^^Above: Tobias Menzies (pictured here in Outlander) as Trenton Wilkes.^^

To my dear darling boy Langdon on his twelfth birthday,

If you are ever missing me, read these words,

And know I am not far away. I love you.

—Mother.

25 March. — I know now that my mother had written that inscription with the intention of always being there to protect me. And at twelve, I believed them. Neither of us could have known, two years later, that she would be the furthest she'd ever been from me, and could never come back.

Now, on the day of Giff's funeral service, it occurs to me that this is only the second time in my life I've had to wear mourning. He may as well be dead, even though every time I see a vampire I'll think of him. As far as his family is concerned, anyhow, he's no longer one of them.

"I was sorry to hear of your friend's fate, Langdon," says Father on the way to the Institute. There'll be a service there before the wake at the Gifford house in Mayfair, and although the coffin is empty, we all know what it symbolises. "If I'd known..."

"I know, Father," I say, although I want to ask him point-blank if he'd ever wished we were rid of Giff. I'd seen his frown of disapproval every time I'd mentioned him after befriending him. "You couldn't have."

"Intelligence on the vampires has much improved since I first began hunting," he says, with his knack for bringing up the wrong subject at the wrong time. "The King's Bench vampire Family is one of the oldest in London, if not all of England."

"Is that why you sent us there, then?" I hear a note of bitterness in my tone. "A small group of hunters in training against the oldest vampire Family in England?"

"Like I said, son. I had no idea such a thing was going to happen."

"They're vampires, Father. We're human. What did you think would happen?"

His hand comes down hard on my shoulder and spins me around to face him. His eyes burn with a simmering anger. "Do you not think I want answers as much as you do? I do not believe vampires mean us any harm, they simply hunt their prey like any other living creature. And yet you've given me the impression that you believe I somehow premeditated Byron's capture."

Didn't you? I want to say, but I've pushed Father enough for the moment. Instead I mumble, "That's not what I was thinking."

"Speak up, boy. You know how I feel about your mumbling."

"That's not what I was thinking, Father," I say, clearer.

"Good," says Father, the anger fading from his eyes. I feel his hand tighten on my shoulder, a warning to control myself in the future. "Now we are almost there. Have you thought of what you're going to say for Mr Gifford's eulogy?"

—

Later, afternoon. — Following Gifford's service and the wake, Seaton, Isham and I slip out of the house and walk up to Hyde Park without speaking. It feels strange to be here and he isn't, and I'm sure the other two are thinking the same thing.

"Poor Giff," says Seaton finally, when we've sat at the edge of the Serpentine with our legs partially dangling out over the water. "He didn't deserve this."

"Can you think of anyone who does?" I ask. Wells had certainly thought someone had it in for Giff.

"Maybe that sod Porter," says Isham. "That punter's a bully through and through."

"Nah," says Seaton. "He'd probably bully all the other vampires so much they wouldn't want him around."

That gets a faint smile from us, but it doesn't do much to make us feel better.

"Have you lot heard anything?" I ask then. "Theories about why, or anything?"

Isham and Seaton glance at one another, and then Isham sits forward. "Heard my father talking to another hunter at dinner last night...he thinks the patriarch has something to do with it. The father."

"Like what, exactly?"

"He was saying the father's got no direct male heirs. Hasn't made one of his own in...I dunno, ages. Giff would be the first one in a long time."

"What's he want with a male heir?" Seaton asks. He leans back on his hands and crosses his legs at the ankles.

"Despite their longevity, vampires aren't immortal," says Isham. "Their bodies do start to break down, just like ours. There's rumours that some vampires can live to be a thousand, or fifteen-hundred years old. But no one's ever encountered one. The King's Bench father, he's very old. Father guessed he was probably made in the eleven-hundreds. If not earlier. Nine or ten-hundreds, maybe. So it was about time he started thinking of someone to succeed him."

"Doesn't that take forever?" I point out. "Becoming a vampire patriarch isn't always a matter of bloodline."

"Yes, but things are changing." Isham shrugs. "Father says their numbers are shrinking. So they've had to update the old ways."

I nod. That aligns with what Wells said.

"At least when it comes to vampires, we know what to expect," Seaton says. "Everything else is such a bloody wild card."

I don't hear the rest of their conversation, because at that moment I see a familiar aubergine dress on the path across the water from us. I push myself to my feet and start to jog along the path at the water's edge, ignoring the calls of my friends behind me.

"Oi, Wilkes, you got somewhere better to be?"

"If this is about a girl, mate, she's probably not worth it!"

I disagree with that last comment, but I don't look back. I round the corner, keep running, then round another corner and soon I'm catching up to Naomi Hudson, who appears to have just gotten up from the bench she was sitting on.

"Miss Hudson?" I pant, when I'm finally close enough.

She turns, startled. "Langdon?"

I slow down to walk with her, trying to catch my breath. "Fancy seeing you here again."

"I'm a regular," she says, her light tone very clearly forced. "If I need to get away from my brother, I come here. Hampstead Heath is not nearly far enough."

"Why would you want to get away from him?" I ask, without realising immediately how it might sound.

"Oh, Langdon..." she says, and suddenly stops in her tracks. At first I don't notice, but as soon as I do I stop to look back at her. I see her large blue eyes are filled with tears, and some have spilled down her cheeks.

"What's the matter?" I double back, taking both her hands. "What's wrong?"

"We killed a zombi the other night," she says softly, looking down at our hands. "It was the first one I've ever seen. Wells knew what to do, but...I panicked...I froze, and...it almost killed him..."

"It scared you," I say. "Didn't it?"

"Terrified," she whispers. "I know how to deal with vampires, werewolves, ghosts, even golems. But a zombi...I have never seen anything like one."

"Neither have I." Never encountered one, let alone killed one. They were among the hardest creatures to fight, and our instructors constantly reinforce that point. It took fire, beheading, and dismemberment — if one manages to get close enough.

"Sometimes I wish..." She takes a deep breath, and her grasp tightens. "I wish I did not have to kill things for a living. These creatures...they are sentient beings. And we make our lives off of their deaths. As if they are trophies."

"Have you thought of doing something else? Another line of work, possibly?"

"I can't do anything else," she says, with a bitterness that echoes my own. "If not for this life, I would have no other choice but to present myself before Queen Victoria. I would have to marry and become someone's wife...become a mother...and never make any more of my own decisions."

I say nothing in response. My father mentions something about the Season more often now than before, being one year shy of eighteen. I know he feels obligated to pressure me as other fathers do, because as his only son and his heir, the bloodline can either end with me or continue. In a way, I feel almost as trapped as she does.

"Wells would say I hardly know you, but...I need someone to tell, Langdon. I feel I am stuck in this position. And if only I knew how to get out of it." She takes a deep breath, and it shudders as it comes out. "I love my brother, truly I do. But I don't think he realises that as a woman, people look down on me when they find out I'm a hunter. They think it's not ladylike for me to be wielding sharp objects and going out at night and killing things. And God forbid, wear trousers. I don't want to be a lady."

"At the risk of offending you, I don't either," I say, and at that she laughs shakily. "It really is an unenviable position in society."

She pulls me into a tight embrace, burying her face in my shoulder. I feel her shaking against me, and at that, I hold her closer. I don't know if it's because she seems to understand the constraints society has put on us the way I do, or because she knows, like me, that it takes away our choices before we even know we have them.

"Oi, Wilkes!"

Naomi and I pull apart, so quickly it's as if we were burnt. Seconds later, Isham's behind me, slinging an arm round my neck.

"Who is this little lady?" he asks, nudging me. "May I ask your name, miss?"

"Naomi Hudson," she says reluctantly. "And...you?"

"Richard Isham," he says, and then, as Seaton joins us, his other arm goes around his neck. "And this here's Tobin Seaton. Pleased to meet you."

"You're a pretty thing," Seaton purrs, and instantly I don't like the way he says it. "How come we haven't seen you round more often?"

"Come off it, Seaton," I say before Naomi can answer, throwing Isham's arm off. "You too, Isham. Naomi didn't come here to be harassed."

Isham whistles. "Am I intruding on your feelings, Wilkes? Yeah?"

"No." I feel a flush heating my neck and my ears. It irritates me that for all their talk of reputation and image, the two of them are remarkably shameless about how they speak to young women. It chafes at me, although I don't know why. "Just leave her alone. Sod off."

Isham looks surprised, and so does Seaton. Probably because I've never spoken to them like this before.

"Fine, then," says Seaton, ducking out from under Isham's arm. "We'll just be going."

They slink away, heads down. Naomi gently touches my arm, and when I don't react she slips her hand through my elbow.

"It's really all right, Langdon," she says softly. "I'm used to it now."

"You shouldn't have to be," I answer.

"If you'd like, you can chaperone me home. So no other men get any ideas."

I sigh. I know I've overreacted, and I'll be explaining it to Seaton and Isham tomorrow. But that's tomorrow's problem.

"All right, then. Let's go."

—

The Hudsons live in a well-kept row house in West Hampstead, the narrow kind slid in between two others exactly like it. The door's painted a sombre shade of dark blue, with a polished number 15 on it.

"I truly appreciate your understanding, Langdon," Naomi says after the hackney drives off. "I feel I only have Wells, and he never wants to talk about anything."

"Except hunting and hunting." I shrug.

She smiles faintly. "Yes. There is that."

"Well, I...er...look forward to seeing you again," I say after a short, slightly awkward silence. "And you'll have to excuse my friends...they evidently forgot how to treat a lady."

Naomi blushes and looks away, rubbing her forearm in an embarrassed manner. "It's really all right. As long I've got someone who is willing to defend my honour the way you did."

"You're a hunter. I think if the situation merited it, you would be able to defend your own honour."

"A fair point. Although it is nice having someone else do it for me every now and again."

The front door opens before I can reply, and Wells comes storming out. I nearly don't recognise him out of his hunting gear — instead dressed in a coal-grey waistcoat, clean white shirt, and black trousers. And he looks hopping mad.

"Naomi!" he barks. "Inside. Now."

I give her a nod as she meekly glances back at me over her shoulder, and as soon as she disappears inside the house, Wells's anger blusters against me like a stiff gale.

"You," he says, jabbing me in the chest with a finger, "are not welcome here."

"I'm sorry." It slips out automatically, used to my father's reprimands. "I was only escorting your sister home."

"I won't have her alone with you," he says, flinging the last word in my face. "Understood?"

"Yes. I'll keep my distance." I take an exaggerated step backwards.

He stares at me for a moment, saying nothing. I notice how the cords stand out in his neck, and how his green eyes blaze with exertion, and how there's the slightest curl of a tattoo on his sternum, just visible past his open shirt collar. And it shocks me how I've noticed all of that in less than five seconds.

"You're solemn today," he says finally, motioning to my all-black ensemble.

"Giff's funeral," I say. The mourning suit's new, though — I'd been quite a bit shorter the last time I'd needed one. "I just came from there, actually."

In a surprising turn of events, he drops his head and shoves his hands in his trouser pockets, scuffing a heel on the ground.

"I'm sorry about what happened to him," he says. "Your friend."

"It's all right." I slide my own hands away, into my pockets, because I'd just had the strangest urge to put one of them on his shoulder. "Although I doubt I'll be able to kill any vampires now. In case one of them is him."

"Even if that is, as you say, 'the pride of a Wilkes'?"

I take a deep breath and let my eyes drift down the street. "My father already thinks me a disappointment. I doubt this'll do anything to change it."

Wells says nothing, and I almost believe we've finished speaking until he says, "Naomi tells me you were there for vampire-hunting practise."

"We were. I won't be suggesting anything like that again any time soon."

"There's another way," he says, and I hear a tightness in his voice. "But I swear, if you tell anyone, you're never allowed to talk to me again."

That both surprises me and intrigues me. "What is it?"

"You'll have to understand that what we do is a business. It's not a hobby or a pastime or whatever you Institute boys think it's called. They sterilise it for you, keep it in the books and the training halls. They give you a weakened version of the real thing, like the smallpox inoculation. Now you and a few others know it's nothing like that."

"Right." I don't know where this is going, and I begin to wonder if I want to.

"We've been asked to do a job down in South Kensington. Lord Something...starts with a G. Can't remember. Anyhow, he has a vampire problem. As in they won't leave him alone. He wants us to get rid of them. Essentially make it vampire-resistant."

"Sounds like an important job," I say.

"Yes, it is. Because we'll have to do it during a house party he's having. And the only way we can get in is having the right connection. Which will be you."

"Me?" That takes me aback. "You want me to come on one of your hunts with you?"

"For training purposes only," he shoots back. "And because you're a Wilkes. The nobility send their sons to the Institute, don't they?"

"Yes. Some." I know the Lord G he refers to: Lord Grafton. His nephew, Quincy, is in my year.

"It's in two days from now," Wells says, his eyes clearly saying Don't make me regret this. "Dress accordingly. Bring the right gear. And for all our sakes, keep the flirting with my sister to a minimum. Clear?"

"Crystal."

"Good." Wells's brow furrows, as if he's thought of something else. But he doesn't say it. Instead he simply nods, turns on his heel, and marches back to the house. The front door shuts with a snap.

—

Later, evening. — Father, as usual, seems sceptical about the entire thing. Surprisingly, he's heard of Wells — "Those scruffy hunter siblings, aren't they?" — but doesn't seem inclined to let me go to Lord Grafton's with him.

"I can't have you captured by the vampires now, can I, Langdon?" he says, brows lowering over his newspaper as he narrows his eyes at me, the firelight reflecting in his spectacles.

"Wells is experienced, Father. He and Naomi both are."

"Experienced in what, may I ask? Running amok throughout the city with no regard for personal safety or societal appearance?"

"Hunting, Father. They know what they're doing, I swear. If anyone can give me on-the-ground training, it would be them."

Father sniffs in disdain. "'On-the-ground training.' They have no training is more accurate. They don't use approved methods to boot. You wouldn't be learning anything useful."

"Father, please." I sound desperate. And I wish I didn't. "This once. If I truly don't learn anything, I won't do it again. Just this time. Please."

He sets down his paper over his knees and looks me up and down. His lips press together tightly, and after a few minutes he reaches up to rub his bearded chin.

"All right," he says finally. "This once, Langdon. I may have misjudged your friend Gifford for being a bad influence, because this Wells Hudson...he brings nothing but trouble. Mark my words."

I can't stop a grin from creeping onto my face. "Thank you, Father. Truly. Thank you."

"Thank me when you've seen the last of Hudson, boy."

—

27 March. — I can hardly keep my mind on my classes that day. I keep thinking of what the hunt will be like, and how this offers an opportunity for a second chance, one we didn't get in King's Bench Street. And when I finally break down to Seaton and Isham and tell them what has me so distracted, it's Isham who speaks first.

"You're actually going with them? As...part of them?"

"Yes, I am. Actually. Is that so hard for you to believe?"

"The Hudsons work alone," says Seaton. "Always have."

"Then I suppose they're finally asking for help." I shrug. "They've got a job to do. But can't do it unless they have me with them. So I suppose that makes me one of them tonight."

"Can't be, mate," says Isham. "You can even court the girl, if you like. But you won't ever be a Hudson."

"I don't want to court her," I say, the words coming out before I can stop them. "She's just my friend."

Seaton snorts. "Men and women cannot be friends, Wilkes. There'll always be tension."

I say nothing to that. I am interested in both the Hudson siblings, but for different reasons. I like Naomi, and I see something of a kindred spirit in her. And then there's Wells, who inexplicably intrigues me. I want to peel away that prickly exterior, to whatever is underneath. Depending on how tonight goes, I suppose, I'll know if that's even possible.

And after classes break up for the day — and, even better, the week-end — I practically run home, eager to start preparing for the evening. The whole way I keep thinking something might happen to disrupt it, or I might wake up and discover it's all a dream.

But it holds, as I change out of my school uniform and into evening wear. Grafton expects only the best, which means full evening dress is in order: starched high-collared shirt, white silk bow tie, white-gold waistcoat, a cutaway tuxedo jacket, and shoes polished so spotlessly they could be a mirror. I spend some time doing so, trying not to smudge my hands or the cuffs of my shirt with the polish.

After I've pomaded my hair within an inch of its life, making sure none of it can escape, I then go about gathering my vampire-hunting gear. Wooden stake, flask with iron filings, iron dagger. I can't bring a rapier, since I'm getting in on connections alone, nor my sackful of garlic. For me, everything has to be small enough to be hidden.

At half-five, I'm ready. Over everything I button up a new overcoat I've never worn. I think of Wells, giving my clothing an unreadable, eye-twitching glare every time he sees me, but I agree with Father on this one count and nothing else: clothing does make the man.

I'm not usually one for wearing hats either, but having a tall top hat when hailing a hackney cab certainly helps this time. I don't plan on wearing it, but Father had once told me a gentleman never goes anywhere without one.

"Where to, sir?" asks the driver as I climb in.

"Lord Grafton's, in Colbeck Mews."

"Of course, sir." The driver flicks the reins and the hackney begins to move with a jerk. I set my top hat on my knees and watch the city pass. If I'd perhaps been dressed like Wells, in his long black coat and hooded black cloak, the driver would have looked away and driven on. But since I wear a bow tie and a tailcoat, the driver probably saw me as a way to earn a more generous fee. And then I wonder why I'm thinking about Wells again. It seems to be happening so often I shouldn't be surprised anymore, but I am.

"Colbeck Mews, sir," says the driver after a few minutes, breaking into my thoughts.

I climb out, pay him two sovereigns, and he drives off whistling. I hear the bells at St Mary-the-Boltons toll the hour — six strokes — and let out a heavy sigh. I'm early, because Lord Grafton never starts letting his guests in until at least seven, if not later.

I'm just about to turn and walk away, towards Fulham Road and a coffee shop I used to frequent back before I'd met my friends, when another hackney passes me, slows in the middle of the street, and Quincy Grafton, dressed similarly to me in evening wear, climbs out.

"Is that you, Wilkes?" He removes his top hat and his sandy curls come tumbling out.

"Hello, Quinny," I answer. He is a rare exception at the Institute in that everyone calls him by a nickname. Mainly to avoid any confusion with his father, Quincy Grafton Senior, or his uncle, most times called just Grafton.

He comes to join me, standing at the street corner. I don't know him well, but he is surprisingly unpretentious for someone from a noble family.

"Sometimes I wish Uncle Morley wouldn't have these parties," he says through a sigh. "Everyone already knows he is the Earl Shrewsbury. He doesn't need to flaunt it anymore."

"If you were the Earl Shrewsbury, why wouldn't you?" I shrug. I don't mean it as a serious question, although it does make me think. Noble families were almost always asserting their wealth, making sure everyone knew their station in society and how it would never change.

Quinny rolls his eyes. "Unless Uncle Morley and my father die at the same time, I'll never be anything more than Lord Quincy."

"How terrible for you, to live as the son of a nobleman," I say dryly, but he doesn't pick up on my sarcasm.

The time passes much quicker after that. We walk up to the small park at Courtfield Gardens, talking about safe things like our classes and preparing for our first Season this time next year.

"Father's already had me looking," he says at one point, shuddering. "Apparently Lord Bedford's youngest daughter is debuting next year...says that would look very good if I were to secure a courtship."

"Undoubtedly many others like you are thinking the same thing," I say, although I haven't offered any of my own opinions, and I'm sure he notices.

"How about you, Wilkes? Any prospects in that department?"

The question shocks me. The honest answer is no, I haven't. In fact — even though we aren't landed gentry, and have no title to speak of, but are offered some of the same privileges because of my father's post as headmaster of the Institute — I was less interested in a possible courtship than anything else.

"We've been looking," I say instead. Once again Wells and Naomi cross my mind, but I would never catch them attending any Season event. Wells's contempt and Naomi's disillusionment with it is enough for me to know. Although I would be far more content on a hunt than at some formal ball. At least if they were coming along.

Quinny takes out his pocket-watch, and his eyebrows go up. "Oh, look at the time. Uncle Morley'll be expecting us soon."

I say nothing. I hadn't even heard the church bell toll the half- or the quarter-hour, but perhaps Quinny is shallower than I thought. My non-committal answer seems to have stopped that particular conversation.

We walk back to Lord Grafton's, and now his front door is open. Coaches and hackney cabs draw up to the curb regularly, spitting out well-dressed men and women.

"Uncle Morley'll be glad to see you, Wilkes," says Quinny. "What do you say we go find him?"

"You go on," I say, slowing down as we get closer. "I think I'll wait out here for a bit."

He gives me an odd sideways look. "You feeling all right, then?"

"Fine." I tug at my starched collar, suddenly aware of how it digs into my neck. "I'll be in soon. Don't worry about me."

Quinny shrugs and hurries on ahead, greeting a bearded man and a tall black-haired woman in a dark green dress at the door. Then the three of them enter the house. I watch the street, unable to keep my eyes focused on anything.

Sometime after the bell tolls a quarter after seven, and the arrivals have mostly slowed, I hear the clopping of a solitary horse approaching the house. The hackney appears a second later, and I have a feeling I know who its passengers are.

It stops in front of the house, and for a moment, nothing happens. Then it creaks slightly as someone climbs out. I step up to it and look in, and my eyes find Naomi's.

"Miss Hudson," I say, putting out my hand palm-up. "How nice to see you."

"Hello, Mr Wilkes." She takes my hand with one of her gloved ones and alights on the pavement. She is lovely tonight, her evening dress dark blue with puffed sleeves in a lighter shade that bares her neck, most of her shoulders, and quite a bit of skin under her collarbones. She wears jewellery too, something I haven't seen yet: a delicate gold necklace and pearl earrings.

"You look beautiful tonight." I bow and kiss her knuckles.

She blushes and looks away, but I can tell she's flattered. "Why thank you."

Wells appears around the back of the hackney, in evening wear of his own. The sight of him in it sends a strange rush through me, because he doesn't look at all uncomfortable in it.

"You're staring, Wilkes," he hisses at me, coming up behind Naomi. "Are we going in or not?"

"Er...yes. We are." I give my elbow to Naomi, and she slides her hand through it. As she does, she gives it a gentle reassuring squeeze.

We're stopped at the door, just as I expect, by an older man in a tailcoat and bow tie. "Does milord know you are coming?"

"I attend the Institute with his nephew Quincy," I say. "He can vouch for me."

"Lord Grafton has employed our services to rid his house of some creatures," Naomi says, her tone polite and cool. "My brother Wells and I, along with Mr Wilkes here."

"Yes," says the man, nodding. "Wilkes. I recognise you. And as for you, Miss...?"

"Hudson," Naomi says. "Of course, if you don't believe me, you may ask Lord Grafton yourself."

The boldness of that statement surprises me. I half expect Lord Grafton's butler to shut the door in our faces, but instead he steps aside with a bow of his head.

"Now try not to get into any trouble while we find Lord Grafton," says Wells gruffly from my other elbow when we're inside. "We'll come back once we've spoken to him...be good guests for a little while. Then we'll need to get moving, understand?"

"Yes, of course," I say.

Naomi gives my elbow one more gentle squeeze before Wells draws her away. The butler appears at my side to take my hat and coat, and once I've handed them over I enter the crowd. Most of the guests are older than me, other minor nobility and wealthy, well-connected businessmen. Even in my brand-new evening wear I feel like a child.

"There you are, Wilkes," says Quinny, when I find him in the parlour by the fireplace, standing with two girls about our age. One is tall and thin, with a high forehead and pointed chin; the other is shorter, blonde, and has a round, friendly face. "Thought we'd seen the last of you."

"Can't get rid of me," I say in the lightest tone I can muster. "Who are your friends, Quinny?"

"Oh. Right." He straightens, elbow sliding off the mantel nearby. "This is Harriet Follett, Lord Bedford's daughter. And next to you, Lily Kirkland."

"Kirkland?" I glance at Lily. "The steel company Kirkland?"

"The only one," Lily says, with a coquettish smile. I feel her hands wrap around my arm, and a moment later she presses into my side. "My father and Lord Grafton go back a very long way."

"I see," I say, although I don't like the way she leans into me, a bit too suggestively to be comfortable.

"Now how about a dance, ladies?" Quinny says. "Father said they would start a quarter to eight."

The entire experience makes me uneasy. For one thing, Lily already seems to be sizing me up and liking what she sees, and for another, she doesn't let me get away, even when I see Wells and Naomi appear on the fringes of the dining room, which has been cleared to make space for dancing and a string quartet.

"One more, Mr Wilkes, just one," Lily says as the third dance ends. She catches my lapel in one hand and my arm in the other, her hold possessive. It's likely she'd seen me steal a glance at the Hudson siblings. "Please. I haven't gotten to know you nearly well enough."

"I'm going to get something to drink," I say, because it's true — my mouth is very dry and I can't figure out why. "One for you too, if you'd like."

"Oh, yes, a drink." She lets go of me, only to attach herself to my arm again. "Let's go."

On the way out of the dining room, I glance over my shoulder at Wells. He gives me a small shrug, then turns away to say something to Naomi next to him.

I realise what that was for less than five minutes later, when the two of them join us in the parlour, where we've plucked up flutes of champagne. It's Naomi who rescues me, coming up on my other side.

"I've been looking everywhere for you, Mr Wilkes," she says, in a stern manner that's unclear if it's genuine or not. "You promised me a dance earlier."

"My apologies, Miss Hudson, I must have forgotten."

"Who might you be?" That question is from Lily, who seems irritated that we've been interrupted.

"Never you mind," Naomi says brusquely, taking hold of my other arm. "Mr Wilkes? That dance, if we may?"

"Of course, Miss Hudson," I say to her. To Lily, I say, "Excuse me, Miss Kirkland. It seems I have a prior commitment."

Reluctantly, Lily's hold loosens and Naomi tugs me away, in the direction of the dining room. But we reroute in the narrow corridor just outside it, ending up at the bottom of the front stairs again.

"Thank you," I say, turning to her. "I was beginning to think she would be attached to me all night."

"Frankly, so was I," Naomi says. Then her eyes drop to the floor, a small furrow appearing in her brow. "Although...I would not be opposed to one dance. Before we have to...hunt and everything."

"It would be my honour, in return for you rescuing me." I put out my hand to her. "May I have this dance, Miss Hudson?"

She takes it. "Of course, Mr Wilkes."

The dance surprises both of us. She is a fine dancer, almost anticipating every step before it happens. I wonder if it has something to do with her hunting background, having to always be a step ahead of whatever she's after. And the flush in her cheeks tells me she feels the same way.

"I think I know why my brother treats you the way he does," she says, midway through.

"Besides my last name? Because he certainly made that clear."

"Yes, besides that." Her brow furrows again. "He and I...we are all the other has in this world. He believes you may have designs on my feelings."

"His threats are enough to keep me from trying anything forward," I say honestly, although it's my own feelings I can't suss out. Every time I see her, there's a rush of anticipation that I might see Wells too. His dislike of me has done nothing to deter me, and I can tell he's irritated by that.

She smiles shyly. "They are enough to keep anyone from doing that."

"He wants to protect you. That isn't such a bad thing."

"No, but..." She bites her lip. "I wish I didn't feel this way, Langdon, and I know we haven't known each other for long, but...I wouldn't mind if we were to grow closer."

"Naomi—"

"No, no, I'm sorry..." She suddenly grinds us to a halt and pulls away. "I shouldn't have said...I should have stayed quiet..."

"Wait, I..." I catch her hand, before she can escape. She looks down at our hands, then up at me. Her breaths come hard and fast, and there's a furrow in her brow. "I was only going to say...we could do it. If your brother knows we are. Have you told him how you feel?"

"No," she says softly. "I should...shouldn't I?"

"Soon," I answer. "Although now I think we ought to make this place vampire-resistant now, don't you?"