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encounter had been the very last thing he expected from that moment. But she had melted so sweetly against him as they watched the lovers in the conservatory take their delight in each other. Then she boldly asked him to give her pleasure, although it was very plain she knew nothing of sexual matters. As surprised as he had been by this turn of events, Carstairs had wanted to accede to that blunt request. Badly. Reason and honor had taken to their heels as his cock had swelled beneath his breeches. He had spent years learning to control his response to beauty. He thought he had succeeded, but it seemed he had been deceiving himself on more than one level.
    Their carriage had reached the heart of London. Carstairs could see the bulk of St. Paul’s looming against the starry sky. Their driver stopped at the corner of a street that was little more than a cobbled alley.
    “Do you want me to come with you?” asked Rathe as Carstairs climbed down from the carriage.
    “Thank you, but I’d rather keep this private if I can,” Carstairs answered. Rathe nodded, his face serious. He knew enough of Carstairs’s personal life to understand at least some of the turmoil inside him. Rathe gripped Carstairs’s arm. “Good luck.”
    Carstairs shut the door and waved to the driver. As the carriage drove off into the dark, Carstairs turned down the sharply curved side street until he came to a nondescript door in a nondescriptstone building. Very few people would even have noticed the unmarked portal, let alone suspected that it was the headquarters of the most secret branch of the Crown’s military forces.
    Carstairs laid his hand on the cool brass of the doorknob, and felt the enchantment recognize him. The knob turned, and he was permitted to enter.
    On the other side of the door waited a parlor that was as simple and unremarkable as its doorway had been. A fire burned in the grate. Armchairs stood ready for visitors or clients, and Carstairs hung his coat and hat on the waiting hooks.
    “Carstairs,” called a man’s voice, old but still strong and clear. “I’ve been expecting you. Come through.”
    At the end of a short, shadowed corridor waited a room that took up most of the building. Lit by several lamps as well the low fire in the hearth, it might have been taken for a solicitor’s office or perhaps the library of a highly eccentric man. The comfortable scents of leather, parchment and dust rose from bookshelves stuffed with fat, leather-bound tomes. In the middle of this literary wealth sprawled a broad desk, crowded with stacks of paper, inkwells and pens, as well as scrolls tied with ribbons of various colors. With them sat the wizened, bright-eyed lord of this confounding place.
    “Captain” Smith was a small man with a ring of grizzled gray hair around his bronzed and mottled scalp. He wore a long, unfashionable black coat over white breeches and stockings. At the moment, he bent over a massive book, examining its crabbed writing through his gold-handled quizzing glass. Without looking up, Smith beckoned Carstairs. Carstairs felt himself diminish as he walked forward, from the grown man he was to the slender youth he had been when he first entered this room.
    Unlike some, Edward had known he was a Catalyst from a young age. His family traced its lineage from the magic workers of the Plantagenet courts. They’d survived purges under Queen Mary Tudor, and risen again when Queen Elizabeth had mustered her secret army against the Fae invasion. They passed on their secrets in whispers during Cromwell’s time, and even helped smuggle innocent men and women out of Scotland under the noses of King James’s inquisitors. Father had brought Edward and his brother Nicholas to London and Captain Smith for training at an age when other boys were handed over to tutors to prepare for Cambridge or Oxford.
    “Good evening, sir.” Carstairs bowed to Captain Smith. “I apologize for the interruption.”
    “Not at all, Lord