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She raised her fist to rap on the heavy oak, but at the very first blow, the door swung open.
Harcourt was at the far end of the room, by the window, displaying something in a flat wooden box to Jesperson. They both looked around sharply as we entered, Harcourt startled and annoyed. Clearly, he had not expected us, and I could only assume that he had neglected to shut the door properly.
“What’s the meaning of this disturbance?” he demanded, hastily shutting up the box.
“I must speak with you.”
“Let it wait. We have company.”
“I am happy to have witnesses.” She took a breath. “I shall not marry.”
I had tensed myself against the negative atmosphere upon entering the house, and had been particularly reluctant to enter Harcourt’s study, expecting it to be the epicenter, yet as I followed more slowly into that room, I found that what had been unpleasant and discordant was now harmonious. Using the metaphor of smell, consider bonfire smoke. A great waft in the face is horrible, but at the right distance, the scent of burning leaves and wood is pleasant.
“You’ve rushed in here to say that? I am at a loss to understand why,” Harcourt replied coldly. “Your change of heart is of no interest to me. I suggest you write to Mr. Randall.”
“You don’t understand. I mean I shall never marry.”
His eyes bulged. “Are you insane?” Suddenly, he turned on me. “What have you been saying? What sort of mad rubbish, to turn her mind?”
“Miss Lane had nothing to do with it,” Flora said swiftly. “I have been thinking matters over for the past several days, and only now decided to tell you—”
“Oh, very likely!” He had been casting a venomous glare on me, but now stared coldly at Jesperson. “I’m afraid I must ask you to take this female person away, immediately.”
I could see that my partner was at a loss: Should he leap to my defense, invent excuses, or pretend to a masculine solidarity that might leave the door open for future visits? Although I didn’t want to leave Flora alone with Harcourt, I didn’t know what we would achieve by trying to stay, so I left the room, just as Flora was demanding, “Am I not allowed to have my own friends?”
“As long as I’m your guardian, Flora, you will do as I say. You’ll have nothing more to do with that female, and you will not break off your engagement. We’ll forget you ever said anything about it. Mr. Jesperson, if you please!”
As they emerged, with Flora in the lead, I was surprised to see the hint of a smile on her face. She winked at me before turning on her guardian again.
“So, I am to be your object and meekly allow your will to prevail in everything, until my twenty-first birthday changes everything?”
“That will change nothing,” he said scornfully. “You don’t imagine you’ll be anything different than you are now? Than you’ve always been?”
She flinched, but held steady. “In the eyes of the law.”
“The law.” He snorted. “The law is an ass. It has nothing to say about you. It has no idea what you are.” His gaze on her was horrible.
“I may as well go now,” she said quietly.
“Go? What are you talking about?”
“You are right that a few months will change nothing. You are pleased with the situation; I am not. So I shall leave.”
She looked from me to Jesperson, saying, “If it’s not too much trouble . . .”
He was swift to take her meaning. “Of course, come with us. Any help we can give—”
I heard the rattle, and saw that the Chinese vase was rocking violently back and forth, until it tilted too far and fell, shattering against the hard floor, and spilling its burden of umbrellas and walking sticks.
Only one of the sticks did not come to rest with everything else on the floor, but shot through the air, straight at Jesperson.
If it had struck where it aimed, against his throat, I have no doubt it would have killed him, but he was quick. Almost as if he’d expected the attack, he stepped lightly aside, his arm rising, fluid and graceful, to catch the stick.
Unlike an ordinary thrown object, the stick continued to move after it was caught, writhing and pulling to escape, while he gripped it more firmly, frowning as he looked for a thread or wire and tried to work out the trick of it.
Certain there would be no invisible thread, I looked instead at Harcourt. His expression was nothing like those I’d seen on the faces of mediums or mentalists; he looked utterly astonished, and thrilled. If he had caused the stick’s activity, it was through a power hidden from his conscious mind, something he did not suspect and could not control.
Then another movement, glimpsed from the corner of my eye, caught my attention, and as I turned to look, I heard the terrible grating, grinding noise made by the stone gargoy
