“There was someone ran past us,” said Hetherington, disbelieving. “Come in with the storm, like.”

“Aye, like a cloud or smoke,” said a footman. “I thought I had ’im, but it was Jukes here.”

“I thought you was him,” said Jukes.

“Sorcery,” said Stephen. “Perhaps an adjunct of the storm . . .”

He and his brothers stood close together by the shifted table. There were glasses and dishes distributed widely among overturned chairs, several of which were smashed beyond repair. Everyone was drenched with rain, and Edmund had a small cut on his forehead, which was slowly bleeding into his right eyebrow.

Truthful looked at the wreckage, and held her hands to her face as the shock of the sudden transition from happy party to disaster took hold. In a second, Agatha was at her side, pausing only to thrust the lantern into the maid’s hands.

“You sit down, my lady,” she said, kneeling to right a chair, her voluminous skirts billowing up as she crouched down.

“Thank you,” said Truthful. She didn’t particularly feel the need to sit, but did so obediently until Agatha started to fuss about with her smelling salts.

“I don’t need smelling salts, Agatha!” protested Truthful. “I never do faint, you know that. I was momentarily shocked, but all seems to be well.”

“Hmmph,” said the Admiral, who had stepped through the broken window to investigate the damage to both building and servants. “I don’t know about this smoky character you reckon to have seen, Hetherington, but the storm has done its work. A nine-pound ball could do as much, yet I’ve seen a storm do a great deal more. Let’s straighten the table, gentlemen. We’ll adjourn to the card room. I’ll have the builders in tomorrow.”

He bent to one corner of the table, and the three brothers distributed themselves accordingly, gingerly picking their way through the debris.

“One — two — three — heave!” cried the Admiral, and the table was slid back in place. He gazed down on its polished surface happily, observed there wasn’t a single irreparable scratch, and then his smile faded like a powder dissolving in a glass. A red flush spread up his neck and across his face, and he swayed on his feet as he tried to speak.

“The Emerald! Where is the—”

This was all he got out before he pitched headfirst on to the table, his great bulk making it resound like an enormous drum.

* * *

The Admiral lay senseless for two whole days, while every inch of the dining room was searched for the Emerald, to no avail. Even the floorboards were taken up, but they revealed only several rat right of ways, a tinware spoon, and a clipped silver penny of Elizabeth’s reign.

On the morning of the third day, the Admiral awoke, and called for a hot rum punch, well-spiced with cinnamon. Truthful brought it up immediately, and was pleased to see his normal colour returning as he drank it.

“Thank you, my dear,” he said, handing the glass back to her. “A proper cast-up mackerel I must look! I hear those rapscallions have come to visit. Has one of them handed back the Emerald?”

“Rapscallions?” cried Truthful. “Oh, no, father! You can’t mean the Newington-Lacys!”

“You mean to say the Emerald ain’t back?” expostulated the Admiral, raising himself angrily up on one elbow. “Yes, I do mean the Newington-Lacys. No-one else could have taken it! I don’t hold that a smoke-devil or cloud-catcher could have done so, no matter what Hetherington thinks he saw!”

He looked fiercely at Truthful, but his eyes were focused somewhere beyond her shocked face.

“You don’t understand, Truthful,” continued the Admiral fretfully. “The Emerald isn’t just a great jewel, nor merely some sorcerous piece for working the wind and sea. It’s also the luck of the Newingtons! The last time it went missing, a hundred and twenty years ago, the whole family damn near came to an end. Two brothers killed at Marston Moor, another at Naseby … a sister dead of the smallpox … all the plate confiscated—”

“But father, you can’t say the Rebellion was caused by the loss of the Emerald,” interrupted Truthful. “Besides, I am quite certain that it has not been taken by the Newington-Lacys.”

“West wing of the house burned down,” continued the Admiral, his eyes rolling back and forth like an unsteady deck. “Before that, when the Emerald was misplaced for a week, Sir Tancred Newington broke both legs. My brother pledged it at play once, died of a fever … Emerald. Bad blood in the Lacy family …”

“Father!” exclaimed Truthful, as the tirade continued unabated, becoming more and more incoherent as the Admiral began to thrash about in the bed, despite her efforts to calm him. Finally, she managed to get him to drink a draught of laudanum. As he grew quieter the gaze of reason came back in his eyes.

“Just tell the boys to put it back,” he whispered, holding out his bear-like palm. “Put it in my hand.”

Truthful put her small gloved hand in his, and said, “Yes, Papa.”

A second later, the Admiral lapsed back into sleep. Truthful let her hand rest in his for a moment, then withdrew it gently, and went downstairs, her head bowed in thought.

The Newington-Lacys were waiting for Truthful in the yellow drawing-room, each with a large glass of Hetherington’s punch in hand, a half-empty silver bowl on the table indicating that they had been waiting for some time. Truthful darted a glance at the faithful retainer who stood by the bowl, hoping to judge both the strength of the punch and how much Hetherington had himself “tasted” before serving it to the visitors. There was certainly rather a strong aroma of rum in the air, suggesting that the “three parts strong” of the punch recipe might have been overdone. Hetherington himself, as a former navy man, could put away vast quantities of rum without immediately obvious effect, but the young gentlemen certainly weren’t used to such stuff.

“I trust you haven’t been waiting long,” she said anxiously.

“Not above an hour,” said Edmund. He stood up carefully and set his glass down on the table. He didn’t seem to be drunk, Truthful noted, but she was a little alarmed at how slowly he was moving . . .

“Hetherington made us a punch,” said Stephen, indicating the bowl.

“A very good punch,” said Robert, beaming.

“Oh dear,” said Truthful. “I think Hetherington, you had best bring coffee now. Lots of coffee. And take this punch away!”

“Aye, aye, milady,” said Hetherington. But he didn’t move. He just stood there blinking, his eyes glassy.

“Oh, he must have drunk at least two bottles,” said Truthful with a sigh. She went to the corner and pulled on the bell-rope. “You should know you must never let Hetherington make a punch without my father present. He will drink the rum straight.”

“Very good punch,” said Robert.

“I am sure it is an excellent punch,” said Truthful. “But I do wish you had all drunk rather less of it!”

“Not drunk,” said Edmund carefully. “A trifle bosky, perhaps.”

“We do beg your pardon,” said Stephen. “Suspect the punch a trifle stronger than expected.”

“Very good punch,” said Robert.

A footman appeared at the door, his face professionally blank, though he couldn’t help his eyes shift towards Hetherington.

“Jukes, I’m afraid Hetherington has sampled too much of his . . . mixture,” said Truthful. “If you could assist him, and ask Ellen to bring up a large . . . no, several large pots of coffee.”

“Yes, milady,” said Jukes stolidly. He went to Hetherington’s side and took his elbow. “This way, Mister Hetherington, that’s it. One foot after the other.”

“How . . . how is the Admiral?” asked Edmund. He was clearly making a tremendous effort to talk.

“Have you found the Emerald?” asked Stephen.

“Very good punch,” said Robert.

“Father is extremely unwell,” said Truthful, sitting down with a spiritless thump. “And there is no sign of the Emerald.”

“Decidedly odd,” said Edmund. He blinked several times and added, “Odd.”

“It’s worse than odd,” said Truthful. “Father’s not quite right in his mind. He thinks losing the Emerald means the end of the Newingtons . . . and he thinks one of you took it.”

“What!”

Edmund and Stephen spoke together. Robert smiled at them, apparently not having heard a word.

“Us!” exclaimed Edmund, scandalised. “Us! Steal the Emerald?”

“Yes,” said Truthful sadly. “Of course it’s silly, but the shock . . .”

“We shall be infamous if this comes out,” muttered Edmund. He made as if to slam his fist on the table, but stopped when it was clear his balance wasn’t up to it. “Our name blighted!”

“Not as bad as that,” said Stephen. “I mean . . . what do I mean? Lord, we need that coffee, Newt! Where was I?”

“I don’t know,” said Truthful crossly. “I think it is very unhelpful of you all to be so drunk when I need sound advice.”

“Not drunk,” said Edmund. “Told you. Just a little . . . ah . . .”

“Astray,” suggested Stephen. “Ah, I remember! Who will find out? The Admiral won’t be receiving, not if he’s touched in the rafters, begging your pardon Truthful. I meant unwell. When he gets better, he won’t talk such nonsense.”

“Lady Troutbridge is visiting this afternoon,” said Truthful gloomily. “She said she wants to lend father her witch-cook, for she has one who is very good with strengthening broths. But you know what a gossip she is.”

“Send her away,” said Stephen. “Say the Admiral can’t receive. Family only.”

“She is family, at least she’s some sort of connexion,” replied Truthful. “Not quite a distant enough one.”

“Then it will be all over the county in a week, and the metropolis the week after,” said Edmund. “Think of what it will do to Mama!”

Everyone fell silent at that, for Lady Newington-Lacy was a dear parent to her sons, and in many ways a surrogate mother for Truthful.

“Very good punch,” said Robert.

“Oh, do be quiet, Robert!” begged Truthful.

“There’s only one thing to do,” said Edmund, drawing himself up to his full height, only spoiling the effect a little by staggering against the wall. “Emerald’s been stolen by a damned storm-sprite or something, beg pardon, Truthful, naughty, I mean naughty storm-sprite. Never get it back from one of them. So I must go forth and find an acceptable substitute. Family honour and all that.”

“Oh, I am sure no-one will really think you stole it …” Truthful began, but an image of Lady Troutbridge flashed across her mind, and she realised others would think the worst. Lady Troutbridge would be delighted to believe the scandal, and would repeat it.

“No other way, Newt,” said Edmund, making a grandiloquent and rash gesture that nearly undid his precarious regained balance. “No other way. I shall leave tomorrow! Yes, tomorrow. Or the day after. And I will not return unless it is with a gem of equal beauty and monetary worth.”

“Flummery,” said Stephen. “I will divine the location of your Emerald! Have to consult old Flammarion in Paris, I expect. Expert on cloud-catchers and that ilk. Or the Greek fellow in Constantinople. Magister Makanios. Start tomorrow. Or the day after.”

“You want a new Emerald?” asked Robert dreamily. “Mine one! Why, there’s a flooded shaft in Golconda just needs pumping out, and a steam donkey is just the way to do it. I’ll go there, fix it up, fetch you a new Emerald!”

“Where is Golconda?” asked Truthful uneasily.

“India,” said Robert. “Wonder if they have punch there?”

“That’s settled then,” said Edmund. He sat back down, looked alarmed as the chair proved lower than expected, and grabbed at the air. Coughing to cover his embarrassment he added, “I’ll go to China. Bound to be emeralds lying about the place there. You’ll get an emerald one way or another, Newt!”

“Oh no!” exclaimed Truthful. “You can’t all go away! Think of your mother!”

“Glad to see us away from the scandal,” said Edmund breezily.

“Only be away a year,” added Stephen. “Nothing to it.”

“Back in an ant’s whisker,” said Robert. “And I shan’t have to return to Harrow.”

“If you are going to search for the Emerald or a replacement,” said Truthful, “then so must I.”

“Ridiculous!” snapped Edmund.

“Unnecessary, my dear Newt,” said Stephen.

“Waste of good punch . . . I mean time,” announced Robert.

All three glared at her, their rum-affected countenances rather more florid than would normally be the case. Truthful bowed her head under their very brotherly approbation. Truly, she felt like their pet name for her: a newt, under the gaze of several large, sanctimonious and more senior amphibians.