Page 15 of Crown of Tides and Fury

The breakfast bell rang early. In fact, we didn't have a breakfast bell, so I sat up in bed to figure out where in the hell I was. But even in the darkness, the cream and gold bedding, the fuzzy, swirled, butter yellow wallpaper told me I was home.

An invisible vise squeezed my head from all sides and insisted I move slowly.

The sun wasn’t up yet and might not show its face all day considering the promise of rain in the air. The dark of night had lightened to an almost hopeful shade of gray that shone through the sheers covering my door to the veranda. Morning was dawning in England, but it looked like it might have a hangover too.

Yesterday, the sun had been shining in Scotland. Go figure.

I joined a trickle of familiar zombies in sweats and bedclothes making their way to the heart of the house, called by the smell of back bacon, a clanging bell, and the promise of coffee. There were enough Americans in the house that the black stuff was kept on tap. No one asked for "an American coffee." It was just coffee.

We funneled into the dining room and stumbled to a stop. Something was wrong. The long buffet of highly-polished wood had nothing on it. No food. No coffee. Not even a teapot.

Has Alwyn gone on vacation?

My old fear of starvation bubbled up from my toes. I had assumed that constant quality food had chased it away for good. I was wrong.

That bell clanged again, and we turned back to the hallway, followed the sound and the smells further down the hall, to the kitchen. Alwyn leaned a hand on the large center island. From his other hand hung a large chrome bell, which I prayed he wouldn’t ring again.

"Wickham's orders," he said. "Fix a tray and head to the study. Be sure to take all ye'll need. There'll be no comin' back for second breakfast t’dee. And lunch isnae promised."

I looked at him sharply and he laughed. I'd caught him making fun of our Scottish friends' accents, though it didn't seem like anyone else had noticed. Persi's eyes were still half shut. Urban blinked continuously, trying to focus on the croissant sandwiches that weren't part of our usual breakfast fare. Though Wickham's sisters were dressed perfectly and identically in green and blue pantsuits, they seemed just as confused as the rest of us.

I searched the walls and finally found a clock. I had guessed it was just after six. It was quarter to five! "Five?! Are you kidding me?"

The sisters winced at my volume, and I remembered they'd had as much whisky last night as I had. We'd drunk Urban under the table, as I remembered, and maybe the early morning bellringing was Wickham letting us know he didn't approve.

I'd never been in a drinking contest before. I'd never drunk much hard liquor in my life. But after seeing that family picture with the gaping hole beside me, I'd been happy to play the game. Now, though, in the gray light of almost-day, I wondered if everyone had dropped out to let me win...

Though my stomach insisted we shouldn’t be eating anything that day, I took a tray and started loading up. It was a security issue all over again, and I wasn’t about to be locked in the study all morning with no options. Maybe all day?

Next to the coffee mugs and napkins sat a bottle of Paracetamol, the British equivalent of Tylenol. I poured a half dozen on my napkin, wrapped one arm under my tray, and grabbed the coffee pot. “This is coming with me.”

Still in zombie-mode, we shuffled and groaned in a slow line to the war room. After we’d all found our seats and made our nests, Wickham came through the door clapping his hands fast as if it was his job to wake us up and lead us in a morning cheer, like it was the first day of a motivational seminar we were obligated to sit through.

Damn him.

Persi flipped him off—gave him both barrels—but managed to keep her middle fingers invisible. That small act of defiance did more to wake me up than the coffee had, and I laughed. Lorraine pulled a couch pillow from behind her and chucked it at her brother. He side-stepped it and moved to the wall where the chart of Eight Naming Powers hung.

He rapped his knuckle on the second line. “Mercail’s power is out of reach for now. And before ye ask, there is still no word of Miss Fallon.” He addressed me. “I assume everyone has been brought up to speed?”

I nodded, carefully, knowing our dinner discussion at The Ivy had been duplicated by both the other dinner parties.

“Good. So, we have no choice but to move on, aye? If Carew has managed to thwart us, it is only a matter of time before Orion catches on as well. The more powers we can secret away before then, the better.”

He picked up another large sheet of paper and pinned it to the wall beside the Eight. Near the top, he drew three horizontal lines above which he wrote, Us, Orion, Carew. He drew zeros beneath the first two, then a hash mark under Carew.

Our scoreboard.

He replaced the lid on his marker and went back to the first chart. He ignored the first and second lines and tapped the marker on the third. “Fertility and Famine. Thessa’s power. Anyone find a lead here?” He looked at the Muir brothers, who both shook their heads. Then he tapped on the fourth. “How about Gilliam’s? Peace and War. Any mentions?”

Again, the brothers shook their heads.

He moved to their table and tossed the marker onto a pile of papers. “There’s nothing for it, then. I’ll have to go back to Muirsglen, speak to Jez again. Now that we have our theory of the Eight, a memory might be triggered by seeing them listed together.”

“And if it doesn’t?” Brian asked.

“Then I will be forced to seek out the Grandfather.” He raised his hand to cut off Brian’s next words. “I shall have to find him in the past.”

The brothers blinked, taken aback. Flann scowled. “Ye could have done that at will? Before any of this—”

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