Henry felt himself go very still, and very cold. A village. Where people had died.

  He saw it in his dreams. Theo had seen it there too.

  “Because it was a trap,” Theo said slowly. From the look on his face, he’d remembered as well. A nightmare, himself in Henry’s head. “And you thought you weren’t in time to save anyone…but you were never meant to be, they gave you—not only you, so many people—false information, and our magicians were caught in it…”

  “They died.” His voice didn’t sound like his. “You know, Theo. You know.”

  “I know.”

  “Half of the Magicians’ Corps died that day. My friends died that day. My captain. I thought—it was my fault, the intelligence we had—I’d got a conflicting report only the night before, but I couldn’t get back in time—and when I did—”

  “It wasn’t your fault,” Theo said, looking up. “You were the only person who discovered it was a trap, in fact. You weren’t meant to. They’d fed everyone the same information, not only you. And they had…they had someone in your ranks, I think. Someone pulling strings. It would’ve gone ahead whether or not you’d been involved. It wasn’t your fault, Henry.”

  “It was. If we had a traitor I should’ve known. If the information was wrong, I should’ve seen it. It was my fault, because I—” He was shaking. He got up, because it was that or crush Theo’s hands in his. He had to move.

  He circled the room. Came back. Got his breathing under his command. “They, you said.”

  “They. Someone.” Theo started to shrug, winced, shut his eyes, opened them. “They’re not French. Or at least that’s not the motive. It’s not about the war. Something…else. I don’t know. I didn’t have much time. I’m not an expert at that sort of magic. I’m sorry.”

  “Someone did this,” Henry said, “to me. To us.” And it hadn’t even been for the war, for a cause. He might’ve understood that. This felt less clean, uglier, more loathsome. “We need to do something.”

  Theo blinked at him. “Right now?”

  “No. Of course not.” He sat back down. This wasn’t a war, at least not an open one. He was very, very angry, and very tired of fighting, and he needed to know what the hell had happened, because everything in his nightmares chased him and shrieked and gibbered about his fault and his failure, and right then he wanted to be in the same room with the people Theo’d seen through the link, in the same room with them plus all of his magic and all of his best manipulative interrogator’s skills and a lot of time to use up.

  He looked at Theo. Theo, who’d closed his eyes again, plainly exhausted. Wrung out and injured and somehow not running away from Henry’s complicated disaster of a life, which had only got worse with these revelations.

  No, he thought. Theo would never run. Theo would stand up and take on a whole dark library with those graceful hands and that stubborn spark in his brilliant green eyes. Because Theo was the sort of person who’d never walk away from someone in trouble, and would take them home and feed them scones and give them back the light of the world with a kiss at the top of a tower, under the stars.

  He took Theo’s hands again, but loosely, an apology. He wanted to give Theo his entire heart, if it’d help. “I love you. Please rest.”

  “I can’t,” Theo said. “Everyone’ll be in here again, in a moment. We’ll have to do the explanations all over again. Dom and Linnet, the Headmistress, your parents, possibly the magistrate…”

  “I want you to meet my parents.” He absolutely wanted that. Very much.

  “I’d like that. Henry…” Theo’s voice got a fraction smaller. “They did call in a magistrate.”

  “She’s not here for you,” Henry reassured him, and hoped it was true. “Or me. Just finding out what happened, and making sure the College knows, since we’re under magical jurisdiction. Routine.”

  “Henry,” Theo said, and there it was, at last, “I killed someone.”

  “No,” Henry said, and found himself putting both arms around Theo, desperately. “No, oh God, no, Theo, you didn’t. His own spell did. The recoil. You didn’t.”

  “I knew it would.” Theo was trembling. “Or I thought it might. Or it might not. But I did it anyway—I broke it anyway, because I had to, because it was you, it was you and me and I had to—I killed him, Henry, don’t say I didn’t—”

  “No,” Henry said helplessly. He knew how that felt. He remembered his first time. That hadn’t been on purpose, either, or rather it had, because they’d been under attack and he’d been fighting, throwing fire, and it’d been his first time on a battlefield. He hadn’t meant the fire to do the damage it’d done, but he’d done it. He’d thrown up, after, in a bush. Captain Kane had gruffly thumped him on the back, given him water, and told him to see a doctor about the bullet-graze across his arm.

  He’d killed men, since. More indirect than not, because his particular talents had been so useful in the roles of a scout and a spy. But he was under no illusions about the consequences.

  He held Theo through it for a while, in bed, in his old familiar house, in an unfamiliar guest room. He told Theo about the bush. Theo didn’t laugh, and murmured, “Thank you.”

  “I won’t say you didn’t know what you were doing,” Henry said. That much was true, and running from it wouldn’t do any good. “But you didn’t murder him, either. You thought he might live. And you know what he was. You felt his mind.”

  “Yes.” Theo shivered. “Like…oil. Or smoke, thick and greasy. Selfish. Like the ledgers. I’m sorry, I’m all right, I think.”

  He wasn’t, but he probably would be, at least about this, given some time. Henry let it go. “I’m here. I can pour more of that tea you’re supposed to be drinking. Or tell you more stories about me. Whatever you need.”

  “You are.” Theo leaned against him. “You’re here, and I’m here. Everything’s awful and my head aches, but this is real. You and me.”

  Henry held him, in the quiet of the bedroom, and held onto him. The world would come stampeding in soon enough, full of questions and demands and warlocks and dizzying barely-glimpsed conspiracies and complicated magic tangles. For this moment, just this moment, they could keep each other safe.

  Chapter 22

  All things considered, this was not how Theo had wished to meet Henry’s family. Then again, he’d been unsure about meeting Henry’s family in general—not that he did not want to, not that he was not honored by the very idea of it, of Henry offering that.

  He was simply not terribly good at small talk, families, polite society—and much less so when he had the worst headache in the history of magic, and he’d just killed a man, and he was worrying about Henry, who looked both elated and guilty, a fire relit but guttering at the cost of new flame.

  But Henry had asked, and Theo was, after all, lying propped up by pillows in the Tourmaline family’s guest chamber, and therefore: Theo would meet Henry’s family.

  They did knock. There was that.

  Henry’s mother came in first, with a smile, with a tray of biscuits: chocolate, from the scent. She looked like Henry: tall, auburn, long-limbed but comfortable in her body, in her motions. Someone who belonged here, in this place, and knew it.

  She crossed over to the bed as Henry got up; she hugged her son, warm and demonstrative. Theo blinked, processing this. He could not recall the last time he and Clarence had even touched.

  Catherine Tourmaline inquired, eyeing her son, “What have you been living on, tea and brandy and nothing? It’s about time you came home, honestly…” But her eyes were a bit damp, as she took him in: here and whole and returned to them. “And we’re having some words about you staying at the White Hart and not with us. But that can wait. You eat something, first.”

  “And introduce us,” murmured Henry’s father, behind her. “Before your mother and sisters explode from curiosity.” He held out a hand to Theo, stepping forward. “George Tourmaline. No need to get up, and you’re welcome to stay as long as you’d like.”

  “Thank you.” Theo sat up more, avoided rolling his eyes at Henry’s anxious dart back to his side, and took George’s hand. Henry’s father’s grip was firm, and his eyes were kind, and his shoulders were broad: not Henry’s height, more a foothill than a tree, but solid as earth, too. “Theodore Burnett. Theo, if you’d like.” That was somewhat too familiar, perhaps, but he couldn’t see much point in formality under the circumstances.

  “Theo’s the head librarian at the Royal College of Wizardry,” Henry put in, shooting him a glance Theo couldn’t quite decipher. “He’s a genius.”

  Theo was, in fact, moderately concerned that he might not be the head librarian much longer, given that Dom was still talking to Headmistress Campbell someplace out of sight. Running off to Hertfordshire, dabbling around the edges of black magic, semi-accidental murder, and turning his own head into some sort of resonance chamber were all more than likely frowned upon by the College.

  “From what Henry says, you’ve saved his life.” George was the sort of person who put the other hand atop someone’s, in a handshake, and beamed. “Anything we can do for you, just name it. You’re part of the family, now.”

  “I’m not certain I’ve saved his life,” Theo protested. “Perhaps some of his magic—”

  “You did.” Henry put an arm around him. “You know you did. From exposure after spending the day in a raspberry bush, for one.”

  Henry’s parents exchanged glances that said Henry would be having some discussions with them later, as well. Catherine said thoughtfully, “Burnett…that wouldn’t be a relation to the duke, the scandalous one who…with the earl and countess, both at once…?”

  Theo tried not to wince. “That would be my older brother.”

  Henry’s mother visibly took this in, plus the fact that Theo hadn’t introduced himself as anything other than his own name, no title, courtesy or otherwise. She said, “Well, it’s a pleasure to meet you. Please do have a biscuit.”

  Theo wasn’t sure about the etiquette of crumbs versus the embroidered coverlet, though he did rather like the idea of sugar, just now. Henry stared at him again, and then picked up a biscuit and held it out to him. Theo surrendered. “Thank you.”

  A new head, also red and curly and energetic, popped into the door. “Can I meet Henry’s mysterious prince now?”

  “Did you practice your mathematics?” said Catherine.

  “Prince?” Theo said weakly.

  “He’s not a prince,” Henry shouted in the direction of the door, “and he’s not mysterious, either, Eileen!”

  “When we haven’t seen you for literal years, and you show up with an unconscious man on Maria’s pony, and you dramatically shout that you need help and we should get a doctor, that’s absolutely a romantic novel and you’ve just rescued a prince in disguise!” Eileen announced, shamelessly evading her mother and diving for the bed. “Henry—”

  “I know,” Henry said, “I know, I’m sorry, I’m home—” and hugged her with the arm that wasn’t trying to support Theo. “I’m sorry, Lee, I didn’t want anyone to worry.”

  “I’m not worried,” Eileen announced, and thumped him in the chest, not hard because she was still hugging him extremely tightly. “I’m angry. You could’ve sent a message.” Theo guessed she was about thirteen years old, tall for her age and clearly comfortable in trousers around the family home; she had her mother’s bright blue eyes, at the moment welling up.

  “Theo,” Henry said patiently, “meet my youngest sister, Eileen. Lee, is anyone else eavesdropping out there?”

  Eileen sniffed at him disdainfully. “No. Anne’s out walking with Miss Isabella again, Jack went out to see what you did to the east meadow, Chris got married—I know you know that, I wrote to you—and I won’t tell you where Maria’s listening in from.”

  Henry sighed. But he hugged his youngest sister more. Of course he did.

  “So who is he?” Eileen peeked around Henry at Theo. “I like your waistcoat. Is it expensive? Also, why is the Headmistress of the Royal College of Wizardry talking to a physician through Henry’s old scrying-dish in our parlor?”

  “Eileen Cassandra Tourmaline,” rumbled her father, but with affection.

  Henry leaned in and whispered, to Theo, “My sisters would have made better spies than I ever was.”

  “I heard that,” Eileen said. “And I’m in agreement. So your name is Theo? Are you Henry’s secret betrothed? Did he rescue you from a wicked warlock? Is that why the College is involved?”

  Theo choked on air, sputtered, fought for an answer. Good Lord. “No? Er…no. Definitely not. I’m…a librarian.”

  Her eyes narrowed. “Interesting.”

  “Er…is it?”

  “Stop tormenting my…” Henry paused, stumbled over words, finally finished, “…partner.”

  Partner? Theo wasn’t sure what that meant, precisely. They were lovers, of course; that was true as the way Henry touched him, held onto him, kissed him. They’d said the I love you, and he knew it was true, for himself. He hoped it was true for Henry, and not merely the emotions, the heightened intensity, the gratitude.

  Were they officially…courting? Together? Decidedly not betrothed, no matter what novels Henry’s youngest sister had been reading.

  Would Henry want that? Not now, obviously. Maybe not ever, if this wasn’t—if Henry didn’t—

  Theo might want that. Henry at his side, forever; Henry with him, forever, all the mornings and all the starlit nights, every nightmare and every sunny meadow….

  His thoughts, at this point, gave up: thoroughly overrun by too much of everything.

  “Go away,” Henry said to his sister. “You’re not helping, and Theo needs to rest.”

  “You’re telling me everything later,” she informed him, but hopped up and went toward the door, with impressive consideration. “Lovely to meet you, Mysterious Librarian Theo!”

  “Never a dull moment,” said Henry’s mother. “I’ll just go and find Maria, shall I?”

  “We’ll let you rest,” George agreed, with a paternal pat to his son’s arm. “Henry…it’s good to see you, son.”

  Temporary blessed silence fell, with the departure. Theo shut his eyes and let himself sag back into pillows, exhaling.

  Henry, immediately concerned, asked, “Theo?” His hand touched Theo’s throat, checking his pulse. The presence of Henry’s fingers was nice, oddly grounding, if overly solicitous.

  “I’m all right.” Theo opened his eyes. “I believe I have some new insight into you.”

  “They’re all terrifying,” Henry said. “A hurricane in human form, my family. And that’s only half of them. I’m sorry.”

  “No, it was…” He considered. “A bit much, honestly. But they’re all so kind. They’re lovely, really.”

  “Don’t tell them that.” Henry took Theo’s hand, playing with his fingers: in motion, restless. “How’re you feeling? As long as I behave and don’t do anything magical, I mean.”

  “The same. I’m all right; it’s just the headache. I get over backlash fairly quickly; I always have done. I could get up, if you need me to.”

  “Don’t you dare,” Dominic said, reappearing. He was holding Henry’s scrying-dish, half full of water. “The Headmistress does want to shout at you. I told you. Have fun.”

  * * * *

  Twenty minutes in, Henry was not having fun. Nor was Theo, who was looking more and more pale and exhausted, as if sitting up was taking a good amount of effort. He’d eaten two chocolate biscuits, though, so that was promising, and he was drinking more tea, brewed by the silent and sympathetic Linnet. Henry hoped that could do something; something had to help.

  Since he couldn’t. Since he’d hurt Theo.

  “—the two of you,” Headmistress Phoebe Campbell snapped, eyeglasses flashing, “took restricted texts out into the wilds of Hertfordshire, practiced proscribed magic, injured my librarian, and required that I have a discussion with a country magistrate about one of the College faculty killing a man—”

  “He tried to kill us!” Henry interjected. He’d tried getting words in before. It hadn’t worked. “He was a warlock, he was actively draining my magic, and he was killing Theo!”

  “Because you took it upon yourselves to intervene!”

  “Theo didn’t even kill him! The recoil did that—from his own spell—”

  “Did you want us to let Henry die?” Theo demanded. “Slowly, bit by bit?”

  “I want you to consider talking to someone before you run off to Hertfordshire chasing warlocks with a former spy,” Phoebe hissed. She was dressed formally, even for a hastily summoned call: the deep blue robes set off her iron-grey hair and irritated black eyes. She’d been the Headmistress for years, decades, likely longer; Henry knew there’d been former Heads, but couldn’t picture anyone else ordering the College around with that same ruthless efficiency. “Did it ever occur to you to consult with your colleagues? Or that we might’ve wanted to assist you? Or that we have procedures for these things?”

  “For black rituals, ciphers no one else ever bothered to break, and conspiracies?” Henry said.

  “You—” The Headmistress pointed a finger at him, through the water. “I don’t even know what to do with you. You’re one of us, of course, you’re a College magician, but you’ve corrupted my favorite librarian and you’re asking us to believe this story about someone else out there with copies of the Aiwass Rituals, as if we wouldn’t be aware if—”

  “There was someone.” Theo leaned in. And then put a hand up, rubbing his temple. “I felt it. Them. More than one.” Henry’s heart turned over, watching. Theo’s hand was shaky.

  “And now there’s more than one?” The Headmistress removed her glasses to rub the bridge of her nose. “Theo, I value you. I do. You’re the most efficient librarian we’ve ever had. But this…this is fantastical. One warlock, in France, perhaps…it’s war, after all…but more? Here in England? Traitors and dark magic? No one from the College would do such a thing.”