Lady Rose had never embarrassed Aubrey, which he'd discovered was a rarity. It seemed as if the roles of most boys' mothers was to embarrass them often, in public, and with a total lack of understanding as to what was going on. Lady Rose had never been like that. Aubrey had always been proud of her calm, her self-assurance, her ready wit and élan.
But this was different.
'Do you have to come?' he said.
'Yes. Now, straighten your collar. You look quite disreputable.'
'Well, I am dressed in clothes that are meant to make it easy to break into a major national institution. Disreputable would seem to be part of the job description.'
'I see what you mean.' With a quick movement, she took off her white coat. The dress underneath was a dark emerald green. 'This should be less noticeable.'
Aubrey knew there was no sense arguing about it. Once his mother had made up her mind, she was as unstoppable as the tide. 'Which way?' he said, as if his mother came with him on nefarious activities every day of the week.
'It's crated up in one of the workshops. Best if we cut through Aigyptian antiquities.'
Echoing footsteps announced the presence of the nightwatchmen well in advance, and they took their duties seriously enough for Aubrey and Lady Rose to scamper aside a number of times. However, the many large stone statues, stelae and sarcophagi provided useful hiding places.
An unmarked door next to a jackal-headed god opened onto a workshop. At first, Aubrey thought he'd taken a dramatically wrong turn and ended up in a cabinetmaker's shed. By the dim light that struggled through grimy windows, he could make out racks of timber and tools. The floor was covered with sawdust and shavings, and the smell of cut wood was clean and sweet. For a moment, Aubrey was reminded of William Doyle's workshop at George's farm, where the young Aubrey and George had admired Mr Doyle's careful woodwork, turning rough timber into delicate objects – spoons, bookends, buttons.
Suddenly, Lady Rose drew him into the shadows near the entrance. She blew out the lantern, then she brought her mouth close to his ear. 'The rear doors. They're open.'
Aubrey dropped to the floor. Carefully, he eased his head out from behind the coat rack that stood near the entrance.
Four or five figures – it was hard to tell in the indirect light – were clustered around a crate in the doorway, arguing in low but agitated voices that seemed to require much finger-pointing. The crate stood about five feet high and looked very weighty. Despite the burliness of these intruders, it seemed as if the crate had defeated them.
Aubrey pulled his head back. Someone else wanted the Rashid Stone.
Why can't anything be simple? he thought. All I wanted to do was break into the foremost museum in the land and have a good look at one of their treasures. Is that too much to ask?
He wished that he'd come prepared for hand-to-hand combat rather than simple burglary.
Matches. He had matches. He could work with that. In fact, it might turn out beautifully. Scare off these unwelcome guests, take the stone, then call the police and give them the description of these villains, who'd take the blame for the theft. It was a fine line, but Aubrey decided that they deserved a good interrogation, at the least. Even if they hadn't stolen the Rashid Stone, they intended to steal it. Later, once the stone had been reunited with the Sultan, Aubrey could let the authorities know the truth of the matter. Leaving his name out, of course. Perhaps some sort of moniker would be in order. The Liberator? The Guardian of Looted Antiquities?
A crash came from the direction of the crate. The cursing that followed was intense, and all the more interesting for its restraint. It was conducted totally in whispers, even though one of the cursers sounded as if he was in considerable pain. Aubrey added 'well-disciplined' to the description he was ready to give to the police.
He took out the box of matches. The applications of the Law of Intensification were well understood. Certain processes could be intensified if the spell were very precisely phrased. The precision was important, otherwise the intensification could run rampant and get totally out of hand. Aubrey had seen a practical demonstration go badly wrong when a tuning fork's sound had been shoddily intensified. The whole class had to flee the room, hands clapped over ears, and all the windows of the room had shattered before one of the senior masters came and cancelled Mr Lapworth's spell.
Mr Lapworth hadn't remained long at Stonelea School, even though he was the headmaster's wife's nephew. The last Aubrey had heard, he was in Antipodea and making a good fist of banking.
Aubrey had always used Mycenaean for his intensification spells. It was a difficult, rigid language, but its very rigidity gave him confidence where intensification was concerned. He knew that an explosion was merely very rapid burning, intensified burning, as it were, and he didn't want an explosion in the confines of a museum workshop.
He undertook an elaborate mime with his mother, finishing with an injunction to cover her eyes. She nodded and he gave thanks for all the hours the family had spent playing Charades.
He held the box of matches in the palm of his hand. Just as he was about to start the spell, another thump came from the clumsy villains, and another stream of hushed cursing.
It was perfect timing, covering Aubrey's whispered Mycenaean. He pronounced each agglutinative syllable carefully, concluded with a modest signature flourish, then he threw the matchbox over his head and clapped his hands over his eyes.
Even though Aubrey had confined his intensification to light, he felt a wave of heat roll over him at the same time as hard, white radiance crept through the cracks in his fingers.
This time, the oaths weren't muffled.
Aubrey removed his hands from his eyes and stood.
'It's safe.'
His mother took her hands away and blinked. 'I haven't seen your spellwork for ages, Aubrey. You have improved.'
Aubrey was about to answer, modestly, when he realised something wasn't right. If all had gone smoothly, the villains should have been dazzled, then run off, afraid that their doings had been discovered. The dazzling had happened, as planned, but he couldn't recall hearing the sounds of villains decamping the scene, in a northerly direction or any other.
He peered around the corner of the coat stand to see the burglars advancing on their position, making their way through crates, boxes and piles of horsehair packing. In the quick glance, he saw that they were blinking, wiping streaming eyes, and furiously unhappy.
He withdrew his head and cursed his luck. Not only had he stumbled on antiquity-loving burglars in the middle of a job, but they were hard-bitten villains, not easily scared, and looking as if they were more interested in settling scores than getting on with good, honest thievery.
Or they don't want witnesses, he thought and his stomach turned to stone. The game had suddenly become much more serious.
He pushed his mother toward the door. She didn't stop to argue, for which he was grateful.
Outside, Aubrey skidded on the parquetry floor.
'Which way?'