“Damn.”
Olivia hadn’t expected profanity from Mr. Grenville, and certainly not at the breakfast table. Neither had almost anyone else. There had been only the one word, and it had been quiet, almost a whisper, but it had nonetheless made most people catch their breath. Even the footman paused for a second. At the other end of the table, Joan was watching her husband too, but she didn’t look at all surprised.
Worried, yes. Olivia couldn’t blame her.
Mr. Grenville was staring at a buff-colored slip of paper: a telegram. His lips were a thin line with a little bit of whiteness around them. Olivia wasn’t certain he knew he’d sworn, or spoken at all, for that matter.
Bad news. Urgent bad news. Olivia thought of death, of disgrace, of financial ruin, and glanced quickly across the table to Gareth before she realized what she was doing. He’d started taking breakfast with her and the Grenvilles in the last few days, for some reason, though he never talked much. Now Olivia was glad of it. He knew Mr. Grenville far better than she did.
But Gareth looked back with as much confusion as she felt.
It was late fall, almost winter, and the wind whistled outside. The sunshine was deceptively bright through the windows. The silver was old, and the food was rich, but Olivia remembered a small flat in London and the taste of dry toast. She’d left a piece half-eaten when the doctor had come downstairs to inform her of her husband’s death. It had been summer then.
Very carefully, she put down her teacup.
“Simon?” Joan’s voice was both steady and steadying. “What’s wrong?”
Mr. Grenville looked up and let out a breath, only now seeming to focus on his surroundings. “Nothing. Nobody we know. It’s from Gillespie.” He glanced over at Olivia, who held herself very still, then back at Joan. “He wants us to come up to London.”
Joan lifted her eyebrows. “I’m guessing not a social visit.”
“No. Not at all. It’s that business in Whitechapel.”
The stillness around the table changed, transmuted into something both less and more fearful, relief that the news wasn’t worse, dread of what might yet happen. Even out at Englefield, the papers had been very informative. The previous day’s in particular.
Olivia picked up her teacup again, mostly to have something to do with her hands. She didn’t realize where she was looking until she met Gareth’s eyes again. No answers waited there, nor had she expected any, but there was comfort in his gaze nonetheless. It helped to know she wasn’t the only stunned bystander in the room.
“I told you before,” Joan said, forehead wrinkling, “I don’t recognize anything in this Ripper but a madman who’s managed to find some easy targets in an awful neighborhood. What does Gillespie think we’re going to find?”
“Perhaps nothing. Perhaps he wants only to confirm that we are dealing with a human here and not one with any particular powers. Or, perhaps not.” Mr. Grenville smiled a little, without much humor in it. “It’s rather difficult to read a man’s mood in a telegram, you know.”
“So we’ll have to wait until we get to London. Which means I’d better start packing.” Joan rose from the table, glanced over her shoulder, and added, “St. John? Olivia? You’ll have to manage the forest without us. Woodwell should be able to get you in and out if the maps fail.”
“We could wait—” Gareth began.
“You shouldn’t,” said Joan.
“It’s probably best not to take any chances,” Mr. Grenville added, “given what’s already happened. If anything out there could affect this household, we’ll need to know.”
“We’ll head out today, then,” said Olivia. She picked up her tea and drank but didn’t taste anything. Responsibility felt like a lead cloak on her shoulders.
***
“It should take a few days. A week at most. I’ll certainly write if we’re delayed any longer.” Simon prowled the library, three volumes in his arms already, and frowned dubiously down at a fourth. “You can write as well. Brooks has my address.”
As he turned to cross the room again, Gareth stepped to the side, then took refuge against the windowsill. His leg wouldn’t permit much more dodging. Neither would his dignity. “I doubt I’ll have to,” he said.
Simon paused. “I don’t know what’s in that forest or what Michael’s display yesterday afternoon might have awakened. I do know I’m leaving you and Mrs. Brightmore with five students and the servants to keep safe. The killings in London are likely the fault of a human, probably without any magic at all, and I very much doubt there’s anything human in the forest other than a few poachers. And they won’t be the danger.
“If women weren’t dead, I’d much rather stay here and keep a watch on Englefield.”
Gareth sighed and shook his head. “No. No, that’s fair. I just wish you’d more information going in than three lines from some…who is this man?”
“Gillespie?” Simon chuckled. “It’s somewhat difficult to describe him. He’s a bookseller, let’s say, and a magician. He was the one who recommended Mrs. Brightmore to us.”
A month ago, Gareth would have made a snide comment: That’s certainly a mark of distinction, or something similar. He could feel the shape of it now in the back of his head, but other things seemed more important. “Oh? How does he know her?”
“She was his student for some years. Other than that, it’s not my business to tell. You could ask Mrs. Brightmore about it, if you’re curious.”
“You assume she’d tell me,” said Gareth.
Simon grinned suddenly, a man who’d found a welcome distraction, if a momentary one. “Oh, I think she would, at the right moment,” he said. “You get along very well when you forget to dislike each other.”
***
“I don’t think we’ll have too much trouble,” said Olivia, trying to sound like she believed it.
Not just for her own image. The Grenvilles did a decent job at hiding their feelings, Joan a little more so than her husband, but Olivia had spent enough time reading strange faces that familiar ones were easy. She saw worry there, and while she couldn’t do anything about what they went to face in London, she could ease their minds about what they’d leave behind.
“I’m sure you’ll all live,” said Joan, “and I don’t give a damn about anything else. Will you be leaving after we do? For the forest?”
Olivia nodded. “Mrs. Edgar’s watching Elizabeth and Michael, and the boys are old enough to be left by themselves for a few hours. Charlotte’s out at the stables, waiting for me and Dr. St. John.”
“Be careful,” said Mr. Grenville, “but you know as much as I do, more in certain areas, and I wouldn’t be leaving if I didn’t think you could cope with the situation. I thought you should know that.”
“‘Be bold, be bold, but not too bold,’” Olivia quoted. Even so, hearing Mr. Grenville’s opinion lifted some of the invisible weight that had settled on her shoulders and in the pit of her stomach.
The three of them stood in the hall, the Grenvilles wrapped tightly in winter travelling clothes, the servants bustling around them with baggage. Most of it was gone already. There wasn’t much time left. Olivia couldn’t think of anything she’d forgotten to ask about, or to say, but she was certain there was something.
“Just send the students into the ballroom for combat training,” Joan said. “Waite, Woodwell, and Fitzpatrick at one, Fairley and Donnell at three. Look in from time to time to make sure they haven’t actually killed one another, but they know what to do.”
The door behind them opened. Olivia heard the sound and knew Gareth would be coming out, but she couldn’t keep herself from glancing over her shoulder to make sure. Their eyes met for a second. Olivia expected the challenge she found in his expression, but was surprised to see camaraderie as well. We’re in this together, his face seemed to say. I’ll do my part as long as you can manage yours.
Gareth crossed the room quickly, long legs covering a great deal of ground even with his limp, and came to stand beside her.
“Good luck,” he said to Mr. Grenville, holding out a hand. “We’ll keep the place standing for you.”
“Good man,” said Mr. Grenville and shook hands heartily. “Remember what I said.”
In some ways, Olivia thought, the parting was ludicrous. The Grenvilles would be gone less than a fortnight, and yet they, as well as Olivia and Gareth, were acting as though it would be months before they returned. An observer would have laughed.
An observer wouldn’t know what took the Grenvilles to London or what sort of danger might wait for them despite all their protestations. Even Olivia didn’t know precisely. She’d seen glimpses of places and creatures when scrying, read cramped and obscure passages in books. She’d heard a few very dark stories. Nothing very probable, perhaps, but the possibilities were bad enough.
What waited in the forest might be worse.
“Have a safe journey,” she said at the last, not knowing what else she could say. “And a safe trip.”
A few more parting words, a few more bows and handshakes, and then they were gone in a flurry of November wind. The door closed behind them.
Olivia took a breath, turned back, and looked up at Gareth. “Well,” she said rather inadequately. “We should probably meet Charlotte, shouldn’t we?”