She was nearly dead when they first met. And he had held that over her ever since. “Going to the market is the least you can do,” he would say. Or, “Delivering Mr. Cavandish’s monthly wolfsbane order is really a small ask for someone who’s keeping you alive.”
One might, in a fit of charitable delusion, consider his demands reasonable. Except for the minor detail that Tarn ‘Madcap’ Carriger, for all his chaotic brilliance, had saved her entirely by accident.
On mornings like this, when Mr. Lovett arrived at the Madcap Shop a full fifteen minutes early for his usual ten o’clock Tuesday appointment, Blythe had to remind herself that being technically alive was, objectively speaking, a good thing.
Not that her inner turmoil was visible. Years of rigorous training from her manners tutor had instilled a veneer of perfect composure. She greeted Mr. Lovett and his attendant with a smile that was both warm and subtly deferential. Her bouffant was stylishly secured, not a single wisp astray. Her wardrobe, meticulously curated from Madame May’s weekly fashion column (a publication that treated hemlines like geopolitical treaties), was always impeccably current. In short, she projected the image of a demure shopkeeper, which was, of course, a carefully constructed lie.
“Good morning, Mr. Lovett.” She curtsied—a low, dramatic affair, just the way Mr. Lovett liked it—and ushered him into the Madcap Shop at 14 Crane Street.
“Tell Mr. Carriger I’m here.” He removed his hat, a daring shade of lavender that matched his suit. His ensemble was meticulously correct: high collar with a slender tie in a darker shade, a vest matching his suit, and polished black leather shoes. A peacock feather, its edges dyed black, adorned his lapel, its iridescent green a disturbingly accurate match for his eyes. His face, save for a small nick along his jaw, was cleanly shaven, boasting a moustache that looked like it could be used for advanced trigonometry. His fingers, twitching nervously, spun the brim of his hat, his peacock eyes darting about the parlour like a nervous hummingbird.
“You don’t expect me to stand here all day, surely?”
His blatant lack of civility was no longer a surprise. Like many of his social standing, he held those he deemed beneath him in thinly veiled contempt. When they’d first met a year ago, he’d been her first brutal lesson in the stark realities of her second life.
Blythe ushered Mr. Lovett into the sitting room, offering a murmured apology for the (non-existent) delay. She nodded politely to his attendant—a gaunt man who wore clothes that seemed to swallow him whole, like a shadow attempting to wear a suit—and then prepared Mr. Lovett’s usual tea.
“I’ll inform Mr. Carriger immediately.”
“Tell him I’m in no hurry,” he said. Mr. Lovett, she knew, valued the company as much as the shop’s unique wares.
Blythe gave a polite nod, stifling the urge to roll her eyes, and retreated to the narrow servant stairs. Tarn Carigger didn’t care which stairs she used. But she wouldn’t put it past Mr. Lovett to have his sharp-eyed attendant spying the main stairwell, ready to report back. After all, paranoia was a gentleman’s most reliable accessory. Second only to an excessively large hat.
Entitled customers like Mr. Lovett were one of the many reasons Blythe had never wanted to work in a shop. A private practice or a royal appointment was really the only civilized way to conduct a magical business. Dealing with the public, she’d learned, was a bit like trying to herd newts blindfolded.
Tarn’s workshop, a chaotic wonderland of arcane paraphernalia, occupied the entire third floor of their detached townhouse—detached only because Tarn had employed a specialist in reality magic, a feat that probably involved a lot of creative bargaining, to ensure the neighbours wouldn’t complain about the occasional nocturnal explosions. In Lower Stanway’s tightly packed townhouses, peace and quiet were prized above all else.
The first floor housed the parlour (which doubled as a client-soothing chamber), the kitchen (a room Tarn had never seen), and a pantry large enough to house a small ox. The second floor, an ordinary domestic space, consisted of Tarn’s bedroom (a room he visited once in a blue moon), Blythe’s bedroom (a space that frequently doubled as a storage closet), and a bathing room (where one could presumably wash away the existential dread of living with Tarn Carriger). The third floor, once a trio of rooms, was now a single, sprawling workshop, courtesy of Tarn’s demolition enthusiasm.
Blythe often pondered Tarn’s architectural choices, especially the decision to place the most frequently used space on the top floor. It was during moments like this, when she was forced to climb two flights of stairs while a demanding customer waited below, that a theory solidified: Tarn’s work was so profoundly odious that he was actively trying to repel visitors. If not for the elaborate spell circle painted on the second-floor ceiling—a magical air freshener, essentially—she wouldn’t be able to breathe in the same house.
There was also the minor detail that Tarn was, in essence, two people. He was the charming shop owner, the suave businessman when he graced the parlour. But in his workshop, he transformed into a wild, red-eyed workaholic who somehow, inexplicably, happened to be the best alchemist, artificer, and sorcerer of his age. A rare triple threat. Most people struggled to master one arcane trade, but Tarn? Tarn collected magical disciplines like others collected stray cats.
Blythe pinched her nose as she reached the top of the stairs. A greyish haze hung in the air, a bitter-sweet miasma that was, thankfully, not the source of the offensive odour. That honour belonged to a stench that was both foul and strangely laced with cinnamon.
She plunged into the workshop, a scene of organized chaos. The tables nearest the stairs were relatively clean, vials and jars neatly labelled with ingredients both mundane and macabre: salt, powdered amber, crushed wolf teeth, sealed sulphur, pickled reptilian tails. A cabinet held common herbs and preserved plants: thyme, rose petals, pollen, vanilla beans, and, of course, cinnamon. Blythe opened the cabinet, searching for the source of the scent. The glass container of cinnamon was open. She twisted the lid shut. Tarn had been using cinnamon. But what, precisely, was that other, more…pungent aroma?
On one of the giant wooden tables lay the split-open remains of a snake. Some of the blood hadn’t quite dried. Blythe pressed her lips together, fighting back a wave of nausea. Most days, Tarn’s experiments involved ingredients that were already powdered, crushed, or otherwise rendered unrecognizable—or, at the very least, prepared behind closed doors, sparing her the gruesome details. Today, however, was not one of those days.
As a spiritualist, Blythe rarely needed any ingredients to perform her work. Her own innate abilities were enough. Occasionally, a strategically placed candle, a wisp of incense, or the soothing scent of lavender might enhance the ambiance. But that was optional. The protective charms she’d once carried just in case were now mostly confined to the “sentimental clutter” drawer. She could count the number of genuinely dangerous spirits she’d encountered on one hand and still have enough fingers left to dramatically point out the absurdity of Tarn’s latest experiment.
Blythe sidestepped the snake carcass and navigated around a glass cabinet overflowing with bones, its doors refusing to fully close, like a skeletal overstuffed suitcase. Tarn was hunched over a steaming concoction, a rust-orange cloud billowing from the pot he was stirring. His dark curls were restrained by one of Blythe’s ribbons—a ribbon now marked with an oily stain. He’d rolled his sleeves up, a futile gesture. His shirt already bore the marks of his alchemical adventures, complete with singe marks and a generous splattering of…something.
His clothes were wrinkled, a clear indication that he’d once again mistaken his bed for a decorative piece of furniture. His pale forearms, usually smooth, now sported a collection of small, but noticeable, burns. He hadn’t shaved in a week, and his patchy stubble was beginning to have dreams of grandeur. Any longer and she’d have to start calling it a beard.
Dark, purple-gray circles puffed beneath his deep-set eyes, and the whites were a road map of red veins. But despite the general air of “recently resurrected zombie,” his eyes held a sharp focus. They were, she had to admit, annoyingly beautiful, like the sea of a tropical paradise. She’d once asked him if he’d had them magically enhanced, and he’d responded with uncontrollable laughter, punctuated by a breathless “Does that mean you find my eyes enchanting?”
Blythe struck a dramatic pose, hands planted firmly on her hips, narrowing her eyes and scowling with the intensity of a gargoyle who’d just discovered its birdbath was empty. His aura, predictably, was a mess of besotted reds and wildly dripping oranges. She stood in heavy silence for a full minute, a masterclass in passive-aggressive communication that would have made a mime weep with envy, before Tarn finally set down his pewter bowl, tossed aside his stir stick, and looked up at her.
“Did you come in to breathe at me, or have you prepared a mirth monologue?” His voice, raspy from prolonged silence, dripped with exasperation. “Because frankly, I’m running low on patience and high on the distinct possibility of setting something—probably this desk—on fire.”
“Mr. Lovett is here for his 10 o’clock appointment,” she said.
Tarn’s back tightened as if he’d just been stabbed with a particularly pointy mandrake root. His eyes snapped shut, and he sighed a string of words that would make a sailor blush. Blythe had long since abandoned her attempts to remind him he was in the presence of a lady.
“And did you give him his order?” he asked sullenly. He placed a mandrake root sliver in the mortar and chanted a few words, causing the mixture to fume scarlet.
“You did hear me say, Mr. Lovett, right?”
Tarn waved away the fumes and plucked up a silver ball the size of a mustard seed from the mortar. “You didn’t even try, did you?” he guessed, a smirk playing on his lips.
“Last time I got an earful about knowing my place,” Blythe reminded him with a viper’s grin. She leaned back against his desk, avoiding a pile of suspiciously murky vials. “What’s that for? It looks suspiciously like a cockatrice seed. Are we petrifying Mr. Lovett today?”
The corner of his mouth twitched—a reluctant smile. “Once again, your knowledge of forbidden arcana impresses me, my dear Blythe.” He spun around, a whirlwind of chaotic energy, and retrieved a small trinket chest—dark wood and tin—from the shelves lining the wall behind his desk. He dropped the silver seed inside with a careless disregard that suggested he was storing spare buttons. “It’s a variant on the cockatrice seed and, thus, technically not forbidden.”
“Walking a fine line as usual,” she observed, her tone dry.
“As I like it.” He leaned against the desk, mirroring her pose, his gaze lingering on her for a moment longer than strictly necessary. “Besides, someone has to keep the world interesting.”
“I’d prefer functional.” Blythe just rolled her eyes, refusing to give him the satisfaction of a smile.
“Ah, but where’s the fun in that?”
He snapped his fingers and muttered a quick grooming spell—one of his own devising—restoring his clothing from dishevelled to presentable. He raked a hand through his dark curls, somehow transforming the unkempt tangle into a pleasing arrangement that suggested he’d spent hours carefully tousling it. He tossed her stained ribbon onto his desk. He still had shadows under his stormy eyes.
“How do I look?” he asked.
“Tolerable,” she deadpanned.
He rolled his eyes. “My dear, we both know intolerable is impossible even on my worst days.”
Blythe made no comment. He was, of course, infuriatingly right. She’d never admit it to his face, but he was a sculptor’s dream. He was classically handsome, with a smile that could charm a basilisk. Blythe wasn’t sure if it was natural—if any human could possess such an unfair advantage—or if it was a side effect of his sorcerer aura. It was well known that sorcerers had an unnatural pull over ordinary mortals.
Not that Blythe considered herself ordinary, or even strictly mortal. But her soul was human, and that could be enough to mistake a scoundrel for a saint.
Except she had Mr. Lovett, currently pacing the parlour like a caged peacock, as proof that she wasn’t alone in her assessment of Tarn’s assets. And she knew plenty of customers who had foolishly propositioned him, only to discover that his brews and alchemical concoctions were the only things for sale. Not that he ever took offence. Tarn was a consummate smarmy professional in public. He only revealed his true, lazy, madman nature to her, a privilege she often wished she didn’t have.
It had been two years since Blythe, through a seance gone unpredictably wrong, had become Tarn’s…accidental associate. Although neither of the pair had asked for the arrangement, Tarn seemed determined to extract the maximum amusement from it.
Like now.
“It’s time for a test,” he announced, a glint in his sea-green eyes.
Blythe, who’d learned to interpret that glint as a warning, scowled. “No.”
“We shall never advance our understanding if we shy away from experimentation, my dear.” He patted her shoulder hesitantly—like she was one of his explosive experiments.
He headed for the main staircase. Blythe, with the weary resignation of a seasoned nanny, followed. Tarn, she’d learned, always got what he wanted. Arguing was less a debate and more a performance art he excelled at.
“We need to determine the speed of your memory assimilation—” He abruptly stopped, realizing they were within earshot of the sitting room, where Mr. Lovett, their most reliably neurotic customer, was undoubtedly having a nervous breakdown. Tarn transitioned seamlessly into his charming rogue persona, a performance so dazzling it could probably power a small city. Mr. Lovett, predictably, was mesmerized.
“Mr. Lovett, a genuine pleasure, as always,” Tarn greeted, gliding across the room like a swallow sweeping through the air. “I trust my dear Miss Blythe has made you comfortable?”
“As always, Mr. Carriger,” Mr. Lovett stammered. He rose to shake Tarn’s hand, but Tarn, with the grace of a seasoned courtier, ignored the gesture and settled into the chair opposite his skittish guest.
Mr. Lovett slumped back into his chair. His eyes, however, lit up as he noticed Tarn’s suit. “I am pleased you find my gift to your liking. On any other man, it would be…too much, but you fill it nicely—fit it nicely.” He blushed, his gaze darting to his nervously spinning hat. “Wh-what I mean is that the suit suits you. Oh, how silly. That is—I am honoured that you, Mr. Carriger—”
“What a marvellous turn of phrase, Mr. Lovett,” Tarn said, delicately rescuing Mr. Lovett from his stammering descent. “I am also honoured.” He gave a subtle nod, the picture of graciousness. “By your gift and your unwavering loyalty as a customer. The suit does suit me. Thank you. Now, shall we not delay our…transaction?”
Blythe seized the opportunity to slip into the kitchen, where she’d already prepared Mr. Lovett’s order. She returned with the bundled bottles, feeling like a particularly overdressed milkman without the horse and carriage.
Mr. Lovett, meanwhile, had attempted to engage Tarn in small talk, a feat akin to teaching a cat to tap-dance. Tarn, radiating an air of bored amusement, pretended to listen. Blythe, observing the dull, cool tones of Tarn’s emotions, knew he was operating on autopilot. His lazy confidence might fool Mr. Lovett, a man whose magical talent was roughly equivalent to a garden gnome’s, but she knew better.
“While it’s always a delight for my coin purse to see you again—it seems you’ve been reordering more frequently,” Tarn said, his voice laced with mock concern. “I hesitate to trouble such a treasured customer…” He paused, dangling the bait.
Blythe placed the bottles on the table, wary of how Tarn was setting up his test.
“It is no trouble, Mr. Carriger,” Mr. Lovett assured him. He edged to the end of his chair. “I understand you are merely protecting your business. I have had similar conversations with my father’s clients when there have been changes to service agreements.”
“It’s no trouble, Mr. Carriger,” Mr. Lovett assured him, inching to the edge of his chair like a squirrel anticipating a nut. “I understand you are merely protecting your business. I’ve had similar conversations with my father’s clients when there have been…adjustments to service agreements.”
“Wonderful. So you won’t mind if Miss Blythe confirms it.”
Mr. Lovett’s face flushed a shade of beetroot. “Confirms what…Mr. Carriger?”
“It won’t take a moment. You won’t even notice.”
“Notice what, Mr. Carriger?”
“Miss Blythe will use her gifts to ensure you’re being honest, to confirm my product isn’t being used for…unsavoury or non-consensual experiences. A simple yes or no question, and she’ll do the hard work. Do I have your permission?”
Mr. Lovett glanced from Blythe to the bottles, his eyes darting like a fly trapped under glass. “I see no harm.”
“Marvellous.” Tarn clapped his hands together. “Take a seat, Miss Blythe.” He swiftly made room for her beside him, his expression radiating the sort of cheerful malevolence usually reserved for purveyors of snake oil elixirs.
She sat on the couch, lay her head back, and closed her eyes. Time to play the ethereal contortionist. She imagined smoke trapped in a jar. She twisted the lid, and the smoke billowed out. That was how she removed her soul from her body.
Back when she’d had a human body, she’d had a different metaphor—but the feeling had been different. Back then, some part of her soul was always tethered, no matter how far she’d tried to reach. She was a ship navigating the ethereal sea, kept from drifting away from port by a sturdy anchor. But now that once-trusty line had snapped, and she could go further.
She’d never been fond of impromptu soul exits. Easy enough to do, but the problem was the ethereal realm itself. It was the spiritual equivalent of waking up in someone else’s house uninvited. Sometimes, it was like a friend’s house—vaguely familiar, but lacking the comforting scent of home. Other times, it was a full-blown stranger’s mansion, an all-to-expansive layout with a maze of locked doors or unrecognizable yet ordinary objects.
A bed in someone else’s home was still a bed—but it’s not your bed. You don’t know who’s slept there or what has happened under those sheets.
And then there were the colours. Or, rather, the lack thereof. The ethereal realm was a monochrome wasteland, sparsely lit by glowing auras fuelled by emotions. People were walking by lamp posts dotting dark streets. Mr. Lovett, for example, was a sickly pale green, tinged with grey and a disconcerting orange around the edges. Anxiety, with a side of…something else.
Blythe’s soul floated free, her body slumping against the now-invisible couch. She drifted towards Mr. Lovett, his green-orange-tinged aura a beacon in the dark. Moving into someone was like wearing ill-fitting clothes sewn together by an apprentice tailor. She mentally adjusted the seams, smoothed the wrinkles, and opened her eyes, now Mr. Lovett’s.
“Tell me, Mr. Lovett, why do you require such an abundance of my high-quality sleeping potions?” Tarn asked, his voice dripping with faux-innocence.
Blythe rummaged through Mr. Lovett’s mind. Tarn’s test was how quickly she could do it. The challenge was to extract the necessary information before the gaunt attendant, with his unsettlingly predatory aura, grew suspicious. She concentrated on the emotional hot-spots, the memories triggered by Tarn’s carefully worded question, navigating the labyrinth of Mr. Lovett’s subconscious like a seasoned cartographer.
“I…have trouble sleeping,” Mr. Lovett said, the first answer that popped into his head. And, surprisingly, the truth. “It’s also handy when I need to make a discreet exit from certain…social engagements.”
She followed the emotional trail, connecting the dots. Mr. Lovett was married, but the social engagements weren’t with his wife. Or any woman, for that matter. If she could have, she would have blushed a shade of crimson that would have made a beet envious. She’d always suspected Mr. Lovett harboured a certain admiration for Tarn, but the sheer, almost devotional intensity of it was…educational. And deeply uncomfortable.
The attendant placed a hand on Mr. Lovett’s shoulder; the deceptively casual gesture was a possessive touch that sent a shiver down Blythe’s spine. His large hand bore the telltale signs of a sorcerer—scholarly softness marred by alchemical burns, leaving a faint magical trace that Blythe had become disturbingly familiar with. His eyes, dark and too sharp, made her skin crawl.
That felt like Blythe’s cue to leave the rest of Mr. Lovett’s private thoughts to himself. “Quite right,” she said in Mr. Lovett’s voice, “that should be your answer, Tarn.”
She floated out of Mr. Lovett’s mind, returning to her own body, her eyes refocusing as Mr. Lovett narrowed his eyes at her, a flicker of confusion. Possession rarely left lasting memories. And she was a master of mental spring cleaning.
“Thank you, Mr. Lovett, for that illuminating diversion,” Tarn said, rising to his feet to encourage his guest to leave quicker. “You seem like an honest man, so I’ll let this matter be. But do be mindful of the dosage—these are potent concoctions, and a single drop can induce hours of peaceful slumber.”
The gaunt attendant’s gaze was locked on Blythe, his expression unreadable, a silent question that hung heavy in the room.
Mr. Lovett nodded, signalling his attendant to collect the potions. “Indeed, Mr. Carriger, I’ve found that to be quite true. A single drop in my brandy ensures a most restful night.”
“Marvellous,” Tarn said, already edging towards the stairs, clearly prioritizing his own escape over the formalities of escorting his guest.
“I’ll see you out, Mr. Lovett,” Blythe said, forcing a bright smile. But when she opened the door, she found it occupied. The four of them—Blythe, Mr. Lovett, his attendant, and a woman wearing a hat that appeared to be auditioning for a bird sanctuary—stood in an awkward tableau of mutual surprise.
“Good day,” the woman said, her tone even. “I need to speak to Mr. Carriger.”
“Pardon—ah, Mr. Lovett was just leaving. Madame, please, come in. The shop’s master will be ready in a moment,” Blythe stammered, attempting to salvage the awkward moment.
Mr. Lovett, clearly miffed at being ushered out like a forgotten houseplant, grudgingly left with his attendant. But it was clear to everyone that this woman was someone of consequence. She was imposing, like a storm cloud in a jacket. It was a reserved yet well-made ensemble: a fitted long jacket that flared over her wide hips, with a V-neck and long sleeves. The collar, cuffs, belt, and covered buttons were black velvet. Her posture was as rigid as a royal decree, despite the telltale signs of age—greying hair and lines etched around her perpetually unimpressed face.
“Lady Barnes,” Tarn drawled, his voice a curious blend of feigned nonchalance and the sort of mild dread one reserves for unexpected tax audits.
Blythe stiffened. Lady Barnes? The Minister of Internal Defence? The woman was practically a national monument to efficiency and intimidation. She was infamous as the Empress’s shadow—mostly because she was the first woman to hold the position and partly because she was rumoured to have arranged the mysterious disappearances of more than a few nemeses.
“Would you like to sit, Minister—Lady Barnes?” Blythe asked, backing into the sitting room. Her voice portrayed a level of calm she definitely didn’t feel.
Lady Barnes did not smile. “Lord Carriger,” she stated, her voice clipped and precise, “the Empress requires your immediate presence.”
Blythe’s hand froze mid-air. She pretended to adjust her hair to avoid the foolish pose of covering her gaping mouth and dropped jaw. She remained silent, observing the tableau: Tarn leaned against the stairwell banister with a casual disinterest one might display while watching paint dry. Lady Barnes stood as still and unyielding as an unscalable mountain made of pure, concentrated disapproval.
Blythe’s hand, caught mid-flourish, froze. She hastily converted the awkward gesture into a casual hair adjustment, a desperate attempt to avoid looking like a gaping fish. She remained silent, a mere observer in a scene that crackled with tension. Tarn leaned against the stairwell banister, feigning the casual disinterest of a man watching a particularly slow-moving snail race. Lady Barnes stood as rigid and unyielding as an unscalable mountain made of pure, concentrated disapproval.
Tarn, ever the theatrical one, raised an eyebrow. “What is it, Lady Barnes? Has the Queen Mother’s tea set decided to sprout legs and elope to Argon? Normally, I’d be thrilled to join the rescue party, but I’m in the middle of a rather fascinating experiment. It involves—”
“This is not a social visit, Lord Carriger,” Lady Barnes interrupted, her eyes hardening into something that could curdle milk. “An attempt has been made on the Empress’s life.”
Blythe startled, carefully easing herself into a velvet chair as Lady Barnes fixed her with an unreadable stare. “Is she…alright?”
Lady Barnes gave a curt nod. “Recovering. The royal healers were quick and effective. As expected.”
Tarn’s amusement vanished, replaced by a look that suggested he was calculating the odds of escaping through a window. “You think I’m involved?”
“When did this happen?” Blythe interjected, her mind racing.
“Last night,” Lady Barnes answered.
“He was in his study all night. I don’t sleep—I mean, I didn’t sleep, so I would have heard—I mean, I can testify to him being here,” Blythe blurted out, her attempt at an alibi sounding suspiciously like a nervous breakdown.
“The weapon,” Lady Barnes said, her voice dropping to a low, dangerous growl, “bore your signature. Your magic, Lord Carriger. Distinctive. Unmistakable.”
Tarn scoffed. “Jealous copycats mimic my work all the time. Never as good, mind you, but I’ll forgive you the error.”
“That may be, Mr. Carriger—in fact, that aligns with my investigation,” Lady Barnes agreed. “Someone attempted to frame you. And they did so effectively that the Empress was presented with a recommendation to imprison you immediately, without trial. It is only by my recommendation that you are free to come with me now.”
“You have a theory,” Tarn guessed, his eyes narrowing like a cat sizing up a leap from armchair to curtains.
“Your Empress insists on your cooperation,” Lady Barnes countered, her tone leaving no room for negotiation. “She wishes to speak with you. Now.”
Tarn hesitated, his gaze flickering to Blythe. The colour had drained from her cheeks. It took a great deal to make her faux skin pale, but she was sure she looked sickly now. She clasped her hands together, an attempt to suppress the slight shaking.
“Very well, Lady Barnes,” he conceded, a hint of steel beneath his nonchalance. “But I insist on bringing my assistant. Miss Blythe’s insights are invaluable, and I would be at a distinct disadvantage without her.”
Lady Barnes’s thin eyebrows arched. “Your…Defence assistant? Tarn, you are hardly in a position to dictate terms—”
“She is indispensable to my work,” Tarn interrupted, his voice firm, leaving no room for argument. He met Blythe’s eyes, a mischievous glint in his eyes that warmed her far more than she dared admit.
“And besides,” he added with a mischievous glint in his eyes aimed solely at Blythe, “who better to assess the magical residue on the weapon than a spiritualist of Miss Blythe’s unique calibre?”
Blythe’s heart, a phantom echo of its former self, fluttered with an almost forgotten sensation: a warmth that bloomed in her chest, a blush that threatened to surface despite her lack of blood. She wanted to scold him for his audacity, for dragging her into the Empress’s affairs, but the unwavering confidence in his gaze, the way he’d championed her, dissolved her protests before they could form. For a fleeting moment, the room seemed to shrink, the world narrowing to just the two of them, his warmth a tangible shield against her lingering unease.
Lady Barnes remained unimpressed. She studied Blythe with a flicker of curiosity, then dismissed her with a curt nod. “Fine. But be warned, Madcap. The games end now.”
Lady Barnes turned and marched out, her footsteps echoing with the authority of a small army. Tarn watched her go, thoughtfully. Then, he turned to Blythe, his eyes a curious mixture of concern and an unsettlingly warm intensity.
Blythe, her hands still trembling slightly, moved to retrieve their coats from the nearby wardrobe. Tarn intercepted her, taking the coats with a gentle smile. He slipped into his own with practiced ease, then turned to assist her, his touch lingering a moment too long as he settled the coat on her shoulders. He took her hand, his touch surprisingly tender, and placed a brief, reassuring kiss on her knuckles. “With you and I on the case, we’ll have the Empress’s would-be assassin locked up by teatime tomorrow.”
Blythe managed a scowl, a weak attempt to mask the warmth spreading through her. “The games end now,” she reminded him, echoing Lady Barnes’s warning.
“Never,” he whispered, a wink punctuating his defiance.