“Luck?” Lady Beatrice’s voice was cold. “Is that what we’re calling the result of incompetence now?” The flames wavered, answering to the tightening of her temper. “Arthur has a point. Thanks to those loose ends, which you should have ensured were taken care of, they did indeed rescue Isla—and in the process we lost two of our best men.”
“I kidnapped her successfully, which wasn’t easy considering she is guarded day and night, and I punished the fools who ran off without killing her friends,” Reggie protested. “If the men left with the professor were so competent,” he continued, “then why didn’t you make Jonathan the fourth member of our leadership? He was a skilled Terra.”
Lady Hatherleigh’s nostrils flared. Arthur was not certainhewould have poked her when she was clearly furious.
“He was too impulsive—brawny but not clever enough, hence the reason he is now dead,” she said. “That is why I wanted the professor, for her mind. It’s a shame she refused. Though Hargreaves did an excellent job extracting memories from her; I do love watching him work. It is hard to find a loyal butler with his skill set. Reading someone’s private memories is no small feat, as you should know, Reggie, and he did a marvelous job.”
Reggie shifted, loosening his tie. He was not a master of reading the personal emotions of others, and Beatrice’s barb had landed, though he pretended otherwise.
“The major is right,” she continued, aware her words stung. “Arthur had to swoop in when those two were killed, using his contacts to ensure the crime could not be traced back to me.” She fixed Arthur with a look. “Though I must say I am not pleased to have had the police sniffing about on my land.”
“I have little sway over the constabulary and the detective running the investigation,” Arthur replied evenly. “The detective was personally attacked and was also part of the rescue, and it would have looked suspicious had I interfered. Your cooperation has, in fact, shifted some focus away from the estate. The flowers sent to Isla were a nice touch.” Beatrice inclined her head regally at the compliment.
“And as for the reason I am late,” Arthur added, “I was at the university library leaving instructions in the book. It was tricky, but I managed it.”
“Very good. Is the underground passage still open to us?”
“It is, and I have Terras at the ready to help access the book through the upper part of the library when needed.”
“Wonderful. It is important we have different ways to access it so we don’t draw any more suspicion. I would hate to move it—after all, it has been there for centuries. Now, about Isla,” Beatrice said, her tone returning to business. “She still needs to be eliminated, per our client’s request. I would also like to see the girl removed after refusing my generous offer; it all feels rather personal now.”
Reginald gave a casual shrug. “We can remedy her escape, my lady.”
“With the police sniffing around, another head-on attack would draw too much attention,” Arthur warned.
Beatrice’s eyes flicked to him, gleaming in the half light. “You can try for subtlety if you wish for now, but my patience runs thin. I would appreciate it if her death didn’t point to me, but I don’t care if they suspect Aetherians. Come the new year, if we have not managed it, well—I am done with waiting, and you, Major, will just have to do what you do best. Cover up any mess we make.”
“We could try for an accident, then,” Reggie supplied. “For now?”
“You can try. I don’t care how it’s done. Accident or not, I expect results,” she replied. The marble table caught her reflection as the light flickered, the flame distorting her features.
Both men inclined their heads in agreement.
“Good.” She rose, walking stick in hand. As they reached the door, she extinguished the hovering lights with a single flick of her fingers and darkness swallowed them whole, leaving only her voice behind. “Then let us proceed ... carefully, but not too carefully.”
She opened the hidden entrance; light flickered on her silver hair as the door opened. “Now I must find Hargreaves. I have a charity event to attend. My guests await me in the drawing room.”
Chapter Twenty-Six
November 5th
Remember, remember the fifth of November ...”
The children’s chant carried through the chilly evening air as Isla and Juliette stood sipping warm tomato soup from tin mugs. The scent of smoke and sweetness from toffee apples mingled with the sharp November cold, the sort that bit at fingers and pinkened noses.
Edmund stood nearby, keeping a watchful eye on the group. He looked entirely out of his depth, his usual composure replaced by mild panic as a pair of small children tugged at his coat hem, demanding help with their sparklers. The man could face armed criminals without flinching, yet a determined six-year-old had him completely undone. He had called them “small-scale insurgents” under his breath earlier, which had nearly made Isla choke on her soup. She had seen the man lift the fallen boy from the ground the day they went into town. It seemed he was okay when he was helping one out of a scrape, but talking to a group of them seemed another thing entirely.
These orphanage children belonged to a part of her life she rarely shared—a part of her that still ached in quiet corners of her heart. She wasn’t ashamed of where she’d come from; she simply didn’t want others to see the pain that still lingered there. It was one thing to face villains, another entirely to face ghosts.
Juliette had come with her before, but Edmund was a new addition. She wished Andrew were there—and yet, a part of herwas relieved he wasn’t. Once she lethimin completely, she worried her heart would be in danger if it didn’t work out. This place, though not her London orphanage, was at the root of all her hurt, fear, and hope.
Lady Beatrice Hatherleigh’s annual donation to celebrate Guy Fawkes Night had started the tradition of Isla and Juliette volunteering here each year. Tonight, despite the wartime gloom, the lady had outdone herself. Because public bonfires and fireworks were banned due to rationing, safety fears, and blackout restrictions, the children had been given sparklers instead. They clutched them like wands, their faces aglow as trails of golden light danced through the dark. The older ones were spelling words in the air, letters lingering like phantom fire before fading into smoke.
Even without fireworks, the night felt magical. The soft hiss of sparklers mingled with laughter and the occasional squeal of delight. Sparks fell like tiny stars, reflected in wide, wondering eyes.
On a long trestle table nearby sat a neat row of toffee apples, their glossy red shells catching the light like jewels. Once the last spark had died and the children’s wands were no more than twisted wire, those apples would vanish in an instant. For one night, at least, the world’s troubles seemed far away.
“I cannot wait to bite into one of those apples,” Juliette said, eyeing the tray of toffee-dipped treats waiting on the table.
