Last night, we didn’t manage to decide what to do, but we did have plenty of time to argue. Most of the arguing was directed at Kettle, who barked back with enthusiasm, even managing to shift the blame first onto me and then onto Sunset. Vixley caught some of the fallout as well, though his stance on the matter was rather odd: apparently, an Archmaker doesn’t meddle in city politics or cause mass destruction, so it was none of his business. For those words, he got an earful, but he didn’t so much as bat an eye.

  “First, you lot need to decide,” he said, “what exactly you plan to do. Because I seriously doubt you’re considering shaking down Professor Chapman. If you do, the shit that’ll come pouring out will drown everyone.”

  “There are ways to shake someone down,” I countered.

  “And reveal our hand?” The shifter raised an eyebrow. “No. If you’re going to do it, then do it so thoroughly that the bastard’s drowning in the muck straightaway.”

  “Daddy dearest’s reputation won’t survive that kind of blow,” Kettle said.

  “Then we’ll have to protect it,” John concluded with a note of irritation. All of us looked at him curiously. I knew full well that he wasn’t opposed to dunking Chapman headfirst into all that muck. Kettle was thinking God knows what, Vixley seemed to approve of the plan, and I still hadn’t made up my mind.

  “We’ll observe. Can you spare a couple of people?”

  “For what?” Bertram asked.

  “To keep an eye on the drunkard, so he doesn’t get up to any more mischief.”

  “Better yet, give me a barrel of whiskey and lock him in a cell for a week,” Kettle suggested.

  “No,” Sunset decided. “You’ll be the bait until I come up with something better.”

  “As long as there’s enough booze,” the baronet waved it off. The risk to his life didn’t seem to trouble him in the slightest.

  “My potion has completely purified your blood,” I reminded him. “You could use the opportunity to quit.”

  I expected him to brush the suggestion aside again, but to my surprise, Kettle paused, lost in thought. He didn’t say a word before we left.

  The second Simon—dead Simon—never showed up. Either the last time had taken too much out of him, or there wasn’t enough ether nearby this time. In any case, I kept the ring at the ready for nothing, and as soon as I returned home, Harry took it away.

  Sleeping without the ring was a bit nerve-wracking. Simon had already thrown a card under my bed once, so I painted protection runes on the backs of my hands. The one on my right hand didn’t turn out great, but it should work.

  And again, it was all for nothing. By morning, I’d nearly scrubbed my hands raw trying to remove the ink, but it was still better than meeting an angry ghost unprotected. Between one thing and another—breakfast, tea, discussing problems, and taking on tasks from Harry—we had visitors.

  A woman arrived with two constables in tow. They didn’t even stop at the gate but brazenly marched straight up to the house. Harry looked puzzled until the first constable stepped into a swamp trap and began sinking into the gravel path. The second tried to rescue him and promptly triggered a fire ward. The sound of a burning man screaming and a woman swearing like a dockworker brought some life to the estate grounds.

  “Shall we go take a look?” I offered. Harry didn’t need to—he could see everything perfectly well, but I had to make do with his recounting of the scene.

  “Why bother?” the wizard asked. “The spectacle’s already underway.”

  “Precisely! They might accuse you of assaulting officers or something. We ought to find out who they are and what they want.”

  “Fine. You’ve convinced me.”

  We approached the visitors just as the scorched constable was dragging his partner out of the squelchy, mud-like gravel. The constables didn’t appear too badly hurt. Their protective amulets seemed to have done their job. But as soon as they spotted us, the scorched man pulled a revolver, and his companion raised a rod.

  Harry didn’t stand on ceremony. With a flick of his hand, the weapons leapt from their grips and disappeared into the swamp trap.

  “Who are you?” the wizard demanded sharply.

  “Daphne Tetrivale!” the woman declared with a mix of pride and indignation. Just moments ago, she’d been cursing like a sailor, but now she smoothed her austere black dress, adjusted her heavy horn-rimmed glasses on her long nose, and added in the tone of an imperious duchess, “Headmistress of the Saint Alaric Orphanage! I demand the return of my wards to the orphanage!”

  Fearless old hag. And by the look on her face, a rare kind of harpy too.

  “Madam, this is the first time I’ve ever laid eyes on you, and yet you’re already making demands,” Harry replied calmly. “I’m starting to suspect you know a great deal less about raising children than I do.”

  “You dare…” the woman began, her voice rising in fury. Truly unhinged, I swear. But before she could finish, Harry snapped his fingers, and Daphne’s lips fused together, muffling whatever insult she had been about to hurl. Losing her primary weapon, the woman went completely mad and swung her handbag at the wizard. I couldn’t help but be intrigued. Whoever sent her here—did they do it on purpose, knowing she’d act like this, or were they simply out of better idiots to send?

  Harry made a few more gestures, and the handbag stuck to the air, along with the lady’s hand. Two hastily drawn seals now shimmered on her: one on her lips, the other on the hand clutching the bag. The headmistress was no longer causing any serious trouble, though she was still flailing her free limbs about.

  “And who might you two be?” Harry asked, turning to the constables.

  “Third-Class Constable Darren O’Hara.”

  “Second-Class Constable Carl Pringle.”

  “What are you doing here?”

  “The sergeant told us to accompany the lady and follow her orders,” Pringle replied grimly.

  “We didn’t know this was your house, sir,” O’Hara added. Pringle shot his partner a dark look. O’Hara felt the need to elaborate. “Sir Harry.” Pringle’s frown deepened. O’Hara rolled his eyes. “Sledgehammer! Apologies, sir.”

  “Sledgeh—ohhh!” Pringle’s face lit up with recognition. “It was the sergeant, sir.”

  “I’ll deal with it,” Harry promised. “Duncan, call the police. I imagine the Fourth Precinct will have some questions for their colleagues in the Second.”

  The constables visibly deflated. It was only now that I noticed the “2” insignia on their lapels and cursed my own inattentiveness. I’m no expert on police interrelations, but I had a hunch that working on another division’s territory without permission wasn’t exactly kosher. And judging by their faces, they definitely hadn’t gotten permission.

  I dashed inside the house and quickly dialed Sunset. Luckily, the detective was in.

  “Well, that’s very interesting,” he said. “Now call the duty officer and request a squad.”

  “I called you. Can’t you send one over yourself?”

  “Forgot about the second accusation already? Remember the Fairburns accused you of using personal connections and me of abusing my authority? Call the duty officer. The sergeant needs to log the call in the ledger. In the meantime, I’ll track down Mallory. He’s a decent fellow. A bit odd, but he knows his job.”

  What followed was a circus. First, two constables arrived. I recognized one of them from the sleepless night after the Archmaker’s attack. The new arrivals mocked their Second Precinct colleagues and asked Harry to unseal Daphne’s lips. They listened to her profanity for about a minute before begging Harry to seal them again.

  After a half hour of unproductive wrangling, the constables concluded that the situation was “a gray area” and outside their jurisdiction. So, we called the station again and requested a detective.

  Enter Mallory. Thin as a rake, all bones and stooped shoulders, wearing a jacket that hung on him like it belonged to someone twice his size. But he had impressive blond mutton chops that made his head look comically wide. The mockery ritual repeated itself almost step-for-step, even down to enduring Daphne’s tirade for less than a minute.

  The only difference was that Mallory maintained an expression of genuine concern throughout. Instead of asking Harry to silence the woman, he requested her release. Whether this was a miscalculation or a calculated gamble on the detective’s part, I couldn’t say. But as soon as Daphne was free, she started kicking and swinging her handbag again.

  The first blow was aimed at Harry’s head, but the wizard had prepared for that. The bag ricocheted off his magical shield and smacked the nearest constable squarely on the skull. Unfortunately for him, he wasn’t wearing a helmet and nearly passed out. Judging by the weight of the swing, the bag must have contained lead ingots for “self-defense.”

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  Subduing the furious woman was impossible, and she was eventually dragged out of the estate in handcuffs, cursing fluently all the while. The neighbors from across the street peeked out of their windows to watch the spectacle.

  The Second Division constables weren’t cuffed, but they tried to be as quiet and inconspicuous as possible.

  “Well, that was fun,” I said to Harry after the police car finally drove away.

  “I agree,” the wizard replied. “A nice little distraction. What do you think the Fairburns were trying to achieve?”

  “That you’d burn the old harpy on the spot,” I guessed.

  “No, burning isn’t my style. I’d have crushed her. You know, just flattened her—if I hadn’t suspected it was all a setup.”

  “God’s work,” I muttered. “Imagine if she treats the kids like that.”

  “Horrifying!” Harry shuddered.

  “Alright, enough joking. I’m in for the procedure.”

  “What procedure…? Oh, I see. Are you sure?”

  “As experience shows, an amulet isn’t much of a defense.”

  “You shouldn’t have let the vampiress take it off.”

  I shrugged. He was right, but what else could I have done? Fight her to the death?

  “And what were my chances? Better think about how to make it so I can train resisting while using that thing. That would be ideal.”

  “You know, that’s not a problem. I can do that. But you should know, during the procedure, you’ll have to stay conscious. No anesthetics, nothing.”

  “I was trained to endure pain.”

  “Your choice. Go meditate, then.”

  I meditated until evening, sitting in the hall inside the octagram Harry had prepared, channeling streams of ether through my body. Harry came in a few times to take measurements from my forehead, attach reserwoirs, and fiddle with some bizarre contraptions of his own making. When the time came, I was called out.

  The procedure was to take place in the much-abused hall, with the doors to the meditation chamber left open to maintain a suitable etheric background. Not long ago, the floor here had barely been scraped clean of the blood of chimeras, so Harry had prepared better this time: he laid down a large sheet of canvas and placed an old, sturdy chair on top of it—one with a high back and armrests.

  I took stock of the setup and silently stripped down to my underclothes. No need to ruin my clothes. Head wounds, even minor ones, bleed like a slaughtered pig.

  Little Sparrow was sent off to another room, while the elder one stayed behind to assist Harry. It was Knuckles who fastened my arms and legs to the chair with makeshift leather straps. My chest was bound to the backrest with rope, and my head was secured with another strap that crossed over my eyes. There was a hole in the strap in front of my left eye, so I could see a little of what was going on in the room—not that there was much to watch. More than anything, I worried about the chair holding up; it creaked suspiciously under my weight.

  “Is this thing going to hold?” I asked.

  “I’ll reinforce it with earth,” Harry promised. “But try not to thrash around.”

  The wizard summoned a book and began casting spells. The world around me burst into the vibrant hues of the elements, then dissolved into an etheric haze.

  “We’re starting,” Harry said. “Open your mouth.”

  I obeyed, and the wizard shoved a piece of wood, wrapped in cloth, between my teeth. His finger pointed at my forehead, and I felt a prickling sensation on my skin. It instantly transformed into sharp pain. Harry didn’t drag things out or hold back, and for that, I was grateful.

  My grandfather had taught me how to deal with pain. Don’t ignore it, and don’t lie to yourself by pretending it doesn’t hurt. The key is not to fear it. Fear magnifies pain a hundredfold. Pain needs to be accepted; let it hurt, if it must.

  The problem with this approach is that it requires a clear mind to work. Right now, fresh out of meditation, I was in the right headspace.

  It felt like Harry was tracing a pattern of searing-hot iron across my forehead. That was the etheric blade making its incision. He was cutting a line from my hairline to my brows, parallel to the ground, then back up. I could feel warm drops of blood gathering on my brows. Then, with a single motion, Harry pulled the skin back, flipping the flap onto the top of my head.

  Tears streamed from my eyes, and stars exploded in my vision, dancing chaotically. Acceptance? To hell with acceptance!

  I bit down on the wood so hard it cracked, and I roared. My limbs tensed involuntarily, the straps creaked, and the chair groaned ominously, but it held, just as Harry had promised. Forget my grandfather’s teachings—in the midst of the head-splitting pain, I focused on simply reminding myself that I had willingly signed up for this torture.

  Harry was saying something, but his voice sounded distant, unrecognizable, and I couldn’t make out the words. Something pressed against my forehead. There was only pressure; bone doesn’t feel. Through the tear in the strap covering my eyes, I glimpsed a pair of etheric flashes through the haze of tears.

  Harry tugged on the skin again, this time pulling it back into place. Now, though, he smoothed it down, sealing the edges with a spell. Blood from my brows trickled onto the strap and into my eyes.

  For a moment, I thought I’d gone blind.

  “Mother of God, that hurt!

  The chair creaked, wobbled, and groaned as the straps—and possibly my tendons—strained to their limits. My left arm suddenly lost its restraint and shot upward. The chair held, but the buckle on the strap had snapped. Harry cursed under his breath, and I quickly brought my arm back down, gripping the armrest tightly. Harry resumed stitching up my forehead, and I resumed growling through the pain.

  And just when it seemed like it was all over, the wizard delivered the final blow—casting a healing spell. The pain intensified to the point that it stopped being pain and simply ceased to exist.

  “Duncan. Duncan!” Harry’s voice broke through the fog as my lead-heavy head jerked up, and my body nearly slumped over.

  “Uuugh,” I groaned, clutching my head.

  “Stop sitting around. Go wash up, or that blood’ll dry, and good luck getting it off.”

  I stood up automatically, trying to piece together the moments I’d clearly missed. When had they untied me? My left leg buckled unexpectedly, and I would’ve hit the floor if Knuckles hadn’t caught me. Sparrow helped me make my way to the bathroom.

  In the mirror, I caught sight of my reflection. What a sight I was. My forehead was clean, but everywhere else there were streaks of blood. My face was completely soaked, like I’d dunked it in the stuff.

  The bathtub was already filled, and I climbed in without even bothering to remove my underclothes. Not because I was embarrassed in front of Knuckles—I wasn’t even thinking about that at the time. I splashed water on my face and asked Clint, “Why are you standing there?”

  “Making sure you don’t drown,” he replied.

  Out of habit, I wanted to snap back with something sarcastic, but instead, I just massaged my forehead. The sensation wasn’t pleasant, but it was nothing compared to the pain that had split my head and mind earlier. I felt nauseated more than anything. I decided to postpone a more thorough self-inspection until later.

  Besides, the silver membrane Harry had used to create the protective seal was much thinner than skin and might not even be noticeable by touch.

  I quickly washed the blood away, checked to make sure I felt alright, and sent Knuckles off to fetch me some clothes. Harry had said there wouldn’t be a scar, but when I examined myself in the mirror, I managed to spot a faint, thin strip of fresh pink skin if I looked closely enough.

  After the bath, there was terribly sweet tea and a plate of pancakes slathered in butter—Harry’s orders. He claimed it was perfect for a quick recovery. Honestly, I didn’t realize how ravenous I was until the plate was empty.

  “Well, are we going to test this thing?” I asked, tapping my forehead.

  Harry extended his hand, palm up. “What do you see?”

  At first, nothing but his hand. I opened my third eye and immediately clutched my head as a wave of echoes from the earlier pain washed over me. When the pain ebbed and my vision cleared, I was no longer holding my head but gripping the edge of the table like it was a life preserver.

  Harry patiently kept his hand extended, a small flame of ether flickering above it.

  “Ether,” I said.

  “The shape?” Harry asked. The flame stretched and twisted into a spiral.

  “A… spiral?”

  Harry didn’t respond, just held the figure steady. Then, slowly, the etheric flame began to darken, turning into steel. I told Harry what I was seeing, and he promptly dispelled the figure.

  “I think we’ve pushed you enough for now. Let’s wait until tomorrow. Besides, we’ve got guests again.”

  “Let me guess, the woman from the orphanage?”

  “No, Sunset and Moody.”

  “What? Together? Are they even allowed to meet? People might start talking again.”

  The lawyer and the detective were clearly tipsy and practically hugging each other. We met them on the porch—both of them had pass amulets, so they weren’t worried about the traps.

  You wouldn’t guess John had been drinking—he looked his usual composed self—but Harold was a different story. The man was practically glowing, bursting with emotion, and somewhere along the way, he’d shed the grey, lifeless demeanor he usually carried.

  Each of them held a bottle. Moody was the first to present his:

  “Chateau Pétrus, 1899,” he declared with pride.

  “Scotch, uh…” John said, glancing at the label. “This year. Fresh.”

  “And what’s the occasion for drinking?” Harry asked.

  “Simon’s been cleared of suspicion,” Moody announced cheerfully, pulling a rolled-up newspaper from the inner pocket of his jacket and handing it to Harry. “Tomorrow’s issue. I must apologize—the front page cost a bit extra. But I figured the photograph was worth it.”

  Harry unrolled the paper. The headline read: “THE PRICE OF KNOWLEDGE TODAY: BRIBERY IN THE ROYAL COLLEGE.” On the front page was a large photograph of a thoroughly astonished man holding a fan of ten-pound notes in his hand.

  “What the hell is this?”

  “Madigan,” Harold confirmed with a smug grin. “Told you, the photo was worth it. And the writer managed to mention the Fairburn estate’s connections multiple times in the article.”

  “Perhaps this calls for a little celebration,” Harry decided, turning to Sunset. “And you… why are you grinning like that?”

  “Oh, we had our fun with your Daphne. The entire precinct got in on it.”

  “What did you do to her?” I asked, suddenly suspicious.

  “We put her in the cell next to the same journalist who wrote your article,” Sunset explained, barely containing his laughter. “Women like her are always making our lives hell. The guy documented her every tantrum. He’ll have something written up by tomorrow.”

  “And who’s paying for this?” Harry inquired.

  “You are,” John replied with a grin. Then he couldn’t hold back anymore and burst into laughter. “No, no—it’s free. But the important thing is, I’ve figured out how we’re going to take down the Archmaker.”

  “We’ve figured it out,” Moody corrected him.

  “We,” John conceded with a nod.

  “Come on in and tell us,” Harry said, gesturing toward the bottle of whiskey. “We’ll start with the fresh stuff, then I’ve got a liter of moonshine stashed away.”

  “With your permission, I’ll stick to wine,” I said quickly, catching on. The last thing I wanted was to deal with a hangover potion tomorrow—I’d seen what it did to Kettle just yesterday, and the image of him retching was still fresh in my mind.