
“The Irises are very proud of their heritage,” she told Sam after she’d pointed it out to him. “I’ve seen a lot of Norman construction as a result.”
“They were the bad guys, right? The ones who tried to kill Robin Hood.”
“It was far more complex than that, my dear man. The so-called Robin Hood wasn’t the paragon of social justice that the mundanes have crafted. Though, in fairness, a fair few of the Normans were just as bad as people like to think. I know, I’ve dined with some of them. The current Duke of Londinium is descended fro
m William the Conqueror. Did you know that?”
Sam shook his head, still processing what she’d just said about dining with the Normans. “I know he’s an arsehole.”
Eleanor laughed. “I can see why you get along with Cathy. Not that she’d agree with you. She’s quite taken with him, I think. You don’t have a chance.”
“What? I didn’t—”
“Now follow me,” she said, disinterested in any defence. “You said you wanted the oldest part of the house. I think it’s downstairs, but it’s been covered over.”
“So is this how you’ve been keeping busy?” Sam asked as he followed her down the back staircase, its stairs warped and uneven with age. “Playing architectural detective?”
“Amongst other things,” she replied with an enigmatic smile. “Reading this house to learn its history didn’t require a great deal of work. In the Nether, property is hugely important to us. We learn how to read a building like one reads a book. They all have their own narratives and stories to tell. This house is too modern for our tastes—there have been too many additions over the centuries. It’s refreshing to spend time in it and trace what each of your predecessors added and took away. I always wanted to change the house I moved into when I became Dame of the family, but of course, I never expressed that desire. It would be unthinkable.”
“Why? Surely things wear out and need to be changed to stay fit for purpose?”
“Oh, you misunderstand me. I meant it would be unthinkable for a lady to alter a house structurally. Each Patroon adds a little bit, makes his mark, there’s no way to stop that. My husband built a new wing of the house several hundred years ago to keep the business of running the family separate from our home.” She paused at the bottom of the stairs, as if she needed all of her attention to hold the memory. “He did it for me. I complained about the young bloods littering the hallway and pacing so much they wore the flagstones down. So he built the new wing to have lots of receiving rooms without the pressure of fitting our family life into them too. Most of the young ones now have no idea what our—his—family house is like. Only the most important people see the real home.”