“There is always rather a lot to fear, as a matter of fact,” said Merrihew. “It’s possible we should even be afraid of you.”
Chapter Seven
In London a bookseller feller
Wore one glove surprisingly yeller
Matched with a new suit of dark blue
Stuffed with a pistol or two
That well-armed bookseller feller
“AFRAID OF ME?” ASKED SUSAN, TAKEN ABACK. “WHY WOULD YOU BE afraid of me?”
“Well, that’s merely an example. We don’t know if we should be afraid or not, because we lack information,” said Merrihew. “Would you care for some tea?”
“Uh, yes, please,” said Susan. “Look, I don’t understand. I mean, anything, really.”
“Sit ye down, lass, sit ye down,” said Thurston, gesturing to one of the chairs with his massive gloved right hand. “What Merry is getting at is that we were puzzled by the Raud Alfar warden shooting at you, as if you represent some threat to them, and then there was quite an attempt to prevent you coming here today, what with some thugs and then, of all things, May Fair goblins in daylight!”
“One question being, are you responsible for both actions?” asked Merrihew. “Were both these apparent kidnappings staged? To try to avoid us?”
“What!” exclaimed Susan, almost getting back out of the chair she was about to sit on. She looked at Merlin, who gave her a sheepish smile. “I never knew anything about the Old World or any of this stuff before I met Merlin. I’m an art student—well, almost one. And I want to find out who my father is, that’s all.”
Merrihew looked at Thurston, who nodded. He sat down himself and began to rummage in his waistcoat for something.
“Aye, aye, she speaks truth, inasmuch as she knows herself,” he rumbled. “Our apologies, Miss Susan. Where’s that tea?”
“I’ll go see, Great-Uncle,” said Merlin, fleeing the scene, pursued by a dirty glance from Susan. She was surprised to see him disappear into an alcove she hadn’t noticed before, where someone’s hand came out and drew him in. A slim, feminine hand, a right hand, gloved in satin. With buttons up the wrist.
Susan felt the slightest pang of jealousy and had to firmly push the feeling away. Once again she reminded herself that Merlin was not good boyfriend material; he was obviously more in love with himself than he ever could be with anyone else. His interest in her would doubtless not last beyond the consummation of the chase, and she wasn’t interested in that kind of relationship. Her mother had too often fallen for just such a trap.
It did pass through her mind that Merlin was also much more fascinating than poor Lenny. Who had always been something of a stopgap boyfriend anyway. He did play the French horn beautifully, and had very dexterous fingers and lovely curly hair, but there was something missing. . . .
“Now, why don’t you tell us about your encounter with the goblins,” said Merrihew. “We heard from Audrey you’d been danced away. How did you escape the fair? Was it Merlin who noticed what was out of place?”
“No, no, it was me,” said Susan, bringing her mind back from an invidious comparison of Lenny and Merlin. She held up the glass flower. “This glass flower . . . only it was alive, transparent, where everything else was very much in color.”
“Ah, the left-handed aren’t so good with that sort of thing,” said Thurston comfortably, opening the leather pouch he’d taken from his waistcoat to take out a pinch of tobacco, while simultaneously searching his other pocket for a pipe or papers. “Give them something to stand up and fight, none better, of course. So from the beginning, when those pesky goblins danced around, what went on?”
Merrihew sniffed but didn’t comment.
Susan told them, as best she was able to recall. She noticed Merlin was leaning in from the tea-making alcove, listening.
“Hmm, that’s interesting,” said Thurston. “And the dog let go the stick when you said, eh? I’m thinking we might be needing to know who your father is, too, lass.”
“Why?” asked Susan bluntly.
“Well, the Raud Alfar think you’re someone who’s dangerous to them,” explained Thurston, dropping wisps of tobacco as he waved his hand around to punctuate his words. “And those two ruffians who came after you, we’ve heard from Inspector Greene she can’t get a peck of sense out of them, they’re right mazed, which suggests someone from our neck of the woods has been interfering with mortal minds. They were from Birmingham, members of the Milk Bottle Gang. Neither Greene nor ourselves know of any connection between that gang and the Old World, here or there. Indeed, it is a rare thing for organized gangsters to have dealings with the mythic, and vice versa. Some mortals are drawn to serve malign entities, the so-called Death Cultists, but not your garden-variety criminals. Oh no.”
He paused, possibly for dramatic effect but more likely to prevent his pinch of tobacco from entirely escaping his grasp.
“When we additionally consider the relatively few personages or entities who are capable of forcing or enticing the May Fair goblins to snatch two mortals away in broad daylight, and one of them a bookseller . . . eh . . . something must be up. And what connects all these things? Susan Arkshaw. And what is most interesting about Susan Arkshaw? Her unknown father.”
“It’s my business,” said Susan indignantly. “I didn’t ask for anyone else to pry into my family history.”
“Nor do we particularly want to,” said Thurston. “In fact, it’s quite inconvenient—”
“Extremely inconvenient and likely inconsequential,” interrupted Merrihew impatiently. “Where is that tea?”
“Coming!” called out Merlin. There was a confirming rattle of cups and saucers and
