biting into her hips, and reached gingerly into the blue velvet satchel. Her gloves protected her fingers, but she still felt iron grit against paper.
She drew forth the envelope with her earring in it. Her name was perfectly outlined in the metal filaments.
But of course, they hadn't found just the name of the mage who cast the spell. They'd found an even tighter correspondence of identity to cling to: the handwriting of Seamus Gallagher.
"Shit," she said, who was a lady and who never swore. "Sebastien, shall we go upstairs to Mr. Priest? I think I know how to take the spell off him, now."
* * *
And it was as simple as that in the end. A few snapped meta- thaumaturgical threads, and Jack Priest blinked muzzily, tried to sit up under the heavy blankets and comforters that Garrett had heaped upon him, and fell back against the pillows, shivering so violently that Garrett was eventually obliged to climb up on the bed beside him and hold him in her arms, sharing body warmth until Sebastien could make shift to bring a pot of tea.
By the time Sebastien returned, Garrett had Jack laughing weakly.
She decided to leave it up to Sebastien to explain about the Duke's
ultimatum.
* * *
Garrett marshaled her evidence and wrote up three copies of a deposition and report. She'd have them notarized along the way to the Duke's house and deposit one copy with the Colonial Police, as it was still, impossible though it seemed, within business hours.
She set out with a kiss to Sebastien's cheek. Before she went, he placed a hand on her shoulder and squeezed.
And that was all. No confessions, no promises, no tokens, no sundered rings.
She might never see him again.
* * *
It was an odd thing, to find one's self greeting a murderous sorcerer by name, making casual conversation while he helped one off with one's coat and escorted one to the usual place. The study was gray with the rain and with evening darkening the sky. She could not make herself sit on the couch where she and Richard, on occasion, had done somewhat more than kiss, and so she set her carpet bag on the Duke's blotter and stood beside it, having availed herself of the excellent brandy.
Richard, for once, was prompt. She said nothing but the barest greeting, handed him her deposition, and fixed herself another brandy while he seated himself and read.
She hadn't eaten all day. The liquor went straight to her head, and she welcomed it—its warmth, the disassociation that it brought. Abby Irene, you pathetic old drunk.
When Richard lifted his eyes from the paper, she felt the stare upon her back. She finished her brandy, discarded the glass, and turned to stare him down.
"I think you may find when the Fenians are questioned that the ultimate source of their funding is French," she said, as an opening gambit. "Any enemy of the Commonwealth is a friend of the Frogs, after all."
"It's the French that concern me," he said. "Phillip can worry about the damned Fenians. If this is true—"
She saw him formulate the question and dismiss it. Of course Seamus wouldn't have acted against the Duke. The Fenians didn't give any more of a damn about the colonies than the colonies gave about the Fenians; Richard might be a useful source of information, but killing or compromising him wouldn't ensure home rule in Eire. They'd take money from the French. They'd take money from anyone, but they were a one-issue revolution. Meanwhile, the French would support anything that might drain British colonial resources.
And Richard being Richard, he wouldn't bother asking a question he already thought he knew the answer to.
Instead, his thumbnail caressed the notary's embossed seal. "Tell me this is the only copy."
She lowered her voice. You never knew who might be listening at keyholes. "So you can deal with Seamus quietly, yourself?"
He stood and came to her, towering over her, his height and breadth no longer the comfort she had been used to find them. His voice was cold and tattered as mist on the Hudson of a morning. "It would be nice to think you'd allow me the privilege."
Garrett would not allow him the triumph of forcing her to step away. She drew herself up and lifted her chin. Good she'd set her snifter down, or the clench of her hand would have broken the stem. Her head spun from the liquor; she could still taste it up her sinuses.