“For Weavingshaw,” Percy had told him.
“For Weavingshaw,” the boy repeated.
Hargreaves had knelt down to look Bram in the eyes. “We will come back for you. I promise.”
They hadn’t.
Over twelve years, the boy had grown into a man under the glare of demons. They had fed on him; that was clear. Hargreaves knew the look of someone who had been fed on often. That he had survived so long—under the merciless dominion of the Frays, no less—was unfathomable.
But in truth, it was fortunate that the boy had not died.
Since Percy’s death, Hargreaves had spent the last ten years searching in vain for the Limitless Vessel. Finding it would have at least given young Bramwell Avon’s sacrificepurpose.
He and his men had swept every inch of Weavingshaw, save the parts of the crypts that were barred to him, but the estate hid Percy’s secret.
Except for Mrs. Van, who had disappeared for years before re-emerging at the elbow of the Saint of Silence, Hargreaves had interviewed every servant who had worked at Weavingshaw within the last two decades. All of them were worthless—exceptAvon’s old housekeeper, whose mind had been spoiled long before the Limitless Vessel was traded for Bram.
In desperation, Lord Hargreaves had had his men search the old housekeeper’s cottage a few months ago. He’d found the timepiece there. Percy had always favored Mrs. Graham above all other servants. Even when her mind became demented, he still had a fondness for her and ensured she was looked after until his death. One half of the mystery was revealed to Hargreaves the day he gave the locket back to the old woman, knowing it would not be long before it was found again. His plan only grew from then.
Hargreaves was once more brought back to the present by St.Silas dismounting the horse, patting the animal’s muzzle with an absentminded hand. He didn’t seem surprised that Martin had chosen Hargreaves as his second.
A surgeon was deliberately not present this morning—though it was one of the criteria for all duels of honor. Hargreaves knew St. Silas had noted this obvious breach of the code, but said nothing. He did, however, observe Rami tied like an animal, and a cold anger darkened his face.
“Notentirelyhonorable, I see,” St. Silas drawled.
“Do not be concerned, Mr. St. Silas. This is only to ensure that all parties remain on the premises until the completion of the duel,” Hargreaves replied mildly.
Ignoring him, St. Silas walked toward Rami, his sword ready to cut the rope.
Hargreaves didn’t want this to be a massacre. A duelmusttake place. He needed St. Silas to be desperate, not dead.
Not yet.
“Unfortunately, you have not given me a choice, Mr. St. Silas. I will be pointing this pistol at Mr. Al-Sayer’s head throughout the duration of your duel.” The click of Hargreaves’s gun put an effective stop to St. Silas’s determined actions. “However, as long as the duel is keptclean,and you emerge the winner, both yourself and Mr. Al-Sayer will be free to leave without any further delay—as promised.”
St. Silas and Rami exchanged a hard look, but not a surprised one. Hargreaves would once have despised a man who did not respect the code of honor that would have ensured a fair duel, but he was now desperate and short on time.
Hargreaves had already warned Martin that he did not care about the ruined Tar. His sole focus was to retrieve the red diary and the secret it held, pertaining to the whereabouts of the Limitless Vessel. Hargreaves was never going to allow St. Silas or hiswardsto leave Weavingshaw.
St. Silas gave Martin a curt nod to commence.
“Your pistol,” Hargreaves commanded St. Silas. “Throw it here.”
His mouth hard, St. Silas pulled the revolver from his pocket and threw it toward Hargreaves’s shoes. Hargreaves bent to retrieve it, hiding it in his own coat.
The snow had begun to fall in earnest now, coating the lapels of St. Silas’s dark jacket.
Beside him, Martin stood at the ready, silently unsheathing his sword.
Martin was an expert swordsman, and he knew it. Wordlessly, he stood in position, the blade held aloft.
St. Silas, his expression as icy as the surrounding frost, mirrored Martin’s stance, his own sword held in a firm grasp.
“At your marks, gentlemen.” Hargreaves’s other hand reached for his sword hilt just as his fighting hand held firm to his pistol, still pointing at the Al-Sayer boy. “One, two, three…Start!”
The clash of steel resonated—so man-made, so misplaced in this barren land.
Both men were vicious, their thrusts slicing through the air, their boots struggling to gain purchase on the new snow. Hargreaves watched for a moment, wondering how long Martin could last.
