It was grey and drizzling when they set off for Bainbridge’s house the next day. The days were very short now, and though it was only a little after three o’clock in the afternoon, the sun—which was little more than a borehole of hazy light behind the heavy clouds—was already low in the sky.
It would be dark before long.
“Are you sure you don’t want to ride inside?” Wynne asked, glancing at Drew. He was driving and Drew was riding up top alongside him.
“Yes,” Drew said shortly.
Wynne smiled ruefully.“I don’t blame you. Mim is in a strange mood today.”
“She is,” Drew agreed. “And it is difficult for me to be at close quarters with her when she is like this.”
“It must be strange for you,” Wynne said. “Knowing how other people feel all the time, just from how they smell.”
Drew shrugged. “I don’t always know what people’s scents mean,” he said. “Sometimes it’s obvious, but often there are too many emotions tangling up in complicated ways. Francis reads scents far better than I do.”
Wynne looked thoughtful.
Drew said, “Since you took up magic again, you have been careful to mask your scent from me. Why do you do that?”
Wynne shrugged a negligent shoulder. “I don’t care for my feelings to be known.”
“I can understand that,” Drew said. “If it helps, I can assure you that even when I can read people, I don’t go around telling others what I detect.”
Wynne nodded. “I know,” he said simply. “All the same. I prefer to keep my feelings private. Particularly the ones that are unreciprocated.”
“What makes you think they’re—” Drew began, then scowled. “Wait—are you fishing for information?”
Wynne laughed, a soft amused sound that somehow had a bleak edge. “I already know that my feelings are not entirely unreciprocated. Perhaps misaligned is a better word.”
He gave his attention to the horses then, steering the carriage around a tight corner as their great hooves churned up the path, spraying mud.
“Colinton village is just down there,” Wynne said once they were round the bend, pointing at a collection of rooftops with his whip. He had ridden out alone the day before to check the route. “Spylaw Tower is about a quarter of a mile outside the village. We will be there very soon.”
Sure enough, only a few minutes later, he was slowing the horses to a stop outside a pair of high gates. Drew jumped down to open them and Wynne steered the horses through, waiting while Drew closed them again.
“I’ll get inside the carriage now,” Drew said, and Wynne nodded.
Opening the door, he clambered inside to find that Marguerite was huddled up against the far side door, the carriage blanket draped over her legs. She had been gazing out of the window, but when the door opened, she turned to look at him. Immediately, a wave of anguish swamped him, shocking him with its intensity. When they’d set off, she’d been nervous and on edge, but this was something of an entirely different order.
“We’re nearly there,” he said, eyeing her carefully as he settled himself on the opposite bench. “Are you all right? You seem—” He broke off, unsure how blunt he should be.
She forced a mechanical smile that did not begin to touch the despair in her eyes. “I will be fine,” she said quietly. “I will have myself under control before I leave the carriage.”
Drew frowned and leaned closer, watching her warily. “What’s wrong?” he said. He had never seen her like this. Truly shaken.
She swallowed hard, and he saw that her gloved hands were in tight fists in her lap. “I am… I am almost sure that Alys is here.”
Drew raised his nose, scenting the air for another wolf scent, an unfamiliar one. But he could detect nothing. Oh, there were traces of all sorts of smells, mostly everyday ones, but nothing with that unmistakable lupine edge.
“It is not her scent,” Marguerite whispered. “I think it is our bond.” She raised one of her hands, still held in a tight fist, and pressed it against her body, underneath her left breast, knuckling and kneading, as though trying to burrow inside. She was pressing her fist so hard, it would leave bruises.
“You are almost sure?” he said.
“I—cannot be certain,” she said in an agonised tone. “It has been so long and… perhaps it is because I wish it so hard? But what else could it be, Drew?”
She was distraught and hopeful at the same time.
Slowly, Drew said, “Do you want to wait in the carriage? I could go in alone.”
She shook her head in swift negation. “No. I will come with you. I must do this.”
“All right. Once we’re inside, if you become certain that Alys is there, give me a sign like this.” He demonstrated for her, extending his thumb and smallest finger while closing the other fingers into his palm.
Marguerite nodded. Then carefully, with an obvious effort of will, she dropped her fisted hand back to her lap and made the sign Drew had demonstrated. When he looked back up at her face, she had donned the mask of Madame Niven. And not a moment too soon, for the now the horses were slowing as the carriage drew up before the house.
Drew gazed out of the window at Spylaw Tower. God but it was an ugly house, like a dungeon that had been built aboveground instead of below it, with no care for symmetry or elegance. A square box of dark grey stone, its mullioned windows were small, few and placed irregularly around the walls. Drew doubted much light made it through them—the glass looked thick and warped with age, the small individual panes murky.
Opening the carriage door, he jumped out.
“Good day, Mr. Niven,” a voice called from front door of the tower.
It was Bainbridge. He looked well-pleased with himself… until Marguerite stuck her head out of the carriage. At that point, his face visibly fell.
“Help me down, mon amour,” Marguerite demanded, and Drew turned to assist her, or at least appear to, setting his hands lightly at her waist as she leapt down to the ground.
“Mrs. Niven,” Bainbridge said coolly. “This is a surprise.”
“A nice one, I hope,” she replied.
He didn’t answer that. Instead he turned to Drew “I thought you were going to ride over,” he said, his frown deepening. “I’m afraid I don’t have a groom to see to your horses and carriage.”
“That’s quite all right,” Drew said in an easy tone. “My coachman can see to them, and we won’t be here long. I presume the stables are round the back of the house?”
Bainbridge scowled.“Yes, but I’m afraid the house is rather unsuitable for a lady visitor. I have no female servants here and, well, it’s fine for a couple of gentlemen but for Mrs. Niven—”
“Oh, no, no, no!” Marguerite exclaimed, moving ahead of Drew and mounting the three steps to the front door where Bainbridge stood. He tried to retreat but had nowhere to go as she took possession of his arm.
“You insult me if you think I am the sort of poor creature who will have an attack of the vapours in the house of a single gentleman! What made you think such a thing?”
Bainbridge immediately protested. “I did not intend to suggest any—”
“Were you aware that I travelled with my first husband to India?” she demanded of him. “I can assure you that during our travels I put up with many inconveniences and hardships and never—never!—did a single complaint pass my lips!”
“Madame, I am quite sure that you are a very capable lady and—”
“Exactly,” she said, then turned her head and called to Wynne, “John, please do take the carriage and horses round to the stables. Mr, Niven and I will let you know when we are ready to leave.”
“Very good, ma’am,” Wynne said, touching his crop to his hat. He began to move the horses away from the front door of the house, to Bainbridge’s obvious dismay.
“Mrs. Niven,” Bainbridge said desperately, “Permit me to be blunt with you.”
Marguerite turned back to him, regarding him with a mildly curious expression. “Of course. What is it?”
By this time, Drew had mounted the steps behind her, adding more force to their forward movement, and Wynne was already turning the corner. A slightly hunted look came into Bainbridge’s eyes.
“The, ah, item I offered to show your husband is not for a lady’s eyes,” Bainbridge said. His gaze flitted to Drew, flashing accusation and betrayal, and Drew tried to seem embarrassed.
“Is that all that is bothering you?” Marguerite offered Bainbridge a charming smile, glancing at him from under her lashes. “Well, you need not worry. Mr. Niven has already told me I am not allowed to see your item. He says I will only have another turn, as I did when Mr. Muir showed us that horrible skeleton.” She shuddered dramatically. “Anyway, I did not come to see it—I only wanted to come for the drive as I was bored and did not want to wait at home. So, if it is all right, Mr. Bainbridge, I will sit quietly in your parlour in front of the fire and perhaps one of your servants can bring me a little pot of tea? Or if not, a little glass of ratafia or wine will do very well instead.”
Bainbridge, who had relaxed slightly when Marguerite said she had no interest in seeing the item, nodded stiffly. “Very well,” he said. “The parlour’s like an icehouse, but there’s a fire going in the library, as I was working in there, so if you don’t mind waiting amongst my books, I daresay my manservant can manage a tea tray while Mr. Niven and I are occupied.
“Excellente!” Marguerite exclaimed. “Thank you, Mr. Bainbridge.”
She strolled over the threshold ahead of Drew, entering what looked to be a spacious hall. Drew hung back, leaning close to Bainbridge and muttering, “My apologies. She went into a jealous rage when I said I was coming over here—she was utterly convinced you had half a dozen harlots in the house to entertain us.” He rolled his eyes. “Don’t worry though—now that she can see that’s not the case, she’ll be quite happy to sit and wait with a glass of wine. She hasn’t the slightest interest in why I’m really here.”
Bainbridge gave a stiff nod, though he still seemed unhappy. He said shortly, “Thankfully, the creature is muzzled in the cellar, so your wife won’t hear anything.” Turning away, he added over his shoulder, “Come on.”
Swallowing back the nausea that had arisen at the word muzzled, Drew followed him, closing the heavy door behind him and entering the gloomy hallway, where Marguerite was already waiting, looking about her curiously.
“It is very quiet here,” she observed. “How many servants do you have attending you, Mr Bainbridge?”
“Two,” Bainbridge replied. His face wore a strained expression that was probably supposed to be a smile.
“Only two!” she exclaimed, “For such a large house?”
“I am simple bachelor, Mrs. Niven, and only visiting the city for a short while,” Bainbridge said. “My needs are very modest.”
Marguerite shook her head. “It is time you married, Mr. Bainbridge. A wife would take care of these matters for you. Gentlemen always say they are happy living simple bachelor lives, but once they experience the homely comforts a wife provides, they realise how much better married life can be.” She patted Drew’s arm, “Do you not agree, mon amour?”
“Yes of course,” Drew said, taking her cue. Glancing at Bainbridge he added, “Mrs. Niven anticipates my every need. Before I have even realised what I want, it is there, at my hand—isn’t that right, my dear?”
Meeting his gaze, Marguerite said sweetly, “Well, what is a woman for, if not to be her husband’s right hand?”
Bainbridge was watching her with a more approving expression now, unbending enough to offer a small, polite smile. “Let me show you to the library, madame.”
He led them up three full flights of stairs. “My apologies for all the steps,” he said as they neared the top of the third flight. “I elected to work in the library as it has the best light—and the owner’s excellent book collection is one of the reasons I am visiting.”
There were only two doors on the short corridor and he opened the first of them to reveal a small library which was indeed full to the gunwales with books. Nearly every inch of the shelves that lined the chamber walls was crammed with volumes—only the doorway and the area of the far wall where the window was situated were bare. The towering rows of leather-bound books made the chamber feel dark and oppressive, and the window’s thick, mullioned panes did little to improve matters, only letting through some weak and dismal wintry light. Even in summer, it would be quite impossible to read in here without a candle—and this was the room with the best light?
While Drew and Marguerite took in their surroundings, Bainbridge busied himself locking away various papers that had been lying on the desk. When he was done, he pulled the servants’ bell, then crossed the floor to the hearth to set more wood on the low fire that was smouldering inadequately in the grate.
The library was at least a little warmer than the rest of the house, though that was not difficult given that the hallway and staircase had been as cold as outside. Maybe even colder.
“You mentioned the owner of the house a few moments ago,” Marguerite said. “Is he a member of your family?”
“No, a friend,” Bainbridge said. He glanced briefly at Drew. “We are members of the same fraternity. He is in England just now and offered me the use of the place while I am in Edinburgh.”
A White Raven, Drew surmised. He saw Bainbridge glance quickly at Marguerite—no doubt wondering if his comment might provoke some sign of recognition in her. Marguerite, however, didn’t react, only hummed and went to examine some book spines on the nearest shelf. A moment later, she turned back to them, pouting.
“They are all in Latin,” she complained.
Drew had to bite his lip against a smile—Marguerite was fluent in numerous ancient languages, including Latin. But Bainbridge simply accepted her words at face value, chuckling and saying, “I’m afraid so, Mrs. Niven.”
Bainbridge probably thought his words sounded indulgent, but Drew heard the derision in them.
Marguerite half-turned away from Bainbridge, meeting Drew’s eyes as she did so. Her gaze spoke volumes. Contempt for Bainbridge flashed there—and something else Drew couldn’t read. He tried instead to interpret her wildly shifting scent, catching a touch of desperation and a deep well of banked rage, but finding it impossible to read the rest. He did see the subtle gesture she made with her hand though, thumb and pinkie briefly extended, the other fingers closed into her palm.
Alys was here then.
“The creature is muzzled in the cellar.”
Drew swallowed hard, nerves shivering.
Just then, a knock at the door sounded. At Bainbridge’s “Enter,” a large, rough fellow came in. He was unshaven and slovenly-looking and did not even remove his cap from his head as he waited for Bainbridge’s order. His rough, hard-wearing clothes appeared more suitable for industrial labour than domestic service and he gave off a sour scent of angry resentment as he steadily watched his employer with small, oddly porcine eyes.
This was not a man who saw himself as a servant. He had all the hallmarks of a paid thug.
“Ah, Donald,” Bainbridge said. “If you could kindly fetch Mrs. Niven a pot of tea, she is going to wait here while Mr. Niven and I conduct our business downstairs.”
Donald glanced at Marguerite and his small eyes gleamed in a way Drew did not like. He nodded and lumbered out again.
“So, Niven,” Bainbridge said, straightening his cuffs, “Shall we get to the business at hand?”