“Come in, come in, James,” he said, rolling backward. He had been terribly injured twenty-five years ago in the Battle of Cadair Idris, and he had never walked again. He had taken a standard Bath chair for invalids and bent his inventive spirit upon it—it was fitted now with a smaller version of the wheels one might find on an automobile. A curved appendage with an electric light hung over one of Henry’s shoulders. Over the other shoulder, a clawed attachment allowed him to reach for objects placed high overhead. A shelf beneath the seat carried books.

Christopher adored his godfather and spent hours in Henry’s laboratory, working on all sorts of inventions as well as improvements to the Bath chair. Some had been very useful, like the steam-powered elevator they had installed so that Henry could easily reach his cellar laboratory; others, like Henry and Christopher’s attempt to create a demon-repelling ointment, had not.

Henry had a kind spirit and had welcomed James as Matthew’s parabatai even before the two of them had gone through the ceremony in the Silent City. “Matthew’s in the back garden,” he said now, his eyes crinkling at the corners. “He said something about reading a book surrounded by the uncritical beauties of nature.”

James had to concede this did sound like Matthew. “Is he alone?”

“Unless you count Oscar.” Oscar Wilde was Matthew’s dog, who James had found wandering on the streets of London and presented to Matthew. The dog adored Matthew uncritically, much like the beauties of nature.

James cleared his throat. “There was something I found—an odd sort of dirt—I wondered if you could take a look at it for me? You know, in your laboratory.”

Most people would have treated this as a strange request. Not Henry Fairchild. His eyes lit up. “Indeed! Give it here.”

James passed over the small vial of dirt he had filled from the contents of his pocket the night before.

“I shall take a look at this as soon as possible. I am leaving soon to see Charlotte in Idris, but I shan’t be gone too long.” Henry winked at James and rolled away toward the lift that would take him to the laboratory.

James made his way past the drawing room, dining room, kitchen—where he bowed to the cook, who waved a spoon at him, in greeting or threat he wasn’t sure—and out through the back door, which led to the garden. He and Matthew had spent hours training there: it was a welcoming square green space with a massive London plane tree at its center. Matthew was standing in its shade, reading a book. He was absorbed enough that he didn’t hear the door shut, or notice James coming toward him across the grass until James had nearly reached him.