It didn't take long before his suspicions were confirmed and his good mood evaporated. The psychic battering he'd received from the Heart of Gold had destroyed Monsieur Bernard's shield. Once again, he was balanced between life and death, a limbo land where his hold on his soul could evaporate at any minute.
Aubrey lay on the bed, hands behind his head, and felt sorry for himself. For a time, it was good to feel so bad.
With the cold comfort of hindsight he itemised all the things he should and shouldn't have done, beginning with the ill-starred experiment with death magic.
Gloomy thoughts took up residence. The only future he could see was a depressing one, clinging to a half-life, weak and pained, unable to do magic for fear of making things worse. Caroline would judge him as a shallow, manipulative failure. George would grow tired of his erratic ways. He would be alone.
Inevitably, he moved on to 'It isn't fair', but even as he went through the motions he started to become irritated with himself. He couldn't keep repeating 'Why me?' with any conviction because he knew that his situation was his fault. If he was willing to accept the kudos for his own actions, then he had to be prepared to accept the responsibility when things went poorly.
Self-pity is a warm and comforting blanket, he thought, but I do find it itchy after a while.
He ran through a few spells that had provided a modicum of stability in the past. They helped, somewhat, but Aubrey knew they held no prospect of lasting success. He was back on the treadmill again, researching and experimenting to find a permanent cure for his selfinduced condition.
AUBREY RESTED THAT DAY, AND ALSO ON THURSDAY AND Friday, gathering his strength for the festivities and – after a letter arrived from Duval reminding him of his commitment – for the production of The Buccaneers. George helped him run through his lines, again and again.
In between these sessions, Aubrey wrote a long letter to Prince Albert, detailing their successful finding of Prince Christian's tomb, and giving some indication of the state of affairs in Lutetia. Aubrey decided to leave the other, much more interesting, information until he could discuss it with Bertie, face to face.
He wasn't sure that Gallia was ready for a king again, let alone an Albionite king. He was confident that Bertie wouldn't do anything straightaway, but what would the future hold?
Before leaving for the ball, Madame Calvert made Aubrey and George stand in the entry hall while she inspected them with the eye of a regimental commander.
Aubrey enjoyed formal clothes. The rigmarole of dressing in the stiff-fronted shirt and attaching the starched wing collar was an exercise in dexterity and determination. He'd learned enough to make sure that his white bow tie was tied imperfectly enough so any observer would know it wasn't a pre-tied affair, but one knotted by a real person.
Despite feeling weary from his exertions, he was pleased to pass Madame Calvert's scrutiny. For a moment, however, it seemed as if she were going to make George get dressed all over again.
'This tailcoat hasn't been brushed, has it?' she demanded. Instantly, a clothes brush appeared in her hand. She attacked George with it while she kept up her litany of the sartorial indiscretions he'd committed. He bore it with genial good humour.
'The crease in your trousers, ghastly.' Brush, brush. 'And your waistcoat is crooked. Fix it.' Brush, brush. 'One of the studs is missing from your collar.' Brush, brush, brush.
'Here it is,' George said mildly. He held it up. 'I was hoping you'd help me with it.'
Madame Calvert growled with frustration. The brush disappeared. She took the offending stud and busied herself with attaching the rear of the collar.
Aubrey nearly laughed aloud when George winked at him.
'There,' Madame Calvert said. 'You look almost presentable now.'
George bowed. 'And I'm grateful to you, Madame Calvert. With your care and style, I'm sure you've made a difference.'
She seemed mollified by this. She took George's top hat from the hall table and handed it to him. Aubrey took his and held it in the crook of his arm. 'The cab is here,' she said. 'Now check your cuff links and your shoes before you enter the embassy.' She pierced George with a look. 'I won't be able to watch you all evening, so make sure you take good care of Sophie.'
'I shall.' Aubrey noted that George wore his most dutiful expression.
Madame Calvert stood in front of the mirror. She adjusted the double string of pearls around her neck, then nodded. 'Let us go then.'
Twenty-
Three
THE EVENING WAS BALMY AS THEY ROLLED DOWN Honesty Street in their open carriage. Looking toward the river, Aubrey was glad to see that it was itself again. Steam yachts cruised along, full of sightseers enjoying the lights of Lutetia. Music and laughter wafted from the cafés along the way, with many revellers shouting out their good wishes as the paired greys clipclopped past.
Twice, Madame Calvert asked George for the time, and a little later she wanted the driver to turn around because she'd forgotten her bag. Aubrey gently pointed out it was on the seat next to her.
Madame Calvert's agitation increased the closer they came to her niece's house. It was off All Saints Square, a secluded part of the Crecy district. It was a very wealthy precinct, to judge from the grand, detached houses which were set well back from the street, behind stone or iron fences and well-established gardens.
Aubrey nearly laughed out loud when George saw Sophie Delroy. 'Sometimes, one can be luckier than one deserves,' George murmured from the side of his mouth as they stood at the bottom of the stairs.
Sophie was blonde and petite, with a smile that came as readily and brightly as her laughter. She was a witty and wry observer of Lutetia and Gallia, too. On the trip to the embassy, she entertained them with her views on the Prime Minister, the Assembly and the appalling progress of women's rights in Gallia.
Aubrey was sure that she and Caroline would get on famously.
'And what do you plan to do after you finish school?' Aubrey asked when they rounded the corner into Thriftiness Terrace. He was doing his best in the conversation as George was too flabbergasted to contribute anything useful. Aubrey was pleased that the boot was on the other foot for a change.
'I intend to write for The Sentinel,' she declared, smiling, as they passed the Exposition Tower. It was aglow with electric light. Gulls wheeled around its heights, snapping up insects.
'They don't have any female journalists, do they?'
'They will when I get there.'
George managed to contribute some questions about newspapers and, when he discovered that Sophie was just as intrigued by the agony columns as he was, they chattered away as if they'd known each other for years.
Aubrey sat back, drumming his fingers, until they reached the Hepworth residence.
He leapt out of the carriage before the driver had pulled to a halt. 'Would you like me to come along?' George asked.