But English people had been saying such things to the Irish for centuries, so Alex felt comfortable ignoring them. He liked his house. He liked its ruggedness and the way it always smelled of Donegal rain. He certainly liked how he could bash it into Mrs. Rotunder’s house as they rose together off Great Russell Street and still its magic didn’tfalter—whereas Mrs. Rotunder’s genteel townhouse tipped sharply to starboard and was rescued from complete collapse only by a telegram company office being in the way.
(It has to be said: she was saved by the bell.)
Alex harbored no guilt about this. Not only did it mean one less rival in the air, but on his own starboard side Bloodhound Bess was trying to do the same to him.
Everyone had rushed to their houses after seeing Lady Armitage abscond with both the amulet and a pirate lad—and not just because Tom’s fiancée, Constantinopla, was screaming in the most aggravating way. An object of such power as Beryl’s amulet having fallen into the clutches of Lady Armitage must be considered nothing less than a disaster. The woman had murdered several husbands and now therefore had nothing to do but to marry all the rest of the world—or ruin it, if she could. The Wisteria Society ladies did not generally agree on much, but they were unified in a belief that Armitage should not be allowed to get the upper hand, or else she’d be intolerable at parties. Besides, pirates were constitutionally incapable of letting something go.
Two elderly ladies had shoved past Alex, almost knocking him from his feet, as they raced toward their battlehouses. But as he got his house aloft, muttering the incantation’s stanza for speed and turning the great oak steering wheel with an easy one-handed mastery, Alex knew he’d soon be ahead of the others. A pirate’s house was their visible psyche, so the saying went. Alex liked his well enough, but in the end it was merely a way to get in the air. He’d push it as hard as he could—and if bits did happen to fall off, well, there was plenty of stone around to patch it.
Much the same as with his actual psyche.
Besides, he was determined to win that amulet, and not just because the look on Charlotte Pettifer’s face when he got it would be priceless.
The witch had only herself to blame. Smashing pumpkins and throwing muses was all very entertaining, but of no real benefit when things took off, literally. Now, if she had been a pirate, she would have pulled the pins from her hair (he paused a moment to imagine it) and held one to his throat while demanding the key to his house. She wouldn’t stand like the witches were doing on the museum forecourt, shaking their fists and parasols as pirates raised houses around them and sped away.
Alex didn’t usually feel so competitive. Other than a friendship with Ned Lightbourne, his main involvement with the pirate community thus far had been in avoiding the pirate community. And only once before had he allowed a witch any space in his brain. But now, as he flew his battlehouse over the British Museum and toward Lady Armitage’s rapidly dwindling house, he could not help but laugh, thinking about the Wicken League left hopelessly behind.
“Is something amusing, sir?”
Alex spun about, sword unsheathed and rising in a swift, automatic movement even before he completed the turn.
His butler paused in the cockpit doorway, waiting dispassionately for Alex’s memory to pull itself together again. Dressed in a flawless black suit, his brown hair impeccable, he had a tray set upon one hand and a professionally unfocused look behind his spectacles. This was a man who would not recognize amusement even if it knocked on the door and demanded he sayWho’s there?before smacking him on the nose with a rubber chicken. He was a year younger than Alex but seemed ineffably older.
The tray held an onyx-handled pistol.
“I don’t need a gun,” Alex said. With a small apologetic shrug, he sheathed the sword and returned his attention to the view out the window. Cecilia and Ned’s battlelibrary flew alongside. Alex eyed it thoughtfully. Heprobablyobviously could not sideswipe his friends’premises, but he did mutter the phrase for speed once again, and the cottage trembled as it streaked through the light, outpacing the other cottage. At this rate, he would soon catch Armitage. “Prepare the grappling hook, Bixby,” he ordered his butler.
“I am not sure a grappling hook would be appropriate in this situation, sir. It might damage the furniture.”
Alex frowned, trying to work this out and failing. “What are you talking about?”
“I refer to the uninvited guest in your sitting room.”
Alex turned, one hand still on the wheel, the other on his hip, to frown at the man. “Bixby, did you kidnap another Protestant so you could debate transubstantiation with them while I was out?”
“Not today, sir. And may I be so bold as to mention that you are about to collide with a manor?”
Alex spun back to the window and, with a rush of words and an urgent tug of a lever attached to the side of the wheel, banked the house over and away from Mrs. Dole’s residence. The only furniture in the cockpit, a shabby armchair with several knives and brass knuckles cluttering its seat, shuddered across the floor. Alex frowned, for the stabilizing magic should prevent such things. Had he been so busy gloating about the witches that he’d recited the stanza incorrectly?
Annoyed with himself, he muttered the stanza again to be sure, then waved a hand to dismiss Bixby. “I don’t have time for this. Lock him in the attic and I’ll deal with him later.”
“I already suggested that course of action to the lady, and she regretfully declined. She sat down on the sofa, and each time I approached to relocate her, she rose up again—several feet into the air, if you please—taking the sofa with her.”
This news was narrated with the maximum disapproval possible in the minimum amount of tone. Alex closed his eyes wearily.
“Let me guess. Hair the color of wild honey, lovely eyes, holds herself as if she’s a rifle aimed at its target and about to fire?”
“It is not in the compass of my employment to comment on the quality of ladies’ eyes,” Bixby replied. “But she does indeed have red-blonde hair.”
Alex sighed. “Take the helm, Bixby. I’ll deal with our stowaway.”
“Are you not engaged in hot pursuit, sir?”
“Yes, in more direction than one, it seems.”
“I beg your pardon, sir?”
“Never mind. Just follow that house at top speed.”
