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Authors: Caroline Stevermer

BOOK: A College of Magics
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“Your hat is ticking.”
O
utside Hilarion's house it was windy, dark, and cold. While Paris and Tyrian were indoors, it had rained. The streets were wet, striped with golden light where the puddles reflected the street lamps, and almost empty.
Faris welcomed the wind. After her interview with Hilarion her mind was racing. To be still was impossible. To return at once to the stifling luxury of the hotel was intolerable. The wind pulled at her cloak. It would be good to walk into that wind until she wearied.
As they turned the corner into the boulevard Saint Germain, a horse-drawn cab approached, the only traffic moving in the wide, well-lit street. Tyrian eyed it keenly.
Faris put her hand on his sleeve. “It's getting late, I know, and cold, but I need time to think. May we walk back to the hotel?”
“Yes, I think perhaps we should.” He lengthened his stride and let the cab pass by. “That same cab was waiting outside Madame Claude's when we left. I recognized the driver by his moustache.”
Faris looked at him. His usual calm indifference gone, Tyrian was fiercely cheerful, as though he enjoyed swaggering
along in the chilly night. “A coincidence, no doubt,” she said dryly, and walked faster.
He matched her gait easily. “No doubt. There are two men following us. They are probably a coincidence, too.” Despite the raw wind, Tyrian opened his overcoat.
They walked on, past the medical school, across the Carrefour de l'Odeon. Every footstep seemed unnaturally loud to Faris. She did not need to look back to know that Tyrian was right about the men following them. She could almost feel their presence, a chill on the nape of her neck that had nothing to do with the wind.
Ahead, another cab turned into the street and came toward them. “I don't seem able to think, after all.” Faris hoped her voice did not betray her relief. “Shall we take this cab?”
“I think not. What are the odds of two cab horses with the same white stocking? This is Moustache again, back to see if we're tired yet.”
“Oh.” With an effort, Faris kept her tone light. “I don't suppose the men behind us are tired yet?”
Tyrian checked. “Far from it. They are starting to move in.” From somewhere inside his coat he produced his pistol and thumbed off the safety. “Stay behind me. Don't let them get you into the cab if you can help it. I'd hate to have to shoot the horse.”
From the street behind them came the growl of a combustion engine and the angled light of automobile head lamps. The cab horse tossed its head in protest at the oncoming vehicle. Faris turned as a sleek Minerva limousine
drew up beside them and paused. The rear door swung open. It was impossible to see inside.
“I don't suppose you'd care for a lift.” Jane's clear voice rang out cheerfully.
Tyrian helped Faris in. With one foot on the running board, he hesitated, looking back down the street.
After the windy night, the interior of the limousine seemed warm. The seat was wide and deep and covered with leather. Managing her cloak and skirt as she settled in reminded Faris of packing a suitcase.
“Uncle Ambrose loaned me his limo for the evening,” Jane explained. “Isn't it lovely? We were parked the wrong way in the rue du Sommerard. You turned right and it took a moment for Charles to circle the block to catch up with you.”
Reluctantly, Tyrian got in and closed the door. “Now we won't know who sent them until they try again.”
“Drive on, Charles,” said Jane.
With a refined roar, the Minerva pulled smoothly away. From his seat beside Charles, Reed watched the street they left behind. “Only two on foot and one with the cab? Are you sure they know who we are?”
“
We?
” Tyrian returned the pistol to its holster and buttoned his overcoat. “More to the point, do we know who they are?”
“Local help, at a guess,” Reed replied. “Do you think they noticed you notice them?”
“Short of shooting one of them, I don't know how much more obvious I could have been.”
“Are we going back to the hotel?” Reed asked Jane.
“We can if you like, but wouldn't you rather circle the block, catch one, and hold him at gunpoint until he Tells All?”
“There's not the smallest chance they're still there,” said Tyrian.
Reed said, “Probably not, but let's try anyway.”
Jane peered anxiously at Faris. “Shall we?”
“Whatever you like,” Faris replied. She watched the empty streets pass as Charles obeyed Jane's orders. Jane, Reed, and Tyrian discussed the incident, but Faris did not listen. Instead she stared abstractedly into the night, and thought about her uncle.
If she had been followed from Madame Claude's to Hilarion's, there was no chance that their pursuers were simple robbers. The only real question was whether they had been hired to abduct her or to kill her outright. At a venture, she thought the latter.
At night the streets of Paris were not truly safe for anyone. If she was the victim of a crime there, who would wonder at it? Was that why Brinker had sent for her? Traveling across Europe, even by rail, could be dangerous. If she met with some unfortunate accident en route, who would wonder at that? And if she somehow managed to come safely home to Galazon, what then? A hunting accident, perhaps?
Yet, if he wanted to kill her, why had he not done so long before? Why send her off to an expensive school, haul her out of it just before she finished, and
then
kill her? And
why hire a bodyguard to make the task harder for himself?
But if not Brinker, who?
There were no cabs, no sinister men strolling the boulevard Saint Germain or its side streets.
“Well, if we've accomplished nothing else, we've shaken off anyone who might be following us,” said Jane cheerfully. “Shall we go back to the hotel now, Faris? Or would you rather take a run to the Bois de Boulogne? Or even out to Fontainebleau? It's a shame to have the use of a splendid motor car like this and to waste it driving in the city.”
“Why would they need to follow us?” asked Reed. “If all Paris doesn't know the duchess of Galazon is staying at the Hotel de Crillon, it isn't your fault.”
“One must maintain a certain position. What shall we do, Faris?”
Faris considered the alternatives. “I'm hungry. Among those things to do in Paris that I can't do as well anywhere else, Jane, I would like to eat dinner.”
“Oh, dear, didn't you? I was certain he'd kept you to dine. It's a trifle late for dinner now.”
“What time is it?”
“It's after three. Why did you think we made such an effort to come fetch you?”
“No wonder there was only one cab on the street.” To Tyrian, Faris said, “Time does run restfully there.” She turned to Jane. “Where is the best place to find supper at this hour?”
“Back to the hotel, Charles. I shall perform my celebrated imitation of Aunt Alice, the compleat titled Englishwoman
abroad. It may make you cringe with embarrassment, but I promise you'll get your supper.”
 
J
ane sat by the fireplace in Faris's room, and watched her eat the mixed grill sent up by room service. “It is just possible that I've taken my celebrated imitation a bit far. How can you eat kidneys in the middle of the night?” She shuddered delicately.
Faris took a sip of wine. “Does that mean you don't want any?”
“Uncle Ambrose gave me an excellent meal, thank you.”
“I didn't know you had an uncle in Paris.” Faris turned her attention from the wine to the last grilled mushroom on her plate.
“Oh, yes. Uncle Ambrose has lived here for years and years. He's not like some uncles, though. Paris hasn't had much effect on him. He won't own anything but a British motor car, he smuggles all his cigarettes and cigars into France via diplomatic pouch, and at the races he still grumbles that the horses run the wrong way. Quite a dear old boy.”
“I've never been in a motor car before.” Faris put her knife and fork down with a small sigh. “It was most interesting.”
“You didn't seem too interested at the time. You didn't even seem too interested in your pursuers.”
“I was thinking.” Faris regarded Jane seriously. “You haven't asked me about Hilarion.”
Jane arched an eyebrow. “I am perishing with curiosity, can't you tell?”
“It seems I have to save the world.”
“Oh, dear. Do you have the training for that?” Jane asked dryly.
Faris smiled and leaned back in her chair. “I doubt it. But it seems I am the warden of the north.”
 
F
aris spent the rest of the night discussing every detail of her visit to Hilarion's with Jane, most of the following day asleep, and half of the day after that with bankers and solicitors. She returned to the hotel at the end of the afternoon in time to witness the arrival of the first parcels from Madame Claude. Jane presided over the tea tray while Faris sat beside the fire and counted boxes.
Faris accepted her cup from Jane. “I thought these things weren't to come until Friday.”
Jane offered her a plate. “Bread and butter? You seemed so disappointed, I arranged matters a bit differently with Madame Claude. Most of the order will be ready this week. Anything that isn't finished by the time you leave for Galazon will be sent after you.”
Struck by a sudden suspicion, Faris looked up from her tea. “How much more will that cost me?”
“I really couldn't say. Just think of it as another little annoyance for your uncle Brinker. Try the cake, it's very nice.”
“Guess, then.” Faris helped herself to a slice of hazelnut gateau. “Estimate.”
“It's your uncle's money. If he'd ever given you a decent clothing allowance, this wouldn't be necessary.”
“It is not my uncle's money. It is Galazon's money. I hold it in trust.”
Jane rolled her eyes. “Don't be so disgustingly noble. Your people wouldn't care to see you dressed in rags, would they? You're representing them, aren't you? You've got to keep up the side.”
“It's more than the year's rent roll. I can't just waste it.”
Jane looked distinctly nettled. “You
aren't
wasting it. Nor am I wasting it. I have chosen you a wardrobe that will probably have to last you the rest of your ridiculous life. I have managed to get the greater part of it done in less than a week. I have worked miracles for you and all you do is order me to estimate how much it cost to hurry Madame Claude a little. Yes, blush, by all means. You jolly well should blush. You owe me an apology.”
Jane left the tea table and stalked to the heap of parcels. “You'll be happy enough about all this when your uncle gets his first look at you. Has he
ever
seen you dressed decently? I doubt it. Well, when he sees you with these clothes and Dame Brachet's manners, he'll rue the day he ever sent you off to Greenlaw, I can promise you that.” She bent closer to inspect one of the parcels. “A few frocks, a riding habit—it's not a crime to be well dressed in Galazon, is it?”
“I apologize,” said Faris stiffly. “I appreciate your help. I certainly didn't mean to be ungrateful—”
“Be still!” Jane was still bending over one of the parcels, a gray hat-box tied with silver ribbon. She cocked her head, listening. “Fetch Tyrian and Reed at once.”
The urgency in her voice brought Faris out of her chair and across the room without hesitation. When she returned, with Reed and Tyrian at her heels, Jane was still listening intently.
“Do you hear that?” she demanded.
Obediently, Faris, Reed, and Tyrian listened too.
After a moment Reed looked up at Faris with great interest. “Your hat is ticking.”
“It's not a hat,” said Jane. “I haven't ordered Faris any hats yet.”
“Is it a bomb?” Faris asked.
“Oh, probably,” said Reed.
Calmly, Tyrian studied the box. “You'll have to clear the building. They may well be counting on that, so be on your guard when you leave.”
“What about you?” Reed demanded.
“I'll have to try to disarm it.”
Reed regarded Tyrian with disbelief. “Disarm it? We have no way of knowing what it's made out of, how it's constructed, what happens if we move it, when it's meant to go off—just untying the ribbon might set it off.”
“I must try.”
“With
what?
I don't carry the tools with me. Do you?”

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