“It may not be, but I’d like to know nevertheless. In deference to the distance you’ve traveled, you may go first, Mr. Defoe.”
Oscar’s jaw firmed in annoyance that we’d not been afforded the courtesy. The movement was so subtle that I doubted either man noticed, and Miss Wheeler was once again peering out of the window after having re-opened the curtains. She seemed disinterested in the negotiations. I tried to signal to Oscar that going second was to our advantage, but he wasn’t looking at me.
“Gracious of you, Kinloch,” Mr. Defoe said. “I was thrilled when I received Lady Coyle’s telegram mentioning her discovery of an old letter from you to her husband about the book. I’ve been trying to get my hands on a copy for years.”
“Why?” Mr. Kinloch pressed.
“It’s rare.”
“Yet not particularly valuable, except to scholars.” Mr. Kinloch indicated me with a wave of his whiskey glass.
“I’d like to study it,” Mr. Defoe said. “Is that scholarly enough for you?”
“And when you’ve finished studying it? What will happen to it?”
“I’ll add it to my bookshelves, of course.”
Mr. Kinloch waited, but Mr. Defoe had finished. Our host invited Oscar to speak.
Oscar sat up straighter. “As I said in my letter, Professor Nash and I are traveling the world to collect books about magic with the aim of forming a public library. Matt and India Glass—Lord and Lady Rycroft—will be its patrons. They’re spearheading magician reforms in Great Britain,” he added for Mr. Defoe’s benefit. “They were instrumental in ending the persecution of magicians here, the effects of which have rippled around the world. I believe the United States recently passed similar legislation.”
“There you have it,” Mr. Defoe declared. “Our intentions for the book are both scholarly. The only way to separate us is the amount each will offer.”
“Not true,” Mr. Kinloch said. “Mr. Barratt and Professor Nash will display it publicly. You’ll lock it away. No one will get to study it unless you approve.”
Mr. Defoe started to laugh, then realized Mr. Kinloch was quite serious. “Ah. I see what you’re doing. You’re a good negotiator, I’ll grant you that. Very well, let’s talk actual numbers. What do you want?”
“If it was about money, I would have sold it to Coyle years ago.”
Mr. Defoe scoffed. “He didn’t offer what I will.” When Mr. Kinloch remained silent, Mr. Defoe swirled the whiskey in his glass, as casual as can be. “Let’s not pretend you don’t have a price in mind. We all know the saying about a Scotsman and his money.”
Mr. Kinloch’s nostrils flared at the stereotypical slight.
Mr. Defoe failed to notice and barreled on. “Let’s also not pretend what this is really about. Eh, Barratt?”
“I don’t know what you mean,” Oscar said.
“I’m a magician, as are you. Neither of us wants the Mackenzie book for its historical or scholarly value.”
I leaned forward to interrupt. “I want it for its scholarly value.”
Mr. Defoe ignored me. He kept his gaze firmly on Oscar. “We both want it because it references another book about tattoo magic that makes a man fly. Getting our hands on that book is our true endgame.”
“Why?” Mr. Kinloch asked. “How can you use the tattoo magic to your advantage?” He seemed unsurprised by the interest in that particular reference. It wasn’t news to him.
“I know a spell to make iron fly and want to experiment with blending it with the tattoo ink spell,” Defoe said.
“You don’t know for certain if the book Mackenzie references has the actual spell in it to make a tattooed man fly.”
“You’re right. I won’t know until I find it and read it.” Mr. Defoe thrust his chin in Oscar’s direction. “Do you know a flying spell, Barratt? What is your particular magic type anyway?”
Oscar merely glared back, silent. I sat unmoving, too worried to even blink in case I gave away that Oscar did indeed know a flying spell, and an ink one at that. If either man could use tattoo magic to make themselves fly, it would be Oscar, not the iron magician. But I felt in my bones it was something we didn’t want Mr. Defoe to know.
Mr. Defoe huffed, giving up on waiting for Oscar to answer. “Well, Kinloch? How much?”
Mr. Kinloch stood and crossed the room. He opened the door and Redmayne entered. He must have been standing there, waiting. “Mr. Defoe and Miss Wheeler aren’t staying the night, after all. Please reload their luggage onto the carriage and ask Blackburn to take them to the hotel of their choice. I can recommend the Windsor on Princes Street. I believe Mr. Barratt and Professor Nash are staying there.”
Redmayne wordlessly disappeared to follow orders.
