36

T he next morning was bright and sunny, much like the mood inside the castle. The Wynchesters were simply so confident they could resolve the unresolvable that Stephen could not help but be swept along in their buoyant optimism.

Elizabeth and Kuni were fencing in one of the castle's many rooms. Meanwhile, Stephen threw himself into his press-up exercises between tinkering with telescopes and pulleys.

Jacob had been absent from sight since the night before, introducing his animals to the castle environment and teaching the homing creatures to return to new locations.

Stephen had expected to spend the morning setting up the Wynchester siblings' new machines wherever so instructed, but Marjorie and Adrian had quickly proved more than capable of dismantling and reassembling them without issue. They were such a well-matched pair that Stephen found himself a fifth wheel, even amongst his own inventions. When he'd stepped out of their way, they hadn't even noted his absence.

He tried not to mind that they didn't need him. No one ever did, a sorry fact that never made the not-being-needed any easier to bear. He was useful only whilst inventing. After that, it was his creations which were useful, not Stephen.

Yet he kept trying.

"Is there anything I can do to help you?" he asked Philippa.

She looked up from the stack of open books on the dining room table with the thinly concealed annoyance of someone who had been concentrating very hard on something exceedingly important, until she was so rudely interrupted.

She forced a smile.

He could not help but grimace. "I'm sorry."

"No, I'm sorry." She placed a ribbon between the pages of her book and closed the tome. "Believe me, I know exactly what it's like to feel like the least Wynchester-y Wynchester of the group."

"I am the least Wynchester-y, by definition. I'm the only non-Wynchester amongst us."

"Yes, well, one never knows how long that particular condition will last. The others aren't ignoring you, in case that was your fear. When they have a client, the case often commands their full concentration, to the exclusion of all else. And with less than ninety-five minutes until Reddington's siege begins in earnest—"

"You're counting down the minutes?"

"Aren't you?"

"I don't have to. I built a machine that will lower an hourglass to mete out the right amount of sand sixty minutes before the battle is to begin. When the glass empties, the machine will sound out a warning."

"Of course you did." Philippa chuckled. "Honestly, I might still be the least Wynchester-y Wynchester. Whilst you are all off doing remarkable things, I sit in a chair surrounded by books."

"What are you reading?"

"Items from Elizabeth's collection. Military histories… Biographies of war generals… Journals from the front lines… Copies of letters Wellington sent home from the battlefield." She patted each stack in turn, then held up the volume she'd been studying when he interrupted. "I wish I could make heads or tails of this one."

He peered closer. "Is that… Chinese?"

She nodded. " The Art of War by Sun Tzu. I don't speak the language, but a scholarly friend of Elizabeth's does. She's left translations of important points in the margins."

Stephen took a second look at the additional stacks of books before her. "French… Italian… Greek… Scholarly friends left translation notes in all of these?"

"Oh, no. All the other books are part of our personal library. I read those for sport."

For sport. Stephen gave her a crooked smile. "I think you are a very Wynchester-y Wynchester."

"Except in one way," came a voice from behind him. "She and Jacob are pacifists."

Stephen turned to see Tommy approach.

She arched her brows. "Shouldn't you be off tinkering on one of your… tinklings?"

"Stephen is no mere tinker," said Philippa.

Tommy looked at him with interest. "Oh?"

Stephen was just as baffled as Tommy was. "I don't know what she means."

"False modesty, if I've ever heard it," scoffed Philippa. "Our Mr. Stephen Lenox has registered no fewer than one hundred and forty-seven patents in just over a decade, several of which have revolutionized industries, and many of which are important components of conveniences you take for granted."

He stared at her. "You know how many patents I've registered?"

"My reading circle devoted an entire summer to studying inventors and their inventions, and your works took up a disproportionately large segment of our time."

"Wait. You knew who I was before you took this case?"

"Patent sixty-five: an automatic cutlery cleaner. Patent one hundred and four: an apparatus for automatically raising and lowering chandeliers. You are arguably England's most important living inventor!"

"Never test a bluestocking," whispered Tommy.

Stephen's skin warmed. To Philippa's reading circle, he wasn't some anonymous inventor of obscure creations. He was Mr. Stephen Lenox, a real person. His step was lighter than it had been all morning.

He was not as surprised as he would have expected a month ago to realize a growing part of him wished he were a permanent part of the joyful, chaotic, and accomplished Wynchester clan. After all these years, Stephen was amused to discover himself not to be a reclusive misanthrope after all. That was a misdiagnosis. It turned out, he simply had not yet found his people.

Until now.

"Tell us about your house," Tommy said. "Is it tiny bachelor lodgings, or some sprawling estate filled to the brim with gigantic contraptions like those in the Great Hall?"

"It's a formidable size," he admitted, "with lots of room for machines, though I tend to take them down after a few months and reuse the materials into something new and better. Which means there's plenty of room for…"

Elizabeth. An arsenal of swords. Visits from family.

Tommy's eyebrows shot up. "Plenty of room for more machines?"

Stephen's throat grew tight. The nonchalant response he'd intended to make garbled on his tongue.

Saving him from replying, Marjorie chose that moment to skid into the room with a dash of moss-green paint on the tip of her nose and her husband, Adrian, trailing close behind.

"There you are!" She hunched over, hands on her knees, to catch her breath. "We've been looking everywhere for you."

"Why? Is there a problem with one of the machines?"

"Oh, we finished setting up over an hour ago."

"An hour ago?" Stephen dug out his pocket watch and gaped at the time. It was almost nine o'clock already.

Marjorie stepped forward, an object enclosed in her fist. "To thank you for your lovely gift, Adrian and I made you a good-luck token for the battle ahead."

Stephen held out his hand.

She dropped a locket on a chain into his palm.

"Thank you." Stephen stared at the gold locket in his hand. The craftsmanship was excellent. It reminded him of a locket he had once seen in a royal portrait, gracing the neck of—

Marjorie kicked his toe. "Open it."

Stephen released the clasp. His heart skipped. Inside the locket was a miniature of Elizabeth. It was a portrait from only the bodice up, yet managed to convey all of her fierceness and fire.

"Thank you," he said again, this time his voice thick with emotion. Stephen hadn't believed himself the syrupy sort of romantic to wear a lover's likeness, but he knew already he would wear this one for the rest of his life.

"Adrian made the locket, and I did the portrait. I was inspired by the way you look at my sister. I want you to always be able to gaze at her, whenever you'd like."

Stephen tried to swallow. Or to smile. Or do anything besides stare unblinkingly in all his syrupy romantic gooeyness at the beautiful miniature of the woman he loved.

This was the perfect gift and the worst gift all in one. The most bittersweet of souvenirs. After all, he would not need to gaze upon a portrait in a locket if there was any hope of keeping the actual woman in his life.

He pressed the locket to his chest. He and Elizabeth were still in the castle. Perhaps it wasn't too late to trap his bloodthirsty princess in a turret and lock himself in with her.

Marjorie stepped forward. "I'll clasp it around your neck."

"You can't reach his neck," Adrian said dryly. "I'll do it."

Stephen relinquished his gift only long enough for the chain to be secured, then tucked the locket beneath his shirt next to his skin. The gold was warm, as though it was the kiss of Elizabeth's fingertips touching his heart, and not a heart-shaped piece of metal.

"I'll cherish it," he promised Marjorie and Adrian. "Thank you."

And yet the true gift was not the locket, but rather a hard truth put so clearly into focus: Stephen didn't want Elizabeth to be reduced to a memory. He wanted the real woman.

Now and forevermore.