A Marvellous Light (The Last Binding #1)(95)

“Are you a thaumhorologist?” the woman asked with a hint of sourness.

“Are you?” Her fingers had been steady on the cogs, but the name printed on the receipt had been Joseph Carroll.

“I’m Hettie Carroll. My father’s teaching me the trade. Hold tight, I’ll fetch it. We’re backlogged by a few weeks, he won’t have touched it yet. Standing clock, you said?”

He nodded. “Making odd noises at odd times.”

Miss Carroll gave him a knowing look, and took the stone with her up a winding metal staircase in the corner, leaving Edwin standing in the small shop full of . . . things making odd noises at odd times. She returned with the clock wrapped in a fold of cloth and placed it on the counter. Her eyebrows raised when Edwin uncovered the clock immediately and removed the back panel as he’d done at the Gatlings’ house. Miss Carroll cradled a small light charm, illuminating the contents of the clock for both of them to see better.

It was there. Hanging on the inner wall of the clock, along with the other seemingly random objects. Edwin removed the oak-heart from its bracket first, so that he had better access. The piece of wood was perfectly round and uncannily smooth and showed a desire to roll right off the counter, so he put it in his pocket for safekeeping. Then, with infinite care, he lifted the silver ring from its small hook. He pulled the first ring from his pocket and laid them both side by side on the runner of cloth that covered the counter. Identical. Silver rings—slim, flat things, both with that triangular notch. They looked modern and plain and uninteresting, and not in the least like objects of power that deserved to be hidden from murderers at the centre of a labyrinth.

A tinkle of bells behind him signalled another customer entering the shop. Edwin didn’t look around until there was the sensation of someone standing at his elbow.

“Yes, sir?” said Miss Carroll.

Edwin glanced up, then straightened entirely when he recognised the man next to him, who was smiling with affability and the same faint surprise that Edwin was feeling himself.

“Hullo, Byatt,” Edwin said. The informality of first names belonged to Penhallick alone.

Billy kept smiling his easy smile. “Hullo, Courcey. Excuse me a moment, won’t you?”

And it didn’t take more than a moment. He reached out and lifted Edwin’s arm by the sleeve, slipped something over his hand, and pulled it tight.

Every part of Edwin’s body except his eyes stopped listening to the commands of his nerves. He looked down at his own hand, motionless on the polished shop counter, and the glow of the bridle where it sat snug against his cuff. He felt as though he’d been plunged into a body of water, chilled and nearly dizzy with the suddenness of his fright. He really hadn’t given Robin’s courage enough credit; this was far more terrifying than Flora Sutton’s hedge maze, because at least then he’d been able to move. Fight back.

The smile on Billy Byatt’s face had turned faintly apologetic when Edwin looked back up at him.

“I told them you’d do all the work for us, if we gave you your head,” he said. “You bookish types never do give up on a good puzzle, do you?”





“Your head’s elsewhere today, old chap,” said Fenchurch, lowering his gloves.

He was right. Only half of it was the fact that Robin had been dreading, all through their bout, the pepper-taste and odd smells that would herald the foresight; he’d already tapped out after some dancing lights that were, in the end, only the normal response to having someone else’s padded fist land firmly on the side of one’s head.

The other half of Robin’s distraction was everything he was refusing to let himself think about, starting with the way his skin prickled when he walked the streets alone and ending with the memory of Edwin biting down on his shoulder.

“It is,” Robin apologised. “I’ve a meeting to engage a new steward in an hour, and I’m readying myself to have coals heaped on my head.”

Fenchurch landed a commiserating blow on Robin’s upper arm. “Will we see you at the club for dinner? Bromley’s an inch away from announcing his engagement to the ravishing Miss Gerwich, and we’ve promised to take him carousing.”

Robin laughed. “You’ll have to carouse without me, I’m afraid. Family dinner.”

“Next you’ll be telling us you met someone at whatever shooting party or what-have-you swallowed you up last week.” Robin didn’t manage to stop himself from blushing, but did manage to cover it with a lascivious enough wink that Fenchurch would take it in jest. He sponged off and changed and reflected grimly that meeting with Milton, the old—and hopefully new—steward of the Blyth country estate of Thornley Hill, was at least going to be more pleasant than meeting with Lord Healsmith and grovelling for a new position. Robin hadn’t gathered the nerve to contact Healsmith yet. Perhaps the man would decide that the Blyths’ son had been humiliated enough. If not, God only knew what else he’d have up his sleeve now that Robin had turned down the most obscure-sounding assistant position in the Home Office. Dust-paper man, perhaps.

Robin met with Milton in his study at home. The man was middle-aged and gravel-voiced and all shades of brown and green, like a tree uneasily transplanted into the city. The late Sir Robert had dismissed Milton in favour of a steward less prone to shouting about agricultural mismanagement and the poor conditions of the tenants—a steward who would cheerfully squeeze every last pennyworth of profit from the lands and send it on to the coffers of London’s philanthropic darlings, where it would be spent on parties and dazzle and whatever noble cause would allow the Blyths to convert it to the currency they truly cared for. Praise.