A Power Unbound (The Last Binding, #3)

“Hawthorn,” said Violet urgently. “It’s a targeted negation—it’s going for the embroidery. Take off the tie.”

Jack unknotted it hastily, pulled it clear of his collar and tossed it to the ground. The grey fabric was eaten through with embers and char where the runes of Violet’s embroidery had been. Edwin had never been able to cast a negation strong enough to do that, when they tested it.

“You have been busy, Miss Debenham.” George still held the negation between his palms. “Is there anyone else here wearing anything they shouldn’t, I wonder?”

And he turned to the three people standing between him and the ledger, and let the spell seep fluidly out until it filled half the room.

Adelaide’s shirtwaist caught fire.

Robin shouted. Edwin jerked. Adelaide herself gave a startled scream and batted at her front and cuffs with her bare hands. Her embroidered illusion-runes were far denser than those on Jack’s tie; there were outright small flames licking at the fabric and thread.

“Bloody— I can’t do anything!” Edwin’s hands spasmed as he clearly tried to start an extinguishing spell on instinct. “Robin!”

“Addy, hold still.” Robin’s larger hands should have been better extinguishing tools, but the runes rekindled themselves as soon as he moved from one patch to another. Adelaide emitted a displeased stream of Punjabi obscenity that seemed very odd coming from the mouth of a mousy white woman.

“Miss Morrissey, I presume. I prefer to see people truthfully,” said George. “If that garment is carrying the illusion, then I suggest you remove it.”

“Remove her clothes?” said Violet.

“Unless she prefers to wait for it to char into rags on her body?”

Adelaide had a murderous gleam in her eye as she hurriedly unbuttoned. Robin removed his own waistcoat. The other two Coopers had found reason to stare at either ceiling or floor, but George remained as patient and unmoved as a marble statue. Adelaide’s chemise and corset had black specks on them when she flung the burning shirt to the ground and the illusion vanished. She hastily accepted Robin’s waistcoat. It hung loosely on her, but at least Jack felt comfortable looking at her again.

“There,” said George. “And now—the knife, please.”

Nobody moved. Edwin’s body shielded the knife and its box from view. Robin had his jaw set, and he stepped into George’s way as George made for the table.

George stopped. That crease appeared on his forehead again. He and Robin were nearly of a height, though next to George’s tailored appearance Robin—with his rolled-up sleeves, missing waistcoat, and pugnacious look—could have been a prizefighter George was inspecting before placing his bet.

“Sir Robert,” said George. “Consider your situation.”

Robin shot a glance at Jack, who shook his head. The last thing they needed was for the rigid potential in Robin’s shoulders and arms to translate into violence. For an unmagical baronet in a room full of Coopers, even one with a superb right hook, that was only going to end badly.

Edwin clearly agreed. He said, colourlessly, “Don’t give them an excuse.” And stepped aside.

With a grunt of annoyance, Robin did the same.

George looked down at the knife, gave a brisk nod, and closed the box. It was small enough to slip into his pocket.

“Hartley,” he said then, “where did you leave the journalist?”

Jack’s heart missed its cue momentarily.

“Skulking in the corridor, sir,” said the Cooper, who had now moved to shadow Robin.

George raised his voice. Not by much. George, like Jack, was accustomed to being obeyed without resorting to anything so vulgar as noise. “Mr. Ross? In here, if you please.”

Alan walked in unescorted by anyone. His gaze met Jack’s and leapt away quick as a whip. He settled himself against the wall next to the door, as if ready for the chance to slip back out again.

“But—you weren’t meant to be here,” said Edwin. “We didn’t need you for this.”

“Oh, no,” said Violet bitterly. “It’s even better than that.”

“Indeed,” said George. “This is exactly where Mr. Ross is meant to be. Where I needed him to be.”

Beneath George’s intensely polished exterior was a strong instinct for showmanship. A smile played on his face as he watched the impact of that on Robin and Edwin and Adelaide.

Jack had long ago trained his own face to hide more, the more he felt. Helpful for an army officer who was no more immune to fear than any of his men but needed to pretend otherwise. By now it wasn’t deliberate. It simply set into place as he looked at Alan and his mind flew back over the last fortnight, searching for—what? Clues? Proof?

A truth: Alanzo Rossi hated anyone with unearned power who wielded it against others.

And another: Alanzo Rossi would swallow a great deal of what he hated, if it helped him support his family.

Someone had cracked an eggshell full of molten glass on Jack’s sternum and had left it to trickle down between his ribs. It burned when he inhaled.

George went on, “Very careless of you all to have left him roaming around London after that voyage, without so much as a secret-bind, so that anyone could approach him with an offer of work.” He tutted. “You see, Hartley, Rolfe? This is the sort of thing the Coopers exist to prevent.”

“Yes, sir.”

Robin managed two furious strides towards Alan before Hartley intercepted him with a cradle half-begun and raised warningly. Even then, Robin looked on the verge of barging right through him, but he stopped and glared at Alan over Hartley’s shoulder.

“An offer of work,” Robin spat. “And then you came and made Maud the same offer, and this whole time you’ve been playing the spy and reaping the rewards from both sides.”

“The man’s a common thief, Sir Robert,” said George. “Were you expecting a shining diamond of integrity?”

Nothing shifted in Alan’s face either. He looked sallow and tightly wound. One of his hands twitched as if about to clench into a fist.

“I don’t understand,” said Adelaide to George. “If Mr. Ross told you where the knife was, why didn’t you come and fetch it yourself? Why let us go ahead with this entire scheme?”

“To catch us handily in the act, I presume,” said Edwin.

“A happy extra,” said George. “But no.” He looked at Alan. “Well, Mr. Ross? Where is my cup?”

“Miss Debenham brought it,” said Alan tonelessly. “Ask her.”

Violet’s hand went to her mouth.

“What?” said Edwin.

“Fuck,” spat Violet. “Fuck you, Alan Ross, and fuck every generation of your fucking family and fuck us for helping you when you said you were in need.”

The silent, burly Cooper holding Violet’s arm—Rolfe—took a tiny step away, as if her obscenity might be catching.

“Miss Debenham.” George held out an open palm.