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the
wedding in Whyborne House will do us no good if we fail to make the
right sort of impression. My father was a diplomat, and my family
well enough off to move in certain social circles back in England.
I know how these things go. Every eye will be critical, just
waiting for some breach of etiquette or taste.”
    I’d grown up with such critical eyes trained
on me, although many had belonged to my own family. “I
understand.”
    “Then you’ll appreciate I’m a
bit...concerned...that Christine seems to be leaving things to the
last minute,” he said. “We agreed to divvy up the responsibilities,
but when I enquire as to the flowers and other decorations, she
says she’s been busy and not to worry.”
    “Oh dear.” I’d never had to plan any sort of
event myself, but I recalled how much rushing about Miss Emily and
the other servants had done well ahead of any large gathering.
    “Exactly.” He sounded relieved I understood.
“I thought if she won’t listen to me, she might listen to you.
Just...prompt her a bit.”
    “Of course.” How I’d do so without provoking
Christine’s well-known tendency to stubbornness, I couldn’t
imagine. But at least if she grew annoyed, it would be with me and
not her husband-to-be. “I’ll do my best.”
    “Thank you,” he said. “You’re a good chap,
and—I say, did that fellow just come out of your office?”
    A man wearing an unremarkable brown suit and
bowler hat strode swiftly away from the now-open door to my office.
In one hand, he carried a valise; the other was tucked into his
coat pocket.
    The devil? “Excuse me?” I called,
lengthening my own strides. “Sir?”
    He cast a single glance over his shoulder;
his left eye was covered by a patch. Then he broke into a run.

Chapter 7
    Whyborne
     
    “After him!” shouted Iskander.
    We both took off after the fleeing man,
bellowing for security at the top of our lungs. Whoever he was, he
seemed to know the layout of the museum far too well for a casual
thief. He darted down corridors, cut through the taxidermy room,
and knocked aside one of the curators who’d been working late.
    Still, I’d walked these corridors for eight
years and knew every secret. “Keep after him,” I told Iskander, and
dashed up the next stairwell.
    I suspected the thief made for the service
door at the rear of the building, so as to easier lose any pursuit
in the back alleys. If I was wrong...well, hopefully Iskander might
still catch him. I was out of breath by the time I reached the
roof, my lungs burning and my legs aching. Still, I pounded across
the flat roof to another access, then down the stairway to the
ground floor.
    I emerged just as the thief came into sight.
“Stop!” I shouted, and summoned wind.
    The magic leapt to obey, fueled by the great
arcane vortex beneath us. I felt it turning, sensed the flow of
energy, the scars on my arm aching as I bent my will to reshape the
world. A breeze ruffled my hair, turned into a gale—
    The man halted and drew an antique-looking
dagger from his pocket. Although nowhere near me, he slashed
violently at the air.
    The magic fell apart, the warp and weft of
the spell severed by the blade. While I stood gaping, he turned and
dashed down a side corridor, making for the front of the
building.
    “Bugger!” Iskander exclaimed. “What
happened?”
    I forced my aching legs into motion once
again. “The dagger—it was like the cursed sword Stanford used—the
witch hunter’s blade,” I gasped. “Spells are useless so long as he
has it.”
    The one-eyed thief exited through a staff
door into the public portion of the museum. We followed and found
ourselves in the Classical wing. Pale marble statues watched us
through blank eyes from the perimeter of the room. The thief slowed
just long enough to shove a large pithos into our path. The ancient
container crashed to the floor, shattering into ceramic
fragments.
    “Damn you!” I shouted as I dodged the
remnants, trying to keep from