Not too long later, Rory found himself back in the dining room, because apparently dinner was always a formal affair in a viscount’s home, where even if there were only three people he still had to sit at the big dining room table and figure out which fork was which. The sun had set and old-fashioned lamps had been lit, the windows black glass between gaps in the giant drapes. Rory smiled awkwardly at the footman, Ned, as he set food on the table, because what was he doing sitting in a big fancy chair while someone served him?

As he shifted in the chair, he felt the ring in its box in his pocket.

The siphon created the relics and kept them hidden, Sebastian had said. It’s the only way I know of to make another relic, or hide one.

So where is this siphon?

Stolen.

Rory turned the conversation over in his head as he ate his way through oysters, soup, and fish, but whatever angle he thought about it, his mind kept coming back to one thing. If the relics were supposed to be hidden—what was he doing trying to use one?

Ned brought out roasted pheasant, which sounded like a made-up bird but smelled great. Rory had just taken a big bite when he felt eyes on him.

“You’re remarkably civil tonight,” said Lord Fine. “Are you feeling all right?”

“Wesley.”

“I’m concerned for him, Arthur! He hasn’t glared at me even once—oh, wait, there it is, all is right with the world.”

Rory rolled his eyes. “Food’s good,” he said, taking another big bite. “Why would I be grouching?”

“I didn’t realize you ever stopped.” Lord Fine picked up his own fork. One of his forks. Geez, why did they all have so many forks? “So. Rory Brodigan. I assume with that alias now known by your enemies, you may be needing a new one. Are you going to pretend to be Irish again?”

Rory bristled, but Lord Fine held up his hands. “I didn’t mean it as a barb,” he said, sounding sincere. “I wasn’t trying to needle you, I’m genuinely curious. You’re rather fascinating.”

Rory furrowed his brow. “I don’t think I am.”

“Do you imagine I’ve met many twenty-one-year-old antiquarian prodigies who’ve been kidnapped by bootleggers?” Lord Fine said dryly. “And I get this sense that there’s even more to you than you’re letting on. I can’t quite put my finger on what else you’re hiding, but Arthur seems to be in on it, at least, so I assume it’s interesting rather than troubling.”

Rory hunched. “Um—”

“He’s very interesting,” Arthur cut in, too brightly. “And I’m afraid he and I will be busy tomorrow—”

“You will be,” Lord Fine agreed. “The veterans’ luncheon starts at eleven.”

“I can’t,” Arthur started impatiently.

“You should go,” Rory interrupted.