Jonathon looked at the cat sharply. “That isn’t supposed to work unless you’ve got some magery in you.”
Well, she has. Her father was an Earth Master; that part is true enough. And she has a touch of it, enough for her to hear me, enough for her to learn languages. . . . The cat looked slyly at all of them. And enough to enchant an audience. And don’t tell me you haven’t seen her do it. Charm. Charisma. It’s magic, right enough, opens up a connection between her and them. It’s all there, what they used to call “the glamourie.” And that’s all of the magic there is in her.
“Huh,” said Arthur, and Wolf chortled. Nigel just shook his head.
“This still doesn’t tell us why there’s an Earth Master trying to kill her,” Jonathon said sharply. “We’re no closer to unraveling that particular riddle than we were before.”
But at least you won’t go barking up any Russian trees, the cat replied. Nor, I advise you, any Parisian ones either. La Augustine may be a witch, but she’s not the sort with magic, and so far as I know, there’s not a soul Ninette ever came across that has a jot of magic in him—or her—other than me. I won’t say that she never made an enemy, though I don’t know of any, but I do know that there was no one around her that I ever sensed that had magic enough to light a candle.
The men exchanged looks of resignation. Finally Nigel shook his head. “I’m curious about one thing, cat,” Nigel said slowly. “Why Blackpool? Why not—Bath, or Birmingham, or Plymouth? I can understand not wanting to try your trick in London, where someone might have seen the real Nina Tchereslavsky, and there are a lot of people there who know about the famous ballet dancers in the rest of the world, but why come all the way up into the North?”
You, Thomas said instantly. How many impresarios are there that are also Elemental Masters? I had to find someone who could hear me, didn’t I? That was the only way to make the trick work.
“Impeccable logic,” Wolf said, and chortled again. “Keep on like this, and I might even start to like you, cat.”
Jonathon scowled. “Shall we have done with this love-fest?” he asked. “We need to find out who is behind these attacks, and put a stop to them, before someone—probably our star dancer—is murdered.”
Ninette shivered at this timely—and unwelcome—reminder. She kept shivering though, feeling very cold, and rather empty inside. The secret was out, and now . . . now she did not really know what she should do. And there was still someone, some terrible magician out there, who wanted her dead. Ailse got up and fetched a shawl and put it around her shoulders. “There noo, ma’amselle,” the maid said in her no-nonsense tone. “Ye’ve got t’dance tomorrow, an’ there’s naught going to happen more tonight.” Ailse looked at Nigel, Arthur, and Jonathon sternly. “You lads, be off with ye. Worrit yer heads about it all ye like, but not here. Ma’amselle Ninette needs to sleep.”
“Gad.” Nigel shook his head. “You’re right as rain, Ailse. Curse it all though . . . if only we could concentrate on either the magic or the theater, one or the other, and not have to deal with both at the same time.”
“If wishes were horses, beggars would ride,” Ailse quoted primly. “Go along with you.”
Ninette stopped shivering, but immediately felt as if she could not keep her eyes open anymore. Perhaps it was the unreality of the situation; despite how she had felt when she first clapped eyes on the horrid little monster, she could not seem to think of it as menacing, much less life-threatening, now. There had been a strange little—thing—in her sitting room. It hadn’t even been as big as the cat. Ailse had clapped a cooking put over it—how absurd was that? So absurd no one would even write a ballet about it. She yawned, stifling it behind her hand, and Ailse pounced on her.
“That will be enough of that,” the maid said firmly. “To bed wi’ ye. And oot with yon gents!”
A word with you, Jonathon, Ninette vaguely heard the cat say, as Ailse hustled her back into the bedroom. I’ll walk you home.
For a moment she was moved to protest—she needed Thomas here! Who else would protect her if another of those things put in an appearance? But then she realized that if Thomas wasn’t worried, then there probably was no need to worry at all. She followed Ailse meekly into the bedroom, quite as if it was Ailse who was the mistress here, and she the obedient maid.
The cat had had mixed feelings, watching the Fire Master’s expressions change over the course of Ninette’s confession. At first, Jonathon had been angry at Ninette’s deception, that much was clear. Thomas could only assume he was angry because he had been tricked, and not for any “moral outrage.” Ninette had only been doing what Jonathon did every night on the stage—tricking people into thinking that what was in front of them was something other than what it was.
Then had come grudging acceptance, as first Arthur, and then Nigel had voiced their own opinions on the subject.
Then, interestingly, when the mention of Ninette’s many admirers came up, the cat had seen acute annoyance flash across Jonathon’s face. In fact, it was akin to the annoyance that Thomas himself felt.
Fascinating . . .
Of course, if Jonathon was attracted to the dancer, he would do his best not to show it. Not because he had any ridiculous ideas about the moral inferiority of his fellow entertainers, but because he would know how often disastrous flirtations within a theatrical company could be. And Jonathon, from all that Thomas knew about him—which was a great deal more than Jonathon was aware!—thought of himself as a confirmed bachelor.
Nor did Thomas himself particularly want Jonathon attracted to Ninette.
On the other hand, if the choice was Jonathon—or one of those fellows that filled her dressing room—well, then the cat would fervently welcome Jonathon.
All of them made their way to the ground floor, and out the private entrance, without encountering anyone else. It appeared that despite the row that had gone on in Ninette’s sitting room, the other tenants had remained blissfully unaware of any unpleasantness. That was good, because otherwise the ruckus would have been very difficult to explain.
When they stepped out into the cool, damp, dark summer night, with the scent of wet brick and growing things on the air, Thomas took the opportunity to glare up at Nigel, Arthur, and that wretched bird. And then he coughed, politely.
Arthur and Nigel took the hint, and swiftly outdistanced the two of them, rapidly moving through the patches of light where the streetlamps stood, until they turned a corner and moved out of sight. Thomas could feel Jonathon’s eyes on him, and sensed the frown.
“Well, get on with it,” the Fire Master said impatiently. “What is it you wanted to tell me that you couldn’t say in front of the others?” Without waiting for an answer, the Fire Master strode out in the footsteps of his friends.
Largely—my motives, said Thomas, reluctantly. Let us start with the question, “Why Blackpool?” The reason is simple, really. I know Blackpool. I am a native of this area. That was how I knew that an Air Master was the impresario of this particular music hall. Since I came from this part of England, I made it my business to keep track of the Elemental Masters here.
“You—what?” The cat felt a certain smug satisfaction. He had managed to surprise the magician. Well, there were more surprises to come for Jonathon Hightower. The magician wasn’t the only one who was good at keeping things up his metaphorical sleeve.