A Poison Dark and Drowning (Kingdom on Fire #2)(61)

How? How in bloody hell had he known I was part magician?

He stroked his raw chin with his fingers. “Are you curious how I winkled out your little secret?”

Had someone betrayed us? R’hlem held up a hand; he seemed to guess my thoughts.

“You are acquainted with Howard Mickelmas, are you not?”

“I don’t want to hear your lies,” I said.

“Then hear the truth from his lips.” R’hlem’s one yellow eye narrowed. “Ask him what happened on Midsummer’s Day in 1822. Ask Mickelmas what he did to me.”

And with that, R’hlem extended his arms and ignited in blue flame.

—

I TUMBLED OUT OF BED, THE blankets tangled around me, and lay on the floor with my head throbbing. Breathing deeply, I waited for the pounding in my temples to stop. My head was still wretched from the wine.

But not wretched enough to ignore what I had seen.

Finally on my feet, I lit a candle, sat at my desk, and wrote:

How can R’hlem set himself on fire? What happened on Midsummer’s Day in 1822?

I slammed the note into Mickelmas’s trunk and waited. A moment later, I opened the lid, and the note was gone.

But Mickelmas had never responded to my letters before. Suppose this didn’t work? Suppose the notes never went to him? But how on earth could I wait for daylight? I paced to the window and back. Somewhere inside, a voice was crying out, getting louder and louder, and I didn’t want to listen.

Damn him to hell, where was he?

I turned and bashed right into Mickelmas.

“What have you done?” He’d dressed in a silk gown dripping with golden tassels, and crushed velvet slippers on his feet. His hair, normally tied back, was a massive cloud of gray and white.

“What have you done?” I hissed.

Mickelmas winced and rubbed his eyes. He had to clutch the bedpost to keep himself upright; apparently he was feeling as sick as I.

“Come on, then,” he whispered, throwing his coat around me. Wind rushed by us, and when he let go, I found myself standing in Agrippa’s study. The familiar busts of Chaucer and Homer looked down on me from the bookcase. There was a fire in the hearth, and a cup of half-finished tea sat on the table beside the armchair. Agrippa might have walked in at any moment and taken his customary seat. Somehow, being back in these soothing surroundings made everything that much worse.

“What happened?” Mickelmas fell into the chair.

“I went onto the astral plane by accident,” I said, my voice cracking. “R’hlem told me you did something to him on Midsummer’s Day, and then he burst into flame. Exactly like me.” My voice died on the word me.

Mickelmas leaned forward with his elbows on his knees, and for a while he did not speak.

“What do you think that meant?” he asked.

“I don’t know.”

“That’s a lie, or you wouldn’t have written to me at three in the morning.” He got up and went to a mirror hanging on the wall. Placing a hand upon the glass, he whispered words that I could not make out, wincing in pain as he spoke. The mirror glowed briefly, and there was an odd sucking sound. Finished, he pulled his hand away to reveal a stark white handprint, as if someone had etched it in ice.

I recalled the little hand mirror I’d found in his trunk, the one with the thumbprint. This looked a great deal like that.

I instinctively feared the thing.

“Touch your hand to the surface, and don’t take it away,” Mickelmas said, reseating himself. “What I want to say…is too difficult for words.” His voice shook, though whether from the strain of his magic or something else, I did not know. “But you may not like what you find.”

I stepped up to the mirror, my pulse pounding, and slowly pressed my palm to the glass.

—

WILLIAM’S GOING UP THE RIGGING FOR no damned reason. I swear, he’s like one of those blasted tree-climbing monkeys, if the monkey also worked as a solicitor. I toddle across the deck of the ship as a wave swells below us. Whoever enjoys pleasant Sunday cruises ought to be put in an asylum and studied.

“Howard, isn’t it wonderful?” William beams down at me. Foolish boy. He thinks what we’re about to do is fun, instead of blisteringly dangerous. But for some unknown reason, his good spirits lift mine. He’s always had that effect.

“Remind me again why we couldn’t try this on land?” I call up to him.

“Here, there’s privacy.” Ah, His Lordship graces us with his presence once more. Charles comes up from belowdecks, an ax in one soft, manicured hand and a rope coiled around his perfumed shoulder. Being the Earl of bloody Sorrow-Fell, you’d think he wouldn’t want to take on any of the physical labor. Surely, he’d prefer that a servant set up his feats of magical abomination. But I must confess, he’s done his share of the work without complaint. It’s true that Lord Blackwood’s Sunday activities would normally involve many voluptuous, scantily clad women—I feel rather sorry for his wife—but he’s as excited by our endeavor as William is.

Nonetheless, he can be a smug bastard. If he doesn’t watch it, he’ll get my foot right up his esteemed arse.

William leaps onto the deck with enthusiasm befitting a boy of twelve, not a grown man. When Helena told him a little Howel was on its way, I was certain he’d stop all this nonsense. But impending fatherhood affects all men differently, and for William it increased his desire to accomplish this bloody task.