“What a busy legal team you have there, Miss Debenham,” said Walter. His voice sharpened. “Do you deny that you’re currently searching Spinet House for something?”
Manning looked perplexed, and this time didn’t manage to stop Violet. She snapped, “If you’re so keen to spy on us, then I think you also know by now how unfriendly Spinet can be.”
Jack had an unpleasant memory of the wardrobe in that upstairs room and the sound of tearing flesh.
Walter said, “Are you making threats, Miss Debenham?”
Disapproving looks from the panel. Violet had enough sense not to open her mouth again. And—
“This is all a bit pointless, isn’t it?” said Robin.
He had the ability to centre attention when he wanted to. He was standing, giving the panel one of his disarming, placating smiles. “Here’s how I see it. We know that the Magical Assembly gave their blessing to the search for the Last Contract. So either everyone here is fully aware of what we’re searching for in Spinet House, or you’re not, and Courcey’s relying on all these half lies and double meanings to make Miss Debenham look untrustworthy. When he’s the one who wants to use this contract to steal magic from everyone he can.”
What might have been a ringing silence was spoiled by Cowling breaking into a burst of dry coughs. Singh’s eyebrows had climbed closer to the edge of his turban.
“Well then,” said Violet.
Edwin was giving Robin a look as if he was speaking another language. Manning looked, understandably, extremely lost.
It was a bold move. It was a characteristic move; Robin was straightforward to a fault, and both he and his sister believed in dragging things out into the light. Jack just didn’t know if it was the right move for this situation.
“We are aware of this … proposed undertaking regarding the Last Contract,” said Prest stiffly. “I was not aware that word of it had spread.”
“It’s George Bastoke’s pet project,” said Robin. “And Mr. Courcey’s here, too. And I’ll wager they aren’t telling the Assembly exactly what they’ve been doing in the name of it.”
As if one or both of the names had been a signal, Walter cleared his throat and drifted back into the centre of the room. He didn’t look angry or ruffled.
“There’s no need for such dramatics,” said Walter. “As the Deputy Chief Minister pointed out, the search for the Last Contract was fully endorsed by the Assembly. It is a vital legacy of British magic, and it was wilfully stolen by a group of women who didn’t know what they were doing. Of course we are making every effort to recover it.” He looked right at Edwin. “Perhaps Sir Robert wasn’t going to mention that I had to interfere personally, when my brother tried to keep the coin of the contract for himself. And he still managed to inherit a magical estate for his efforts. Just as Miss Debenham here claims to have done. How convenient.”
Edwin had lost some colour under his brother’s direct gaze, and he didn’t have much to lose. This battle was turning the wrong way, as battles often did when two sides were working with different maps. Jack’s nerves knew it. His temples and the back of his neck were beginning to tighten.
A similar feeling had clearly struck Violet’s dicentis, whose composure cracked into outright panic. Manning scooped his books shakily into his arms and said, “I’m sorry, I—I don’t know—just wait—” and scurried towards the double doors.
“Manning,” Jack barked at his retreating back, but to no avail.
An incredulous smile crossed Walter Courcey’s face. The Assemblymen looked nonplussed. Evers looked like he’d prefer to follow Manning out of the room.
“Courcey,” said Cowling. “What on earth is going on?”
Walter sighed. “We do have reason to believe that Miss Debenham has inherited the knife of the Last Contract along with the rest of Lady Enid’s estate. If these objects can be considered private property at all.”
Edwin gave a small hiss of breath. Jack realised why as soon as Walter continued:
“In fact—it occurs to me—even if Spinet House and the rest of its contents are confirmed legally hers, Miss Debenham really should be required to hand over the knife. Along with, of course, any other pieces of the contract she might currently possess.”
“Any other…?” Prest frowned at Violet.
“Do make up your mind, Mr. Courcey.” Violet had found her poise. “Am I in illegal possession of a private inheritance, or am I hoarding public property? It seems to be whichever gets you what you want.”
Singh’s frown had deepened too. “Indeed. Courcey, if the point of this is an inheritance hearing—”
“You’re right,” said Walter. “We’ve wandered from the point. But I can’t allow these accusations to muddy the waters. I can assure you all that we’re nowhere near knowing how to use the Last Contract to pool the power of many magicians. Which, I will remind you, is an important goal. We don’t know precisely what darkness is gathering on the horizon for the magicians of Britain, but we do know we should all be working for the common good. Not selfishly hoarding the keys to power.”
“Selfish?” said Robin. “You and Bastoke are the ones turning murderer in the name of power, Courcey. You tried to kill Edwin.”
No poise there at all. All of Robin’s hatred bubbled up like bile, and the effect on the panel was obvious. He sounded desperate and looked unstable. It was unfair; he had every right to be. But this wasn’t that kind of battle.
Walter let Robin’s untidy emotion sit there like a spreading pool from where an untrained puppy had messed on the rug. Jack pressed his lips together and tried to think. In the pause, however, Edwin stood with enough force that his chair skidded on the floor, and marched stiff-legged to confront his brother, face-to-face.
It was a terribly brave act and Jack was almost certain it was going to make things worse.
“Hit me,” demanded Edwin.
Walter let out a brief, incredulous laugh. “I beg your pardon, Win?”
“Fuckfuckfuck,” breathed Robin.
“Go on. You have my consent. Lift a hand and try to hit me. Let them see you can’t, because you’re under blood-oath. The same oath that’s the only reason the Assembly has access to Robin’s foresight in the first place.”
Walter exchanged a look with Prest. Then looked back at Edwin, in whose face the hurt of the past was blossoming like a bruise. And Walter, like Jack, had always enjoyed knowing exactly where to press down. A hint of self-disgust curled up within Jack. He despised Walter Courcey and always had.
“Don’t be absurd,” said Walter gently. “You’re my brother, Edwin. Why would I want to strike you? Why would I ever need to give blood-oath not to hurt you? We’re family. Our parents’ blood is in the soil at Penhallick. It means something to me, even if it doesn’t to you.”
That was more than pressing a bruise; it was twisting a knife. Edwin flinched.
“Robin, stay put,” Jack growled without even looking over.
“You’re evading,” said Edwin. A thin, whip-crack whisper.