Alec Lawrence rested his leg on a pile of cushions in the conservatory. Vivienne had done some damage when she stabbed him in the knee. The joint was already arthritic; now it felt like a live coal. The doctor had offered him morphine, but Alec declined. He didn’t like opiates. They dulled his ability to touch the elements and he’d had quite enough of that to last a lifetime.
Cyrus had come down on the train with Cassandane. It was the first time he’d left Ingress Abbey in three years. Cassandane had told Alec he’d have to get himself nearly killed more often.
“You’re lucky, you know,” Cyrus said, sipping a cup of black Assam tea.
It was a very un-English morning. Bright sun poured in through the wall of glass windows.
“I know.”
“It all puts rather a new spin on things.”
“What?”
“The fact that new gates can spontaneously appear in metropolitan areas.”
“Oh, that.”
“Vivienne says you remember nothing.”
“I don’t.”
Which was a lie. Vivienne wouldn’t tell him in any detail what had happened, but he had a fair idea. Both of them were pretending things were the same as before, and they were—but they weren’t too. Because Alec wasn’t the same. Not exactly. He had a kernel of something inside him, chafing like a pebble in his shoe. A darkness. An affinity. With what, he didn’t yet know.
Alec hadn’t sorted it out, but he knew he needed to get away from Vivienne. Not forever, just for a little while. It was impossible to think straight with her emotions clouding the bond. And he was afraid she would sense the change in him. Demand answers.
“I suppose that’s for the best.” Cyrus folded bearlike paws in his lap. He had the face of a scholar and the hands of a dockworker. “I’ve been looking into this Count Koháry. My guess is our boy is old, Alec. Very old. He’s been dying and leaving himself a fortune for hundreds of years.”
“How many hundreds?”
“My agents in Hungary have traced him back to the 13th century. The trail before that is cold but they’ll sniff it out. They’re good.”
“Is he one of the Duzakh?”
“I don’t think so. I know them all.”
“You just can’t find them.”
Cyrus made a noise of irritation.
“Well, whoever he is, I’m grateful for his intervention.” Alec laced his hands behind his head.
“He probably stole the Ptolemy maps.”
“They could have been lost in the flood.”
“They could have. But I have a feeling our count took them. He was a collector. If he’s connected with the Duzakh, we’ll have a world of trouble.”
“What makes you think the necromancers don’t already know where all the gates are?”
Cyrus sighed. “They probably do.”
“So it makes no real difference. And Koháry will turn up eventually. Now that we’re looking. Personally, I hold no special ill will toward him. He saved my life.”
Cyrus frowned. “The bond saved your life.”
“So I gather.”
“Without it, your soul would have been driven out. But it worked like a tether, holding you in your body even though the daemon had taken possession.”
“Can we talk about something more pleasant?” His gaze fell on a pot of hot pink Phalaenopsis. “Orchids, perhaps? You should grow them, magus. Give that frigid old pile you call home a splash of color.”
Cyrus looked around, as if noticing the riot of flowers for the first time. “Cass would never remember to water them. What are you going to do now?”
“I might go to Wales. Just for a bit.”
“Holy Father, it’s like a frozen tundra this time of year.”
“The south of France then.”
Cyrus smiled. “That’s more like it.”
They talked of insubstantial things like food and weather and first-rate hotels on the Côte d’Azur. When late afternoon came, Cyrus went to take a nap. He said being in the City tired him out. Vivienne had gone out for a walk with Cass; they’d finally received word from Vivienne’s ward, Anne. She was still in the Carpathians. The villagers were reflexively superstitious, fanatically religious, and nursed an inborn distrust of outsiders, so it was rather slow going. But she’d hinted in her letter that strange things seemed to be afoot in this wild, isolated corner of Europe—stranger even than usual.
She hadn’t asked for their help; Anne wouldn’t. But he knew Vivienne was itching to go to her. As much as it tore him apart, Alec might let her handle this one alone.
Dusk arrived at the house at St. James, creeping on little cat feet. Alec bathed and shaved. He put on his best suit. He was on his way out the door when Vivienne appeared. Her left arm was in a sling. She’d refused healing from Alec, claiming she didn’t want to tire him out. He suspected her sense of honor wouldn’t permit him to suffer alone.
Tonight, she wore a shimmering gown of pale green silk that left her shoulders bare. A strand of pearls looped twice around her long neck. She looked beautiful and untouchable.
“Going to a party?” he asked.
“The new Lyric Theater. I’m in the mood for something light.”
“What’s playing?”
“Dorothy. It’s starring Ben Davies and Marie Tempest.”
“You should come with us, Alec.” The Marquess of Abervagenny came bounding down the stairs like a handsome blonde puppy.
Alec hesitated. “I’m rather tired.”
Nathaniel gave him a brisk once-over. “You look much too nice to be staying home. Confess.”
“Just going for a walk.”
“It’s too far,” Vivienne said decisively, as if she knew exactly what he intended. “I’ll have Henry bring the carriage round. Nathaniel and I can take a cab.”
He studied her but sensed no jealousy. Only a tinge of sadness. “All right. Enjoy the theater.”
“It’s a comic opera. Mistaken identity and silly plot twists.” She smiled. “How can we go wrong?”
Alec asked Henry to stop at Covent Garden, where he bought a bouquet of yellow and white moss-roses from a tattered little girl. Her eyes widened when he gave her eight silver pennies.
“Thank the kind gentleman!” she exclaimed.
Alec tipped his hat to her and she giggled.
The climb up to the front door took him a full minute. By the time he knocked, his leg was on fire. His heart beat slow and steady in his chest, but it picked up when he heard footsteps. The door swung open.
“Mr. Lawrence.”
“Miss de Mornay.”
She examined him, green eyes inscrutable. “You haven’t called me that since the first time we met.”
“I thought we were being formal.”
She wore a violet dress today, with thin grey pinstripes and a row of tiny buttons down the front.
“I got your note,” Catherine said.
Alec waited, trying not to lean too obviously on his cane. He badly needed to sit down.
“Splendid supple thighs indeed.”
“You said you liked Swinburne.”
“I do.” She smiled. “Very much. Do you want to come inside?”
Something loosened in his chest. “I wasn’t sure you’d have me, after last time.”
She held out a hand. “Give me the flowers first.”
Alec did. The knuckles of his right hand were white from gripping the cane. This did not escape Catherine’s notice. She frowned.
“What have you done to yourself now?”
“Fell off a horse.”
“Really?” She raised an eyebrow. “You’re very accident-prone, Mr. Lawrence.”
“I told you I was graceless.”
“Not the word I’d choose. You move like a dancer when you’re well.”
“You may have to carry me upstairs.”
She stepped onto the landing and put an arm around his waist. She smelled of that same lilac soap. “Come along now, poor invalid. I’ll make you some tea.”
“Only if you let me brush your hair, Catherine. It’s an absolute disaster.”
The door closed on her laughter.