The Gallian had lost his eyebrows in the blaze, but Aubrey noticed they were already starting to grow back, thick and black to match his moustache. 'I'm glad to see you're well.'
'Well? I am alive, a second life you've given to me. Why would I not be well?' Saltin beamed. 'When I return to my home, I will tell my wife that we will name our firstborn child after you. The entire town of Chrétien will know of your deeds, then the province of Marchmaine, then the whole of Gallia!'
Aubrey blushed. 'You don't have to do that.'
Saltin went to jump out of his bed, but Tallis restrained him. 'But I want to,' the Gallian said. 'Aubrey Saltin will carry your name into the future!'
'How long have you been in the Dirigible Corps?' Aubrey asked him, eager to change the subject.
Half an hour later, his head was spinning with details of Gallia's dirigible program. It was only the appearance of worried nurses that put an end to the airman's passionate descriptions of water-ballast contingencies and keel-bracing materials.
Leaving, Aubrey waved from the door. 'Visit me in Gallia,' Saltin called from his bed. The nurse at his side tried to thrust a thermometer into his mouth. 'Promise me you will.'
'I may take you up on that,' Aubrey said, laughing. 'Good luck with the recovery.'
Captain Tallis escorted Aubrey out of the hospital. 'Keep yourself out of trouble, Fitzwilliam, there's a good chap,' he said at the front door. A bus rumbled past advertising Evans Cocoa. 'Leave things to us.'
The Oakleigh-Nash rolled up. Stubbs hurried to open the door for Aubrey. 'Thank you, Captain Tallis. I always do my best to stay out of trouble.'
Sitting on the leather seat, Aubrey hummed a little. The morning had given him much to think about. He tapped on the glass that divided the passenger compartment from the driver. Stubbs slid back a pane. 'Sir?'
'Let's go home through Barley Park, shall we, Stubbs?'
'Barley Park it is.'
The pane slid back and Aubrey was left with his ruminations. Weariness rolled over him and he gazed out of the window as the Oakleigh-Nash made its way through Barley Park. Strollers enjoyed the sun, with a few kite flyers doing their best to catch the light breeze. The renowned avenue of elms stretched out in front of them.
Like soldiers on parade, Aubrey thought, and the notion made him think of the international situation, which, in turn, made him glum because Holmland was at it again. Its navy manoeuvres off the coast of Volnya were causing great unrest on the Continent. Meanwhile, the fractious states of the Goltan Peninsula were a hotbed of gossip and rumour that Holmland was watching with delight.
All of this military build-up meant that every nation on the Continent was nervous. Strong allies were the best way to keep Holmland away, which explained the desire of Gallia to cement relations with Albion – one demonstration of which was the maiden flight of the experimental dirigible. Brave, plucky, stylish Gallia, Albion's friend and bulwark on the Continent.
Aubrey smiled. A perfect place for a holiday.
As the car swung toward the park gates, Aubrey saw a number of soldiers ambling arm in arm with pretty girls. He had to admit, their uniforms did look dashing.
The pretty girls made him think of Caroline.
Formidably competent. Utterly presentable. Endlessly bewildering. Aubrey sat back in the vast leather seat and spent some time composing appropriate epithets. The constantly surprising Caroline Hepworth. The agreeably fascinating Caroline Hepworth. Caroline of the unruly hair. The unruffled poise. The face that, according to George, was too symmetrical. Aubrey pictured her in a white coat, studying a stuffed bird of paradise, trying to decide if it was a Lesser Superb Fantail or a Greater Superb Fantail or another species altogether, and he enjoyed the image.
Aubrey had come to know her no better since she'd helped to thwart the diabolical plans of Dr Tremaine, the one-time Sorcerer Royal. She had maintained an aloof attitude toward him that was alternately endearing and frustrating. Aubrey was not accustomed to having a goal that he couldn't attain, but Caroline Hepworth was proving to be more than a challenge.
Aubrey lapsed into brooding, mulling over his various failings. Most of which he was sure that Caroline had itemised, but the greatest he'd kept from everyone but George: he was dead. Technically, at least.
It had been his overconfidence that had led him to experiment with death magic. When it went awry, his soul was wrenched from his body and dragged towards the portal that opened onto the true death. It was only through improvisation and quick thinking that he'd reunited his body and soul, but the solution had proved to be temporary. Magical exertion, such as saving the Gallian airman, left him weak and exhausted. Since that massive expenditure of effort, he'd found it hard to sleep – which only added to his fatigue.
Through experience and necessity, he'd learned how to hide such effects, but this drained him even more.
The streets of Fielding Cross were quiet. It was an exclusive neighbourhood of elegant sandstone row houses, and a few other residences that were set in lavish gardens, well back from the streets. Stubbs waited for the uniformed guardsman to open the gates and then he steered the Oakleigh-Nash into Maidstone.
Aubrey was still unaccustomed to the family home being guarded; the presence of soldiers was a constant reminder that his father was now PM and that certain proprieties must be observed.
He was barely through the door, and had hardly given his hat to Harris, the butler, when Duchess Maria appeared.
'Grandmother,' he said, but only after examining the word for its neutrality. He thought it safe enough.
'Aubrey. Good. I need to see you immediately.'
She glided off. Aubrey glanced at Harris, who managed to look impassive and sympathetic at the same time. 'The library, I'd say, young sir.'
Aubrey went straight to the library but, somehow, his grandmother was there well before him. She was seated in an enormous wing-backed chair facing the door, her customary position. Aubrey entered warily, but when she offered her cheek, hope rose in him that this was not going to be one of her usual interrogations.
Lady Maria was Aubrey's father's mother. She was tiny, eighty years old, and she looked as if she could last another eighty. Her hair was silver, but her face had only traces of wrinkles. Her eyes were a clear, startling green. She was the custodian of all things Fitzwilliam, particularly reputation and honour, and she devoted all her energies to maintaining the family name, through her vast network of correspondents.
'You're going on a holiday.' Lady Maria eschewed questions, favouring a more direct approach. Aubrey had often felt that the Albion army had been deprived of a great general by the simple fact of her being born female.
'I am, Grandmother. University places won't be offered for some time yet, and it's been a hectic year.'
'Yes. I believe "hectic" to be an accurate description, if inadequate.'
'Quite. So a little travel, some idleness, would seem to be in order.'
'Lutetia, I take it. The City of Love.'