Blaze of Glory (24 page)

Von Stralick awkwardly lifted his pistol but before he
could shoot again, a flock of tiny bats appeared from
nowhere and descended on him, shrieking and clawing.
He lurched backwards, still cursing, and disappeared.

'It's von Stralick,' Aubrey whispered to George.

'You're sure?'

'No doubt.' In the distance, Aubrey could hear police
whistles. 'Best to get away from here.'

George looked at him. 'Can you run?'

'If I have to.' He took a deep breath. 'You first,
Caroline. Can you get to the gate and hold it open?'

'Yes.'

She moved like a cat, slipping through the shadows,
flitting between the skeletons of the farm machinery. She
reached the gate and crouched by it.

'Ready?' Aubrey said to George, who nodded.

They went as silently as they could, crouching behind
bushes, rushing across the gaps.

The gate opened onto a lane which, after fifty yards or
so, took them back to the street. As they emerged from
the lane, a dozen police officers were running towards
the scene of the uproar, and a police van raced past.
They turned and walked in the other direction, trying
not to look as if they had just been involved in a desperate
escape.

A few streets on, Aubrey took out his stolen pamphlet.
He held it in the light of a street lamp.

'You've become a convert to physical excellence?'
George asked him.

'No.'

He held it out. George took it and read aloud the large
title: 'Darius Fitzwilliam: Friend of Holmland. Traitor to
Albion.'

A
UBREY WAS SEMI-CONSCIOUS, HALF-SUPPORTED BY
George, as they staggered through the front
doorway of the Hepworth house.

Caroline's mother stood just inside. She was still
wearing the long, trailing robe and her hair was down.
'Where have you been?' she asked, but then she saw
Aubrey. 'Bring him in here, into the parlour.'

The parlour was brightly lit by gas jets. Aubrey winced
and shaded his eyes as he was helped onto the leather
settee.

He felt as if he were falling apart. His joints were hot
nuggets of pain and his head pounded. His soul gave
small wrenches, heaving against its confinement. Each
wrench was a wave of sickening agony.

Mrs Hepworth floated into his vision, which was
blurry, with colour fading in and out. 'Here,' she said and
held a glass to his lips.

He swallowed, coughed and pushed the glass away.
'Brandy?' he gasped.

'Yes.'

'Oh.' Aubrey closed his eyes for a moment, then he felt
his face being bathed. He opened his eyes to see Mrs Hepworth
holding a flannel. Behind her, George and Caroline
were looking at him with expressions of concern.

'Better?' Mrs Hepworth asked.

'A little.' He didn't know if it was the washing, the
brandy, or simply being able to lie down, but the thumping
in his head had diminished. The light did not hurt
his eyes as much.

While Mrs Hepworth turned away to talk to Caroline
and George, Aubrey sought to gather himself. He made
an effort to slow his breathing, and he felt his racing heart
begin to steady. If he could steady his physical condition,
he would be able to hold body and soul together, he was
sure. But the spells he was relying on were losing their
battle against the pull of the true death. He had to find a
better solution.

He sat up. Mrs Hepworth looked at him. 'Now, what
happened? Were you assaulted?'

Aubrey was impressed by her calm. She didn't seem
unduly fazed by her daughter appearing out of the darkness
with two dishevelled youths in tow, one of whom
looked as if he were seriously ill, or beaten, or both.

'Not exactly,' he said. 'We managed to avoid that.'

Mrs Hepworth looked at George, who shrugged. Then
she turned to her daughter. 'Caroline?'

Caroline was standing by the upright piano and had
been working at her hair, removing her hat. She flung the
hat at a table in the corner. It nearly knocked over a vase
full of irises. 'Mother, we found Father's notebook.'

'I see.' She frowned. 'That explains a good deal. Come
here, Caroline.'

Caroline sighed, but complied. 'Let me see your face,'
her mother said. After a quick study, she frowned.
'You'll have a bruise on your cheek.'

Mrs Hepworth looked at George. 'You seem not to
have suffered.'

'I'm well enough.'

'It was foolish going there,' Mrs Hepworth said.
'Lionel's protective spells always were efficient.'

Aubrey thought back to the terror that had swamped
them; how small and helpless he'd felt. 'Efficient, yes.'

'But we still managed to get the notebook,' Caroline
said.

'I thought it lost forever after your father died.' Mrs
Hepworth turned away for a moment, but when she
looked back her face was composed. 'You managed to
penetrate the defences?'

'Not easily,' Caroline said. She sat in one of the
armchairs. 'It was at some cost.'

She glanced at Aubrey and her mother followed the
look.

'I see. Young Fitzwilliam, you have some of the magical
arts about you?'

Aubrey nodded. 'I manage.'

'Don't be so modest,' George said. He addressed Mrs
Hepworth. 'He's quite good in the magic area. Top notch.
Has a few tricks up his sleeve.'

'George,' Caroline said. 'You're repeating yourself.'

'Sorry,' he said. He sat in another of the armchairs. 'It's
been rather a dramatic day.'

'Indeed,' Mrs Hepworth said. 'And I think you'd best
be staying here tonight. Have you eaten?'

'I beg your pardon?' George said, suddenly alert.

'Food, George,' Caroline said. 'I don't know about you,
but I'm famished.'

At the mention of food, Aubrey's mouth suddenly
filled with saliva. Visions danced in front of his eyes –
plates laden with roast meat and vegetables, followed by
rich puddings, jam tarts and orange ice. He dabbed at his
chin, certain he was drooling.

'I'll use the telephone to inform your parents of your
whereabouts. They're probably fretting at this very
moment. They're staying here in Greythorn?'

'The Triumph Hotel,' Aubrey said.

'Of course.' She swept from the room.

Caroline sat on the edge of her chair and watched her
mother leave. Then she turned to Aubrey and George.
'I'm glad you've been able to see my mother like this.'

'I beg your pardon?' Aubrey said.

'This is her usual self. You'd only seen her grieving,
which isn't fair.' She pushed back her hair with an
impatient grimace. 'This is the woman who has an independent
existence, a famous painter, a free thinker. This is
the woman my father married.'

For a moment, her grief rose to the surface. Tears came
to her eyes and she wiped them away without sobbing.
'I miss him,' she whispered.

Aubrey fumbled for words, an unaccustomed experience
for him. Everything that came to mind sounded
inadequate and he had the sudden understanding that
nothing would be sufficient. 'I'm sorry,' he said and that
would be the best he could do.

W
HEN
A
UBREY WOKE THE NEXT MORNING, IT TOOK HIM
some time to remember where he was. The walls were
painted a soft blue and an intricate geometric stencil ran
around the room above the picture rail. The colours, the
decorations were quite unlike Maidstone. For a moment,
he lay and enjoyed the sun spilling in through around
the artfully pleated drapes, grateful that he was seeing
another day.

The door to the bedroom opened and George stood
there. He studied Aubrey for some time. 'You look horrible,'
he finally said.

'Ah. An accurate reflection of how I feel, then.'

'You're holding yourself together?'

Aubrey sighed, stretched and put his arms behind his
head. 'I woke in the middle of the night and felt myself
slipping. For an awful moment I felt as if I'd lost hold.'
He paused, remembering. 'I was desperate enough to try
something I hadn't tested.'

'I thought you were going to be more careful with
magic after –'

'The accident. You're right. I said I would be more
cautious. But I was on the edge of despair, George. I was
fraying.' He rubbed his chin and the simple physical
sensation was reassuring. 'I'd read about some work in
bonding and unification magic. I cast a spell and it
brought my body and soul together with more stability
than I've felt since I dropped myself into this mess.' It was
a relief, but Aubrey was not entirely confident. Even
when he was speaking the spell, he felt the language was
not precise enough. Elements of intensity and duration
were
loose
, probably due to the poetic nature of the
Ilmyrian language from which they were derived. He
desperately wanted to work on a more modern language
for such magic to eliminate such uncertainties. It was
already on his list of things to do, and – mentally – he
underlined it twice.

George shuddered. 'You succeeded, it seems.'

'Barely.' He yawned. 'Not the most restful night I've
had.'

'That's what you need, I'd say. Rest.'

'Yes, I know. But there's too much to do to spend time
resting.'

'I can see your headstone, old man: "But there are still
things to do!"' George clapped his hands together and
rubbed them. 'Stay here for a while, at least. I'll fetch
you some breakfast. No servants here, you know. Mrs
Hepworth doesn't believe in them.'

When George came back he was carrying a tray with
porridge, toast, marmalade and a mug of milky cocoa. He
also wore a bemused expression.

Aubrey sat up in the bed. 'What is it, George?'

'Breakfast. I said I'd get it for you, remember?'

He handed the tray to Aubrey, who sighed and tried
again. 'Why are you looking so baffled, George?'

'Mrs Hepworth. She asked me to call her Ophelia.'

'It's probably her name, George. No need to be upset
at that.'

'She's an unusual lady.' George sat in the only chair in
the room. 'She asked about you. And your father.'

Aubrey chewed on some toast. 'I see. Anything in
particular?'

'Just about what Sir Darius has been up to in the last
few years. The way she spoke about him, I had the
impression that she knew him well. Or had known him
well. She seemed surprised when I told her about the
way he'd lost the prime ministership. I don't think she
follows politics very closely.' He stared at the ceiling.

The porridge was hot. Aubrey decided to let it cool.
'I see. So you're not the only one, then?'

George ignored the jibe. 'She was crying, Aubrey,
when I was talking to her. Not outrageously, nothing
like that. Tears simply kept coming to her eyes and rolling
down her face. She hardly noticed.'

'She's still grieving. She's lost her husband.'

George was silent for a time. 'We all grieve in different
ways, I suppose.' He stood. 'I'll see you downstairs. Bring
your tray when you're finished.'

Aubrey sipped his cocoa.
George
, he thought,
you still
manage to surprise me.

Some time later, he dressed and took the tray down to
the kitchen only to find Caroline dipping toast into a
boiled egg.

'Sit down, Aubrey,' she ordered. 'I need to talk to you.'

'Ah,' he said. He looked for George, but his friend was
nowhere to be seen. He busied himself with unloading
the tray and placing the dishes in the sink. He took as
long as he could, hoping someone would join them and
forestall what promised to be an inquisition.

Caroline finished her egg and waited. Aubrey finally
gave up and sat across the table from her. 'All done?'
she said.

'I think so. Your mother was kind to let us stay.'

Aubrey found that he was admiring the way she'd
arranged her hair. It hung in soft curls around her ears.

'It was all we could do, after your efforts.' She leaned
forward. 'And how are you?'

'Oh, well enough. A little tired, but that's to be
expected after running into such powerful magic. Difficult
stuff, that. Still, I think we managed quite well.'

'Mmm.' She looked at Aubrey. 'You're babbling.'

'Babbling?'

'I'd say you're trying to cover up something.'

True
, Aubrey thought,
but I usually do a better job than
this.
'I'm not sure what you mean.'

She pursed her lips. 'I see it a great deal. It tends to
come from men, usually when they feel as if they're being
questioned on matters they really don't want to discuss.
It's when they don't want to be rude to the questioner,
but they wish they'd go away.'

'Ah. I was doing all that?'

'Yes. I don't think it comes naturally to you, though.
You probably picked it up from the masters at your
school.'

Aubrey grinned. 'Mr Grimsby, mathematics teacher.
He's a very good babbler. He goes all red in the face, then
if anyone laughs, out comes the cane.'

'Violence is the last resort of the inarticulate,' Caroline
said, frowning. 'But all this isn't really telling me what I
want to know.'

'About me?'

'No. Not exactly.'

'Oh, you want to know about my father, the great and
famous Sir Darius Fitzwilliam? Do you know how many
times people have accosted me about him? It gets
tiresome.'

'No, I don't want to know about your father. I want to
know about your mother.'

'My mother?'

Caroline's eyes were bright. 'She's a wonder. Her work
with the birds of paradise is a landmark. She has shaped
modern taxonomy more than any single person alive. Her
expeditions have broken new ground in natural history.'

'Well, yes, there is that . . .' Aubrey groped for a witty
or earnest contribution, but failed. 'She's very busy,' he
finished lamely.

'Busy? Lady Fitzwilliam has had to work twice as hard
–
three
times as hard – as others in her field. Other
men
.
She's been passed over for grants from the Royal Society
and the Explorers Association. All her fieldwork has had
to be paid for out of her own pocket.'

Aubrey sat back in his chair. 'You're a Suffragette.'

'Of course. What intelligent, reasonable person
wouldn't be? Why shouldn't women have the vote?'

Aubrey had never really considered anything else.
With his mother as an example, he was confident that
if women could contribute to government, Albion would
be a better place.

He did, however, have trouble with the more outrageous
actions by the Women's Social and Political Union.
Marches, hunger strikes, interrupting political meetings,
generally agitating, seemed a messy way to get one's point
across. Inefficient, somehow.