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A terrible knocking has me awake and not at all happy about it. Rubbing sleep from my eyes, I creep downstairs. It’s Tom who is making such a racket. He’s returned in a lively mood; in fact, he enters the drawing room singing. It is an unnatural occurrence, like watching a dog ride a bicycle.
“Gemma!” he says happily. “You’re awake!”
“Yes, well, it would prove difficult to sleep through this cacophony.”
“I am sorry.” He bows and comes up too quickly, stumbling into a small table and knocking over a vase of flowers. The water spills onto Grandmama’s precious Persian carpet. Tom tries to rescue the vase but it only spins away from him.
“Tom, what are you doing?”
“This poor vessel is not well. It requires my care.”
“It is not a patient,” I say, taking it from him.
He shrugs. “It’s still not well.”
Tom flops into a chair and tries to muster what dignity he has left by arranging and rearranging his disheveled tie. The smell of spirits is quite strong on his breath.
“You’re drunk,” I whisper.
Tom holds up his finger like a solicitor addressing a witness. “That is a scur—shcurous—schurress…terrible thing to say.”
“Scurrilous,” I say, correcting him.
He nods. “Precisely.”
I’ve been awakened by an idiot. I shall go back to bed and leave him to torment the servants and wither under their judging eyes come morning. Clearly, whatever magic I’ve given Tom has gone and he is back to his impossible self.
“Go on, ask me about my evening,” he says, far too loudly.
“Tom, mind your voice,” I whisper.
Tom wags his head. “Exactly so, exactly so. Quiet as a church mouse, that’s me. Now. Ask.” He folds his arms, nearly clocking himself in the face.
“Very well,” I say. “How was your evening?”
“I’ve done it, Gem. Proved myself. For I have been asked to join a very exclusive club.” Exclusive comes out sounding more like “ex-cuusif.” Seeing my puzzled face, he frowns. “You could offer congratulations, you know.”
“Is it the Athenaeum, then? I thought…”
His face darkens. “Oh. That.” He waves it away with his hand. “They don’t take chaps like me. Haven’t you heard? Not good enough.” The liquor has only added to his bitterness. “No. This is different. Like the Knights Templar. Men of crusades! Men of action!” He gestures broadly, nearly taking out the vase again. I rescue it quickly.
“Men of clumsiness is more like it,” I grumble. “Very well, you’ve intrigued me. What is this saintly club?”
“No. I can’t tell. Not yet. For now, it will remain a private matter,” Tom says, putting his finger to his lips and scraping his nose. “A secret.”
“That is why you are discussing it openly with me, no doubt.”
“You mock me!”
“Yes, and I shouldn’t, for it is far too easy.”
“You don’t believe a club would choose me?” His eyelids waver and his head nods a bit. He’ll be out in a moment. “Why, just this evening…”
“Just this evening,” I prompt.
“…gave me a token. A mark of dish…dishtinction…They said it would protect me from…unwanted…influence…”
“From what?” I ask, but it’s no use. Tom snores in the chair. Sighing, I take the blanket from the settee and place it over his legs. I pull it up to his chin, and my blood goes cold. There on his lapel is a familiar pin—the skull-and-sword insignia of the Rakshana.
