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“I was thinking,” Wesley said, trying for a casual tone as they dressed the next morning, as if it was no big deal to invite Sebastian to his home, “that we likely don’t need all of our things in Dartmoor. Perhaps we should send whatever luggage remains to Kensington?”

Sebastian looked up from where he was tying his tie in the dresser mirror. “To your house?”

“That was my thought,” Wesley said. “That is, if you wished to—”

“That’s perfect.” Sebastian was heading for the door. “The inn’s cook has a little herb garden. Let me go see if she grows catnip.”

“Catnip—”

“I will send it to your cook’s daughter, Miss Elsie, for her to play with the cats. She can plant it in your back garden if she wants.”

“In my garden—”

The door had already closed behind him.

Well, it gave Wesley a moment, at least. He picked up the telephone receiver and rang down to the front desk. “Have I received a delivery this morning?”

“Just arrived, sir,” said Bertie.

Wesley quickly went downstairs. He had several things waiting from Ned, including his hunting coat and revolver, but also a stack of mail—with Mateo’s letter. Wesley took everything into the small reading room and immediately opened the letter.

Dear Fine:

This will have to be short: you and Sebi left onboard the Gaston yesterday, and I need to mail this in time to reach you as soon as possible after you arrive in England.

Sebi’s binding on my magic is holding, but as I told you, I still get flashes of visions, especially in dreams. I’ve had one of him.

There is a reason his magic is gone: he must not have it when he faces what’s coming. I can’t say more than that. Just know that many lives are at stake—including yours.

Don’t let him try to use it. And don’t tell him or anyone else about this. And thanks for the record. I play it constantly.

P.S. You’re going to have so many cats visiting your garden after that catnip grows.

“For fuck’s sake,” Wesley said, re-reading the letter.

“Sebastian can’t have magic when he faces what’s coming—what in ten vague hells does that mean?

What’s coming when ? Today? Next year? Ugh.

” He raised his eyes heavenward. “Mateo de Leon, I know you can’t hear me, but next time you tell me the future, put in useful details like a sensible man. ”

He read it a third time and then tore it in half and tossed it in the fire, watching to be sure it was in ashes before heading back upstairs to finish preparing for the trip.

Finally, catnip had been acquired and Wesley’s second trunk packed with his and Sebastian’s things, the lot of it on its way to Kensington.

Arthur had found an available room in the village closest to Valemount’s estate, and he and Rory were still planning to follow in Wesley’s Bentley.

Wesley drew him a map of what he knew of the area, including the Valemount ancestral home, Valemount Hall, and its grounds.

Arthur then walked him outside and they stood on the inn’s steps, light raindrops falling on their hats. The day was very gray and quite cold, and Sebastian was hiding inside the inn with Rory until the car was ready to leave.

“I had a cable from Jade,” Arthur said under his breath, as staff packed a hired car with Wesley and Sebastian’s trunks for Dartmoor.

“They’re heading from Lisbon to Paris now, instead of Tangier, to meet Gwen and Ellis, then all of them up to London from there. She said to expect them in three days.”

“Right after our hunt, then.” Wesley nodded. “With any luck, we’ll have enough information to plan our next steps.”

He didn’t mention Mateo’s letter. Arthur had been around magic much longer than Wesley, and might have more ideas about the meaning of that cryptic message, but Mateo had explicitly said not to tell anyone, and Wesley would follow his request.

Finally, the car was ready, and Sebastian joined him.

They rode to the train station, and from there began their connections of trains through the West Country.

They had to switch at multiple stations, and by the time they were on the main line to Exeter, it was late enough for tea.

They sat at a table in the first-class dining car, the window framing the darkening countryside as it rushed by, rolling hills just visible in the fading light.

As they waited for service, Wesley fit his monocle into place and unfolded his paper while Sebastian looked out the train window.

“Mira, Wes, there are ponies in that field.”

“It’s December; it’s already dark. You can’t see any ponies.”

“It’s twilight, you can still see them,” Sebastian insisted.

“If you say so.” Wesley turned a page. “In my newspaper I can see a front-page story about banking.”

Sebastian subtly kicked him under the table. “I wonder if we’ll see a giant glowing dog in Dartmoor.”

“Of course you’ve read The Hound of the Baskervilles ,” Wesley muttered. “It has a dog right there in the title.”

“You’ve read it too.”

“Excuse me?” Wesley said, looking up. “Why would I read fiction when one can spend one’s time engaging with facts?”

“Because you like logic and solving mysteries,” Sebastian said, and he wasn’t wrong. “I bet you’ve read every Sherlock Holmes story.”

Wesley wasn’t admitting to anything. He dropped his gaze back to his paper. “If we do see a murderous phosphorescent hound, just promise me you won’t try to pet it.”

Sebastian’s gaze had gone back out the window. “At least a glowing dog might be proof of Valemount magic,” he said, more quietly. “It’s so frustrating not to be able to tell who has magic, when it used to be so easy to use my magic to find out.”

There is a reason his magic is gone. Gone—for how long? Another day? Forever? Wesley’s next letter to Mateo was going to have some choice words about vague fortune-telling nonsense.

Sebastian’s gaze was still on the window, handsome face partially reflected in the glass. “I almost tried again last night.”

Wesley nearly fumbled his paper. “You almost tried using your magic again last night?”

“Yeah.” Sebastian huffed a short sigh. “Stupid, right? I know it’s gone. I guess old habits don’t die without a fight.”

“It’s die hard .”

“Old habits don’t die hard?”

“No, they do, I meant—never mind, I like your idioms better anyway.” Wesley set his paper on the seat next to him.

“I’m not going to pretend I have any idea what you’re going through,” he said softly.

“But we’re a pair of very clever gents. We’ll find another way to figure it out, one that doesn’t require magic ,” he added, just a little more firmly than he’d meant.

Sebastian glanced at him. “If you say so,” he said, with the smallest hint of a smile.

It was evening when they were picked up at the village train station in a gleaming white Hispano-Suiza H6 tourer that had Sebastian’s eyes lighting up.

“What a show-off the duke is,” Wesley said under his breath, as they drove along a particularly bumpy stretch of country road. “Sending the Spanish car when horses would make more sense on this landscape.”

“The H6 set a world record at Brooklands last year.” Sebastian ran a hand along the top of the door. “I wonder if I can sneak into Valemount’s garage and drive it.”

They traversed several miles through moors and park, not that Wesley could make out much of the landscape in the dark beyond impressions of scattered dwellings and low, fog-wrapped hills.

Once they turned onto the road that crossed the Valemount estate, the quality of the pavement improved significantly at least, but it was still more than three miles to Valemount Hall itself.

The manor was easy to spot, even in the distance; it had been refitted with electricity at some point and its white stone and pilasters were lit like a beacon in the night.

Three long rows of tall, rectangular windows stretched up to a prominent entablature, and the entire house was surrounded by gardens.

As they approached the house, Wesley caught sight of the kennels and stables, set apart from the main house a short distance from what might have been the garages.

“Look.” Sebastian was pointing out at the gardens, which ended at a tor topped with a two-story house built in an echo of the manor’s style. Lights were on in the upper floor.

“Guest house,” Wesley said. “I wonder if that’s where we’re staying.”

When they pulled up at the manor, however, they were greeted by Valemount’s butler, Horace Lester, who explained they’d be staying upstairs.

“I’m afraid the guest house is undergoing renovations, my lord.

It was built on the ruins of the original fifteenth-century hall and the foundation needs regular maintenance,” Lester said, with a small bow, as a pair of footmen came out of the house to collect their bags.

“But we have rooms for you ready in the east wing. If you’ll follow me? ”

They were led first not to their rooms, but to a small, elegant dining room with a large table, although Wesley and Sebastian were the only ones seated at it.

“Lord Valemount extends you his full hospitality,” said Lester, as they were brought a late supper of cold beef and asparagus. “He’s been detained in the village and apologizes for not being here to welcome you himself, but he’ll be here tomorrow.”

“Are we the only ones here?” Wesley said, exchanging a glance with Sebastian. That certainly did not bode well.

But Lester immediately shook his head. “No, sir. Lord and Lady Ryland arrived this afternoon, as did Sir Reginald. They have rooms on the same floor as both of you. They all retired after supper, however, to rest after their journeys. We’re expecting several more guests in the morning, including Lord and Lady Thornton and most of the Valemount Hunt. ”

After the meal, they were taken up the curving, red-carpeted main stairs and into the east wing, where Sebastian was given the Bluebell Room and Wesley the Heather Room next door.