The Serpent's Shadow

patients wear clean boiled aprons and smocks.

There was a postbox on the corner; the letter went in, and she moved on. It was done, and she felt the letter leave her hand with a sense of having put something in motion that it was not in her power to stop. She sighed and quickened her pace. One thing was certain. If this was a typical day at the Fleet, she wouldn't have time to think about the meeting tonight, much less worry about it.

'Hello, old man—what are you brooding about? That's a perfectly delightful bit of lamb you've been frowning at for the past minute, and I'm sure it hasn't done anything to you.'

Peter Scott looked up from his luncheon with a start. Almsley stood just beside his table, looking at him with a particularly knowing expression. As usual, Lord Peter was impeccably attired in a neat morning suit of gray flannel, his cravat conservatively tied. He must have checked his hat with his coat at the entrance to the club, since he was bareheaded. Sunlight full of dust motes streamed in through the nearest window and glinted off his pale hair, giving him a kind of specious halo. Lord Peter Almsley was an excellent fellow, but no one would ever accuse him of being angelic.

Peter Scott had decided to eat at the club today, rather than one of the pubs or eateries local to his shop. He was out of the mood for bustle and noise, and there certainly wasn't any of that here. If anything, the atmosphere was positively drowsy. No one had spoken above a murmur since he sat down.

'Almsley, I didn't know you were in town!' he said, rather inanely, since it hadn't been more than two days since the meeting they had all attended. Lord Peter took that as an invitation to join him, and folded his thin limbs down onto the substantial mahogany chair across the round table, a table which was far too large for a single diner. A waiter appeared immediately, waiting attentively on Lord Peter's wishes. Where did they come from? Scott had never been able to catch one hovering, but the moment one wanted something, there was the waiter, at one's elbow. It was a trifle unnerving.

'Exactly what he's having, but I'll give it proper attention,' Almsley said. The waiter nodded, and betook himself off, vanishing into that limbo in which the Exeter Club waiters existed when they were neither taking orders nor bringing food. 'Now, what has that poor bit of meat done to make you so annoyed at it?' Almsley asked, taking a roll from among the folds of the linen napkin lining the breadbasket between them, breaking it apart with long fingers, and buttering it, somehow turning the simple act into a pantomime the equal of a Japanese tea ceremony, though with none of the solemnity.

Peter chuckled. 'It's what I've done that worries me,' he replied, rather glad to have someone to talk to. Once the letter had gone out, he'd been taken with mixed feelings. What if she replied? What if she didn't? 'And I'm afraid that there's a distinct possibility that the other—members—will be more than merely annoyed at me if they find out.' He explained what he had discovered about Doctor Witherspoon as succinctly as possible, although he had to catch himself once or twice when he realized he was dwelling on the lady's virtues a little more enthusiastically than the short acquaintance would warrant. Lord Peter's face remained an absolute blank the entire tune, telling Scott little or nothing about what the other was thinking.

When he had finished, Almsley examined his half-eaten roll with every sign of interest, but his pale blue eyes had that look in them that told Peter that his 'twin' had absorbed and was now considering every word he said. He finished just as Almsley's luncheon arrived, but although the plate steamed invitingly when the waiter uncovered it and vanished again, Lord Peter made no move to take up his implements. Instead, he put both elbows on the table, steepled his fingers together, and stared intently at Peter Scott across them. The intelligent eyes took on a sharpness that few people ever saw in them.

'I think, Twin, that you had better not tell anyone about these plans of yours, at least not for a little while,' Almsley said. 'But I also think that this is the only possible thing you could do. In your place I'd have done exactly the same, and devil take the hindmost.' His eyes gleamed with suppressed enthusiasm.

'Even this moment, I'd make the offer to help her, if I wasn't a total stranger. I'd do it if you hadn't already, that is. She sounds completely fascinating, this paragon of yours.'

'I think she'll be suspicious, and rightly,' Scott said thoughtfully. 'The trouble is, so far as what I've done is concerned, and the way the club is likely to think about it, you're far more likely to—to —'

'To get away with it!' Almsley laughed, loud enough to attract a curious glance or two before the other diners glanced away. Laughter seldom broke the sonorous murmuring of the club dining room. 'I will help if you think you need an extra set of hands and talents. We can't just leave her the way she is; the magic will break out, one way or another, and it's just a jolly good thing that so far it's only broken out in healing and self-defense with her. My grandmother's told me stories—well, if I need to convince her, this doctor of yours, I'll trot them out, no need to bore you with them now.'

Magic had skipped a generation in Lord Peter's family, and he was the only one of the four siblings in his own generation to have it. I wonder if some of those stories are about Young Peter? He could very well have been an unholy terror as a child. Scott kept his smiles to himself, but he was pretty sure that whatever else he'd been like, Peter Almsley had never been a timid or reticent child.

'I may hold you to that promise,' Peter Scott replied. 'You don't erect a defensive barrier unless there's something to defend against; you don't use magic that confuses other mages as to where you are unless you expect to find another mage looking for you.'

'Agreed, to all of it,' Lord Peter said, now moving to attack his meal. He sobered just a moment, then lightened again, as if he didn't want to voice his own unease. 'Do get the trick of that last bit from her, if you can, won't you? I can think of any number of useful purposes a bit of 'don't look at me' could be put to. Better than being