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Chapter Twenty

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Maze of Hearts

Asher grinned at Quinn’s return to the spot their group had staked out. “You very nearly massacred the other dancers, partner.”

Quinn laughed. “I know, I know, you told me so. I haven’t any intention of dancing again, however, so you will all be spared the spectacle.”

“Quinn Rutherford, you are a spectacle in and of yourself this evening,” Ione was quick to reply, shaking her head and sending her dark curls bouncing beneath the crown that adorned her head. “It’s a wonder that blue paint hasn’t speckled the entire company.”

“I fully expect my housekeeper to give notice after I wash the stuff off,” he agreed. “But it was for the greater good.” He glanced over at Asher. “I believe there’s another waltz coming up. You’re engaged to dance it with Miss Whitfield.”

“I—” Asher blinked. “What?”

“I wrote your name on her card. Don’t stand her up.” Quinn navigated his way around a glass of lemon squash, obviously trying not to color the glass blue.

“You—but—why?” Not that it mattered—it was only what Asher himself would have done if he could see more than a foot or two in front of him. But he still wanted to know.

“Because you’re an idiot,” Quinn growled. “Go.”

Asher went.

He knew roughly where he’d left Charlie and devoutly hoped she was still in the general vicinity. Quinn still had his spectacles, and a nearsighted Pirate King would have been an absurdity, so Asher had agreed to go without for the evening. He was trained to navigate blind, after all. 

There she was—those wings were as good as a beacon, he thought, and stood for a moment, just admiring her. Back at the loch he’d thought her one of the prettiest girls he’d met; at the opera she was beautiful; but tonight—tonight she was breathtaking.

His brows drew together slightly. He couldn’t quite put his finger on the difference between then and now. Her features were the same, her hair, her figure... Asher was worldly enough not to be taken in by the trappings of expensive clothing or stage glitter. And yet she was undeniably lovelier this evening than she’d ever been before.

She looked up just then and met his gaze, a brilliant smile unfurling at the sight of him, and... Oh, God.

Like a kaleidoscope falling into place, Asher realized why he’d behaved so badly at the loch, why he’d been so awful to his friends, why apologizing to her and repairing that relationship had buoyed his spirits. Why he’d sketched her, over and over, trying and failing to capture her exact likeness, the elusive spirit of her.

He loved her. 

And he’d never be able to have her.

He stood stock-still for a moment, until he saw her expression begin to shift, and cursed himself for a fool. He’d never have her—but he could have tonight.

His heart seemed to leap in his chest and he hurried toward her, hands extended. He had to be careful, he knew—the thought of causing her more hurt was anathema—but for the span of this waltz he would let himself love her, and then never again.

“I believe this is my dance,” he said, catching both her hands in his.

Her fingers curled around his, the touch light as a feather and yet tethering him to her. “So it would seem.” Those emerald eyes sparkled at him, and she tilted her head slightly. “Shall we go to the floor then?”

“It would be my pleasure.” He tucked her hand into the crook of his elbow, pretending... just pretending. Asher was conscious of a swell of pride as he took her into his arms and the music began.

Like flying, she’d said, and it was, and for these moments he would soar with her.

Charlie’s dimples were on full display, made more charming by the shimmer gracing her cheekbones. “You seem especially happy. Did you see Mr. Rutherford’s tail when we danced? Between that tail and my wings, it's a wonder any of the other dancers made it off the floor.”

He laughed. “I believe he’s wanted by the authorities for attempted murder.” His gaze dropped to her mouth and he remembered the feel of her lips, the softness, the warmth of her. “How could I not be happy, dancing with you?”

Her lashes lowered for a bit, gaze shifting from his eyes, and down, where they seemed to linger, and Asher allowed himself the fancy that perhaps her thoughts mirrored his own. Then her cheeks flared pale rose, and she looked up to meet his eyes again.  “I could not—no one has ever—I enjoy dancing with you as well, Asher.” 

“I’m glad,” he said, and swooped her out and back in, trying to memorize the weight of her, how lithe and strong she felt in his arms.

Her hand came back to rest on his shoulder, sliding for a second to the base of his neck, and Asher was put in mind of another time she’d been in his arms. Her fingers shifted slightly, brushing through his hair and grazing the skin above his collar. He was trapped in her eyes again, lost and found there all at the same time. 

For those few minutes, Asher knew almost-perfect happiness, marred only by the knowledge that this was all there would ever be for him. She would find love—she was made to be loved—and he would go on without her, and his duty would have to be enough.

“I think this has been my favorite dance,” she whispered. Her lips were close to his ear, her voice soft, almost a whisper, but enough for Asher to hear. “I’m not certain our feet have even touched the floor.”

His smile felt like the midday sun. “There’s a floor?” Asher shook himself. “You are a wonderful dancer, Charlie.”

“I would not mind if you used the name Charlotte sometimes.” She was quiet for just a moment. “I quite like the name, it is only that it used to make me miss my parents. But I do not believe it would make me sad to hear you say it.”

Asher’s heart squeezed. “Charlotte,” he murmured, and again, because he couldn’t help it. “Charlotte.”

The smile that spread across her face was unlike any he’d ever seen from her before, and Asher knew it was for him alone. “I have never loved the sound of it so much as I do now.”

He opened his mouth to reply, but the music came to an end, so he bowed over her hand instead, stealing the moment to press a kiss to her knuckles before escorting her back to Lady Therston. “Thank you for the dance, Miss Whitfield,” he said gently. He bowed to Lady Therston and to Charlie—Charlotte—and made good his escape before he did something unforgivable. There was nothing left for him here, and Asher headed for the door.

Quinn intercepted him halfway there. “Are you all right?

“Fine. Just ready to leave.”

His partner frowned. “Are you ill? Let me get Ross—”

“Quinn.” Asher waited until his friend looked at him. “It’s time. Let me go.” 

“At least come say goodnight to the others,” Quinn replied, and herded Asher back in the direction of their little coterie.

The rest of the group was where Asher had left them, chatting away near the wall, Ione settled in one of the cushioned chairs with Geordie standing at her side holding two glasses of punch. Ross and Elsie were just returned from the dance floor themselves, Elsie fanning herself a little as Ross was busy slinging the quiver back over his shoulder.  Ross looked up at Asher’s return, opened his mouth to speak and then stopped, frowning.

“What is it, lad?” Geordie asked, looking at his brother-in-law with obvious concern.

“There’s something...” Ross looked around the room, the frown on his face deepening “There’s a Fae here. I feel it.”

“What?” Asher plucked his spectacles off of Quinn’s blue face and perched them on his own nose. “Where?”

His friend searched the room for another moment and then closed his eyes for just a second. “I don’t think it’s been here long.” He opened his eyes abruptly, the color shifting from brown to green. “It’s Unseelie.”

Quinn did a physical double-take at their friend. “That’s... a neat trick.”

It was, but Asher didn’t have time to ponder the implications. “Yes, all right, but where?” he repeated, scanning the crowd. All at once his attention was caught by a figure he’d not noticed before—and it was impossible that he should not have noticed. The man was tall—taller even than Geordie, and that was saying something—and elegantly built, with long ringlets of a bronzy-gold cascading over his shoulders and halfway down his back. He wore a mask of black lace, effectively obscuring his features, but as he moved through the room Asher could see that his ears were longer than the norm, and definitely pointed. His outfit was black, trimmed in purple: tails and breeches and waistcoat, fitted to a fare-thee-well. High black boots and a snowy cravat completed the picture, and the awestruck crowd melted away, parting like the Red Sea before Moses. 

To Asher’s horror, Charlie stood alone at the end of the passage through humanity the Fae had created, her green eyes somewhat unfocused, her lips parted a little. Asher cursed aloud. “No,” he growled. “Not again.”

Quinn muttered something in Portuguese, probably, and silently relieved Ross of his bow and quiver, shouldering it absurdly over his blue caterpillar coat. The two agents exchanged glances and nodded to one another but were brought up short by a warning from Ross.

“Trained or not, you can’t take on a full Fae alone.” Ross hissed, clamping down on Asher’s shoulder. 

Geordie had disposed of the punch he was holding, and crossed massive arms over his chest. “They won’t be.” The Scotsman turned to Ione and Elsie. “Take the carriage home. We’ll get this sorted and join you there.”

Ione rose gracefully, clasping her sister’s hand, though her eyes were locked on her husband. “Be careful, we need you.”

Geordie smiled sweetly, though the look in his eyes was grim. “Have nae fear, love. You’ll have me.” Elsie took her sister’s arm, blew her husband a kiss, and the two women swept toward the door with every appearance of casual unconcern. 

Meanwhile the four men broke off into pairs and began to move around the room. Geordie and Quinn veered off to the right, while Ross fell into step behind Asher. The ballroom had become oddly divided between guests on the outskirts who carried on as if nothing was out of the ordinary, and those who stood near the dance floor, eyes following the elegant Fae as he stopped in front of Charlie and offered her his arm. Asher picked up the pace, even as he pushed his way through the crowded room.

He scanned the room again, catching sight of a blue caterpillar hovering near the terrace doors, toward which the Fae was now making his way with Titania on his arm. Asher pointed them out to Ross, then signaled for him to move faster as they skirted the room to try and flank their quarry.

The glimmer of golden wings passed through the door and into the darkness outside. Asher could see the concern on Ross’ face, and the subtle glow that radiated from his palms. “Do you know who or what this Fae is?” he whispered as they approached the doors themselves.

Anxiety coiled low in Asher’s belly and he shook his head. “The changeling we encountered at the loch claimed some kind of ownership over Ch—Miss Whitfield, but he’s dead. Maybe this Unseelie thinks he’s got some kind of claim, too.” Asher shook his head again. “Whatever obscure Fae political game this is, I’m putting a stop to it. She isn’t a pawn for some kind of Fae gamesmanship,” he hissed.

Quinn and Geordie were already outside where snowflakes were drifting lazily to the ground in what would have been a beautifully peaceful scene were it not for the sense that a predator lurked nearby. Quinn’s entire focus was on the gardens beyond the terrace, a high hedge lining the perimeter and winding paths, obscuring the view.

Geordie turned to them, grey eyes flinty. “We saw them step in there, but can’t make out where he’s taken her.”

Quinn was still scanning the hedge, looking for weaknesses. “Just the one opening,” he muttered. “We should move quickly, while he’s distracted.” Asher nodded in agreement and they made their way toward the entrance to the garden maze.

The top of a stone structure could be seen above the coniferous wall, snow already accumulating on the roof. The four of them divided into pairs again, Quinn and Geordie heading off to the left, with Asher and Ross following the path to the right. The way was straight and clear, with a single turn that led to another straight corridor. Asher led Ross at a run, turning round another corner to see his other friends appear at the opposite end a second later.

There was a break in the center of this inner hedge, leading to what seemed to be a smaller square. 

Quinn said something very succinct in what sounded like Russian. “Who decided this was a good garden plan?” he added, and nocked an arrow, keeping the point down. “You could have worn real pistols instead of those theater props,” he said to Asher, who glanced down at the old-fashioned flintlocks tucked into his sash. 

“I wish I had,” he returned. “Come on.”

In the center of the maze a soft glow was illuminating the snowflakes. Thunder rolled overhead; lightning flashed. There was no deliberation as to how they should continue. The four men stepped through the break and divided back into pairs, running in opposite directions to yet again meet at a break.

As they rounded another corner they were confronted with a small but straight lane with another break in the foliage. Sickly light pulsed from the opening. Asher and Ross slowed and began moving stealthily toward the opening. Quinn and Geordie were inching closer as well. They stopped short of the divide, backs against the bushy barrier. 

The glow of Ross’ hands intensified. “Direct it, guide, and it will flow,” Ross muttered under his breath, eyes closed, brow furrowed.

Asher carefully leaned to the side to look around the edge of the hedge. He could see the structure now that they had heretofore glimpsed the top of: a small folly, shaped like a round Greek temple. There was a strange glow centered within, with the tall Fae silhouetted before it. Asher scanned the enclosed area, looking for Charlie and absently noting the plentiful array of snow-covered marble statues posing coyly throughout a complicated geometric boxwood design. 

The Fae moved a bit, and suddenly Asher saw Charlie, lying still upon a raised marble plinth. There was some kind of... translucent drapery, or... no...

His stomach dropped, his tongue cleaving to the roof of his mouth. It wasn’t a drapery, it was a webbing—the same kind that had held Elias in that eerie cocoon. She was being covered in the same sticky gossamer.

Out of habit he held a hand up and signed to Quinn the location of their quarry and the fact that he was alone—and that Charlie was in danger. From the corner of his eye he could see Quinn lean close to Geordie and relay that information in the Scotsman’s ear. His partner followed up by lifting a hand and quickly signing back that he was going to take a shot and try to ambush the Fae.

Asher withdrew his head and relayed the plan to Ross, and then Quinn stepped into the opening and loosed an arrow. It flew true enough, chipping the stone of one of the columns of the stylized Greek temple in which Charlie lay.

The Fae spun. “Come out, come out,” he sang, and gave a low, chilling laugh.

Quinn obliged, another arrow nocked to the string. Geordie was a step behind him, his prop Excalibur drawn. The brawny Scotsman swung his blade in a slow circle. “Very well, we’ve come out. Let the lass go,” he commanded, looking every bit the legendary king his costume was meant to portray. Asher followed, scanning the area to try and come up with a strategy.

The Fae grinned. “Asher Burton and friends,” he said, and there was something in the timbre of his voice that was eerie, unearthly, and yet felt somehow familiar. “How futile of you to join me.”

“You have me at a disadvantage, I’m afraid,” Asher replied. 

The Fae chuckled. “In more ways than one, you know.” The sound of stone dragging on stone whispered through the air. “Do you really not know who I am?” He lifted the mask and tossed it to the side.

The face was familiar, though the once-ditchwater blond hair had turned to shades of gold, the brows had lengthened and become winged, the smile was wider and framed with pointed canines. He was taller, too, more graceful, and his fingers had gained impossible, unnerving length. Asher went numb all over. “Oliver Shaw—but—” He shook himself, the numbness settling in his bones. “I saw you die.”

“Correction—you saw the mortal part of the changeling die,” was the other man’s retort. “That worthless mortal flesh trapped me, but I have been unleashed, and I have come to collect that which belongs to me. I am Oliver Shaw no longer,” he sneered. “You may call me—Orion.”

The sound of footsteps from behind told Asher that Ross had joined him. “You have no claim here,” Ross said, taking his place at Asher’s side, his hand raised and glowing brilliantly, little wisps of green energy twisting around his fingers. “Go back to the Fae realm where you belong.”

Orion’s brows rose. “Well, well. Does the Fae-touched boy think to threaten his betters? Put that magic away, child, lest I pluck out your eyes to whet my appetite.”

Quinn gave an impatient huff. “I do dislike gloating,” he muttered, and loosed his arrow.

Orion caught it in midair and laughed. “Idiot mortals,” he returned, and flicked his wrist. His fingertips sparked and the sound of scraping stone grew louder, and suddenly Geordie let out an oath. The other three whirled to see the impossible: the statuary across the garden was moving slowly toward them, malevolence in their blind demeanor.

A stone arm swung out toward Quinn’s head only to be knocked off course by the blade of Geordie’s blunted broadsword. Another statue ambled toward Asher and Ross, reaching out toward them with cold, grey fingers. Asher danced back while Ross ducked and laid a hand on the ground. Light spread across the frozen earth in spidery veins and suddenly thousands of roots started twisting up around the ankles of the statue lurching toward Asher.

Quinn growled out something in no language Asher had ever heard before and pivoted out of the way, bumping into a marble satyr behind him. Asher lashed out with a kick to the side and succeeded in knocking his marble attacker over, where Ross’ vines grew up quickly and held it still.

“She’s nearly mine, you know,” Orion called. “You should not have interfered.”

“Never!” Asher gritted, trying to run forward, but the cold hands of a dryad clutched at him, catching at his clothes, his arms, and he struggled to get away.

Geordie was bashing at the marble onslaught, sword Excalibur flashing in the sickly magical light. Quinn, a short distance away, pushed back against the satyr and then dropped, arms up, and suddenly all the statue had in its grasp was the caterpillar’s absurd coat. “Go!” he shouted to Asher, and whirled to lash out at an approaching Socrates. 

Asher clenched his jaw and twisted, managing to leave his coat behind as well, and ran toward the temple.

Meanwhile, Geordie was cleaving a path through statues, knocking stone limbs out of the way as he attempted to keep them from swamping Quinn. His sword was now dented and bent, and after an elegantly sculpted nymph took hold of the blade, Geordie merely released the hilt, grabbed the statue by the shoulders and slammed it into the satyr. The statues crashed together in a cloud of marble dust. The stone soldiers refocused their efforts on the viscount, their emotionless faces turning toward him. They converged on the Scotsman, obscuring him from view. Asher heard the stone slamming against stone and the frustrated roar of his friend, but the statues continued to press around Geordie until the sounds of his struggle ceased.

On of the periphery, Asher caught sight of Ross. He was on his feet again, charging toward Orion. His friend stopped short, eyes flashing green and his skin lit with golden-green light. “Call them off!” Ross’ voice had taken on a strange timbre, commanding and reverberating. It resonated through the air, pulsing with magic.

The Fae stilled, and then turned to look at him slowly. “I very nearly did it,” he said, his tone conversational. “You are more than you seem, aren’t you?” He lifted a casual hand toward Quinn, who was nocking another arrow, and sent a wave of magic across the lawn, knocking him back into a decorative wall, where the agent crumpled to the ground and lay still. “The Lady of Illusion is seeking a consort,” Orion went on thoughtfully, attention still on Ross. “I think you might do rather well.” 

“Sorry, but I’m already married,” Ross shot back, lifting his hands and sending a blast of green energy toward the Fae. 

A shield sprang up from the ground, black and sickly purple, deflecting Ross’ attack. Orion grinned. “Easily enough remedied. She won’t mind if you’re widowed.” He flung out a palm toward Ross, power scudding from his hand.

Ross threw up his hands and a brilliant, translucent barrier materialized in front of him. Orion’s magic hit it and burst in a spray of purple light. Ross closed his eyes, lips moving slightly as the wind in the center of the maze began to shift and swirl. The hedge that surrounded them stirred noisily; pieces of branches snapped loose, sparking with green magic as they sped toward Orion like tiny glowing darts.

The onslaught hit Orion’s shield and began to erode through it. The Fae’s smug expression slipped, and took on an air of surprised strain. 

His entire focus shifted to Ross’ attack, allowing Asher to inch closer to Charlie. He skirted the temple to try and flank the Fae again, his heart sinking as he saw that Charlie was nearly obscured by the cocoon. Asher thrust his fingers into the fibers and tugged, trying and failing to pry them off of her sleeping form.

All at once Orion’s eyes flashed brighter and the shield that was slowly dissipating solidified again. A strange buzzing filled the air and the shadows that surrounded them started to lean toward the changeling, coalescing into a swirling orb that snapped and crackled with arcane energy. Orion drew his arms back and thrust them forward, sending the ball of magic toward Asher’s friend.

The orb passed through Ross’ barrier like a hot knife through butter. It slammed into Ross, hitting him in the chest. He went flying head over heels and hit the hedge and then slumped to the ground, the light in his palms flickered for a moment before it went dark.

Orion slowly turned to face Asher, lips curving. This close, Asher could see the pointed canines, the too-long fingers, the bright gold eyes. He had perhaps a breath of Oliver Shaw about him, but no more, and the truth of what he’d said was clear: there was nothing human left about him.

Asher licked his lips and glanced toward his friends: Quinn, a still, crumpled figure lying against a stone wall; Geordie, just a hand visible sticking out from a pile of heavy marble pieces, unmoving; Ross, collapsed half on his face, no sign of life. Asher looked back at the Fae.

“And now the gravity of what you’ve taken on begins to sink in,” Orion murmured, moving closer deliberately, like a predator stalking its prey. “You interfered when you should not. You stood in my way when you should not.” His upper lip lifted in a snarl. “You stayed alive when you should not. But that is all about to change.”

Asher straightened slowly as the Fae closed the space between them with terrifying and graceful power. 

“I am going to enjoy killing you, mortal.”  Orion slammed his fist into Asher's face. 

The blow rocked Asher back and he stumbled and would have fallen except that, impossibly, Orion was already behind him. He rebounded off the Fae and started to turn, only to receive an uppercut to the point of his jaw. His teeth snapped together and he tasted blood from a torn lip, even as he staggered back again.

This time, Orion allowed Asher to regain his balance, but no sooner was he upright again than the Fae had driven a fist into Asher's gut, forcing the wind out of him, and as he doubled over, Asher caught sight of a dagger in his belt, a match to the one that had pinned a threat to the door at Loch Ness.  

Orion drove his knee up into Asher's face. The force of that blow was enough to send Asher flying backward, before skidding a yard or two more on his shoulders, finally coming to rest at the base of the garden's hedge. 

“What’s the matter, boy?” the Fae taunted as he closed in again. “Is your training failing you when faced with an enemy who possesses true power?”

Dazed and winded, Asher had a bare moment to register that Orion was already on him, but it was a moment enough for his reactions to kick in. As Orion moved to stomp down on him, Asher rolled to the side and managed to get back to his feet, the normally fluid movement ungainly.

The Fae snarled in anger at the missed blow and turned to face Asher, beginning to throw another heavy punch. This time, Asher was ready. He ducked beneath Orion's arm and drove his shoulder into the Fae's midsection, making a feint for the dagger, but his fingers slipped from the hilt.

Taken off balance, the move actually forced Orion back a pace, into the clutches of the hedge, but even as Asher pulled away, Orion had already regained his balance and followed him. Asher tried to move faster, but the Fae's speed was faster still and he clamped his hands down on Asher's shoulders, jerking him off balance again and shoving him down.

“What did you think you could possibly offer her?” He squeezed, grinding Asher's shoulders, forcing him to his knees. “Did you think to love her, to make her yours?”

Asher swallowed, futilely scrabbling at Orion's grip. “No—” he began, then choked off.

“You’re right. You can give her nothing,” Orion hissed, leaning in, his mouth close to Asher’s ear. The Fae shifted his grip so that one hand was on the back of Asher's neck while the other was free. His free hand began to glow and purple vapors started to unfurl from Orion’s palm, but stopped just short of making contact. “No, you are not worthy of the quick and clean death magic would bring. I want to savor the bite of flesh against flesh as I snuff out your pitiful existence.” Orion shook Asher like a dog with a rag and then flung him across the lawn.

Asher landed on the ground near his coat, his glasses knocked from his face. He lay in the snow, stunned and staring up into the cloudy night sky. Delicate crystalline flakes drifted down and landed on his face, tiny pinpricks of cold that helped to clear the fog. He rolled to his side and pushed himself onto all fours and began scrambling to find his spectacles. His fingers brushed against the tortoiseshell frames, and as Asher shoved them onto his nose he caught sight of the dagger, still in Orion’s belt. 

It gleamed ever so slightly, almost beckoning him. Asher got to his feet just as the sound of crunching snow heralded the approach of his enemy.

Asher stood up straight, lifted his chin. “What do you want, Orion?”

“I want,” the Fae returned, moving ever closer, “what is mine.” He stopped in front of Asher, reaching with those impossible fingers to pinch Asher’s chin. “I want what is mine.” Orion repeated, spitting each word into Asher’s face with unhinged loathing. He wrapped long fingers around Asher’s throat just as Asher wrapped his own fingers around the hilt of the blade, warm and welcoming and hungry. 

“Let me help you, then.” Asher jerked the dagger free and struck out and up, quick as lightning. “I believe this is yours,” he said through gritted teeth, and gave it a final savage twist.

The smile fell from Orion’s face; his eyes went impossibly wide, then rolled back in his head as he staggered away, hands fluttering at the dagger embedded in his chest. A thin ribbon of blood leaked from his mouth as he fell back another step, then another.

The Fae’s legs buckled awkwardly, bending in unnatural directions. He fell to his knees even as smoky vapors began rising up from his body. Orion’s cheeks grew hollow, his eyes vanished, leaving behind empty sockets. What remained of the being took on a hazy and translucent quality as it vaporized and then drifted away on the wind. The dagger fell to the ground. It flared brightly and then vanished.

Asher ran to Charlie and began tearing at the gossamer covering her, his breath hitching when he saw that it, too, was evaporating, leaving her sleeping peacefully on the marble plinth. He fell to his knees by the marble pedestal on which she rested, hardly able to breathe until he saw the roses in her cheeks, the steady rise and fall of her chest. “Thank God,” he muttered, running a shaky hand over his mouth. “Thank God.” He reached out to touch her cheek, her forehead, to lightly trace her lips, and then looked about for his friends. To his astonishment he found the garden fully restored to what it had been before: every statue in place. Even the snow covering the ground was unblemished.

Magairlean,” muttered Geordie from the ground, sitting up and rubbing the back of his head. The man was covered in cuts and bruises, his Arthurian attire torn and bloodied. He glanced up at Asher. “I take it y’killed the bastard?”

“God, I hope so,” Asher replied, shivering, though whether from cold or nerves he was hard put to say. Over by the wall Quinn groaned, looking a bit like a caterpillar who’d been stepped on.

“Bloody hell,” Ross muttered, sitting up slowly and rubbing at his temple. One cheek bore a long, bleeding gash and the palms of his hands were dark with bruising. He looked around and then staggered to his feet. “Is everyone all right?”

Asher spotted his piratical coat lying on the ground some distance away; he went and retrieved it, laying it gently over Charlie. “See to her, will you?” he said to Ross. He turned and began to limp toward the break in the hedge. 

Quinn gained his feet. “Where the hell are you going?” he asked.

“To find Lady Therston, let her know where Charlie is. And then I’m going home.”

“That's it?” Geordie reached out to wrap his hand around Asher’s arm as he passed.

Asher nodded. “That’s it.”

Ross was bent over Charlie, hands resting on her forehead, slightly aglow. “She’s chilled to the bone, but I think she’ll be all right.” He tucked Asher’s coat more tightly around her. “Elsie and Ione took Geordie’s carriage home,” he pointed out, eyes still on his patient. “And we’re all in need of healing, including you, Asher.”

Asher paused by the hedge entrance, shoulders slumping. “All right. I’ll have my coach brought ‘round and I’ll see you all safely to Geordie’s. Will that do?”

“No, it bloody wo—” Quinn began, but a commotion from beyond the hedges interrupted them. 

“Charlie? CHARLIE!” a frantic woman’s voice was calling from one of the outer paths. “Are you out here? Charlie!”

Asher let out a breath as Lady Callista passed him at a full run, her skirts in her hands, followed by their hostess for the evening and several more guests. He opened his mouth to say something—he wasn’t entirely sure what—but they hurried past with hardly a glance, and so he shrugged and said nothing.

Behind him he could hear Ross explaining that Charlie took a fall, and reassuring the audibly distraught Lady Therston that warmth and rest would see Charlie back on her feet. He offered no explanation for his own appearance, or that of the other men.

“You’ll come back to the house and let Ross have a look at you as well, Ash,” Geordie said, falling into stride beside Asher.

“Honestly, there’s no need,” Asher began, but Quinn cut him off.

“You’ll come to Geordie’s or I’ll put in a report tomorrow that you’re not fit to serve.” His partner was scowling.

Asher shrugged. “Fine. I’ll come to Geordie’s. For a while,” he added.

Ross did not rejoin them until they were out front and waiting for the carriage. He reported that Charlie had been brought inside and taken to a guest room until Lady Therston’s carriage was ready to take the ladies home.

The ride to Geordie’s house was a quiet and tense affair. Whether it was just Asher’s perception, or that everyone was too tired and battered from the confrontation with Orion, Asher did not know, nor did he have the heart to speculate.

Ione and Elsie were both awake and waiting for the men when they walked through the door. Ione was the first to speak, running to meet Geordie, hands stroking the side of his face, eyes clouding with concern. “Are you all right, my darling? What happened?”

“Aye, love, I’m all right. Just a few bumps and bruises—nothin’ Ross can’t fix. It’s the same with all of us,” his grey gaze lit on Asher, “mostly.”

Ross pulled away from hugging his own wife, glancing around at the rest of them, before kissing Elsie’s temple. “Go on up to bed, I’ll be there once I see the lads sorted.” She caressed his uninjured cheek, whispered something in his ear, and said her goodnights to the rest, helping Ione up the stairs.

“Brandy,” Quinn declared, and Geordie led the way to his study.

Ross gave each of them a magical once over, and when he was satisfied that everyone was well and whole, he filled four snifters with brandy and passed them around. “It’s a cold night,” he commented as he handed one to Asher. “And you look like you could use this.”

Quinn rang for some rags and kitchen grease; when those were provided he began to scrub off the blue paint. “Well?” he asked as his skin started to show through. “What was all that about? You couldn't get out of there fast enough. What idiotic idea have you got in your head?”

Asher settled into one of the leather wingback chairs and took a sip of brandy. “Nothing. I’m fine. I’ve got everything I need.”

“That’s a load of shite,” Geordie observed mildly from the chair behind his desk. “You look like a sinner who caught a glimpse of heaven and is on his way to hell.”

Asher almost laughed at how apt the comparison was. “Dyspepsia,” he replied.

The Scotsman shook his head. “Asher, lad, I know shite when I see it, so you can stop shovelin’.”

Ross crossed his arms and stared down at his friend. “Claiming a physical ailment when your doctor is standing in the same room is a pretty poor cover, Asher.” He waited for a response and when none came, he uncrossed his arms and took a step closer. “Do I have to use my magic to disprove your illness, or are you going to have out with it?”

Quinn, now very shiny but mostly back to his usual color, spoke up. “Shall I take a guess?”

“No,” Asher replied truculently.

His partner nodded thoughtfully. “Not a guess, then. All right. Let me give you... an opinion.” He took a last swipe at his face, wet his whistle with the brandy, and dragged a chair so he was facing Asher, as close as he could get. “You’re a bloody fool, Asher Burton. Why are you pushing the girl away when it’s so obvious you love her?”

Asher thought about protesting, but it was pointless when Quinn was like this, and God knew he had the right of it anyway. “My life—our lives,” he gestured between the two of them, “aren’t made for love. I made a commitment—I’m an agent to Her Majesty. I can’t have a wife and family—they’d be a liability in our line of work.”

“What about your commitment to yourself, Ash?” Geordie asked quietly.

Meanwhile, Ross was staring at him as though he’d begun speaking in tongues. “But you love her. She loves you!” He shook his head. “Take a different job.”

Asher snorted. “It’s not just a job. This is who I am, Ross. It’s all I know how to be. Tonight I let myself dream a little, but I knew that was all it was. I’ll be fine in the morning.”

“No, you won’t.” That was Quinn, and Asher realized with some surprise that his partner was so angry he was shaking. “You think you will, but you won’t. There’s a place inside you where she ought to be, and you’ll try to fill it—maybe by sleeping with anyone who’s willing, just to feel something again. Maybe by taking the most dangerous assignments you can get, because that rush of adrenaline is all that’s left. And one day you’ll hear that she’s moved on, is loving someone else, and you’ll die a little inside. Maybe you’ll see her sometimes, from a distance, and you’ll die a little more.”

Asher tried to interrupt. “Quinn—what—”

“Shut your bloody dial and listen, for once in your life, you stubborn fool. You’re at a crossroads, Asher, and you need to choose—and you need to choose her. Talk to Melville—get out of the field. Train the next generation of agents, maybe. Teach them how not to lose themselves in the job.” Quinn got up and paced. “But don’t throw your damn life away, not when it’s within your reach.” He wiped at his cheeks. “Because someday it won’t be, and all you’ll have left is regret.”

The room was very still, but for the crackling of the fire. Ross glanced at Quinn and spoke up slowly. “Asher, it’s worth everything, being with that person who makes you see who you can be.” He paused, took a gulp of his brandy. “I can say with absolute honesty that I would die again to be with Elsie. Living without her would be worse than not living at all.”

“Listen to us, Ash. We’d not steer you wrong,” came Geordie’s quiet lilt. “You know what Ione means t’me.”

Asher stared into the fire, his mind in tumult. Life without Charlie—he’d accepted that it would be empty. But... what about life with her? Waking up to her each morning, hearing her laugh, enjoying her keen mind, her thoughtful ways... could he really walk away from that? What if... he didn’t have to?

He looked up at Quinn, who was nursing another brandy, staring moodily into the flames as though some answer lay there. His partner had been describing his own behavior—his own heartbreak, Asher realized. He was warning Asher not to become like him.

Train the next generation of agents—teach them not to lose themselves in the job. Like Quinn had done. 

Like Asher nearly had.

He got up abruptly. “Excuse me, lads. I’ve got things to see to.”

“Asher, wait,” Ross called out with the same echoing tone he’d used on Orion, stopping Asher in his tracks, but when he spoke again it was the usual lilt. “Where are you going?”

Asher turned and narrowed his eyes at his friend. “Are you using magic on me, Ross?”

His friend turned a little red. “Well you keep running off whenever—I was just trying to... Yes, fine, I used my magic on you.”

“Well—stop it,” Asher replied. “I need to go home—I have letters to write, and financial information to pull together. As we are not currently in Scotland, there are rules I have to follow if I want to marry.” He grinned suddenly. “Can I go now?”

Quinn, by the fire, visibly let out a breath. “Thank God,” he muttered, then glanced sideways at his partner. “Thought I was going to have to dart you for a moment there.”

Geordie was chuckling. “If the lady is agreeable, I can speak to the Archbishop of Canterbury about a special license—and that way you can wed before Ross and Elsie leave.”

“You’d do that?” Asher crossed the room and shook Geordie’s hand, gave up, and hugged the man instead. “That was the one shadow in this whole affair. But first I should see if she’ll have me at all.”