A Marvellous Light (The Last Binding #1)(3)

“I’m the Queen of Denmark,” he said, coldly sardonic.

Robin clasped his hands on the desk to prevent himself from clinging to the edge of it. He was the one who belonged here, much as he wished otherwise. “And I’m Leonardo da Vinci.”

Miss Morrissey appeared in the doorway, possibly having sensed the likelihood of blood being drawn if the edges to their voices got any keener. Robin managed not to stare at her as he’d done when they’d first met, barely a quarter of an hour ago. He had met Indians before, of course—and even come across some lady civil servants, rare creatures though they were. But he’d never expected to have an example of both categories calmly introduce herself as Miss Adelaide Harita Morrissey, his sole subordinate, and fire a series of reproachful comments at him about how the Minister really could have found a replacement sooner, if Mr. Gatling had been moved into a new position, and she was sorry about the mess on the desk but maybe they could get a start on it after his first meeting, which was in—goodness, five minutes, go ahead and take a seat and should she fetch some tea?

Now Miss Morrissey laid a hand on the Queen of Denmark’s arm. “Mr. Courcey,” she said hurriedly. “This is Sir Robert Blyth. He’s Mr. Gatling’s replacement.”

Robin winced, then cursed himself for it. He’d have to get used to hearing the damn honorific sooner or later.

“Sir Robert,” she went on, “this is Mr. Edwin Courcey. He’s the special liaison. You’ll be working mostly with him.”

“Replacement.” Courcey looked sharply at her. “What happened to Reggie?”

Reggie, Robin had gathered by now, was Gatling. If he and Courcey had been on friendly terms, and Gatling hadn’t bothered to tell his colleague that he’d moved on—or been moved on, His Majesty’s Civil Service being what it occasionally was—then that would explain his surprise, if not his generally unpleasant demeanour.

Miss Morrissey didn’t look pleased. “Nobody’s told me anything. I did try to tell the Secretary’s Office—and the Assembly—that vanishing without word for a fortnight is odd even for Reggie. And on Friday I received a curtly worded note, saying that a replacement would be here on Monday. And here he is.”

Courcey directed his look at Robin. “Sir Robert. Who are you related to that I’d know?”

“Nobody in particular, I’m sure,” said Robin through his teeth. Perhaps that wasn’t entirely true; his parents had been well known. They’d made sure of that. But barefaced snobbery made Robin feel contrary.

“Oh, for God’s—” Courcey cut himself off. “I don’t suppose it matters. Thank you, Miss Morrissey.”

The typist nodded and swept back to her own desk, closing the door behind her.

Robin shifted in his seat and tried not to feel trapped. It really was a cramped office, and dark to boot. The sole window lurked awkwardly near the ceiling as though to say it was there on sufferance and didn’t intend to provide anything so pleasant as a view.

Courcey installed himself in the chair across the desk from Robin, opened his folder to a blank piece of paper, pulled a pen from a pocket of his waistcoat, and laid them both on the desk with the air of someone not prepared to have his time wasted.

“As she said, I’m the liaison for the Minister, which means—”

“Which Minister?”

“Hah,” said Courcey sourly, as though Robin had made an unfunny joke instead of a desperate enquiry.

“No, I mean it,” said Robin. “You’re going to give me a straight answer. I can’t sit here all day pretending I know what the blazes I’m meant to be doing, because I don’t. It took me an hour to find this place this morning, and that was mostly by knocking on doors. Assistant in the Office of Special Domestic Affairs and Complaints. And this is it! The entire office! I don’t know which department or commission it falls under! I don’t even know who I report to!”

Courcey raised his eyebrows. “You report directly to Asquith.”

“I—what?”

There was no way that could be right. This nothing position, so lowly that nobody had heard of it—and yet, muttered part of Robin’s brain, he had his own typist, instead of access to a room of them—had been given to Robin because his parents had managed to make an enemy of the wrong person, and Robin was wearing the consequences. Healsmith wouldn’t have looked so smug if he was handing Robin a job that reported directly to the Prime Minister.

Courcey’s mouth looked lemon-ish now. “You really don’t even know what the job is.”

Robin shrugged uncomfortably.

“Special affairs. Special liaison.” Courcey did something with his hands, moving his fingers together and apart. “Special. You know.”

“Are you some kind of . . . spy?” Robin hazarded.

Courcey opened his mouth. Closed his mouth. Opened it again. “Miss Morrissey!”

The door opened. “Mr. Courcey, you—”

“What,” said Robin, “is your pen doing?”

There was a long pause. The office door closed again. Robin didn’t look up to confirm that Miss Morrissey had prudently kept herself on the other side of it. He was too busy gazing at Courcey’s pen, which was standing on one end. No—it was moving, with its nib making swift loops against the uppermost sheet of paper. The date had been written in the top-right corner: Monday 14th September, 1908. The ink—blue—was still drying. As Robin watched, the pen slunk back to the left margin of the paper and hovered there like a footman who was hoping nobody had seen him almost drop the saltcellar.