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 Earl 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 is here to keep my bed warm?”
“That’s the shaman’s problem.” Merrick slammed a drawer shut. “He’s here to keep you safe. If he doesn’t like it…”
“If the blood-covered sorcerer who can bend metal by looking at it doesn’t like it,” Crane said, “then what, exactly?”
There was a triple rap at the half-open door. Merrick’s eyes flicked over, and his face set. Crane sighed silently.
“Come in, Mrs. Mitching.”
Piper’s housekeeper was a grim-faced woman in her early forties, who tackled everything with an air of humourless irritation. Crane approved of her, since she made no secret of her contempt for his father and brother, and she returned his approval because, whatever people said about him, he kept his hands off her girls.
Crane loathed servant-hall politics as much as any other kind, but he made sure there was no trace of boredom or irritation in his voice as he enquired what he could do for her.
Mrs. Mitching hesitated, which was unusual. “Well. My lord. Well, I wouldn’t bring this to you, but… Graham says it’s nonsense, but he hasn’t looked or listened and… My girls aren’t stupid, my lord. Elsa Brook might not be book-learned and she has fancies but she’s no fool. And the fact is, it won’t do, and we don’t have to put up with it, and we won’t.”
“Then you shan’t,” said Crane promptly. “Can you tell me what it is you won’t put up with, and perhaps I can help?”
Mrs. Mitching bit her lip. “The fact is, my lord… I wouldn’t say anything—with all said and done, I don’t want to speak ill—but Elsa Brook and Jane Diver both… I saw it myself, my lord. There’s no getting away from it. I saw it.”
“What did you see?” said Crane, as patiently as possible.
Mrs. Mitching took a deep breath. “Mr. Hector, my lord. We’ve all seen Mr. Hector.”
“You’ve seen Mr. Hector,” Crane repeated.
“Yes, my lord.”
“Mr. Hector, who is dead.”
“ Yes , my lord,” said Mrs. Mitching. “And that’s not all of it.”
In the library, Stephen blinked and stretched and flexed his aching hands as he brought his attention back from the etheric flow, such as it was, and into the world again. His head hurt, he was extremely cold, and he was painfully hungry, which came as no surprise, given how lifeless the house was. The etheric currents that he normally drew from without
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 Earl 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 is here to keep my bed warm?”
“That’s the shaman’s problem.” Merrick slammed a drawer shut. “He’s here to keep you safe. If he doesn’t like it…”
“If the blood-covered sorcerer who can bend metal by looking at it doesn’t like it,” Crane said, “then what, exactly?”
There was a triple rap at the half-open door. Merrick’s eyes flicked over, and his face set. Crane sighed silently.
“Come in, Mrs. Mitching.”
Piper’s housekeeper was a grim-faced woman in her early forties, who tackled everything with an air of humourless irritation. Crane approved of her, since she made no secret of her contempt for his father and brother, and she returned his approval because, whatever people said about him, he kept his hands off her girls.
Crane loathed servant-hall politics as much as any other kind, but he made sure there was no trace of boredom or irritation in his voice as he enquired what he could do for her.
Mrs. Mitching hesitated, which was unusual. “Well. My lord. Well, I wouldn’t bring this to you, but… Graham says it’s nonsense, but he hasn’t looked or listened and… My girls aren’t stupid, my lord. Elsa Brook might not be book-learned and she has fancies but she’s no fool. And the fact is, it won’t do, and we don’t have to put up with it, and we won’t.”
“Then you shan’t,” said Crane promptly. “Can you tell me what it is you won’t put up with, and perhaps I can help?”
Mrs. Mitching bit her lip. “The fact is, my lord… I wouldn’t say anything—with all said and done, I don’t want to speak ill—but Elsa Brook and Jane Diver both… I saw it myself, my lord. There’s no getting away from it. I saw it.”
“What did you see?” said Crane, as patiently as possible.
Mrs. Mitching took a deep breath. “Mr. Hector, my lord. We’ve all seen Mr. Hector.”
“You’ve seen Mr. Hector,” Crane repeated.
“Yes, my lord.”
“Mr. Hector, who is dead.”
“ Yes , my lord,” said Mrs. Mitching. “And that’s not all of it.”
In the library, Stephen blinked and stretched and flexed his aching hands as he brought his attention back from the etheric flow, such as it was, and into the world again. His head hurt, he was extremely cold, and he was painfully hungry, which came as no surprise, given how lifeless the house was. The etheric currents that he normally drew from without
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