“No, he doesn’t. Margaret changed her mind about telling him, once he was happy in service. She’s still waiting for the other shoe to drop, I believe—always thinking I’ll whisk her off to some dungeon out of jealous pique. She’s a nice girl, despite the temper. Superb nurse, Dr. Jenkins says.”
“Powerful, too.” Jack stepped around a series of puddles that muddied the path in a shadowy, insect-dense little wilderness; his mother, in her boots, tromped straight through. “That spell of rot. No wonder Oliver’s as strong as he is.”
“Too strong for the education he had,” said his mother bluntly. “I’d have stepped in sooner, if I’d realised. He needs someone to teach him control.”
“Yes,” Jack said dryly. “I have realised that.” He remembered being that age, brimming with magic freshly come to its full strength, taking all his lessons and practice to keep it leashed to his will. Again he felt compelled to point out: “I hired a magical valet, Polly. I didn’t take on responsibility for teaching magic to a half brother.”
That got him an unimpressed look over her shoulder. Jack’s heart, like an unoiled piece of clockwork, gave a grudging tick of love for his astoundingly pragmatic mother. She hadn’t kept on trying to change Jack’s mind when he abandoned magical society. She knew it would only push him further away. She’d simply left the door open.
In his more cynical moments over the years, Jack had tried to convince himself that he’d burned all the responsibility out of himself along with the instinctual actions of magic. That the ashes of it had been dumped somewhere in the dry veldt of the Boer, in that chill morning before he was transported back to England.
It wasn’t true. Even at the time, he’d known it. Jack had hated everything about the war except for the men who surrounded him, and you couldn’t shed responsibility in a place like that. It clung. It found the chambers of the heart and made a gritty home, which had been left vacant for years and then been all too willing—apparently—to welcome Maud Blyth and Violet Debenham.
And his mother had enough faith in him, after all this time, that she’d responded to his first step back through that door by immediately sending him someone else to look after. He didn’t know how to feel about that.
The walk took over an hour. It took them to various corners of the estate, where Lady Cheetham murmured about things that she must get the gardeners to keep an eye on, and pointed out recent changes as if giving a tour. Jack had to steel himself for the climb to the Lady’s Oak. But when they stood shielded from the high sun by branches, breathing in a gust of grass-smelling air, he felt … looser. When he touched the tree’s bark he remembered Elsie screaming, yes, but also the years before that.
He didn’t speak until they descended the other side of the hill. Then he said, “What’s happening here?”
Laid out below and to the right was the lake. There was an enormous new hump of earth on the northern edge of the water, a slope leading up to a flat terrace with an edge of white balustrade and white pots. You could stand there and look down to the water. Beneath it, a sort of stone grotto was being shaped out, with the lake’s edge lapping at its base.
“We’re hosting the equinox gala.”
“That’s this year?”
“Yes—next month.”
The triennial gathering marked the close of a term of the Magical Assembly, before the election to determine its members heading into the next three years. Traditionally it was a time for last-minute discussions of who would be seconding whose nomination, and handshakes over the punch bowl. It was also the grandest and oldest event in magical society’s calendar. Cheetham Hall had last hosted it when Jack’s great-grandfather was alive.
Jack looked at the white pots. Empty, but one almost expected orange trees. “Very Mediterranean.”
Lady Cheetham smiled, tipping back the brim of her hat to follow his gaze. “It seemed a good excuse to do something special, and we can’t fit everyone in the ballroom. So we’re landscaping. Leo asked George if he’d—”
“No.” It came out before Jack could stop it, and the bind on his tongue sensed the edges of its secret. Pain flooded his mouth and he coughed into the back of his hand.
“Jack? Is everything all right?”
Jack pressed his lips shut until he could be sure that the bind wouldn’t show when he talked.
“Fine,” he said then. “Leo asked George…?”
“To help,” she said slowly. “As it was his suggestion for us to host in the first place. But there’s some sort of brewing trouble at the Barrel, so he sent his apologies and a handful of junior Coopers that Reeves—he’s head gardener now—could bully for a few days until the main work of the earth-shifting was done. Our own men will take care of the rest.”
The Coopers were a kind of police force, a tool which magical society could turn upon itself, and George Bastoke had taken firm control of them several years ago. He’d shown no compunction in using them to advance his own ends in pursuit of the Last Contract. Violet had killed one of them, the ambitious and unpleasant Arthur Chapman, aboard the Lyric.
So Cheetham hosting the gala had been George’s suggestion. Jack stared at the sprawl of inviting lawn and imagined it full. Hundreds of magicians all in one place. Perfect for ceremony.
And very tempting, if you intended to use the Last Contract to draw on the magic of every British magician and knew that proximity could make a difference. George might be working to a deadline. Was it making his hunt more urgent, explaining the attempted break-ins at Spinet House? Or was there some reason he felt confident in his ability to get his hands on the contract pieces by that date?
Next month.
“Jack, are you sure you’re—”
“I’m fine.” He began to walk back to the house. He was not fine. A rope of anger held him upright. How dare George come back to this place. Jack would tear him to pieces. He would hurl him into the lake and drown him.
He would—do nothing, because George Bastoke was a magician. And he was not.
If he talked in careful circles around the bind’s constraints, his parents might agree to cancel the gala. Even at this damningly short notice. Even with the damage it would do their standing in society. Even on no satisfactory explanation at all.
And then what? A new location for the gala, one where Jack could exert no control? This place wasn’t George’s to exploit and gloat over. It had been Jack’s home once, and he was sworn to it. That might be enough.
They finished the walk at the side of the house. The path they were treading ended at a latched gate set within a new stone wall.
Jack stopped entirely. He was a solid root-knot of denial, with that creeping feeling writhing over his legs again. It would have taken the magic of three magicians to force him through that gate.
His mother drew up beside him. For a hot moment he wanted to strike her simply for being there. Then he wanted to bury his face in her shoulder. She reached out, touched his cheek, and then took her iron self-possession back within herself.