Chapter Twenty
The useful thing about Vesper’s family owning a private club in the middle of Marylebone was that it made it easy to find her.
Or, at least, it should have.
Max worked late Friday evening; Raffles had sent him a stack of licensing permits to look through, which he couldn’t help but think was some sort of punishment.
The sun set at some point, Max too absorbed in his work to take notice, and when at last he looked up, the sky outside was a dark, velvety blue, illuminated by motorcar headlights and by the warm glow coming from pubs and restaurants on the street below.
He stood and reached for his coat, his thoughts occupied by the licenses he had spent the past countless hours sorting through.
And he felt… troubled. He was perfectly well aware that some of the clubs and pubs applying to renew their licenses were operating illegal backroom magical bars on the sly—had even been inside a couple of them himself.
But he was struck, suddenly, by the simple fact that these were people’s livelihoods—not just those of the owners, who could probably stand to lose the money, but those of every person employed.
The thought of putting that many people out of work, all for peddling some potions that, honestly, didn’t seem that dangerous to Max…
Well, he felt less certain about his job than he had at any point in the past few months.
Occupied by these somewhat disquieting thoughts, he hopped on an Underground train and emerged at Baker Street, allowing his feet to lead him, almost without his realizing it, to the door of Holloway’s.
The doorman recognized him and nodded him through.
Max’s eyes searched for a familiar golden bob.
It was nearly eight, but as it was midweek, the atmosphere was a bit more subdued than it would have been on a Friday or a Saturday.
In one of the reading rooms—situated at the front of the club and overlooking the street through its bow windows—were a number of men and women, some alone in armchairs with books and cups of tea or glasses of brandy, others in pairs or groups of three, chatting in hushed tones over open bottles of wine.
There was a fire burning in the large marble fireplace, and the velvet curtains were half drawn, lending a cheerful, cozy feeling to the room.
Max moved on, still seeking Vesper, taking the time to look around more carefully as he did.
He realized that on his previous visits to Holloway’s, he’d been so distracted either by searching for the signs of illegal magic or by some maddening conversation with Vesper that he had failed to properly take in his surroundings.
There was a dining room with white tablecloths, but relaxed conversation, loosened ties, jackets nowhere in sight, and plenty of tables occupied by women—nothing at all like the stodgy dining rooms of the expensive restaurants his father had taken him to as a boy, when he’d been attempting to be some sort of civilizing influence on him.
He wandered on, past another room—one that had a small brass plaque above the arched doorway labeling it THE SNUG, and which contained several overstuffed armchairs and a velvet sofa, a bookshelf absolutely creaking beneath the weight of well-loved books, and a bar cart with a handwritten sign reading HONESTY BAR over a coin box.
The rugs on the floor were mismatched and overlapping.
The resulting impression was extremely pleasant, and Max suddenly felt every hour of his day weighing down upon him.
The velvet sofa, in particular, looked very inviting.
He was so preoccupied by fantasies of taking a nap that it took a moment for him to register who, precisely, was currently in the snug, heads bent together, deep in conversation.
It was Vesper—and her siblings.
Cecily spotted him first.
“Ashbridge,” she called, and Freddie and Vesper glanced up, startled. Max took a few steps into the room toward them, nodded at Freddie, and flicked his eyes to Vesper.
“Hello,” he said quietly.
“Did we plan to meet this evening?” Her brow puckered. “If I’ve forgotten—”
“No,” he assured her. “I popped by on the spur of the moment—I hoped to have a word.”
“Ashbridge, why don’t you join us?” Cecily asked. It was phrased politely, but also as if it might be a challenge—as if she wanted to see if he would say no.
Against his will, he looked back to Freddie, who was watching him curiously.
It was strange to feel so uncertain with someone who had once been such a close friend.
He’d seen Freddie in every situation—drunk or bespelled, his cheeks flushed and his voice too loud; serious and focused, hard at work on an essay for some class or other; asleep on Max’s settee in his rooms at Magdalene, his face oddly younger in slumber; haunted, solemn, on the rare occasion that talk turned to the war.
Back then, he would have been able to tell, from a single glance at Freddie’s face, whether he was welcome or not.
Now, six years on, he found his expression more difficult to read.
Max raised an eyebrow at him. He wouldn’t join them if Freddie didn’t want him there—but, too, he wasn’t going to be the one to walk away.
“What’re you waiting for, then?” Freddie said lightly. It was a bit forced, the jovial tone, but Max saw—and appreciated—the effort.
Vesper moved to the side, freeing up room on the small love seat beside her, and Max sat, suddenly conscious of every single inch of her body that was pressed against his—and conscious, too, of the presence of both of her siblings, one of whom was his former best friend.
Christ almighty.
“You’re looking more tortured than usual, Ashbridge,” Cecily said. “Is it my sister? She does have that effect on people.”
“A miracle you’ve not fled from this scheme in horror,” Freddie agreed, and Vesper stuck her tongue out at each of her siblings in turn.
Max glanced down at her; she was dressed conservatively this evening, in a black satin dress that hung past her knees, with a single sparkling clip in her hair.
From this angle, he could see the unruly, frizzy curl by her ear—the one he’d often noticed her attempting to smooth, despite its stubborn refusal to behave.
“I think my natural facial expression is tortured,” he informed Cecily, who cackled.
Vesper glanced up at him, smiling, the dimples in her cheeks putting in an appearance, and he realized, in a sudden moment of clarity, that he was extremely fucked.
“I hope I’m not interrupting anything,” he added, looking away from Vesper with some difficulty and instead meeting Freddie’s gaze. He was watching Max and Vesper with an inscrutable expression.
“Top secret plans to infiltrate the government, murder all the Fleas, and install a magical police state, you mean?” Cecily asked.
“Something like that,” Max agreed. “Or, you know, plans for the Holloway family Christmas.”
“It’s only October,” Cecily said. “You’re liable to send Vesper into some sort of fit if you mention Christmas this early.”
“Oh?” He looked down at her. “More of a solstice devotee?”
The magical families celebrated Christmas, along with most of Britain, but they also hosted elaborate, drunken feasts on the winter solstice, something a teacher of Max’s had once described as “shockingly pagan” but which Max’s mother had always told him was really quite a good party.
“I don’t mind either,” Vesper said. “I just don’t like the carols.”
“The carols,” he repeated.
“The Christmas carols,” she said, as if he required clarification. “You know. ‘God Rest Ye Merry Gentlemen’? ‘It Came Upon a Midnight Clear’?”
“Thank you, yes, I’ve heard Christmas carols before, you heathen. What’s the problem with them?”
“They drive me mad.”
“This seems like an incredibly specific and odd prejudice.”
“There are people singing them on street corners, Ashbridge! Did I ask to be sung to? We don’t do it at any other time of year; why am I meant to enjoy it when it’s freezing outside and I’m simply trying to get home, or to the tea shop, or to the club? It’s unnatural.”
“You are unnatural. Do you despise joy?”
“I find that extremely rich coming from you, of all people. Please tell me, in great detail, the last time you felt joyful. Was it while sharpening a pencil? Giving someone an assignment at work?”
No, he realized in a rush: It was now—and sitting in a chippy with her the other night, and drinking cocoa in her flat, even as they were quarreling. At some point in the past two weeks, being around her had begun to make him feel that way.
“Well,” Cecily said, startling Max a bit; he’d almost forgotten she and Freddie were there. “This is fascinating.”
Vesper immediately frowned. “No, it’s not.”
“Oh, it is,” Cecily said.
“Ashbridge, what is it you wanted Vesper for?” Freddie asked, focusing the conversation.
“I talked to Raffles,” he informed Vesper, and her expression puckered. Cecily, meanwhile, leaned forward eagerly.
“Is that Effie Raffles?” she asked.
“It is,” he confirmed warily; she didn’t have a notebook out, but he was suddenly conscious of the fact that he was in the presence of a journalist.
“This is off the record,” he said as a precautionary measure, and Cecily rolled her eyes.
“Do you see a pencil in my hand?” she asked peevishly, but he continued to fix her with an unrelenting stare until she said, “Yes, yes, off the record.”
“Yes, it’s Effie Raffles,” he said then.
“You know,” she said, thoughtful, “I obviously disagree with her politics, but she’s a fascinating woman. I don’t suppose you’d be able to convince her to do an interview with The Spark?”
“I guarantee you that I cannot.”
“He’s probably right,” Freddie said. “Ashbridge never mastered the art of charming a woman.”
“I don’t know,” Cecily replied, before Max could object to this slander. “He’s clearly done something that has worked on Vesper.”
Vesper spared an exasperated look for her elder siblings. “Will the two of you please go away and let me have a word with Ashbridge? We’ve a clandestine operation sneaking around the back rooms at the Grimoire to plan.”
Cecily and Freddie were twin images of alarm. “Vesper, doesn’t that seem a bit risky?” Cecily asked, sounding extremely elder sister–ish.
“Yes,” Vesper said; Max could hear the irritation in her voice that she was trying to suppress. “Which is why we’re planning it carefully.”
“You think this is a good idea?” Freddie demanded of Max, who shrugged.
“It was my idea, so I’m hardly going to say it’s not a good one.”
Freddie and Cecily exchanged eloquent glances but rose to their feet.
“Try not to get yourself arrested, Vesper, or Daddy will never let you hear the end of it,” Cecily said, making for the door.
Freddie followed more slowly, giving Max an appraising sort of look.
Max met his gaze evenly, recalling his argument with Vesper of a few evenings earlier.
Whatever genuine anger he’d once felt toward Freddie Holloway had long since faded, he realized.
He gave Freddie a cordial nod, and a quirk of the mouth that passed for a half smile, coming from him.
“It was good to see you, Ashbridge,” Freddie said, and extended his hand.
Max glanced at it, and after only a moment’s hesitation rose to his feet and shook it. “And you, Holloway.”
And with that, Freddie and Cecily were gone.
Max lowered himself back into his seat next to Vesper—conscious anew of how closely they were pressed together—and looked at her.
She was watching him with an unreadable expression on her face; his eyes met hers, and he didn’t look away.
The moment stretched between them, the silence growing a bit taut as it lengthened, and at last she said softly, “Thank you.”
He gave her a small smile by way of reply.
And then, without another word, he turned to business. “Raffles is growing impatient. She’s given us another week to make serious progress, but that’s it—we’ll need to have something to report.”
Vesper nodded, unfazed by the sudden turn from matters personal to matters criminal. “I’m still prepared to go to the Grimoire tomorrow night—if you are?”
He nodded. “However, we’ve another problem—I spoke to my friend Will, who works for The Times. He says another reporter at the paper has been tipped off about the incidents with the contaminated potions and has been sniffing around.”
Vesper exhaled a soft expletive. “That makes things a bit more pressing, then. We need to wrap this up before they write something damning—Simon’s bill is due for its first reading in less than two weeks.
” She stilled, seeming to realize what she’d said.
And to whom. “I know that we don’t agree on this, Ashbridge, but—”
“I don’t want your brother-in-law’s bill to fail solely because some lunatic is going around trying to poison people using magic,” Max said.
“It ought—well, it ought to be a fair fight. This doesn’t seem fair.
And,” he added, “there’s more. Will is certain that this reporter was tipped off by someone at the Home Office—but how?
He says the tip came in the same weekend of the accident at Holloway’s—before I’d even told Raffles about our investigation.
Who in government would have known this was going on so early? ”
Vesper frowned. “That doesn’t make sense.”
“I know. Except…” He paused, weighing his words. He didn’t fancy himself a conspiracy theorist, but something had been niggling at him, ever since his discussion with Will yesterday.
“I keep thinking about Jacob Finlay—the fact that he went to dinner with Anthony Grenoble, and that he was seen at the Duke and Earl. And it makes me think… who would benefit from this? Not just the owners of rival clubs.”
“Someone who wanted to keep Forbiddance in place,” Vesper said slowly. “Someone who wants people to think poorly of magic.”
“Precisely.” Max was feeling quite grim, the more he considered it.
“We’ve been lucky, really, that Raffles has wanted to keep our work quiet—if this had become a big Home Office investigation, or if Scotland Yard had got involved, the press surely would have taken notice, and word would have spread even faster. ”
“But Finlay can’t be behind this alone,” Vesper said. “Since it has to be someone magical who’s doing the tampering.”
“Right. But Finlay was at the Duke and Earl on the same night as—”
“Your father.” Vesper’s eyes were wide.
“Precisely.”
“Well,” she said, “then let’s pay him a visit tomorrow night, and prove it.”