^^Above: The London Zoo entrance, in a more present-day setting.^^

Essentials of the Blood-Bind

By Solomon & Augustus Selling

Dedicated to our friend Marcus...the face of progress!

—S. Selling.

26 April, morning. — I leave the group a day early to head back to London. Fortunately no one had noticed I'd snuck out last night, not even Cornelius, or that I'd even left the hotel at all. I keep thinking of what happened between Wells and I in his room, and when I do, I feel a headache start in my temples. I know I shouldn't have hugged him. And I know I shouldn't have said anything about how I felt, even if it was true. It isn't so much that I want Wells to return my feelings — although the way he was looking at me last night, that already seems true — but rather for everyone else to let us figure them out.

But I know that will never happen.

And, a little more unfortunately for me, waiting on the platform when I disembark from the train is Marjorie Selling and an older, matronly-looking woman in a plaid dress left over from the last decade. The family is well-off enough that they can afford to have their daughter chaperoned everywhere, and with someone of Marjorie's standing, she's probably been barred from ever trying to go out alone.

"Langdon!" Marjorie's voice is practically a squeal as she scutters towards me through the crowd of travellers, and within seconds she's throwing her arms around me. For the moment, she seems to have lost her chaperone. "I heard you were coming...Father sent us the telegram an hour ago."

"Did he?" I'm not surprised, but it makes me suspect that the conclusion we reached in Wells's room last night is correct.

"Yes, and since you've come back before the others, we have some time to ourselves," she says, leaning in conspiratorially. "Just like before, when we snuck out of the party."

"Who is your...?" I start, just as the older woman appears out of the crowd behind Marjorie. Quickly I let go of her, and she seems to sense the woman's presence, because she pulls away just as promptly.

"Langdon...I mean, Mr Wilkes, this is my governess, Miss May Whitcomb. Miss Whitcomb, this is Langdon Wilkes."

"A pleasure to meet you, Miss Whitcomb." I give her governess a bow of my head, and when she puts out her hand wordlessly I take it and give the back of it a dry brush of my lips.

"So you are the boy Mr Selling cannot stop talking about," she says in a pinched voice. "I must say, you are quite different than what I imagined."

Marjorie flushes, and I raise an eyebrow at the governess. "What do you mean by that, Miss Whitcomb?"

"A gentleman," she says, and the knot in my stomach loosens.

"What did you have in mind, with this time to ourselves?" I ask as we leave the train station, Marjorie's hand in my elbow and Miss Whitcomb bobbing along in our wake. "Can we shake her off long enough to do it?"

Marjorie winks at me. "Oh, certainly."

I steal a glance over my shoulder. Unlike the time we escaped at the party, Miss Whitcomb is not occupied with other things. In fact, her top responsibility appears to be keeping Marjorie in her sights at all times. That makes it difficult, but I've known Marjorie long enough to expect her to be forming a plan to give her governess the slip right this moment.

"Could we perhaps go to the zoo, Miss Whitcomb?" Marjorie asks sweetly as we stand at the curb, scouting for a hackney. "I've heard the leopards are just stunning."

"That is a rather hot smelly outing for a young lady," says Miss Whitcomb with some disapproval. "Why not a museum? Or the park?"

"I love the animals," I say. "The Great Apes especially. There was a baby gorilla born just a month ago."

Miss Whitcomb sniffed. "Well, then. Since it appears I've been outvoted, the zoo it is."

I can feel the governess's disapproval coming off her the whole way there. She sits between us, likely in an effort to prevent any untoward behaviour. If she only knew.

We manage to see the giraffes, lions, reptiles and the gorillas with Miss Whitcomb close on our heels before Marjorie hatches her plan. Then, as we leave the gorilla house, she pulls me along the walk away from her governess.

"Miss Selling!" Miss Whitcomb snaps, anger in her voice. "Where are you going?"

"The penguins!" she calls back, her grip tightening in my elbow.

"Marjorie," I hiss. "Why would you tell her—"

"If we disappear she'll go straight there," Marjorie says in the same tone. "And by the time she realises we're gone, we'll have made our getaway."

"Oh." I find myself a tad more impressed with her than before. If escaping from supervision were a sport, she would be a champion.

"This way." Marjorie gives my arm another tug, and we abruptly turn a corner in front of a group of schoolchildren in uniforms. I no longer hear Miss Whitcomb's footsteps, and that seems to egg Marjorie on. We come out on the Outer Circle, then quickly pass the giraffe house again as we make for the footbridge that crosses the Grand Union Canal. Then we slow as soon as we reach Primrose Hill, due to Marjorie's tightly-laced corset. But we don't stop until we've reached the summit, where she walks out onto the grass and sits down.

"You're not worried about grass stains?" I ask, joining her.

"I was covered in them as a child," she says, plucking a blade and twirling it between her fingers. "I don't see how that would change."

"Unfortunately no one sees us as children anymore," I say.

She flicks the grass away. "And they never will again."

We sit in silence for a little while, and it's the most peaceful I've felt in a long time. I lean back on my elbows and look up at the sky, a pale blue with curly wisps of cloud like locks of hair.

"I do worry sometimes, if you do become one of my suitors," she says, breaking the quiet. "Cornelius will bully you into giving up."

"I'm not afraid of him," I say.

"And normally I would say you shouldn't be. But he suspects, Langdon. About you."

I sit up. "What about me?"

"About..." A troubled expression enters her eyes. "Your relationship. With Wells Hudson."

That word, relationship, could mean so many things, but I know exactly what she's getting at. If Cornelius had seen us together at any point, which he undoubtedly has, he certainly would entertain dark fantasies — as was his way.

"Nothing's going on between us," I say, even as a small voice in my head says Isn't there? "We're friends. That's it."

"Young men who don't know each other cannot be friends, Langdon." Her voice drops to a hiss. "Up until recently, he had no idea you even associated yourself with the Hudsons."

I clench my fists. This is Seaton's doing, or Isham's, trying to get back at me for not letting them flirt with Naomi. It's not above the two of them to spread rumours like that.

"They've been helping me," I say. "I think my father's up to something."

Instantly Marjorie's face changes, a curiosity sparking in her eyes. "What? Is it something bad?"

"Yes. I think so. But—" I lay my hand over hers when she opens her mouth to speak. "If I tell you, I need you to promise you won't say anything. To anyone. Including Cornelius."

I see her brow furrow, and she chews on the inside of her lower lip for a moment. "All right. Your secret's safe with me."

I tell her, leaving out certain bits about the Hudsons. I know Naomi's jealous of Marjorie and resents Cornelius, and that Wells wants nothing but to stick one on him at the first chance he gets. And, increasingly, I do too.

For a moment, when I finish, she doesn't speak. I want to show her the book as proof, but I'd left it with Wells — who is still in Bath, for all I know. But she doesn't seem to need the proof. Instead, she tugs her glove off and shows me her palm. Across it I see a number of thin clean slashes, one of them only a few days old.

"Father uses my blood for the binds," she says. "I have no worth as a hunter, but he tells me my docile nature makes the creature easier to control."

"He does it often?" I ask.

"More often than you'd think," she answers, pulling her glove back on. "I've been blood-bound to more creatures than I care to remember."

"What does it...feel like?"

She shudders. "I promise you, Langdon, it's not nearly as painless as my father might make it seem in his book. If it's strong, it turns my blood to razor blades and my veins to fire. If it's weak, it feels as if a part of myself is existing outside my body and wants to pull it back in."

"How do you endure?" I'd never believed, with the genial nature of both Selling brothers, that anything like this went on behind closed doors.

"Mother gives me a powerful sedative," she says. "I feel the pain, but...it's distant. As if it isn't happening to me directly."

"And here I was believing your privilege was painless."

Marjorie shakes her head. "Far from it. If we were lower on the social ladder, I'd be living far more comfortably."

I say nothing. I know she means people like the Hudsons, because she can tell just by looking at them that they're less well-off than she is. But then I think of the relative freedom they have — Wells to run his own business, Naomi to go out for long periods of time without the supervision of a governess like Miss Whitcomb. And they both hunt — something that Solomon Selling would never see his daughter do. And he's already told her she'll never be a worthy hunter.

"I think they need to hear and see this for themselves." I break the silence again. "Wells and Naomi. They need to know."

"I can't, Langdon. After today, my parents and Miss Whitcomb will never let me leave my room, let alone the house."

"Then I'll bring them to you. When is your next outing?" This is risky, having them meet face-to-face. But this is an unexpected piece of the puzzle I had no intention of finding. Nothing can go amiss now.

She sighs heavily. "If they do decide to bring me, it will be to Lord Cumberland's gala on the grounds of the Royal Chelsea Hospital. Very important Society event, I'm told."

It seems ridiculous that her parents push her into Society gatherings before she's presented, but I have the feeling it's intentional, the way Father does with me. He not only wants me to have the experience, but the appetite. Which is why he seems so frustrated that I haven't gotten it yet.

"How soon is that?" I ask.

"The thirtieth." She flexes her fingers, then laces them together. "Be careful how you go, Langdon. As much as I want to help, we cannot be caught."

"Of course." I nod. "We'll proceed with the utmost caution."

—

30 April, early morning. — On the day of the gala, I get up before Father does and slip out into the misty street. This is the only way I know I won't get caught — at least not without a valid excuse. At the corner I hail a hackney and give the driver the Hudson address. I haven't seen Wells since that night in Bath, and I can feel my senses tending towards him the closer the hackney gets.

Once it drops me off at the end of the walk, I take a couple seconds to gather my thoughts. I have no doubt that Wells will mention nothing about what happened in his hotel room while Naomi's around. But I know that as soon as she's not, the tension will return.

And no sooner do I knock at the front door that it opens and I'm once again pulled into a sweet-smelling, feminine embrace.

"Hello, Langdon," Naomi says, with a radiant smile. "It's wonderful to see you."

"And the same to you," I answer, returning her smile.

She stands on tiptoe to kiss my chin gently, then pulls me inside. "Would you like tea? I was just about to put it on."

"Yes, of course. Please." I glance over the books and papers scattered across the dining room table as I follow her. "Have you been busy?"

"Trying to keep myself occupied without Wells around is a laughably hard task," she says in a confessional way. "My brother is a constant flurry of activity."

"That he is," I agree. "Is he returned yet? There is something I want to talk to you both about."

"Late last night," she says, now busying herself with the tea kettle. "Didn't sleep, though. I heard him pacing in his room until at least the stroke of three."

I say nothing about its cause, although I have a feeling of what it is.

"I can rouse him, if you'd like," she says, breaking into my train of thought. "He may be less stroppy if he knows it's you."

"Not to worry. I'm used to it."

She gives me a wink. "Makes two of us, doesn't it?"

Then she's gone, and I hear her feet thumping up the stairs a moment later. I can understand now what Marjorie was getting at with what she wasn't saying. Had she been allowed to become a capable hunter, her strategies for evasion and escape would be assets. And perhaps she would have avoided the painful blood-binding forced on her by her father. But for all the progressiveness the Sellings claim, they still seem to hold a very firm belief that a hunters' guild, let alone a hunt, was not a place for women. Naomi is perhaps the only female hunter I know of, with as much skill and cunning as any male one. If not more.

Two voices, pitched low, interrupt my thoughts again. Naomi enters the kitchen first, followed by a dishevelled and grumpy-looking Wells. I notice the inked black lines curling around his wiry forearms, disappearing up into his rolled-up sleeves. Similar ones peek up through his open shirt collar, two twining together up the side of his neck.

"Wilkes?" Wells says, rubbing the back of his head. "What are you doing here?"

"There's something I would like to ask you," I say, glancing between them. "It involves the Sellings."

Wells tenses, but Naomi stops him with a hand on his arm.

"Let him explain," she says, her tone clearly saying Calm down.

His eye twitches, and he crosses his arms tightly. "Fine."

I do, just mentioning the conversation with Marjorie. She'll be able to explain it much better than I can, and I hope the two of them can put aside their grievances long enough to listen to her. And now I know why they exist in the first place.

"I don't want to go to a bloody Society gala..." Wells splutters, anger blazing in his eyes. "Especially with the Selling litter—"

"Wells, please." Naomi sounds exasperated. "Perhaps what Marj-Miss Selling has to say is an olive branch. And that she's not our enemy."

She doesn't get to continue. The kettle whistles and she bustles over to pick it up. That leaves me squaring off with Wells, who looks solid as a mountain.

"You shouldn't give the Sellings the time of day, Wilkes," Wells says sharply. "The whole lot of them are greedy, power-hungry, and soulless."

I don't contradict him, because I know he'll accuse me of having a soft spot for Marjorie. But despite the almost-truth that Wells has pointed out, I know now she's a victim, not a perpetrator.

"A couple conditions if we're going to do this," Wells says, as Naomi flits between us, pouring the hot water over the leaves into the teacups. "The first: you do not know us in the company of others. And the second: if I see any of your mates try to flirt with my sister, I have permission to lay them flat."

"I doubt my mates will even be there," I say with a shrug. "Their families are not as respected as mine."

"If that's the reason to not be invited, I can't imagine why Cornelius Selling will be there," Naomi says.

"The gala begins at eight-thirty." I look between them again. "The Royal Chelsea Hospital grounds. They will check invitations, so..."

"Then leave that to me," Naomi says, with a small uncertain smile. "I think something can be arranged."

We finish our tea and scones Naomi had baked the other day, hard enough now they had to be dipped into the tea to even bite into them. Then I have to excuse myself and leave, because I know Father will be expecting me at the breakfast table. The hackney ride home gives me enough time to come up with a plausible excuse, anyhow.

—

Later, evening. — To say the least, the gala is a lavish affair. All the guests I see on our way in are dressed in their finest evening wear, and not one of them seems to have a care in the world.

"Eyes up, boy," hisses my father behind me. "I thought I told you a gentleman never slouches."

"Sorry, Father," I say automatically. Another apology in a long string of them that will surely grow longer tonight.

"Don't apologise, just fix it."

I straighten as we approach the man at the entrance. Since the gala is mostly outside, all of Ranelagh Gardens has been sectioned off by gold ropes tied between the trees. I see flickering lamps at regular intervals and hanging from the lowest tree branches, making the entire garden appear to be full of floating lights.

"Mr Trenton Wilkes and Langdon Wilkes, sir," says Father, taking a stiff rectangle of paper from his tuxedo jacket and showing it to the tuxedoed, bow-tied man.

"Of course," says the man, bowing us through. "Welcome, Messieurs Wilkes and Wilkes."

We enter and make it ten steps inside before a familiar voice hails us.

"Wilkes!"

Our eyes swing towards it in tandem. The entire Selling clan is in attendance tonight: both brothers, their wives, and a handful of their children between them. I see Cornelius, with a smug expression that I want to punch off, and Marjorie among their faces. Our eyes meet, and a small smile flickers across her lips before she looks away.

After we're done with the greetings, Augustus Selling leads us all across the grass towards a much larger group of people in evening attire, and I recognise our host, Lord Cumberland, as the one holding court. I've only met him once, a few years back, before I started at the Institute. He still looks the same, at least: bushy beard, balding head, round wire-rimmed spectacles, and a ruddy complexion.

Once again we're absorbed into the group and another round of introductions follow. Lord Cumberland re-introduces us to his two sons, Demetrius and Nemo. Both of them are older and already members of a Guild, but they carry the air of Institute alumni about them — that is, they think they know everything.

"Would you care for some refreshment, Langdon?" Marjorie asks, edging up to me and speaking right in my ear.

"Yes, please." I'm relieved she's said something; I'd been looking for a way to escape and hadn't found one.

She slips her hand in the crook of my elbow and we slither from the group, the older adults taking no notice of us and the younger people, mostly siblings and cousins, look bored and appear to want to do the same thing.

We make a detour at the refreshment table at the very last minute. Marjorie snatches two champagne flutes to complete the illusion, but we don't linger — instead veering off the path and into a loose stand of trees.

"Was the party boring you?" I ask, taking one of the champagne glasses from her and leaning back against a tree trunk. "You, the belle of every ball?"

She shudders. "That's precisely the boring part."

"Then as your intended I would say that is not a very good omen."

At that Marjorie rolls her eyes, but I see that fleeting smile again. "And what would you know about omens, Mr Wilkes?"

I shrug. "Enough, Miss Selling."

"Psst!"

The hissing sound startles both of us. I jump, nearly spilling my champagne, while Marjorie chokes on the swallow she's just taken. Then both of us turn towards the noise, and I see Wells's head peeking out from behind a tree nearby.

"Mr Hudson?" Marjorie hisses. "Good God, we nearly jumped out of our skin!"

"Sorry," Wells says, and he at least has the decency to look like he means it. "But we've been waiting back here for the last hour."

"'We'?" I hear an edge creep into Marjorie's tone.

Naomi's head appears from behind a tree opposite Wells's. The moment it does, I feel the air pull tight. I can almost sense her envy from here.

Marjorie senses it too. She averts her eyes and hunches her shoulders just slightly. "I believe we have not yet been introduced."

Wells steps out from behind the tree. He's still dressed in day wear — dark grey suit and dark red cravat — and his jaw is clenched, probably because he did not want to get caught in the middle of this.

"Miss Selling," he says, motioning Naomi forward. "This is my sister Naomi."

As they greet each other Wells inches over to me, about to say something. I can see it in his face.

"If you're thinking this is ill-met," I say, "it probably is."

"I believe it," he agrees. "Naomi was stewing the entire way here."

I glance over at the girls. They stand closer together than we are, and Naomi's face, half-lit by the dim moonlight, is troubled.

"She seems to know something's wrong, anyway," I point out. "But it's Marjorie's story to tell you."

We regroup, and Wells doesn't say a word — which is unlike him. He always seems to have something to say, even when no one else does. But it's possible he's sensed the tension from his sister.

"Has Langdon told you anything about why we're here?" Marjorie asks, after a moment or two of silence.

"No," says Naomi, while Wells just shakes his head. "Nothing."

She pulls off her right evening glove and shows them her palm. To them, the sight of it has more effect than if she'd given them an explanation. Naomi takes in a sharp breath, and her fingertips fly to her lips. Wells peers at it, brow furrowing and smoothing out repeatedly.

"You've been blood-bound," he says finally, straightening. "Numerous times. Who's doing it to you?"

"My father and Uncle Gus," Marjorie answers. "And my mother is complicit in the entire thing."

"But how...?" Naomi's voice rasps out. "How can he...? With everything that they claim to be combatting?"

"It's my father too," I remind her. "And he's the head of the bloody Institute."

I see Marjorie flinch. She has never once uttered a curse word around me, and for the most part I've made an effort to do the same. Except this is too much of a coincidence to talk round the bush about.

"They're all working together," says Wells, once again producing the Selling brothers' book from somewhere in his suit coat. "Both your fathers, your uncle, Marjorie, and Trotter. This is something that cannot be ignored any longer."

"Uncle Gus has that book," Marjorie says, nodding to it in Wells's hand. "On the shelf in his office at the Guild. I haven't seen it myself, but Neely's mentioned it."

Neely. That nickname plucks at something inside me. She says it with just enough affection that I know her brother hasn't always been the way he is now.

"Of course they've both got a copy," says Naomi savagely. "They probably exchange bleeding notes about it all the time."

"She's not wrong," I point out when Marjorie opens her mouth to protest. "They wrote the book together. It's only reasonable that they would still discuss it. Case in point, your blood-binding."

I see conflict cross Marjorie's face — the loyalty to her family warring with the wanting to stray further to our side. Although neither of the Hudsons would agree, I know she would be a valuable addition to our quest. She has insight that even I can't gain, not with Father on the defensive almost all the time now.

"We have to have a look at it," says Wells then. "Perhaps, if it's straight from the horse's mouth, it'll lead us to something deeper."

"I can't betray Uncle Gus," Marjorie says. "If he finds out I stole something from him..."

"We'll go together," I say, when she trails off. It's a bit harebrained, and will probably lose me the favour Father wanted me to gain. But Augustus Selling could hardly suspect his niece, especially when she's the one they've been using for their own plans. "I'll come up with a problem, something that will get him out of his study. That'll give you a chance to nick it."

She shakes her head. "Langdon, I couldn't ask you to—"

"It's a solid plan," Wells puts in. "Especially for being made up on the fly. I reckon it'll work."

Marjorie's glare at Wells is mutinous, but she doesn't protest. If nothing else, it's the one indication that she is not quite willing to let whatever her father and uncle are doing continue.

"At least this way, if we find multiple copies, we can prove their connection to it," Naomi says. "It'll be there in black and white."

"Hopefully," I say. "Or else this'll all be for nothing."

—

2 May, morning. — On the one school day I have three hours free, I leave the campus without telling anyone where I'm going and hail a hackney at the corner. Marjorie's note, the one that had been sent with a courier yesterday afternoon, is tucked into the pocket of my school uniform coat. She'd briefly written that she would be at the Bromley Hunters' Guild at around half-eleven today, having persuaded her father to bring her along. The addition of both brothers makes it a little more difficult, but I figure I can keep them both occupied.

"Oh, it's you," Cornelius says, when he answers my knock. He's also dressed in an Institute uniform — a training tunic, black with gold piping and a double line of buttons down the front — which means he's either already on the Venator track or he wants to throw it in my face that he has more practicals and less lectures this term.

"Yes, it is," I answer tightly. "Would you care to let me in, or do I have to barge past you?"

He doesn't move, just gives me a shrewd up-and-down glance. I march forward, fully intending to push him aside. I don't get far. His hand clamps down on my arm and my back bumps up against the door.

"I saw you sneak out," he says, voice pitched low. "That night in Bath. And I heard you come back late. Where were you?"

"Out for a walk," I say. But I feel an icicle shoot through my stomach. I should have known nothing escapes his notice.

"A walk?" Cornelius's pale blue eyes narrow. "You've been spending a lot of time with that Hudson scallywag, so I've heard...is there anything you're hiding, Wilkes?"

"No," I growl, trying to jerk my arm away. "Let go, Cornelius."

His hold redoubles. "Rumour's that he's a queer."

I may have blacked out. It's all a blur. But when I come back to myself, Cornelius is laid out on the floor, holding his nose as dark blood begins to seep through his fingers.

"You broke my nose!" he shouts at me. "You broke my bloody nose, Wilkes!"

"Use that word again in front of me, and your bloody nose won't be the only thing broken, Cornelius." My curled fist throbs.

"What on earth is going on down here?" A voice booms from the landing, and moments later both Selling brothers are rushing towards us. Solomon makes a beeline for his son, while Augustus holds me back when I lunge at Cornelius, mouthing the word queer at me over his father's shoulder.

"He called my friend a name behind his back," I snap, glaring daggers at him.

"Neely, you know name-calling is part of your problem," says Solomon, although he doesn't sound serious. "What happened to your nose, boy?"

"Wilkes hit me," Cornelius whines. "Unprovoked, I might add."

"Not unprovoked," I shoot back. "He's a homophobe, and that's his entire problem."

"That's a serious accusation, son," says Augustus, his expression serious. "Quite serious."

"He called my friend...a queer." The word tastes bitter on its way out.

Both brothers look at each other. Solomon shrugs, and Augustus raises his eyebrows in response.

"Is this true, Cornelius?" Augustus asks sternly. "Did you use that slur?"

"Go on," I snap at him. "Tell them."

"Yes, sir," Cornelius says, through clenched teeth.

"Cornelius, you can't say that," Solomon says, although he doesn't seem to believe any of this happened. "It's not civilised."

"If you boys shake hands and apologise, we'll let this go," says Augustus. "Understand?"

We both mumble something like agreement. Solomon gives Cornelius his handkerchief to press over his nose with one hand, and the other he puts out for a shake.

I know I shouldn't have trusted him. I'm less than an arm's length away when it suddenly curls into a fist and comes flying towards my face before I can stop it. The impact crashes into my cheekbone and sends me staggering sideways, and I can hear Cornelius shouting that awful word over and over. A pair of hands drags me backwards, and Cornelius's voice suddenly cuts off when a door booms shut.

"Good God, Langdon, are you all right?" Augustus turns me around to face him, his blue eyes concerned. "That's certainly going to be a good black eye."

"I'll be all right, Mr Selling sir," I say, although I feel a hot pressure behind my eyes. I've never lost my temper, hit someone, or even raised my voice that way. But all because of Cornelius Selling, I've done all three at once in the space of ten minutes.

"Uncle Gus? Langdon?"

Both of us turn towards the landing. Marjorie stands there, her hand on the polished railing. She seems genuinely surprised, but when her eyes meet mine I see her nod at me, just minutely. She's got the book.

"Come here, my dear," Augustus says. "I must go find something for that swelling of his. You stay with him and make sure that boy didn't give him a concussion."

Then he's gone, and Marjorie takes my hand and leads me out of the entrance hall. Then down a short corridor and into a small sitting room, looking very much like one in any English home.

"Langdon..." She turns to face me, and I see concern in her expression.

"I didn't mean to do it, Marjorie," I say, and my eyes well up. "I've never snapped that way before..."

"I'm sure you didn't," she says gently, cupping my cheek and wiping at the tickle there. "I know your nature. He was goading you, wasn't he?"

"I hate that he knows how to." I turn away and swipe at my face, grunting with pain when my fingers brush my rapidly swelling eye.

"Neely...does do that," she says. "Brings that out in people, I mean. I wish he wouldn't. I want to tell him to let up, but...he has dismissed me when I try. Calls me 'mummy' and mocks me."

"How do you stand him?"

I hear her sigh heavily. "If we're being honest, I can't, most times. What you did...we all wanted to. But if I or my cousins or any of my brothers broke Neely's nose, we would be severely punished for it. But you...I think your reaction was perfectly within reason."

"He called Wells a...a slur." I can't bring myself to say it again.

"I've no idea where he might have heard it in the first place," she says. "But then again, Neely sometimes does things that even Mother and Father cannot understand."

I rake one hand through my hair, not caring that I'm undoing all the careful pomading that I did this morning. "Your father will probably not want me in your family now."

"You mustn't pay any attention to Father. He must put up a front for Uncle Gus. But I assure you, he tolerates that sort of behaviour from Neely even less than our uncle does."

I sit down heavily in the nearest chair, and Marjorie's hand settles gently on my shoulder, just for a light squeeze.

"Although, speaking of my uncle, I happened to spirit this away from his office while you were busy rearranging my brother's face." I hear a faint rustle of fabric, and then she's handing me another copy of the Selling brothers' blood-binding book. This one looks newer than Trotter's, no scuffs or wear at the corners or on the spine. "It appears Wells's theory is correct."

"Does this mean you're on our side?" I ask.

"Yes, if we keep it under wraps," she says, in all seriousness. "My family cannot know I'm spending any time with you except for social calls. I trust you not to say anything...but I thought you should know."

"Thank you," I say, taking her hand and gently kissing her knuckles. Even if I have no romantic inclinations towards her, whatever we have to go through now will bring us closer in a way that could form a much stronger bond than that.

Augustus Selling enters seconds before she hides the book away again. He carries a knotted cloth in his hand, the middle of it already dark with the melting ice wrapped inside it.

"Apologies, Langdon," he says. "Took forever to track the iceman down."

He hands me the cloth, and I gingerly press it to my eye. "Thank you, sir."

"I've told Sol many times to discipline that boy," he says, now addressing both of us. "Yet he thinks he is God's greatest gift to mankind."

Marjorie makes a strange stifled noise, which I realise a second later is a repressed snort. I see her uncle's mouth twitch up at one corner, as if he agrees.

"Now Langdon." He turns to us, one hand fiddling with his pocket-watch chain. "I've had a discussion with your father about your prospects after you've finished at the Institute. I know you've still got a year to go, but it's less about making good marks in lectures and more about impressing your instructors in the practicals. And if you are going to be courting my niece there, which I'm sure you inevitably will be, it may behoove you to see how things work in the real world."

"What exactly does that mean, sir?" I ask. This seems like a strange conversation to have at this moment, but perhaps he is trying to keep my mind off the pain.

"If you'd be so inclined, you could take advantage of what the Guild has to offer. There are things the Institute won't teach you here, son. It would be your opportunity to learn from some of the best hunters at work today." I see him puff up slightly, posturing like a peacock. "And, if you are truly serious about Marjorie, it would not be entirely without reason to see her more."

"I..." Father would certainly want me to accept. It occurs to me that this could be part of his plan, another attempt to mould me. "I would have to think about it, sir."

"Of course you would." He smiles and his eyes crinkle at the corners, radiating kindness. "There is no obligation, Langdon. I only want to make you aware of the option."

"Thank you, sir. I appreciate it." Once again I find myself wanting to discuss it with Wells and Naomi. They may consider it a valuable bit of spying, a way to have eyes and ears on the very inside. Which, if that is the case, I may be more interested.

—

Later. — I manage to track down Seaton and Isham after the last lecture of the day lets out, catching them right at the front gates.

"Wilkes!" Seaton crows. "Mate! Long time no see!"

"Say, mate, that's an impressive battle wound," Isham says, peering closer at my bruised eye. "How'd you get that, then?"

"I need to talk to you," I say, without acknowledging either of their greetings. "Both of you. In private."

They glance at one another, their puzzled expressions identical. Isham shrugs first, and they follow me across the quad and into the quieter inner courtyard.

"What's this about, Wilkes?" Seaton asks.

"This," I say, turning around and showing them my bruised hand. The first two knuckles are swollen and painful, and I know by tomorrow I won't be able to move them. "This came from breaking Cornelius Selling's nose. You know why? Because he called one of my friends a nasty slur. One that could get him thrown in Wormwood Scrubs for life."

"Not sure what you mean by—" Isham starts, but I interrupt immediately.

"He suspects Wells of being homosexual," I hiss. "Marjorie Selling said so. And she being his sister, I trust her word. And do you know where I think he may have picked that up?"

"Mate, seriously, we—" Seaton tries this time, but I cut across him too.

"You two." I narrow my eyes at them. "Neither of you would back off Naomi, at the park or at the fête. If you're trying to get back at me for stopping you, it's failing. I wanted to believe you would never do something like this, but I suppose I'm wrong."

"Wilkes," Seaton says, when I brush past him. He catches my shoulder. "Mate. Hang on a moment."

"Don't touch me," I snap, throwing his hand off.

"Look, Wilkes," Isham says, stepping into my path and blocking my way. I grind to a halt. "We didn't start that rumour. Swear it on me Gran's grave we didn't. Hudson doesn't give me a good feeling, but it isn't because we think he's...you know...homosexual."

"Didn't even cross our minds," Seaton adds. "Bloke's so threatening, I swear he could shoot daggers out of his eyes. Even if his sister is one bloody bit of all right. We don't even talk to Cornelius Selling. Everyone knows he's a bigot."

"Not to mention a little specky pig-head," says Isham. "If anyone started that rumour, it was Corny himself. My da thinks it's because he's afraid he might be the homosexual."

"You told your families about him?" I feel alarm spear through my gut.

"About Corny's bullying," says Seaton. "Not Hudson. My parents don't even know who the bloke is."

I breathe a sigh of relief, and the vise in my chest releases.

"Listen, mate. We know you've been having a rough go of it lately. With your father coming down on you all the time." Seaton grasps my shoulder, and this time I don't throw it off. "What d'you say to a spirited game of croquet at mine? Haven't done that in ages."

"Besides, someone has to knock the champion off his pedestal," says Isham, clapping my upper arm and then giving it a squeeze.

"Right. Of course." I can't refuse them, not after that conversation. At least they didn't seem to think any less of me for suspecting them. They must have been expecting it. Which is hardly comforting, but it has to do for now.

----

(A/N [it'll be quick, I promise]: Although it's been reclaimed in the LGBTQ+ community, throughout much of the late 1800s and even a better part of the 1900s, the word "queer" was considered a slur for gay men. And the Wormwood Scrubs that Langdon mentions is a prison – historically, being gay in Great Britain got many men thrown in prison [Oscar Wilde is just one example of it in real life]. So whether or not you believe Cornelius is a homophobe, it's a reasonable fear for our main characters if they're found out.)