It didn’t matter. She lunged for the window. The poker smashed through a pane of glass.

Then the dragon was in front of her, between her and her escape route. Mina shrieked again, this time in frustration as much as fear. It had to be fast, too?

She couldn’t even look at it properly. It kept twisting, or being twisted. She could tell that it was rearing up now on two legs, which there shouldn’t have been enough space to do. Otherwise it was as if she couldn’t focus her eyes, or as if some prism hung between her and the dragon, splintering its image into many angles.

Well. Fine. She’d at least make it have a bad night.

Mina drew her arm back, tightened her grip on the poker—

A hand grasped her arm. A human hand, by the feel of it, since her bones were in one piece and there were no claws piercing her skin. But when Mina looked down, the skin on the hand was deep red and scaly.

That shape lasted for a moment, long enough to burn itself into Mina’s mind. Then the scales vanished, the skin turned pale again, and she was looking at a hand that might have belonged to any gentleman.

Her own hand dropped to her side, the poker in her grasp suddenly very heavy. Mina looked up at golden-brown eyes, deep red-black hair, a square chin, and a thin mouth.

“Cerberus,” said a familiar deep voice, heavy with irony and resignation. “Might I ask what you’re doing in my house?”

Three

The best laid schemes of mice and men, as another Scotsman had observed, often went awry. Stephen had heard as much quite a few times in the century since Burns had written his poem, but the phrase had rarely seemed as true as at that moment. Granted that his plans hadn’t been that well-laid; still, at no point had they featured either a battle with manes or further conversation with Miss Seymour.

Miss Seymour herself did not look like she found their current situation either an expected or a desired development. The muscles of her arm were rigid under his hand. Her whole slim body was tense—torn, Stephen thought, between the primitive urge to flee and the more intellectual knowledge that it would probably do no good. Even knowing the woman as little as he did, he would also have wagered that the impulse to belt him with the poker was in there as well, which was why he hadn’t let go of her arm.

“I… You…” In the dim light, her eyes were very wide, very dark. Shock. She shook her head violently, though, and then turned from disbelief to defensive hostility, raising her voice and thrusting her chin forward. “I told people I was coming here tonight. Plenty of people. They’ll know it if you do anything to me.”

“Wise of you,” said Stephen. “But not necessary. Contrary to rumor, I don’t really eat virgins.”

If Miss Seymour blushed, it was too dark for him to see it, at least in human form. The dragon wouldn’t have found the dim light a problem, but the dragon would also have gotten a poker in the face some minutes back.

“And what,” Stephen went on, “did you tell these people? I can’t imagine you’re advertising your services as a housebreaker.”

Miss Seymour drew herself up. “I didn’t break in anywhere. I came to ’ave a cup of tea with—oh. Oh, Lord.” Indignation and suspicion both vanished, at least for the time being, and her mouth dropped open in horrified realization. “Your cook. Mrs. Hennings. She fell when they came in—hit ’er head. I don’t know if—but we should go see to her, and quickly.”

’Er and ’ave, Stephen noticed, even as he turned and started down the hallway, pulling the girl along with him. Also, her vowels were broader than they’d been when she’d spoken to him in Carter’s office. Hers wasn’t a strong accent, and she’d clearly tried to get rid of it, but it was there.

He wasn’t sure why her dialect, trained or native, mattered, but it was more information, and one never knew where or when that could prove valuable.

“Would you let me go?” Miss Seymour snapped as they hurried down the hallway. “You’re pulling the arm right off of me.”

Stephen winced and stopped. “Sorry.” It was easy to forget his strength; usually, he dealt with that by not making much contact with pure humans. He started to remove his hand, then stopped. Miss Seymour could manage a fair turn of speed when she ran. She was also still armed. “Perhaps—”

She glared up at him. “Do you really think I’ll run now? You know who I am. You’re a lord. You can go to Scotland Yard if you want, disgrace me and the professor both. What do you think I’ll do if you leave hold of me?”

“Ah,” said Stephen. She was right, but agreeing with her would have been gloating, and her voice was already spiky with frustration. “Well,” he said, “then I must ask you to put down the poker.”

Clang.

“I’m much obliged,” he said, and released her arm.

Miss Seymour rubbed at her bicep. “Likewise, I’m sure,” she said, formal and icy.

They went on.

The kitchen was still decently lit. Stephen could see the remains of a teapot and an overturned chair and Mrs. Hennings, lying on the floor with a pool of blood around her head.

Stephen rushed to her side and knelt down. The woman was still breathing, at least, and her pulse was steady when he felt the side of her neck. He lifted her head carefully, all the more aware of his strength since Miss Seymour’s outburst, and began what examination he could manage. Near at hand, he heard Miss Seymour moving around the kitchen: light footsteps, cabinet doors opening and closing, and the sound of water being pumped.

At last, he let himself sigh with relief. “It’s a nasty cut,” he said, “and she’ll have a lump for a few days, but there’s no dent in her skull. Head wounds always bleed considerably, even the mild ones.”

“I know,” said Miss Seymour, kneeling down herself. She had a basin of water with her and a small stack of clean napkins. “My brother’s friend Harry copped ’im on the forehead with a bit of rock once when we were young. Bled sheets, he did, and Mum almost fainted when she saw him walk in, but he was right as rain by dinnertime. Here. You wash the cut. I’ll see if some water on her face can’t bring her round.”

It did. After the first touch of the cloth, Mrs. Hennings made incoherent, pained noises and opened her eyes. “…Your lordship?” she asked, looking vaguely alarmed to see Stephen so near at hand.

“Lie still, please,” he said. “Can you see clearly?”

She blinked a few times. “Yes, sir. What—oh, dear God. What happened? There were these dark…dark men, weren’t there? They were men. They had to have been…but…no—”

“Ah,” said Stephen. “Well—”

“Burglars,” Miss Seymour said quickly. “They had masks over their faces. Probably ladies’ stockings, though I didn’t get much of a look. One of them hit you with a bullwhip, of all things. Seems he fancied himself Jesse James. Your knee gave out and you hit your head.”

Mrs. Hennings frowned, but in disapproval now, rather than the confusion and incipient hysteria of before. “Well, what happened? Are they still around? Did they get anything?”

“No,” said Miss Seymour. “Lord MacAlasdair,” there was only a slight pause, “shot one of them. In the leg. That subdued them both fairly quickly. The police have taken them away.”

Mrs. Hennings relaxed. Over her head, Stephen took a moment to stare at his involuntary companion.

After their first conversation, he’d mentally filed Miss Seymour away the way he did most people: Girl; Typist and Threshold Guardian; Professor Carter, For the Use of. Hair: Brown, Light. (Under the kitchen light, it was the color of caramels, somewhat curly, and more than somewhat escaped from its pins.) Eyes: Blue, Dark. Dress: Dark, Serviceable. Personality: Unfortunate, Deeply.

He hadn’t considered, as facets of her character, the existence of brothers, the ability to lie swiftly and convincingly, or the willingness to hit a dragon with a fireplace poker. The subjects had not occurred to him.

Stephen cleared his throat. “Yes, well,” he said, looking back down at his cook. “How are you feeling?”

“My head hurts a bit,” said Mrs. Hennings, and raised a hand to touch the cut. “Ugh. But I’m right enough otherwise, I’d think.”

“I’m glad to hear it,” said Stephen, “but you should still get some rest. You’ll have tomorrow off, and you’ll tell me if you’re feeling at all unwell afterward.”

Mrs. Hennings seemed about as well as a person could be after a knock on the head, and there wasn’t much that a doctor could do in any case, but such things could be tricky. Stephen remembered a boy, kicked by a horse, who’d been fine for days and then dropped down stone dead.

That had been more than fifty years ago. Back at home, Stephen wouldn’t have thought anything of such time. Here, surrounded by mayfly people, the gulf of years seemed wider.

He began to help Mrs. Hennings to her feet, a process that went fairly well until she put her weight on her left leg. She cried out then, not loudly, and grabbed involuntarily at Stephen’s arm as her knee buckled.

“A week off,” he said, bracing her calmly. More memories came back to him: the aftermath of fire and flood, battle and plague. “At least. And we’ll have a doctor in as soon as you’re settled.”

“Why don’t you go and send for one?” Miss Seymour stepped forward. “I’ll help Mrs. Hennings get comfortable. Unless—is there anyone else in the house?”

“Not yet,” said Stephen. Even Baldwin and his wife had left: Baldwin had mentioned taking in a show. Neither of them had been to London before, and they were evidently determined to enjoy it.