George opened the door to the library. Aubrey could see that, in the warmth of the evening, the windows had been open. The smell of honeysuckle made his favourite room in the house even more inviting. He took one of the large leather armchairs and let his gaze wander over the thousands of volumes on the shelves.
The Ritual of the Way was death magic of the worst sort. It was theoretical, because no-one had ever thought that a sufficient blood sacrifice could be organised. Dr Tremaine, however, was a man who dared do what others recoiled from. He had realised that war was nothing if not an organised blood sacrifice. If he could harness it and orchestrate a battle of gargantuan size, he could achieve his ends.
Immortality. Even the warmth of the summer evening wasn’t enough to stop Aubrey from shivering at the prospect of an immortal Dr Tremaine. Given eternal life, could anything stop him?
There was a knock at the door and Harris brought in a tray. George took it from him and placed it on the table between his chair and Aubrey’s. He poured, and Aubrey was charmed when he saw that Harris had found his favourite childhood mug. Solid brown earthenware, a smiling cow beamed out at him from it.
George had a more mature mug – a thoughtful-looking duck – and after he sipped he sighed. ‘Good cocoa, that.’
Aubrey sipped. ‘Harris made it himself.’
‘Not cook?’
‘Harris prides himself on his cocoa.’
‘I see.’ George took another mouthful, then placed his mug on the table. ‘All right, old man. Now that the cocoa discussion is out of the way, I need to ask you a question.’
Aubrey lifted an eyebrow. ‘Mmm?’
George pursed his lips, scratched his chin, frowned and then rubbed his hands together. Running out of time-wasting gestures, he finally fixed his gaze on Aubrey. ‘What are we going to do?’
Aubrey put his mug on the table as well. He sat back and crossed his arms on his chest. ‘That’s a very good question, George. It deserves to have a very good answer, but I’m dashed if I know what it is.’
‘Let me throw a few words into the ring: duty, responsibility, obligation.’
Aubrey made a face. ‘You don’t have to remind me about duty.’
‘I know, old man.’
‘King and country, that sort of thing?’
‘Sounds old-fashioned when you put it like that.’
‘If you mean unthinking obedience and loyalty to something as abstract as a country, then I think it is a bit old-fashioned.’
George nodded, but Aubrey saw this was potentially upsetting. ‘Don’t mistake me, though,’ he went on. ‘I happen to think you can do the same thing for two different reasons. While some people might rally to Albion just because of patriotism, with no questions asked, I like to think that I support Albion because I’ve asked the questions and I’m satisfied with the answers.’
‘Like your magic,’ George said slowly.
‘What?’
‘You keep going on about Rational Magic, where you magic types ask questions and work things out intelligently. Maybe you’re doing the same with patriotism.’
‘Rational Patriotism.’ Aubrey tried it on for size, and was quite comfortable with the fit. ‘If I’m rationally patriotic, I can admit that while Albion isn’t perfect there is a lot to be proud of.’
‘Freedom of the press,’ George said. ‘Freedom of thought.’
‘More or less. And there’s the rule of law. And Democracy.’
‘Votes for women?’
‘Coming soon,’ Aubrey said firmly. He uncrossed his arms and counted on his fingers. ‘Writing. The Arts. Sciences.’
‘Charity,’ George said. ‘Don’t forget charity. Albionites know that it’s the right thing to do to help those less well off than you are.’ He held up a finger. ‘And don’t forget cricket.’
‘How could I? Aubrey said. ‘It’s a good country. Not perfect, but it’s better than the alternative. I’d hate to see it crushed.’
‘That’s the other thing,’ George said. ‘We’re talking about defending ourselves here.’
Aubrey had visions of invaders marching on Parliament House. Or the Palace. Or Maidstone. He shuddered. ‘While I wouldn’t want Mother to hear it, I’d do what I could to protect her.’ And George’s parents. And Caroline, of course. And Mrs Hepworth. And Harris. Then there’s Bertie...
‘Of course.’ George scowled. ‘I’m worried about Sophie and her family.’
George had met Sophie Delroy a year ago, while on their Lutetian escapade. They’d been diligent correspondents ever since, and Sophie had visited Greythorn on one memorable occasion. Aubrey thought they were well matched. The sharp and ambitious Sophie and the clearly smitten George.
‘Why not ask them over here for a holiday?’ Aubrey suggested. ‘Plenty of room here at Maidstone.’
George chewed on this. ‘Or I could ask them to the farm. Father would like that.’
‘They’d be out of harm’s way.’
‘If you allow me to leapfrog sideways, so to speak, it’s true, what you say.’
‘It is?’
‘The best way to lessen worry is to do something about it. One of your maxims, that.’
‘It is?’ Aubrey hadn’t realised he’d appropriated one of his father’s favourite mottos. Not that he minded – he agreed. Doing something – anything – was about the only remedy for the paralysis that worry could bring about.
‘A favourite,’ George said firmly. ‘Now, I don’t think we’ve really decided what we’re going to do.’
‘A question for you, then. How do you feel about being summoned here?’
‘Summoned?’ George frowned. ‘I didn’t really see it like that.’
Am I being oversensitive? Aubrey wondered, but he went on. ‘Well, what about being described as “foolish”?’
‘Steady on, old man. I think it was our possible actions that were described as foolish, not us.’
‘Aren’t you splitting hairs, George? It sounded to me as if we couldn’t be trusted and we needed to be sheltered for our own good.’
‘I suppose there was a bit of that...’
‘I’m not sure how well that sits with me.’ Aubrey reached out for his cocoa, but his cow mug was cold. ‘I’m worried about this war, George.’
George stood and brushed off his jacket. ‘Let’s sleep on it. It’s too late to do anything now.’
Aubrey glanced at the clock on the mantelpiece over the fire. It was after eleven. He’d wanted to wait for his father, but if he wasn’t home by now he may not be home at all. ‘Tomorrow morning it is. Plenty of time then to do something rash.’
Five
Sir Darius did not come to Maidstone at all. At breakfast – while George stowed away enormous quantities of bacon and eggs – Aubrey thought his mother was doing well to cover her concern, but he saw how she tensed when the telephone rang. When Harris returned, she continued buttering her toast but with the sort of studied concentration that meant she was controlling herself carefully. ‘Who was it, Harris?’
‘Duncan, m’lady, one of Sir Darius’s aides. He apologised and said Sir Darius was unlikely to be home at all today.’
Lady Rose paused in her buttering. ‘I thought not.’ Then she resumed, scraping the butter over a piece of toast that was already well spread. ‘Was there any indication when he may be here?’
‘As soon as possible, was the message.’ Harris paused. The butler was the embodiment of discretion, but in the minute shifting of his stance Aubrey thought he detected discomfort. ‘One other thing, m’lady. Sir Darius asked to make sure that Master Fitzwilliam and Master Doyle remain at Maidstone.’