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Maids with red eyes and suspicious faces worked to clear the mess here and in the adjoining rooms, but it would take an army of servants to restore order to the chaos wreaked on the Delvish household.
“A break-in and robbery at a gentleman’s home,” Cam muttered to himself.
“Hmm?” Morgan frowned, her frightened, worried eyes scanning her surroundings.
“I read about this in the paper a few days ago. What do you s
uppose they wanted?”
“Who knows? Jewelry? Valuables easy to pawn?”
“Maybe.” Cam eyed the destruction. “It looks like they broke more than they stole.”
“So they weren’t very bright robbers.”
The butler showed them through to the back of the house, the destruction lessening as they went, although evidence of the earlier mess could be seen in hastily patched chair legs, empty spaces on walls where pictures once hung.
He stopped at a closed door. Beckoned them on. “His Lordship is in his library.”
If a bomb had gone off in the rest of the house, ten such had exploded in here. A sea of ripped pages and broken-spined books covered the floor. More books lay scattered and fluttering on tabletops. Bookcases. A large oak desk.
Cam took a step, his boot coming down on the crackle of old vellum. He bent, picking up the manuscript, his eye falling upon a jumble of indecipherable squiggles. Beautiful to look upon, but complete gibberish to his mind.
Morgan took it from him, her face whitening as her gaze scanned the page. “A scrap of the ancient teachings by the philosopher Taog. Do you know what this is worth?”
Cam glanced again at the artful curved writing. A headache blooming behind his eyes after only a few seconds of examination. He shook his head. “Not much in that condition.”
Morgan’s gaze went hard as nails. “Aunt Niamh would weep if she saw this.”
A man knelt upon the floor, sorting through a sea of ripped pages. Hearing their voices, he looked up, a tired smile crinkling his lined face. “So you’ve come at last, Morgana girl, though I’d hoped it would be sooner than this. My prophecies aren’t what they were in my youth. Time was when I could have foretold your coming to the second. Now I’m near as blind as if I’d no ability at all.” He rose slowly, the creak of his limbs almost audible. “And you’ve brought the colonel. Good to see you, my boy. You’re much better looking in person.”
Whatever that meant.
Cam didn’t even bother to ask. A definite sign he was growing a little too comfortable with Morgan’s magical way of life.
She waded through the mess to reach Lord Delvish, throwing her arms around his thin shoulders, kissing his parchment-dry cheek. “Uncle Owen, you’re all right.”
He patted her back. “Spent the evening with friends. Came home to this.”
Morgan held him at arm’s length, checking him over. “What happened? Who did this?”
His smile dimmed, sorrow clear in his watery eyes, the shaking of his hands. “I’d no warning of an attack. Not even the merest snippet of a vision. If I had, Mrs. Fisher might still be alive, poor thing.”
Morgan helped Delvish to a chair. Looked around for another and came up empty. Instead she perched on the edge of his desk. “Now one step at a time. Who attacked you?”
His gaze sharpened, and Cam caught a glimpse of the man Delvish might have been in his youth. Shrewd. Far-seeing. Formidable. “The Amhas-draoi. Not alone, mind you. There were others. It was one of them murdered my housekeeper. But the Amhas-draoi knew what he searched for.”
“What did he search for, Uncle Owen? What is Doran Buchanan trying to do?”
But already the man had slipped back into vagueness. He plucked a book from the desk next to Morgan. Began leafing through it in a distracted way. “Magic of that sort is best locked away from those who might be tempted. It’s why I kept it hidden. Not out amongst the lesser writings. Look at this. A collection of poems by Flann Manistrech. Destroyed.”
“Magic of what sort?” Morgan urged. “What did Doran take?”
Delvish straightened. “Where are my manners, Morgana girl? Would you like some tea? Let me ring for Mrs. Fisher. She’ll bring us a tray.”
“Uncle Owen, Mrs. Fisher is—”
Cam caught Morgan’s eye. Drew a line across his throat. “Icksnay on isher-fay,” he muttered. To Lord Delvish he said, “No doubt she’s busy elsewhere, sir. And tea isn’t necessary. We’ve only come to find information on Neuvarvaan, the sword of Undying.”
