Ravensclaw by Maggie MacKeever Page B

muttered Michael. “You said they were estranged.”
    Emily decided she would box Lady Alberta’s ears when she was done with Michael’s. “They were estranged. Sometimes. And sometimes they weren’t.” Oh, to blazes with discretion. “Did the Professor ever show you a ceremonial knife with a cabochon ruby and a double ouroborus set into its hilt?”
    He shook his head. “I’m certain he did not. Is it important?”
    Important? Immensely. “The athame is missing. Did you steal it? Did you sell it? You have no idea how dangerous it is.”
    Michael looked astonished. “Are you accusing me of theft? How can you think such a thing?”
    “You wouldn’t like to know what I think of you in this particular moment,” Emily informed him. “I must get the knife back.”
    “This is precisely why you need me! You shouldn’t have lost the thing in the first place. Let us approach this in a logical manner. When is the last time you saw the athame?”
    Emily did not choose to share any further information. “I cannot recall.”
    “So you don’t know how long it’s been missing. Or,” Michael added shrewdly, “in fact, if it was ever in the vaults at all.” He risked a glance at Lady Alberta, who appeared rapt in her reading. “Marry me, dammit, Emily. As soon as we’re wed, I’ll help you find your blasted knife.”
    Emily regarded him over the rim of her spectacles, which had again slid down her nose. “I don’t believe I mentioned that the athame had been kept in the vaults.”
    He flushed. Lady Alberta read aloud: “ ‘The dreadful shrieks of a woman mingled with the stifled, exultant mockery of a laugh…’ ”
    Michael rose, brushing cat hair off his breeches. “You are determined to be difficult. We will speak of this another time.” He snatched up his hat and gloves and stalked out of the room.
    His voice drifted back from the stairwell. “My hat! That damned cat clawed my hat!”
    Emily patted Machka. “Good kitty,” she said.
    In the silence came the distant slamming of a door.
    Lady Alberta reached for another black bun. “I feel compelled to point out that one catches more flies with honey than vinegar. Yes, I know you don’t care to catch Mr. Ross, but I think you want him to think you do. No, pray don’t confide in me! I do not wish to know.”

 
Chapter Eleven
     
    Two sparrows on one ear of corn make an ill agreement.
    (Romanian proverb)
     
    Many legends surrounded Marie d’Auvergne’s athame. Some said she had bargained with the Darkness, pledging her body and soul in exchange for twenty-four years’ enjoyment of unlimited knowledge, power and wealth, but had never intended to repent before her time was up, believing that the Light would prove more potent than the Dark.
    The time came for repayment. At midnight on the eve of the 395 th day of the 24 th year, a fearsome din was heard from Marie’s rooms, and a woman’s scream. When the servants dared investigate the next morn, they found no trace of Marie. The athame, which never left her possession, lay abandoned on the floor. Legend had it that the Darkness repaid Marie’s treachery by imprisoning her in the knife itself, which is why the thing was sometimes called the Hand of the Undead.
    It was pure foolishness, thought the slender man, as so many legends were, but there was no denying that the knife was a point of convergence for dark energy.
    He savored its coolness against his flesh.
    It was cold as the Thames in winter, and at the same time hot as sin.
    Contained power that burned strong enough to melt flesh and bone.
    His destination was before him. He closed one gloved hand around the knob of the shop door.
    Madame Fanchon — née simple Franny Brown — was totting-up her monthly accounts. Astonishing, how one’s expenditures could outpace one’s income. She had closed the door to the workroom, so her employees couldn’t catch her at her bookkeeping, and thereby be reminded that they also needed to be paid. When