“There is a hole in a wall?” he asked mildly.
“There is, Prince,” Beale replied.
“A big hole?”
A hesitation. “Big enough to require repairs, but small enough that it shouldn’t require reconstruction of the entire wall.”
“I see.” Daemon noticed his mind had given up on the challenge of forming words and he was simply writing the same three letters over and over. “No one is at risk from falling debris?”
“I checked,” Holt said. When Daemon looked up, he shrugged. “One of the Scelties told Mikal there was a boom. Since Mikal was working with me today, we went to take a look. Discreetly.”
“But you didn’t think to inform me?” Daemon asked, his voice still mild.
Another shrug. “Daemonar was heading toward the study as Mikal and I headed toward the room, so I didn’t think it was my place to report the incident—unless Daemonar failed to tell you.”
Unfortunately, that made sense—or as much sense as anything currently made in the Hall.
“It’s raining,” Beale said. “And it’s cold out.”
Daemon capped his pen, abandoning the attempt to look unconcerned. “Yes, it is.”
“I believe the young Ladies would have tried this bit of Craft outdoors if it hadn’t been raining.”
“That it is cold and rainy has been pointed out to me.” He had to give the youngsters a chance to figure things out for themselves and work together to correct mistakes, just like they would have to do in the future when they were part of a Queen’s court. Wouldn’t his father have done that when Saetan had had the job of teaching and protecting Witch’s coven and the boyos? “Along with correcting whatever Craft has gone wrong, I think a review of creating shields will be in order for this week’s lessons, don’t you?”
“Absolutely,” Holt said.
“It would be prudent,” Beale agreed. “Experience indicates this will not be a singular event.”
Daemon sighed. “Very well.” He waited, but Beale and Holt didn’t leave. “Something else?”
Beale looked at Holt. Holt looked at Beale.
“It’s time,” Beale said. “Will you show him, or shall I?”
Holt hesitated, then said, “I’ll show him.”
Daemon studied the two men. “Show me what?”
His study was in the shape of a reversed L, the short end holding floor-to-ceiling bookcases behind his large blackwood desk. The sides of that part of the study were covered in dark red curtains. Behind one set of curtains was a door that opened into a storage room. Large shelves—some open, some with doors—started above Daemon’s head and went to the ceiling. Beneath the shelves were two rows of wooden filing cabinets that held paperwork and records for the family’s various estates and business interests.
Holt walked into the storage room. Daemon pushed away from his desk and followed his secretary to the last filing cabinet on the left-hand side. Holt called in a gold key and unlocked the cabinet. Then he handed Daemon the key.
“Beale has one key. I’ve held the other,” Holt said. “Per our instructions.”
“Instructions from . . . ?” He knew. He just wanted someone to say it.
“Your father. About a year before he went to the final death, he gave us the keys and told us to make the contents of this cabinet available to you when it would be helpful.”
“And that’s now?”
“Prince, you have a hole in a wall, so it’s time.”
Hell’s fire.
He’d been aware of this locked cabinet for centuries, but he’d never tried to find out what it held. Saetan had written Private on the label that had been slipped into the brass holder on the cabinet’s top drawer. These locked drawers had been his father’s business—and apparently, that business was now his.
Holt opened the top drawer, scanned the neatly labeled files, pulled one out, and handed it to Daemon.
He opened the file, read what amounted to a report, read it again—and looked at Holt. “I’ll double your wages this month if you can look me in the eyes and tell me this is fiction.”
Holt said nothing.
“I’ll triple your wages.”
Holt looked regretful but said nothing.
Mother Night. “Tell me what you remember.”
“Their intentions were good,” Holt began. “Well, their intentions were always good, but this time it started because a child in the village was playing with some friends and through some foolishness put his arms through the glass in a window. Serious injuries, lots of bleeding, panicked adults, hysterical friends—and the possibility that the boy would lose the use of both arms. Halaway’s Healer requested assistance, which is how Jaenelle, Karla, and Gabrielle got involved.”
“The healing was successful?” Daemon asked. Not that he had any doubt it would have been. Besides being Queens and Black Widows, those three witches had been the most powerful and talented Healers of their generation—and were still considered to have no equals.
“Yes. The child recovered completely and suffered no loss of movement or strength in his arms. He had one scar on each arm to show to his friends, but those faded after a year. However, the concern about a window breaking and someone being badly hurt had the coven working on the idea of adding some Craft to window glass so that it would break into pieces with no sharp edges, like glass worn down by sand and the sea.”
“That explains the notation here about a visit to Lady Perzha and the beaches around Little Weeble,” Daemon murmured.
“There’s probably another file about that visit,” Holt muttered. Then he continued. “Once the coven thought they had a working spell, they had to test it. So Jaenelle and Karla purchased a couple of pieces of window glass that they inserted into freestanding frames so that they could do the test in one of the Hall’s outside courtyards.”
“And it worked.”
“Pretty much. The glass broke into small, smooth-edged pieces just the way they wanted it to. But the High Lord pointed out that glass that obligingly broke in a way that wouldn’t cause a would-be thief any harm and also didn’t have the sound of glass shattering was a potential invitation for mischief.” Holt breathed in, breathed out. “So the girls added another bit of Craft for the second test. When the glass broke that time, it started shouting, ‘Intruder! Intruder! I’m hit! I’m hit! I’m hit!’ ”
Daemon reminded himself that breathing wasn’t optional.