As if that wasn't bad enough, the article took an even more serious turn by mentioning the death of Wilson Sweet at the hands of two magicians, Dr. Millroy and my own grandfather, Gideon Steele. I clamped a hand over my mouth to stifle my whimper but forced myself to read to the end. The journalist, Mr. Force, mentioned how the two men had colluded to experiment on the "humble" Mr. Sweet to "play God and extend his life, only to end it instead."
Although the article stated that Dr. Millroy was a medical magician and Chronos a horology one, it did not specifically mention that magic was only fleeting unless that horology magician used a specific spell. Some readers—namely, magicians—would read between the lines, however, and realize that had been my grandfather's role in the experiment.
I sat down with a groan. "Anyone who didn't suspect I was a magician will now connect Gideon Steele to me. My secret is out."
Matt touched my shoulder. "Not everyone will believe this."
"Enough will. Many more will wonder. Matt, I'm sorry. This is all my fault; that article is in retaliation to Oscar Barratt's, and he wouldn't have written it if I hadn't gone to him that day. And now I've brought suspicion to your door too simply by living in the house."
"If you think that means you ought to leave, think again." He squeezed my shoulder, as if his stronger grip could keep me there.
"I'm not thinking it," I assured him. I didn't add that I had nowhere to go, with the cottage now being leased.
"Don't worry about us," Cyclops told me. "We can take care of ourselves. But you be careful, India. There might be some watchmakers who resent your magic."
"But she ain't a practicing watchmaker!" Willie declared. "It's not them she has to worry about anyway. It's magicians thinking she can extend their magic. Those folk will come looking for her, mark my words."
"And that will stir up trouble with all manner of artless craftsmen and the guilds," I added heavily. "Not just the watchmakers."
Matt's fingers tightened. "Enough," he said to his friends. "You're frightening her."
"Better she's frightened and aware than ignorant and exposed to danger," Duke said.
"The question is, what do we do now?" I asked.
"Nothing," Matt said emphatically. "A counter article will only lead to another response from The City Review and that will only serve to keep the story alive. The sooner it dies, the better."
I agreed, in part, but I wasn't sure Oscar Barratt could leave it alone.
I was right. The man himself arrived at our door a mere half hour later. He strode into the drawing room ahead of Bristow, still carrying his hat. "Have you read it?" he asked without so much as a greeting.
"We have," Matt said, a hard edge to his tone beneath a calm shell. "Hand your hat to Bristow or he'll think himself superfluous."
Oscar hesitated then did as told and Bristow left with the hat, shutting the door behind him.
"Drink?" Matt asked our visitor.
Oscar nodded and took the seat I offered him. He stroked his short goatee beard and rested his injured arm on the armrest. He still wore it in a sling. He'd been shot in the shoulder by Mr. Pitt, the man who'd killed Dr. Hale, but it had not hindered him too much. Indeed, his work had only intensified after his article exposing magic appeared in The Weekly Gazette. The last time I'd seen him, he'd told me of all the correspondence he'd received from the public. I'd been furious with Oscar for exposing magicians, but he'd managed to soften my stance a little with his solid reasoning and desire for we magicians to live a normal life, free to practice our magic. His heart was in the right place, at least, and I couldn't remain angry with him for that, particularly when I agreed, in principle. Not that I would tell Matt. He was vehemently opposed to exposing magic.
Matt handed Oscar a glass of brandy then tossed the newspaper in his lap, open to the page with Force's article.
Oscar flinched. "What do you make of it?" he asked.
"What do we make of it?" Willie pushed out of the chair and stood over Oscar. His eyes widened and he pressed back into the chair. "It's all your fault, Barratt, that's what we make of it."
Oscar picked up the newspaper and placed it on the table near the lamp beside him. "I didn't mention India in my article. I didn't name any magicians. Nor did I mention that magic is fleeting. This…" He tapped the newspaper. "This is not my doing. It's Abercrombie's and the reporter, Force. If you're looking for someone to blame, blame them."
"Be assured," Matt hissed, "they will not escape my wrath either."
Oscar swallowed heavily.
"But you started it, Barratt," Willie said with a pout. She stomped back to her chair and threw herself into it. "You should take some responsibility for that. A real man would. God damned men," she muttered into her chin.
Duke and Cyclops exchanged grimaces.
"I'll fix it," Oscar said. "I'll write another—"
"No!" Matt slammed the heavy tumbler on the table beside Oscar. Luckily it was empty or the contents would have splashed out. "You will not write another thing about magic. Is that clear?"
Oscar's jaw hardened. "I'll write what I see fit to write, Glass. As long as my editor wishes to publish my articles about magic, I will continue to write them. It's not up to you."
Matt glowered back at him, his jaw equally uncompromising. It was like watching two gladiators circle one another in the ring, taking the other's measure, looking for weaknesses. Physically, Matt was the stronger of the two, particularly with Oscar's arm in a sling, but I knew from experience that Oscar could not easily be swayed. Not only did he dig in when he set his mind to something, but he refused to even consider alternatives.
"When your articles bring danger to my door, and the people I care about, it becomes my business," Matt said. "And if you think I can't stop you writing another article, think again."
Oscar tugged on his sling. "Are you threatening me?"
Matt picked up his glass but did not fill it. He sat beside me on the sofa and smiled at Oscar. It was a friendly, open smile that seemed to throw the journalist off balance. Only I could feel the anger vibrating off Matt.
"Have you spoken to Mr. Force?" I asked Oscar in an attempt to diffuse the tension.
"I tried to but he wouldn't see me. I left a written message for him at The Review's office, telling him how irresponsible it was to name names and mention the murder of Wilson Sweet."
"A written message, eh?" Duke rolled his eyes. "That ought to fix it."
"Words are powerful, sir."
"My name's Duke, not sir. And words are only powerful when they say something the reader is willing to hear. I don't know Mr. Force, but I do know Abercrombie, and he won't care that magicians will be harassed now thanks to that article, and India in partic'lar. He won't care one bit."
"If anyone bothers you, India, tell me immediately," Oscar said. "Perhaps I can help."
I paused, waiting for Matt to scoff or say something but he did not. "Thank you, Oscar," I said, "but I don't see how you can."
"You can help by not writing anything more on the subject," Matt said. "Let the topic be forgotten."
Oscar shook his head. "I can't. You know that."
"You've stirred up enough trouble."