There was no sound except for the rain hitting the flagstones and dripping off the roof, and very little to see. Just gray: sky, stones, even the air had taken on a grayish tinge, bleaching the usually jolly red bricks and turning the saturation of the brightly colored tree way down. I closed my eyes and just breathed for a moment, enjoying the freshly washed air—so rare in London—and the peacefulness.

The shawl was one of those huge old Victorian things, meant to go over the bustles that nobody wore anymore, so it covered my feet, too. It was warm, and thawed my toes soon enough, but it wouldn’t help for long. The rain was settling in for one of those all-day soakers, where you keep thinking it’s going to stop, but it never does. Just slacks off for a few moments to get your hopes up.

It had slacked off now, but it was almost impossible to tell, since the massive old oak was leaking onto my head. I looked up, and got a drop right in the eyeball for my trouble. I blinked it away and sat there, cold but not cold enough to move, wet, but not wet enough to go inside. I was waiting for something, but I didn’t know what.

And then the sun came out.

Not shyly, the way you’d expect on a day like this, peeking through the clouds as if not to startle anyone. But suddenly, abruptly, flooding the courtyard with color. It was bright enough to leave me blinking.

And staring around at a suddenly completely dry space, lacking rain or puddles of any kind. Except for the droplets that sprayed out of my hair as I twisted my neck, searching for the next threat. He wasn’t hard to find.

“So, this is the famous Pythian Court.”

The man sitting in the sunshine on the chair opposite mine looked like a proper British gentleman. His three-piece suit was a navy pinstripe, with a brighter blue tie and pocket square, the same color as his eyes. His beard and hair were white and neatly trimmed, and a bright gold watch chain glinted at his waist. He could have been any well-dressed businessman ready to head out for another day of wheeling and dealing, and crushing the little guy.

He wasn’t.

Well, except for maybe that last part.

And, suddenly, I was furious.

“What are you doing here?” I got up, abruptly enough to overturn my chair. “How are you here?”

“The latter is easier to explain,” he said, lighting a cigar. “I’m here because you’re here.”

“To do what? Threaten me some more?” Because I had no doubt about who he was. He hadn’t introduced himself, but he didn’t need to. The power flooding off him said everything, all on its own.