“Alan.”
He turned to see Jack, who took over the makeshift bandaging of Edwin’s other arm with military ease.
“Go and see if you can find Freddy Oliver,” Jack ordered him. “And his mother, Margaret. She’ll be able to heal Edwin if anyone can. I’ll get the contract pieces and we’ll meet them at the oak as soon as we’ve explained things to my mother’s guests. In fact, if she can—”
A high, short scream pierced the air.
Maud.
Alan jerked around as several more screams came from the audience, as if Maud had been in an echoing cave. The green figure of Maud stood—untouched, safe—with her hands pressed over her mouth and her eyes wide with horror.
She was staring at Seraphina Vaughn, whose hands held the hilt of the knife of the Last Contract.
And who had plunged that knife, deep and sure, into Walter Courcey’s heart.
Time did something strange. Alan felt a tickle of wind on his face: cold air, moving up and away. His nose itched. The shouts and cries of the crowd were hollow and distant. No matter how many times he blinked, the scene was the same. Walter dead. Mrs. Vaughn, now tugging the bloodstained knife free of his body and setting it neatly on his chest as if signalling she was done with her meal.
“Why?” Maud said, small but clear. “Why would you—”
“As always,” said Mrs. Vaughn, “I find I must do everything myself.” She glanced over at them, and her gaze found Edwin. “If your blood was good enough to start this, boy, then your brother’s should finish it off nicely.”
“Maud, the coin,” said Jack sharply, already moving towards the old woman, but Mrs. Vaughn cradled a spell and flung her hands wide. Both Jack and Maud flew back two feet and crashed heavily to the ground.
“I told you I will not surrender my chance,” said Mrs. Vaughn. “You really should have listened.”
She set the bowl on Walter’s body. Placed the coin into the bowl. And then touched them both with the bloodstained knife.
“There,” said the last member of the Forsythia Club.
And light erupted under her hands.
30
There was no coin, no cup, and no knife when the light died.
There was only Mrs. Vaughn climbing to her feet. In her hand was a chunk of silvery rock. The fabled allstone of the fae was less impressive than Alan had imagined: the size of a large apple, its shape was uneven and globular like a piece of candle-drip broken off from the taper. It was bright as if freshly polished, but it no longer gave off its own glow.
Mrs. Vaughn inhaled long and slow. Her satisfied gaze fell onto the stone.
“What’s happening?” said Violet. “I can feel…”
“So can I,” said Edwin. His voice was hollow. “It’s going.”
Alan felt nothing at all. It was clear he was in the minority. The noise from the magicians on the ice was louder now, and small glimmers of colour sprang up everywhere—magicians frantically testing their magic as they felt it begin to drain from them. Many of them looked dizzy or ill. Even Edwin, who couldn’t afford to look any worse, put a bloody hand to his bare chest as if feeling the wound that Walter had never had a chance to inflict.
“A little more light, I think,” said Mrs. Vaughn.
She looked up, and her brow creased. She made no cradles, spoke no words, didn’t even reach out her free hand to the sky.
Alan hadn’t realised there was a layer of cloud cover until it began to draw back. Someone was washing the dirt from a grimy window or tugging at dust sheets draped over old paintings. Slowly the full brilliance of the night sky revealed itself: stars and stars and yet more stars, spilled like powdered sugar across the dark. The moon hummed with fat, white glow.
“Fuck,” muttered Violet. “That’s good theatre, isn’t it?”
It was. The alarmed crowd had fallen into the quiet of wonder. Into it, Mrs. Vaughn spoke, and her voice was as clear as if she stood directly next to Alan.
“You see? A piece of magic that might have taken ten magicians, or twenty, done by one alone. And that with only a fraction of the power that is yet to come.” She continued to watch the sky. “Look,” she said, a perfectly audible whisper. “That is what we are. We deserve to be seen. We do hide our light under bushels, and we are scared of unbusheling when we should celebrate it. The danger of being few has always been the risk that we will be punished and hunted if we are feared by the many. So. Let them fear us. What can they do to us, if we can do this?”
“Anyone have any ideas?” Alan muttered. There hadn’t been a real plan for what they would do if the ritual was completed, beyond what Jack had drawlingly suggested: improvise and pray.
“The longer this goes on, the more magic she has and the less the rest of us do,” said Edwin. He was still papery pale and leaning hard on Robin. “I wish I could think.”
Maud met Alan’s eyes and a hand went to her thigh. Her dress, too, had been given pockets. Alan had never seen Maud Blyth look so utterly without light.
“If someone else can distract her—” she started.
“I can’t hold Bastoke,” said Violet in alarm.
Alan turned, heart kicking into a new pace. The magical ropes that she’d produced were thinning and fading, and abruptly they disappeared altogether. George Bastoke climbed to his feet. The only consolation was that he, too, looked shaken and horrified as he stared at his hands. Magic would be leaving him like everyone else.
Still, he cradled a spell. His motions were tiny, and the white spark between his hands was barely visible, but it was there. Fear tightened around Alan’s throat, and he waited, trying to predict what Bastoke would do. Something to seize control of the situation, no doubt.
Bastoke moved behind Mrs. Vaughn with his hand half-hidden by his side, pinched the white spark between two of his fingers, and flicked. A motion that would be barely noticeable to anyone not on the stage. Alan was ready to dodge, but the spark floated towards Seraphina Vaughn, who now held the allstone in both hands and seemed to be savouring the moment while she decided what piece of wonder to commit next.
The white spark landed between her shoulders like a fly. Bastoke closed his hand into a fist.
Mrs. Vaughn swayed forward, then back. The allstone remained clutched in her own hands as she toppled and fell. It even remained in her hands as her body went lax, a look of indignant surprise on her face, directed up at the stars she had unveiled.
“Ah,” said Bastoke. “A pity.”
He leaned down and picked up the allstone. He did not seem particularly moved by the fact that his two most prominent allies were now corpses strewn in the centre of the stage he’d created.
“Fucking sodding fucking hell,” said Jack.
Alan agreed. So, by their expressions, did everyone else.