Now Alan breathed slowly. Yesterday it had worked, a little, when they tried it with the cold-spell. But cold was something Alan felt. He could grit his teeth and imagine himself letting the cold in through gaps in clothing. Illusions gave him nothing to build the effort around, and staring at his muddied reflection in the mirror turned his stomach.
Magic. Magic, flowing down the channels. If only he knew anything about rivers and lakes. There had to be some reason why their water didn’t slowly sink into the ground like rain sank into gardens. He could imagine that and then … imagine the opposite.
“Any better?” he said through his teeth.
“Perhaps we should take a break,” said Violet.
“Why?” said Edwin. “It’s not working yet.”
Alan released all his effort. He turned around from the mirror before he opened his eyes this time, and exhaled with mild longing at the greenery and sky beyond the room’s one enormous window.
Violet made an exasperated sound and pulled off her rings to tuck into the velvet pouch. “Because not everyone enjoys being shut up in one room for hours at a time, and this is obviously taking effort. Keep at it if you wish, but don’t let him push you around, Alan.”
He was Alan again, not Mr. Ross—and part of the team, rather than the hired help or a spy. Perhaps Dufay’s revelations had distracted them all from any leftover mistrust. Alan knew when to count his blessings.
And Christ, what a relief it was, to let himself enjoy these people now. He didn’t have to keep trapping any friendly thoughts like roaches to be crushed.
Violet swanned out. The word particularly fit her elegant neck and long nose, and the white frothy dress that seemed to be the female uniform for a country party at this time of year.
Edwin was in the window seat with a pile of books. He looked around the library as if wondering why anyone would want to leave it. Edwin Courcey could probably find himself at the North Pole and still be able to locate a library. He’d moved himself into the Hall’s, immediately colonised the largest available table with books and papers in the manner of a bird lining a nest, then set about criticising the library’s size and contents. Jack had told him with some amusement that the Earl and Countess of Cheetham did not go in for collecting magical volumes, and apart from a reasonable selection of fiction and poetry, many of the books on the glass-fronted shelves were decorative.
“Probably bought them by the yard, decades ago. Might not have cut the pages of some of them,” he’d added carelessly.
Edwin had been rendered speechless. For all Alan knew, he still hadn’t figured out that Jack had been casting well-aimed stones at his composure.
Now Alan removed the waistcoat and set it aside. “If we can’t make it work, I could always attach an enormous false moustache with spirit gum.”
A bit of a smile appeared. “Or bleach your hair.”
“Fuck right off,” blurted Alan, and—of course—heard a small creak of the library door and a step that paused in the doorway. Knowing his luck, Jack had appeared just in time to overhear that. Alan enjoyed knowing his lordship’s small vanities, and had no intention of handing any information back in kind. The bloody beech crown had been bad enough.
In fact, the figure poised in the doorway was Lady Cheetham. Alan’s cheeks heated. At least Jack’s mother had ten times his manners and would never admit to having heard such language from a guest.
“Your ladyship,” said Alan.
“Alan, I was wondering if you cared to be stolen away to join Lady Phyllis and me for our walk?” The pause, too, was impeccably polite. “You’re welcome to join us, Edwin.”
“No, thank you.”
She nodded. “Robin and Jack should be back from their ride presently.”
No amount of guilt, good manners, or strong magic would get Alan onto the back of a horse. He was happy to leave that one to the aristocracy. But he was used to substantial amounts of walking in the city, and he was determined not to show the grounds of Cheetham Hall any fear or disrespect. Spinet House had eaten people, and it was tiny and young compared to this place. He’d go for walks if that would keep the Hall happy.
Alan escaped the library and went to change. He’d vaguely imagined that country manor parties involved only outfits of unnecessary quality and style. It had not occurred to him to bring mucking-about clothes. Lady Cheetham had cheerfully produced some old garments from when Jack was—well, an age that Alan found hideous to contemplate—and bestowed them upon Alan with apologies for the holes. That line of charity having been established with sophisticated stealth, small piles of loaned clothing suitable for every occasion had been appearing ever since in the bedroom that had been granted to Alan.
The ever-helpful Oliver, too, turned up each time to do one of his little make-it-fit spells. Alan had surrendered to the inevitable.
“Lovely, let’s be off, then,” said Lady Cheetham when Alan joined her and Lady Dufay, whose entire being screamed mucking-about even though she was an ageless member of the fae. She had refused all offers of fancier clothes. She had refused to be involved in the complicated process of planning and hosting a magicians’ gala. She had even refused a bedroom in the Hall, and had instead moved with all appearance of satisfaction into the folly.
She did enjoy a walk, though. And had submitted to being on Phyllis and Polly terms with her hostess.
The two ladies talked mostly about gardening, but they also took some interesting tangents off into the history of the house and grounds. Alan had taken to bringing along his notebook so that he could jot down details for the society story he was purportedly here to write. No doubt most of it would be a pile of benign lies about an unremarkable party. At least he could stuff it full of accurate details about the place.
Sometimes the history was family history. Lady Dufay had deliberately distanced herself from the line of her descendants, more and more so as time went on. Lady Cheetham could recite both her own family and her husband’s back an easy couple of centuries. They seemed determined to talk it all out and meet in the middle.
“I think she’s glad to have someone of her own station to talk to,” said Jack, later that day. They were back in the library. “She likes to involve herself in other people’s lives, but she’s very much the local grand lady, here. And too aware of it to allow herself real friendship. She’s been lonely.”
“I like her,” Alan said. “She’s very … solid.” His mental picture of the countess was always in Wellington boots.
“She was raised not to blink an eye if a prince and his retinue showed up demanding tea and lodgings.”
“Wouldn’t know anything about that, me,” said Alan, letting his accent slip. “But most women in my neighbourhood are practically minded and strong like that. You make do with what you have.”