“Now it’s a party,” said Robin. “And nobody thought to bring the champagne.”
A spasm of a smile happened on Edwin’s face. At least part of his senses were in the room with them. His gaze was still miles away. And he hadn’t looked over when his brother entered the room—that, more than anything, raised the hairs on Jack’s arms with something closer to anticipation than fear.
“Deputy Chief Minister. Courcey,” said George. “Do come in. As we were warned, an attempt has been made today to brazenly steal the knife of the Last Contract from this room, where the Coopers have been safeguarding it.”
“Safeguarding?” said Prest. “I thought you were still searching.”
“Need to know only, sir,” said Walter. “You can see from today’s unfortunate events why it had to be kept secret until we had all three pieces.”
“We caught four of them in the room, with their hands on the knife,” said George. “Miss Debenham—you remember Miss Debenham, sir?—had already lured away a loyal employee of the Barrel under some ruse.”
“Yes, I remember. You’re a disgrace to magical society, young lady. And to your family.” Prest frowned severely at Violet. She managed a theatric bow in his direction.
“I do try.”
“Would you like to tell me I’m a disgrace to my family as well?” asked Adelaide in her most gilded tones.
“My family’s mostly dead,” offered Robin.
“And mine already thinks I’m a disgrace.” Edwin’s attention was back in the room. “The feeling is mutual. Isn’t it, Walt?”
Walter smirked. “Non-magicians, an ex-magician, and someone who can barely make a light in a dark room. It’s not a surprise that you’ve been after the power of the Last Contract and doing terrible things to get it.”
It was a spiteful slip in his calm, reasonable facade—but Walter was a bully at heart. He couldn’t resist the urge to send out tormenting prickles, especially where his brother was concerned. George cared far more to preserve the image of himself as a true gentleman.
Now George picked up smoothly, addressing Prest. “We have reason to suspect these villains, as well as Blyth’s sister, were responsible for the deaths of several people already, beginning with Reginald Gatling and his aunt Flora Sutton, and including Mrs. Elizabeth Navenby. As you’ll recall, they have come into several inheritances in quick succession. I wouldn’t be surprised if they somehow brought about Lady Enid’s death as well, leaving Spinet House in Miss Debenham’s hands.”
Violet gave a strangled yelp of rage. “You’re responsible for all those deaths! And likely Lady Elsie’s too!”
That made Prest blink. The two Coopers exchanged a puzzled look.
George’s gaze swung, unhurried and untroubled, towards Jack.
The two of them looked at each other. Hatred soaked Jack like petroleum. The hinges of his jaw ached with tension.
“Lord Hawthorn,” George said. “You were there when your sister died. Did I kill her?”
Jack could try his best, could shove his tongue out for everyone to gawk at, but what difference would it make? The Deputy Chief Minister had been brought here as a witness, and had already decided whose version of events to trust. And no secret-bind told you who laid it. George could spin whatever story he wished.
Jack said nothing. There was no point.
“There,” said George. “What happened to my cousin was a tragedy. But the Alston twins were always somewhat unbalanced. Wild magic. Not fit for proper use. Everyone knew it.” A pause. “I’m hardly out here blaming you for my father’s death, Hawthorn, am I?”
To anyone else in the Lockroom that would have sounded like a reasonable, if oblique, argument. The unfairness of it lodged in Jack’s throat.
George turned to Hartley and the other Cooper. “I think enough has been said. Lock them all up. We’ll get to the bottom of this plot.”
“All right, Bastoke. Carry on, and keep us informed,” said Prest. He paused as he turned to go, and nodded at the unmoving form of Alan. “What’s wrong with that one?”
“A memory charm that took him a little too strongly,” said George. “He shouldn’t have been unbusheled in the first place, but he’ll be no trouble in future.”
And then a lot of things happened very quickly.
“Edwin’s up to something!” said Walter, sharp, and—
A red ribbon of light gleamed from deep within the shelves, and—
“Robin,” said Edwin, “a distraction, please!”
Edwin had been standing facing the ledger. He turned away from it now, and dashed with ungainly speed away between the shelves before any of the Coopers could react. His arms were free and separate at his sides.
“What—” said George, and Robin gave the bloodcurdling yell of an athlete with some rage to burn and swung an impressive fist directly at Rolfe.
The man’s head snapped back in as perfect a piece of boxing form as a caricaturist for the newspaper could ever hope to capture. His grip fell nervelessly away from Violet. Robin didn’t pause, but lunged at Hartley, who had begun to run into the shelves after Edwin.
So they were fighting after all. Jack felt a smile break his face. No time for strategy beyond take out the greatest threat, and the greatest threat was handily not far away.
He moved quickly over to George, took hold of his cousin’s wrists, and forced them apart.
A nascent cradle of orange sparks disappeared. George tried to haul his arms out of Jack’s grip, but Jack’s favoured form of exercise since leaving the army had been singlestick. His grip was unshakable and his arms were strong, and George—
“You should have brought Morris along, George,” said Jack. “Isn’t this what he’s for?”
George never lost his temper, and George employed people to be violent for him; Jack would swear he’d never been in a proper fight in his life. Which also meant he didn’t know anything about defence and misdirection. His eyes slid to the side, over Jack’s shoulder, and so Jack had enough warning to hurl them both sideways and around, as if they were dancing, so that he could see Walter with a spell built between his hands, about to cast it at Jack.
Jack’s neck muscles tightened. And then Adelaide Morrissey, brown arms bare and Robin’s waistcoat swinging as she moved, lunged in front of Walter’s incipient magic.
Jack opened his throat to shout no, with a pure, sick rush of fear.
Walter made a noise instead. It was a short, stubbed-toe noise. Jack could only just glimpse him—Adelaide was mostly in the way, and Jack was still working hard to keep George’s hands apart—but Walter looked baffled and furious, and lifted his fingers to inspect them. They had curled into claws.
“But—you’re not—” Walter said.
“Aren’t I?” said Adelaide, breathless, and kicked him between the legs.