“No sign of Scott?” Dawson asked.
Julian hung his head. “I’m sorry.”
Dawson pressed his lips together, but the smile wouldn’t form. “Not necessarily a bad thing. If the party you attended is anything like the papers describe, he’s well out of it.”
Julian’s skin was clammy. He struggled to swallow. “Papers?”
Dawson drew a folded bundle from his jacket. “You’re front page news.”
With trembling hands, Julian reached for the newspaper. No nightmare could be worse than this. Un Loup-garou terrorise Paris. Even with his paltry understanding of French, it was clear that the events of last night had not gone unnoticed. Citizens reported hearing wild sounds and music and seeing the hunt careen through Paris. An artist had provided a sketch of a hulking white beast, fangs glistening with saliva, stalking down a Parisian street, the man with antlers behind him on his nightmare steed.
Everything his fathers had feared. Julian’s eyes welled with liquid again. Being sent away was the only outcome. “I didn’t mean—” What use were excuses? He’d known he must never reveal his other self, and now an entire city knew! “I’m sorry.”
“Sorry,” Cross repeated. “For risking your own safety in order to save others from a terrible fate?”
“I—” His brain stalled. He did not know what to say. “I should be in trouble. Dawson knows.”
Dawson stood. “Excuse me a minute.” He walked out of the room.
Abandoning him? Julian felt a pang equal to the throbbing of his muscles.
“The girl, Rosemary, was right when she said service to the fair ones is a harsh fate.” Cross patted Julian’s shoulder. “Remember our conversation. A gentleman acts according to his moral code. Refusing to abandon those in need is, in my book, an act any gentleman might be proud of.”
Was Cross trying to soften the blow? There was some solace in knowing the gendarme and the others were—presumably—safely home once more. “I will miss you and Father.” Father! He would not have the chance to say goodbye…
Cross cocked an eyebrow. “Where are you going that you will miss us?”
“Away, of course.” He’d not thought about where they would send him, beyond that. “It doesn’t matter where because Father won’t be there, but as long as it’s not a cage, I don’t care.”
Cross was silent a long time. “Julian,” he said carefully. “Do you think we would send you away for making a mistake?”
“You did before. To school.” Julian sagged forward. Being caged would be preferable to school.
“That wasn’t—” Cross took a deep breath. He sat on the side of the bed, reaching for Julian’s hand. “Have you ever heard me tell a lie?”
Julian shook his head.
“Then believe me when I tell you that Foxwood Court is your home as long as you live, no matter what you do. Your father and I are your family. We will not send you away. Not now, not ever.”
Julian stared at him.
Cross picked up an item from the bedside table and gently slipped it over Julian’s head. “Not ever,” he repeated, his voice gruff.
Hiding emotion. Julian’s hand went to the key at his throat. Cross only sounded this way when Father was more than usually ill. Did he…belong?
The door swung open. Dawson strode over to the bed, holding out an open sketchbook. “Look at this.”
It was a charcoal sketch, broad strokes with little in the way of shading to give it substance. Still, its subjects were instantly recognisable. Scott sitting in long grass, giving the viewer a rakish leer. Behind him, Julian sprawled on his elbows, looking through the grass at something beyond, a faint frown on his face. It could have been any one of their hiking expeditions around Armadale. “I don’t remember you doing this one.”
“I sketched it from memory a month or so after Armadale.” Dawson smoothed the ends of his moustache. “I suppose I missed the pair of you. Look at the next one.”
Julian obediently turned the page.
This sketch had not been drawn from life. The poses were almost identical to the first sketch, but there was something alien in Scott’s expression. Dawson had depicted him as a faun, complete with goat horns and hooves that somehow did not jar with his tweed ensemble. Julian on the other hand, he depicted with wild fox ears to match his eyes.
There was a note at the bottom. Oberon and Puck?
“I process things through my art,” Dawson said. “The business with Leith—well, you know. I suppose that opened my eyes to it, but I still didn’t see it then. This—the first sketch had your likeness but that was all it had. It didn’t do you or Basil justice. So, I let my imagination run riot and this is what happened.” He nodded to the second sketch. “My subconscious picked up on something that my conscious mind refused to accept. This sketch allowed me to reconcile it.”
“Interesting,” Cross said. “So, your encounter at Armadale allowed you to perceive things you earlier would not have?”
Dawson hesitated. “I don’t know if I would go that far, but it definitely made me aware.”
Julian turned the page to a picture of a seal. “Is that significant?”
“It might be,” Cross said. “Dawson and I will discuss the implications of this. “ He removed the sketchbook from Julian’s hands. “You will rest.”
“I’m not tired.”
Cross looked at him with the expression he adopted whenever Pip suggested none of the staff would notice a guest bedroom being converted to an Egyptian museum. “If you are still awake in half an hour, you can join us. Until then, you will lie down.”
Julian lay down. Immediately he realised his mistake. His eyes were heavier than they’d been a few seconds ago.
Cross’s hand stroked his head. “Rest. We will take it from here.”
It was not the words but the tone he used, serious edge muted by a concern Cross’s abrupt manner could not mask. Julian slipped into sleep so peaceful, it might have been a dream.
21
Julian was still in bed at dinner time. “I’m not an invalid,” he protested. “I’ve slept all day, like you asked. I don’t see any reason I shouldn’t get out of bed.”
Cross settled the dinner tray on Julian’s lap, his expression unimpressed. “Don’t you?” He pulled a seat away from the school table. “Pull up a seat, Dawson. Tell Julian what you discovered.”
The scent of the meat in front of him was too tempting to ignore—a rare steak sliced into neat squares for ease of eating. Julian set to work, not as disappointed as he pretended. Another day or two of this and he would be chafing at the restriction, but for now he didn’t mind being looked after.
Dawson dragged Scott’s chair over to Julian’s bed. “Your adventure narrowed down our search and gave us a few clues, such as the name of the silver-haired man. I found another legend concerning him.”
Lord Dian? Julian hesitated. He was reluctant to speak the name out loud.
Dawson opened his book to the page he wanted. “I shan’t read the entire thing. Basically, a fairy lord spirited a girl away to his otherworldly palace. The girl’s young man objected and travelled all over the place until he discovered them in some far-off corner of the globe. He offered himself in place of the lass, but to no avail. The fairy lord’s heart was as hard as stone.”
He began to read. “The young man had one weapon. He was a musician, and a skilled one at that. He stood outside the fairy lord’s abode and put all his grief into playing a song so sorrowful, so heart-breaking, the dumb beasts of the forest shed tears. So powerful was it that, the fairy lord himself, for the first time in his long existence, cried.
Unnerved by this, the lord made to return to his otherworldly realm, only to find the doors closed to him. With human anguish in his chest, he could not cross over to the fairy world. Grief turning to rage, he cursed the musician: neither man would rest until the lord was returned to his world.”
Dawson looked up from the book. “Suggestive, isn’t it? The silver-haired
man enjoys separating people from their loved ones.”
Cross nodded. “He’s certainly interested in musicians.”
Julian chewed thoughtfully. “Why would he be interested in Dawson then? Paintings aren’t music.”
Dawson glanced at Cross. “It’s possible that knowing my friendship with Scott, he aims at him.”
‘Friendship,’ was it? Julian only just refrained from rolling his eyes. Still, if he had noticed, it was entirely probable that the silver-haired man had too…
“Did either of you notice where the footprints in the locked room originated from?” Cross asked. “Not from the door or the window, but from your painting.”
Dawson’s entire body went rigid. “Are they using my paintings to gain access to our world? What does Leighton say about this?”
“He agrees with my theory.” Cross turned to Julian. “Your father saw the newspapers today. From the resulting flurry of telegrams, I conclude that his rest cure has been good for him. He does not lack vigour. I only hope Mereweather can prevent him leaving before the cure is up.”
Julian pushed his plate away. “Telegrams?”
Cross withdrew a bundle of papers from his jacket and handed them to Julian. “Here.”
Dawson tugged the end of his moustache. “I haven’t seen any mention of the fair folk travelling through paintings in stories. What grounds do you have for this assumption?”
“Only the events we have witnessed so far,” Cross allowed. “Perhaps it’s time you told me the full story of what happened at Armadale.”
Dawson’s shoulders tensed. “All right,” he said curtly. “There’s no use hiding it now. I was at rather a low ebb when I went to Armadale…”
As Dawson began his recital of events, Julian unfolded the first telegram with damp fingers. What would Father say?
The first telegram was brief.
I EXPECTED MORE FROM BOTH OF YOU STOP WHERE IS JULIAN IS HE SAFE STOP
Julian winced. Pip was not only disappointed, but worried. A double failure. He looked to the next telegram.
NATURALLY JULIAN BEHAVED AS A GENTLEMAN STOP HE IS MY SON STOP THIS DOESNT EXPLAIN INVOLMEMENT IN HUNT OR WHY ATTENDING PARTY WITH GUESTS OF QUESTIONABLE SOCIAL STATUS STOP WHAT ARE WE EMPLOYING SCOTT FOR DEMAND FULL EXPLANATION STOP
The tightness in his chest eased. Pip sounded annoyed, but not necessarily at him. He opened the third telegram.
APPRECIATE CONCERN FOR HEALTH BUT KIDNAPPED TUTOR OUTWEIGHS MEDICAL CARE STOP MUCH TO SAY ABOUT COMMUNICATION WHEN I SEE YOU NEXT STOP NOW PLEASE EXPLAIN WHY NECESSARY FOR JULIAN TO INVOLVE HIMSELF WITH FAIR FOLK AT ALL STOP HORSESHOE IN JULIANS TRUNK STOP
Was he in trouble? Hard to tell. Pip scolded in one sentence and worried in the next.
CONCEDE DAWSONS SAFETY IMPORTANT BUT SO IS JULIANS FUTURE STOP NO MORE UNSUPERVISED JAUNTS THROUGH PARIS STOP LINK BETWEEN SCOTTS DISAPPEARANCE AND APPEARANCE OF PARTY INTERESTING AS IS ATTEMPT TO KIDNAP MORE GUESTS STOP POSSIBLE THE PARTY NEEDS PRESENCE GUESTS TO CROSS OVER STOP CONSULT WAGSTAFF VOLUME TWO STOP
If being barred from roaming Paris at night was his punishment, Julian had got off lightly. He reached for the last telegraph sheet.
AGREE THEORY LIKELY BUT DO NOT LIKE IT STOP THOMAS BE CAREFUL STOP THEY HAVE REPUTATION FOR VENEGANCE STOP NOTHING MUST HAPPEN TO YOU OR JULIAN STOP
Julian looked at this telegraph for a long time.
Belatedly he realised that Dawson and Cross had stopped talking and watched him. “I beg your pardon?”
“I merely remarked that your letters home gave us a very different impression of how you spent your time in Armadale.” Cross sounded more amused than annoyed. “Your father will be relieved. He remarked you needed to get into more scrapes.”
“He has changed his mind.” Julian gave the telegrams back to Cross.
Cross shook his head. “Pip is alarmed. Once he has seen for himself that you are fine, he will be sorry that he missed out on the excitement.”
“He is more than welcome to it,” Dawson muttered. “If I may say so, this is far from over.”
“Indeed. Which leads me to preparations for tonight.” Cross stood. “If any revenge is attempted, Julian will be the target. Dawson, I should like you to remain in here overnight. We can make you up a cot in the corner.”
“A chair will be sufficient,” Dawson said. “If I’m standing guard, I should be awake.”
Dawson guarding him? Julian opened his mouth to protest.
Cross caught his eye. He raised his eyebrow, inclining his head towards Scott’s empty room.
Julian frowned. Scott had asked him to stick by Dawson. Was Cross’s suggestion intended to protect the artist rather than Julian? “What will you do, sir?”
“I will set up a chair outside the door.” He patted his jacket pocket. “I intend to see what effect metal bullets have on our otherworldly friends.”
Julian was not a baby that needed to be coddled. All the same, he felt better.
Cross glanced at his pocket watch. “The telegraph office is still open. Your father would be relieved to hear from you.”
Julian would have struggled to say all he wanted in conversation, let alone a telegram. He stared at the form as Cross ordered coffee for himself and Dawson and oiled and loaded his pistol.
He was still staring at fifteen minutes later when the tureen of coffee arrived, and Cross set down his pistol. “How are you getting on?”
Julian handed him the form.
HELLO FATHER I AM WELL STOP I HOPE YOU ARE TOO STOP I HAVE BEEN READING A LOT STOP MR DAWSON GAVE ME A LESSON IN PAINTING STOP IS NICE PLEASANT STOP I HOPE SO STOP MUCH REGARDS YOUR DEVOTED SON STOP
Cross snorted. “Not an inaccurate description of events, although a much abbreviated one.”
“I could mention the weather?” Julian hazarded.
“Better not. They charge you by the word for these things, and your father has already spent a small fortune today.” Cross folded the telegram form. “I’ll send this at once.”
Julian’s telegram was dispatched, leaving only one final preparation. Cross transferred the horseshoe from Scott’s door to Julian’s. “Nothing’s getting at the two of you tonight.”
Julian regarded the horseshoe solemnly. After his many admonitions about not forgetting it, it seemed unfair Pip was not there to see it used.
“Off to bed,” Cross said.
“I’ve slept all day.”
“You’re recovering from an ordeal.” Cross scratched his beard. “Some light reading won’t hurt, but you must put your book away when Dawson tells you.”
Dawson shifted in his chair. “Feels wrong sitting here waiting for them to come. We should be on the offensive.”
“Lord Cross won’t let either of us use his gun.” Julian had asked.
“For good reason. One of those in untrained hands can do a world of harm.” Dawson drummed his fingers against the arm of his chair. “I wonder what my old Nanny would say now? She always warned me that if I wasn’t a good boy, I should be stolen away by the pixies.”
Julian squinted at Dawson. “You were never a boy.”
“You don’t think I sprang like Venus from the foam, fully grown?”
Julian’s lips twitched at the analogy. “I can’t picture you as a child.”
“Fortunate. I was a pretty rotten example. More interested in filling any scrap of paper I could find with doodles and covering myself with ink than I was in playing or sports or the things children are supposed to occupy themselves with.”
Julian perked up. If Dawson could go from being a rotten child to an adult who could do anything without censure, there was still hope. “Tell me about your childhood.”
The next hour passed pleasantly. Dawson recounted boyhood exploits while Julian sunk lower and lower against his pillow. He jerked, catching himself on the brink of toppling forward. “I’m not sleepy.”
“You fooled me.” Dawson began to stuff his pipe. “What’s the harm in sleeping? Lord knows you need the rest.�
�
Julian chewed his lip. He couldn’t explain without revealing that he, not Dawson, was on guard. His ears twitched. “What’s that sound?”
“A violin?” Dawson moved to the window. “Coming from the street. You don’t think—”
“No,” Julian said. “Mr Scott’s music never sounds so melancholy.”
Dawson glanced at him, then looked back outside. “You’re right. Basil plays with feeling all right, but the feeling’s more…” Unable to find the word he wanted, he lapsed into silence.
The melancholy air settled over them. Julian yawned. Sad, but it had something all the same. Something that invited him to put aside his wariness and let go…
22
Someone groaned.
Julian stirred slowly. Bright sunlight hurt his eyes. He pulled himself upright, wincing as still aching muscles protested the move.
The groan repeated.
Julian squinted at the floor. Dawson sprawled on the floorboards. “Mr Dawson, did you fall?”
He sat gingerly, steadying himself on the edge of the bed. “No, I think…” He raised his head, wiping his hands across his face. “I fell asleep.”
“In the middle of the floor?” Maybe Julian was not as bad at gentlemanly behaviour as he’d thought.
Dawson struggled to his feet. “I was at the window, surprised at the effect the music had on me. I was going to ask Cross what he thought of it. That is the last I remember.”
Cross! Julian struggled out of the blankets and tugged at the door handle. It didn’t budge. “Lord Cross! Lord Cross, are you there?”
“Calm down.” Dawson nudged him out of the way, taking the door key from his vest. The lock clicked open. “There.”
Julian pushed his way through the door. “Lord Cross?”
His nose twitched with the scent of cinnamon. Dry leaves crackled underfoot. The chair where Cross had stationed himself was empty.
The Worst Behaved Werewolf Page 12