He stopped. Two more men had climbed from the other side of the car. One had a flat cap like the driver’s and moved with the deliberation of muscle. The other was tall and well dressed, and carried a walking stick not unlike Jack’s. Sunshine winked on the golden top of it.
Alan’s body yanked him from the seat and away from the window before his sense could weigh in on the situation. His heart gave a hard, unpleasant shrug and then sped up.
“Alan? Hawthorn?” said Violet. “What is it?”
“It’s Joe Morris,” said Jack. “And my cousin George.”
23
Jack had never understood Edwin’s urge to make a study of things. You saw more, you missed less, if you took in as much of the world as you could. Bringing your focus down to learn one thing in all its detail was a waste of the brief time you had.
And yet he had, it seemed, been engaged in a single-minded study of Alan Ross, because in this moment he knew exactly where to look for Alan’s fear.
The study had not been academic. Jack knew that. He’d been watching for any hint that he was welcome. His offer of play in Alan’s attic in London had been turned aside; Alan, who’d spoken about fucking Jack in terms of his willpower breaking, had clearly decided that it would go no further. Jack knew when he was being given an invitation, and when he was not.
But he had been looking, and looking—and now he looked at the subtle inwards curl of Alan’s shoulders. He watched as Alan’s eyes widened and consumed his face, the pupils tightening to dabs of ink in the brown.
Jack’s teeth ground together. They were under attack. A new front, that was all.
“Stay here,” he ordered. “In this room. All of you. Assume the worst—assume they’ll search the house. Violet, Edwin, you’ll need to—” He stopped. “Where are Adelaide and Maud?”
“Doing something with dresses,” said Robin.
“Where?”
“I’ll go,” said Violet. She stood, already shoving rings onto her thumbs, and cradled an illusion that fell over her before Jack had finished another breath. Now she was a deeply freckled brunette in a housemaid’s outfit.
“Bring them back here.” Jack was already moving towards the door, inspecting the frame. “And then ward this door to high heaven. A turn-away if you can, Edwin.”
“Where are you going?” Edwin demanded.
“To host our guests.”
“Hawthorn—”
“I am not leaving my mother to manage this alone,” Jack snarled. “And it doesn’t matter if they know I’m here. This is my home.”
The closest rug, a long one patterned in red and blue, gave a sudden roll as if shrugging off dust. The tassels at its end flicked Jack’s ankle. Jack swallowed hard, and his palm on the doorframe was suddenly hot, as if he’d slammed it there to trap his anger beneath. This was more than simply feeling the land’s magic beneath his feet. His breath skipped in his throat. He didn’t have time to think about this.
Violet was already charging out into the corridor and towards the back staircase. Jack looked at Alan for a moment that felt like dragging flesh across broken metal, and then back at the rug.
“Keep them safe,” he said to the Hall, feeling utterly at sea, and closed the door behind himself.
George was with Polly in the front parlour. Jack wondered where George had been received last time he visited, and whether he realised that Lady Cheetham had demoted him crushingly from being received in one of the friendlier spaces where family would be seen.
Morris might have gone around to the kitchen entrance. Not knowing where he was gave Jack the same unsettling feeling as looking up from his desk to realise that the spider previously haunting a corner of the ceiling had now vanished from sight.
“Hawthorn,” said George, when Jack entered. “I’d pretend this was an unexpected pleasure, but you can’t expect me to be overjoyed to see you. Forgive me, Aunt Polly.”
His Aunt Polly had had time to prepare herself. She gave a courteous nod and shot Jack the sort of look she’d developed for occasions when the twins were being presented in adult company and were expected to contribute.
Jack trifled for a moment with the idea of telling his cousin to go to hell and fuck himself with Satan’s largest white-hot poker. But he needed to know what George was looking for. He needed to keep George away from the others.
“I wasn’t aware I should keep you informed when I visit my own mother,” he said, with only his normal amount of rudeness. “What are you doing here? In my father’s car?”
“Yes, Lord Cheetham was good enough to lend me the use of it,” said George. “He sends his regards. Couldn’t tear himself away from some frightfully important business in Parliament.”
“What are you doing here?” Jack repeated. Rashness made him add, “Do you plan to arrest me?”
George’s eyebrows rose, unhurried. “I’m here for a final conversation with our hostess, to inspect the preparations for the equinox gala. If you can bring yourself to recall—” He paused, clearly calculating how snide he could be in front of Jack’s mother. “This event means a lot to me professionally, cousin. I expect the upcoming elections to be remarkable. This is not only a celebration, now, but a reckoning on the future of magic in this kingdom. It’s a time for magical society to come together,” he said, desiccate with irony, “in the face of threats. Both future and present. It’s really an honour for Cheetham Hall to be playing host to such an important gathering.”
“We were flattered you volunteered us,” murmured Lady Cheetham.
Jack found his eyes on George’s brass-headed walking stick, his mind outlining the series of movements that would be needed to snatch it and use it to smash in his cousin’s teeth. For George the stick was a true affectation, one he’d assumed even before Jack returned from the Boer. Perhaps he thought Jack had decided to copy his style. He could believe what he wished.
In the face of threats.
Jack had said it himself, after Violet’s hearing: crisis justified the seizure of power. The Barrel’s destruction had been a horribly perfect event for the head of the magical police. But George had planned to lock them all up for theft and conspiracy anyway. They would have been scapegoats regardless. Edwin had just rendered things … dramatic.
“And I would hardly be so impolite as to arrest my cousin, Lord Hawthorn, in front of his mother,” said George, as if aware of where Jack’s thoughts had run. He gave Jack a small we’re chaps in this together sort of smile.
Alan would have formed a puddle of seething rage. Even Jack felt a lump of clay in his stomach at how unfair it was. George knew power, cultivated power, and had made a life’s study of how to amass it. The Earl of Cheetham’s heir was not the sort of person who was easily arrested. Even by magicians. Consequences were for lesser creatures.
“I appreciate it,” said Lady Cheetham. Her hands were unmoving in her lap.
“Aunt Polly, I commend your sentiment in wanting to provide a safe haven for your son,” said George. “But what happened to the Barrel—what Hawthorn and his associates did—was extremely serious. A real tragedy. Magicians cannot afford to be at war amongst ourselves. We need order, and laws to abide by, or we’re no better than animals.”