She pushed him out and shut the door—only to open it again and drag Juliette inside to help, leaving Andrew to laugh loudly in the hall.
“Okay, Lady Leafington,” Juliette said, putting on her best aristocratic voice, full of mock superiority. “Let’s get you some clothes.”
Isla looked around, wondering how they were going to manage such a feat.
“Keep calm and carry on, Isla. We shall fight the wardrobe, we shall battle through the dresser, we shall not falter at the bookshelf jungle, and we shall never surrender—never—until we find you a clean blouse!”
Chapter Five
Lady Beatrice Hatherleigh stirred her morning tea with deliberate grace, the soft clink of silver on porcelain echoing through the quiet of her study. Sunlight filtered through lace curtains. She lifted the cup to her lips, took a sip—then frowned delicately. Cold. How she despised cold tea. And it was the young footman’s fault before her. The saying “Don’t shoot the messenger” was one with which she did not agree.
This country was not built on the weak or the stupid. Britain had not ruled seas and empires by indulging incompetence; it had been forged by resolve—by those willing to do what others would not. This man, she had noticed during his time under her employ, did not follow her instructions precisely. He was not supposed to bring notes to her directly. Especially not during breakfast, and not when she was in her private study. He was also showing far too much interest in her business affairs.
Before the man in front of her could even blink, Lady Beatrice lifted one elegant, wrinkled hand. A bolt of fire burst forth, striking him squarely in the chest. He slumped to the floor without so much as a gasp. She was merciful, after all.
Unruffled, she lifted her china cup and held it as a commoner might—being made to wait for her morning tea was inexcusable. Her palms glowed faintly, the porcelain warming beneath her touch, until steam rose once more. She then heldthe teacup the way one should once more. When she took another sip, it was perfect—just the way she liked it.
“Hargreaves,” she called.
Her butler appeared promptly, as she knew he would. “You called, my lady?”
“Please take the body away.”
He bowed his head stoically and, with a practiced motion, summoned moisture, which gathered beneath the body. He froze it in an instant, then used sublimation enhancement so effervescent that it pushed the ice off the ground. The body rose on the icy platform.
Lady Beatrice watched with quiet appreciation. She had always admired Hargreaves’s precision—so clean, so efficient.
Silently, her butler left with the body. It was a shame footmen were hard to come by in the current climate with the war effort. It couldn’t be helped, though, and with her wealth, she would find a replacement soon enough.
On the desk before her lay the latest report. The ink was still fresh, the message brief.
Professor Isla Cole—alive.
Information—unrecovered.
Despite her displeasure, a smile ghosted over Beatrice’s lips. “So the little scholar survives,” she murmured. “From all I’ve read, I like her.”
She set down her cup and moved a single chess piece across the board that sat beside her correspondence—a black queen gliding forward into open territory. “But every move has its counter,” she whispered to herself.
Patience had always been her virtue, and her weapon. Beatrice would wait, watch the board, and when the moment came, she would control the next move. After all, in business asin war, tactical precision was key. Isla Cole might have escaped this time, but every pawn could be cornered eventually.
Chapter Six
Andrew listened to Isla and Juliette chattering just in front of him, their bicycles rattling over the cobbles as they made their way toward the main campus. In the distance, the rearing stallion atop the roof of the main university building caught his eye, its silhouette framed by the glinting glass dome behind it, sunlight dancing across the historic stonework.
He usually preferred to walk—those quiet stretches gave him time to ponder Bernoulli streamlines over an aerofoil, looking for solutions to increase plane wing attack angle without stalling.
That work had earned him a reserved occupation status, kept him out of the trenches and behind the drawing boards. He knew the theory mattered—knew Spitfires flew better because of minds like his—but that knowledge didn’t always quiet the guilt. The guilt that he wasn’t out there with his fellow countrymen.
This morning, though, even fluid dynamics and wing stress were far from his mind. His gaze scanned the street ahead, then behind. Last night’s attack on Isla frayed his nerves. They needed to find who was behind it. He couldn’t shake the feeling that someone might be watching.
Isla’s question drew Andrew’s attention back to the conversation.
“So ... are Fated couples normal? I mean, if we both have the Sigil mark, does that mean it’s some kind of regular thing?”
He saw Juliette smile, a thoughtful look on her face. “Well ... people find love all the time—love isn’t rare in the world, but beingFatedissomething special. It’s love that feels written on your very soul. But at the same time, it’s not only meant for the main hero and heroine of the book; the side characters deserve that kind of love too.”
Isla smiled at her friend. Juliette definitely lived her life in books.
