The corridors of the summer house were quieter than a funeral. At least, Alaric had once heard Mr. Red say that, but he still didn't quite get it. The only funeral he'd ever attended was Jocky's – the orphanage pet rat's. His and the other children's crying had been anything but quiet.
Elis Snow walked ahead and Simon Smith followed unobtrusively. Brass lamps cast warm light while, on the horizon, the storm inched toward Northend's cliffs. Against the villa's flawless order, the threat outside the windows looked almost out of place.
Somehow Alaric's gaze kept drifting to that dark mass of heavenly wrath. If you grew up on the ground, under the giant scaffolds and buildings of Nex City, the ocean's vastness felt almost alien.
"The north wing was renovated seven years ago," Miss Snow said without turning. "Ms. Blackwood chose most of the materials herself. She cares a great deal about order... though she sometimes forgets to apply the same principle to herself."
"Mmh," Simon said, absentminded.
It wasn't that he couldn't see. He was, in fact, looking very closely as they went. He noted that the lamps hung at even intervals, that one rosette sat crooked, and that there was a nick in the frame to the right of the clock case.
Then he stopped in front of one of the great windows. He set a hand to the latch, lifted it, and the pane yielded with a soft gasp. Outside, the blue sky was dispersing over the sea, the wind tearing it apart piece by piece.
Alaric was entranced.
"Please close that again," Miss Snow said. "There's a draft."
"Of course. Apologies."
Simon slid the pane back. The latch didn't quite catch.
They moved on. Right, left, down a stair. The carpet accepted their steps with gratitude.
So, rich people can even buy the silence of sound.
He frowned. Somehow he was especially barbed today. He locked it away. Unnecessary for the job.
Miss Snow stopped at a door, drew a key from the ribbon at her apron, and turned it.
"Please don't touch anything in the trophy room," she said.
"I only brought my eyes," Simon answered, smiling in a way that might have convinced just about anyone.
Meanwhile, Alaric kept count of the sixty seconds it had taken to walk here from the study.
The room was lower than the corridor. Only a touch wider, but taller — and impeccably kept. Alaric wouldn't have thought it possible to be more so. The trophy room stretched from front to back with
Money.
"Well then, Mr. Smith, is there anything you'd like a closer look at? Please, feel free to browse."
Young Mr. Smith gave his best wow-impression and stepped reverently into the room. By the second display case, raised on an ornately carved pedestal, he stopped and pointed like a delighted child.
"What can you tell me about this urn?" he asked, while simultaneously thinking,
Please don't let it be someone's grandmother.
Ms. Snow came to stand beside him. Her hands were folded before her at her waist. Alaric took in her profile, the slight closing of her blue eyes, the calm on her face.
"It holds the ashes…"
Uh-oh.
"…of one of the first Creatures the founder of the Blackwood family slew. The Creature appeared as a plough in the lord's fields. Fortunately the farmers discovered the anomaly quickly. The sword Lord Blackwood used to fight and defeat the Creature is still displayed here."
Simon let out a whistle.
"Ms. Blackwood seems to have kept up the tradition of hunting Creatures."
Ms. Snow briefly closed her eyes.
"You could say that."
They moved on. Simon took his time. He asked about a portrait in a gilded frame on the wall.
Miss Snow lifted a brow.
"You don't know Ms. Blackwood's father?"
Simon chuckled.
"Of course – everyone knows Lord Blackwood. I only thought you might tell me a bit more about him."
"I see. Well, Lord Blackwood is the founder of Blackwood Industries. Thanks to him, the realm is what it is today. A pioneer of aviation, a visionary of–"
Alaric already knew the rest. Simon would have, too. They were exactly the words printed in the Blackwood Museum in Nex City. He and Mr. Red had visited it for their research.
He would get nothing new from Ms. Snow.
Still, the game had to go on. He asked and the maid answered dutifully. She was professional through and through. She told him precisely which heirlooms belonged to the family's history, which had been taken in glorious battles, and which were part of the realm's history at large.
The Blackwoods were ancient. The trophy room held everything from maps, antlers, the first pistols, to the heads of taxidermied Creatures.
And at the end of the room lay two very particular cases. Simon stopped before them. Alaric's pulse quickened.
One of the cases was large and tall, displaying a masterpiece of steel. Behind glass the sword lay still – the long, narrow blade with a fine fuller that seemed to gather light like a breath. The slender, slightly forward-curved guard rested on a bed of dark velvet, a plain disc pommel held the balance so cleanly that the tip didn't lean a millimetre toward the glass. The two-handed grip was of dark oiled wood – no leather, only shallow fluting – and showed no wear, only the dull sheen of oil.
The second case, however...
"They're beautiful," Alaric said.
Pearls. A string of pearls, white, smooth, as if they had never graced a neck. They whispered to Alaric. They needed no description, for they were more than their appearance.
They were his prize.
Elis followed his gaze.
"A gift."
"From whom?"
"King Edward himself."
Simon gasped. Alaric wondered if he'd heard a hint of feeling in Miss Snow's voice, though he couldn't place what kind.
"A token of thanks for Lord Blackwood's extensive contribution to—"
Something rang through the house. A note like a wet finger drawn around the rim of glass. Then a loud thud in the distance, as if wood struck wood. Then again, and again.
Simon and Miss Snow turned. Then he clapped a shocked hand over his mouth.
"The window! Forgive me, I must not have closed it all the way!"
Elis snapped her head around.
"Excuse me? I specifically asked–"
She caught herself. With a brief closing of her eyes, the mask settled back into place.
"Of course. It's no trouble. I'll take a quick look. It will only be a moment. Would you please step out? The trophy room is delicate."
"I'm so sorry!" Simon implored again, and hurried with Ms. Snow to the door.
He made room the way one does when being polite and not keen to provoke a maid. Ms. Snow nodded, stepped out, and locked the door behind her.
"Wait here."
That wasn't a question.
Her steps sounded close at first, then farther away. Outside, the storm delivered its first peal of thunder as the winds slammed the window against the wall with a bang.
Simon stood still until silence settled again.
Then he let the smile drop.
Alaric knelt, reached to the heel of his right boot, and teased up the stitch with thumb and forefinger. The sole yawned like a small mouth. The tools within were more orderly than his entire life.
Glass shims and a parcel wrapped in cloth, soft against the skin and yet heavy. He slid them into his trouser pocket. Then he took up his tension wrench and his pick. Those were his favorite things.
Only a moment, she'd said. A harried moment – some idiot had come to the Blackwoods' and couldn't close a window. The maid had not been pleased.
He gave her forty seconds. Generous. The window lay close to the study.
Then he got to work.
He set the wrench against the locked door, leaned in a touch of pressure to the right, lifted two pins with the pick. The third stuck.
A crack of thunder rolled down the hall. Alaric's fingers didn't so much as tremble. This was no longer Simon's game, but his.
Click! The bolt snapped back like an offended tongue.
Fifteen seconds.
Alaric slipped inside, eased the door to without letting the latch seat; a fully engaged catch would click loud enough to carry.
Two strides and he was on the carpet. It swallowed sound beautifully, so he moved faster.
Ten steps and he stood before the case.
He swept the back of his hand along the plinth. The case hood only rested there. Perfect.
Setting the glass strip to the seam, he took up the thin plate, placed it exactly where the hood didn't sit quite flush – a tiny imperfection you'd only notice if your life had been spent on tiny imperfections.
Twenty-four seconds.
He pressed hardly at all. The hood rose the width of a finger. Hook in, glass strips under the edges so glass touched only glass. There wasn't so much as a scrape heard. Outside, the storm kicked the wall once, then held its breath.
Thank you.
The pearls lay there. They were white and innocent and gorgeous and just perfect.
Thirty seconds.
He drew the cloth parcel from his shirt. The copy. Same length, same pull in the thread. One knot sat a shade too near the clasp, but only where someone would find it if they already knew to look.
His fingers wandered to the real clasp. No hurry in the wrist, because hurry makes noise. The cord lifted. Alaric's heart quickened as the exchange took place.
And then, the original was already in his hand.
The fake lowered into the cradle, found its shape like water. At once he tucked the wrapping paper back into the sole.
Thirty-five seconds.
He set the hood back down. Drew the strip, drew the hook. Brushed the plinth twice with the back of his hand – precisely where tidy hands wipe when they're in a hurry. All at once he could smell resin, old wood, his own shirt.
Another bang from the corridor. The window was making itself important.
Good, little window. Keep her busy.
Thirty-eight seconds.
The tools disappeared into the right sole. The stitch closed cleanly. He'd tightened it again last night. The left sole was empty save for a scrap of cloth. He slid the rag beneath the insole and then, carefully, the original pearls, wrapped snug in cloth, under as well so nothing would rattle. No edges were to be seen an no crumbs to be left behind.
He straightened, listened to the corridor, yet there was nothing but storm.
He went to the door, set a finger to the edge. One foot in front of the other.
Thirty-nine.
Life could be wonderful. And it was about to get better. Alaric had to smile. He couldn't wait to see Mr. Red's expressionless face.
He stepped over the threshold.
And the very last second lodged in his throat.
"Impressive," said Elis Snow. "Forty seconds."
...
"Thirty-nine, actually..."
***
Victoria Blackwood watched the storm from her study. The first raindrops were tapping at the pane now. She could hear the Creature inside her calling for the storm.
Or was it the other way around?
"What... what did you just say?"
Thomas Smith's voice had changed. Earlier he'd sounded like an ordinary businessman. A very opportunistic one – and a shade too optimistic, for his caliber – to truly think he could call on a Blackwood at the summer house for an unannounced deal.
But Victoria didn't hold it against him. After all, Thomas wasn't a businessman at all. She turned and smiled at the older man.
"The little orphanage in the slums," she repeated. "It's called the House of Pepper. Does that ring a bell?"
All emotion drained from Thomas's face. His hands were still folded, his legs still crossed, but something in him shifted. Victoria could feel it.
She went on:
"I visited it only two weeks ago. The reasons were... personal."
That was the truth.
"And even though I didn't find what I was looking for, the children kept telling me the same name, over and over. It was like they had a superhero in their midst."
Now Thomas leaned back. He sighed.
"I told him he should put it behind him. The boy's got too soft a heart."
Victoria raised a brow. Him? A soft heart? Hardly. A rude tongue, perhaps.
"'Al' isn't the full name, is it?" she asked.
Thomas shook his head. She could scarcely imagine that Thomas was his real name either.
"You knew we were coming?" he asked.
"No. But it seems it was fate we should meet. I need something from you, you see."
She meant it. But Thomas didn't seem to care.
"I'm sorry, Ms. Blackwood. Your maid brewed such wonderful tea that this is going to sting – but me and my partner don't do well with deals."
He stood. Victoria narrowed her eyes. Even knowing full well that she had the advantage – as the lady of this house and as a Doublesoul – no matter how this played out.
So why was the man so calm?
The brown eyes were fixed on Victoria, without a flicker of doubt inside them. He reached inside his suit and drew out a stick. He pulled at one end and a sort of wooden walking cane unfolded.
Victoria smirked.
"Does your true self need a cane? Or is this another trick?"
"No," Thomas said, laughing. "No trick."
"The stick is for beating people up."