Page 72

Sunday evening was crisp and very clear. A crescent moon hung in the sky. Tom pulled Tranquility into a Richmond mooring. Dense weeping willows obscured the platform, their heavy branches brushing the water. This wasn’t the Oliver mooring—Tom had been worried that someone would spot the double-headed hound—but it was close enough that Joan could see fancy pleasure boats lined up farther along the river.

Above them, helicopters whirred as even more people arrived.

‘Masks on,’ Joan said. She didn’t want to risk being spotted by the wrong guest.

Ruth had volunteered to find clothes and masks for all of them, and she’d done an impressive job. Everything fit perfectly, even Tom’s dinner suit, which actually looked tailored to his huge frame.

Joan’s dress had a semi-transparent black skirt. The low-backed bodice was threaded with gold beading and gold embroidered flowers. The skirt glinted in the moonlight, which surprised her; the tiny crystals of sparkle hadn’t been visible during the day. Her mask was gold too: a delicate filigree headpiece that covered the top half of her face, evoking a fire-like tiara. Underneath it, she wore a strip of black lace to obscure her eyes. Long black gloves concealed the fugitive mark on her wrist.

Ruth had found herself a slinky dress in champagne silk. Her mask was an oversized gold and royal blue piece inspired by a butterfly. The wings were fine as lace, rising above her head, Valkyrie-like. Mirrored blue glass mimicked butterfly markings, and they’d been strategically placed to hide Ruth’s eyes.

Tom and Jamie matched. Their dinner suits were dark, dark green—almost the colour of the shadowed leaves around them. Their masks were leather: single sycamore leaves in burnished autumn brown, with only their mouths showing.

Now Tom peered into Tranquility’s wheelhouse. Frankie gave him a squashed-face blink and yawned. ‘You’re not coming?’ he asked her, surprised. ‘There’ll be food.’ Frankie yawned again and turned in a circle to go back to sleep.

‘Fair enough,’ Ruth muttered. ‘I wouldn’t want to hang about with the Olivers either.’

They made their way up the gentle slope of the bank. As they crested the rise, Joan felt her mouth drop open. ‘That’s the Oliver house?’ That was where Aaron had grown up?

The principal building shone from the hill: a four-storey manor house with castle-like turrets and glowing windows. Beyond it, a domed conservatory shone, bright as a light box; and beyond that there was a vast formal garden. Joan stared. She’d had some idea of Aaron’s background—she’d pictured him sleeping in posh school dorms and lounging about in country houses. But this …

‘Bit over the top, isn’t it?’ Ruth murmured.

‘It’s a palace,’ Joan said wonderingly. The Olivers had owned Holland House in the other timeline, but this was even grander than that. No wonder Aaron had seemed so at home among the priceless paintings and sculptures of Whitehall Palace, and so out of place at the rough-and-ready rooms they’d found on the run.

Tom turned back to the grassy bank. ‘Where’s George?’ he murmured. They’d arranged to meet George Griffith among the willows at the edge of the river.

‘He’s not late,’ Jamie whispered back. ‘It’s not quite ten yet.’

But an hour passed, and George remained absent. The moon rose and the temperature dropped. Joan shuffled closer to Ruth for warmth. Every few minutes, a slick black car rolled up the long driveway, and guests emerged in sparkling gowns and dinner suits, masks glinting in the moonlight. They followed a lamplit path around the house, guided by liveried footmen.

‘We’re going to miss our window,’ Ruth said. ‘If we arrive too late, our entrance will be memorable. And we really don’t want to be memorable.’

‘Let’s give him a few more minutes,’ Joan said.

Half an hour after that, Tom’s phone lit up with a message. He read it grim-faced.

Joan’s heart sank. ‘George is a no-show?’

‘Got a better offer apparently.’

‘Seriously?’ Ruth said. ‘This is why I don’t work with Griffiths.’

Joan’s stomach squirmed. They’d really needed a Griffith for this—someone who could induce truth.

‘What do we do?’ Jamie said.

They were already here, dressed for the part, eyes shielded. They had to take this opportunity. ‘Let’s just go in and figure it out,’ Joan said. Ruth was right. They were about to miss their window to get in.

They’d need to get Aaron on his own. And then … There had to be a way to get Nick’s whereabouts from Aaron without the Griffith power.

The path around the house led to a garden walled with a high hedge and an open iron gate. Two stone figures held the hinges. At first glance, they looked like angels, but as Joan got closer, she saw that they were Oliver mermaids with scaled tails. On the other side of the gate, a path led into the grounds. Even from here, the scent of sweet evergreen trees and flowers was intoxicating.

A red-liveried footman stood at the entrance. ‘Please follow the lit path,’ he said with a nod.

The path wound around thickets of trees that opened here and there to lush lawn. Joan could imagine having picnics here. She wondered if Aaron ever had. ‘I was worried they’d ask for invitations,’ she whispered to Ruth as they walked.

‘Doubt there even are invitations,’ Ruth murmured back. ‘No enemy of the Olivers would show up to an Oliver party.’ She nudged Joan with her elbow. ‘Except idiots like us, I guess.’