The Courtship of Julian St. Albans (2 page)

“Nonsense,” said Lapointe from
somewhere in the bedroom. “You did nothing but try to share something you
loved with your beloved fiancé. This is entirely the fault of the person who
cursed the amulet.”

Alex picked up his tuning fork and tucked it
into a pocket, then called out in an even tone, “Murielle, there’s
something you should see.”

Lapointe made no comment of his use of her
given name, and Alex kept his movements small and slow, feeling out of his
depth in the face of Julian’s grief. He pulled a yellowed sheet of paper out of
the box, one that had a crude plus sign in the middle and an explanation in
each quadrant of what each amulet was designed to protect against.

The most-worn one was protection against the
everyday things, coughs and colds and heartbreak, faerie mischief and minor
personal injuries. The one that had been either cursed or replaced entirely was
supposed to protect against major injury and temperamental animals, clearly
designed for the riding set. The others protected against travel-related injury
and bad investments, respectively, and while the latter had a bit of shine on
it from use, the former was slightly dusty from disuse.

“You two didn’t travel much?” asked
Lapointe, slipping the sheet into a clear plastic evidence bag, and then
putting the case itself into a larger one, signing and sealing them carefully.

Alex stood to one side and tried not to
interfere, now that his part was over. He was still sensitive from his careful
perusal of this room, and the broken-edged sound of Julian’s once-joyful warmth
grated on his nerves because there was nothing he could do to make it stop.

It annoyed him even more
that he wanted to make it stop.

Julian was shaking his head, wiping tears from
his cheeks and trying not to look quite as pathetic as he must have felt.
“No, we both liked it here. A-and my parents liked to travel, so I let
them go and took care of things here instead.”

“That sounds more like the real
reason,” said Alex, flushing when the boy turned that sad gaze to him.
“That you were doing your familial duty.” Unfortunately, Alex was
incapable of stating that phrase without his own disdain for the idea showing
through, and Julian flinched and looked hurt.

“I’ve always tried to be a good son, even
though I don’t want the titles,” said Julian, chin lifting in defiant
pride.

“I’m sure you did as well as you could by
them,” said Lapointe soothingly, leading him back out into the little
parlour. Alex stayed when they went, then decided to search the bathroom while
he had the chance, in case there had been other nasty surprises lying in wait.
He had a feeling he hadn’t discovered everything these rooms had to hide yet.

He was deep in his examination of Mandeville’s
toiletries when a touch on his arm brought him back to reality. “There’s
something going on here,” he said, before Lapointe could speak. “You
should have the lot analysed.”

“I will, but it’s time to go, the crime
scene guys are here and you know you hate them as much as they hate you,”
she said, pulling bags out of her pocked with an expression of amusement.
“Go on, I think young Julian’s fled in fear of encountering your
insightful sarcasm by now.”

“Once he figures out that I’m a
misanthropic, arrogant old queer, he’ll get over it,” said Alex, amused
now that the boy was no longer here, looking tragic and lovely.

Lapointe snorted. “You’re not old, you’re
barely over thirty,” she said. He noted that she didn’t bother to try to
contradict any of the rest.

He knew there was a reason
he liked her.

CHAPTER
2

In Which We Witness Magic,
and
the Hopelessness of Certain Crushes

Alex paced back in forth in Lapointe’s office,
brow furrowed. “There was something else in those rooms, something subtle.
I just didn’t have time to find it.”

“You mean you were distracted by young
Julian,” said Murielle, comfortable enough to tease now that they were
back in her element.

Alex didn’t dignify that with a reply.
“The crime scene techs will have muddied it all up by now,” he
complained instead, trying to chase that elusive something he’d felt lingering
in all the rooms. It had been like a radio turned nearly all the way down, so
that all he could hear was a tiny tickle of sound, not even a suggestion of a
voice, really, just enough to make him strain harder to make it out.

He paused for a moment, trying to recall the
texture of it, harmony or dissonance or something else, but he lost it entirely
when Smedley came barging into the room. “Good job, you two, they’re
looking into who might have had access to the family amulets. You led us right
to the evidence we needed.”

“It’ll only lead to more questions,”
predicted Alex, not bothering to look up from where he was rifling through the
bags of evidence on Lapointe’s desk. She rarely took much with her, but she was
usually good for taking the things he wanted most to see again. “Where was
this from?” he asked, looking at another worn bit of paper, this one a
fine cream-coloured card, though creased and much-fingered.

“Mandeville’s
nightstand,” said Lapointe.

“Why do you have evidence in here from my
crime scene?” asked Smedley, drawing himself up with a sniff.

Lapointe looked amused, which didn’t seem to
help his attitude any. “Benedict always keeps a few things, properly
logged of course, when there’s an ongoing investigation. He has insights.”

“Insights,” said
Smedley dubiously.

Alex chuckled. “Yes, those things one gets
when one applies one’s intellect and observational skills to a problem,”
he said. “Insights.”

“I suppose you wouldn’t know about
that,” said Lapointe. “Regardless, you’ll find everything here’s been
properly catalogued and photographed, and Benedict is perfectly capable of
handling evidence.” She didn’t add in the, ‘these days,’ but Alex felt it
was implied, and he smirked.

Smedley scowled. “Insights or not, those
had better not pull a vanishing act,” he said, stalking out.

“Stroppy, isn’t he?” said Alex idly,
trying to make out the faded writing on the note card. “Perhaps he needs
to be put down for a nap.”

Lapointe laughed, as she was meant to, and then
made a point of putting all the evidence back in the box. “Going to sign
that one out?”

Alex sighed. “I want to have it out of the
plastic, but I know they’ll only want to fingerprint it first, and that always
spoils it.”

“The subtleties of magical auras or
whatever it is you do are lost on us poor mundanes,” she said.
“Smedley’ll never let you get away with your usual shenanigans, either.”

“Humbug,” said Alex, tossing her the
card. “See if one of your experts can figure out what it says, then, and
I’ll try not to sulk.”

“You always sulk,”
she retorted, but she put the note on top of the pile.

~ ~ ~

When Alex got home, he was surprised to find
Victor sitting on his couch, enjoying a cup of tea. The maids had obviously
been in as well, since the couch was unearthed and all the books restored to
their places on the shelf, a service he paid a great deal extra for and found
worth every penny. Victor’s fine, fashionable clothing looked out of place in
Alex’s eccentrically shabby flat, but Alex had always felt it was silly to
spend extra on having something look nice so you could put your arse on it.

Well, except for his dates,
anyway.

“What brings you here?’ asked Alex, not
even bothering to ask how he’d gotten inside the locked flat. Their family were
above such things, especially with each other. He simply hung up his jacket and
toed off his shoes, leaving them by the door and walked over in stocking feet.

Victor took another sip and made a face.
“I don’t know why you don’t buy a better brand, I know you get paid well
enough.”

“You’re just annoyed that I haven’t come
running back to the family fold, destitute and ready to be married off,”
retorted Alex, pouring himself a cup from the still-steaming pot of tea. Victor
had brought out the whole service on a tray, so Alex availed himself of the
milk and sugar as well.

“There is that, yes,” said Victor
dryly, “but that’s not why I’m here.” His gaze took in the whole of
Alex’s flat, small, yes, and cluttered with books and oddments, but it had
everything Alex needed, which was something his family had never understood.
One thing among many, really.

“Why
are
you here?” asked Alex again, taking a seat and supposing he ought to be
grateful that his brother left him his favourite chair, a worn leather wingback
whose seat had learned the contours of his body.

“I’m here because the family has been
invited to participate in the St. Albans Courtship,” said Victor.

Alex snorted, then took a sip of his own tea,
which he privately felt was just as good as the stuff Victor drank at home.
“Well, Henry’s still single, last I heard, so it’s nothing to do with
me.”

“You were over there today,” Victor
pointed out. “The invitation didn’t come until afterward.”

“And here I thought I’d scared the boy
half to death,” said Alex with a chuckle. “Well, Henry can fill in
for the family, just the same.”

“He’s on a trip to the continent,”
said Victor. He placed the heavy, cream-coloured envelope on the tea tray.
“Do consider stepping up.”

Alex didn’t even dignify that with a response.
“So how are the twins?” he asked, tacitly declaring the subject of
the Courtship closed.

“Flora’s finally with child,” said
Victor, looking quite pleased. “Fauna’s been training her boys to ride the
family dog until they’re old enough for ponies.”

Alex laughed. “She always did have more
spunk than her sister. Will Flora’s also be twins?” he asked, curious. It
ran in their family; his father had been a twin.

“It doesn’t seem like it.” Victor
sipped his tea, and Alex could practically see him discarding possible next
statements before he said, “Genevieve’s been doing wonders with our girls,
and of course we’re trying for a boy.”

“Must carry on the family name, since I
won’t be doing it,” agreed Alex affably. Once business had been shoved
under the teapot, as it were, he often found he enjoyed his brother’s company.
At the very least, he wasn’t constantly having to explain himself.

Victor may not understand why Alex chose to
leave the family fold, but they still shared the language of brothers.

~ ~ ~

“It’s a love note,” said Lapointe,
voice tinny over the phone. She exhaled strongly, the sound making static on
the line.

“I thought you quit
smoking,” said Alex disapprovingly.

She laughed. “I should’ve known you’d
figure it out. I’m out of those quit-spells so I bummed one off Langley to keep
from strangling Smedley.”

“You know I’d make you a personal
one,” said Alex, nose wrinkling. He didn’t like the smell of cigarettes,
the way they lingered on one’s person and breath, adding a foul miasma that
muddled a person’s natural magics. “I’ve offered before.”

“And I’ve told you I can’t afford such a
luxury on an agent’s salary, so it might come up as bribery,” she retorted.

Alex found the familiar exchange comforting,
some small bit of social interaction he’d finally got right and could repeat as
needed. “Is it from Julian?” asked Alex.

“What, the cigarette?” she laughed.
“No, no, I’m joking. The love note is, it seems like it’s perhaps the
first thing he ever gave to Mandeville. It’s short, very tentative and a bit
juvenile, really, but rather sweet.”

“Makes sense,” said Alex, tapping his
lower lip thoughtfully. “So it was the consort who first approached his
future husband.”

“Bold,” said Lapointe. “Anyway,
Smedley’s dismissed it as unimportant, so you can fondle it all you like. I
told Armistead to be extra careful.”

“Armistead always is,” said Alex,
putting just enough innuendo into it that when he hung up, she was laughing.

~ ~ ~

Alex acquired the love note from the lab, along
with a printout of its reconstructed contents that showed the ghostly
handwriting in much sharper detail.

Dear Cecil,

I know it’s terribly forward
of me, but after we met at the races last week, I had to write to you. I just
can’t get you out of my head. You were so handsome, and kind to my mother when
she tripped, and yet it felt like the smile you gave her was really just for
me.

Have
you thought of me, too?

Yours,

Julian St. Albans

“Falling in love as though it was a song
on mental repeat,” Alex muttered to himself distastefully. “And yet,
they spent many happy years together before the endgame was set in motion, so
there must be something to it.”

There was no one in his flat as he spread out
the note — now freed from its plastic bag — along with the enhanced copy. He
had one of his smallest tuning forks, and he pinched and released the tines to
produce a high, clear tone, much louder than the way he’d used them in the St.
Albans home. Then he took another, larger one and pinched it as well, the two
notes forming the rudiments of a chord. He created a third bit of harmony by
humming a note on his own, and closed his eyes, using just his magical senses
to explore the bit of card in front of him.

Laced all through those desperate lines, Alex
could feel that faint echoing of the same spell that had overlaid Mandeville’s
rooms and, Alex suspected, Mandeville himself.

It wasn’t until the notes had died out
completely that it occurred to him to check the handwriting against the
invitation that Victor had so thoughtfully left him.

It was hard to tell at first — the calligraphy
on the invitation was very fine, and the note itself incredibly deteriorated —
but after an hour of concentration Alex was able to pick out enough points of
similarity to be fairly certain they both originated from the same hand. That
would bear out tradition, where the consort himself would be the one to take
care of all the correspondence, from the initial invitations and acceptances
all the way up to the very end.

With the fingers of each hand resting on
Julian’s formal and informal words of invitation, Alex could almost imagine a
man who might kill for a chance at that end.

~ ~ ~

“Cecil Mandeville was from a very
respectable family, though fallen on less than financially secure times,”
said Alex, pacing his own rooms. He’d grown used to talking to himself as his
way of thinking things through; somehow making the sounds was what made his
brain work, just as sound was what made his magic work.

He paused, then let the thought drop and went
instead into his workroom, as neat as the rest of his house was messy.

There he took the hairs he’d stolen from
Lapointe when she wasn’t looking, and added them to the dish at the very end of
a neat row of bottles, boxes, and other oddments he’d laid out on his work
table. She might not want him to make her the expensive quit spell, but he did
his best thinking while he was working, and he didn’t have anything else ready
to go. He could always argue that since he no longer created such things on
request, it had no actual price tag attached.

He did an inventory of the ingredients in front
of him, and then set up the crucible where they’d be combined.

First thing in was the pure silver, already
measured. He was using fresh metal rather than recycled, and the little pellets
were nearly white with no copper to deepen the colour.

He then picked up the next three objects in
quick succession and struck them, fitting a vibrating tuning fork into holders
at each corner of the crucible’s triangular metal stand. Different magicians
would use incense, candles, phials of fluid or any number of other things —
he’d even met one man who used various colours of laser pointers — but Alex
had always resonated with sound, hearing rather than seeing or sensing the
magic.

That done, he lit the burner beneath, adjusting
it so that the ingredients would all be combined with the proper timing,
watching as heat shimmer made the silver pellets seem to shift and move. Then
he double checked to be sure the mould would hold up — he’d chosen a very
simple design for her amulet, a smooth swirl of metal to represent both the
smoke she was giving up, and the pure air she was giving herself in exchange.

Or would, if he could get
her to use the damned thing.

Alex put that out of his mind and turned back
to the row of objects, six in all now.