“Wait, please.” I considered what to tell him. I’d killed the man, or rather his body; he deserved to know at least that much. But he had no memory of the wonderful or terrible things that had happened to us—or hadn’t yet done them, now that I’d thrown us all back in time—so he would think me terribly addled, or even perhaps gone mad.
Unless I offered him evidence to the contrary. “No one knows about your life before you came to Toriana, do they? You’ve never confided it to anyone. Certainly not me.”
“What are you about now, Charmian?” he asked, his voice going soft and lethal.
“You were five when your parents sent you away to school. They didn’t tell you that you would be kept there, that you wouldn’t go home for holiday like the other boys.” I looked round at his things. “You’ve always had the best that could be provided. They paid for you to have a private room, the finest tutors, the most expensive garments. But there were no letters, Dredmore. No birthday cards. No visits. Nothing. They wouldn’t even permit your nanny or valet to write to you.”
His eyes took on a dangerous glitter. “Who told you this?”
“You did, or more precisely, you will.” And I proceeded to tell him the rest. I spared him no detail, and when I named the exact sum his mother had offered him to leave England forever, he turned his head and stared into the fireplace.
It wasn’t anger or wounded pride. He was ashamed of what they had done to him. Perhaps because they had felt no shame in doing it.
Once I had finished, I picked up the glass of brandy I disliked so intensely and took a large swallow. After another round of coughing, I handed the remainder to him. “In fourteen days there will be an invasion of Rumsen. Talian Reapers will come here with an army, led by the agents of an Aramanthan warlord called Zarath. They plan to use the dreamstone they’ve hidden all over the city inside phony wardlings to turn our people into puppets.”
He drained the rest of the brandy. “I don’t know how you found out about my boyhood, but dreamstone and time travel are myths. The Tillers would never permit the Reapers to set foot on Toriana soil.” He regarded me carefully. “You haven’t been trifling with poppy dust, have you?”
“The Reapers have already infiltrated the Tillers,” I assured him. “They’re controlling Lord Walsh.”
“Nolan Walsh, the banker?” When I nodded, he made a dismissive gesture. “The man is nothing but a pompous ass.”
“Takes one to know one, does it?” I asked sweetly. Before he could reply, I added, “In a little over a week, that pompous ass will capture you and me at Feathersound. Yes, I know you own it. To save my life, you’ll swallow a spirit stone, Walsh will kill himself, and your body will be possessed by Zarath. The warlord needs your mind power to remove the final obstacles and set off the dreamstones.”
He stared at me. “You’ve never in your life believed in magic.”
“That reminds me.” I smiled. “Your current suspicions about me are correct. I am a spell-breaker, Lucien. That’s why your magic has no effect on me.” I didn’t have to tell him that his spiritborn gift of enchantment worked extremely well; that little detail could remain between me and the future Dredmore.
He came to me and jerked me to my feet. “If what you say isn’t some bizarre fancy you’ve dreamed up to confound me, and by some impossibly wild chance you have returned from the future, then why didn’t you stop the Reapers while you were there?”
“I did.” I rested my hand against his chest. “Just before Zarath cast his spell over the city, I drove an iron spike through his heart and killed him.” I looked up at him and let him see everything I felt. “Which was, coincidentally, your heart.”
“You killed me.”
I nodded. “Before you surrendered your body to Zarath, you made me promise that I would. I didn’t enjoy it as much as I expected. Really a lot of blood.”
His hands fell away. “Now I do believe you.”
“Excellent.” I turned my head. “Bring the carriage round, Connell.” I saw the surprise on the servant’s face before I said, “Your master and I are going to call on Lord and Lady Walsh.”
Dredmore said very little as we rode to the Hill. I pulled up the shade so I could see the mansions glittering in the sunlight once again. While I would never care for the ton’s lofty community, seeing it burnt to the ground had not been an improvement.
“Do you mean to expose Walsh in front of his family?” Dredmore asked.
“Not at all.” As the carriage stopped, I reached up and felt for my pendant. “We will speak to him privately.”
He frowned. “If he is under Reaper control, he will deny every charge, and then use his influence to destroy my credibility and your life.”
“Not this time.” I reached out and patted the back of his hand. When he seized my wrist, I didn’t pull away. “We’ve arrived. Don’t change your mind now.”
He held on to me. “You haven’t told me everything about the future, have you?”
“What, and spoil the surprise?” I smiled as Connell opened the door. “Where would be the fun in that?”
The Walshes’ forbidding old butler came directly to answer the door, doubtless astonished by the prospect of anyone calling at such an unseemly, early hour.
“Lord Dredmore and Miss Kittredge to see Lord Walsh,” I told the old winge before he could open his mouth. “On quite urgent business.”
The butler reared back, the skin surrounding his nose drawing up as he ignored me and addressed Dredmore. “The master is not receiving, milord.”
Dredmore brushed past him. “He will see me now.”
“It’s a terribly private family matter,” I told the outraged butler as I followed suit. “We’ll wait for him in his study.”
It took Lord Walsh less than three minutes to stalk into the room and slam the doors behind him. There was egg yolk on his chin and he still wore his morning jacket and what looked like fur-lined bed slippers. “Lucien. Good God, man, what is the meaning of this?”
“Your wife came to see me this morning, Lord Walsh.” I waited for him to lower himself to notice me. “She believes your deceased first wife has cast a spell on her. But as it turns out, you’re the one who has been bespelled.”
The first tinge of purple bloomed in his florid cheeks. “How dare you—”
“With very little trepidation, actually.” I closed the distance between us and lifted my skirts. “But I do apologize in advance for my actions.”
I kicked him in the groin with as much force as I could muster, and stepped back as he shrieked and dropped to the carpet. He didn’t vomit, however, which annoyed me. “I see you’re going to be difficult. Lucien, please hold his head for a moment.”
Dredmore came up from behind and clapped his hands over Walsh’s ears.
“Thank you.” I grabbed the man’s chin and inserted two of my fingers into his mouth, pushing them back as far as I could until he gagged. “Watch your boots.” I sidestepped the spew of Walsh’s breakfast, waiting until he coughed out a gleaming red stone. Using a kerchief to pick it up, I wrapped it carefully before passing it to Dredmore. “Don’t swallow this.”
“I’ve no desire to.” He pocketed the bundle.
Lord Walsh finished vomiting shortly thereafter and, once Lucien had helped him to his feet, began to make his own apologies. “I say. Terribly sorry. Must have eaten something that was . . .” He trailed off as he looked at both of us with visible bewilderment. “Do I know you?”
“Dad? What the devil?” A bleary-eyed Montrose burst into the room, tottering a little as he rushed to his father’s side.
“You can come in, too, Miss Walsh,” I told the woman hovering outside the door. “This concerns you as well.”
The timid Miranda tiptoed in, her hands worrying at the edges of her lace fichu while she surveyed the messy scene. “It seems my father is ill,” she said, her voice wavering. “You should perhaps leave so that we might attend to him.”
“There’s nothing wrong with Lord Walsh anymore,” I assured her. “I helped him get the spirit stone you shoved down his throat out of his belly.”
“He will suffer some gaps in his memory,” Dredmore added, “but they should not be permanent.”
As Miranda shrank back, I eyed the mess on the floor. “You’ll probably want to have the carpet cleaned right away. When egg yolk dries it’s as hard to comb out as plaster on cashmere.” Dredmore got to the door before Miranda and closed it. “Thank you, Lucien.”
He leaned back against the door. “My pleasure, Charmian.”
Miranda skittered away from him, going to stand behind a wingbacked chair. “Monty, call for the nobbers. Hurry.”
“Dredmore is a deathmage, Monty. I wouldn’t twitch an eyelash.” I went to Miranda, and dragged her over to face the still-wheezing Nolan Walsh. “It’s time to tell your father exactly what you and your husband have been up to.”
“My husband is dead,” she protested, at the same moment Lord Walsh said, “My daughter is a widow.”
“On the contrary, her husband is still alive and hiding somewhere in the city,” I told him. “He’s probably too young to be a Lost Timer, but I expect his Talian father was.”
Miranda gaped at me. “My dear Lestin died in battle.”
“Your husband faked his death to get out of the militia, come to Toriana, and—with your help—begin the groundwork for the Reaper invasion.” I nodded at Nolan Walsh. “While he didn’t have any powers for Zarath to use, I imagine your father’s wealth, power, and influence proved quite useful, once the Aramanthan took control of his mind and body.”
Lord Walsh looked horrified. “Miranda, what have you done?”
