“If you’ll excuse me, please,” she said with an attitude she’d have liked to call serene but that was actually closer to stony.“I want to locate therealsource of the thaumaturgic emissions.”
But before she could turn away, Caleb stepped toward her. His silence was intent, holding her rooted to the spot, and Amelia watched with some trepidation as he took another step. He drew so close she could see old London darkness in his sky blue eyes, reminding her that he’d been raised among criminals and that a few sharp fragments of their unscrupulous teachings remained at the back of his psyche. He set one hand against her hip and began to glide it slowly downward.
Such a force of frazzlement erupted in Amelia’s stomach that she felt like a thaumaturgically charged wedding ring in the court of Henry VIII. Then Caleb found what he was looking for: the pocket in her skirt. As he slipped his hand inside, he smiled crookedly.
You are a fiend!—is what Amelia would have told him had she been able to speak. But dry throated and half-deaf from the thudding roar of her own pulse, she could only stare at him furiously while he rummaged in that secret place. Behind him,a saltcellar (circa early eighteenth century, trifooted, sterling silver, Amelia’s brain noted automatically) began rising from the dining table, salt flying out of it in a slow, glittering eruption of thaumaturgic energy. The crystals twinkled like stars in the gilded shadows. Caleb’s fingers moving against her thigh made Amelia feel like she had a similar constellation of salt and sorcery inside her own body. And from the expression in Caleb’s eyes, he knew it.
“Fiend,” she managed to whisper at last.
“If you say so, darling,” he answered, his voice soft yet gritty, making that internal constellation swirl. Slowly, he withdrew his hand and held it up to reveal what he’d taken from the pocket.
Amelia flickered a glance at it. She would not have been a Tarrant if her facial expression altered when it found an alteration of her understanding, but it must be said that her eyelashes became a tempest. “Oops,” she said succinctly.
Caleb flipped the Hereford teaspoon around his fingers. “One would have thought you’d have put this in a safe bag as soon as you got the opportunity,” he remarked.
“Yes, well, I meant to,” Amelia said with an arch dignity she did not actually feel in that moment. “But I was in a hurry to change for dinner.”
“I note you did change. That’s a different dress you’re wearing. Yet somehow the teaspoon ended up transferred to its pocket instead of a safe bag.”
“There must be a confoundment aspect to its magic,” Amelia said. The thought immediately excited her, and she reached for the teaspoon so she might inspect it for some evidence of this theory. But Caleb held it up, out of her reach.
“Perhaps you’re enchanted and don’t know it,” he said.
Amelia’s eyes narrowed as she regarded him. “Perhaps you are mistaken in a belief that you can condescend to me.”
She spoke in a markedly polite tone that warned him to either apologize or face the consequences, and in response, Caleb did what any friend would under these circumstances: stepping back until he met the edge of the dining table, he held the teaspoon behind him.
Amelia’s eyes grew wide with incredulity. “You’re stealing my artifact!”
“Your artifact has developed a thaumaturgic connection to your emotions,” Caleb replied calmly. “I’ll take it upstairs and put it in one of my safe bags.”
This was actually a good plan, reasonable, professional, andutterly unacceptable. “It’s mine,” Amelia said, stepping into the gap Caleb had created between them.
“Is it precious to you?” he asked with a touch of sardonic humor.
“What?” She gave him a bewildered look. “No. I’m in the middle of studying it, that’s all. By the way, have you noticed the saltcellar hovering behind you, sending out magic like darts?”
“Don’t try to change the subject.”
“I’m more concerned about the cellar’s magic changingyou.” She took another step forward, and Caleb promptly climbed onto a chair. Good heavens, did he think himself eight years old again?
No, scratch that. The last time he climbed on furniture wasthree months ago, jumping atop a desk to cajole his students into admiring a gold statuette of Anubis. (“Carpe dius!”)
“Get down,” Amelia ordered him, sounding so bossy Mr. Dummersby from the British Museum would have felt vindicated in hisfearmanly mistrust of her.
“Nope,” Caleb said, shaking his head. “I’m worried you’ve been ensorcelled by this spoon, Meely.”
“You’re the one refusing to let it go,” Amelia pointed out. “I don’t care anymore. That saltcellar is a far greater worry.” Hoisting her skirts, she climbed onto the chair next to his.
Boom!
Thaumaturgic energy burst from the saltcellar, making Amelia sway on the chair. She stretched out her arms to balance herself.
“Please do be careful,” Caleb said mildly.
“Never mind me,” she replied, flapping a hand at him. “Grab the cellar!”
Muttering under his breath about the peace and quiet of the city he could be enjoying right now, Caleb clambered onto the tabletop. Carefully avoiding plates and glasses, he reached for the little silver dish.
