Mrs. Greengage looked relieved at the prospect of not having to produce an impromptu valet from among the footmen. The housekeeper was thin and capable, with creases at her eyes as she looked at Edwin, who was toying fondly with the trim of his chair.
“I’d say it’s likely the house will show you to your rooms, sir,” she said. “Sir Robert, we’ve put your bag in the next room down.”
She was right. The house showed them the way. Sutton Cottage was large enough that light poorly penetrated the interior corridors of the largest wings, and old enough that the darkness of the wood and stone rendered it shadowy, deep, and cool. The way needed to be lit and warmed, and lit and warmed it was, by clusters of candles in glass lantern-shields. Whenever Edwin hesitated at the foot of a stair or the end of a hallway, a cluster would flare briefly brighter in invitation, guiding them on.
“You’re going to have a terrific chandler’s bill, with this lot,” murmured Robin.
Edwin’s face lit in turn with a smile, even as he reached out a hand to the nearest wall as though to protect it from Robin’s teasing. He’d been doing that—small touches, odd smiles—since he’d fallen to his knees in the grasp of whatever power of this magical estate had sent Walter packing. There were subtler changes too. That authority in his voice. A straighter angle of his shoulders.
They certainly weren’t being stashed in a guest wing this time. The suite Edwin was led to had gold damask wall coverings and comprised at least three rooms joined by doors. There was a bedroom with an imposing four-poster dominating the middle, and an adjoining dressing room, but the bulk of the suite was the large, friendly space that combined study and sitting room. A series of sofas surrounded a pale round table that looked like marble; the centre of it was a chessboard, black stone inset amongst the white. There was a writing desk and chair, a winged armchair adorned with cushions, and a sideboard with a row of full decanters and a tray of crystal glasses. The silk walls were otherwise bare, with faint squares showing the gaps where pictures had been; politely awaiting the imposition of a new occupier’s taste. It was a man’s haven of a room and Robin wanted to wrap himself in it like a blanket.
He directed his comments to the ceiling. “You do realise he’s only going to haul bookshelves in here and crowd everything else out.”
“I shan’t need to,” said Edwin. “I have entire rooms for books. I have. A house’s worth.” The sentence veered, unsteady with disbelief.
“So you do.” Robin hesitated, but the question had been niggling at him. “Edwin, if Sutton Cottage could do that to Walter—for you—why wouldn’t it have done the same for Mrs. Sutton, when he was here before?”
“I’ve been thinking about that—about how it felt when it happened. I can only suppose . . .” Edwin rubbed at his face. He looked tired, as though he’d lived a week in the few hours they’d been here. “Mrs. Sutton realised the same thing that I did. That Walt’s group, whomever they are, knew she still had something they wanted, even if it was just information and not the contract itself. She knew that Walt was only the beginning. The house doesn’t think. It responds to what’s felt, and what’s wanted. I wanted Walt not to slice my fingers off.” A brief, humourless smile. “Flora Sutton wanted to take her secrets to the grave, as the best way to keep them safe. And so she did.”
“What a cheery thought,” said Robin, shaken.
“Indeed.” Edwin went to the sideboard and poured them both drinks. Robin didn’t give a fig for the hour of the day; alcoholic fortification seemed suddenly like the perfect idea.
“A toast,” said Edwin. “To the most valuable thing in the country.”
Robin touched the tiny self-inflicted cut on his neck, which he hadn’t bothered to point out to the kitchen maid. A frisson of awareness, more sexual than painful, echoed the soft burn of spirits in his throat.
“Walter showed his hand there, didn’t he?” he said.
“Walt gets the things he wants,” said Edwin. “He’s never had to pretend he doesn’t want them. He wouldn’t know how.”
Something about that cracked Robin’s heart into pieces and rectified it with the next beat. “It’s odd to think that if his lot hadn’t killed Gatling, I’d never have come into contact with magic at all, and the foresight would never have—woken up.”
Edwin blinked. “And I’d never have inherited Sutton.”
“He got what he wanted.” Robin smiled. “And rather a lot that he never bargained for. It’s going to be extremely satisfying to ruin his plans.” He chased that declaration with the rest of his drink, all in one gulp, then set the glass down.
“Yes.” Edwin’s piecemeal smile appeared in response. “When do you think he’s going to realise that you didn’t actually promise to return the favour when it comes to noninterference?”
“Hopefully not for a long time. That was a dashed clever thing you did, leaving it out of the oath. How did you know you could slip it past him?”
And it had slipped past: the fact that Robin and Edwin were still perfectly free, by the terms that Edwin had defined, to do their best to sabotage Walt’s efforts. To find the rest of the contract themselves. Walt had gained a coin, a blood-oath, and a pair of determined enemies that he couldn’t lay a finger on.
“I didn’t,” Edwin said. “But he was off-balance enough that it seemed worth trying.”
Robin shook his head. “Someone should have told him to pay attention to his contracts, before he consented to—” He didn’t get further; Edwin was laughing, quiet and helpless, the action like a new form of light that brought out his pigments, and Robin couldn’t remember anymore why he wasn’t holding Edwin in his arms. It seemed urgent enough to interrupt himself over.
Edwin was still laughing when Robin kissed him. It turned at once into a sharp inhalation; an equally sharp press of fingers at Robin’s neck, keeping him close. Edwin’s mouth opening to his. It had the same urgency, the same carmine edge of exultation and not-being-dead, that had flooded Robin’s veins when they escaped from the maze. Robin kissed him, kissed him, drank him in like water.
They parted only when Edwin sloshed spirits onto Robin’s back, from the glass he hadn’t been given a chance to put down. He hastily took it to the sideboard to join Robin’s.
“We’re going to do this,” said Robin. Best to have things laid out clear. He unbuttoned his damp waistcoat and Edwin’s eyes followed his hands. “We’re going to find out exactly what Walter and his chums are up to, and we’re going to find the other parts of the contract.”
Edwin swiped his hair back, a hectic motion. His lips were reddened. Robin found the sight maddening. “Rather optimistic of you, I’d say.”
“They don’t know that I have any control over the visions at all—oh, I’m starting to feel my way there, I think,” Robin said, to forestall Edwin’s questions. He tossed his waistcoat aside. “They also don’t know that Miss Morrissey and her sister are aware of what’s afoot. Only Byatt knew that. So, there. They’re not the only ones with allies.”
Edwin’s hands were on Robin’s chest now, making a delightful exploration of the gap between two shirt buttons. Robin allowed himself a brief, searing moment of entirely selfish gratitude that Edwin’s fingers had come through that ordeal intact.
“And Walt doesn’t know that Flora Sutton kept research diaries,” said Edwin.
Robin groaned. “I suggest a daring stealth adventure, and you have to ruin it by telling me it’s going to involve books.”
“A great many books.” Edwin’s smile was a tease. “Flora Sutton did magic one-handed, and soaked Sutton in spells I’ve never seen. I don’t think she knew how to practice within the normal rules at all. And—I have her books. I have her land.” He directed the smile around the room. “I don’t know if I can learn to do what she did, but I’m going to try.”
“I think you can probably do anything you set your mind to.”