Properly rebuked, he retired to the sitting room that faced the garden to wait for Jack. Mrs. Buckthorn brought him a gin and tonic, but clearly she was also waiting for Jack; when she heard the sound of cab wheels and the clop of the horse’s hooves, she bustled out. Lionel could hear her scolding Jack for trying to take his own bag into the house. He knew that Mrs. Buckthorn would emerge triumphant from that struggle.
They had abandoned the dining room for planning purposes; it was too hot, and the sitting room was far more comfortable to work in. Mrs. Buckthorn did not quite approve of this dining almost-alfresco, but she did acknowledge that at least while it was so warm, perhaps it would be all right to bend enough to be casual. Lionel had pointed out to her that it was perfectly all right and quite the done thing to have tea in the sitting room, so why not supper? She had not had an answer for that, but when he promised that once the summer had cooled off, they would return to eating “properly,” she was mollified.
Once Jack had settled in, Mrs. Buckthorn brought them their dinner there instead, making up plates in the kitchen and bringing them in on a tray.
While they ate, Lionel told Jack everything that Katie had managed to get to him that day, including the name of the strongman’s confederate, and the bit of information that Dick was looking for prizefights to compete in.
Jack looked a little sour at that news. “Oh . . . the temptation. It is very hard to be a good man, Lionel.”
Lionel nodded. “If ever there was an easy way to be rid of someone you don’t want, it’s to get him into a rigged prizefight. All it would take would be to find a man who’ll cheat for money, and a fight that’s being held away from the eyes of the law. Just make sure the trap is sweetened with a sufficiently good prize, and one more fight will end in a terrible ‘accident’ happening to a man no one will ever miss. But it’s wrong, Jack. It’d be murder, just as if we’d turned our Elementals loose, or arranged for him to be coshed in an alley. We don’t go down that road.”
“No,” Jack agreed immediately, and his sour face turned sad. “I—it’d occurred to me that the reason all this has happened to Katie is because she’s tangled up with me.”
Lionel leapt on that immediately. A few months after they had become friends, Jack had laid out what he hadn’t done in Africa, and had voiced his feelings of terrible guilt because he had not exposed what was going on. “I’ve said this before, Jack, don’t go down that road either. You’re not a murderer.”
Jack’s face was a mask of uncertainty in the bright gaslight. “No but I let—”
It was more than time to put an end to that particular song. “You know, the last time you brought that up, I decided I’d take a chance that there was someone in the War Office that was a Master or a magician, and do you know, there was?” Lionel interrupted. “I started a correspondence with him. He and I wrote back and forth for a bit, and I finally brought up your matter of conscience to him. Do you know what he said?”
Jack shook his head.
“He said if you’d done anything, or even voiced an objection, you’d’ve been court-martialed and you’d still be in prison now at the least. And if you’d managed to leak the news to the papers?” Lionel shook his head. “You’d have been shot. Then he said, ‘I’d rather a man of magic and conscience was walking free in England now, than sitting in a military prison. Tell him from me there was nothing he could have done then, but much he can do now.’ So. I don’t want to hear anything more about that nonsense of—” He searched for the proper word.
“The Hindoos call it karma,” Jack offered helpfully. “Or maybe it’s the Chinese. It means paying for things you’ve done. Or in this case, left undone. Sins of omission as well as commission.”
“Well, whatever it is, this is happening for no particular reason other than that Katie was gulled into a marriage with a bad man, and not for any sins of yours.” Lionel took a pull of his beer and glared at his friend over his bangers and mash. “And if I hear another word on the subject from you, I will pull off your leg and beat you with it.”
He managed to surprise a laugh out of Jack, which cheered him immensely.
They ate in silence for a moment. Both of them were preoccupied with their own thoughts. Lionel kept trying to think of a way that his own skills could help Katie, and so far, he had come a-cropper. “Do you think Almsley has any notion of something we can do?” Jack asked tentatively into the silence.
“Honestly?” Lionel cut a bite of sausage. “I think he’s just throwing things out, trying to get us to think creatively. I mean, how could we make Katie vanish, and not end up with Dick Langford coming after me, as he threatened to? Or even after you and me together? The only way would be for all three of us to vanish, and we can’t do that to Charlie.”
“I don’t think Katie would let us vanish her, even if we weren’t in danger the moment she went missing,” Jack observed, pushing his food around on the plate. “And for the same reason. She won’t leave Charlie in the lurch in the middle of the season. Where could he get a replacement for her at this stage?”
“So . . . what can we do, you and I?” Lionel finished his meal and set the tray aside. “If we can’t make Katie vanish, is there any way we can protect her?”
“Hrrrmmmm. I wonder . . .” Jack pondered a moment, as Mrs. Buckthorn came in to putter around a bit, cleaning up after them, and left again, taking the tray with her. And leaving each of them with a bottle of beer. It might not be very genteel, but Mrs. Buckthorn knew what men liked on a hot evening. “The first thing that springs to mind is to keep him too busy—or too satisfied—to hurt her.”
“He likes women. He likes money. He likes being a bully and hurting people.” Lionel shook his head dismally. “Not a great deal there to work with, Jack.”
“It’s what we have. Maybe we should sleep on it and something will come to us.” Jack shrugged. “That’s all I can think.”
“That’s probably the best we can do for now,” Lionel admitted.
“At least she’s not giving up,” Jack replied, after a long silence between them. “We have that much, at least. As long as she’s fighting, we have a chance.”
16
THE cottage was quiet, and far too warm. It felt as if a storm was about to break, and yet there was no sign of so much as a cloud. It was even too warm for her nightdress; the most comfortable clothing she had in this weather were her cambric chemise and knickers, so that was all she was wearing now, what she had done all the cleaning in, and what she would wear to sleep. Probably a “proper lady” would have been scandalized by such a thing.
Then again, maybe not. Maybe some of them were stifling enough in this heat that they were doing the same.
As the very last thing, Katie laid out the food and gin for Dick, just as she had for the past three nights, and scampered up the ladder to hide in the loft. She wished there was a window up here. You could put a hand to the ceiling and feel warmth coming off of it.
Then she settled into the bed, well out of sight, and started into the mental and magical exercises that Jack had taught her to accept the heat and let it become something that comforted. She expected that Dick would come back long before she was able to get to sleep. But tonight was different.
Tonight was very different.
Dick came back much later than usual, so late that Katie had actually fallen dead asleep. The sounds of him rattling the door broke her out of dreams. She startled awake, and listened, and what she heard did not bode well. It took him three tries to get the key in the lock, and he alarmed her by staggering inside and blundering around, knocking into things, clearly too drunk to properly walk.
Her heart immediately went into a panicked gallop, her mouth dried in an instant, and she began panting with fear. He blundered back to the door and slammed it shut, locking it, then knocked over the paraffin lamp by the front door and smashed it; she hear
d the glass breaking and smelled the paraffin up in the loft. It was very clear by this point that he not just intoxicated, he was blind drunk.
It was also very clear that he was in a blind rage. Bestial sounds were coming out of him. She had never seen him like this and it terrified her. He was so drunk that he couldn’t even properly roar out her name, bellowing only an inarticulate “Kaaeee!” as she shrank into the back of the loft, and hid behind the frame of the bed. She had never been trapped with him in this state, and she had no idea how to react to his bellows. She only knew there would be no appeasing him. She would be an idiot to go down out of the loft now. No matter what happened, it would be her fault—and when he beat her, it would be without any sort of restraint. He wouldn’t remember that she was the source of the money he was enjoying; he wouldn’t remember that if he hurt her seriously, she wouldn’t be able to earn that money. He probably wouldn’t even remember that if he murdered her, he’d hang.
Tonight, he might well kill her.
The best she could do was to try to stay out of his hands.
“Kaaaeeee!” The bellowing came from right below her. He shook the ladder, then beat the edge of the loft with it. “Kaaaeeee!” She shook like a terrified rabbit, watching the wood of the ladder splintering with each blow.
He started to climb the ladder, but the first, second, and third rungs broke beneath his weight. She heard them “go,” and he cursed violently and went back to beating the edge of the loft with the remains of the ladder.
Then, with a final, titanic crash, he actually broke the ladder against the edge of the loft. Bits of wood flew everywhere, and she ducked behind the bed to avoid being hit by them.
He roared with frustration, and threw the bits remaining in his hands across the room. At least, that is what she thought he’d done, all she heard were two tremendous crashes as something flew into the wall and the rear window.
She didn’t want to think about how much the damage he was causing was going to cost. Clearly he did not care.
As he raged around the room, smashing glass and crockery against the walls, she somehow managed to muster the courage to creep to the battered edge of the loft and peek down into the rest of the cottage.
At this point, he was reducing part of the ladder to kindling, bellowing like a beast. She had left the gaslights turned up, and the little cottage looked as if a terrible pub-fight had broken out in it.
As if he had sensed her eyes on him, he suddenly looked up. The bright light pitilessly revealed the damage that had been done to him. Not only had she never seen him this drunk before—she had never seen him look as if he was a victim, not the victor.
He must have, for the first time since she had known him, and possibly in his life, found himself up against someone who could, and would, beat him as badly as he had beaten others.
His face was bright red, and somewhat battered. His hair, usually carefully oiled and arranged, looked as if someone had been pulling at it, violently. There were bruises around his neck. One ear was twice the size of the other, as if someone had repeatedly hit him on that side of his head. His eyes looked sunken, and piggishly small, as if the flesh around them was slightly swollen.
They were also black with rage.
“Gerrown!” he screamed, stamping his feet and pointing at the ground. “Gerrown!”
“I can’t, Dick,” she said, shaking in every limb. “I can’t. You’ve broken the ladder.”
He bellowed again, and flung the piece he was holding at her. She ducked out of the way. He made a clumsy run and a jump for the edge of the loft; she bleated and scuttled back, knowing if he could catch the wood in his hands he had all the strength he needed, even completely drunk, to pull himself up. She expected at any moment to see his hands clutched on the edge, to see his face coming up over it like the sunrise of the damned.
But instead, she heard the crash of him dropping back to the floor, startling an involuntary yelp out of her.
Again and again, he tried and failed to reach the edge of the loft with his outstretched hands. Again and again, he fell back to the floor, howling with pain and anger. Either the loft was just high enough he simply couldn’t reach it, or he was too drunk to coordinate his leaps and his catch.
Finally he gave up, and went back to wrecking the cottage. She huddled in the back of the loft, and listened to him breaking things. She wondered if anything was going to be left intact when he was done. He howled words she was certain were curses, but it was impossible to tell what it was he was actually saying.
Her heart pounded so hard she was sure he could hear it down there. How was this going to end? What had set him off in the first place? It looked as if he had been fighting. Had he gone looking for a prizefight and found only defeat and humiliation instead of the victory he had expected? Had he made the mistake of going after a woman who had a stronger man than he was to defend her? Had he run afoul of an entire gang? Even he, with his tremendous strength, could not have held out for long against a gang determined to teach him a lesson.
Whatever had happened, he’d gotten himself in trouble—whether it was before he’d gotten so drunk, or afterward. If only he’d—
Then she heard it; the crash of glass. A strange whoosh.
And the inside of the cottage flared with light.
And flame shot up for a moment, visible over the edge of the loft, reaching almost to the ceiling!
The bellows turned to screams of agony, and she scrambled to the edge of the loft to see to her horror that Dick was still blundering around the cottage—but now he was engulfed in fire! He screamed at the top of his lungs beating at his flaming shirt and hair to no effect. There was fire creeping up the wall where one of the gaslights had been, and shattered glass underneath it. A tiny, sane part of her recognized it for the remains of one of the gin bottles. He must have flung it at the gaslight, with predictable results.
He staggered everywhere, flailing, howling in agony—and setting fires everywhere he blundered.
• • •
Jack didn’t remember falling into bed; he’d been so very exhausted that he’d dropped into it fully clothed. But it couldn’t have been long before he was catapulted out of an uneasy sleep by sharp pain and the sense of complete panic. His eyes flew open to find that one of his salamanders had deliberately scorched the back of his hand, while another was biting his nose. Before he could react properly, images exploded into his mind. Katie’s cottage, fire everywhere, a body on fire sprawled across the back door, Katie trapped in the loft, screaming for help—
He had no memory of plunging across the hall to Lionel’s room, but the door opened in his face, and Lionel shoved him out of the way, running for the front door.
He hadn’t gotten far down the hall before Lionel was back, grabbing his arm and hauling him outside, where he found himself being flung into a cab. Lionel shoved a fistful of money at the startled driver and shouted Katie’s address. The cabbie reacted by putting the whip to his horse, and the cab lurched forward as the horse leapt into a canter.
“We’ll never—” Lionel began, helplessly.
“Send your Elementals,” Jack shouted at his friend, grabbing him by the shoulders and shaking him. “I’ll send mine!”
He could feel the doubt in Lionel; he was nothing but a magician—and his little sylphs were nothing like strong enough to stop what they both must have seen! Why, not even the firebirds that had protected him and Katie from the runaway rocket were strong enough to damp that conflagration! Lionel shouted back, despairing. “They can’t stop the fire, they’re—”
“They can hold it back!” he countered. “They can hold it back! And so can she if she’ll just think! If she can see ours, she’ll know what to do!” Lionel’s Elementals were air; they could steal the air from the fire and keep it from exploding out in all directions. His salamanders could shelter
Katie for a little while at least. “Concentrate, Lionel! Concentrate!”
He squeezed his own eyes shut, and concentrated on calling his Elementals and showing them what they needed to do in his mind. Keep the fire away from Katie. Absorb it as much as possible. Keep it contained. Don’t let it get away and take over the cottage.
He felt his little friends responding; felt still more gathering and following their lead as the cab raced headlong toward Katie’s lane. He saw glimpses of the fire through their eyes; saw that they were fighting the battle to the best of their ability, but saw, too, that the battle they were fighting was one they were going to lose, eventually. They were creatures of magic, and weak in the real world. There was only so much they could do—
He heard the cabby shout out a curse, and felt the cab slew sideways as he pulled the horse to a halt. Were they there?
He flung the door open, into the smoke, the heat, the smell of the burning cottage, which had flames coming from every window. The cabby shouted something he didn’t even try to understand. He ran as fast has he ever had, even when he’d had two good legs, utterly indifferent to the pain. He didn’t even pause at the door; he ducked his head and hit the smoldering wood with his shoulder, breaking it down, and tumbling headlong into hell, into the one spot in the cottage that was still clear of fire, the middle of the floor. He rolled to his feet, heard his name, and looked up into Katie’s terrified eyes.
“Jump!” he cried to her, holding out his arms. “Jump!”
Without hesitation she grasped the edge of the loft, somersaulted over it, and dropped into his arms, white fabric of her knickers and chemise fluttering around her like wings. They both fell to the floor in a heap.
But in that moment, the flames had gotten out of control of the salamanders; fire sprang up between them and the door, feeding greedily on the wood and the fresh air gushing inside. The back door was already fully engulfed in flame.
With a feeling of despair—and yet, a sort of peace—he tried to hold her closely, to pull her head into his chest so she wouldn’t see what was coming.
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