Chapter Forty

"What exactly do you think you are doing?" Oliver asked coldly, as Mr Brown stepped closer to me.

"What am I doing?" Mr Brown's smile stretched wide. "I am threatening the life of the woman you love. So you will do exactly as I say."

"It wasn't real," I said quickly. "Our engagement. It was a cover so that I could investigate you. I'm not his fiancée. I'm nothing."

Mr Brown's smile didn't falter. "Interesting. Is that right, Mr Lockhart?" he asked. "Is Miss Bloom nothing to you?"

Oliver's jaw tightened. His pitch-dark eyes were filled with a rage I could not have imagined him capable of. "Step away from her," he said quietly. "I will not ask you again."

I needed to do something; I needed to think of a plan. He had a gun. He had a gun, and he was moving closer to me. I was going to die. He was going to shoot me and everyone else.

"Or what?" Mr Brown smirked.

"Goodness," Sylla said in bored tones. "What a lot of unnecessary drama."

This produced a startled silence.

"And who exactly are you supposed to be?" Mrs Brown sneered, confidence clearly returning at the sight of her husband brandishing a deadly weapon.

Sylla's eyes ran over her with a haughty disinterest that had the blood rushing to Mrs Brown's cheeks. "Who I am is of no great importance at the moment," she said. "It is who I work for that you should be worried about." Her eyes locked with mine, and it was as if a jolt of electricity had been fired into me.

The roar of panic dulled in my ears, and in that moment of relative calm I remembered who I was. I wasn't just Marigold Bloom any more. I was a Finch. And that meant that I wasn't afraid of a man with a gun, because I knew precisely what to do. Hadn't Sylla trained me for this herself?

"That," Sylla added, "and the fact that there are several of the more burly members of the hotel security on their way up here, along with the police, I should think."

"Well then." Mr Brown took another step towards me, and I felt the cold muzzle of the gun pressing against my temple.

"Don't—" Oliver choked, taking a half-step forward, terror in his face.

"Oh, I wouldn't do that if I were you," Sylla said coolly.

"Listen, you little brat," Mr Brown spat, "my wife and I are about to walk out of here with your friend, and if anyone tries to stop us, then you'll be cleaning her brains off the carpet. Is that dramatic enough for you?"

Sylla's eyes flicked to mine, and I could have sworn there was actually amusement there. "What do you think about that, Mari?"

I assessed the situation. Mr Brown had his eyes narrowed on Sylla. He was not at all concerned with me because he expected nothing from me, no resistance, no sort of fight. In my head, I heard Simon's voice telling me that I should make myself small, that I wasn't clever enough or pretty enough or ladylike enough, knowing I would never stand up for myself or fight back. I thought about Scullen standing over Scout in that dingy alleyway.

Just like those men, Mr Brown utterly underestimated me and, like every member of the Aviary, I knew this to be my greatest advantage.

Taking a deep breath, I moved before I could think about it too much, my body only shifting in the way it had been relentlessly drilled to do over the last six months. I grabbed Mr Brown's wrist, pushing it in a smooth motion so that the end of the gun swung away from me; a loud bang rang in my ear as it discharged, the bullet flying wide.

Wrapping my other hand round the barrel of the gun, I pulled sharply down, hearing the horrible crack as I broke Mr Brown's finger, still on the trigger. (I could have sworn I also heard Sylla chuckle.) He screamed, and I twisted his arm towards his back, the gun falling free of his hand and skittering over the floor, where Sylla stopped it by resting her slippered foot on top. My other elbow lifted up, hitting Mr Brown hard in the face, and I spun round, applying my knee with great force between his legs. He made a rather inhuman noise and fell to the floor in an untidy heap. Writhing, I thought. Sylla was right. Watching it really did get the blood pumping.

The whole thing happened in the space of a few seconds, and I found myself breathing hard, standing over the prone body of my attacker.

Everything was utterly still.

"Good, Mari," Sylla said finally, picking up the gun and checking the remaining bullets. "A touch slow on your first move; remember you want to swing the gun as wide as possible. I suppose your ears are ringing?"

I nodded, feeling slightly dazed.

Sylla turned the gun almost absently on Mrs Brown. "The mistake, you see, is in getting too close," she told me. "There is no need to press the gun to your victim's head for dramatic effect. I am perfectly capable of killing Mrs Brown from this distance."

Mrs Brown sank back into her chair, her head in her hands. On the floor, her husband let out a low moan.

"Yes, I see," I replied, my voice thankfully calm. I turned my attention to Helene and Oliver who wore matching expressions of surprise – eyebrows raised, mouths slightly open. It was enough to bring a smile to my own face. They really were brother and sister.

"That was…" Helene trailed off.

"Extraordinary," Oliver breathed, and the way he looked at me made me feel like a goddess. "Bloom, you are extraordinary."

"She certainly is," Helene agreed with a grin. "I hope you will show me how to do that?"

"Have you ever considered any investigative work, Miss Lavigne?" Sylla asked, her tone thoughtful. "Perhaps the Aviary might benefit from a French branch."

Oliver moved to the far wall where the bullet from Mr Brown's gun was buried in the plasterwork. He ran his fingers over it. "You could have died," he said slowly. "You could have died right in front of me."

"You could have died right in front of me," I said. "So I suppose that makes us even."

"I think I have lost several years off my life today." Oliver pressed a hand to his chest. "And I realize there are some things I need to say as soon as possible. I—"

This interesting speech was cut short by the door slamming open. Mrs Finch and several very tall, very broad footmen appeared on the threshold.

"Oh, good," Mrs Finch said, her eyes travelling from Mr Brown's crumpled body, to Sylla, holding the gun trained on Mrs Brown. "I see you have everything under control."

"Perfectly," Sylla replied, as the footmen set about tying up the Browns. Once Mrs Brown was secure, Sylla checked the pistol was disarmed and placed it on the mantelpiece. Her eyes flicked to me. "I believe we can safely say that Mari's training period has concluded. Her performance was…" She hesitated here. "Satisfactory."

"Satisfactory?!" Oliver interrupted hotly. "She was magnificent."

Sylla ignored this utterly. "Are the police on their way?"

"It transpires that Mr and Mrs Brown are wanted for several crimes both here and in England under a variety of different pseudonyms." Mrs Finch pursed her lips. "They're to be held at the hotel until various officials have fought it out among themselves. Either way, they're both bound for a cell."

"I told you this was too risky!" Mrs Brown screeched at Mr Brown, who was busy staring daggers at me, his left eye already turning an unpleasant shade of purple. "Now look what you've done! Look what has become of us!"

"This was as much you as it was me," Mr Brown growled. "More! You were the one who decided we had to marry the girl off. You were the one obsessed with a title."

"Yes, yes," Mrs Finch said pleasantly. "There will be plenty of time to portion out the blame when the prosecution has you in the dock."

"I should go and check on Lucy," Helene said, casting a dark look at the Browns. "Someone should be concerned about what happens to her."

"Nothing will happen to Lucy," Oliver said. "I will make sure of it."

I realized then that he was leaning quite heavily against the wall, and that his face was almost completely drained of colour.

"You need to lie down," I said, rushing over and pressing my hand to his forehead, which was thankfully still cool to the touch. "And see a doctor. You were almost killed half an hour ago."

"You were almost killed five minutes ago," Oliver said stubbornly. "And I don't see anyone fussing over you."

"Mari is quite right," Mrs Finch said, and she smirked at me. "Take Oliver down to his room; the doctor should be on his way soon. I already called for him."

"Thank you," I said, and when I slipped my arm around Oliver's waist, taking some of his weight, he didn't protest beyond a brief mutter of disgruntlement, which I knew meant that he was feeling worse than he'd admit.

Moving slowly, we left the Browns in Mrs Finch's capable hands, and I returned Oliver to his room, a perfect copy of my own. "At least sit down on the sofa," I said, and he did, slumping into the cushions and looking increasingly bad-tempered.

"What can I get you?" I asked. "Some tea? Do you feel warm at all? Or cold? A blanket, perhaps…"

"I am not an infant," he snapped crankily. "I refuse to be coddled."

I ignored this, rearranging the cushions around him so that his head was better supported. "The doctor will be here soon, and then we'll be sure that there are no lingering effects from the poison. Fortunately, you seem to have absorbed very little; you'll probably just feel weak as a kitten for a few days."

"A kitten?" Oliver glared at me. "I am not a kitten."

"Of course not, Lockhart," I said solemnly. "You are definitely not a kitten. You are the picture of strength and vitality. I meant to say weak as a lion."

"You are making fun of me when we have important matters to discuss," Oliver huffed.

"Important matters?"

"Well, I don't know if you'll consider the fact that I am in love with you to be an important matter, but I certainly hope so," Oliver said, in the same tone one might use to comment on the state of the weather.

"In love with me?" I repeated, stunned.

"Yes."

"You," I said, pointing at him, "are in love with me?" I gestured at myself.

"My God," Oliver groaned, his head dropping back and his eyes closing. "This is to be we are in Paris all over again, isn't it? You are an intelligent woman, so I know you understand the words I am saying. Yes, I am in love with you."

It was this very cranky, very Oliver declaration that finally broke through to me. "I think I need to sit down," I said distantly.

"Oh, by all means." Oliver gestured to the armchair behind me, and I sank into it, my head a whirr as joy and panic crashed together in a wave that threatened to upset my sanity.

"Well," Oliver said after a moment, "is there anything you would like to add to this conversation?"

I looked at him and saw that, despite his offhand tone, he was watching me, his expression decidedly nervous.

"I—" I began, but there was a knock at the door. I leaped to my feet. "That will be the doctor," I said, rushing to the door and letting him in. "I will give the two of you some privacy."

And then, coward that I am, I hurried out into the hallway.

"This conversation isn't over, Bloom," I heard Oliver call after me. I couldn't decide if it was a promise or a threat.