Deleted Scenes

This chapter takes place between chapters 8 and 9 of The Glass Magician. It details what is being discussed behind the closed doors of the Parliament building while Ceony and Delilah wait outside. The scene is told in Emery’s point of view. (Back to Deleted Scenes.)

Emery’s hands idly folded and unfolded a square of paper as the last person entered the conference room—Mg. Juliet Cantrell, a Smelter roughly the same age as Emery, who had joined Criminal Affairs two years ago. She was a tall and pretty woman, with a military-type stride to her legs and a stiffness to her shoulders that Emery had yet to see relax. Like Patrice, she wore her dark hair pulled into a tight bun, which emphasized her square jaw.

She nodded to Alfred and took a seat on the far end of the table, opposite him.

Alfred started with introductions, which Emery paid only half an ear to—he knew all these people. Several had worked with him during Lira’s terrorizing reign. Pushing thoughts of his ex-wife aside, Emery continued folding the small square of paper, back and forth, weakening its creases with every movement. He wondered if he could make it fall apart by the end of the meeting without tearing it.

“Right to it, then,” Alfred said, still standing over his chair. “Mg. Thane has brought me the startling news that changes everything we know about Grath Cobalt. It seems the man is not an Excisioner at all, but a Gaffer.”

Two magicians murmured to one another, but the rest remained silent. Patrice, at least, already knew, but at the voicing of it, she pursed her lips until they turned white.

“His apprentice, Ceony Twill, discovered it,” Alfred continued.

Juliet said, “She’s the target?”

Emery frowned.

Alfred nodded. “Seems he contacted her through a mirror in her temporary apartment, alone. Not the wisest choice of action if he wanted to keep his Gaffering a secret.”

A Polymaker named Simon commented, “Perhaps he didn’t want it to be a secret?”

“Unlikely,” Emery interjected, “based on the conversation.”

Juliet asked, “You witnessed it?”

Emery nodded, flipping the paper between his fingers. “I doubt Grath would work so hard to brand himself an Excisioner all these years just to turn the tables now. Though apparently, that’s what he’s doing.”

“Yes, some nonsense about breaking bonds,” Alfred said. After a few startled looks, he added, “I assure you, that is a talent he does not possess, and that does not exist. Still,” he glanced to Emery, “your apprentice is quite the detective to work such a detail out from one of our most wanted. A clever girl, even if she’s not much to look at.”

Emery dropped his paper. The room was silent for two seconds before he said, “I think that’s a matter of opinion, Alfred, and hardly appropriate in these circumstances.”

“I agree,” Patrice said, sharp as a paring knife. “Please, Mg. Hughes, let’s keep this meeting on topic and stray away from your . . . personal preferences.”

Still, Emery bristled. Alfred was already on his fourth marriage, so his opinions on women were to be taken with a grain of salt. But exactly what part of Ceony did he find unappealing?

Alfred only smiled. “Of course. Where was I? Oh yes, the mirror. Mg. Thane?”

Scooting back from the table, Emery reached into his coat and pulled out two small shards of glass from the vanity mirror in the apartment, each wrapped tightly in bandages of paper. Setting them on the tabletop, he slid one to Patrice and the other to Chester, another Gaffer who sat beside her.

“These are from the mirror Grath used to contact Ceony,” Alfred explained. “He also attempted transport, but the mirror was shattered before he succeeded.”

Patrice tilted her shard back and forth, her face contorted in its ever-present frown. She looked like a tortoise, frowning like that. Emery imagined her smile couldn’t be much worse.

Both Gaffers commanded their shards, “Reflect, Past,” and angled them to get a good view of Grath’s current abode. They didn’t look long.

“I don’t recognize it,” Patrice said.

“It’s unremarkable,” added Chester.

Emery leaned back in his chair and returned to manipulating the square of paper. He had a sinking feeling that this meeting would be very, very long. He should have brought a snack.

Still, he asked, “But the apartment is secure?”

Patrice nodded. “I would recommend ridding yourself of any other mirrors, Mg. Thane, but I don’t believe your current abode to be jeopardized.” She paused. “I do, however, recommend separating you and Miss Twill, for a time.”

Oh? Emery leaned his elbows on the table, waiting. Folding and unfolding that paper.

“I think splitting you two would be safer, in the long run,” she continued.

“I’m not a target this time, Patrice.”

She frowned, deeper, likely at the use of her first name in such a formal setting. Emery hid a smile.

“I would like Miss Twill to stay with me,” she continued, “where I can keep an eye on her.”

“I don’t see how your ‘eye’ is any better than mine,” Emery countered, keeping his voice smooth. Oh, how Patrice loved to meddle. It was almost quaint. “Especially given that I have experience in these matters.”

“Especially given your experience, Magician Thane,” she chided, taking on her school-advisor voice. It was a tone she had often used with Emery when he had been in her Spells and Counterspells course at Tagis Praff some thirteen years ago.

Emery palmed the paper and leaned his chin onto his folded hands, watching her. It unnerved Patrice when people stared.

He didn’t like the idea of Ceony leaving. Not only for the sake of her company, but because he couldn’t watch her if they separated. He couldn’t protect her. It was her involvement in his problems that led to this catastrophe in the first place. No, Emery wouldn’t let her go. Not easily.

Alfred cleared his throat.

“Thank you for the concern,” Emery said, “but no.”

Aviosky frowned even further. “I do hope you’re not growing too close to your apprentice.”

Ah, so that was it. Perhaps Emery had let himself slip, been too familiar with Ceony before the Gaffer’s eyes. Then again, walking within two feet of one another would be too familiar for Patrice.

“And I hope you haven’t distanced yourself to the point where you can no longer see yours, Patrice,” he countered.

“Well,” Alfred interjected as Patrice turned away, silently fuming, “Ceony will stay under Emery’s stewardship for the time being. Juliet?”

Juliet stood, dropping a few files onto the table. “I’ve sifted through Cobalt’s criminal records for comparison, and it seems we’ve never had an actual witness testify to his use of Excision. However, he has taken credit for the works of other Excisioners, Lira Hoppson being the most recent.”

A few eyes strayed toward Emery. He made a point of not meeting them.

Instead, he said, “A man can still learn Excision without being able to practice it. I knew a man in secondary school who had memorized all the basics of Folding before ever attending Tagis Praff. I’m positive that, at minimum, Grath personally trains his recruits.”

Juliet merely nodded, then crouched down to retrieve a large roll of canvas, which she splayed over the table—a map of England and its surroundings. Then, reaching into her pocket, she pulled out a handful of thick, brass coins and tossed them over the map. She commanded, “Arrangement, position two,” and the coins snapped into position over different cities as though magnetically drawn to them. Emery noticed each coin had been engraved with a date. A few of the coins bore black rims.

Juliet went on to describe the last known whereabouts of Grath and Saraj, indicating each coin in turn. The black-rimmed coins were Saraj’s locations. All but one coincided with Grath’s.

“When Saraj hits,” Simon, the Polymaker, said, “he does far more damage, but Grath strikes more frequently.”

Juliet folded her arms tightly, her brows drawing together. “I suppose that depends on what you mean by ‘more damage.’”

“Take the paper mill, for example. Millions of dollars in repairs.”

“My concern is more for people, not property,” Juliet said, a bit sharp. “Did you know that last year in Presto, Grath raped a teenaged girl so severely that she needed surgery afterward?”

Emery paled.

“Or that earlier this year,” Juliet continued, “Near Derby, he gathered a family into—”

“Please, Juliet,” Alfred interjected, “spare us the details. Let us focus on the present threat.”

Emery crumpled the square of paper in his left palm. The present threat. Ceony. The thought of Grath so much as touching her made his blood boil.

He’d kill the man before he had an opportunity, so help him.

Alfred leaned over the map and said, “Now that we have the history, let’s determine where Grath is now, where he may strike, and what on earth we’re going to do when he does.”

This chapter occurs between chapters 16 and 17 in The Glass Magician. It reveals part of what Emery did after sending Ceony to stay with Langston.

Hand on the doorknob to Mg. Aviosky’s home, Emery watched Langston’s car drive away through a window until it vanished beyond the scope of the panes. He squeezed the knob in his hand, resisting the urge to strike something. His stomach rumbled, igniting a small but sharp pain there. That woman had probably given him an ulcer, not to mention insomnia and a headache. Despite all the beautiful things about Ceony, she could be such a fool!

He let out a long breath. Thank the heavens they had found her unharmed. Thank the heavens. Emery had prayed for the first time in his life last night that he would find her whole. Whatever God watched over him had certainly been merciful.

Alfred came down the hall. “I have my auto coming,” he said. “Do you know the Twill residence?”

“I know the address,” Emery answered. He had never been there himself. “I’d like to come with you.”

Alfred nodded.

Not precisely the way Emery had wanted to meet Ceony’s parents, but he supposed none of that really mattered—or should have been at all important—given the circumstances.

“I as well,” Patrice called as she descended the stairs.

“Delilah?” Emery asked.

“I sent her to the school,” Patrice replied. “I’ve given her enough homework to last her another year. What, pray tell, have you done with Ceony?”

“She’s taken care of for the time being,” Emery said, and he left it at that. Patrice opened her mouth to say more, but she quickly closed it. Perhaps Emery’s disdain for the conversation showed on his face—his aunt had always told him his eyes expressed themselves too well.

Alfred’s driver brought his automobile and Emery held the passenger door for Patrice, remaining silent as he did so. Emery directed the driver to Whitechapel and the Mill Squats. Alfred seemed amused, but withheld comment.

“Here is fine,” Emery announced when they grew close. No need to draw attention to themselves.

They stepped out of the auto onto a narrow street barely wide enough to fit one, lined on either side with box-like flats all compressed in such a way he couldn’t tell where one started and another ended. The brickwork on the road had cracked, strewing potholes up and down its length. Weeds grew up through more cracks in the sidewalks, and the buildings themselves looked centuries old. A thin woman sat on a set of steps outside, watching her two boys bat a pill bug around with sticks.

“Charming,” Alfred said. Turning to Patrice, he added, “Would you find a line and get the location to the others? Tell them only to send a few, please.” Then, to Emery, “It’s a little late for mail birds to look commonplace.”

Emery nodded.

Patrice headed down the sidewalk, back the way they had come, her short heels clicking against the pavement.

Emery led the way to the Twills’, checking building numbers and street signs until he found the address registered under Ceony’s profile, the one he had received a week before she began her apprenticeship. It was a single-story house wedged in between two others, made of rusty brick chipping at the edges and a roof in dire need of re-shingling.

A past conversation came to Emery’s mind as he approached the door.

“Could I borrow a few shillings for a buggy? Please?” Ceony asked.

Emery looked up from the letter he was drafting. “Didn’t you receive your stipend last week?”

“Yes . . . but I sent it away already.”

Sent it away. Here, no doubt.

He thought of the letter she had sent him when she entered Tagis Praff, after he’d donated a scholarship rile Sinad Mueller.

It has been my dream since I was a young girl to learn the secrets of magic, but due to my family’s financial situation and some bad luck on my part, I had truly believed only a few days ago that my dream was unobtainable.

He knocked on the door. Ceony would hate further charity on his part, but that didn’t mean he couldn’t lend her family some help behind her back. He resolved to do so, once this mess had been dealt with.

A woman answered the door. She looked to be about Patrice’s age, with auburn hair pulled back into a ponytail. A worn apron stained with what looked like some sort of fruit preserve hid most of her faded dress.

Alfred said, “Mrs. Twill, I presume?”

She raised an eyebrow. “Yes. May I help you?”

Alfred stepped forward and offered his hand. “My name is Alfred Hughes of Criminal Affairs, Magicians Cabinet. May we come in? You know Magician Thane, of course.”

The woman’s eyes widened, and she grinned. “Magician Thane! No no, I haven’t had the pleasure.” She released Alfred’s hand and shook his own, her grip surprisingly firm. “Ceony has told me so much about you . . . though I didn’t think you’d be so young.”

Emery smiled. “Good things, I hope.”

“Oh, mostly,” she said, then laughed. “Mostly. You’re a better dresser than she claims. Yes yes, please come in.”

Mrs. Twill opened the door wide and gestured them into a small living area, divided into both a living room and a dining room by a long couch that had obviously seen many years of sitting and rough-housing. A narrow kitchen extended beyond that, and a hallway that likely led to the bedrooms. The flat couldn’t have fit more than two.

“Magicians Cabinet,” Mrs. Twill repeated as she shut the door. “Oh dear. Has Ceony done something foul?”

Beyond foul, Emery thought, but he said, “I’m afraid the situation is more my fault than anything else, Mrs. Twill.”

“Oh, call me Rhonda,” Rhonda said. Her face fell. “Is . . . everything all right?”

“Mom, who are they?”

Emery turned to see two children in the hallway, a boy of about ten and a girl—a spitting image of Ceony—a couple years younger than that. Marshall and Margo, if Emery remembered correctly. Ceony had mentioned them on multiple occasions.

“Oh nothing,” Rhonda said. “Go to your room.”

“But—”

“Now,” she added, and the two children frowned and scurried down the hallway.

Rhonda gestured to the couch, but Alfred waved it away with his hand. He asked, “Is your husband at home?”

“No . . . he’s at work,” Rhonda said, fiddling with her apron tie. “And Zina—my other daughter—is still at school. Is there a problem?” She glanced to Emery.

“I’m afraid I can’t disclose much,” Alfred said, “but I will need to relocate your family for a short time.”

Rhonda’s eyes bugged. “Relocate? Whatever for?”

Stepping forward, Emery said, “We have reason to believe you may be in danger. A slim chance, I assure you, but it’s always better to play the safe card. Consider it a . . . paid vacation.”

The words didn’t soothe her. “What about Ceony?”

“Oh, she’s perfectly fine, studying for midterms,” Emery lied. “The arrangements will be for a few days, a week at most.”

Alfred harrumphed. Emery ignored him.

Chewing on her nail, Rhonda looked around the house. “But I . . .”

“All will be explained later,” Emery assured her, though the statement wasn’t necessarily true. “Please, pack your things.”

Alfred said, “If you tell us where we could find your husband and daughter, I’ll see that they’re brought home safely as well.”

Rhonda chewed her lip, eyeing Emery. After a long moment, she said, “She trusts you. I suppose I will too. God knows we could use some time out of this house, but . . .”

She didn’t finish the statement, only hurried down the hall, calling out to Marshall and Margo to “get ready for a trip.”

Turning to Alfred and keeping his voice low, Emery asked, “Where will you send them?”

“Probably Portsmouth, but that’s yet to be decided,” Alfred answered.

Someone knocked on the door, and Emery took the liberty of answering it.

Three men in police uniforms stood there. Alfred told one to wait outside the door and the other to circle the block, to keep an eye out. The third he invited inside.

Emery stepped outside so as not to overcrowd the room. He ran his hand through his hair.

“I would still like to speak to you regarding Miss Twill,” Patrice’s voice said beside him. He hadn’t noticed her there.

“You address little else, these days,” Emery said, sliding his hands into his trouser pockets. He felt exposed without his coat, which he had left at Patrice’s home. He’d need to retrieve that. “What is it?”

“I’m considering Miss Twill’s welfare as an apprentice, Magician Thane.”

“You think I’m mistreating her?”

“Quite the opposite, in fact,” she huffed. She pushed her glasses higher up on her nose. “I think it to be more conducive to Ceony’s studies, and her well-being, if I reassigned her under Magician Morse.”

Emery glanced straight ahead and folded his arms. “Magician Morse has an apprentice.”

“Not for much longer, and I believe—”

“I would think you’d trust me regarding my own students.” Emery said, looking down on her. “After all, you are the one who made the assignment.” And to a broken man like myself, no less.

“Considering recent events . . .”

“This is neither the time nor place.”

Patrice frowned. “There is never a time or place with you, Magician Thane.”

He turned to her, and she took a step back, surprisingly. “I have the strangest inkling that this isn’t about the Excisioners, Patrice.” He kept his voice low, not wanting any of Ceony’s family to overhear.

Patrice actually flushed. “No, not entirely. I worry about the consequences of the incident concerning your . . . collapse, three months ago.”

“This is an awfully large bush to beat about.”

Patrice scowled. “Do not mock me for being proper.”

Emery inhaled deeply and rolled his shoulders back, trying to relieve the tension in them. The third police officer stepped out of the house and jogged down the street toward his car, likely off to rescue the rest of the Twill family.

“Tell me,” he said, “have you ever completely opened your heart to someone?”

Patrice took several seconds before answering. “No . . .”

“I have,” Emery said, staring at the bland building across the street, at the Y-shaped crack running up its side. “It may not have been by choice, but it’s done. Once something like that happens, one tends to see the world—and the person—a little differently.”

Patrice didn’t respond.

“I will take care of Ceony,” he said, glancing at her. Her lips were pressed into a thin line, but she seemed somewhat defeated. “She will earn her magicianship at the end of two years, or you may personally have me expelled from the Magicians’ Alliance.”

Patrice’s mouth form a small O. Alfred exited the house and flagged down one of the policemen. After asking him to retrieve the auto, he said, “They’re almost ready. Emery, if I could speak with you.”

Emery stepped away from Patrice without so much as a nod, but before he reached the door, he spied something small and white tumbling over the building across the street—a mail bird. Stepping into the gutter, he held his hand out to it, and the paper crane circled about his fingers and landed in his palm.

“Cease,” he commanded it. The bird went still, and he unfolded it, glancing over the message inside, written in Ceony’s hand.

“What is it?” Alfred asked.

Emery slipped the paper into his pocket. “Nothing,” he said, and followed the Siper inside. Two packed bags already sat on the dining-room table.

“I have a proposition for you,” Alfred said, hushed. “Something I need done while we deal with Grath.”

“I’m listening,” Emery replied.

Initially, after returning to the mainland to report Silas’s attack, a couple of our protagonists ran into Ebba, Merritt’s ex-girlfriend. The scene was changed in edits to remove her from the story, but this is the original.

Merritt stayed in bed all day; Hulda assured it. She made sure he ate when he was alert, and then drugged him heavily in between, ensuring rest and healing. She tried to focus on the future and not the past, as was her specialty. Still, every time she spied a contusion, she saw him flying through the air again, crumpling up against the house like a sack of onions, his desperate wardship spells turning his bones to eggshells. It was a miracle he wasn’t more broken than he was. A miracle he was alive.

            She loved him so fiercely it hurt. A future without him was not a future Hulda could abide.

            Still, per his wishes, she did not give him any of the heavier medications Monday morning. Baptiste came upstairs and helped him sit up, then bound him even further, ensuring his right arm would not move, nor his left arm above the elbow. Merritt insisted on coming to the city, and while Hulda called him a fool, she was inwardly glad for it. She needed him near. As though keeping him near would ensure his protection. As though bad things could only happen if she looked away.

            Ultimately, they all went to Portsmouth, the Babineauxs as well. Fallon had avoided her and Merritt, even when Hulda sought her out to question her, and to thank her. Even now she avoided them, maintaining her hawk form and staying perched on Owein’s shoulder—he’d thickened the fabric with an alteration spell so her talons wouldn’t dig in to his skin. “I would be happy to lend you some garments,” was all Hulda said. If Fallon replied, Merritt did not translate it. But there were more important matters at hand than Owein’s paramour. Much more important matters.

            Owein went straight for the post office with little word. Beth filed her own police report, then offered to take Hattie with them on their errands to lighten Hulda’s load. Hulda graciously took her up on it. She then filled out a police report, as Merritt couldn’t write. She scribed everything as Merritt spoke to the constable, who seemed rather alarmed at the story, and the fact that it matched the one Beth had just given. Neither of them held anything back. Yes, they were wizards. Yes, the fight had involved magic. Yes, they believed the attacker to be the necromancer Silas Hogwood in the body of another man.

            That last part was slightly more believable when Hulda explained she was the director of BIKER.

            To her relief, they were taken seriously. Hulda offered what little she knew of Silas Hogwood’s future whereabouts from her visions. They then, too, went to the post office, though didn’t run into Owein. She sent a brief telegram to Ohio, where Myra would intercept it.

            He is back. Man behind the glass. Assault on island. Need to speak.

            At that point Ellis began to cry. Taking a deep breath to steel herself, Hulda began rocking her. “I’m going to step outside.” There was a bench near a little park she could sit at to collect herself.

            Merritt nodded, a few letters in his left hand. “We should buy some ammunition.” His tone turned dark. Catching it, he cleared his throat and kissed her on the cheek. “I’ll be right out. Mabol, can you open these for me?”

            Focusing on her breathing, Hulda slipped out of the post office as Ellis’s fussing grew more insistent. Patting the babe on the back, Hulda made it to the bench, set down her faithful black bag, and unbuttoned her dress so Ellis could eat. She’d need a change after this, which Hulda hated doing in public, but she’d figure out something. Merritt certainly wouldn’t be changing any nappies any time soon. It was all up to her.

            Closing her eyes, Hulda drew in a deep breath to steady herself. We’ve gotten through worse, haven’t we? But she wasn’t sure she believed the sentiment. It was different, now. The children made it different. Made it desperate. It took all Hulda had not to let her emotions spiral. She’d always had a knack for objectivity, for logic. Where was that propensity now?

            At the very least, from what Hulda understood, Silas Hogwood couldn’t be the same Silas Hogwood she’d known. The wizard with more magic than Queen Victoria herself. She’d done a lot of reading on Silas Hogwood, both during her original assignment to Whimbrel House, and after discovering Myra’s illegal activities with his body in Ohio. Mr. Hogwood—though he didn’t deserve a salutation, she thought—had a rare mixture of spells that allowed him to draw magic from a person into himself. Lethal for the victim, yet not permanent for the thief. What had allowed him to keep the magic was a water spell, which he only could have gotten from an enchanted house in England, for him to be able to keep it. Houses couldn’t die; they weren’t living in the first place. Not scientifically.

            And so Silas had obtained a water spell, which allowed him to preserve the bodies of his victims, and in that preservation, he kept the magic he stole. When those mummified monstrosities were destroyed, he lost the magic. When Hogwood had died the first time, he’d lost the magic.

            Meaning he had only what he’d been born with, which was still a great deal. But unless he stumbled upon another house or artifact or non-living things with an elemental water spell, he would be unable to preserve spells he stole, which limited him to his natural abilities. And there were no enchanted homes in North America with water spells, she knew. Hulda tried to find peace in that.

            They would need to send word out to Marshfield, to confirm, or attempt to confirm, Merritt’s idea about this watchman. Perhaps if they could identify the body Hogwood had stolen, it would help them. If that soul was still in there . . . if he could overthrow Hogwood . . .

            The bench shifted ever so slightly, breaking Hulda from her cogitation. A young woman, perhaps a few years younger than herself, had sat down. Her dark hair was only partially pulled up and draped down over her shoulders.

            Their gazes met, and the stranger smiled. “Pardon me. Hope I’m not bothering you.” She reached for her right shoe.

            “Not at all.” Hulda checked Ellis, who still suckled contentedly.

            Looking embarrassed, the woman said, “Rock in my shoe,” and pulled the sensible shoe off. Turned it over, and a dainty pebble fell out.

            “I shan’t tell a soul,” Hulda offered, honestly grateful for the distraction.

            The woman smiled. Pulled her shoe back on just as Ellis unlatched, apparently satisfied for the time being. Hulda made herself modest and sat the child on her lap, patting her back to encourage a burp.

            “She’s darling,” the stranger offered.

            Hulda beamed. “Thank you. I’m a little biased.”

            Another smile. “It’s always a relief to be around adorable infants. You don’t have to lie about how adorable they are.” She folded her hands on her lap. “Never had any of my own, so I appreciate the cute ones, especially.”

            Hulda grinned. Heard footsteps and looked up to see Merritt coming over, an open letter in his free hand. Mabol pattered beside him, her hand clenched on the lip of his trouser pocket. Merritt glanced up at Hulda, then at the stranger, and slowed, his face going slack.

            Hesitating, Hulda asked, “What is it?”

            Just as Merritt said, “Ebba?”

            The same zinged down Hulda’s neck like she’d bitten down on a silver fork. The woman beside her looked up at the name, then blanched.

            As far as Hulda knew, there was only one Ebba of Merritt’s acquaintance, and that was Ebba Mullan, his ex-fiancée. The woman who had slept with him and abandoned him for music school; schooling that had been paid for by Merritt’s father, who’d wanted any reason to cast his bastard son from his household.

            Ebba seemed to shrink, then offered an incommodious laugh. “Merritt . . . is that you? It’s been so long.”

            “It . . . has.” The last time Merritt saw the woman was nearly five years ago, after he’d found her name on a poster in Boston for a concert series. Hulda later learned he’d intended to profess his feelings that night, but the finding had been . . . distracting, to say the least.

            Feeling the growing stickiness of the situation, Hulda said, “She was just complimenting Ellis’s aesthetics.”

            “Oh.” His gaze shifted from Ebba to Ellis. “Um, thank you.”

            “She’s yours.” It sounded more like a revelation than a question. “Oh.” She stood, smoothing down her skirt. “Then you must be Mrs. Fernsby.” She glanced at Mabol. “I’m glad to see you happy.”

            A quarter of a smile tugged on Merritt’s lips. “Thank you.”

            “And . . .” Ebba looked like she wanted to flee, but she hesitated, touching her right shoulder. “You’re hurt?”

            “Fell off a ladder,” he responded smoothly.

            She nodded. “Well . . . I hope you heal quickly. I, um, I read one of your books. American Castle, I mean. It was rather good.”

            That had been Merritt’s fourth published novel. He had six, now. “Thank you,” he said.

            She nodded, first to him, then to Hulda. “Well, it’s nice meeting you. I should be on my way.”

            She offered a weak, awkward wave of her hand before turning and heading toward main street, her stride quick and purposeful.

            Ellis belched.

            “So,” Hulda said after a moment. “That’s Ebba.”

            “That’s Ebba.” Merritt crossed over and gingerly lowered himself onto the bench, letting out a breath as he did. He almost succeeded in stifling a wince.

            Hulda clucked her tongue. “You should be resting. We’re done here; we can head back.”

            “I need ammunition.” He looked distracted. “And . . . I’m sorry, Hulda.”

            “I’m bored,” Mabol protested.

            Hulda ignored the comment. “For what?”

            “For . . . all of that.” He gestured—as much as the bandages allowed—in the direction Ebba had gone.

            Hulda snorted. “I hardly care.” She considered for a moment. “Perhaps, once, I might have. But I’m untroubled.” Reaching over, she set her hand on his thigh. “Look at all we have. And all we wouldn’t have, had she made different choices.”

            The corner of his lip ticked up. “That is a most excellent way to put it.” He took a deep breath, then offered the open letter in his hand.

            Hulda shifted Ellis to her shoulder before accepting it. “What’s this?”

            “A letter from Hiram Sutcliffe.”

            She paused. “Sutcliffe?”

            He nodded. “My half-brother. One of them. Apparently he was a late bloomer like me. Wardship.”

            Curious, Hulda read the letter. It was brief and to the point, as a man was ought to write. Apparently he’d been struggling with the same spell Merritt had, and when the struggle came up with his father—Merritt’s biological father—he’d gotten the truth, along with Merritt’s Portsmouth address. He was asking for help.

            Hulda could only imagine the drama that must be unraveling in that family. She didn’t envy them.

            “Will you?” she asked.

            “Of course.” Another wince. “I sent a telegram.” He looked down at the bandages encircling him. “Invited him to the house.”

            Hulda folded the letter back up. “Is that safe?”

            “I can hardly travel.” He sighed. “I mentioned there’d been an assault. If Hiram wants to wait, he can wait.”

            Hulda straightened. “Merritt, I wonder if that’s who I saw. In my vision.” There had been something familiar about the man. Familiar facial features—Merritt’s features. It made sense if it was a relation.

            “He comes, then.” His tone was optimistic, but the heaviness of worry that had been clouding them all weekend still hung overhead, unspoken.

            “Let’s get some wards from BIKER and meet up with Beth,” Hulda offered, “and send Owein or Baptiste for the ammunition. You need to . . . not move.”

            A low grumble was his only protest. “Perhaps you’re right.”

            “Of course I am.” She stood. “Mabol, darling, walk with me.”

            Mabol frowned. “I want to be carried.”

            “If you find your uncle, you can be.”

            This seemed to satisfy the child, for she accepted Hulda’s outstretched hand and allowed herself to be guided away from the bench.

In draft 4 of this book, Owein and Cora got married in chapter 7. Cora had a fear of childbirth because of what the Queen might do with her wizarding progeny. This scene takes place at Heatherwick House after the discovery of Ned.

Please excuse grammar and typos.

~*~

Cora gingerly wrapped a veal and ham pie in paper as Deborah sliced bread to tuck into the basket on the counter. There was some stilton and gingerbread to pack, along with some cold tea and a bottle of ginger beer.

Things had been so stressful since the ball. They were simply waiting for Miss Grunger or Victoria to do . . . something. Anything. Four days later, and no note had arrived, nor summons, nor guest outside her sister-in-law Lily and Lily’s cousin, who were passing through Monday and visited for tea. Cora could push her worried into her own proverbial lock box and manage just fine; Owein was not so practiced at it. The stress burdened him. Cora wanted to give him some sort of respite, so she’d planned a picnic. A sliver of the day they could get away and leave everything else behind. There was a spinney some ways from the house but still on their property she’d put in mind, especially because walking helped Owein sort his thoughts. He’d done a lot of walking, this week.

“Thank you,” Cora said to Deborah. Her cook had gone home for the afternoon. “And pass my gratitude to Betsy as well.”

Owein met her outside, behind the conservatory. He was checking her watch when she came around with the large basket. She hadn’t told him what she had planned, only when. To her relief, a soft smile lit his countenance when he saw he. Stepping forward, he took the load from her. “A picnic?”

“And a walk to get there,” she offered.

He nodded. Glanced toward the stables, which were much more comely now, thanks to Abel’s administrations. “There’s an old cabriolet back there. Have you ever used it?”

She shook her head. “No. Perhaps we should get rid of it.”

“Perhaps.” He shifted the basket so it hung over his shoulder, then extended his hand to her. She took it. She didn’t wear gloves, and his skin against her sent moth wings twirling through her stomach. She’d slept in his bed every night that week, and yet the closer she grew to him, the more she touched him, the more she wanted to touch him. That want was a very dangerous thing. The more Victoria’s true colors shined, the more she wanted to protect her loved ones—including those who hadn’t, and couldn’t, be born.

Owein was making that . . . difficult.

They walked a good mile to the spinney, a little grove of trees she imagined some cousin of hers had planted. Owein pulled the blanket free and set it over grass and clover, and Cora took to setting out their meal and cutting Owein a slice of pie. As he ate, she brought up Frankenstein. They’d already finished Frankenstein, but Cora had hardly been able to read these last few days and had nothing smart to say about Jane Eyre. Nothing that would provide sufficient distraction.

“I wonder at Mary Shelley’s ending. She never says the monster dies, only that he intends to. Borne away by the waves, and lost in darkness and distance.”

Owein considered. Chewed, swallowed. She watched the movements of his jaw, then found herself mentally tracing the line of his shoulders. Caught herself and refocused on his face. Ogling him is not conducive to your goals, Cora.

“He’ll die from his own loneliness and rejection, I think,” Owein answered.

“A sad ending,” Cora spread butter on a piece of bread, “but a thoughtful one, however painful those thoughts are.”

“His choice for self-immolation is curious,” Owein went on. “He loved fire in the beginning, then learned to fear it. Hate it. And yet he intended to use that very thing to end his life.”

“Do you think Mary Shelley meant to tie that into her themes on light as well, or to break them?”

He met her eyes. He had faint circles under his, but his expression was warm. “I don’t know. Maybe both. Merritt told me once that readers love to find connections in his stories that he never intended to have, but he liked when they did so because it made him sound smarter than he is.”

Cora chuckled. “It would be interesting to dissect a novel with him.”

“He’d just love to talk about turns of prose and the adventure of it. He writes for the story itself; the wisdom just sneaks in there.”

She handed him the ginger beer. Took a bite of bread. Swallowed. “Would you ever write a novel?”

Owein shook his head. “I don’t think I have the patience for it. I love to read them, obviously, but writing one is a different beast. I think it would take the magic out of it, you know?”

“I like that. Magic in novels. It’s very . . . whimsical.”

“Don’t you agree?”

“I do.”

He studied her. “Would you ever write a book?”

Cora shook her head. “I don’t think I’ve enough magic in me to pull it off.”

“I think you do.”

She rolled her eyes. “Not that kind of magic.”

“I didn’t mean that kind of magic,” Owein countered.

She held his gaze, feeling very warm, as though it were July and not September. There’d been a lot of that, lately. Long gazes. Feeling warm. Wanting to be closer.

She cleared her throat. “I think I’ll have some of that.”

Owein popped the cork off the ginger beer and passed it to her. Cora took a long swig of it. Set it aside in the grass, where it wouldn’t tip over. Took another bite of bread.

Owein leaned forward as she swallowed, caressing the corner of her lips with the pad of his thumb. There must have been a smear of butter, there.

It made her ache somewhere deep.

“Cora,” he started, at the same time she said, “It’s not that I don’t want—”

Owein chuckled. Cora took another sip of ginger beer.

He waited for her.

“It’s not that,” she managed, “I don’t want to be . . . intimate with you, Owein. Please don’t misread—”

“You already explained yourself,” he offered. Soft. Understanding. She didn’t miss the distant look to his eye, though.

“I explained why I couldn’t,” she said, “but I’m adding it’s not because I don’t want to. It isn’t . . . it isn’t you.”

The air thickened between them. Cora should have worn a lighter dress.

“It’s not that I don’t want to, either,” Owein offered. “I very much do. But I respect your choices.”

She nodded, even as the statement warmed her face. Needing to feel busy, she started picking through the basket, but she’d unloaded it already, so she started picking around the blanket. Wrapping paper around what was left of the pie, setting the gingerbread aside—

“There’s other things we can do.”

She glanced up at him and paused. There was a look to his gray gaze, no longer warm but heated. A look that passed down her skeleton and made her toes curl.

She swallowed. “Other things?”

He simply nodded.

Chewing on the inside of her lip, Cora let her gaze trace the line of his jaw, the curve of his shoulders, the breadth of his chest and vee of his waist before returning to that penetrating gaze.

“Show me,” she whispered.

In draft 4 of this book, Owein and Cora got married in chapter 7. This scene takes place at Heatherwick House shortly after the discovery of the extraction program and Dolag.

Please excuse grammar and typos.

~*~

Cora sunk deep into the tub, until her head against the rim barely kept her above its surface. The sun had set after another long day, but it would be longer for Owein, who still hadn’t returned from London. She felt guilty over his constant excursions to Buckingham Palace; Heatherwick House wasn’t terribly far, but neither was it very close. Cyprus Hall was closer. And while Cora might claim she would never want to condemn her husband to staying the night with her mother and certainly not under the queen’s roof, Cora hadn’t suggested the solution simply because she wanted him here, as much as she could have him—which seemed to be less and less.

Her husband. It still felt odd to call him that.

Deborah had drawn the bath for her and made it up nice, scenting it with violets and the verbena she usually wore, even sprinkling a few rose petals atop. Candles lit the edges of the space. A tray across the tub’s foot held an array of soaps and pumices, but for now all Cora wanted to do was soak and let the hot water undo the aches in her back, hands, and head accumulated from persistent letter writing.

She was certain she could make this work. Get the answers she sought. The question was, what would she do with the answers once she got them?

She heard footsteps outside the bathing room door, too heavy to be Deborah’s, but Baxter shouldn’t be in here. When the door opened she startled, then relaxed a hair to see Owein walking in with a weary step. He looked smart in his blue uniform, but the shirt was unbuttoned and his hair was mussed and also Cora was very naked.

Her arms moved to cover her chest by habit as warmth surged to her cheeks, though she realized the modesty was somewhat ironic. Owein had seen her naked. Well, parts of her, she supposed. He’d never seen all of her naked, if she were to be specific about it.

Owein’s eyes glimpsed the water, which made her all the warmer and her stomach tight, but then they trained on the floor as he reached the tub. He collapsed to the stone tiles, his back to her, his shoulders leaning against the rim. One leg stretched out, one bent—

They were wearing him threadbare, weren’t they?

She sat up in the tub. “Owein? Are you all right?”

“It’s wrong, Cora.” He sounded like a dying fire. “Everything they’re doing is wrong.”

Her heart sank. “Ned?”

“Ned. Claris. All of it. Grunger batters her with questions, and the queen is no better. She understands the pips; I think she fears them using magic on her, prying into her mind, disorienting her more than they already have. She’s been given no time whatsoever to acclimate; they simply want her to perform.” He exhaled, long and slow. “She’s more comfortable with me than the others, but Grunger refuses to leave us alone for more than a few minutes at a time. I understand, I suppose, but if she wants her questions answered, I’m the one Claris will talk to. They’re guessing she lived in the fourteenth century, but they’ve yet to find any birth or death records.”

“Given the state of the hovel, she’s very likely peasantry,” Cora supplied, leaning on the rim. She got some water onto Owein’s uniform. “It’s harder to find records for them.” She considered. “She’s twice your age, then.”

“She is. I’m surprised she’s as capable as she is. I think Henrietta Adamson was thirty, or thereabouts. I suppose I should be relieved it wasn’t someone younger, like Ned. They’d certainly get more magicked babies that way.” Groaning, he pulled his knees up to his chest and set his head upon them.

She touched his shoulder, leaving a wet handprint. “What else?”

“I’m later than I meant to be because I spoke to Pankhurst. He seemed off. I talked to him.” He raised his head and dug a hand into his hair; the short white locks bristled between his fingers. “Apparently there’s been talk of assigning him to her. To Claris.”

Cora’s lips parted. Despite the warm bath water, she felt cold. “L-Loren is married.”

Owein nodded. “He is. The dust is still in the air; we can’t know anything until it settles, if it ever does. His words. Pankhurst only controls fire; Claris can create it. They’re different spells, but both fire elementals. Having progeny that can do both?”

“She’s ascending her funeral pile triumphantly,” Cora said half-heartedly, a weak quotation from Mary Shelley’s book. “But Pankhurst is right. The dust hasn’t settled. We just need to make sure we’re in the right place when it does.”

Owein leaned against the tub rim again, this time staring at the ceiling. “I’ll try to keep the wind going for as long as I can.”

Cora sat up fully behind him and wrapped her arms around his shoulders, thoroughly soaking his uniform and the linen undershirt he wore beneath. She pressed her face into his neck; he smelled like leather and forests and the bergamot Michael kept stocked on Owein’s washstand. He placed his dry hands over her wet wrists. They stayed like that for a minute, then two.

She wanted to protect him from all this. Shield him away, even if only at Heatherwick House. She loved him with all she was, so much so that, for not the first time, she considered her strict adamance over children simply because she wanted to be closer to him. Closest to him, as a husband and wife were meant to be. Yet Owein had just told her Victoria might very well break Loren Pankhurst from a marriage just for the sake of siring children with Claris, who certainly was unaware of the plan and wouldn’t easily agree to it. What would happen to those children, if the queen had her way? Would they be locked away until they were ready to make more wizards? Would they be stuffed in the same proverbial cell as Cora and Owein’s own babes?

Cora squeezed him tighter, breathed him deeper. It did nothing to worry about it, not now. Nothing but work her up, and the last thing she needed was her lungs to seize, or for her to weep over what-ifs when Owein was stuck in the thick of it.

Owein turned his head and pressed his lips to her wet cheek. Cora lifted her head, and he found her lips. She savored him, letting the sensual movements of his mouth soothe the rising unease. They’d both done all they could for the day; the night ought to be theirs.

“Are you very tired, Cora?” he whispered against her, his nose tracing her cheek.

A feather of excitement danced within her. “Not as tired as you are.”

“I’m not very tired,” he countered.

She kissed his lips, then his nose. “I am not very tired, either.”

Owein turned on his knee to kiss her more thoroughly, and when he fished her straight from the bathtub and carried her to her bedroom, she didn’t utter a word of complaint.

In draft 2 of this book, Owein and Cora got married in chapter 5. Cora had a fear of childbirth because of what the Queen might do with her wizarding progeny., so they had not yet consummated the marriage. Reuniting with Fallon happened much later in the book, and Owein and Cora had fled London after the burning at Buckingham Palace. These scenes takes place after Cora’s recovery from her asthma attack.

Please excuse grammar and typos.

~*~

The first day, they encountered many others on the roads. Ornate carriages laden with trunks, well-dressed men riding alongside on horseback. Fewer coaches, as though something in the city held them up. But by the second day, when Owein broke away from the main road, the path grew quieter.

            He found his way by road signs, cardinal directions, what little he had studied of England’s landscape, and Cora’s knowledge. In another lifetime not so long ago, another woman had told him what to look for, and so he kept his eyes and ears open, occasionally having to stop the cabriolet and mend it with magic.

            His bruises were worse the first day, and the cabriolet’s wheels against the bumpy road made him ache. Cora was alert but wane, unable to properly rest in the carriage. They had gotten out quickly enough that they found a room in the second inn they came to for the first night, but the second, they slept on the side of the road in the carriage. By the third night, they’d broken off from the hoard enough to find a room in a small inn in a small town, rumors of London already spreading among its people.

            “Where are we going?” Cora finally asked in the darkness of that room, pressed tightly against Owein’s shoulder in the hard bed.

            “The druids,” he answered.

            She said nothing more.

            Owein drove with urgency, yet at the same time an uncanny wrongness seeped into his bones. The shame of running when he ought to be fighting. He was a powerful wizard, comparatively. He ought to be in London, hunting down Dolag, standing beside his comrades in blue.

            But he wouldn’t give them Cora. He would never give any of them Cora.

            England wasn’t nearly the size of the States, but it certainly felt larger as they drove their little cabriolet down rough and winding roads. Owein didn’t know how long it would take to find the druids; they traveled between England and Ireland depending on the movement of British troops, weather, and food. If he failed to find their hideouts in England, he’d push them up to Ireland. They had the money and magic for it, but it would be an exacting journey.

            After the third night, Cora began using her luck spell. Owein knew for how forgetful she was, asking where they were headed, whose carriage this was, why she was wearing these clothes.

            “Pace yourself, Cora,” Owein said, stopping to let the horse rest. “I might need your wits more than your magic.”

            She did, burning luck on long stretches of road, staying focuses on tighter turns.

            On day four, in Sherwood Forest, Owein pulled the battered cabriolet up short, spying through the forest to a massive oak tree. The Sciryud Mother, surely. Fallon had only described it to him, but it was a druidic landmark.

            Owein stayed in the carriage a moment, listening hard. They seemed entirely alone in the wood.

            “Stay here,” he murmured before dropping from the carriage and stepping off the beaten road, keeping the Sciryud Mother in his sight. Even moving slowly, the underbrush of the forest crackled and clipped beneath his shoes. He crushed some mushrooms, picked his way over fallen, half-rotted trees. Caught his trousers on a thorn. Approached the enormous tree and placed his hand on his thick trunk, wishing Merritt were beside him. His touch could push through this tree’s roots. Tell him where to go, maybe.

            He glanced back toward the carriage, just barely visible through the thick trees. A bird called deeper in the wood. Owein walked around the tree, searching the dense greenery. He had to follow the road, with a carriage. It would be better to take refuge in Great Grimsby or the like than to wander helplessly in this forest with Cora.

            As Owein turned back, he found the sharpened end of a stick jabbing at his chin.

            “You’re loud,” the boy wielding it said. He looked about fourteen, his hair wild, skin tan. “What’s a nobleman like yourself doing way out here?”

            Owein glanced down as his common American clothes. “What makes you think I’m noble?”

            The boy looked at him incredulously. “You have a carriage.”

            It was in that look—something about the way the brow moved—that recognition hit Owein, followed by cold relief. “Kegan?”

            The boy’s eyes widened. He pulled his makeshift spear back an inch. “I don’t know you.”

            “You do, but it’s been a few years. I was a dog.”

            Kegan lowered the spear. “O . . . Owein?”

            Owein grinned. “I’ve been looking for you. There’s trouble in London—”

            “I know. The birds told us.” He frowned. “Is it really you?”

            Only Fallon had ever seen Owein in this human form. “I don’t know who else I’d be.”

            Kegan considered this, rolling his lips together. He dipped his head toward the road. “And that’s Cora Leiningen?”

            Owein nodded. “She’s in danger. I thought we could find refuge with you.”

            “You’re not druidic.” Kegan stood taller, as though his hackles were rising. “She shouldn’t have told you.”

            “I’m sorry.” And he was. For all of it. “But I didn’t know where else to turn.”

            Kegan watched him a long moment before stepping to the Sciryud Mother and putting his hand on it. Closed his eyes and remained still for half a minute.

            Owein turned toward approaching footsteps just as a low, Welsh voice said, “Owein Mansel.”

            “Sean.” Owein extended a hand, but the druid man embraced him instead. He smelled of earth and juniper. Nearing fifty, gray had woven into his beard and hair. “It’s good to see you.”

            “I wish under differing circumstances. You have much to tell us.”

            Kegan added, “Birds aren’t very specific.”

            “Owein?” Cora called from the road.

            Owein put up his hands as though in surrender. “I know how you feel about English aristocrats, but please—”

            “We welcome you both,” Sean said with a nod toward his son. Owein wondered just what Kegan had communicated through the tree. “But let’s go somewhere quieter. More comfortable. Can Cora manage it?”

            “She can.”

            Sean nodded. “It isn’t too far. But Owein, she’s here, too. Fallon.”

            His lungs squeezed against his heart. “I knew she might be. Whatever transpired between us, Fallon is one of my dearest friends.”

            Sean’s expression remained warm. “Come. Let’s free your horse, and I’ll show you the way.”

#

            Owein and Cora picked their way through Sherwood Forest, Sean leading the way, Kegan keeping up the rear. Whether out of care or suspicion, Owein couldn’t be sure. They stopped on occasion, Sean speaking through the trees or through squirrels, insects, wielding communion in a way Owein didn’t understand. By the time they’d trekked in a little over a mile, there were four others waiting for him. Morgance, Owein knew; she had been one of the druids he’d met years ago in the woodland bordering Cyprus Hall. She was peach-skinned, her honey-brown hair thick and long, her gauzy dress something that would cause a stir on any London street. Beside her, a copper-toned Indian woman, bent with age, silver-streaked white hair plaited elaborately, her attire made almost entirely from animal skins. Sean introduced her as Shraddha. A man, his freckles so thick his skin looked nearly as red as his beard, watched Owein and Cora with wary eyes. He looked to be a little older than Sean. Alarmingly thin, but dressed in common clothes no one would bat an eye at. Somewhat similar to what Owein wore now. Sean named him

            And behind them, Fallon.

            Despite knowing he’d see her, Owein stopped short when he spied her standing a few paces behind the others, glimpsing her face between Shraddha and Morgance. Her dark hair hung lose, as she often wore it, cascading over a linen dress with long sleeves to protect from the fingers and claws of the forest. Her green eyes met his, looked away, and met his again.

            His abdomen squeezed in, a knot of emotions he couldn’t untie. Hurt, guilt, awkwardness. Relief, that she was well, even if her expression hovered one twitch away from scowling.

            It seemed all the time in the world had passed between them, and yet none at all.

            “Hello,” Cora offered, curtsying to them, a little out of breath from the hike.

            “Owein Mansel and Cora Leiningen.” Shraddha’s voice sounded rough as the bark on a black cherry. Owein didn’t question how she knew them. The same way Kegan and Sean communicated with one another, they must have spoken to these as well.

            Morgance said, “You look well, Owein.” Her gaze shifted to Cora.

            “They will expand on London,” Sean said, sitting right on the earth, on a patch of clover half-covered with last autumn’s leaves.

            Owein glanced to Cora. He had no qualms sharing everything with the druids, but he understood he had taken oaths to the queen, however erroneous she was.

            Cora understood him, for she began, “There is a woman the queen took under her wing, named Dolag. A conjurer of fire. We don’t know exactly what set her off, but she’s sworn revenge against the upperclass. She—” Cora’s words cut. She cleared her throat, obviously trying to wrangle her emotion.

            “When we left,” Owein filled in, “Buckingham Palace was burning. The people are rioting. We traveled here on suggestion of Cora’s parents, as the aristocracy has been targeted.”

            Eyes narrowing, Shraddha said, “And you chose to this conjurer them straight to us?”

            Owein glanced to Fallon, who looked away. “We weren’t followed.” He took a deep breath. “Admittedly, I’m still very new to all this. I . . . don’t have many allies, here. People I can trust.”

            Morgance seemed pleased at this.

            That same feeling from before, that this was wrong, niggled at him, giving him the courage to add, “I would ask the druid’s help. Prince Albert is dead. I don’t know the status of the queen, but I assume her to be in hiding.”

            Brochadh snorted. “You think we’ll help them?”

            Shraddha nodded. “Let it burn, I say.”

            Cora blanched. “You can’t be serious.”

            Owein set a hand on her shoulder. “That will pull the entire country into anarchy. Put all of us at risk.”

            Brochadh frowned. Morgance and Shraddha considered.

            “We cannot know the future,” Sean mumbled, more to himself than anyone else. Behind him, Kegan kept quiet.

            “Dolag overwhelmed me,” Owein admitted. “In more ways than one.” He truly hadn’t wanted to hurt her. He understood her, or he’d thought he did. He’d wanted to.

            Could that have been him, in another few centuries?

            “The druids would be a boon. Your magic is potent,” Owein finished.

            “You realize,” Shraddha said, “that you ask us to help those who have only sought to hurt us. Who drove us from these lands and seek to drive us from our others. Who claim nature for themselves and dare name us poachers. Who would breed us, if they could get their hands one us.”

            Her gaze shifted between Owein and Cora, and it took every shred of Owein’s patience to keep his hackles from rising.

            What, exactly, had Fallon told them? That he had a betrothal contract because of his magic was true, but had she included the years of letters between himself and Cora? Had she included the pressed flowers and shared dreams, the fears and hopes scratched out in quick penmanship, the way he’d watched the ocean, waiting for her reply?

            “I would fight for you,” he tried. “In the House of Lords. I would take up my seat on your behalf.”

            He felt Cora look at him, but didn’t meet her gaze, though he wondered what lingered in it.

            Fallon, soft as feathers, asked, “What can one person do?”

            Owein watched her until she again met his eyes. “Far more than none can.”

            Sean stood and joined the three older druids. They turned his back to him, muttering in low tones in what Owein assumed to be Gaelic. After a few minutes, they broke apart.

            Sean said, “We will need to think on it, Owein. But we will continue to scout these forests. There’s a town near here, up your road and to the east, called Ollerton. You and Cora should find a coaching inn there, to lay your heads. We will guard you from the shadows.”

            “Thank you,” Cora offered, curtsying again. “I know . . . I know it’s been difficult, between your people and mine. I thank you for your guidance, and your understanding.”

            Sean smiled. “Aye, lass. In the end, people are people.”      

            Brochadh frowned at that.

            “I’ll help you back to the road,” Kegan said, brushing off his slacks. “Ollerton isn’t too far. If anything odd happens, we’ll tell you one way or another.”

            They picked their way through the brush, following a game trail for about an eighth of a mile, before Owein said, “Go on without me. I’ll catch up.”

            Cora’s blue eyes looked large and worried. She searched his face, but nodded, allowing Kegan to lead her on.

            Turning back, Owein didn’t have to go far before Fallon stepped out from behind a old, gnarled oak.

#

            Owein didn’t know what to do with his hands, so he slid them into his pockets. The rough material felt oddly comfortable to him, like all he’d done this last month was a dream. Like this was just a wooded place on Blaugdone Island, and Fallon had only just returned from another trip to Ireland. She’d never left him for long.

            Yet that wasn’t the story, and he couldn’t pretend it to be. Her calculating study of him made him too aware of himself. Drummed up a dull ache in his core. But it was dull, not sharp, which gave him some strength.

            “Fallon.” He said her name first, at a loss for the rest.

            She took a couple steps from the tree, graceful and lithe, as if the underbrush didn’t effect her.

            “How are you?” he tried instead.

            Her green eyes regarded him a few more seconds. “Well enough.”

            “I’m glad.”

            “Are you?”

            It didn’t surprise him in the least, her coolness toward him. “Of course I am, Fallon. You know I am.”

            She frowned, but some of the tension in her shoulders eased. Glancing away, she answered, “I know.”

            A few beats passed. “Will it cause problems for you, my coming here?”

            She shook her head. “No. Sean and Morgance consider you trustworthy.”

            Shifting his weight on his feet, Owein asked, “And do you?”

            She finally met his eyes again. Seemed to squirm internally with something. Had no problem letting several stiff seconds pass by before saying, “I suppose you’ve never given me a true reason not to trust you.” She eyed him head to toe, taking in his farmer’s clothing. “How is it, now? Your life among them, the Queen’s League and all that comes with it?”

            A bird screeched to the south. Another answered it to the west.

            “It’s different.” He ran a hand through his hair before returning it to his pocket. “I’m still getting used to it. I’ll be getting used to it my whole life.”

            She nodded. “That’s what you chose.”

            He studied her features, the tightness of her jaw and glimmer of her eyes. “It is what I chose, Fallon.”

            She looked away again, jaw tighter. So quietly he could barely distinguish it from the noise of the forest, she said, “I would have given you everything.”

            The dull pain in his center pulsed. “I know.”

#

            When Cora stopped along the trail, Kegan, the druid boy, didn’t complain. She turned back and squinted through the trees. If she put her hand on a mossy oak branch about level with her head and leaned out a bit, she could just barely see them through the nature-made maze. Owein, and Fallon.

            Fallon was beautiful. Exotic and wild, everything Cora pictured a druid to be. Sharp-jawed and high-cheeked, her bright eyes startling against her dark skin. So very different than Cora. She was entirely out of her element here, and she felt it keenly.

            Her heart sped. She shifted back and forth, gripping that tree, her sliver of view only enough to see one of them at a time. She couldn’t overhear their words; they were just a little too far for that, the insects of life of the forest a song, fluctuating buzz. She felt Kegan’s eyes on her, imagined his impatience, but she stayed there, watching, lungs feeling rough again for all new reasons.

            Owein took a step toward Fallon, gesturing with a weak hand. Fallon shook her head. A moment passed, and the druidic woman close the gap, running at Owein, throwing her arms around his neck. Cora bit down hard on nothing to keep herself still, even as a crack formed deep in her chest. Even as it grew larger, when Owein embraced Fallon back.

            And therein came the truth that Cora had known since before they left Cyprus Hall, since before her wedding. The truth that had stayed with her all along, that she’d tried again and again to bury so that she might have hope. So that she might have something to balm her presently breaking heart.

            Owein loved Fallon. He’d always loved Fallon. Were it not for their betrothal contract, he would have chosen Fallon. He had chosen her. Watching them there, even as they broke apart, Cora couldn’t feel betrayed. She’d always been the other woman, hadn’t she?

            Tear stung her eyes; she didn’t blink, lest they fall.

            She wanted Owein Mansel with everything she was. She wanted his blunt words and understanding mind, his strong arms and quirky accent, his love of books and dedication to his family. She wanted his arms around her as the fires built upon around them. She wanted her name on his lips.

            Yet as Lord Tennyson had written, Tis better to have love and lost than never to have loved at all.

            How true the sentiment rang now. For however much it broke her, however much the cracks spread like fracturing glass, she was glad to have loved him. She would, all her life.

            It just made the letting go so much more painful.

###

            They were both quiet on the road to Ollerton, and not just because she knew druids followed.

            Cora couldn’t bring herself to start conversation. Her soul sat too heavy inside her, and she feared if she spoke, her hurt would break through and she’d humiliate herself. If nothing else, she wanted to do this with dignity. London burned, but she still had a semblance of pride left. So she swallowed her emotions as she had all her life, forced her spine straight, and went through every mantra she’d gathered over the years to tuck her feelings away. To become wrought iron, an impenetrable castle wall, a diamond guarded with a dozen men’s swords.

            She understood why Owein didn’t speak. He was doing the same.

            The road followed a river and cut through hop fields. Signs directed them to London, York, Worksop, and Newark, but they rode their little curricle into Ollerton itself, stopping at a coaching inn called The White Hart, giving their stolen horse some much needed rest. Cora searched the surrounding streets for the druids.

            “They won’t come inside,” Owein murmured, noticing. “But if anyone managed to track us, they’ll know before they reach the inn.”

            Owein carried their bags inside himself. Cora stood off to the side, smoothing Deborah’s dress, as he spoke to the innkeeper. She ought to feel out of place in such simple fare, its hem dirtied from the trek through the wood, but she didn’t. The dining area was only a third full, and no one paid her any mind. They would have, were she dressed as a noblewoman. She didn’t want to be noticed. Not only for Dolag’s insidious promise, but for her own bearing. She couldn’t put on her noble mask right now. Maybe never again.

            There were rooms available; they took the stairs up and approached the door at the far end of the hall. Cora thanked the Lord quietly for that. It felt farther away from everything else. Safer, quieter. Hopefully no one here would hear her cry through the walls, when her iron ran out. It would, eventually. It always did.

            The room was longer than it was wide, with two windows, since it sat at the inn’s corner. A half-partitioned wall separated a little sitting area from the bedroom. The furniture was fine but well-used, the wallpaper a lovely scarlet floral pattern but dulled over the years, the small fireplace unlit. Linen drapes covered the windows, drawn, filtering evening glow. The sun was starting to set, casting shapes in indigo and the sky gray. Clouds made for lovely sunsets, but there were too many of them tonight. Perhaps a storm was coming. It seemed apt. Poetic, even.

            She straightened a ceramic match striker set on the mantle, making it even with the mantle’s edge.

            Owein set their things in front of it, then stretched his back. “I’ll see about dinner. It might be better for us to eat up here.”

            “Owein.” Her throat squeezed a little around his name, so she carefully cleared it. Stood straighter, until her spine might snap from it. Best to do it now. It would poison her, the longer she waited. Poison her, and poison him, too. “About our betrothal contract.”

            His full attention turned on her, pale like the full moon. She didn’t quite meet his eyes—another trick she’d learned under Victoria’s tutelage. If you looked at one’s nose, or their eyebrows, it took away the sting of their words, without them noticing you were avoiding their gaze.

            “I know it very well,” she went on, pleased with the evenness of her voice. “I’ve read it many times. And, by all means, you’ve fulfilled it.”

            Owein’s eyebrows drew together. “We did get married, Cora.”

            “That is true.” She was twisting her fingers about now, but couldn’t bring herself to tuck them away. It gave her something else to focus on. “That is what the contract demands. That you marry me, and that you join the Queen’s League of Magicians, and you have done both.” She sucked in a deep breath. “But under British law,” another deep breath, “because we have not consummated the union, you could apply for an annulment. I would not fight it.”

            She still didn’t look at his eyes, which limited the effect of his expression. Owein had gone very still.

            She had to clear her throat again, this time pulling her gaze from him entirely, instead situating it on a spot on the wall, near the window. “I know . . . I understand it’s been hard for you, leaving Fallon behind.” Dammit it all, she felt the edges of her composure crumble. She took a moment to tuck and bury, bury and tuck. Wrought iron, wrought iron, wrought iron. “You have truly been a great friend to me, Owein. And a good husband. I would not want . . . that is, I would not stand in your way, should you file for it. Any ripples it might cause would die down soon enough, especially with . . . London . . . as it presently stands.”

            She glanced at him, his stillness, the tightness of his brow. “I’m safe here, tonight. You could tell her now, if you wanted. Or in the morning, when there’s better light. You could,” she swallowed hard and forced a smile. “You could go home, Owein.”

            Her chest burned. It singed her ribs. Her heart hammered hard and fast, trying to cool her body down. It seemed the only sound in their room, making her miss the hum of the forest. She wrung her hands together, her fingers cold and clammy. Just a little longer. Be strong just a little longer.

            The creaking of a floorboard broke the silence first. Owein moved from the mantel to her. She readied herself to take his thanks demurely. Let her be the hero in the story, for once, even if it meant an unhappy ending for her own. She would do anything for Owein. Even this.

            It startled her completely when Owein instead crouched, grabbed her around her thighs, and threw her over his shoulder like a sack of flour. The room flipped over her head and left her square with his backside.

            “Owein!” she screeched as he walked. She thought for the door, and her entire body lit on flames. How utterly humiliating, for the inn’s tenants to see her treated thus! “What are you doing?”

            But Owein passed the door and the little partition, dropping her gracelessly on the bed there. The room spun a little with the movement. Propping herself on an elbow, she blinked rapidly to right herself as Owein knelt at the edge of the mattress and pulled his suspenders off his shoulders.

            She gaped and repeated, “What are you doing?”

            “Consummating the marriage,” he answered simply, untucking his shirt.

            The flames relit under her skin for entirely new reasons. “I-I . . . what?”

            “You’re sputtering nonsense,” he went on, deftly unbuttoning his shirt. Cora’s mouth went dry as Fino sherry.

            “I . . . I most certainly am not!” her thoughts spun.

            He pulled the shirt off and chucked it to the side; it hit the wall and slumped to the floor, followed by his undershirt. The sight of his long torso, bare and trailed with white hair, mottled by a few healing bruises, whipped her pulse through her entire core.

            Was this . . . was this really happening? No, this was a dream—

            Owein lowered himself over her; Cora found herself on her back gaping up at him, one of his hands pinned to either side of her head, his gray eyes somber and locked with hers. “Cora.” His voice sounded deeper, rougher. “I chose you. I choose you. I love you.”

            The vision of him distorted as banished tears flooded her eyes. A few spilled over the corners and ran into her ears. “B-But,” she whispered, “But Fallon—”

            He lowered himself to his elbows, his legs patterning with her own, his hips pressed to hers, his nose close. “Fallon will always be dear to me, but you are my wife. You were my hope and my adversary, then my friend, and now the dearest person in my life.” He leaned to one side to free a hand, smoothing hair from her face. His eyes darkened. “Don’t push me away, Cora.”

            He kissed her then, his lips slow and warm. Cora shut her eyes, spilling more tears. Dug her hands into his hair and savored him, his taste and the press of his body, her heart crackling and core tightening.

            “Truly?” she asked when he broke for a breath. “Do you really mean it?”

            The tip of his nose brushed the side of hers. “Which part?”

            “That,” she swallowed, jittery, “that you love me?”

            He rested his forehead on hers. “I have always loved you, Cora. I have loved your letters and your tenacity, your tenderness and your insight. And I have wanted to love you like this,” he kissed her lips, then her jaw, “for some time now.”

            More tears came. She couldn’t help them, nor the harsh laugh that tore up her throat. “I love you too, Owein,” she murmured, brushing her lips against his. “I love you so dearly.”

            He lifted up just enough to meet her eyes. A smile pinched the corners of his, but something darker and far more scorching lay in their depths. “I don’t want you to be afraid of me,” he whispered. “I’ve respected your inhibitions, with pregnancy—”

            Lifting her head from the mattress, she kissed him again. Then, feeling daring, ran her palms down his bare arms, ignited by the sensation of skin on skin. “I trust you completely, Owein Mansel.”

            Everything changed in that moment. The atmosphere of the room, the weight of him, the tension of promises made over an altar. They moved slowly, tenderly, discovering and learning, sowing new promises for the night and for the future, sealing something between them that could never, ever be broken. Owein Mansel became well and truly hers.

            And she became forever his.

#

            Owein was torn.

            Not over Cora; no, he’d made that decision before he’d left Blaugdone Island, and he’d never regretted it. But while he lay in bed with his wife tucked securely to his side, moonlight blotted by the drapes, he knew men rioted in London. Knew his colleagues and friends were in danger.

            Did Buckingham Palace still burn?

            He was happy. He was tucked away from society with a beautiful, gracious, and naked woman in his arms. And yet just as he’d sworn himself to Cora, he’d sworn himself to the queen. Owein had no tender feelings for Victoria. He certainly didn’t like what she’d done with the Extraction Program, nor the shadow she cast over him and his family. Still, he recognized how much he owed her. Recognized how much everyone stood to lose should she fall.

            Not like this. Were England to change, it couldn’t be like this. The violence would lead to anarchy and would change the country for the worse, not the better. Owein didn’t know if England could change otherwise, but it couldn’t happen at the hands of a fire-wielding madwoman.

            Owein knew, no matter how perfect the night was, that the responsibility to stop Dolag laid on his shoulders.

            He tried to push it away. Twisted a curl of Cora’s hair around his finger. Pressed a kiss to her crown. Fell asleep again, for a little while. But Pankhurst and Loughty were in his dreams. When he woke again, he could almost smell the smoke.

            So Owein laid there as perfection slowly seeped away, like holding water in cupped hands, mulling over his options. He knew two things for certain: he had to help them, and he would never, ever allow Dolag near Cora again.

            In the end, he supposed he’d known he’d go back all along. He wouldn’t have packed his uniform, shoved in the very bottom of his bag, otherwise.

            Drawing in a deep breath, Owein kissed Cora’s crown once more before carefully extricating himself from her. A soft sound in her throat protested, but she remained asleep. He pulled the blankets up to her shoulder and carefully slid off the bed. Put on his last set of clean undergarments and dug out the blue uniform with its yellow, black, and purple pips. Putting it on evoked a sort of reverence he hadn’t felt before. As though all this time, it had merely been a costume. Now, it was a uniform. A symbol. A choice.

            Owein quietly repacked his bag, leaving some of his belongings out to keep it light. Redistributed the purse to ensure Cora would have what she needed to be comfortable. He slung the bag onto his shoulder and paused. He hadn’t brought writing implements with him; they hadn’t seemed important at the time. The inn should have something downstairs, so he could leave a note—

            “Owein?”

            He turned as Cora sat up in bed, holding the sheet to her chest. The moonlight emphasized the worry in her eyes and the fear across her brow.

            He crossed the room to her. “I have to go back to London,” he explained softly, cupping her shoulder and running a thumb along it. “They’re fighting there without me. Pankhurst—”

            “No, I understand,” she interrupted, sitting up straighter. “We should go, but it will be safer at dawn—”

            Owein wilted. “Please, Cora. Please stay here.”

            She pulled back. “I’m also in the Queen’s League, Owein.”

            “I know. I’m not doubting you.” He took both her shoulders, now. Gently, imploringly. “But I can’t fight her and protect you at the same time.”

            He felt anger heat her skin. “I don’t need you to protect me,” she countered.

            Owein said nothing, fearing anything that passed his lips would hurt her. In his silence, he watched her brow turn, her lips part, her eyes deepen. Because Owein didn’t have to explain himself. Cora knew quite personally the weaknesses she had against Dolag, even with her own litany of spells. The moment the rogue conjurer set something alight, Cora was done for.

            She reached up and grasped his sleeve. “Please don’t go.”

            Owein lowered the bag to the floor. Pushed the heels of his hands into the bed and leaned forward so he could look at her eye-to-eye. “Cora, if you ask me to stay, I will stay. If you ask me to take you to Scotland, Ireland, Greenland, or the arctic, I will do it. I will do anything you ask of me.” He shifted his weight and cradled her face.

            Her eyes welled. Arms trembled. They stayed like that for several seconds.

            “Kiss me,” she said.

            Owein obliged, lowering his mouth to hers. He savored her, then grew hungry and pressed closer, coaxing her lips apart, delving in the heat of her. He kissed her like it might be the last chance he got.

            Tears fell down her cheeks when they broke apart. Owein swept them away with a curled knuckle.

            “Go,” she whispered.

            Owein took her hand in his. Squeezed it. Forced himself to let it go. Grab the back, head for the door.

            He’d nearly reached it when she added, “And come back to me, Owein Mansel. That’s an order.”

            A smile tempted his mouth. He nodded. Slipped into the dark hall, and then the dark night.

            He took the horse and left the curricle behind.

Follow up from the above scene (Druid & Ollerton) from draft 2 of the book. This scene shows what Cora did in Ollerton after Owein returned to London to fight Dolag.

Please excuse grammar and typos.

~*~

Before

Cora sat upright in the bed in Ollerton a long time, hugging the inn’s blankets to her naked chest, staring after the path Owein had taken to return to England. The room had chilled since his departure, until Cora would not have been surprised to part the drapes and see snow.

            She squeezed the blankets in her fists, until she couldn’t feel her fingers anymore. Until when she let go, it took the joints a moment to remember how to straighten.

            She couldn’t hide here while the love of her life risked everything to save her. Couldn’t sit here while that woman threatened her family and friends. Destroyed her home. Yes, she was weak. Maybe she’d always be weak. But she had to do something.

            So Cora stood, cleaned herself up, and pulled on Deborah’s dress. Pulled her hair into a simple bun and checked her bags. The sun would rise in an hour or so, but the longer she waited, the farther he would get.

            Pretending she didn’t tremble, Cora left the key on the mantle and stepped out of the room. Down the long hallway and the stairs. Someone was up in the kitchen; she had candlelight and hummed a folk song to herself. Cora didn’t greet her. Breakfast could wait.

            She slipped outside, flaring her luck should a ruffian or the like pass by, but the street appeared empty. She came back around the inn toward the stable, finding her curricle, and—

            No horse. Their horse was gone, and no others occupied the pens.

            Cora wilted. Stood rooted to the spot for a solid minute before shaking herself.

            There will be a coach, surely. Unless Ollerton was too small for them. She would have to check—

            She turned and nearly collided into a man. Caution rang in her ears until she recognized him. By smell first, oddly enough. She scrambled to remember his name.

            “Sean?” she asked.

            “I’m sorry my lady,” he said, “but he asked us to keep you here.”

            Her lips parted. “I wish to leave.”

            Sean shook his head. “I promised him. To keep you safe.”

            Cora felt tears start in her throat and work their way up toward her sinuses. “Then come with me. Protect me along the way.”

            “I can’t do that. Please, go back inside. We’ll talk in the morning.”

            She nearly stomped her foot. “I take it your mind won’t change with the sun.”

            He nodded. “Afraid not, my lady.”

            Sean escorted her back to the front of the inn. Saw her inside, though he didn’t come in himself. Dejected, Cora dragged her feet up the stairs and back into her room. Dropped her bag on the bed. Worried her hands for several minutes.

            “No,” she said aloud. “No more cages.”

            She would have a sharp word with her husband when she caught up to him. Very sharp.

            Cora went to the window. Opened it an inch before it stuck. She nearly tore through her nails bullying it up the rest of the way.

            She looked down. She was two stories up, with nothing beneath her to break her fall. Would her luck spell be enough? Mayhap she wouldn’t land on her feet, but it could keep her from breaking something. If she had more practice with her magic, she might jump and then use wind to slow herself, but that would just put her in the same can’t-breathe predicament as before. She thought of summoning stones until a pile grew large enough for her to step down. Another time, another place, she might have found that funny. Right now, she found it devastating.

            Leaves on a tree across from her window shifted as a bird landed in its branches. Not any bird; a white hawk. Cora’s pulse quickened. “Fallon?”

            The hawk did not reply.

            She swallowed, trying to banish the threat of tears. “Please, I need to go back to London. Sean won’t let me leave. Please, help me.”

            The hawk regarded her coldly.

            “Owein’s gone on his own, to stop Dolag.” She blinked rapidly. “I-I don’t know the state of London. I don’t know how his magic will fare against hers—”

            The leaves shook again, branch bobbing, as the hawk morphed into a night-shadowed woman, her long legs dangling down. Naked, as far as Cora could tell.

            Fallon said, “Do you really think you could help him?”

            She took it as the dart it was meant to be, then tucked it away. “Truthfully? No. But I have to try.”

            The druid scoffed.

            Cora leaned out the window. “Please, Fallon. I love him. You love him. He means to protect me, but I’ve always been protected. All my life, I’ve been protecting. Your people . . . they are caging me. I’m so tired of being caged.”

            Fallon watched her for several long seconds before sighing. “Throw your bag down first. There’s a soil pipe over here. You can use it as a foot hold.”

            Hope bloomed in Cora’s chest. As Fallon leapt down from the tree, Cora rushed back for her back, lowering it down as far as she could before releasing it. She expected to hear it hit the ground, but instead Fallon caught it and set it aside.

            It only occurred to Cora as she knotted her skirt and slipped out the window that Fallon could just let her fall. Praying in trust and flaring her luck, Cora followed Fallon’s hushed direction for picking her way down. Cora wasn’t much of a climber. Her foot slipped once, but she held tight with her hands, moving enough to jump down.

            This wasn’t Heatherwick House. Where was she? What time was it?

            “Here,” someone tossed a large bag at her. It hit the ground at her feet. “I’m not carrying it.”

            Cora blinked. “Who are you? Where am . . .” she blinked again. “Oh, sorry. I was flaring some luck on my way down.”

            She couldn’t be sure, but she thought the druid rolled her eyes. “Follow me exactly if you don’t want Sean to notice.”

            Fallon moved away from the road, toward a copse of trees.

            “Um,” Cora whispered, “do you want something to wear?”

            “No.”

            Fallon’s footsteps padded so softly Cora couldn’t hear them. Despite what she’d said, Fallon did grab a towel from a hanging line as they past and wrapped it around her.

            Wait.

            If clothing didn’t morph with alteration magic . . . had Owein seen Fallon naked? Surely the druid had born a sense of modesty during her time at Blaugdone—

            You know what? I don’t want to know, she determined, and left it at that.

            They crossed behind a house and two more streets before arriving at a tiny post office. “Mail coach comes through here,” Fallon said. “Earlier than any passenger coaches. I’m sure you can use your nobility to hitch a ride. If not,” she pointed down the street, “a passenger coach comes by around noon down there.”

            Cora breathed out a sigh of relief. The sky was starting to lighten as well, meaning she wouldn’t have to stand in the dark much longer. “Thank you, Fallon. Truly.” She paused. “Do you want to come with me? We can use all the help we can get.”

            But Fallon shook her head, her long, dark hair rippling. “Not to London. It’s not safe for me, there.” She paused. “But I’ll follow the carriage a little ways. It might not go straight to London, either.”

            As a member of the Queen’s League of Magicians, Cora could technically commandeer it. She’d brought her license, just in case. “I understand.”

            Fallon regarded her a moment. “Protect him,” she said, “for the both of us.”

            And then her body shrank back into that of a bird.