Chapter Twelve
Major Arthur Ellison paused at the foot of the steps, rain trickling off the brim of his hat.
The great house loomed above him, its windows glinting faintly in the dull light, watchful—reserved.
He drew in a breath that smelled faintly of wet stone and wood smoke before mounting the final step.
The brass knocker, cold even through his glove, was shaped like a lion’s head; he lifted it and struck twice, paused, then knocked once more—the proper rhythm.
The sound echoed inward, deep and deliberate, as though the house were swallowing it whole.
Arthur straightened, habit pulling his shoulders square, his boots aligned just so upon the stone.
For a moment, there was nothing but the sigh of the wind through the stand of yew trees on the grounds, and then—footsteps.
Steady, unhurried, and precise. The door opened to reveal Mr. Hargreaves, the butler, immaculate in black and starched white, his expression one of practiced direction.
“Good afternoon, Major Ellison,” he said, inclining his head just enough to acknowledge both rank and familiarity.
Arthur removed his hat. “Good afternoon, Hargreaves. Her ladyship is expecting me.”
“Indeed, sir.” The butler stepped aside and Arthur crossed the threshold.
The entrance hall announced old money. Black and white marble tiles stretched out in a perfect checkered pattern beneath arching ceilings where the family crest had been painted in fading gilt. Oak paneling gleamed under the soft glow of wall sconces, each light filtered through amber glass.
The air held the faint scent of beeswax, and along one wall stood a mahogany table laden with silver frames and a crystal bowl of hothouse roses.
An indulgence during wartime Britain. Hargreaves led him past a sweeping staircase with a polished banister and a deep burgundy runner before leaving him in the drawing room to announce his arrival.
Arthur exhaled, loosening his collar. Lady Beatrice Hatherleigh was not going to like the news he had brought.
He let his gaze wander across the room: pale damask walls, high ceilings, heavy brocade curtains framing the tall windows that overlooked the rain-soaked lawns.
Everything whispered of privilege and permanence—the sort of life untouched by ration books or fear.
His own wealth almost matched that of her ladyship, though he chose to store it away. For now.
A fire burned beneath the marble hearth, its warmth creeping into his tired bones. On the far wall hung an ancestor of her ladyship in military dress, the same moss green he wore now. The painted eyes followed him—cool, appraising.
Arthur shifted his weight, uncertain whether the man in the portrait judged him or saluted him.
Either way, he found no comfort in the gaze.
The room was too quiet, the fire too loud.
He straightened his cuffs, schooling his face into its usual composure.
Whatever conscience stirred beneath his uniform, it had no business showing here.
He opened his hand—lightning crackled across his knuckles, jumping from one to the next like a trick he’d once seen his father do with a coin.
A rhythmic tapping echoed on the other side of the door.
Tap ... tap ... tap. Slow. Unhurried. It came closer, each strike of wood against stone echoing through the corridor until it reached the door.
He straightened instinctively, pulse tightening in his throat.
The tapping stopped just on the other side, followed by the soft creak of the handle turning.
The door swung slowly inward, and the scent of violets drifted into the room.
Lady Beatrice Hatherleigh moved with grace, her walking stick striking the marble with each step, a steady metronome of control.
Shadows clung to her like attendants. Her eyes snagged on his.
They gleamed—a pale, clouded blue that missed nothing.
She paused at the threshold, the faintest smile curving her lips.
“Major Ellison,” she said, her voice sharp beneath the frailty. “How very punctual. Let us see what storm you’ve brought to my door.”
Lady Beatrice entered the room more fully and lowered herself gracefully into the nearest armchair, the stick resting against her knee, just as a maid brought a tea tray in.
This maid didn’t react to the darkness that surrounded her mistress, clearly accustomed to her Aetherian employer’s unusual appearance.
“Do sit down, Major. You look as though London has been gnawing at you again.”
Arthur offered a wry half smile as he took the seat opposite. “The city has teeth, my lady, but I’ve learned how to keep most of my fingers.”
She regarded him over the rim of a fine teacup the maid had placed in her hands—a dainty rose pattern, all softness and civility.
She held herself with poise, the way any proper English noble would, yet the illusion faltered as thin wisps of smoke curled from her fingertips, coiling languidly around the porcelain.
They traced the rim in a slow, intentional circle, dark tendrils flickering before fading into nothing.
It was a careless display; most Aetherians would have hidden such a show.
“How are things at the War Office? I heard rumors they were reorganizing the intelligence branches. Dreadful business—all that paperwork.”
“Reorganization,” Arthur said, “is what the government bureaucrats call it when they want to make the same mistakes with new stationery.”
A soft laugh escaped her—low, indulgent, but not kind. “Tell me, are you still managing your presence with the Home Defense, rooting out subversives in the countryside and finding spies in every hedge and barn with your other duties?”
He inclined his head. “I do my best,” he replied, his voice even. “There’s a thin line between demonstrating patriotism to our country and taking the opportunities we receive from our clients. I simply continue to make sure neither goes to waste.”
Her expression didn’t change, though one brow lifted ever so slightly. “How fortunate that you have the discernment to know how to play the part for MI5, while knowing where your true loyalties pay better dividends.”
Beatrice’s fingers tapped once against the top of her stick. “And that, Major, is why I value your company. You understand the uses of shadow.”
He bowed his head slightly, the gesture half mocking, half respectful. “And you, my lady, cast a very fine one.”
A smile curved her lips, small and sharp, not seeming at all offended at his reference to her Aetheric Arts abilities.
“Flattery, Major Ellison, will get you everywhere. Once I’m gone, you will take my place as the leader of our group.
Now then, let us speak plainly. What news do you bring me from our friends at the university? ”
Arthur straightened, his mind going into report mode. “Not good, my lady. I met with Reginald this morning—he’s secured himself a rather advantageous position there. Close enough to the action to be useful, yet with enough freedom to keep an eye on things.”
Arthur sipped from his own teacup. “Unfortunately, our client won’t be pleased,” he said, setting down the cup with a tiny clink.
“Ray Kingsley was eliminated, as you know. However, his notes remain missing; our sources insist he entrusted them to Professor Cole. The attempt on her life failed—our asset couldn’t search her bag, as he was chased off by another Aetherian, and her desk was clear. ”
Her ladyship’s jaw tightened. “Yes, I know all of this,” she said impatiently.
“There’s more. Another attack was made on her—one not sanctioned by us. Professor Cole was trapped in the university swimming pool beneath a layer of ice, though she survived.”
For the first time that afternoon, something like surprise blinked across Beatrice’s features. “Do we know who was responsible?”
Arthur shook his head. “We’re still working on it. You don’t suppose other Aetherians have been hired alongside us, do you?”
“No, I don’t.” Beatrice folded her hands in her lap and considered the rug as if weighing the world in its weave.
“I think I may have had a change of heart,” she said at last, voice soft as a threat.
“From everything I’ve learned about Isla Cole, I would rather approach this differently.
Before we try to eliminate her again, and before someone else gets to her, I think we should attempt to recruit her. ”
Arthur’s surprise was frank. “You honestly believe she would join us after we tried to kill her?”
“From what I hear, she’s exceptionally bright,” Beatrice replied, a faint smile playing at one corner of her mouth.
“And now that her elemental gifts have awakened, she could be, well, useful. It would do us well to have more women of talent in our ranks. Plus, we can blame both attempts on her life to this unknown stranger. She needn’t know it was us who tried to kill her first.”
“It’s a tall order.” He let the words fall into the warm room.
“Do not fret,” she said, amusement threading through the calm. “With Reginald’s manipulation skills and Hargreaves’s—well, with his particular talents, I think it may be feasible. Her history, her desperate need for belonging ... those threads are easy enough to pull on.”
“Even if you employ illegal methods to bend her,” Arthur stated, “she bears the mark of the Fated. Do you truly think she will give that up?”
“There is a window of opportunity here,” Beatrice replied, eyes distant for a moment.
“We need to strike before she discovers any ... fanciful attachments. If she refuses to join us, then Hargreaves may search her memories before we dispose of her. She will hopefully reveal the location of Ray’s notes under pressure.
If that is the case, then our client will be satisfied and the health of the nation will remain under their control—of course, they need not know we tried to recruit her. ”
Arthur again inclined his head. “Very well. I will arrange for her to be acquired.”
Beatrice’s smile was small and perfectly polite as she lifted her cup once more. “Very good, Major. Proceed—quietly, and with discretion.” She tapped the saucer with the tip of her finger, the sound softer than the click of a pistol but just as threatening. “Capital.”