Page 41 of The Last Necromancer
"You think we'll fail?"
"Yes."
"I don't fail." He didn't look like he was joking. Not that he ever seemed anything other than deadly serious.
"Everyone fails from time to time."
He said nothing, but his strides lengthened as we crossed the courtyard. We did not go the back way into the house this time, but headed toward the side. It would seem our walk wasn't yet over.
"Let's assume you fail," I said. "Let's also assume that I continue to deny that I am a necromancer, which I will because I'm not. What will you do with me?"
He stopped and a small crease settled between his brows. He didn't look at me but at the corner of the house. "Come with me." He set off again, his strides longer and faster. Keeping up meant I had to half walk and half run. When we rounded the corner of the house I saw what he'd heard—a glossy black carriage approached.
When it pulled to a stop I saw that it was a private landau, not a hansom cab, with a gold escutcheon painted on the side.
"Is it Lord Gillingham again?" I asked. Cold sweat trickled down my spine. I shivered.
"It's not his carriage, but if he's one of the party, he won't hurt you."
"How can you be certain?"
He walked forward as a footman jumped down from the rumble seat and opened the door. Lord Gillingham emerged, a new walking stick in hand. He paused on the step when he spotted us. He nodded at Fitzroy and glared at me. Fitzroy didn't respond.
"Keep moving, Gilly," came a gruff voice from inside the cabin.
Fitzroy moved forward as Gillingham stepped onto the drive, allowing the man behind him to alight. The new fellow was very tall and strongly built, with shoulders as wide as Fitzroy's. Even at his age, which I guessed to be about sixty, he looked in good health with the figure of a much younger man. His age showed on his face, however, in the deep grooves across his forehead and around his eyes, and the full gray mutton chops.
"General Eastbrooke," Fitzroy said in greeting.
The man took Fitzroy's offered hand and shook it heartily. "Dressed for the occasion, I see, Lincoln."
"I didn't know you were coming, sir."
Their hands parted, yet Fitzroy didn't offer his to Gillingham. He didn't acknowledge the lord at all, and Gillingham grew more and more agitated as he waited. With a stomp of his walking stick into the ground, he turned to me. His cold eyes drilled into me.
I sidled closer to Fitzroy. The irony wasn't lost on me that I felt safer with my captor.
"Is this the boy?" General Eastbrooke said, in a deep, blustery voice. He placed his hands at his back and approached.
I remained where I was and tilted my head up. Fitzroy didn't seem to detest this man as he did Gillingham, so I assumed the general wasn't as willfully cruel as the lord.
"It is," Fitzory said, looking down at me. "Charlie, this is General Eastbrooke."
I crossed my arms. "Another committee member?"
Eastbrooke's thick gray brows lifted. "You're supposed to say it's nice to meet you, sir."
"But I don't know if it's nice to meet you or not." I was being deliberately irritating, but I didn't care. The more people I annoyed during my stay, the less likely they were to keep me when they realized I wouldn't help them. "You could be an arse, like him."
Gillingham raised his walking stick, but lowered it upon a glare from both Fitzroy and Eastbrooke. "I don't know why you protect him," Gillingham snapped.
"He's valuable to us," Eastbrooke said.
Fitzroy's gaze slid to the general's. Gillingham snorted. "For the time being," he muttered.
"How old is he?" Eastbrooke asked.
"Thirteen," Fitzroy said.
