Wolff had Lambe tight in his arms. Lambe murmured gently while Wolff kissed his forehead, his cheek, his lips. Lambe’s pale, thin fingers tangled in the other boy’s hair. Their embrace was tender, passionate even. What in the devil?
I backed away and accidentally knocked into the door. Wolff released Lambe and shot to his feet. We stared at each other, neither seeming to know what to do. What had I seen? A tortured moment ticked by in silence.
“I should leave,” I said, setting down the basin as I tried to find my cloak. I’d no idea how to behave. Wolff trailed me as I walked around the room, bumping up against one of the chairs.
“Why won’t you look at me?” He sounded heavy.
“I don’t know what you mean.” Forcing myself to stay calm, I brought my eyes to his. He sighed.
“I can see how much you loathe it. What we are,” he muttered.
“I could never loathe you.” The idea of it shocked me from my stupor. Damn it all to hell, this was Wolff. My friend. Shoving his hands into his pockets, he sat next to the sofa. Lambe reached out his hand, and Wolff took it. I was struck by the honest fearlessness of that simple gesture.
“You’ll run straight to Whitechurch now,” Wolff said.
“No. Never.” I found my normal voice at last. They could be excommunicated if anyone knew about this relationship, perhaps even jailed.
Wolff brushed a piece of hair out of Lambe’s face, his expression full of tenderness.
“I won’t give him up. Not for the world. Maybe it’s a half life, living this lie, but it’s the only one I want.” He looked up at me. “No matter what I do, I’m trapped.” His voice wavered.
His pain was palpable, and I recognized that sensation of living and breathing a lie. Damned if I would let another friendship be ruined, I sat beside the sofa, took up the teacup, and offered it to Lambe once more.
“I don’t bloody care what you do. Whitechurch will never hear about it from me.” As far as I’d seen in my life, love was too rare to squander.
Wolff touched my shoulder before going to the table. He picked up a plate of food and then returned, and together we tried to get Lambe to eat something solid. After a while, Lambe was able to finish half of some cold mutton stew. His cheeks regained their color.
“You’re all right,” I said, relieved.
“Yes. There’s one more thing to discuss, though.” Lambe focused on me. “The bells.”
I nearly dropped the cup. “Bells?”
“Molochoron at York. Yes, and the Skinless Man is there as well.” He quirked an eyebrow and took a bite of potato.
“How…did you…” I couldn’t finish.
“I returned to London because I am to be your mirror, Howel, now and in the wars to come.” He nodded. “I will help you with the Imperator.”
“Thank you,” I breathed. Yes, we would hunt down R’hlem together.
Because I’d decided something, watching Magnus cry over his mother’s body and Rook scream like an animal. My father was responsible for all of this, and I would stop him…no matter the cost.
Whitechurch watched the hovering square of water glass, brows furrowed. Lambe waited in the front row of the obsidian cathedral, his pale hair visible from where I sat. I crossed my fingers in my lap as Whitechurch scanned scene after scene until he came to what he wanted.
“That,” he said with quiet excitement, “is R’hlem.”
Indeed, we caught faint glimpses of a man striding through a swarm of Familiars. He was taller than most, his face slick with blood. R’hlem was there. He hadn’t moved from his position outside York.
When Lambe had come to Whitechurch two days earlier with tales of his “vision,” Whitechurch had at first been hesitant to believe it. But he’d investigated on his own and located the Skinless Man. Every few hours since then, he’d watched and waited to see how R’hlem moved, what he did, if his days held a particular pattern. The rest of the Order was brought in to observe, and soon it became obvious that R’hlem had stationed himself. He was not moving.
Now would be the time to strike.
Blackwood sat beside me, but he might as well have been on the moon for all he acknowledged my presence. Since our arguments in the aviary and then the study, he’d become like a stranger. Fine. I could ignore him just as easily.
“The time has come.” Whitechurch melted the glass, returning it to a ball of water and draining it into the elemental pit.
Sorcerers began asking questions, but I’d a fair idea of what was coming. We’d march to R’hlem, the boys and I armed with our weapons. Several squadrons would protect our little group, forming a block on all sides. If we moved swiftly, without alerting the other Ancients, we could surround R’hlem and take him down. Yes, his psychic powers could be extraordinary—I knew that from firsthand experience—but with sorcerers attacking from every direction, he’d be overwhelmed. That would give us the opportunity needed to strike. And by us, I meant me.
It had been the queen’s particular wish that I strike the final blow.
My heart hammered to think about it. Even after all of this—Rook, Magnus’s mother, the death of so many people—even now I didn’t know if I had such an act inside me.
To kill one’s own father required something monstrous.
“How are we to approach him, sir?” Dee called.
“I believe I can be of service in that particular area,” a delicate, feminine voice said. Queen Mab stepped out of the shadows, arriving from Faerie between one heartbeat and the next. God knows how long she’d been listening. At least she’d worn a more modest gown for this occasion. The sleeves were long, her bosom fully covered, though the fabric still seemed to be woven from spider silk and dusted with moth-wing powder.
Blackwood stiffened. We both knew what was being suggested.
“My Faerie roads are the surest path across your country.” Mab twirled a piece of hair on a pale little finger. “You can be in the north after two hours of marching, and the Skinless Man won’t be able to track you.”
There was much happy murmuring among the sorcerers. I noticed Magnus in the crowd, deliberately facing away from the faerie queen. He’d put on his naval clothes once more, though he kept a black band tied about his upper arm to signify mourning. I knew he did not want anything to do with Mab. But needs must.
“Indeed,” Whitechurch said. “We join with Mab’s forces. We march north. We circle. We divide the Ancients and vanquish R’hlem. We end this war.” His voice boomed upon the obsidian walls. As one, the Order rose to its feet, the applause thunderous. Mab beamed and waved at the crowd, as though she’d won something.
“Do you think we’re ready?” I asked Blackwood. For the first time since the day of Fanny’s funeral, he looked at me straight on.
“We’ll have to be.” That was all I got from him.
—
THAT EVENING, I MADE MY WAY upstairs to the apothecary, half of which had already been scrubbed and packed away. Fenswick didn’t want the Order finding any of his “experiments.” He was squatting on the table, stacking bowls when I entered.
“I’m so sorry,” I said.
The hobgoblin only laid three bronze measuring spoons into a napkin and tied it up.
“I should have informed the Order myself.” He held a dried yellow flower of some kind to a candle flame and watched it burn. The smoke was cloyingly sweet, like incense. Maria came out of the back room, a few small objects gathered in her apron. She wiped her eyes with her sleeve.
“We’ve destroyed nearly everything dangerous.” She sniffed. I handed her my handkerchief, my initials embroidered upon it in blue thread. She blew her nose, then said, “I should go. If they find me out, you know what they’ll do.”
“Where can you go?” My heart wrenched at the idea.
“Maria shall come with me into Faerie,” Fenswick said, packing two velvet pouches into a little wooden box. “The roads can take her wherever she wishes.”