“What were they talking about?” Trey pressed.
“I don’t know,” Arabella confessed. “It was all a murmur, and the other man had such a quiet voice. And, honestly, I was trying not to eavesdrop.”
“I wish you had worse manners,” commented Trey absently. A tiresome course of action was taking shape in his mind.
“What do we do next?” she asked. “Break into Mr. Gibbs’s quarters?” She was trying to rally her spirits, but only succeeded in looking more waif-like than ever.
“No, I don’t think the ring is in Gibbs’s possession anymore,” said Trey. “Nothing to do but ask Atwater if he saw this visitor or overheard something.”
Arabella brightened. “Of course! I’m sure he would be happy to help.”
Trey could not enter into her enthusiasm. The chances of Atwater considering his questions anything less than impertinence were very small indeed. “There’s nothing more we can do here. Time to call in the excise men.” He cast a distasteful glance at Gibbs’s store of banned items.
Arabella looked down at the corpse, more saddened than shocked. “He was rather an unpleasant man,” she said, “but I’m sorry this happened to him.”
“So am I,” said Trey grimly, but for different reasons.
A ghoul had killed in Lumen. Of all the places in Vaeland, a ghoul had come here to the place where Trey Shield lived and worked and walked the Shadow Lands.
He was being challenged.
I have to get Arabella back into her body.
And then I’m going after the ghoul.
After stashing a compliant Arabella back in his house and changing clothes, Trey contacted the Home Office via an aether bird. He waited at Gibbs’s until the excise men arrived, then extricated himself from the situation as soon as he was able. A crowd of the Fleet’s inhabitants had gathered by then, some curious, others sullen. Trey confirmed that the officer in charge would pass along any intelligence from witnesses, then set off for Green’s.
Of all the gentlemen’s clubs in Lumen, Green’s was known for having the most influential membership. It boasted among its ranks cabinet ministers, parliament members, company directors, diplomats, and aristocratic magicians.
Trey’s father, the Earl of Whitecross, was a member, as had been his older brother Damien. Trey decided it was worth it to use his family connections to get in to have a private word with Lord Atwater. This early in the morning, the politician was bound to be reading the latest dispatches and newspapers at Green’s.
In the end, he hadn’t needed to convince anyone to let him into the hallowed halls of the club. Apparently, it was the title that counted as a member rather than the title holder. Viscount St. Ash was cordially greeted and led to a chamber laid out for breakfast.
It still felt all wrong to wear the title that had been Damien’s. Trey’s mood blackened, and not even the excellent kippers could banish it.
It didn’t help that Lord Atwater had left the club while Trey’s message to see him was still en route. Trey left the kippers, grabbed a slice of marmalade-slathered toast, and hurried to the politician’s office.
Atwater’s clerk left him cooling his heels for over half an hour before admitting that Trey’s quarry had left for meetings that would take him all day. “Because of the arrangements for the Viewing, of course,” said the supercilious little man, clearly implying that Trey ought to be busy with those instead of chasing down his employer.
He was probably right. Trey left a message for Atwater, then headed up Hopechurch Street to his own workplace.
A knife-edged wind did its best to blow Trey back down the slope as he trudged up the hill to the Quadrangle. Tomorrow morning, a procession bearing some of the most valuable magical artifacts of the kingdom would make its stately way up this very hill. Similar processions would take place in other cities and towns all over Vaeland, marking the beginning of the Vernal Rites.
Ensuring that everything ran smoothly was a huge task.
Watchmen, peacekeepers, and other government officials were already out in force, marking up the pavement with chalk, closing down narrow side streets, setting wards against disruption. One caught Trey’s eye and touched his hat to him.
Trey nodded—he didn’t know the man at all, but he was used to being recognized on the Hill.
The Keep, an old, stubby structure of dirty stone, capped the hill. It was hard to believe that such an unprepossessing structure had been the first stronghold of the Vaelish people in their new land.
Now, it was more of a museum, a relic of a perilous past, but it was traditional for the Guardians to attune the Mirror of Elsinore within its walls. Their sympathetic magic, with the Mirror as focus, strengthened the country’s magical protections.
After last summer, this year’s renewal was desperately needed. Trey’s mouth tightened. And now a ghoul had slipped into Vaeland under his very nose.
Trey worked at the Quadrangle, a rectangular limestone edifice built around a central courtyard. All of the Foreign Office shared the space, though some departments sprawled more than others. The Phantasm Bureau had the smallest suite on the third story.
Wards threaded around Trey, questioning and familiar, as he sprang up the steps. They dropped away as they recognized him. A gust of wind blew Trey towards the doors. One leaf opened as he came up to it, and he grabbed the handle for balance.
“Morning, Blake,” he said to the brown-haired man who exited, his pleasant face uncharacteristically serious. “And to you, too, Mistress Ember.” He bowed his head at the flame-colored flicker above Blake’s right shoulder.
“Trey,” Blake lost his preoccupied look. His gaze sharpened. “You look fagged to death.”
Trey rubbed his chin—he hadn’t shaved in two days. “You don’t look much better.” There were dark circles under Blake’s over-bright eyes. His friend nodded, a tired smile on his face.
The Vernal Rites doubled the work for everyone in the Quadrangle.
Trey let the door go—it swung heavily shut. They stood in the portico, Trey with his hands deep in his coat pockets,
