Page 18 of The Magpie Lord
The words rang off the gallery walls. Stephen didn’t care. “The Magpie Lord was one of the greatest figures of our history. He was utterly intolerant of abuse of power. He was one of the legislators who codified the law on practitioners, establishing just how we govern ourselves, specifically to prevent warlocks hurting the innocent. And magpies were a key part of his power in some way that I don’t pretend to understand, and the people who carry his bloodline and live in his house have been picking up that resonance fortwo hundred yearsafter his death, and I think yourchoiceto have those tattoos was driven by that resonance, and frankly I would be proud to be touched by the Magpie Lord, even so remotely. Is that clearer?”
Crane was leaning against the wall, watching him. His eyes dwelled appreciatively on Stephen’s face. They no longer looked angry, but amused, and held a distinct touch of speculation.
Stephen took a deep breath. “And you have no idea what I’m talking about and don’t know what a warlock is,” he continued, in a more normal voice. “Sorry. I’m rather an admirer of his, that’s all.”
And the atmosphere of Piper was nagging at him, draining, dry, oppressive, like a constant itch behind the eyes.
Crane’s lips curled. He was still watching Stephen’s face. Maybe in China one could keep staring at another person for a long time and it wouldn’t seem out of place. Stephen could feel the colour rising in his cheeks, and he suddenly wished he’d found out more before coming here: why Lucien Vaudrey had been thrown out by his father, and exactly what the whispers of scandal surrounding his name were.
Crane was watching him, with that lazy, speculative smile broadening on his tanned, aristocratic, handsome face, and Stephen realised that he was watching him right back, staring at the man like an idiot girl.
Oh, no. Absolutely not. Don’t even think about it.
He turned abruptly, looking back up the gallery, and glimpsed Hector Vaudrey’s painted face. “I’ll go to the library now,” he said, making his voice neutral. “This is a wonderful discovery, and I would very much like to find out more, later, but it’s not relevant to the immediate problem of the Judas jack.”
As he spoke, he headed back the way they had come. Crane caught up after a few steps and led the way down the stairs.
“It’s down here. Will you want me in there?”
“Actually, I’d appreciate it if you’d stay well away till I give you the word. Can you go and be with Mr. Merrick while I do this, just in case?”
“In case?” Crane frowned. “Is that standard professional caution, or are you concerned about something?”
“I don’t know yet,” Stephen said. “I’ll go and find out.”
Chapter Seven
Crane watched the heavy panelled door close behind Day. He’d seen the man brace himself before going in, registered the expression of distaste on his face, wondered what strange sensitivities were being triggered.
Crane was not so much a brave man as an obstinate one. He had endured experiences that made him nauseous with remembered fear or pain when he looked back at them, because at the time it never seemed possible to back down. He would not have backed down now. But he was extremely glad that Day hadn’t asked him to go in the library.
An odd little man, that. Too thin, too pale, but his sharp features were appealing, and when his tawny eyes had been lit by animation, he had suddenly seemed very striking indeed. Passion would definitely improve Stephen Day.
That was not a course to pursue, though, despite a moment’s temptation back in the gallery. The man seemed to be living on his nerves, tense and twitchy, and Crane needed him to do his job. And the momentary flash of rabbit-in-a-snare panic in his eyes had suggested inexperience, and it had been a long time since Crane had found that anything more than a chore. Still...
He put the thought aside for consideration and wandered off to find Merrick, who was in the master bedroom, attending to the unpacking.
“What’s going on?” Crane enquired in Shanghainese. Graham was a chronic eavesdropper, so they avoided English for even the most trivial conversations, mostly to annoy.
“Nothing’s going on, this is the countryside. Where’s the shaman?”
“Library,” said Crane, seating himself on the edge of the ancient, eternally damp four-poster. “Doing shaman things. Guess what I just learned about my honourable ancestors.”
He gave Merrick a highly coloured account of the revelations about the first Lord Crane. Merrick stopped folding shirts and propped himself against the chest of drawers to listen. “Well, there you are,” he said at last. “What’s it all mean, then?”
“No idea. Nothing probably, but it made the shaman happy for a brief moment. Where have you put him?”
“Peony Room.” Merrick returned his attention to the shirts, which he continued to straighten in the silence that followed, ignoring Crane’s folded arms and raised eyebrow.
“Peony Room,” said Crane, since Merrick wasn’t rising to it. “The old man won, did he?”
“I let him win. Seemed like a good idea.”
“Because?”
“Because it puts the shaman next to you at night, with a connecting door, not down the other end of a corridor, out of earshot.”
Crane glared at him. “And if the old bastard goes round telling everyone that the shaman’s here to warm my bed?”
