Chapter Nine

T he unseasonable sun was shining through the narrow windows of the drawing room, onto the faded carpets and brocade chairs, and Crane was bored.

Stephen had been particularly uninteresting at breakfast, barely meeting Crane's eyes, making only polite and noncommittal remarks. Crane, deprived of conversation, found his mind kept wandering to Hector, and the jack, and the ghastly legal and financial tangle ahead of him, until he had all but forgotten the dull little man opposite him.

Stephen had disappeared after consuming a huge breakfast and was now sequestered in the library, where he had been all morning, armed with the most detailed map Crane possessed and supplies of tea and cake from Mrs. Mitching. Merrick had gone off to spread the agreed story that the cement fixing the stones of the Rose Walk had deteriorated catastrophically and it was likely to collapse on anyone foolish enough to walk through it. Crane had settled down with Piper's accounts, which possessed all the clarity and order of a plate of chao mian noodles but none of the spice, and had thought that this would be the dullest thing he did all day, right up until the moment Sir James and Lady Thwaite arrived to make a morning call.

Sir James concluded his hunting anecdote with a hearty laugh, in which his wife joined. Crane said, "Very good," without any effort at sincerity. "Now... "

"Well." Sir James glanced at his wife. "I expect you're wondering why we're here, my lord, and the fact is, we're having a dinner this evening."

"We had no idea when you'd be back, you see," put in Lady Thwaite. "Or we would have sent you a card. Naturally."

"Cards," said Sir James dismissively. "Man doesn't need a card to share meat with his neighbours. Come and take pot luck with us this evening. You can meet our Helen again, and all the society roundabout here, not to mention the Brutons. Muriel's friends, they are, coming up from London today. Just your sort. Sir Peter and Elise, that's Lady Bruton, don't know if you've met them? You London folk all know each other, I dare say."

"That's most kind of you, but—"

"Now, don't say you have another engagement." Lady Thwaite had an air of suppressed triumph. "The Millways are coming, and there will be Mr. Haining too. And really, I can't imagine what else you could be doing."

Crane could think of a number of occupations that would give him more pleasure, even in Piper. "I'm not engaged, as such, but I'm extremely busy. Matters are in something of a tangle here. I really can't spare the time for social events, I'm afraid. Thank you anyway." He rose as he spoke.

"But you must come." Lady Thwaite stood too and took hold of Crane's hand. "Listen to me. You can't refuse to meet your neighbours and you really mustn't decline. Come tonight, at seven, or you will offend us all and you don't want to do that."

"I—"

"Listen to me. You don't want to refuse at all, dear Lord Crane. You know you must come. You have to meet Helen again. You like Helen so much, she's so sweet and pretty. Such a lovely girl. So suitable, so eligible. You must come."

Crane sighed internally, realising he would have to go. "Very well, then, thank you. But I've a guest with me here. "

"Bring him along!" said Sir James boisterously, getting in before his wife could speak. "The more the merrier."

"I've no idea if he has dining clothes—"

"Oh, don't bother about that! We're not sticklers, are we, my dear?"

Lady Thwaite patted Crane on the arm with a victorious smirk. "Of course not. And you must come, dear Lord Crane, you really, really must."

Crane returned to his work for ten minutes or so after the Thwaites had left, cursing himself for giving in to a pointless social obligation, and wondering what the devil Stephen could wear to any kind of dinner. The man was barely presentable as it was. He caught himself reflecting that his own amber cufflinks would match Stephen's eyes, the blend of warm brown and glowing gold, and wondered why he'd had that thought, because Stephen's eyes were a drab clay colour...

He put his pen down.

He knew the man's eyes were golden, changeable, intense. He'd watched them long enough. But he also knew they were dull and unattractive, because...

Because Stephen had told him so?

Crane made himself go over and over the last night, memories swimming to the surface as he concentrated. The cold rough stone. Stephen on his knees. Warm breath and soft lips against his hand.

He knew it had all happened. But part of his mind was insisting it hadn't—because Stephen had made him think it hadn't. Because Stephen had gone into his mind, and practiced on his thoughts.

Stephen, the shaman he trusted to protect him, the man he had started thinking of as his friend.

Crane stared unseeingly at the surface of the desk, face tightening as he thought it over. When he was sure he was right, he got up, walked out of the room to the library and knocked on the door in a restrained, calm, steady fashion for about five minutes without stopping, until his knuckles were getting sore.

Finally Stephen opened the door a crack and gave him a look of exasperation. Crane responded with a bland smile, and kicked the door open so hard that the other man had to leap back to avoid being hit.

STEPHEN HAD BARELY slept the previous night. He had compounded that shameless performance in the garden with a disgraceful abuse of his powers: he had tortured himself for half the night with reproaches and the other half with images of what might have been, painfully aware of Crane oblivious and asleep in the next room. He had been scarcely able to meet Crane's eyes at breakfast for anger at himself, and he had spent the morning getting increasingly frustrated at the maddening difficulty of casting in this ridiculous, hateful house. It had taken him hours to get into a state of focus that meant he could force the meagre ether to do his bidding, and the knocking that broke his concentration was almost as unwelcome as the results he was seeing, or the heavy oak door that came within two inches of breaking his nose.

"What the devil ?" he demanded as Crane strode in and back-heeled the door shut with a slam.

"I," said Crane sweetly, "have just accepted a dinner invitation for us both. Tonight."

"You've done what? Why?"

"That's what I'd like to know." Crane stalked forward. Stephen dropped back a pace. "I was happily refusing the importunities of a pair of dullards, when quite suddenly I found myself realising that I was being terribly rude and it was absolutely necessary that I should attend this tedious social engagement. Much as, in the past weeks, I have found myself thinking that I was a worthless piece of human waste who ought to kill myself. "

"Oh! You think—"

" Much as ," Crane went on over him, taking another step forward so that Stephen was backed up against the desk, "last night, just after you revealed yourself as the world's best card-sharper and faced down a bloody ghost , I found myself thinking that you're really a very dull little man that I don't want to pay any attention to. Isn't that odd?"

Stephen froze. Crane glared at him, ugly with rage, clenching his fists. "You damned little swine, how dare you play the fool with my mind?"

He shoved, hard; Stephen squirmed sideways. "Not the desk, don't knock the desk!" he yelped. "I've spent all morning doing that—"

"The hell with the desk." Crane shoved it, hard. There was a sad tinkling clatter as a tangle of something metallic collapsed, and Stephen gave a pained cry of protest, which Crane ignored, reaching for him again. Stephen ducked under his arm and sidestepped. Crane grabbed him by the shoulders, walked him back two paces and slammed him against a bookshelf.

"Ow."

Crane stared down. Stephen could feel himself flushing, but he met Crane's eyes directly.

"Well?" demanded Crane.

"Well, you're right, of course."

" Why? "

Stephen looked at him steadily, refusing to drop his eyes. "It's safer."

"For whom?"

"Me. Can you let me go, please, I've got some sort of atlas in my back."

Crane shifted his hands from Stephen's shoulders to the shelves behind, but didn't otherwise move, so that Stephen was still trapped by his body and outstretched arms. "That was neither an explanation, nor an apology. I want both. What did you do to me? "

"I put fluence on you. Influence. To lead your thoughts in the direction I wanted them to go."

"Why?" asked Crane again.

"If I wanted to discuss it, I wouldn't have used fluence in the first place. You know, I'm used to people being taller than me, and I really don't find it as intimidating as you may imagine, so you may as well step back."

Crane leaned forward and down instead, eyes snapping with fury. "Will you be more intimidated when I wring your neck, you little sod?"

Stephen reached up and put a finger on Crane's throat. "Listen to me. Step back two paces, calmly."

Crane stepped back. Stephen rolled his narrow shoulders and took a breath, counting mentally. When he reached six, he saw the rage ignite in Crane's face and rapidly moved away from the wall.

"You fucking little shit!" Crane lunged. Stephen ducked, jinked sideways and retreated in earnest as Crane went for him, far faster than he'd anticipated. He skipped backwards and found Crane had backed him against the desk again. The taller man grabbed him, astonishingly hard, and threw him backwards, so that the breath burst out of him, and before he could move, Crane was over him, pinning him down.

Stephen's back was on the desk, and his feet didn't reach the floor. Crane leaned on him, bodies pressed close, pinioning his wrists above his head, face dark with anger.

Stephen had, he realised, made a fairly spectacular misjudgement.

"I apologise for that." He spoke as calmly as possible, trying to ignore the pressure of Crane's body against his. "It was in the way of an experiment, to see how fast you'd shake it. You're developing surprisingly rapid resistance to fluence."

"Perhaps that's because people keep doing it to me," said Crane through his teeth.

Stephen's brows drew together slightly. "I think you may be right, at that. How— "

"No," said Crane. "I'm asking the questions."

He was pressing down painfully on Stephen's wrists, taut body just over Stephen's, hard and intent and all too close to the night's imaginings. Stephen swallowed, cursing the betraying rush of blood, wishing he dared shift position.

"This is quite uncomfortable."

"Good. I remembered what happened last night."

"Nothing happened," said Stephen instantly defensive.

"Yes, it did. There was a ghost."

"Oh—well, yes—"

"But that wasn't what you had in mind, was it?"

Stephen bit his lip. Control this. "Why don't you tell me what you think happened last night?"

Crane's lips drew back in a snarl. "What I think is that I was about to have you right there in the garden. I think you were about two minutes from being flat on your back in the grass."

Stephen felt the blood recede from his face. Brilliant, Steph, well played.

"And..." Crane shifted his leg up so that it rubbed against Stephen's painfully tight groin, ridding him of the admittedly faint hope that Crane hadn't noticed his arousal. "I think you're two minutes from the same thing right now."

"Oh God," said Stephen involuntarily. He couldn't tell if Crane meant it, or what he meant. A dizzying pulse of excitement was making it difficult to think. Crane's body was hard against him, and he could feel the larger man's cock, pressing against his stomach. "Listen—"

"Shut the fuck up!" It was a shout, but Crane's voice moved immediately to a savage purr. "I want to make you pay for that right now, you manipulative little bastard. I want to make you pay, and you know it, and..." His mouth curled, and he shoved his thigh cruelly against Stephen's erection again. "And you like it. In fact, I suspect there's nothing you'd like better. Is there? "

Stephen couldn't speak. Crane's eyes narrowed. "Well?"

Stephen licked his lips. "What do you want me to say?" His voice sounded breathy in his own ears.

"Tell me why you did that to me last night. And don't lie to me. I know what you wanted, what you want. So why did you do it?"

He did not want to answer that. "I— It was—"

"You wanted me to fuck you, didn't you?"

Stephen shut his eyes. "Briefly."

Crane lowered his head so his mouth was right on Stephen's ear, voice vibrating, teeth and tongue touching the sensitive flesh. "When I fuck you, Mr. Day, it will not be briefly. It will be long and hard and extremely thorough. I'm going to take pains with you."

Stephen whimpered, helpless to stop himself, tilting his hips so his cock rubbed against Crane's body. Crane thrust back hard, once, grinned mirthlessly at Stephen's gasp, and leaned back with a look of victory in his eyes.

"Let's consider this in the nature of reparations." He shifted one hand so that it pinioned both of Stephen's wrists—not hard, a symbolic gesture only, as powerful as any chain—and moved his free hand to his belt.

There was a cruel, humourless twist to his mouth, and the fleeting, hateful resemblance hit Stephen with shocking vividness. A sudden flare of all-consuming rage leapt in his mind, obliterating his arousal. "God damn it, your father ruined mine, your brother assaulted my mother, and you think I'm going to let a Vaudrey have me, here? Get off me!"

He shoved, hard, putting power behind it, but Crane had already let go of his wrists and recoiled from the desk as though Stephen was a poisonous thing. He strode to the window and stood, gripping the frame, staring out.

Stephen sat up awkwardly and took a very deep breath. He leaned forward and put his face in his hands .

There was a long, unpleasant silence.

"I didn't think of that." Crane didn't look round when he finally spoke. "I don't think of myself as part of my family, you see. I didn't think you did. I thought you didn't. Of course you do."

"I don't," Stephen said. "If I did, we wouldn't have been in that situation in the first place. It was just—then..."

You looked like Hector. Looking at Crane's rigid back, he couldn't have said the words at gunpoint.

"I panicked," he went on. "That's all I can say. I panicked last night, and I abused my powers and your mind to get myself out of an awkward situation. You've every right to be angry."

"Angry, yes." Crane still didn't look round. "Not to behave like my brother."

"Oh, please," Stephen said wearily. "We both know that's not true."

Crane turned at last, face tight. "Horse shit. I'm twice your size."

"Yes, and I'm a practitioner, and you have no concept of what I can do," Stephen snapped. "Don't dare assume I can't defend myself."

"So why didn't you?" Crane retorted instantly.

"Because I didn't want to. As you so astutely observed. I think you've probably humiliated me enough for now, don't you?"

He rested his head on his hand, legs dangling over the side of the desk, trying to make his body stop clamouring for sex or violence or both. He could feel Crane watching him, and the anger draining out of the room.

"All right," Crane said finally. "You abused my mind. I had every intention of abusing you right back. The only possible conclusion is that we're a pair of bastards."

"The difference is, I didn't give you a choice."

"Nor did I you," Crane pointed out.

"You let go."

"Not until you asked. "

"And I didn't ask you before." Stephen could tell exactly what was passing through Crane's mind, from no greater power than familiarity. "Lord Crane, I have many weaknesses, and none of them are related to my size or physical strength. Please try to grasp that."

"If you say so," Crane muttered. "Nevertheless. Did I hurt you?"

"Only my pride. And my back. And my entire morning's work."

"I'm sorry."

"Forget it." Stephen sighed. "Lord Crane—"

"Crane, for God's sake. I can't stand the title, it sounds like my father's in the room."

"Crane," said Stephen, tasting the unadorned name. "I apologise for last night. It was cowardly, and unfair, and I'm ashamed of myself. And I give you my word I won't do that again, fluence you. It's really not how I generally behave."

"I could say much the same in return," Crane said. "You hit a sore point. I suppose this whole business is a lot of sore points strung together for you."

"It isn't terribly easy," Stephen agreed.

Their eyes met for a moment. Crane gave him a crooked smile. "What do you want to do about this?"

"My job. That's all. Without complicating things."

"You don't feel things are getting complicated all by themselves?"

"No," Stephen said. "I think it's mostly me and I think I should stop it."

"It's not mostly you. But... All right. I won't resume this subject unless you do. If you don't, I'll respect that. If you do, I will take it you've made your mind up. Your choice."

Stephen didn't want it to be his choice. He wanted to be an extremely long way away from Crane, so that choice didn't come in to it. But he nodded anyway, because there wasn't much else to do, and they stood in awkward silence for a moment .

"Work," Stephen said finally. "Can we go back to this dinner invitation?"

"The— Oh, yes, that. Right. What happened was that Sir James and Lady Thwaite, of Huckerby Place, made me think I had to accept a dinner invitation. That sounds ridiculous."

"When you accepted this invitation, did either of them touch you?"

Crane frowned. "I have an idea Lady Thwaite took my hand."

"May I?"

Crane extended his hand. Stephen took it— be professional, Day —turned it over thoughtfully, brought his face down, and sniffed deeply, running his nose just above Crane's skin.

"What in God's name are you doing?"

"Witch-smelling." Stephen sniffed again. "There's definitely something there. Fluence. Not me."

"So this fluence requires physical contact, does it?"

"Skin contact. Have you any idea what Lady Thwaite was saying?"

"I'm not sure." Crane frowned. "I can't seem to remember the words. I just know that she changed the way I thought. As you did, as the Judas jack did."

"Why on earth would she fluence you to accept an invitation?"

"No idea. But I don't think it's the first time she's done it."

"Really." Stephen felt a familiar prickle along his spine, the hackles of the hunting dog. "Is anything striking you as odd about your previous relations with her?"

"That I have any. I've been ignoring cards and refusing invitations since I got back, but I found myself visiting the Thwaites on each of my previous visits down here. I may add, if I wanted to get to know any of my neighbours, it wouldn't be them."

"Does your presence lend social cachet?"

Crane shrugged. "Well, I'm the new Lord Crane, but on the other hand, I'm the old Lucien Vaudrey. And they're an established country family, they don't need my countenance, such as it is. I'd scarcely think it was worth the effort, and certainly not three times over. There was nobody else there the second time, in fact. Just the Thwaites and their daughter."

"Ah," said Stephen. "Their unmarried daughter, is that?"

"They've only the one. Mid-twenties, unmarried, very pretty, very charming—what?"

Stephen kept his face inexpressive, biting back an inappropriate urge to laugh. "Out of curiosity, have you been having any thoughts of matrimony, at all?"

"Well, it's crossed my mind. For obvious reasons, I'm not inclined to marry, but there's the succession...which...which I don't give a damn about..." Crane's voice tailed off, then he exploded, "That fucking harpy!" He stalked a few paces, spine stiff with anger. "Do you seriously think I was being entrapped into marriage by magic?"

"It's possible," Stephen said. "Fluence wouldn't do it alone, but if Miss Thwaite is pretty and charming, it could certainly pave the way. You're the last Vaudrey, you're in search of a wife and an heir—"

"I'm not. I am not ."

"You might be expected to be. Wealthy neighbours, lovely daughter, good family. You might well be led to feel she'd do as well as another."

The darkness was back behind Crane's eyes. "She is not charming. She's a thoroughly nasty, foul-tempered piece of work. I am not going to marry that ill-conditioned little shrew, and I will not be manipulated by that sour-faced bitch her mother!"

"No, you won't," Stephen said. "I'll put a stop to it."

"Do you think she'll listen to you?"

"I expect so. You said I was invited tonight?"

"We're not going," said Crane emphatically .

"I think we should. I need to see Lady Thwaite in action, if possible, make sure it is her. I won't let anyone assault your virtue," he added, and received a withering glare.

" Tsaena . Bloody woman. Oh dear God, is she the jack's maker?"

"Not if she's also trying to marry you to her daughter, surely. But anyway, the jack came from around Nethercote, which is the opposite direction to Huckerby Place. I could show you the pinpointer, except you wrecked it."

They both looked down at the chaos on the desk. It was familiar stuff to Stephen; through Crane's eyes it must look like madness. A map was spread out on the faded green leather top. A couple of contorted needles lay by it, and a mess of twisted fragments of wood. There was a small pool of solid tin, the size of a fingernail, on the leather, a few pieces of broken needle stabbed randomly into the desk surface, some papers and a pen wiper. A tangle of needles lay like spillikins on the map. It had, at one point, been quite a satisfactory casting.

"Sorry," Crane said.

"I'd got the location, at least. It was a phenomenally difficult piece of work. Everything in here is flowing in the most peculiar way. But I did get Nethercote. Definitely."

Crane was looking closely at him. "Is that a problem?"

Stephen sighed. "My Aunt Annie lives just outside Nethercote."

"I see," said Crane. "No, I don't. So what? Unless she's like my Great-Aunt Lucie, in which case you have all my sympathy—"

"She's a witch."

"Just like Great-Aunt Lucie."

"No," Stephen said. "She's a witch ."

"Oh. I see. Oh, the devil—you don't think—"

"The jack? I can't think so. Father's been dead twelve years, why would she do it now? And she's always been a stickler. It's just, I only know of one other practitioner in Nethercote and I find it hard to believe it was her either—Mrs. Parrott, her name is, a respected craftswoman. But there may well be someone else. This is the devil of an area for the craft, you know, so much power. I can't think why this house is so bad."

"So what do we do?"

"Have some lunch, go to Nethercote, talk to Mrs. Parrott and see if she can lead us to the maker. And hope to God my aunt doesn't turn up."