Chaos and Conjurations

Chapter 1Theodore Burnett had at least six problems. Regrettably, only one of them could be solved with bracing mint tea and shortbread biscuits. Outside the room, autumn whipped its way toward winter in England, here on the Tourmaline family farm. Trees rustled, leaves shimmering in fiery colors; wind howled, though the rain had let up for the moment. Theo, sitting on the side of the sturdy bed with its folded patchwork quilt, felt memories at his fingertips. They lingered, rose, left traces under his skin, in his thoughts. Mud and sleet and despair. Battlefields and marching. Napoleon’s forces and French magicians. Clandestine meetings at inns, brothels, docks, seedy pubs. Bare skin and seductions and secrets, information murmured amid pillow-talk or stolen from messengers’ pouches while they slept. Flashes of lightning, spellwork and spycraft, damp boots and grief and shouted orders and the need to get up and carry on. A village with a flower-name, ash on the air, and guilt that screamed at his bones. The memories weren’t Theo’s own. He knew they weren’t. And the war was over, if raw and unhealed in some ways. He knew that too. That was the second, and possibly also the third, of his problems. Or at least the secret they’d found, himself and Henry together, lay at the heart of those. He’d been trying and failing not to think about that. Spies, conspiracies, cultists and dark magic, a murder and an attempted murder, and no proof of any of it… He took a sip. Felt the delicate curve of the cup against his mouth, real and present. Let cool mint and wintergreen and willow and sweetness—along with the College of Wizardry head physician’s magical soothing infusion—ripple across his tongue and the lingering whispers in his head. “It’s perfect, thank you.” “Have a biscuit?” Henry, hovering on the edge of a battered footstool and poised for action at any second, nudged the plate closer on its tray. Theo gazed at him for a second, arrested by lamplight and beauty: auburn and gold in the lines of his lover’s cheek, faint scruff of whiskers, sharp jaw. Henry’s eyes were winter-blue—like so many of his family, he had the Tourmaline eyes, pretty and sky-hued and kind—and worried, just now. His hair stood up in equally worried red spikes, because he’d been running a hand through it. His face was still thin, though he’d put on a bit of weight, these last three weeks here at his family’s home. Since being healed of that curse, that draining-spell, that slow death. Since Theo had saved him, more or less, and then had needed saving in turn. And then they’d got magically tangled up together, which accounted for problems number four and number five, in terms of complications physical and emotional. Henry added, about the biscuits, “They’re very good,” with the world’s most hopeful expression. He watched Theo’s response as if waiting for either happiness or heartbreak. Captain Henry Tourmaline, Theo considered, with fondness, would always worry about others. Henry, even as a soldier and a former spy and a member of His Majesty’s Magicians’ Corps, one who’d fought and killed on and off battlefields, had done it all to protect his England, his land, his people. Henry was good, fundamentally, through and through. Like, apparently, the biscuits. Theo took one, because he could not disappoint the man he adored. Henry’s expression brightened with relief. Nibbling a corner, Theo added, “It’s excellent. Thank you again.” He wasn’t in truth very hungry. He hadn’t been for some time. “We could stay another day. Three. Another week.” “We can’t and you know it. The Headmistress wants me back in the Library, doing my job. I want to be back in the Library. I’m feeling well enough to travel, and we can’t put it off any longer.” “We can, if you ask for that.” Henry’s voice remained carefully level. “The College owes you that. I—” He stopped. Restarted. “My family’s thrilled to have you. The first person I’ve brought home to see them since…visits home when I was an undergraduate, I suppose. So it’s been years.” “At least four, I should think.” Theo turned the teacup in both hands. He was meant to be drinking more of it, easing the low-level headache that persisted in lurking around each waking moment. Dominic Lyon, as his physician, had been assertive about this. Henry, wearing shadows of guilt like a leaden cloak, was being equally insistent. He looked up from herb-laced silent liquid. “You owe me that, you were about to say. You don’t.” Henry’s jaw tightened. “You can’t say that. Not when you’re injured because of me.” “We’ve had this argument. We’re not having it again.” They had. At least twice. Certain facts were inarguable: Theo had broken a black-magic spell that’d been draining Henry’s power and life; he’d done it knowing there’d be a cost, consequences, a required sacrifice; he’d felt the broken link swing around and slice him open… And then he’d felt Henry, restored magic all green-gold and glorious as wildflowers and summer earth, dive in to take the next whip-s***h of lashing darkness. And something in that tangle—when Theo’d been the target, not Henry, who shouldn’t’ve recovered fast enough to be any sort of shield—had saved them both, and bound them both, and left their magic snarled into shared perceptions, a bewilderment of unintended substitution and connection. It was easier on Henry’s side. If Theo did a spell, Henry felt it, but mostly as an awareness, a prickling, a metaphorical tap upon his sleeve. If Henry employed magic, on the other hand… Dom, in the manner of a College-trained magical healer given a fascinating challenge, had cheerfully referred to Theo’s head as a ball of spiky yarn, which was both distressing and difficult to picture. The description was apt, though. He’d been the intended target for the sacrifice, and the actual caster of the breaking-spell that’d freed Henry. The impact had, very logically, hit worse on his side. He could live with the feeling. It wasn’t incapacitating as such. It was just that, every time Henry used that reclaimed rich vibrant earth-power, Theo’s head felt as if someone’d begun scouring his brain with coarse scratchy sand. He said, “You’ll apologize, and I’ll say I knew what I was doing, and you’ll say I never asked for this particular consequence, and I’ll tell you that I made my choice to help you with all the knowledge of a range of possible outcomes, and I’m rather pleased I’m not dead, at least, and neither are you.” He paused. “And I’ll tell you that I love you. If that helps with the argument.” “Unfortunately,” Henry said, “it does,” and got up from the footstool, came over, sat down beside him on the bed. The quilt, colorful and folded, took more weight gladly. “Theo, you know I love you. You gave me back everything—magic, pleasure in a bedroom, knowing I could love someone…hell, even breathing without coughing up blood, if you recall. You let me breathe again. Not only physically. And I hate knowing you’re in pain because you helped me.” Theo didn’t answer right away. He couldn’t; he was thinking about that phrasing. You gave me back everything, Henry’d said. You helped me. Was that love? Or was it gratitude? The wind yelped sharply, skewered by dry twigs outside. Elsewhere in the house, footsteps scampered up and down stairs: a few of Henry’s younger siblings, no doubt. Someone, maybe Jack, had been baking; the Tourmalines could afford a cook, but at least two of the family horde plus Henry’s mother enjoyed the hands-on making of jam and tarts and hearty country bread. They’d have to go down for supper soon, and they’d smile, and they’d discuss plans for departing the following morning. Back to London, and the Royal College of Wizardry. As agreed. He couldn’t doubt Henry’s affection. That was real, the way their shared enjoyment of evening lights across London, viewed from a tower rooftop, had been real. The way they worked together, fluidly deciphering codes and puzzles in dark ledgers, had been real. The way they fit together in bed, desires sweet and hot and complementary, Henry kneeling and raising those pretty eyes to gaze up at him with such profound joy— Oh, yes, that was real. But was that enough? Did that equal love, or only simple liking plus obligation, Henry feeling himself in Theo’s debt? Theo knew how he himself felt. Or he thought he did. That was the sixth and final problem, and it terrified him. Under no circumstances would he end up like his parents or his brother, pursuing self-indulgent pleasure with no regard for any consequences to self or family or reputation or other persons and their wellbeing. He’d seen it in his parents’ affairs and glittering scandalous parties and fast horses and gallons of brandy, and a final rainy night and a carriage accident that’d thrust his brother Clarence into the role of the duke and Theo into the role of the heir. He’d seen it in Clarence’s method of coping with the tragedy and inheritance: even more scandal, tipsiness, extravagance, living each day with determined reckless hedonism. As if it all might be the last. Theo thought that this, this, had to be real love—this frightening, perplexing, all-encompassing, astonishing desire to see Henry happy and safe and cared-for even at his own expense; his decision to show Henry the place upon his tower rooftop from which he could see fireworks and stars; the knot of anxiety that eased in his chest every time Henry did not mock him for excessive tidying-up or straightening of book-spines; the white-hot crackling possessive protective joy that swept through him when Henry knelt for him and whispered, yes, Theo. He thought all that was love. But he’d spent most of his life avoiding that emotion, because he’d seen what too much passion could do, and he feared it. He could love books, his library, his librarian’s position. Those were safe. Comfortable. Routine. In any case, short plain Theodore Burnett, overly meticulous and fond of buttered crumpets, could fairly easily escape being the object of anyone’s grand sweeping desires, and thus had generally escaped having any in turn. Until, evidently, now. With a dashingly handsome military captain who managed to make ginger stubble and sprawling long legs into a portrait of temptation. And the burn and ache inside Theo’s head. Henry was waiting for an answer. Those intent blue eyes rested on him, worrying again; Henry’s fingers twitched as if wanting to reach out. The wind muttered to itself, grumbling, dying down. Theo transferred the teacup to his right hand and found Henry’s restless fingers with his left. “It’s a small enough cost. I’d’ve said yes to worse. The way you would—the way you tried to—in my place. Dom’s working on it, and you know how he likes a challenge, so perhaps it’ll get better. And we have more pressing issues to worry about than the inside of my skull. Copies of those dark ledgers floating around, unaccounted for…” “At least one other warlock.” Henry’s fingers curled around his, and did not push the point about the cost. “We know someone else was there. Even if no one believes that.” The College hadn’t wanted to believe it. One crazed madman, on his own: regrettable, but acceptable as a possibility. A hidden magical conspiracy, profiting from the war and the fighting, operating without the knowledge of the school which in theory trained all the magicians of England… The Headmistress had been sympathetic, to a point. That point had stuck firmly upon the case being closed: one dead body, apparently dead of backlash from a black-magic spell being shattered, and one living body, in the sense of Henry being healed. Neat and tidy. No loose ends, thank you. Theo knew better. Henry knew better. They’d been in that spellwork, that link. They’d both felt it.