7 GROUNDED—BAD LANGUAGE—DANGEROUS QUESTIONS—JUST A SMALL PRICK—BIXBY OPTIMIZES THE SEARCH—A PROPOSAL OF MARRIAGE—FUNNY BUSINESS—THE SCENT OF A WOMAN Kisses are foolish things. The pleasure of rational thought is not enhanced by them, and the inconvenience is often considerable. Therefore Charlotte was pleased—exceedingly pleased!—couldn’t have been happier!—when the hard landing of the house caused Alex to stumble away from her before their kiss could properly commence. “What the hell?” He looked around, blinking at the tumult in the room, the swinging windows and gaping front door. From the shock on his face, Charlotte realized he had somehow failed to notice until now what had been happening. “Fluff!” he swore. (In fact it was a word vastly more potent than “fluff,” but Charlotte’s brain decided she’d had just about enough for one day, and took pity on her.) Without even glancing again at Charlotte, he stormed across the room, kicking strewn books and tools aside as he went, and disappeared into the hall leading to the cockpit. Charlotte took a deep, unsteady breath. Her throat seemed full of ashes; her eyes ached as if light-burned. Never before had magic left her feeling this way. The intensity frightened her enough that she responded in true witchy fashion by sweeping it up, along with the realization she’d almost kissed a man; boxing them both neatly; and putting them alphabetized on a mental shelf. This left her brain calm and tidy again. Staid questions entered instead, wiping their feet first and speaking in level tones: Where did Captain O’Riley put my gun? . . . What should I do now? . . . and Is there time to brush my hair first? Clearly, finding her gun amongst the disorder of the pirate’s sitting room would be impossible, and she’d likely risk bacterial infection by trying. Instead, she smoothed her skirts and tidied her hair as best she could, until she felt calm settle through her once more. Then she picked a careful path over to the front door and peered out. They had set down in someone’s garden. This much was a relief. Less relieving was the fact it was a rooftop garden. And the edge of the roof was mere inches away. Charlotte swallowed a word that might have doomed them. Just then, a townhouse and a cottage flew past. Toots emerged from the townhouse as if someone blew on a horn. Charlotte huffed with an inexplicable feeling of offense. But there was nothing to do except watch as the other houses incinerated a quarter-mile from the advantage Alex’s cottage had held. Shutting the door, she picked another careful path through the sitting room, toward the cockpit this time. Alex and his butler were arguing therein. “You shouldn’t have landed here,” Alex was saying, one hand on his sword pommel as he scowled at the butler. Bixby’s expression of bored disapproval impressed Charlotte so much, she made a mental note of how she might replicate it. “It was either land on this roof or land on our roof,” the butler replied calmly. “You’re overreacting. So we were a little unstable—” Bixby merely turned his head to look at the armchair, which was now propped upside down against a wall. Alex’s mouth flattened with annoyance. Then he caught sight of Charlotte, and the annoyance spread through his countenance into his eyes, his breathing; even his hair looked annoyed from having a hand tugged through it. “You’re still here.” “Yes,” Charlotte replied with as much dignity as possible, considering a few moments ago she had almost surrendered that dignity beneath his lips. “I might be able to climb down from the roof of a four-story townhouse if I tried, but I still do not have the amulet in my possession and therefore am going nowhere. Speaking of which, why are we not in hot pursuit?” “We?” Alex replied. “We, madam, are two men who were quietly attending to our disreputable business until hijacked. We do not include a meddling witch whose magic almost made us crash.” (Charlotte scoffed, mainly because it was true.) “We—” “We,” Bixby interjected, throwing a reproving glance at his employer, “were just discussing the recommencement of hot pursuit. Miss Pettifer, would you care for a cup of tea while you wait?” “Wait?!” Alex and Charlotte spoke in unified dismay. “I’m a pirate; I don’t wait,” Alex said. “My amulet is getting away,” Charlotte added. “I beg to suggest it has already gone,” Bixby told her. “Seven houses and what appeared to be a ticket booth have flown ahead of us. Not even this house can go fast enough to outpace them all now.” “Shit.” Alex shoved at his hair again as he turned to glare out the window. Bixby’s mouth pursed. “There is a lady present, sir.” “I am aware,” Alex retorted. “She’s the reason we’re in this shitty situation.” Charlotte bristled. “I wouldn’t be if you had done the gentlemanly thing and allowed me complete authority over your battlehouse.” “Madam, I advise you not to request gentlemanly behavior from a piratic rake unless you’re prepared to accept all of the consequences.” “Sir, if you are truly a rake, then I am a milkmaid.” He turned to her with eyes that glittered dangerously. “I just kissed you,” he pointed out, and his voice sounded like a kiss itself. “You most certainly did not! A brief and temporary conjunction of lips does not equate to a—” She paused, because almost kissing a pirate was one thing, but speaking about it represented a whole new level of impropriety. “If you think that it does, sir, I can only pity your future wife.” He took a lithe step toward her. She stood her ground, cocking her mouth into a smile. “Pardon me,” the butler interposed before a fireball suddenly appeared on the rooftop of a London townhouse. Charlotte and Alex snapped their attention to him, but he did not even blink. “I doubt we would have caught Lady Armitage in any case,” he said. “She had too much of a lead on us.” “Then it is not a matter of speed but intelligence,” Charlotte answered. Now both men stared at her, their eyes dark, their hard jawlines taut. She felt a sudden, uncharacteristic leap of anxiety, appreciating finally that, in her haste to pursue the amulet, she had entered without a chaperone into the private company of a notorious scoundrel and his assassin-butler. Not even flying a bicycle in public touched upon the scandal this represented. She’d be ruined if anyone learned of it, and worse—Aunt Judith would sigh in Disappointment. The proper feminine behavior at this point would be to say no more, leave the room, and lock herself in the closet. Charlotte did not need to reference a Jane Austen novel to know that. Clearly, there was only one choice she could make. Taking a deep breath, she shook back her hair, lifted her chin, and marched forward to the house’s enormous, spoked wheel. The men watched her, incredulous. Between the wheel and the window stood a tilted surface strewn with maps. Although these offered nothing comprehensible to her, Charlotte nevertheless tapped one officiously. “I may be a mere London girl,” she said, “but even I know one can plot a tractory—” “Trajectory,” Alex corrected. “—to determine the probable course of one’s prey.” “And this is something you learned in embroidery class, is it?” She did not deign to look at him. “It is something every philanthropist is taught. Planning. Prediction. The subtleties of the art.” “Philanthropist,” Alex echoed. “Independent manager of wealth redistribution,” she clarified. “Ah. Thief.” “Do you want to listen or not?” He shrugged. “Not. But don’t huff—” “Huff?!” Charlotte, alas, huffed. “I will admit your idea makes sense. Armitage has to land sooner or later, and we may be able to get there before her—or at least before the other pirates—if we can find a shorter route. The question is, where?” “If you will give me just a moment, sir,” Bixby said. Turning to a series of alphabetized drawers set in the steering cabinet, he opened the uppermost and took from it a file thick with papers, which he proceeded to read. “You should go home,” Alex told Charlotte. “Seriously, I know you want that amulet, and I give you credit for your determination, but this is a dangerous business, not appropriate for a lady. Please understand, I’m only thinking of your safety when I—” The thin but extremely sharp rapier at his throat prevented further speech. “Perhaps you should think again,” Charlotte suggested calmly, twitching her besom so the rapier point scratched his skin. He grinned. His eyes became heavy with an expression Charlotte did not recognize but her body certainly seemed to. She could almost feel his pulse beating through the rapier into her own veins. Suddenly, holding a weapon to him seemed lewd, and she pulled it back, leaving a tiny red mark on his throat. Without blinking, he reached up and touched a fingertip to the mark, then to his lips. His eyes smiled wickedly as he licked the finger. Charlotte sensed a blush erupting over her entire body. She snapped the besom shut and returned it so forcefully to a pocket that the fabric strained against its seams. “How revealing,” Bixby murmured. Charlotte and Alex turned to glare at him. But he did not seem to notice what was happening between them. “Lady Armitage’s dossier suggests she has a proclivity for the seaside. I venture to suggest, since she is heading east, she will be aiming for the coast.” “You have a dossier on Lady Armitage?” Charlotte asked with surprise. “Madam, all professional butlers are tapped into an interconnected array of informational networks.” Confused, Charlotte glanced at Alex. “They gossip,” he translated. Bixby bristled at this. “We participate in the sharing of resources and dub-dub-dub—” He paused, straightening his spectacles. “Excuse me. Dubbed copies of possible factoids.” Again, Charlotte looked to Alex. “Rumors,” he said. If Bixby bristled any more, he risked exploding into sharp pieces. “I myself take the liberty of creating files, such as this one about Lady Armitage. A quick search for certain keywords enables me to suggest where the lady is heading.” “Tilbury,” Alex guessed. “The Wisteria Society used to meet at the docks in the old days.” “And that is no doubt why everyone is flying in that direction, even though Lady Armitage is now out of visual range,” Bixby said. “But I believe she is going to Clacton-on-Sea. Records show she has a friendship with the vicar there.” “Why should that be significant?” Charlotte asked. Alex snapped his fingers, then pointed one at Bixby. “Because the amulet isn’t the only thing she took—and perhaps not the most important to her. Right?” “Indeed,” Bixby said. “When dealing with Isabella Armitage, one must always consider the possibility she is wanting to marry.” “Poor Tom,” Alex murmured. “Tom? The boy who stole my amulet?” Charlotte tried to find sympathy for him within herself, but failed. “Marriage to Lady Armitage is the least punishment he deserves.” “Don’t let Constantinopla hear you say that,” Alex advised. “Who?” “Constantinopla Brown, generally known as Oply. Tom’s fiancée, feisty young pirate, and as she would have it, close personal friend of Her Majesty, Queen Victoria.” “Oh.” Charlotte recollected the girl in the museum queue. “I am not afraid of a sixteen-year-old.” “You should be,” Alex and Bixby chorused. “She has refined spoiled brattishness to an art form,” Alex added. “What she wants, she gets, and woe betide anyone standing in her way.” “So you’re saying she’s piratic?” “No, she—” “Wait, I think I understand. She’s a young female. Therefore her behavior, while typical for pirates, is, in her, mere brattishness.” Alex opened his mouth to reply, but upon seeing Charlotte lift one eyebrow in anticipation, closed it again wordlessly. Charlotte tried not to smirk. “In any case, Oply is not here. We still are, however—sitting on this rooftop when we ought to be pursuing Lady Armitage. The question is, do we aim for Tilbury or Clacton-on-Sea?” “Clacton,” Alex said without hesitation. “Bixby is no twitter. His analytical ability is one of the reasons I employ him.” “Thank you, sir,” Bixby chided. Alex gave him a wry smile. “Set a course for Clacton. And, Miss Pettifer—” “I’m coming too.” He sighed, and rolled his eyes, then turned his smile on her. Charlotte saw it coming, but felt unconcerned. After all, she was a Plim, and nothing daunted a— The smile struck her with the full force of its crooked charm. Sparks flew through her body as every nerve fell into utter disarray. She’d forgotten she was also a Pettifer. Suddenly she thought of her mother urging her to have a “conversation” with this man, and her nerves sizzled again. Furious with herself, she glared at Alex. His smile widened. “All right,” he said. “I suppose I won’t make you walk the plank. Yet.”
In the British Museum’s Grenville Library, silence crouched like an anxious curator who had been through too many fire alarms that week. It flashed here and there as light caught on shards of glass from the shattered display case. It wavered at its edges as museum patrons talked in the foyer beyond. If the silence had fingernails, it would be biting them about now. The actual curator did not feel much better. Some fool in administration had thought calling the police about the stolen amulet would be a good idea, and now the curator had to stand smiling in the worried silence while Detective Inspector Creeve examined the crime scene. “I fear we are wasting important police resources,” he said finally, the words bursting out in near desperation for noise. “This is really not anything for you to be concerned with.” DI Creeve glanced up from beneath a pale, sparse eyebrow. His hair was so light and thin it seemed like cobwebs. His mouth was spectral. The look he gave the curator did not only pierce but twisted on its way through. The curator laughed shakily. “Well, yes, I know there was a theft. And destruction of museum property. And Eustace did get his nose broken when that old lady hit him with her crutch. But for the publicity officer to have called the amulet ‘gold’ may be considered a liberal interpretation of the . . . well, to put it exactly . . . truth.” DI Creeve just went on wordlessly staring. Those eyes, thought the curator while his breath cowered and his instincts ran screaming for an emergency exit. It wasn’t just that they were the color of bone. It was the way they assessed a man as if they saw . . . indeed, bone. And secrets, old, terrible secrets a man barely even knew he had. Shuffling back, he knocked into a bust of Thalia, which resulted in a moment of chaotic fumbling that would have been amusing to relate had not the policeman watched it impassively, casting a chill over the scene. “Black’s amulet was, of course, an important historical artifact,” the curator said once he had the statue and his wits straight again. “We are upset at its loss. But what can you do when pirates want to take something?” “It was not pirates,” DI Creeve said. “But they were everywhere! With their swords and guns and oh my God their hats, not to mention the smiles . . .” The curator shuddered. “This is the work of someone even more nefarious.” Creeve spoke the word as if it were a rich chocolate with raspberry at its heart, and he licked his thin white lips afterward. “I assure you, Detective, that we have entertained no lawyers here.” Creeve did not respond to this hilarious joke. He just stood, staring. The curator had never seen skin splayed so awkwardly across facial bones before, nor been so doubtful of the life force behind it. One does not like to believe in ghosts when one is a historian, but this man menaced his imagination with the possibility. Many seconds later, there was a knock at the door, and the curator wrenched his eyes toward it. “That will be the cleaners.” “Let them in,” Creeve said. “I have finished my inspection and know who committed this crime.” “You do? Goodness, how remarkably clever.” Please go away now and arrest them and never come back. “Who was it?” “Can you not smell her?” Creeve asked, and began to sniff the air. “Um.” The curator attempted a sniff, although it was a pathetic affair, tempered by embarrassment. He could smell old wood, older books, and blood from the pirates’ melee. But he did not think Creeve would be interested in his olfactory report. The policeman was nosing the dusty light as if hungered by it. “Bitterness,” Creeve said, licking the word out of the air. “Heat. From anger or perhaps passion; red heat, burning away all good sense. And—hm, lilac. A witch was here.” Laughter shot from the curator’s throat. Creeve went still, and the curator hastily turned the laugh into a cough. “A witch,” he sputtered. “Goodness, how dreadful!” “More dreadful than you can imagine.” Creeve moved his stare to a briefcase lying amongst the shattered ruins of a marble bust, and for a moment teeth appeared between his lips, small, sharp, and hungry. “A witch born of sin, raised in wickedness. An abomination.” “Oh dear,” the curator murmured, tugging at his shirt collar, which suddenly seemed too tight. “They are everywhere,” Creeve hissed. “Fingering the secrets of our society, plucking, stealing, stirring things up. But this one in particular—” He sniffed the air again. “This one is their heart. Their promise for the future. Could they have been more stupid—and more helpful—marking it out with a prophecy so it’s easier to hunt down? Fear not, however. I have been watching. Soon I will bring it in. And then I will destroy it.” “But we still want it for our exhib—” The curator blanched as Creeve looked back at him. “Oh, of course. You don’t mean the amulet, but the—the witch.” Creeve’s mouth sagged with disdain. “I see you don’t understand the seriousness of this. Never mind. I plan to light a bonfire which will illuminate you. Which. Witch. Ha ha.” “Ha ha,” said the curator. Creeve sniffed at him. Then walking over the shattered glass, grinding it into smaller pieces beneath his boot heel, he departed the room. “Upon my word,” the curator muttered shakily, and had to spend the rest of the morning sitting down with several nice cups of tea.