“The Aerfenium.” She pulled her head back and watched him blink in confusion. “The Unseily host hadn’t wanted it to explode. If they had, they wouldn’t have been caught off guard and so many of them killed.”
“They wanted to harvest some for their alchemy,” said Conall. He sounded amused but did not let go of her.
“Yes,” she said. “The alchemy requires it, which means Cyrus Reed had some too. He must have. And that means we’ve been wrong all this time. He didn’t choose to ambush Balclune because he knew of a fey presence. He came there for the Aerfenium.”
“I thought none was stolen during the attack?” asked Conall.
Effie grinned as she worked it out. “None was,” she said. “But that’s because he didn’t steal any. He was given some by the very man who seeks to profit off its use.”
“Sir Walter Conrad,” said Conall.
“Yes, the very man,” she said. “Lieutenant Walford spoke correctly. Unravelling any clue as to the Barrow Witch’s whereabouts must be our utmost priority. Rose can take the thunderstone to Skye. We must go to Edinburgh at once.”
She knew Sir Walter could be found there. If he confirmed their assumptions, perhaps they could learn more about how and when Cyrus Reed approached him. That might lead them to where the Barrow Witch first contacted Reed, or how. It might even lead them to other madmen who’d done the same. The thought was chilling.
“Aye,” said Conall. “We’ll do just that.” He jerked her back to him. His lips found hers as her mouth parted in sweet surprise. Warmth swelled in her chest, spilling along her arms and up her neck. Edinburgh could wait a heartbeat longer—perhaps two—she decided, as her head grew light and threatened to float away.
She smoothed her dress a hundred times on the way into the city. Ever since the stables, a part of her felt out of sorts, as if knocked akilter by the sudden emotions Conall produced. She had not expected to desire him so strongly ever again, not since she’d made peace with their breaking when last they’d parted. Not since Jack Canonbie had wooed her and stolen her affections.
But whatever her emotions, she had a need to stuff them down for now. She made the decision as the steam carriage rattled and squeaked, choking them with black coal smoke puffed from the boiler perched behind the hard wooden bench of the compartment. She had no time for self-examination.
A larger game was afoot.
Graham joined them in the carriage they had hired in Dunfermline. He had business in Edinburgh and wished to meet with Thomas Stevenson before finding Jane and Abigail, and relaying all the information they had learned. Effie wished she had time to go with him. She would love to see her friends and the man who’d all but been her father, once again. But that too would have to wait.
She would need to confront Sir Walter first. She knew the loose thread was delicate but also one she needed to worry at and see what unraveled. They had not so many options left to them as to let it sit untended. The Barrow Witch had to be found before her madness brought the world to the brink of war.
“May luck find ye well,” said Graham. He patted her knee as the steam carriage squealed to a halt.
She took his aged and calloused hands, roughened from hard labor in his younger years, into her own. They reminded her of the peaceful home she had known not so long ago. “You as well,” she replied.
Conall tipped his hat to Graham. He clambered down from the carriage and helped Effie alight. The city bustled around them, though it was quieter on the residential streets of New Town. The hawkers and urchins found in the older parts, coated in coal dust and weeks of muck, were replaced by sharply dressed gentlemen and women with bright scarves and well-mended dresses. Canes clacked along the cobbles. A polite murmur of greetings echoed between the buildings, which rose in bright stone, uniform and bold.
The steam carriage shuddered and groaned into motion. A breeze brought a hint of salt from the sea and pushed away the cloud of coal smoke left by Graham’s departure. Effie let it wash over her. The stench of the tenements had no place in New Town, but that did not mean nothing rotten lay about.
“Sir Walter will not want a connection between himself and Cyrus Reed to be known,” she said to Conall as they strode for one of the buildings. “It would undermine his position of trust with the duke.”
Conall nodded. He used his cane to rap on a sturdy oaken door. It was opened by a footman who took their names and ushered them inside. The chamber within held sparse decoration but a refined taste. A plush couch with gilded scrollwork sat beneath an immense portrait of Arthur’s Seat and the hills surrounding Edinburgh. Conall studied it while Effie chose to stare out the tall window that allowed sunlight to spill in from the street.
They did not wait long.
Sir Walter’s study did not boast of wealth, but rather like the chamber outside served to remind its guests of a refined pedigree. The silver tea trays and candle holders were polished with a fervor, the snifters and other glassware finely etched with knot-work patterns. A pair of hearths warmed the room from either side, with a fire crackling in each.
Effie stepped within and instantly cursed herself a fool. She had been so caught up in considering how to best Sir Walter, she had blindly ignored her fey senses.
“Effie…” Conall hissed the warning.
Sir Walter leaned against a broad desk of teak that sat atop an ornamental rug from the East. His countenance was as impeccable as always. A finely tailored coat fit perfectly over a stiffly starched shirt. He kept his raven locks cropped short against his scalp. Dark eyes and gaunt cheeks made his lean frame appear even thinner, yet no one would mistake it for frailness.
“Welcome, Effie of Glen Coe. Mr. Murray,” he said. He straightened and set down his whisky before offering a slight bow. He gestured at a sturdy, leather chair. “I believe you are both acquainted with my guest.”
Effie’s throat tightened. A nervous tremble passed through her. Sir Walter’s guest stood. He’d had his back to her when she entered, but she would recognize him anywhere. Younger than Sir Walter, he had an athletic build and comely face. He smiled in a cheery way that made her skin crawl.
“I had no idea you kept such company, Sir Walter,” she managed to say. She curtsied to the man. “I will leave and call on you when your matters have concluded.”
Lord Granville laughed, a boorish sound from deep in his gut. “No, no, that is quite all right. I heard you announced and bade Sir Walter not to let you know of my presence. I knew you would likely seek to avoid me.”
And why do you not seek to avoid me? The question blared in Effie’s mind. It scared her, what the man might ask. She had not prepared for such a confrontation. He was one of the richer lords of the realm, and as much the schemer as any in London. In the past year, the man had bribed local gangs to lead riots against those harboring pro-fey sentiments, had concocted a plan to ship all with fey blood to a distant island, and had paid for the newspapers to print scandalous stories defaming the fey, all to undermine the good will she had fostered with the duke.
But Effie had faced him before and held her ground. She refused to buckle so easily from a simple attempt at intimidation. After all, she had made an ally out of Sir Walter, who’d tried to bully her in a similar manner when first they’d met.