“In that case,” Isla said, “if I can’t heal the masses, then I’d like someone to teach me how to heal the one. I could have helped your burns.” She gave Andrew a small grateful smile. Hiseyes warmed and he looked pleased, like her smile affected him. Time to change direction; this was making her feel funny things. She wrinkled her nose at the sharp tang of disinfectant lingering in the hospital wing air. “And perhaps also how to defend myself—so I don’t end up back here again.”
That did the trick. Andrew’s mouth tightened, his eyes turning harder, his voice lower than usual. “You shouldn’t have to defend yourself at all.” The worry in his tone tugged at her more than she wanted to admit.
A smirk lifted the side of her mouth, hoping to ease his worry. “Well, if you can throw ice like a snowstorm, I don’t see why I can’t train a few vines to ... say, hang them by their ankles for a spell.”
Andrew groaned, but she enjoyed the look of his blue eyes dancing with humor instead of worry and anger as he looked at her.
Juliette practically bounced on the edge of her seat. “Oh, it will be glorious! Think of it—training, powers, secret missions. We’ll be legends before long.”
Edmund gave a grunt, rubbing a hand over his jaw. “Legends ... saints preserve me. What have I gotten myself into?”
Isla couldn’t help the small smile that tugged at her lips. Three very different reactions, yet somehow, they made her feel less alone.
Chapter Twelve
October 29th
Major Arthur Ellison paused at the foot of the steps, rain trickling off the brim of his hat. The great house loomed above him, its windows glinting faintly in the dull light, watchful—reserved. He drew in a breath that smelled faintly of wet stone and wood smoke before mounting the final step. The brass knocker, cold even through his glove, was shaped like a lion’s head; he lifted it and struck twice, paused, then knocked once more—the proper rhythm.
The sound echoed inward, deep and deliberate, as though the house were swallowing it whole. Arthur straightened, habit pulling his shoulders square, his boots aligned just so upon the stone. For a moment, there was nothing but the sigh of the wind through the stand of yew trees on the grounds, and then—footsteps. Steady, unhurried, and precise. The door opened to reveal Mr. Hargreaves, the butler, immaculate in black and starched white, his expression one of practiced direction.
“Good afternoon, Major Ellison,” he said, inclining his head just enough to acknowledge both rank and familiarity.
Arthur removed his hat. “Good afternoon, Hargreaves. Her ladyship is expecting me.”
“Indeed, sir.” The butler stepped aside and Arthur crossed the threshold.
The entrance hall announced old money. Black and white marble tiles stretched out in a perfect checkered pattern beneatharching ceilings where the family crest had been painted in fading gilt. Oak paneling gleamed under the soft glow of wall sconces, each light filtered through amber glass.
The air held the faint scent of beeswax, and along one wall stood a mahogany table laden with silver frames and a crystal bowl of hothouse roses. An indulgence during wartime Britain. Hargreaves led him past a sweeping staircase with a polished banister and a deep burgundy runner before leaving him in the drawing room to announce his arrival.
Arthur exhaled, loosening his collar. Lady Beatrice Hatherleigh was not going to like the news he had brought. He let his gaze wander across the room: pale damask walls, high ceilings, heavy brocade curtains framing the tall windows that overlooked the rain-soaked lawns. Everything whispered of privilege and permanence—the sort of life untouched by ration books or fear. His own wealth almost matched that of her ladyship, though he chose to store it away. For now.
A fire burned beneath the marble hearth, its warmth creeping into his tired bones. On the far wall hung an ancestor of her ladyship in military dress, the same moss green he wore now. The painted eyes followed him—cool, appraising.
Arthur shifted his weight, uncertain whether the man in the portrait judged him or saluted him. Either way, he found no comfort in the gaze. The room was too quiet, the fire too loud. He straightened his cuffs, schooling his face into its usual composure. Whatever conscience stirred beneath his uniform, it had no business showing here.
He opened his hand—lightning crackled across his knuckles, jumping from one to the next like a trick he’d once seen his father do with a coin.
A rhythmic tapping echoed on the other side of the door.Tap ... tap ... tap.Slow. Unhurried. It came closer, each strike of wood against stone echoing through the corridor until it reached the door. He straightened instinctively, pulse tightening in his throat. The tapping stopped just on the other side, followed by the soft creak of the handle turning.
The door swung slowly inward, and the scent of violets drifted into the room. Lady Beatrice Hatherleigh moved with grace, her walking stick striking the marble with each step, a steady metronome of control. Shadows clung to her like attendants. Her eyes snagged on his. They gleamed—a pale, clouded blue that missed nothing. She paused at the threshold, the faintest smile curving her lips.
“Major Ellison,” she said, her voice sharp beneath the frailty. “How very punctual. Let us see what storm you’ve brought to my door.”
Lady Beatrice entered the room more fully and lowered herself gracefully into the nearest armchair, the stick resting against her knee, just as a maid brought a tea tray in. This maid didn’t react to the darkness that surrounded her mistress, clearly accustomed to her Aetherian employer’s unusual appearance.
“Do sit down, Major. You look as though London has been gnawing at you again.”
Arthur offered a wry half smile as he took the seat opposite. “The city has teeth, my lady, but I’ve learned how to keep most of my fingers.”
She regarded him over the rim of a fine teacup the maid had placed in her hands—a dainty rose pattern, all softness and civility. She held herself with poise, the way any proper English noble would, yet the illusion faltered as thin wisps of smoke curled from her fingertips, coiling languidly around theporcelain. They traced the rim in a slow, intentional circle, dark tendrils flickering before fading into nothing. It was a careless display; most Aetherians would have hidden such a show.
“How are things at the War Office? I heard rumors they were reorganizing the intelligence branches. Dreadful business—all that paperwork.”
“Reorganization,” Arthur said, “is what the government bureaucrats call it when they want to make the same mistakes with new stationery.”
A soft laugh escaped her—low, indulgent, but not kind. “Tell me, are you still managing your presence with the Home Defense, rooting out subversives in the countryside and finding spies in every hedge and barn with your other duties?”
