Razi squatted, and placed his fingers on the scorched paper. ‘Good God,’ he yelled. ‘How? You used no fire . . . What then? A spark?’
‘No fire, brother! No slow-match. No flint. No spark-wheel. No flash-pan. Just those ingenious paper cartridges, a little metal hammer poised over a brass lip . . . and these.’ He held up the tattered section of tape, grinning wildly, his eyes aglow.
‘Welcome to a whole new world,’ he yelled.
SCONES AND TEA
FRANTIC FOOTSTEPS ran towards them, accompanied by the clatter of metal. Anthony rushed from the dark, a steaming kettle held out before him, his little face bright with anticipation. He slid to an excited halt, saw the fragment of blackened tape and lost his smile. He stamped his foot, all his solemn courtliness lost in childish disappointment.
‘Oh, no!’ he cried. ‘You’re finished. You did it without me again!’
Alberon laughed and got to his feet, brushing off his trousers.
‘But you promised!’ cried Anthony.
‘Next time,’ said Alberon, ruffling Anthony’s hair on his way back to the table. ‘Now, mind your manners, mankin, and pour the Protector Lady some tea . . . such as it is.’ He lowered himself into his chair and wearily began to fold the scrolls.
Wynter took them from him. ‘You’re making a damned mess,’ she said softly, furling them and neatly securing the ribbon bindings.
Alberon smiled gratefully at her and slumped back. Razi drifted over, his attention on the blackened tape, which he was turning over and over in his hands. Anthony slammed the kettle down by the brazier, cleared the table and began sulkily washing out the beakers. Alberon regarded him with tired amusement.
‘An explosive element, ignited by percussion,’ murmured Razi, turning the tape again. ‘Unbelievable . . .’ He sniffed it and touched it to his tongue, frowning thoughtfully at the taste.
‘I believe the active ingredient is obtained by some foul exercise involving aqua fortis, some type of alcohol and – your favourite toy, Razi – mercury.’
At the mention of mercury, Razi’s eyes lit up and Wynter grinned fondly at him. She was instantly back in St James’s fantastic laboratory, Razi’s small, brown face alight with wonder as he demonstrated the magical liquid metal rolling in droplets around the bottom of a vial. ‘See?’ he had lisped, holding the vial first to Wynter’s, then to Albi’s wide eyes, ‘’tis water-metal, ’tis most amazing water-metal. See how it does flow?’
‘Mercury,’ breathed the now adult Razi, holding the tape up in awe, as if his beloved quicksilver might roll from it and drop into his lap.
‘Excuse the intrusion, my Lord,’ said Anthony, laying the table with the freshly washed beakers. He carefully poured tea from the steaming kettle. ‘Mind now,’ he said, ‘’tis righteous hot.’
Alberon took a grateful sip and his eyes widened in disbelief. ‘Anthony,’ he gasped, ‘this is fresh tea!’
Anthony, not quite recovered from his childish pique, sniffed piously. ‘’Tis that,’ he said. Wynter smiled at the unspoken not that you deserve it in his tone.
Alberon inhaled the steam and groaned with pleasure. ‘Oh, tea,’ he said. ‘Oh, blessed tea . . . where on earth did you get it? We haven’t had fresh for nigh on a fortnight.’
The little servant looked a touch uncomfortable. ‘I . . .’ he said. He glanced downhill. ‘’Tis a gift,’ he said. ‘Along with these, your Highness.’ He took a little parcel from his apron and unfolded a square of cloth onto the table. It contained six sweet-scented griddle cakes, still gently steaming. Wynter recognised them as the distinctive Merron scòn.
‘The chop-fingered fellow gave them to me,’ said Anthony. ‘He’s down the bottom of the hill. Him on one side of the road, Sir Oliver on the other, both of them staring up at thee and nary a word passed between them.’
Christopher, thought Wynter in alarm. She prayed that her friend had not been so foolish as to send a message with this gift. Please do not say that they are for me! she thought, willing the little servant to keep his mouth shut. Now was not the time to reveal the nature of her feelings for Christopher. Alberon’s reaction would undoubtedly be stormy, and Wynter did not want tonight’s delicate balance disrupted.
Alberon stared at the scòns, then across at Wynter. He frowned, and she swallowed hard.
He’s guessed, she thought. One look at my face was enough to give me away. Oh, curse you, Christopher Garron. Curse you and your damned pride. Let us simply screech our attachment from