Tessa looked to Charlotte, who shrugged as if to say there was nothing to be done about it. Slowly Tessa sat back down. Wil sat as wel . She didn’t look at him; she couldn’t, with Woolsey Scott grinning at them both as if he knew something she didn’t know.
“And where’s young Mr. Carstairs?” he inquired. “Adorable boy. Such interesting coloring. And so talented on the violin. Of course, I’ve heard Garcin himself play at the Paris Opera, and after that, wel , everything simply sounds like coal dust scraping the eardrums. Pity about his il ness.”
Charlotte, who had gone across the room to ring for Bridget, returned and sat down, smoothing her skirts. “In a way, that’s what I wanted to speak to you about—”
“Oh, no, no, no.” From nowhere Scott had produced a majolica box, which he waved in Charlotte’s direction. “No serious discussion, please, until I’ve had my tea and a smoke. Egyptian cigar?” He offered her the box. “They’re the finest available.”
“No, thank you.” Charlotte looked mildly horrified at the idea of smoking a cigar; indeed, it was hard to picture, and Tessa felt Wil , beside her, laugh silently. Scott shrugged and went back to his smoking preparations. The majolica box was a clever little thing with compartments for the cigars, tied in a bundle with a silk ribbon, new matches and old, and a place to tap one’s ashes. They watched as the werewolf lit his cigar with evident relish, and the sweet scent of tobacco fil ed the room.
“Now,” he said. “Tel me how you’ve been, Charlotte, darling. And that abstracted husband of yours. Stil wandering around the crypt inventing things that blow up?”
“Sometimes,” said Wil , “they’re even supposed to blow up.”
There was a rattle, and Bridget arrived with a tea tray, sparing Charlotte the need to answer. She set the tea things down on the inlaid table between the chairs, glancing back and forth anxiously. “I’m sorry, Mrs. Branwel . I thought there was only going to be two for tea—”
“It’s quite al right, Bridget,” said Charlotte, her tone firmly dismissive. “I wil ring for you if we need anything else.”
Bridget dropped a curtsy and left, casting a curious eye over her shoulder at Woolsey Scott as she went. He took no notice of her. He had already poured milk into his teacup and was looking reproachful y at his hostess. “Oh, Charlotte.”
She looked at him in bewilderment. “Yes?”
“The tongs—the sugar tongs,” Scott said sadly, in the voice of someone remarking on the tragic death of an acquaintance. “They’re silver.”
“Oh!” Charlotte looked startled. Silver, Tessa remembered, was dangerous for werewolves. “I’m so sorry—”
Scott sighed. “It’s quite al right. Fortunately, I travel with my own.” From another pocket in his velvet jacket—which was buttoned over a silk waistcoat with a print of water lilies that would have put one of Henry’s to shame—he produced a rol ed-up bit of silk; unrol ing it revealed a set of gold tongs and a teaspoon. He set them on the table, took the lid off the teapot, and looked pleased. “Gunpowder tea! From Ceylon, I presume?
Have you ever had the tea in Marrakech? They drench it in sugar or honey—”
“Gunpowder?” said Tessa, who had never been able to stop herself from asking questions even when she knew perfectly wel it was a bad idea.
“There isn’t gunpowder in the tea, is there?”
Scott laughed and set the lid back down. He sat back while Charlotte, her mouth set in a thin line, poured tea into his cup. “How charming! No, they cal it that because the leaves of the tea are rol ed into smal pel ets that resemble gunpowder.”
Charlotte said, “Mr. Scott, we real y must discuss the situation at hand.”
“Yes, yes, I read your letter.” He sighed. “Downworlder politics. So dul . I don’t suppose you’d let me tel you about having my portrait painted by Alma-Tadema? I was dressed as a Roman soldier—”
“Wil ,” said Charlotte firmly. “Perhaps you should share with Mr. Scott what you saw in Whitechapel last night.”
Wil , somewhat to Tessa’s surprise, obediently did as told, keeping the sarcastic observations to a minimum. Scott watched him over the rim of his teacup as Wil spoke. His eyes were such a pale green, they were nearly yel ow.
“Sorry, my boy,” he said when Wil was done speaking. “I don’t see why this requires an urgent meeting. We’re al aware of the existence of these ifrit dens, and I can’t be watching every member of my pack at every moment. If some of them choose to partake in vice . . .” He leaned closer. “You do know that your eyes are almost the exact shade of pansy petals? Not quite blue, not quite violet. Extraordinary.”
Wil widened his extraordinary eyes and smirked. “I think it was the mention of the Magister that concerned Charlotte.”