There were few things he disliked more than falsehoods and deception, both from himself and in others. He had seen the destruction it caused.

“Is this betterment ladle you’ve planned for today for authors only, or can friends and family and wives-not-seen-for-years take part as well?” she asked with a familiar air of mischief.

Life was so often heavy. Having a friend who lightened the load was a welcome thing.

“Many of the other authors will have family there,” Barnabus said. “We’d welcome extra hands if you want to help.”

Her dimples reappeared. She looked as if she meant to say something, but a knock at the front door prevented it.

“A patient?” she guessed.

It was possible.

Gemma walked with him to the door. On the other side stood Brogan Donnelly and Stone.

“We’re not meant to leave for the CALL effort for another hour,” Barnabus said. “What brings you around so early?”

“Stone, here, whacked his thumb with a hammer. ’Tis swollen three times its usual size. He objected, but I insisted he ought to have you look at it.”

Brogan was remarkably good at hounding a fellow into doing something he thought was ridiculous. He seemed to have managed it again this time.

“It’s nothing,” Stone said. “Brogan’s being a pest.”

Barnabus motioned them inside, closing the door behind them.

Stone held his hand out for medical inspection. His thumb was, indeed, quite swollen.

“The swelling will make moving it difficult, which makes that a poor clue as to the state of the bones beneath,” Barnabus said.

Gemma said, “It’s a blamed shame you cain’t have a peek at the bones ’emselves. Without cutting the bloke’s skin away, leastwise. I suspect he’d think that a bit too drastic for treating a hammered thumb.”

“A far sight too drastic,” Barnabus said. “But seeing the bones would certainly simplify things.”

Brogan and Stone both eyed Gemma with unrestrained curiosity, though their expressions were quite different. Brogan grinned; Stone studied. Brogan looked ready to laugh; Stone looked ready to interrogate.

The members of the DPS were varied, which allowed for different thoughts, expertise, and viewpoints. And then there was the Dread Master. Their mysterious leader seemed to know anything and everything, and there wasn’t a single corner of the sprawling metropolis he didn’t have eyes and ears on. He ran the DPS from behind the scenes, directed their efforts, and had a tie-breaking vote in every significant decision they made. Fletcher, who acted as the head, answered only to him.

And no one knew who the Dread Master was.

Conjecture amongst the membership was vast and varied. Barnabus had his own guesses as to the Dread Master’s identity. Stone was capable and secretive, intelligent and observant. And though it didn’t reflect well on the general membership, prejudice was woven enough into the fabric of English culture that a Black man would realize he’d benefit from anonymity.