Modern Magick

The Heart of Hyndorin: 17

The last time I'd seen Fenella Beaumont, she had been wearing a flashy designer evening-gown and too many diamonds. She'd hosted a massive party for a large group of magickal invitees — including us — in this very castle, specifically for the purpose of breaking the news about the fifth Britain. Jay and Zareen and the Baron and I had wrecked her little coup, which hadn't exactly made us popular with her.

Her smiling friendliness unnerved me. So angry had she been about our interference, she'd taken an axe to poor Millie's doors and windows. Now she welcomed us to her ancestral castle with impeccable manners and a smooth smile — the same castle Zareen had lately endeavoured to wrest from her entirely, with the help of George Mercer, supposedly one of her own employees. Was her friendliness purely because we had the answer to all her wildest magickal dreams in our possession? Fenella's stated ambition was to revive magick in our own Britain, no doubt for nefarious purposes of her own. Torvaston's invention would be as exciting to her as it was to us.

Still, I would have expected at least a genteel insult or two, delivered through that smiling mouth. Her elegant self-possession was out of character for a woman capable of hacking through solid oak doors in a fit of temper, and her air of gracious welcome was over the top.

And her captives now included all the people responsible for the collapse of her carefully-nurtured plans.

'I do believe we're in for a double crossing,' I murmured to Jay and Zareen, as we followed Fenella through Ashdown Castle's great hall.

Jay agreed. 'I don't think it's going to be as simple as hand over the scroll and high-tail it out of here.'

Zareen's only response was a black look of pure hatred. I wondered briefly what had passed between them during the days they'd been stranded in some other Britain together, and decided not to enquire.

'You okay, Zar?' I said.

'No,' she said shortly.

Fair enough.

Mission Objective: Retrieve Alban, Emellana and Miranda from Fenella Beaumont's clutches, preferably without handing over any part whatsoever of Torvaston's ancient research, then fly like bats out of hell. Before any of us went stark raving bonkers (again), or did anything we might regret; and without falling prey to any of Ms. Beaumont's inevitable schemes for our downfall.

Easy.

The long drawing-room turned out to be a vision in sage-coloured silk and brocade, and in surprisingly good shape considering the tumbling-down state of the castle. It had the pristine, polished look of recent refurbishment, though since the room's historic character had been meticulously preserved, it had to have been expensive. Very expensive.

Was the entire castle scheduled for a similar upgrade? The money it would take to restore Ashdown to its original condition would run into breath-taking sums, and I wondered, once again, where Ancestria Magicka's cash came from. The Beaumont family had sold the castle to the corporation, which Fenella claimed to have founded. But that sale had been made because the family was virtually destitute. Either Fenella had somehow made eye-watering sums of money while she'd been somewhere off the radar (and if so I seriously wanted to know how); or they had an incredibly wealthy backer somewhere. We still didn't know who that might be.

'Nice paint job,' I said lightly as we walked in. 'Must've cost a bit.' I scanned the room as I spoke. Alban stood near the fireplace, leaning one arm against the mantelpiece. He looked up at the sound of my voice, and smiled, but there was tension in every line of his body, and the smile was strained and forced. Emellana sat in a huge armchair a few feet away, ostensibly her usual serene self, though with a watchfulness about her that I hadn't before seen. She looked at me without smiling, and I could not read what might be going on in her mind. Both of them looked oddly docile, considering their predicament. Either they were under some kind of enchantment courtesy of Fenella, or they were planning something, and waiting for the right moment to strike. Which was probably our arrival.