“It’s not strictly a compulsion,” said Walter. “Well, I suppose it is. It’s the Pied Piper. I hear you’re familiar with that one.” He sent a thin smile at Violet. “With the subject changed to an imbuement, thanks to the Vaughn woman. All it takes is a dab of powder on bare skin. And you have all made yourselves helpfully visible to the Coopers tonight.”
Someone pressing against Jack in the crowd. Mrs. Vaughn touching Maud’s cheek. Even with the layers of formal evening wear, it would be easy enough to brush gloved fingers against exposed skin if you were determined and quick. Then all it would take would be for someone to activate the Pied Piper on a single spot—such as this pillar—and bring the compulsion to life.
“And this is a neat little version of the Goblin’s Bridle,” added Walter. “Speech but no other movement, combined with a curtain-spell on the space, so nobody can hear or see what goes on.” He nodded around the grotto. “I’m told the Coopers favour this setup for interrogations.”
Jack gritted his teeth. Through the open-air windows of the grotto he could see the lake, the frozen surface now half-full of people, and could just make out figures moving on the raised stage at the end. Nobody at all would be watching the grotto; and even if they were, the curtain-spell was in effect.
“Oh, don’t look like that, Blyth,” said Walter. “Your tiresome blood-oath is still in effect. I can’t harm you or your sister. Nor do I need to interrogate you. You know nothing of value to us—none of you do. We only need you kept tidily out of the way. Now, excuse me, I must see what’s keeping—”
He was interrupted. Two people came in by the grotto’s other entrance, one holding the other tightly by the arm.
Joe Morris. And, hands shoved together in the priez-vous, white scarf missing, and entirely himself—Edwin.
“Caught this one outside,” said Morris. “The damn fool followed the others.”
“Ah, Win.” Walter’s smile grew. “I had a feeling you’d show up eventually.”
Edwin’s eyes widened as he took in the scene. He didn’t ask any questions at all. But he was clearly not under the same compulsion as the rest of them, because he tried to yank his elbow out of Morris’s grip—failed—and then stood still.
“Oh, for God’s sake, Edwin, why did you follow us? That wasn’t the plan,” snapped Violet, who was never at her best in a crisis.
“Forgive me,” said Edwin thinly, “for needing to know why the rest of you were walking in the wrong direction.”
Of course. Without Violet and the others as backup, he’d have been swarmed by Coopers as soon as he was seen going through George’s pockets, even if he did manage to send him to sleep.
And without knowing where Jack himself was, Edwin also couldn’t rely on their backup plan for if they failed to steal the contract pieces: let the ritual start, whatever form it took, and then have Jack remove guest-right as soon as the Last Contract was out in the open and visible. Difficult, and messy. Removing guest-right was unpleasant but not a compulsion on its own, and there was no telling what George might manage to do before it became unbearable.
Jack was still on his land, and could still speak. What would happen if he removed their guest-right now?
George would take the contract with him as he left, and potentially try to complete the ritual anyway as soon as he crossed the Cheetham border. Walter and Morris would likely take Edwin, and the rest of them would be just as stuck.
And where the hell was Alan?
“And very convenient of you to bring yourself,” said Walter to Edwin. “Bastoke planned to use Blyth here to draw you out. But here you are, ready to volunteer your services.”
“What services?” said Robin, nearly a growl.
Edwin looked resigned. “It is blood after all, isn’t it? I couldn’t see how you could make any of this work without it.”
Futile, furious cold gripped Jack at the word blood. But Edwin was right. It was only what they’d expected.
Walter nodded. “At first Seraphina Vaughn believed the ritual would have to involve the sacrifice of three people, one from each of the Three Families, as a sign of how seriously magicians were taking the request for power. But we’ve realised there’s no need for that. It’s been so many generations—there’s been enough intermingling that any British magician will have blood from all three.”
Edwin had gone even paler but still showed no surprise. If Robin’s gaze could kill, Walter would have been a smear on the floor.
“He’s your brother. You’re all so obsessed with blood—doesn’t that mean anything?”
“Robin, you’re wasting your time,” said Edwin, but Walter spoke over him, suddenly ugly and sharp.
“He has no loyalty to magicians, or to our family. I’m hardly bound to show any in return.”
Amazingly, Edwin let out a laugh. “Be honest, Walt. I beat you once and you still can’t stand it. So. I suppose you’re going to kill me in a corner somewhere, and Bastoke will pretend the power came because you asked the contract nicely?”
“Oh, no. It’s important that this happens in public.”
“In public? In front of everyone? These are normal, decent people,” said Maud heatedly. “Most of them won’t see murder as a means justifying an end!”
“You have a naive view of normal people, Miss Blyth,” said Walter. “Public executions of dangerous criminals have always been well attended. They still report on hangings in the papers. That’s not murder. It’s the world being set right.” He gave his brother a look that was chilling in its satisfaction. “But I wouldn’t put our father and sister through that, Win. Don’t trouble yourself that they’ll have to watch you die. They’ll see exactly what we want them to see.”
Morris had been stolid through all of this, keeping his eyes on Edwin. Now he said impatiently, “Courcey. Mr. Bastoke will be waiting.”
“There are still people on the bridges,” said Walter with a glance out the windows. “And I’d hate for Win’s friends not to know exactly what’s going on behind the illusion that everyone else will see.”
Edwin was right. This was about Walter enjoying himself. Showing himself to be on the clever side. And drawing delight from Edwin’s fear, just as he always had.
“Not three people, or three deaths. Three wounds. They’ll be shallow and symbolic, as far as everyone will see.” Walter made two slashing motions with his hand, and Edwin flinched. “And how good of Mr. Courcey here to volunteer, as repentance for what he did to the Barrel.” A final motion, this one an outright stab. Walter’s fist rested on Edwin’s chest, over his heart.
“No,” whispered Maud.
Edwin looked his brother in the face and his jaw moved, but he said nothing.
“So you kill him up on that stage and an illusion of him does a tap dance, I suppose,” said Jack. He felt sick.
“Or faints,” said Walter carelessly. “And we say the Coopers have locked him up for everyone’s safety, and in a few years—who will remember? Who will care?”
Beyond the people in this room. Behind Walter’s smile was the unspoken promise that they, too, would be locked up as criminals—or killed, or secret-bound, or memory-wiped. Whatever George and the Coopers found most expedient.