Page 88 of The Unweaver

“You are the only one of that opinion.”

Downing his wine, he set the glass down with a clatter. “Very well. Even if I could take it back, I wouldn’t. Getting pissed about it isn’t going to change a damn thing. It’s in the past. But that’s where you prefer to dwell, isn’t it? You live your life ruminating on what’s already happened. Or catastrophizing about what’s yet to come.”

Her eyes flashed. “Where do you suggest I should be? In the sodding present? Fine. Today I’m a year older than my twin will ever be. Soon we’re going to let that old man poke around Teddy’s insides to see what killed him. We could try everything, and it still might not be enough to bring him back. My only reason to live could be just as dead in the new year as he is in this one. But please, tell me how I should feel.”

Rust flaked from the fork in her hand. She dropped the disintegrating utensil and glanced away, willing herself not to cry. If she started crying, she didn’t know if she could stop.

“I thought your birthday was the Winter Solstice.”

A technicality Bane was, of course, aware of. Teddy’s heart had been ripped out and his spirit damned to Purgatory on the cusp of their thirtieth birthday.

“I’m still older than my twin might ever be.”

“Maybe not, with Lazlo here.” They glanced at the wheezing man shambling back with a bottle of wine.

“Very confidence-inspiring,” she mumbled.

“Eh? What’s that?” Lazlo settled down with creaking joints and struggled to uncork the bottle with his age-spotted hands. Bane opened it for him and topped off their glasses. “How do you find London these days, Mal?”

“Predictable. I’ll be moving sooner than planned. O’Leary says Shanghai, but I’m thinking the States. Prohibition has left them parched.”

“You’re leaving?” Cora blurted. The possibility hadn’t crossed her mind. After scheming his way to the top in London, she figured he’d at least stay to gloat about it for a while. An unwelcome sensation settled in her stomach. Heavy and cold.

“Don’t worry.” Bane didn’t spare her a glance as he tucked into his meal. “Relocation is optional for the gang. You can stay in London.”

Cora sat back and sipped wine, half-listening to their grim conversation while Bane filled Lazlo in on escalating gang tensions. Mages killed for nefarious reasons, known and unknown. Attackers, masked and unmasked. Magic-draining bullets made of Sephrinium, potentially derived from the mythical Ruination Stone, the Tribunal’s weapon long lost to time.

Lazlo gaped, his wine untouched. “The Ruination Stone? Surely not, Mal. There must be another source of Sephrinium. Though the deposits were rare and heavily exploited centuries ago... It would be like finding a needle in a global haystack.” He frowned in thought. “Deeply troubling. This is much worse than you let on, Mal.”

“Don’t worry,” she tossed Bane’s words back. “It gets worse.” She told Lazlo about Teddy and the curse that had split hisspirit. The curse the Master Sciomancer would hopefully reveal at midnight as the year died and was reborn.

“Much, much worse.” Steepling his hands, Lazlo shook his head gravely. “I sense a dark cloud over London that obscures my divination. Something, or someone, is occluding me. Undeniably, the portents of the Profane are in bloom.”

Silence weighted the air.

“On that note.” Bane pushed back from the table. “I’ll prepare the ritual. No, Lazlo. Relax. I’ll fetch you when it’s time.”

Her stomach dropped at the reminder. Everything rested on this ritual.

“We’ve time until midnight,” Lazlo said, catching her distressed look. “Will you play me a song?”

She forced a deep breath. “Sure, why not?” Arm in arm, they shuffled into the parlor and eased into their seats with grateful sighs, Lazlo in an armchair and Cora at the piano. “What would you like to hear?”

“Something…” Eyelids drooping, his chin folded onto his chest. “Beautiful.”

Music, rich and resonant, flowed from her fingers. Worries that had been eating away at her like cancer quieted as she wound through song after song.

She caught herself crooning when a shadow darkened the doorway. Her singing and playing cut off abruptly. Whirling around, she saw Bane leaning against the doorframe.

“Your voice is even more sultry when you sing.” He motioned with his glass of wine for her to continue.

Cora flushed and was spared from responding when a resounding snore filled the parlor. Lazlo, drowning in his own clothes, dozed in the armchair.

“I don’t want to wake him,” she said.

“Lazlo would sleep through Armageddon.”

“Hmm. There is a song you played in the kitchen the other day.” She tried various chords, then shook her head. “But I can’t quite get it right.”

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