She wished she had something to throw at the wall, but she didn’t own anything breakable in her room. Not that MacAlasdair would notice if she broke the lamp or the mirror; he probably didn’t even know they existed.

But no. It didn’t do to get into that habit. It didn’t do to lose control. She’d done quite enough of that for one evening already.

That, of course, was the other problem: she’d liked kissing MacAlasdair.

Actually, she’d liked it quite a lot.

He hadn’t been the first man to kiss Mina—though the others had been boys, really, and she’d been much younger as well. She’d gone further than that with one of them, though never as far as he’d wanted. Even at seventeen, Mina had known what risks she didn’t want to take. She’d liked the experience then too, and had, in truth, wanted more herself. Sometimes her breasts would ache, after their…encounters…or the place between her legs, and she’d had some idea of what satisfaction her body craved.

The feelings had seemed almost overwhelming. Mina had understood how girls could get carried away. In comparison to the longing she felt now, even through her rage, those earlier sensations were pale and cold and abstract.

Perhaps it was that she was older, or that Stephen was older—well, much older—than those lads from her past. Perhaps it was that she was better rested now and better fed. But Mina didn’t think either of those reasons explained all the difference. Even remembering MacAlasdair’s mouth over hers, or the strength in his arms as he held her against him, had her body longing to repeat the experience. And not remembering was hard work.

She didn’t even like MacAlasdair, not really. She certainly hadn’t wanted to kiss him—not really—not then, at least. It had been horrible and arrogant and forceful.

And Mina kept wondering what it would be like to do it again.

Eventually, the remnants of lust subsided, the pacing wore her body out, and she could make herself sleep, though her dreams were restless and she was glad not to remember them in the morning. When she woke, for the first time since she’d come to MacAlasdair’s house, she looked at the door as a safeguard. If she stayed in her room, she wouldn’t have to face him yet.

But, if she stayed in her room, he’d know she didn’t want to face him. She wouldn’t see Professor Carter, either, and she wouldn’t get out of the house. MacAlasdair would have won—and Mina would still be trapped and probably start climbing the walls any day.

She dressed and thought of girding her loins, then tried not to think about loins again.

When Mina strode into the dining room, it was with every particle of self-possession, every ounce of formality and propriety that she’d learned since she’d decided to become secretary to a scholar. Every muscle in her back felt rigid. She blessed her foundation garments.

MacAlasdair was at the head of the table as usual, with her place set nearby. As usual, he lowered the paper as Mina entered the room.

When he met her eyes, there suddenly seemed to be much less space around them. He filled the room as he filled the chair: big, powerful, commanding.

Mina quickly took her seat. Only then did she notice a difference in the table. At her right hand, a little ways away from her breakfast dishes, was a silver tray. Someone had laid out several sheets of stationery on its surface, as well as two envelopes, three black fountain pens, and a sheet of stamps.

Mina blinked.

Right, then.

Slowly, with careful, controlled movements, she poured tea. Added sugar and cream. Buttered a scone. Pretended that she wasn’t watching MacAlasdair out of the corner of her eye.

Then, when she could trust herself, she spoke. “That’s quite…comprehensive. Everything a correspondent could ask for.”

“I’m glad to hear it,” said MacAlasdair. “I’ll be meeting with Carter this noontime, if you’ll be ready by then.” He sounded very casual, but his gaze never left Mina’s face.

She smiled. There was certainly no harm in that. He’d keep his distance now, and so would she. It was a virtue to be gracious in victory, Mina had heard. “I’ll write after breakfast,” she said. “If you’d like to read the letter before I seal it, I’ll be in the study.”

* * *

The door opened as Mina was on the last page of her letter, finishing a paragraph about the view from her bedroom window. It could have been a servant coming in to clean or to tell her something, but she knew it was MacAlasdair even before she lifted her head.

“The first two pages are on the table,” she said. “Have a look if you’d like. I’ll be done in a moment.”

“Thank you,” he said and smiled—diffidently, for the first time since Mina had met him. He ran a hand through his dark hair and seemed about to say something, but ended up crossing the room in silence.

Mina bent to her letter, trying to ignore the way her skin prickled at MacAlasdair’s approach. She saw his hand, large and firm, out of the corner of her eye as he picked up the sheets of stationery she’d already covered with writing. She heard the steady rhythm of his breath and the sound of paper crinkling as he read.

I hope that you’re all doing well, she wrote, concentrating—or trying to concentrate—on making the letters neatly. She’d mastered that particular art some ten years ago, but it never hurt to pay more attention, did it?

I’m not sure when I’ll get to see you again, but I’ll keep sending these letters. You can write to me in care of Professor Carter.

“That’s not a bad story you’ve told them.” MacAlasdair spoke from behind her. “Very close to the truth.”

Mina had said that MacAlasdair wanted her to help put his father’s affairs in order, that some of them were the sort he didn’t want anyone talking about, and that she’d be well paid and get a week’s holiday after she was finished. She intended to take one, too. A hundred pounds should more than cover the time, and Professor Carter would understand. She didn’t mention the hundred pounds in the letter—that much money would make people talk—just that she’d be well paid.

“Lying’s a sin,” she said demurely and then couldn’t resist a smile of her own. “And more importantly, too many lies are confusing.”

MacAlasdair chuckled, deep and rich. “Verra sound philosophy you have there. You don’t think they’ll talk about whatever secrets I want you to be keeping?”

“Not much. It’s business, and business isn’t really that interesting. They might think that your father had some opinions he didn’t want getting around—”

“He probably did, at that,” said MacAlasdair. “He was still bitter about the Rising, when I was young, and all that came after. Talked a great deal about it.”

“The Rising?” It sounded familiar, but it wasn’t new enough to be current or old enough to be antique, and so Mina sought for the reference amid memories of schoolbooks and the smell of chalk dust. “You mean the Scottish rebellion?”

“Aye.” MacAlasdair’s mouth was tight. “I wasna’ born yet, nor for a few years after, but I heard stories enough, and I understand the bitterness.”

MacAlasdair’s hair was rich red-black, without a thread of silver in it; his strong-boned face held a few sun lines near the eyes, but nothing more; and his body was straight and strong and vigorous. Looking at him, you didn’t think two centuries old, and then—

—and then she was in a room with someone who wasn’t entirely human, someone who remembered the world before her grandmother had been born. She wanted to put out a hand and touch his sleeve, just to make sure he was real.

Instead, she said, “But he couldn’t have fought in it. I mean—I don’t think we’d have won if we’d been fighting dragons.”

“And do you think that I and mine are the only such creatures in Creation?” MacAlasdair shook his head and laughed again, this time with a much darker humor. “Ye had your own creatures to send against us, you English, and your sorcerers and artifacts as well, the things that none of the history books mention. And we die from steel and lead if you put enough of it into us. My father fought, and one of his brothers died at Fort William and the oldest of my sisters at Littleferry.”

“I’m sorry,” said Mina.

MacAlasdair shrugged, and the darkness passed from his face. “It’s a family wound, and not my own, nor of your making. As I said, I never knew either of them. I did my fighting elsewhere.”

Still, there was nothing really to say to that, or at least nothing Mina could think of. She started to turn back to her paper, and then something MacAlasdair had said drew her attention.

“Your sister?”

“Our women are more…active than most,” MacAlasdair said. “There’s little difference between a female dragon and a male, at least where size and strength are concerned. It makes a bit of a difference in the way we view things.”

“If only the Pankhursts knew,” said Mina, thinking of the articles she’d read about the suffragists.

“There’s a bit more of a difference for mortal women, I’ll admit, but—no’ as much as people have been in the way of thinking lately. And at that,” said MacAlasdair, smiling again, “I’m surprised that you’re not out there attending meetings yourself.”

Despite the teasing tone of his voice, there was warmth in his smile and approval that Mina felt in her chest. Still, she tossed her head and fired back, “Well, I would be, if I had a bit more time for it. Speaking of which, are you going to let me finish?”

“Forgive me,” he said, still teasing. “I should have known your schedule would be crowded.”

“Oh, if only it were,” said Mina, and went back to writing.

Ten

Not too far from the British Museum and the office where Stephen had first encountered Mina, down several little side streets, one came to an ordinary-looking house. Like its neighbors, it was three stories of neat red brick, secure behind an iron fence and a tidy yard. Nothing was remarkable; everything was respectable.

At night, light and noise stole from behind the drapes, out the windows, and off into the spring air. That, too, was little different from other houses nearby. Some of the neighbors did say that the lights were odd colors at times and that the sounds were almost inhuman. Other, more skeptical sorts said that the first group of people were drunk or dreaming or seeing what they’d thought they’d see.

After all, London had heard rumors about Mrs. O’Keefe for years, and the Society of the Emerald Star was no real secret. Too many of its members were too fond of notoriety for that.

Secret or not, the Society did employ a butler who never spoke and who looked as if he could have given Stephen some serious trouble, even in his draconic form. The man looked over Stephen, his card, and the letter of introduction he offered, all without moving a single muscle in his face. Then he retired to the inner sanctum, consulted with someone inside, and returned to gesture Stephen through the door.

Not only a door, as it turned out, but a set of red, gauzy curtains that clung to Stephen’s evening wear and knocked his top hat briefly askew. He straightened it, took a breath of air that was redolent with both incense and opium, and turned to face the woman approaching him.

Selina O’Keefe was tall, pale, and willowy, with large gray eyes and a heavy mass of raven-black hair, which she was currently letting tumble down her back to match the gown she was wearing: flowing gold silk and lace, as unstructured as it was impractical. Gems gleamed on every finger and dangled from her ears, catching the light from many shaded lamps. Her walk was airy and she gave Stephen her hand as if she was Cleopatra bestowing a favor, yet there was something in her eyes and in the set of her chin that suggested more practicality than the dozen or so similarly dressed women, or their smoking-jacketed companions, who currently disported themselves around the room.

“Welcome, Lord MacAlasdair,” she said quietly but in a voice that made the simple statement a theatrical pronouncement. “In what way might our Society aid you?”

If she mentioned anything about him being king hereafter, Stephen thought, he would leap out a window posthaste.

“I’m looking for a man,” he said. “Can we talk somewhere a bit more private?”

“There’s a couch near the window,” said Mrs. O’Keefe, and put a hand lightly on his arm. The butler had disappeared somewhere. “I’m afraid I can’t leave my guests alone just now.”