I’d nearly forgotten how bright the sun could get at ten o’clock on a fine morning. It was well-nigh blinding me as I stood leaning against a lamppost in London Square, waiting for the Fairfax brothers to show. I really did not wish to go with them. I’d been up all night dreading it and now the brilliant sunlight was aggravating my already unbearable headache. I lowered the brim of my hat well over my eyes.

“Lucien Baptiste! Good of you to show!” Allan Fairfax was waving to me from a two-horse barouche that was coming briskly down the street. He jumped down before the vehicle had fully stopped, running over and shaking my hand till I thought my arm would come off.

“We had a running wager whether you would disappoint us,” Stephen said from his seat in the carriage. He turned to Geoffrey, who was beside him, and held out his hand. “Pay up, Geoff.”

Geoffrey grumbled and rummaged in his pockets, pulling out a handful of wrinkled notes. The crumpled money he deposited in his brother’s lap could easily have paid my month’s rent. I looked away.

“The paper says it’s to be quite balmy today, the warmest October yet,” Allan chattered on, stepping back so I could climb into the carriage. “Aren’t you going to suffer in all that black?”

“I’m quite used to it,” I said casually.

“You look like an undertaker,” Geoffrey commented.

Allan smirked, hopping into the seat beside me. “You look like a district attorney in that hideous bowler, Geoff.”

“You should put on a hat, Al, any hat. Your hair looks a fright.”

Stephen waved to the driver. “Let’s move, shall we?”

Misère was sleeping fitfully on my shoulder, so I couldn’t ask what he thought of anything. As much as I wanted to bring up Helene, however, I held my tongue. Misère was right; who knew what sort of men these Fairfaxes really were? Better to be patient and find out first.

“So Lucien,” Stephen said conversationally after the first ten minutes of the journey. “Are you familiar with horse-races? Have you ever gambled before?”

“I’ve bet only with cards,” I replied. “I haven’t seen a horse-race since I was a boy in school.”

“Listen to Steve,” Allan said over the rattle of the carriage. “He’s a racing expert.”

“I breed racehorses,” Stephen explained. “None of my horses are running today; however, I make it a habit to become familiar with the competition. It’s wise to know how much power you’re dealing with before you make a challenge.”

“Hear, hear,” Geoffrey said, lighting a cigar and taking a puff.

“So be sure to put money on all the horses Steve suggests,” Allan advised. “He can tell with a glance who’s going to reach the finish line first. I’ve learnt that the hard way,” he added solemnly.

I glanced out over the Thames as the carriage rumbled across London Bridge. The murky water reflected dimly the blue of the sky, rippling very slightly in the comfortable breeze. The air may have been warm, but the water certainly wasn’t. The waves had an icy edge to them, cold from the more wintry temperature of the night. “Actually, I don’t plan to bet on any. I’ve no particular interest in horse-races, you understand.” I wasn’t about to say that my finances had been increasingly tight of late, what with two extra mouths to feed. Most bachelors were lucky enough not to have such a problem.

“That’s perfectly all right. You can go to admire the fine ladies, if nothing else,” Stephen said. “They’re a bit more covered up than at those late-night dances, but I’m sure you can find something to fit your fancy.”

I doubted that. The only ladies who attended horse-races were either the bubbly, flippant sort, or—worse—the serious women’s liberation types. I was not in the mood for the former and the latter were never in the mood for me. Still, I could enjoy the view, and having girls flutter their lashes at one from afar was always nice.

Allan seemed to dislike the silence. He cleared his throat and faced me. “So. As I’m certain you’ve deduced from our interactions with one another, we love the ladies as much as the next fellow. A bit more, perhaps. Now, Stephen never has any trouble finding companionship; rather good at it actually, the sly dog.”

Stephen shrugged and nodded.

“And I have my dear Winnie, who’s engaged to be my wife in a few months.”

“Congratulations,” I said, “I think.”

“Duly noted. Sadly, however, Geoff has no luck with women whatsoever.”

“You liar!” Geoffrey sputtered.

Allan looked at me in mock desperation. “Can you help him?”

I couldn’t help but laugh. “I don’t believe the patient desires my diagnosis.”

“I believe Geoffrey doesn’t know how to speak to a lady,” Stephen said. “I think his rough, manly ways intimidate the fairer sex. What about a second opinion? How do ladies like to be spoken to? You seem to know your way around girls of all ages, Lucien.”

That was an odd way of putting it. Stephen was looking at me very hard, and Geoffrey had even cocked an eye in my direction. Of all of them, only Allan was looking casually out the side of the carriage. I frowned. “Ladies differ in taste, gentlemen. I have found that the younger set value manners and delicacy above all. After the age of twenty, if they’re particularly bored—which most of the peerage are—then the sort of men who catch their fancy are the types they read about in French novels.”

“Cads,” Stephen supplied with a wry grin.

“I’m a cad,” Geoffrey insisted, causing his brothers to burst out in laughter. I only smiled. Inside I found nothing funny about the fact that the Fairfaxes seemed intent on garnering as much information about me as possible.

After an hour or so of rattling along the cobblestones, the barouche turned off into a wooded dirt road and I could soon see the low roofs and bright pennants of the pavilions. I had been to a horse-race once, in Somerset on a school trip to Bath. The other boys ran and shouted and hallooed until the horses were likely spooked out of their minds. I liked the horses and the peppermint saltwater taffy we were allowed to buy with our pence, and laughed when my schoolmates lost their precious money trying to make wagers.

Today’s expedition, though fifteen years since, was remarkably like déja vu. The Fairfaxes sprang out of the carriage like jack-in-the-boxes the moment we stopped and ran straight for the stables, where a crowd of men were already gathered, laughing and shouting. I sighed and followed behind at my own pace.

“Here, take a look,” said Allan excitedly, rushing over and thrusting a sheet of paper into my face. “This is the list of today’s runners. I can’t tell one from the other, but Stephen’s over there right now, talking to some of the sponsors and looking over the horses. He’ll be back with an expert recommendation, I assure you.”

I glanced over his shoulder to where Stephen Fairfax was standing at the registry, talking amicably with a lot of well-dressed gentlemen, many of whom appeared to be a great deal older than he. From time to time I saw him look over the horses. All but the animals’ rumps were hidden from view inside their stalls, but somehow Stephen appeared able to gauge their chances nonetheless.

Misère thoughtfully suggested that we bet on one or two. Stephen seemed to know what he was doing, and God knows we needed the money. But I shook my head firmly. I was resolved to distance myself as much as possible during the day’s events.

“Are you sure you won’t bet?” Allan pestered me as we entered the pavilion. “Come now. A little won’t hurt. Azrael thinks you’re just being stubborn.”

“Azrael is correct. I am being extremely stubborn on purpose,” I said wryly, following Allan into a row of seats right behind the fence surrounding the track. “I dislike wasting money. While I do imagine your brother’s recommendations are no doubt stellar, it’s a habit I’d rather not form.”

“Speaking of money, what is it you do for a living, besides magic?” Geoffrey said, seating himself on my other side. I felt rather like a Fairfax sandwich. “The profession can’t be that lucrative if you aren’t a public figure.”

A sticky subject. “I manage,” I said evasively.

Geoffrey looked at me intently. “Meaning you’re not always a hundred percent legitimate, are you?”

I wasn’t about to say that I had many rich lady friends who supported me, some voluntarily and some unwittingly. “I have a hand for managing my funds, that’s all,” I said.

“A skill to be proud of, I’m sure,” Stephen joined in, coming up and sitting in the row behind us. “Now let’s get down to business. Which horses do you two want?” he asked his brothers, waving the lists in their faces. “I’ve circled in red ink the runners with the best chances.”

Geoffrey took a list and started discussing at length with Stephen the merits of the chosen horses. Allan peered at his list, quirking an eyebrow. “I guess I have no choice but to take Steve’s recommendations—if I plan to keep money in my pocket, anyway.” He folded up the list.

“Wait,” I said. Something was pressing on my mind, like an insistent thought; or rather, like a prediction. “In the final race. You shouldn’t—I mean, I don’t think I agree with your brother’s decision. Bohemian Black isn’t going to win.”

“What?” Allan’s eyes widened. “How did you know Steve chose Bohemian? Did you see the list?”

“No, you put it away too quickly. Bohemian Black is not even coming in second,” I said.

“How do you know?”

I closed my eyes. It wouldn’t do to try too hard. “I can’t explain. I see a…a grey horse coming in first instead. A colt…Blue…Blue Moment?”

“Blue Morning,” Allan said slowly. I opened my eyes to see him staring at me in astonishment. “That’s amazing. And without the aid of a seerstone or tea leaves or anything!”

“What are you jabbering about?” Geoffrey grumbled. “Haven’t you made your choices yet?”

“I’m going with Phantom on the first race, Might and Power on the second, and Blue Morning on the third,” Allan announced.

“Why on earth are you picking Blue Morning?” Stephen laughed. “You always have to go your own way. Well, I don’t want to hear your complaints when you lose. Blue Morning’s not been properly raced yet; he’s still being trained. Bohemian Black, on the other hand, is a fine strong runner with a prize-winning jockey on her. This is the first time that jockey’s been paired with Bohemian and it’s sure to be a first-place combination.”

“Nonetheless, I’ll stick with Blue,” Allan said stubbornly. “If Lucien says it’ll be Blue, then it’ll be Blue.”

“Lucien said, eh?” Geoffrey looked at me condescendingly. “The bloke doesn’t know the first thing about racing—do you, Lucien?”

“You’re correct, I know nothing about the sport,” I said, crossing my legs and looking out over the track. “I just don’t see a black horse coming in first.”

“I believe him. Besides, what’s the fun in betting at all if you’re not willing to make a gamble?” Allan handed his list over to Stephen and leaned back comfortably.

After Stephen was gone again, Geoffrey leaned over me towards Allan, looking peeved. “Al, you always have to make a statement. Don’t you know the third race is the highest-grossing run? You’re going to go under for certain.”

“I can’t help it if you never think for yourself, Geoff,” Allan replied.

“But Steve is the expert! I don’t think he’s ever bet wrong on a horse. And his own horses are top-notch. You’d be amazed, Mr. Baptiste,” he said to me, “at the dedication Stephen has for his own steeds. They must be the best-cared-for horses in England.”

“And the most pampered,” Allan added. “I think Steve treats his horses better than he treats his women.”

“Not so,” Geoffrey countered, jumping to his elder brother’s defense. “I can think of a certain blonde that he treats pretty damn well….”

“Ah, blondes! Who doesn’t love blondes?” Allan leaned back, his hands behind his head, and smiled.

I generally preferred brunettes; however, I didn’t voice my opinion on the matter.

“Redheads are nice,” Geoffrey mused. “My last girl was a redhead.”

“Right! Alicia Hamilton, was it? That was last year, during Christmas at Maverly! What a laugh that was!”

“Yes, well, I don’t remember Steve finding it very funny,” Geoffrey said. “You know how he feels about his horses.”

Allan just laughed. “Stephen has a strict rule that no one rides his prize runners,” he said. “Now I normally assume he is referring primarily to Geoff, whose weight would no doubt break the spine of a slender Arabian. So I occasionally treat myself to a fast run on Steve’s horses. It’s terrible fun.”

“It was terribly obnoxious of you to show off for your lady by riding Stephen’s prize stallion all around the corral.”

“You’re just jealous.”

“Why the hell would I be jealous? You were so bloody tight you fell off and broke your arm!”

“Yes, wasn’t that the funniest thing? Once I regained consciousness, I couldn’t stop laughing—”

“All right, enough bickering,” Stephen said, returning and sitting down. “Save your breath to cheer on your horses.”

I stayed silent, but wide-eyed and nervous. What on earth was I doing here? The Fairfaxes seemed to divide their time between bickering childishly and questioning me with the intensity of Scotland Yard. I had heard enough silly stories to convince me that these young men seriously needed to grow up some, but I realized that I knew next to nothing about them personally. And I needed to learn whether Stephen was the man intended as Helene’s guardian.

The three brothers were leaning over the rail, shouting and swearing in turn with the rest of the boisterous crowd. I stood up after a while and watched the sweat-bathed horses thunder down the track over and again, as their jockeys swatted them with the crop. Misère was glad he was not a beast of burden. I reminded him good-naturedly that some birds were made to work, and that he was fortunate to be such a spoiled young raven.

Phantom cleared the first race, and in the second run Might and Power left his rivals in the dust, much to the joy of Stephen, Geoffrey, and Allan. While we waited for the third race to begin, I intended to ask Stephen some questions of my own; but Allan got to me first.

“So where do you live? Your tricks get you a good living?”

“I live pretty well. So you don’t spend much time in England?” I asked, changing the subject.

“Not at all. We love to travel. We were in Austria just this summer.”

“Really? What brought you back?”

“Stephen’s sponsoring, mostly. A visit to our father.”

“Your fiancée, perhaps?”

“She was with us in Vienna,” Allan replied, smiling.

“What about your brother Stephen’s lady friend? The blonde Mr. Geoffrey was talking about.”

Allan laughed, glancing down and fiddling with his cuff links. “Which one? He always has some different girl.”

I nodded slowly. “I see.”

“Do you travel?”

“I’ve no need to.”

“Don’t you have any family whatsoever?”

“I’ve a mother living in Italy—besides that, no. But your parents are living? Are they both…witches?” I asked.

“Oh, certainly—though, our mother is dead some ten years.”

I tried to look casual as I stared out over the racetrack. “Are you familiar with many other witches? As I told you, I know no one besides myself.”

Allan opened his mouth as if to reply, then glanced suddenly down at his breast pocket. Azrael’s tiny, spiky head poked out and gave Allan a long, meaningful look. All traces of openness immediately disappeared from Allan’s face, and he gazed coolly out over the track. “Not particularly. We’re not very important in the witching government, you see. We’re not involved generally—not being extremely powerful, as some others are, I suppose.”

I sat back, disappointed. Not because I didn’t think they were connected, somehow, to Helene’s guardian—I still believed they were—but because there was no reason any of them should trust me with information. And I couldn’t trust them enough to tell them anything. It was a complete and utter impasse.

“The third race is about to start,” Geoffrey said presently. “Let’s see how your foresight serves Al, Lucien. I for one shall have a laugh if Blue falls behind, as expected.”

I shrugged and leaned on my elbows upon the railing, my eyes on the gates. A pistol shot went off, and the horses broke out in a line before some began to come forward, and others to lag behind. As I knew would happen, Bohemian Black was at the front the first time around the track, her jockey going at her flanks with his whip as if riding for his life. Blue Morning was hard to see, small and hidden among the others, neither in front nor too far behind.

“Blue’s not a bad runner,” I heard Stephen commenting. “But he’s inexperienced next to Bohemian. I wonder—now, what’s up with her hind leg?”

Bohemian Black had limped ever so slightly for a moment, so fast that it was barely noticeable; but the look on her jockey’s face betrayed some mistake, and he doubled his efforts with the whip. Meanwhile, Blue Morning was slowly but steadily making his way ahead of his rivals.

Suddenly, Bohemian Black stumbled. Her hind leg turned under near the hoof and brought the whole animal crashing down onto her side. The crowd gasped once and gasped even harder when Blue Morning burst through the cloud of dust Bohemian had brought up, streaking past the finish line in a misty grey blur.

“I don’t believe it!” Geoffrey cried.

“Bohemian had a gimpy leg!” Stephen said, smacking himself in the forehead. “Why didn’t I see that? And that new jockey was riding her like a machine, not an animal. She might have made second if it weren’t for that fool of a rider.”

Misère cawed proudly as Allan clapped me on the back. “My first win against Steve’s advice! Thanks, chap.”

“You’re very welcome,” I said.

“That is a gift, Mr. Baptiste,” Stephen said seriously, walking over and shaking my hand. “Pity you don’t have a coven. In that case your powers would be tripled.”

“I am afraid I shall continue to do without.”

“There are many who would find power like yours threatening.”

I laughed, though Misère shuddered. “I seriously doubt, Mr. Fairfax, that I would ever be considered a threat to anyone.”

“I agree,” said Geoffrey amicably.

We left the pavilion as the sun was beginning to set, shedding golden light on the sand and the backs of the steaming horses. Stephen and Geoffrey went up to the registry to collect their winnings, but Allan stayed behind with me a moment.

“Lucien. Thanks so much. That was very gentlemanly of you to help me out with Blue Morning.”

“Not a problem.”

Allan nodded, clapping me on my shoulder again as we walked out towards the carriage. “You’re a good man. Really, it’s a damn shame, it really is.”

That last part was said in a disappointed huff, barely audible. I was too stunned to ask what he meant. Misère, easily ruffled, was angrily demanding an explanation in my head. It could have meant anything, certainly, but nothing good, he declared.

The ride back to London was spent just as most of the day had been—useless talk, silly bickering, a lot of strange, prying questions that I was forced to lie my way out of. It seemed that every truthful answer that presented itself to me had something to do with Helene, or the council, or something else incriminating. It was exhausting, and I was glad when I was able to leave them in London Square and hail a cab for home.

“You’ll be at the Penningtons’ ball tomorrow, won’t you?” Stephen asked as I took my leave. “It’s their daughter’s coming out. Plenty of wide-eyed young things who’d be impressed by magic. You shouldn’t miss it.”

He was right. I needed the money very badly. Besides, I’d managed to ward off the Fairfaxes’ unwarranted questions for this long, surely I could hold out for one more night. After that, I was going to begin making a point of avoiding them.

I opened the door of my flat to a lot of noise and the scent of bacon frying in butter. I had never been home this early before. Though it was my own flat, I felt rather like an intruder as I hung up my hat and headed for the kitchen. Once there, I peeked through the doorway, feeling like a boy playing spy.

Helene was standing on a stool by the stove, surrounded by pots and pans that were emitting delicious smells. The rest of the kitchen was covered in dishes and bowls and all kinds of prepared ingredients, except for the chair closest to the door, which was occupied by Tom. Both of them had their backs to me, and Tom was talking loudly above all the sizzling and bubbling. Helene replied every now and then, sounding exasperated but not entirely annoyed. She must have gotten used to him by now.

“I swear, I really will eat anything you make,” Tom announced, pulling bowls and platters about the table and looking inside each curiously, sometimes tasting things he found interesting. “You could put anything in that icebox on a plate and I’ll—well, except kippers. I won’t eat a damn kipper and I don’t care how much familiars love ‘em.” He waved his hand, causing a few measuring spoons on the shelves to dance about. “No kippers, Helene, y’got that?”

Ugh, he was drunk again. I’d figured out little by little that Tom did this every day. I almost felt sorry for Helene.

“Vous mangerez ce que je fais et vous l'aimerez!” Helene said, in a sing-song voice, as she waved her stirring spoon about threateningly.

“Helene, how many times must I tell you—I don’t speak French!” Tom said firmly, before swigging from the whiskey bottle on the table.

Helene placed her hands on her hips, on the surface of her frilly, pale yellow apron. “Then maybe you should learn! I had to learn English so we could talk, even though sometimes you use bad words that even I do not understand—Lucien!” she exclaimed, catching sight of my reflection in the window and turning around. “What are you doing home?”

I walked in, startled and rather awkward for some reason. “I, er, had an early engagement that’s left me free for the evening. Are…are you making supper?”

“Oui! Quiche Lorraine, Emincé de Volaille sauce Roquefort—and for dessert, Crème Caramel!”

I was stricken. It was like having my very own professional French chef. “That’s…lovely,” I said.

Helene nodded and smiled, stirring the quiche filling that was boiling in a pot. Grimoire was standing on her shoulder, wearing a tiny chef’s hat. “I hope you like it! It is my papa’s favorite. I could not find Dijon mustard in the store, but regular mustard mixed with some honey works very—Grimoire!” she cried, as the rat slipped off her shoulder and landed with a splash in the pot of Roquefort sauce.

Grimoire surfaced immediately, coughing, his fur and whiskers plastered with melted cheese. Helene lifted him out with her spoon, giggling.

Tom made a gagging sound, and even I couldn’t help a disgusted shudder. Rats in the food. Now that was something I wouldn’t have counted on with a real chef.

“Do not worry, he is very clean,” Helene assured us. “I give my familiar his bath every day.”

“Blarney gives herself a bath,” Tom declared, as if this were something to be proud of.

“Misère always—why am I talking about this? Tom, why on earth are you at the liquor already? Isn’t a little early to be drinking?”

“Look, I’m not one of your blue-blood cronies with his evening gin-and-tonic,” Tom scoffed. He held out the whiskey bottle to me. “Why don’t you have a go? Might help you some. I think your corset’s laced too tight.”

“Even if I did want some, Thomas, which I do not, I wouldn’t want to guzzle directly from the bottle like a drunkard. Especially not a bottle that your mouth’s been all over,” I replied.

Tom responded by tossing down another gulp of whiskey. Blarney, whom all this did not seem to bother at all, purred and slunk around his shoulders.

“Ugh. I thought familiars were supposed to have all your best interests at heart?” I shook my head and crossed over to the stove. Misère fluttered off my shoulder to the icebox, assuring me that he would only ever let me do things he knew I really wished to do.

“Do not open that pot,” Helene said, her back to me as she flipped over the bacon. “It needs to boil properly.”

“Beg your pardon, but it’s my stove,” I said. I lifted the pot lid to take a taste, but Helene shooed me away with her grease-laden spatula. I backed off swiftly to save my clothes.

“What did I say?” Helene scolded. She waved her spoon at Tom. “No one ever listens to me! I told him not to touch the caramel, and he has not stopped tasting it for one moment. There is hardly any left, I am sure!”

“Not true! There’s plenty left! Plenty!” Tom declared. “I’m practically starved, anyway!”

“Do not touch the buttercream, either!” Helene snapped, and Tom pulled his hand back, muttering curses under his breath. Blarney, however, stepped onto the table and lapped delicately at the cream, rewarded only with delighted smiles from Helene.

“There isn’t going to be a thing in this kitchen that hasn’t been touched by some animal,” I lamented.

Eyeing me harshly, Helene pulled a long black feather out of her Roquefort sauce.

“Ah. I see your point…somewhat.” I stood by the table behind her, looking with interest at all the tempting foodstuffs sitting there.

Tom saw me and laughed. “Don’t even think about it, Luce. She’ll catch you. Me, I’m too quick.” He reached to dip his finger in the caramel just as I tried to steal a pinch of vanilla sugar.

“J’ai dit de ne pas toucher!” Helene’s shout was followed by what looked for a moment like a snowy explosion. Everything went white, and settled to reveal that a bag of flour on the table had simply blown up all over the kitchen. Only in a circle around Helene and Grimoire was there no flour to be seen.

“Blasted kid!” Tom said, sneezing and sending more flour everywhere. He looked like the ghost of Hamlet’s father in a performance I had seen once. I did too, I was sure.

“Helene, that really wasn’t necessary!” I declared firmly.

“Non? You must respect the cook. That is what Maman always says.” Helene went back to stirring her sauce, calm as anything.

I decided to humor the child and quit the kitchen till supper was ready. Then, after properly thanking her, I left her to endure Tom’s endless drunken talk while I ate in my room. Every now and then I could hear Helene’s irritated French muttering.

“Ah, Misère,” I said, leaning back in my desk chair and scratching his little head. “Nothing will ever make me happier than for it to be just you and me once again.”

Grace Pennington, fifteen years of age, was the best guest of honor I’d had the pleasure of entertaining in a very long time. There were no spoiled-brat showdowns, no envy-inspired screaming matches with any of her friends. She was a nice little girl and I had a nice little show going when I spotted Lady Willoughby across the room.

Anabelle was talking to Stephen Fairfax again. This time, however, she was smiling as she spoke, fanning herself with her favorite black lace fan. I had known enough ladies to be able to decipher her movements fairly easily. As I watched, she laughed and playfully tugged his watch chain.

I was so shocked that the peppermints I was levitating dropped from the air in a shower over the squealing girls.

“She has the right to flirt with whomever she wishes,” I said quietly to Misère. “Everyone, that is, except him. I don’t trust that man.” Truthfully, I’d thought she was smarter than that. Stephen Fairfax would not treat her as she was used to being treated, that was for certain.

As soon as I was through with the girls, I made my way over to Stephen and Anabelle—but not too quickly. I acted as though I’d come upon them quite by accident. “Why, hello, Mr. Fairfax. And Lady Willoughby, what a pleasant surprise.”

“Mr. Baptiste,” Anabelle said, in a tone so cold I could have sworn icicles formed on the ceiling. So she was still angry with me, was that it?

“I haven’t seen you around lately,” I said very sweetly. “I missed you the other night at the—”

“That’s all very interesting, Mr. Baptiste, but if you’ll excuse me, Mr. Fairfax was just telling me about his house in Tuscany,” Anabelle interrupted, her voice deceptively smooth. “He’s been to Italia countless times, did you know that?”

I narrowed my eyes and glanced up at Stephen, who was smiling amusedly.

“Good evening, Mr. Baptiste,” Stephen said politely. “How was your magic show?”

“Splendid,” I said. “Absolutely perfect. May I speak to Lady Willoughby a moment, please? Alone.”

“Certainly.” Stephen bowed and walked away, leaving me to take Anabelle aside and stare her down.

“What’s with all this, then?”

“Whatever are you talking about, Mr. Baptiste?”

“You hardly know this-this Fairfax chap.”

“Driven you to use slang, has it?”

I shook my head. “What are you talking about? Are you still cross with me?” Anabelle rolled her eyes and tried to walk off, but I caught her arm. “Wait a moment. I want to fix this problem. Don’t you want to be friends?”

She pursed her lips, which I didn’t expect, and looked aside. “Not particularly, no.”

“What does that mean?”

“It means perhaps I’d like to enjoy someone else’s company for a change, Lucien. You’re not the only attractive man in the world, you know!” she said, laughing.

“Stephen Fairfax is not a good man,” I said.

“And you are?” Anabelle demanded, still smiling. “That is a fine joke. What’s the difference? He is handsome, charming, and well-connected.”

“I thought you looked beyond those things,” I said.

“Why should I? You don’t. Besides, he’s very attentive to me.”

“I…am extremely attentive,” I said defensively.

“Attentive doesn’t mean always wanting to sleep with me,” Anabelle growled in a tone I’d never heard her use before.

“Anabelle,” I whispered tersely, looking around. “Language.”

“Lo ho avuto! Non desidero essere amici. Lascilo solo.” She yanked her arm away roughly and stormed off, just as she’d done last time. I wasn’t even sure what had just happened, since my Italian was not that good, but it rankled me nevertheless.

Worst of all, I no longer felt like talking to a single lady. As usual, when my mood was tampered with, I only wished to be alone and eat as many sweets as I could fit into my mouth. A rather childish tendency, I freely admit, as well as one I could not indulge in public. I walked around some, avoiding conversation, and was moodily staring down into a glass of red wine when Geoffrey Fairfax found me.

“Mr. Baptiste, are you finished with your work?” he asked seriously. “We are playing whist and we need a fourth. So far it’s only Allan, myself, and Horace Pennington.”

“I suppose, as in all things, there is no way to refuse a Fairfax,” I said, rather venomously. “Count me in, then.”

Something was not right in the world. I stared at my opponents as we played, and the only person who seemed not to feel odd was Mr. Pennington, Grace’s rather thick older brother.

“Lead, Mr. Baptiste,” Geoffrey said after dealing. “I want to get through a hand at least before the night is over.”

I did as I was told. Allan was my partner in the game, but he didn’t seem himself, quietly smoking instead of talking everyone to death. I tried to ignore him, then. I played without a word and trumped Geoffrey and Pennington in the first ten tricks.

Geoffrey was frowning. “You know, Mr. Baptiste, being a magician gives you an unfair advantage.”

“I’m not using that to my advantage,” I said. “I never do. I always play honorably.”

“That does not explain your luck,” Allan said suddenly, resting his chin in his hand and not looking at me. “I wouldn’t waste it, if I were you.”

I couldn’t help it. Every time Geoffrey or anybody else chose a card from his hand, it was as if the bloody piece of paper screamed its suit and rank so I knew long beforehand what they were playing. I wasn’t intentionally using my powers, and this hadn’t happened much before. Perhaps Stephen was right, and being in a coven was strengthening my powers.

Allan and I won the game by a grand slam, due to no merit of his, and Geoffrey looked as if his last shred of patience had been spent. He shook his head and stood up to go, Allan following suit. “Goodnight, Lucien Baptiste,” he said. “I am very much relieved now. Finally. And I’ll have you know I don’t feel the least bit badly about it.”

“What?” I said, staring at him.

Allan bowed. “See you soon, Lucien. A shame, as I said. It isn’t personal, just so you know.”

Misère wanted to go home. I did too, for once. Anything to get away from the Fairfaxes and their cryptic attitudes. I didn’t even bother looking for Anabelle or any other lady to go home with. Something was bothering me and I wouldn’t feel safe until I was back home in my flat.

I hurriedly made my way to the door and was shrugging into my overcoat as quickly as possible when I felt a hand on my shoulder. My sense of foreboding became so intense that I could not repress a resigned sigh as I turned around, coming face-to-cravat with the imposing figure of Stephen Fairfax.

“Heading home, Mr. Baptiste?” he asked.

“I was hoping to do so, yes,” I replied, my hand already on the door handle.

“Please, wait one moment while I get my things. I wish to accompany you out. I’ve something to discuss with you.”

Reluctantly, I stood there as he put on his coat and hat and proceeded to escort me out the door. It was a clear night, brisk and cold, but not altogether uncomfortable.

“If we could speak in private?” Stephen said, still polite as ever, gesturing to the dark lane between the Pennington mansion and the next house. The alley was straight and narrow, beneath ivy-covered stone arches that were now hidden in a mass of bare twigs.

Misère balked and I stopped still. “Whatever you have to say, you can say out here in the open, Mr. Fairfax,” I said.

“Oh, I doubt that,” he remarked coolly. “One cannot be too careful when speaking of the plight of Helene Prideux.”

I felt my blood run cold; fortunately it was dark and Stephen could not have seen the way my face blanched. “Whom?” I said after a moment.

“I think you know, Mr. Baptiste.” With that, all pretense was dropped, and Stephen grabbed me roughly by the shoulder and pushed me into the alley. Surprised, I edged away against the wall. Stephen stood in front of me, blocking the exit. “You see, here is what I know about you. You were on the premises when Thomas MacKenna aroused the suspicion of the Dawkins coven for the second time. You refused information then, and MacKenna has been nowhere to be found since. We’ve reason to believe he has the little girl with him. That’s where you come in.”

“What are you talking about? What little girl?” I demanded. “As for Tom MacKenna, I can tell you right now that you’re wasting your time. When those maniacs cornered us in that alley, I had just discovered MacKenna burglarizing a house. Your ‘Dawkins’ coven stabbed him dead right there in front of me.”

Stephen’s green eyes narrowed. “MacKenna’s dead?”

“Yes!”

His punch came so fast and hard that I didn’t even realize what had happened, until I tasted blood and pain came shooting up my jaw. “Augh! What the hell—!” I blinked hard and gingerly touched my chin, staring at Stephen in stunned anger.

“I’m going to ask you again, and this time I’d prefer not to be lied to,” Stephen said darkly, taking off his hat, gloves, overcoat, and jacket and tossing them aside. “Where is Tom MacKenna?”

“Dead,” I said, spitting out blood.

“Where is Helene Prideux?”

“I don’t know who that is.”

“You’re a damned liar, Lucien Baptiste.” Stephen swung at me again, but I knew what to expect this time and ducked out of the way. That didn’t stop him, however; he was fast as well as considerably stronger than I. The second time I tried to evade him, he grabbed my collar with his left hand and delivered a shot to my face with his right. My nose didn’t break, thank God, but blood rushed out of it so fast that for a moment I couldn’t breathe. “Now you’re going to answer both those questions, sir, with the truth. Or I am going to beat it out of you.”

I stared at him, shocked at this sudden thuggishness. It didn’t seem that this behavior was suited to his breeding whatsoever. Just as it occurred to me to wonder about the other two, the alley entrance was once again blocked by Fairfax bulk, and Geoffrey and Allan appeared beside their brother.

Misère was fluttering wildly back and forth in the alley, making a lot of noise but expressly forbidden by me to take any part in this skirmish. I didn’t want him injured. I was frightened, though, especially when Geoffrey took off his coat and Allan approached, rolling up the sleeves of his dress shirt. “How’s it going, Steve?” he asked casually.

“I’ve barely got started,” Stephen replied, as though they were talking about a game of cricket. “Though it shouldn’t take long to break him.”

“Break what—his nerve or his spine?” Geoffrey said with a laugh. “Come on, let me have a go. I’ve been dying for this.”

“Oi! I go first and you know it!” Allan peered at my face as Stephen held me against the wall. “Hello there, Lucien. Now how about you be a good boy and tell us where the brat is. MacKenna too, along with the box. Are you hiding them?”

“I don’t know…what…you’re…talking about!” I shouted, struggling against Stephen’s stone grip. “Merde, when will you people get the picture?”

Allan shook his head and punched me twice in the ribs, before bringing his knee up into my stomach. The only thing that kept me from collapsing on the ground was Stephen’s hands pinning my shoulders to the wall. Allan lifted my face up to look at him. “Sorry, wrong answer,” he said sadly.

Stephen laughed and dropped me; I held myself up against the wall just barely, my legs quivering from the pain.

Geoffrey was next; he knocked me to my knees with one punch and then kicked me in my already badly bruised ribs. “Now I’ll ask you again,” he said. “What do you know about Helene Prideux?”

I gasped painfully, bringing myself shakily to my hands and knees. “I know…she is someone…that you and that other godforsaken coven…are looking for,” I replied. “You’re also looking for Tom…MacKenna…who’s dead. And some kind of…of box.”

“Good boy, you’ve remembered our questions,” Geoffrey barked, delivering another kick to the ribs that knocked me back against the wall. I tried not to flinch, but I’d never been used to this sort of treatment. Allan yanked me to my feet and threw me against Stephen, who held me up, my arms back, as if I were even capable of defending myself.

Allan looked me over, disappointed. “Aw, Steve, it’s no fun when they don’t fight back.”

“True. Here, then.” Stephen shoved me forward, and I managed to stay on my feet, though every breath brought pain to my ribs and blood trickling out of my nose. I barely had time to steady myself before one punch from Allan sent me reeling backwards. Stephen caught me, shaking his head. “I don’t think you’re getting much action from this one, Al.”

I had to get away. Otherwise these men might kill me. I couldn’t fight them, I didn’t know how. My only hope lay in escape, but even that seemed impossible. I shook my head in a vain attempt to clear it. “Three against one…how is this a fair fight?” I demanded.

“This isn’t a fight,” Stephen explained patiently.

“It’s an interrogation,” Geoffrey added.

“Those are never fair,” Allan concluded.

I nodded, leaning over and spitting blood on the ground. “Are you…going to…kill me?” I asked.

The Fairfaxes looked at one another, then Stephen relaxed his grip on me. “Not at all, Lucien. Don’t you worry. What would be the purpose in that? We can see that you will not answer our questions when we threaten to hurt you. Our only other option is to hurt you so thoroughly that you’ll have to answer our questions.”

“Exhaustion is a good incentive,” Allan said cheerfully. He turned to Geoffrey and bowed. “Another shot, dear brother?”

“Absolutely,” Geoffrey said, rolling up his sleeves as well. He advanced on me as Stephen’s grip on my shoulders increased.

I felt the carriage stop suddenly when my body lurched forward and Allan caught me by the back of the collar. “We’ve arrived, Lucien. How do you feel? Up for a swim?” He kicked open the door of the coach and threw me out onto the cold cobblestones. The hard ground only bruised parts that were already thrice-bruised by Fairfax muscle. I tried to stand, but couldn’t get up the strength.

Presently Stephen came around the coach and yanked me up by the collar, pulling me to my feet and dragging me along. “Come on, Lucien. Chin up, put a little muscle into it. You’re not as injured as you look, believe me.”

“And we didn’t harm your chances of producing little Luciens someday, either,” Allan said encouragingly. “So if you ask me, you’re getting away scot-free.”

I managed to raise my head a bit, realizing with a start that we were on London Bridge. Allan and Geoffrey were both leaning against the railing as Stephen dragged me forward.

“Here you are. Now stand like a man while we give you one final sporting chance,” said Stephen, shoving me back against the rail. My legs gave out but I was able to clutch the rail to hold myself up.

“Lucien! For pity’s sake, man. Stand up,” Geoffrey scolded.

I scowled at him. “In case…you…haven’t noticed, I’m…not in the best of….” I nearly collapsed again, but Allan caught me.

Stephen stood before me, holding Misère in his arms and stroking his feathers. Misère was shaking. I could almost hear his little heart pounding in his breast, and my own heartbeat sped up. “G-Give him to me,” I said, fear choking my voice.

“Lucien Baptiste! I’m ashamed of you, that you would think a warlock capable of harming another’s familiar,” Stephen said. He dropped Misère into my arms, where I clutched him close to my chest. “Now. For the last time. What do you know?” He crossed his big arms, staring at me harshly. His hair had fallen across his forehead during the evening’s violence; I could feel mine clinging to the sweat trickling down my face.

I looked at Allan, who was regarding me expectantly, as if willing me to break at any moment; and at Geoffrey, who looked ready to finish me off. I thought of Helene, and even Tom, and realized that I didn’t want these men anywhere near my coven. Even a terribly ill-matched coven that didn’t like one another.

“Nothing that you want or need,” I said wearily. “Now, if you’re going to…kill me…then get it over with.”

“Lucien, Lucien.” Allan shook his head, then very suddenly and roughly grabbed my neck and forced me to look over the edge. “Do you see that water?” he growled, his husky voice dangerous. “It is cold. And deep. If you don’t die, it’d be a miracle.” He pressed me against the railing till it was painful. “Think very carefully. We don’t want to have to kill you, Lucien.”

Stephen appeared on my other side. “We’ve been all too forgiving already, Lucien. Once more, now…where is Helene?”

“I don’t know!”

The next moment, I was plummeting towards the choppy water. Misère flew from my arms by instinct, cawing in my ears and yelling in my head, terrified for me. I tried not to panic; I shut my eyes and made my body taut, hoping to be able to hover as I’d done before. Yet I knew I’d only be able to do it for a moment. My fall slowed, then came to a brief halt inches above the churning river. Misère cawed again, my concentration broke, and I fell with a splash into the Thames.

The cold immediately numbed the pain all over my body. I floundered a moment, swallowing foul-tasting water, then came to the surface with a gasp. I needed to tread water to stay up, but only one thing was on my mind. “Misère! Damn it, where are you? Misère!”

He was circling above me. I felt his rush of relief when he spotted me, but I waved him off when he tried to come down. “No!” I sputtered. “Don’t get your wings wet! Which way do I swim?” My face submerged for a second; water rushed up my nose. I could taste the saltiness of my blood washing out of it.

Misère told me what to do, flapping his wings and flying ahead so I could follow him. I hadn’t swum in years, but I was able to keep my head up and move in Misère’s direction. After about ten minutes, I didn’t seem any closer to the shore and my body was beginning to freeze. I pushed my aching legs harder, keeping my eyes on the black shadow in the sky above me.

Thank God I had not mentioned Helene. The Fairfaxes worked for the council, there was no doubt about that. In spite of everything I could not believe that I’d held my tongue. I had not told them about Helene, or Tom, or anything. I couldn’t decide exactly why. Certainly, it was the right thing to do, and all that nonsense; but I generally avoided making decisions based solely on morality. Especially when the right thing to do involved enduring repeated blows to the face. Yet I’d done it, and was now swimming for my life, cold and in pain, in the Thames River in the dead of night.

Twenty minutes, then half an hour. My muscles were burning in spite of the cold, and began shaking uncontrollably as soon as I felt sticky mud beneath my knees. I crawled the rest of the way and collapsed, gasping for air, as soon as I reached the garbage-laden shore. Misère landed next to my head, poking my hair and face worriedly with his beak. I closed my eyes and concentrated on catching my breath.

“I’m not going to tell Tom and Helene anything,” I said hoarsely after a moment. “They’ll forbid me from leaving the house, and God knows we’ll all starve if I let that happen. But I will have to be more careful from now on…ouch! Yes, there’s no doubt about that,” I added, rubbing my shoulder painfully. I sat up on my knees and looked around. I needed to climb up the bank and head toward home, through a dark city that was not much warmer than the river.

I must have looked a sight. Soaked to the skin with water and mud, I dragged my feet through the alleys and lanes, Misère fluttering beside me so as not to burden me with his weight. London had never seemed so damned big. It occurred to me to hail a cab, but a quick inspection proved that I had indeed left my wallet in my jacket pocket, and I had lost jacket, overcoat, and most other accessories in the evening’s turmoil. Only my watch was still feebly ticking in my breast pocket; even if I’d wanted to sell it, it wouldn’t have fetched much.

Somehow, I made it home alive. Shaking all over, my teeth chattering, I used magic to open the door of my flat, and trudged in. The flat was so warm and quiet, except for Tom’s snoring, and the gentle light of the hallway lamp flickered invitingly. I couldn’t believe what I’d just been through. I wanted to forget it had ever happened.

Misère said I should have a hot bath and tea, or else I might catch cold, but I shook my head. “No. I am half-dead. I must go to b-bed…I’m exhausted…besides I’ve had…enough water for one day, thank you v-very much….” I pushed open the door to my room and Misère followed me inside.

I stopped before the wardrobe mirror and kicked off my water-logged shoes. “Goodness, look at me. I c-can’t even…I look like…I need t-t-to get to sleep.” My clothes were clinging to me, dripping, and my hair was plastered to my face. My entire left side was caked with mud.

I peeled off my wet clothes and wiped my face clean, moving gingerly so as not to aggravate my injuries. As I’d thought, my ribcage and stomach were a mess of bruises. My face didn’t look so splendid either; I could still taste the blood from a cut lip. I turned away in disgust and stumbled into bed after putting on a dry pair of trousers.

Misère climbed in with me, nudging me with his head. He was such a worrywart. He thought I was going to be ill.

“D-don’t be bloody silly. I’m f-fine…just cold…damn these ch-chills,” I muttered, burrowing down in my blankets and curling my aching body into a ball. “Let’s hope I can g-get to sleep…if I can’t I’ll…I’ll….” My eyes fell closed and I drifted off, still shivering.

Glossary:
Italia - (Italian) Italy
J’ai dit de ne pas toucher - (French) I said not to touch
Lo ho avuto! Non desidero essere amici. Lascilo solo - (Italian) I have had it! I don't want to be friends. Leave me alone
Merde - (French) Sh*t
Non - (French) No
Oui - (French) Yes
Vous mangerez ce que je fais et vous l'aimerez - (French) You will eat what I make and you will like it

Crème Caramel - French caramel custard
Emincé de Volaille sauce Roquefort - French chicken fillet dish with Roquefort cheese sauce
Quiche Lorraine - French egg dish with bacon and Swiss cheese

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