The exchange lasted all of three seconds, at the end of which Aelius nodded once, and the young man turned back into a fox and dashed away. For all the pretence of secrecy, when he saw Ilsa watching, he grinned like he was taking to the stage.
“The wolves answer to the commander of the militia,” he said coyly, “but the foxes answer to me.”
“They spies or something?” asked Ilsa.
“Spies!” He waved his cane dismissively. He had put it to half a dozen uses since they met, none of which were walking. Ilsa wondered if it was part of his act, a prop for distraction. “What is this preoccupation with spies? Spying is for sneaks and rogues. The foxes are connoisseurs of communication, Ilsa my darling. They sow trust and allyship among their contacts in other factions, and they reap information for the Zoo.”
“Where I’m from, we call them spies.”
Cassia didn’t smile at that – Ilsa wondered if she was capable – but the look she shot Aelius was teasing.
They stepped out into the garden, onto the same terrace Ilsa had crept across the night before. At least, she believed it was the same. There were the hydrangea bushes they had watched the wolves from. There was the pavilion, and the west gate beyond. But the moon-drenched lawn and black shapes that might shift at any moment had given way to a riot of colour and life. She hadn’t noticed how lush the grass was. There had been no bees and butterflies flitting among the flower beds. She hadn’t even noticed the heavy summer scent of thousands of blooms mingling on their air. The events of the night before drifted even further from reality. It felt like a dream.
Feeling a pull to immerse herself in the summer beauty of the garden, Ilsa made for the steps leading down from the terrace, only for Cassia to grab her by the elbow and Aelius to block her with his cane.
“It’s best to keep a safe distance,” said Cassia apologetically.
Before Ilsa could ask what she was being kept a safe distance from, there was a loud hiss, and a plume of thick smoke rose up from behind some shrubbery.
“Something’s on fire!” said Ilsa.
“We should be so lucky,” Cassia muttered.
Something that looked like a cannonball burst from the shrubs and hurtled towards them. Aelius swore and dived one way, Cassia pulled Ilsa in the other, but nobody was fast enough. Ilsa ducked and covered her head, but Cassia threw up her hands like she could ward the thing away. And she could – the air around her set like ice. There was barely any change, but the boundary of whatever she had formed glimmered like the surface of a soap bubble, and when the projectile struck it, it burst softly, like a down pillow. A thin mist exploded from the thing and rained down, coating Aelius even as he tried to dodge it, still cursing. But Cassia and Ilsa stayed dry within the bubble.
When the mist had settled, Cassia lowered her hands and the air returned to normal.
“What the bloody hell was that?” said Ilsa, her voice an octave higher than normal.
“I can’t say what the substance was,” said Cassia, “but the disintegrating canister is something he invented when—”
“Not that! What did you just do?” “It’s on me,” said Aelius, twisting to search his clothes and dabbing himself with a handkerchief. “Do you see it on me? Is it doing anything?”
“Oh, stars!” said a voice from across the garden. Ilsa looked up. A head had appeared above the bushes; just black curls and protective goggles. Then it vanished again, and a boy emerged, dashing across the lawn towards them.
“It’s a shielding spell,” said Cassia. “It’s basic corporeal magic.”
“Basic… corporeal…”
Aelius stopped his nervous dance and raised his eyebrows at Cassia. “You didn’t mention that you’re a Sorcerer, Cassia dear?”
Cassia laced her fingers primly. “Well, it didn’t come up.”
“Is everyone alright?” said the boy, bounding onto the terrace with a gait that wouldn’t be out of place on a golden retriever. He bent double to catch his breath, hands on his knees, but when he caught sight of Ilsa, he straightened again, and his face broke into a wide smile. “Stars! You’re her!”
“Ilsa, this is Fyfe Whitleaf, another lieutenant,” said Cassia. “Fyfe, this is Ilsa Ravenswood.”
Fyfe was young to be something as important-sounding as a lieutenant; a year or two younger than Ilsa perhaps but very tall, and slender. He had medium brown skin and unruly hair; though he had tried to tame it with oil, the black curls were falling freely around his sharp features. Now that his goggles rested around his neck, his dark brown eyes sparkled with warmth. He smiled with his whole face, and Ilsa smiled back.
“Fyfe,” said Cassia, looking nervously at the spattering of moisture on the terrace. It smelled faintly of rhubarb. “Dare I ask?”
Fyfe scrubbed at his hair nervously. “It’s, ah, a compound designed to bring about a spell of short-term memory loss. I thought loading it into some sort of projectile would make it useful for subduing skirmishes, that sort of thing.” He looked back at the plume of smoke. Two wolves had appeared with buckets of water and were eying whatever was back there warily. “But apparently I need to work on the cannon.”
“And, it seems, your formula,” said Aelius, dabbing the last of the mist from his face. Fyfe opened his mouth. Closed it again. “I’m afraid it doesn’t work, lad.”
“Oh, it works. Not as I would hope, yet, but…”
Aelius’s expression darkened. “What do you mean not as you would hope?”
Fyfe took a watch from his pocket and frowned at it. “Nothing serious. Just don’t start anything important after eleven and be lying down at noon.” He turned to Ilsa, his sunshine smile lighting up his face, and went on before Aelius had a
