“I’ll bet they are,” Viggo muttered darkly.
“There’s more.” Evander’s eyes found the postscript at the bottom of the page. “A report fromNightshade. Finn and Magnus are still in Liverpool. And Tom Simmons—” He paused, relief easing some of the tension in his shoulders. “His condition is stable.”
It was good news, or at least the absence of bad news, which after the past weeks felt like much the same thing.
They rose soon after and departed for the station.
Leon clasped Evander’s shoulder as he prepared to board the train.
“Don’t be a stranger.” His grip tightened briefly. “Whatever comes next, you don’t have to face it alone.”
“Thank you, Leon.” Evander covered his friend’s hand with his own. “Truly. For everything.”
Viggo watched the exchange with an expression that was carefully neutral. His hand found Evander’s when they settled inside their private carriage. He squeezed gently.
Evander squeezed back.
England rosefrom the dark waters of the Channel like an old friend, familiar and dear even under the dreary sky that greeted their ferry.
The white cliffs of Dover had never looked so welcoming.
They caught the train to London and arrived at Charing Cross just as the lamplighters were making their evening rounds. The city wrapped around Evander like a well-worn coat when they stepped out of the station; the particular quality of the fog, the rumble of carriages on cobblestones, the distant chiming of church bells marking the hour.
He was home.
Winterbourne was waiting for them at Scotland Yard despite the late hour. His weathered face betrayed nothing as Evander, Rufus, Fairbridge, and Shaw filed into his office.
Viggo waited outside, Solomon and Ginny having already parted ways with their party at the station.
The commander listened to their report in silence, asking occasional questions but otherwise letting Evander speak uninterrupted. Fairbridge confirmed a few things at Winterbourne’s request, his tone impassive. When it was done, the commander sat back in his chair and steepled his fingers.
“Half the main body of the Codex in our possession,” he said finally. “And the other half in the hands of a dark mage who serves an enemy we’ve yet to identify.”
Evander dipped his chin. “That’s the situation, sir.”
“The Ministry won’t be pleased.”
“The Ministry is rarely pleased,” Evander said evenly. “But we achieved more than anyone expected. We rescued over a dozen prisoners, disrupted a major dark magic operation, andprevented the enemy from obtaining the complete text. Under the circumstances, I’d call it a victory.”
Winterbourne’s lips twitched. “I’m sure Lord Beckett won’t see it the same way.”
“Lord Beckett can go hang himself with his own cravat,” Rufus muttered.
“I’ll lend him the ladder,” Shaw said with a sniff.
“There’s an oak tree in his garden that might serve well,” Fairbridge contributed magnanimously.
Everyone stared at the War Office spy, Winterbourne included.
A bark of laughter escaped the commander before he could suppress it. He schooled his features into a stern expression once more, though an amused glint lingered in his eyes.
“Get some rest. All of you.” Winterbourne’s gaze swept over their group. “You’ve earned it. We’ll continue the debriefings tomorrow.”
They filed out, exhaustion settling over them like a physical weight now that the adrenaline rush of their mission had finally faded.
Rufus departed for his lodgings with a promise to check on Ophelia first thing in the morning. Shaw practically sleepwalked to the waiting carriage that would take her home.
Fairbridge lingered a moment on the steps of Scotland Yard.
