The curator, still attending to his twisting undergarment, gave an appalled gasp. “Good heavens! I see what you mean, Mr. Smith.”
“It’s all right,” Alex said, sounding brave. “I’ve put up with worse. The other day I merely asked her to repeat a sentence and she threw a pumpkin at me.”
“Egads.”
“She’s not easy, but she’s worth it. Every time I look at her lovely face, my bicyc— I mean, my heart lifts.”
He smiled with mock fondness at her. She stared coldly in response. Just then, a dagger flew between them and embedded itself,shuddering, in a map detailing Beryl Black’s travels. The curator crouched down with a squeal, flinging his arms over his head.
Alex immediately took the opportunity to yank the briefcase from Charlotte’s grip. He stepped back, his expression grimly triumphant.
“Consider this an annulment, sweetheart.”
Charlotte glared. “You are the worst kind of—”
A flaming piece of wood clattered against her feet. Charlotte kicked it away. “Thank you!” an elderly pirate gentleman called out cheerfully, hopping over to retrieve what was in fact his left leg.
“—devil,” Charlotte continued.
“But a devil once again in possession of his briefcase,” Alex said. “Do beg the orphans for forgiveness on my behalf.”
“No, I think I shall compensate them instead.” Muttering rapidly, she held out her hand, and his ruby ring flew neatly into her palm. With a self-satisfied smile, she tucked it inside her bodice.
Alex’s expression abruptly turned cold. “Give that back.”
He looked genuinely frightening, and a frisson swept through Charlotte’s body. Not fear, however—excitement. No one had ever stared at her in such a fashion before—undaunted by her reputation as the most powerful witch of her age, and prepared to absolutely dismantle every defense she possessed, should that be required. Even Miss Plim had become a little cautious of her lately. Alex O’Riley, however, clearly was not scared.
Delighted, she stared right back at him.
“I’ll reach in after it,” he warned.
“You’ll try,” she said complacently.
They ducked as a book flew overhead—and then, as Miss Gloughenbury whacked it with her stuffed poodle, flew back again. Charlotte straightened first; Alex did so more slowly, his eyes smoldering beneath their heavy black lashes. It might have been alarming had her inner Elizabeth Bennet not giggled at the sight.
“Mrs. Smith,” the curator cried out from his huddle on the floor. “You really must let your husband take you to safety. These pirates are dangerous!”
“I’m not scared of pirates,” Charlotte scoffed.
“You should be,” the curator and pirate said in unison.
She sighed. It was a complex sound, containing more consonants than are regularly heard in exhaled air, and Alex’s eyes widened.
“Don’t be stupid,” he said, but it was too late. He left the ground and traveled at a considerable speed across the chamber, meeting his rest abruptly against a display case.
“How did you do that?” the curator asked with horrified astonishment.
“I’m stronger than I look,” Charlotte replied. “It comes from years of architecting.” She strode away, making a determined path through sword-wielding, broom-smacking women, muttering incantations as she went. Bodies jolted out of the way and weapons swerved against their natural momentum to avoid touching her. The perfect serenity she usually felt was as shaken as the laughter in a pirate’s mocking blue eyes, and suddenly all she wanted was that amulet in her hand, in a locked room, with a nice a cup of tea and a ginger biscuit to soothe her nerves.
Museum guards were blowing whistles to summon reinforcements; pirates were hollering; swords were clashing with a vibrant ring of noise. The whole world seemed to throb. Charlotte glanced back to see that Alex had got to his feet and begun stalking her. Everyone else remained oblivious to her actions, but although the pirate had only recently met her, he seemed to understand what she was about to do, perhaps because he’d witnessed just how foolhardy she could be when she ran out of patience.
Right now, her well of patience resembled a ditch in the African desert at noon on a midsummer’s day. Twisting a word on her tongue,she sent a woman’s peony-covered hat careening into Alex’s face. But another glance saw him fling the hat off to reveal a hot, dark smile.
“Concido, concido lente,”Charlotte chanted, increasing her stride toward the plinth that held the glass-encased amulet. As her words flicked magic across the intervening space, the guard collapsed backward, smacking against the floor. The whistle between his lips shrieked once, then twittered into silence. A pirate in yellow satin leaped over him, swinging her purse from its strings as she chased a witch who preferred her scones Devonshire-style. Charlotte reached the plinth and laid a hand against the casing.
The amulet, lying back on a velvet cushion, sparkled as if to say,Go on, take me.For something of incalculable value it was rather tacky—a bulging disk of brownish glass framed in metal that looked more gold-colored than actually gold. It was set on a chain of heavy links that made Charlotte think inexplicably of men with hairy chests swaggering on a dance floor. She blinked the image away and focused.
“Discutio.”
