That was enough for Alan. He realised after the first two strides that he still had hold of her arm, and released it hurriedly, but she was moving. And taller and faster than him, besides. Alan hiked up his skirts to his waist and once again he was racing in the Lady’s wake: downhill this time, not up to the oak. He had a dreadful sensation like a fishhook between his shoulder blades, spooling out line as he ran away from the lake, away from where—surely—the danger was brewing and he was most needed. But this was the best idea he had.
He reached the hives, breathless. There was little sound coming from the wooden boxes, and only moonlight here to see by, but he couldn’t see any stray bees either crawling or floating. Asleep. Did bees sleep?
Lady Dufay, arriving ahead of him, lifted one hand to her chest and inclined her body in a movement that made the bizarre drapery she was wearing flow abruptly into rightness. It made Alan’s eyes ache.
Alan bowed too. There were words. Jack had spoken them.
“Hives and bees. I mean queens,” said Alan. “Hives and queens of Cheetham Hall. You know me, and I suppose you know Lady Dufay. She planted that tree and started this family, and one of the family is in trouble. Probably.” He gulped in air. The silence from the hives was unchanged. “You know who their enemies are, and you know I’m not one of them. I’ll—promise you blood. I’ll tell you all my secrets. Whatever you want. I need to find Lord Hawthorn.”
Lady Dufay said nothing. Alan’s lungs burned and he felt beyond foolish, standing here in the dark begging a bunch of insects for help.
A shadow rose slowly from one of the hives. Dark, silken movement against the backdrop of trees and night. Alan considered bowing again, wondering if he was about to be stung to death after all for the presumption.
The swarm flowed away towards the lake.
“Oh thank you thank you,” Alan said, and followed.
The bees were nearly as fast as Lady Dufay, but Alan forced himself to keep up. They led him and the Lady back the way they’d come. Alan was starting to invent excuses for why a skinny parlour maid would be chasing a horde of bees through the crowd of magicians—was he an apprentice beekeeper, and they’d escaped?—but he realised quickly that they weren’t heading out to the lake proper. They were looping down to the sea grotto, which Alan had checked earlier that day. The platform of ice started several yards away, leaving a boundary of black lake water and reeds that abutted the path and the grotto itself.
An abrupt yank at his sleeve stopped Alan in his tracks. The Lady dragged him behind a hedge and put a finger to her lips. Alan was too grateful to care about her customary lord-what-fools-these-mortals-be expression. He leaned carefully out of the hedge’s shelter and saw Joe Morris, several yards away, gazing out across the lake.
Alan followed Morris’s gaze. From here he could just see the raised stage where Bastoke stood, now flanked by several other people, and another man being led up there too. Fair head. Edwin.
Bastoke was speaking, the tones of his voice amplified again. Alan’s thundering pulse let him hear only some of the words. Blood stood out. To serve all magicians.
Fucking shitting Christ. That didn’t seem promising. And Morris was between them and the pink arch leading into the grotto.
The bees, when Alan looked for them, had vanished. Pity. He really would have given them anything in exchange for watching Joe Morris be stung a few hundred times. His skin was already crawling with memory and fear. His scarred hand cramped hard around its handful of black skirts. Morris was too loyal to be bribed or reasoned with. He cradled faster than any magician Alan had come across, and inflicted horrible pain without blinking.
What had worked against this man on the Lyric?
Theatre. Theatre and lies.
Alan’s next breath shook. He smoothed the skirt and apron back down, and adjusted his cap to make sure no short curls were escaping at the back.
“Your ladyship,” he whispered. “I need a diversion. Go and be an eccentric old woman. As eccentric as you possibly can. And—get good and close to him.”
Lady Dufay asked no questions. There was a new glimmer of yellow-white as a smile bared her teeth. And then she was sweeping around the hedge, her feet uncannily quiet on the stones of the path.
“What the devil—” Alan heard, from Morris.
“Good sir,” said Lady Dufay. You could have seen your reflection in her voice. It was as if someone had taken Lady Cheetham and polished her for an hour. “Oh, my lord, is it you? Have you returned to me, as you promised? Perhaps I am ready to forgive you after all.”
Alan dared a glance around the hedge. Lady Dufay moved like a drunken dancer, her robes swaying, and she recited an indistinct poem that had the awkward rhythm of the orrery song. Morris stood solidly in place, good guard that he was, and told the odd woman to go onto the lake with all the other guests. He was clearly reluctant to be outright rude—or physical—when he was trying not to attract attention.
The Lady fluttered closer, reaching for Morris’s face, and Alan hastily inserted himself into the scene.
“My lady! There you are!” He tried for a soft, placating version of Bella’s voice, and kept his face tilted well down as he hurried up to them. His shoulders felt like bricks, his body braced for magic or a blow. He kept his eyes on Morris’s legs. “I’m so sorry, sir, she wandered away—I’m taking good care of her, I swear I am, please don’t tell anyone—my lady, you’re supposed to be with the others, on the lake—”
“Get her away,” said Morris shortly. “Oi—” He finally took a step sideways as Lady Dufay cooed at him and reached out to touch his shoulder.
“She’s not got all her wits,” panted Alan.
“I can bloody see that.”
Alan got himself in between the two of them. Close quarters. Right. His hand slid clear of his pocket.
Morris reached across him to try to keep the Lady at arm’s length. His sleeve caught on Alan’s cap and pushed it nearly off.
“What the—”
Now. It had to be now.
Alan spun, adjusted his grip on the knife, and flung his free arm around Morris’s side as if embracing him. Holding him steady. Judging, the best he could through all these bloody clothes, where the man’s lowest ribs stopped and unprotected flesh began.
He set the knife’s point to that place and shoved in and upwards with all the strength he had.
Alan had been in his share of ugly fights. The rule was that you ended them fast and in whatever way you could. This wasn’t a scuffle over food or a prime stretch of begging space on the street—Morris wasn’t the sort to take a wound as a warning, and Alan had no faith at all he’d be able to knock the man out cold.
Alan had never killed anyone before.
Morris grunted when the knife sank in. He sounded surprised.
Pressed up close like this, the heat of Morris’s body was tremendous. Alan smelled sweat and copper. He couldn’t feel his fingers around the knife handle. He yanked anyway, praying his muscles would cooperate, and stumbled back a few steps with the knife in his nerveless hand and finally, finally looked Joe Morris in the face.