“We all know our tasks?” I asked after everyone had drunk it, touching Austin’s pants pocket and feeling the crinkle of the map. Hollace had asked the service staff for more copies, and they’d complied without complaint, giving us a stack. We’d break off into teams of three or four, each of which would scout a specific section of the tunnels before reporting back and sharing notes.
Everyone murmured their assent as Edgar drifted in closer.
“I’m still unclear as to what to do about trouble,” Edgar said.
“Try to avoid it, and if you can’t, fight back,” I said. “The Mages’ Guild can’t get in here, and Elliot Graves is on their list of top offenders—it doesn’t sound like he’ll report anyone. Don’t start anything, but go ahead and finish it.”
I waited for nods from everyone before I turned and pulled down the tripwire spell. We marched down the hall to the main entrance, utterly silent but for the swish of our clothes and my footfalls. I still wasn’t very good at being quiet.
A man sat in one of the blue velvet chairs, an open newspaper in front of him and his ankle over his knee. A steaming white mug sat on the table by his elbow. Service staff bustled around outside, sweeping up debris left over from my episode, or maybe someone else’s. The glass double door hadn’t been fixed.
“Hello,” I said demurely as we crossed the entranceway to the other opening that would lead way back into the mountain, or so we figured based on the twisting length of the tunnels. I was in a wing of my own, it seemed. I wasn’t sure if that was good or bad.
The man pulled down a corner of his paper, and I realized belatedly that I probably shouldn’t have said anything at all. A lifetime of politeness with strangers had gotten the better of me.
His cold blue eyes assessed me for a moment before flicking to those around me, lingering the longest on Austin. I continued my progress undaunted. Mostly. Staring like that was incredibly rude.
“You’re the Jane, are you not?” he said as I entered the doorway.
I paused and turned back. “Sure.” It was easier than explaining why he was an idiot or coming up with a scathing put-down.
He folded his paper and placed it in his lap. His gaze went back to Austin. To his credit, he didn’t give any of his thoughts away. “And that’s your shifter?”
Again, many possible answers came to mind, but I settled on: “Sure.”
“And your crew.”
“No. They just followed me in off the street.”
Everyone had a breaking point.
His lips tightened, his gaze mostly steady on me, but flicking to Austin every so often. The silence stretched. Was he waiting for something?
As if reading my thoughts, Niamh said, “He’s waiting for ye to recognize him.”
“Oh.” I squinted one eye and half smiled. “Right. Uhm…” Only Niamh hadn’t told me anything about the other guests. I belatedly realized I was flying blind.
“Don’t bother,” Niamh said. “He’s nobody. Walk on.”
I couldn’t stop my eyes from widening. Sarcasm was one thing, but blatant rudeness entirely another. It wasn’t something I was comfortable with.
Austin applied pressure to the small of my back. Mr. Tom’s steady gaze on my face said to comply.
I held my breath and turned away, burning with shame. This was not like my “training” at country clubs and work functions. Politeness had always been key in those situations. There were certain protocols to be followed whether you liked the person or not. Maybe especially when you didn’t like the person. This was worse than high school, and I hadn’t exactly been a mover and shaker.
I followed the wishes of my team, though, and started walking. Many—some?—of them were experienced, if rusty. Besides, eccentricity! That had to count for something.
“Your shifters tore up the front area,” the man called.
I kept walking, separating from Austin’s touch, and alarm rang through the links I shared with the team. Hadn’t they wanted me to keep going? I stopped in confusion and turned around. These were very mixed signals.
The man was leaning forward to see me around the doorframe.
“Your shifters tore up the front area yesterday,” he said again, having dropped the paper between his spread knees so he could lean without looking too eager.
“I mean…” I raised my hand in exasperation. “Sure, why not.”
“How’d they beat Elliot Graves’s spell, though?”
I squinted at him, then shot a confused look at Niamh. Why was he going through mental aerobics to assure himself that I had played no part in the destruction? What could I even say to him without it devolving into insults?
“Yes, Miss Ironheart,” Mr. Tom said. “Sometimes dealing with mages of a lower thinking capacity can be a lesson in patience.”
Hollace’s lips quivered as he tried to suppress a smile, and he half turned away to hide it. He wasn’t as good as the shifters at keeping a straight face.