Chapter Twenty-Four
The buzzer to Max’s flat sounded at seven Wednesday morning, and he was less surprised than he should have been to find Augustus Grimme-Nox waiting on his front steps.
“Oh,” he said.
“Oh,” his father agreed. “I won’t take too much of your time—I expect a visit from Scotland Yard sometime this morning—but I wonder if I might bother you for a cup of tea.”
Max could think of few things he’d like to do less than have a cup of tea with his father, but the longer he had this conversation on the front stoop, the more likely it was that one of his neighbors would take notice, so with a jerk of his head, he led Grimme-Nox upstairs.
“I expect you’re feeling very pleased with yourself,” Grimme-Nox said, the second the door had closed behind him.
Max turned to face him, crossing his arms over his chest. “I am, actually.”
Grimme-Nox nodded. It was interesting, Max thought dispassionately, how genetics worked.
He and Grimme-Nox shared many of the same features—the broad shoulders, the dark hair—and yet he didn’t think they looked the slightest bit alike; it was no wonder that no one had ever guessed at the link between them.
“You know, when I first heard you were working for the Fleas, I’ll confess it…
irked me.” Grimme-Nox’s voice was mild, almost disinterested, and he began a slow circuit of the room as he spoke, his keen eyes taking in every detail of the space.
“You are my only son, much as you and I might both wish it otherwise. I find you a disappointment.”
Once, this would have wounded Max. He would have denied it, but deep down, it would have cut. Now, he found himself peculiarly unbothered by it.
“The feeling is mutual,” he said.
Grimme-Nox gave the ghost of a half smile.
“Eventually, though, I realized this could be useful—to have a son whom I knew perfectly well to be unbribable, working for the Fleas… I told Raffles that you would be the perfect person to send in to take down the other clubs, particularly if you saw anything that seemed at all dangerous.”
“Raffles knew I was your son?” Max asked, thinking back to his—apparently entirely misguided—conviction that any knowledge of the connection would ruin his career.
“Of course.” A small, sour smile played at the corner of Grimme-Nox’s mouth.
“Once I recovered from my disappointment in your determination to turn your back on your heritage, I saw how useful you might be. The first incident at Plenus Venter was a test; I wanted to make sure my appearance-changing potion would last long enough, and that no one would take notice of me.”
“As a handsome man with long eyelashes,” Max said, and Grimme-Nox inclined his head.
“I see you did your work thoroughly. Please forgive me if I don’t offer my congratulations, given the circumstances.
” He paused by the fireplace, resting his forearm on the mantel.
“At Holloway’s, you were meant to make a fuss—shut the club down.
Word would spread. People would grow wary.
And then we’d repeat the pattern at the next club—and the next one.
Until only the Grimoire was left, our potions seen as the only safe way of procuring magic.
However, when you failed to take action that first night, I convinced Raffles that this could be to our advantage—keep the Home Office and Scotland Yard out of matters for a while, just to be safe; allow rumors to spread through the magical community, then sweep in and shut down a whole load of the clubs in one fell swoop, once enough time had passed and you’d witnessed enough accidents.
I thought it was useful, having you on the case—someone whom I knew would not be swayed by any of the magical temptations of the Marylebone clubs.
However”—and here, his voice hardened—“I see I underestimated your weakness for pretty blondes who are free with their favors.”
Max met his father’s eyes. “I won’t even bother telling you not to speak about Miss Holloway that way, because I’ve come to realize something recently.”
“Oh?”
Max took two steps forward. “Nothing you say matters to me anymore. I took the job with the F.L.E.A.s to make you angry—to show you that I rejected you, and your world, and everything you stand for. But when I started working with Vesper, it had nothing to do with you; I wasn’t thinking of destroying your business, or sending you to prison—knowing how well-connected you are, I doubt you’ll end up there anyway.
The longer we investigated, the more I cared about solving the case, about making sure no one got hurt—and the less I thought about you at all.
You’re…” He paused, searching for the correct word.
The one that felt most true. “You’re irrelevant to me. ”
That caused a spark of anger to appear in his father’s eyes at last—the first time Max could ever remember seeing Augustus Grimme-Nox looking truly angry.
It should have been satisfying—but once again, Max found that he simply didn’t care anymore. This realization was satisfying.
“I’m your father. Like it or not, I’ll never be irrelevant.”
Max looked at him for a moment, considering this man who believed his blood, and the magic that coursed within it, his family name, all of it, to be of such importance—and, for the first time in his life, he pitied him.
“I have a father already—a much better one than you’ll ever be. And he’s the only one I need. Enjoy your meeting with the police—I’m guessing they’re very eager to speak to you.”
He opened the door and stepped back. His father gazed at him for several seconds before slowly making his way toward the doorway.
“I know she’s pretty, but she’s still one of us—she’s part of my world.” A hint of a satisfied smile crept across Grimme-Nox’s face as he paused a few inches from Max.
Max looked back at him steadily. “I know,” he said simply. “But it’s not your world anymore—not to me. It’s hers.”
And then, he took no small amount of satisfaction in shutting the door in Grimme-Nox’s nonplussed face.
Vesper awoke to the sound of a knock on her door.
She’d been at the club late the night before, yet when she’d arrived home, sleep had taken a while to find her.
She kept replaying the words of her conversation with Ashbridge over in her mind, wondering what on earth had possessed her.
The second he’d told her that he’d quit his job, it was as if a glass of cold water had been dumped over her; despite the fact that she’d known their professionally sanctioned excuse to spend time together was coming to an end, she still hadn’t been prepared for the news.
So, she’d started speaking—and before she knew what had happened, she was mixing potions in the backdoor bar and trying to put the memory of Ashbridge’s hurt, bewildered face from her mind.
It felt fitting, somehow, that after fuming about her family’s lack of faith in her ability to manage the club, it should be her own personal life that she’d prove incapable of managing.
“Meow?” inquired Sheep sleepily from her spot tucked up near Vesper’s feet, and Vesper dropped a kiss on her soft head as she pulled on a dressing gown and made her way to the front door, shivering in the morning chill.
There was sun streaming in through the windows, and she could catch a glimpse of blue sky out the sitting room window, but the quality of the light indicated that it was still quite early.
She opened the door and found Ashbridge standing on her doorstep.
Vesper gaped at him; then, horrified, raised a hand to her hair, which was no doubt standing up in all directions.
She was wearing an absolutely appalling pair of pajamas, one she had made a personal policy to never allow a member of the opposite sex to ever lay eyes on.
She had not so much as glanced at herself in the mirror—there was no telling what she looked like.
She undoubtedly appeared considerably less than a vision of seductive perfection.
Ashbridge—Max, she thought helplessly, remembering the intimate feeling of his name on her tongue—was looking at her as though she were the loveliest thing he’d ever seen.
“What are you doing here?” she asked. “What time is it, even?” She’d been so sleepy and confused upon awakening to his knock she’d not even glanced at a clock.
“Quarter to eight,” he said, looking far too cheerful about this fact. His cheeks were rosy with cold. His hair was curling—that one stubborn lock was falling onto his forehead. He was wearing a cozy jumper. He looked absolutely delicious.
“Quarter to eight,” she repeated faintly. “Do you realize that that is essentially the middle of the night to me? Why are you here?”
“Because I wanted to speak to you.” He sounded quite sure about the matter. “I’d like to come in. I’ll make you tea, since I suspect you’ll need fortification for this conversation.”
“How reassuring,” she muttered, and yet somehow, instead of sending him on his way, she found herself stepping back and letting him walk through the door into the flat, his presence, as always, seeming to shrink its size.
She allowed him to lead her into the kitchen, where she staggered her way to the table and watched in mute astonishment as, without awaiting an invitation, he set about making tea.
A kettle was filled and set to boil, tea leaves were spooned into a pot, milk was fetched from the icebox.
He paused, glancing at a jar of spell powder labeled simply FOR A MORNING BOOST—another of Mackleworth’s creations.
He glanced over his shoulder at her, lifting the jar.
“Would you like some?” he asked, and she gaped at him before nodding.
“Just half a teaspoon should be plenty.”
He nodded and spooned it into the pot along with the tea leaves.
Vesper wondered if she was still asleep.
In no time at all, he’d placed a steaming cup of tea before her, then set the milk jug and sugar bowl alongside it.
“Am I drunk?” she wondered aloud, taking a sip of her tea. “Bespelled?”