Chapter11

The grandfather clock's chimes trembled through Mayfair House's east wing as Finn Fitzgerald pressed his ear to the oak-paneled door. Beyond it, Lucian Sinclair's labored breathing threaded through the silence—each exhale a frayed ribbon of sound that made Finn's chest tighten. The Samoyed at his feet whined, its muzzle dusted with stolen biscuit crumbs from their midnight kitchen raid.

"Quiet, Cordelia," Finn whispered, though the dog had been christened Lady Something-Or-Other by Pembroke. Its tail thumped against the Persian runner as Finn's phone illuminated a new message:

SLZ:What are you doing out there?

The boy froze. Moonlight through leaded windows carved his shadow into a guilty silhouette against the door. Cordelia chose that moment to regurgitate a half-digested tartan slipper onto the runner.

Malcolm's, Finn realized with dawning horror.

SLZ:Answer.

Finn's thumbs flew over the screen: *Feeding the dog. It took your slipper.

The ensuing pause stretched taut as a garrote wire. Somewhere in the house, a pipe groaned.

SLZ:Leave it inside. No lights.

The door creaked open a sliver. Finn's pulse roared in his ears as he nudged the saliva-damp slipper across the threshold with his toe. Cordelia's nose breached the gap, snuffling at the medicinal air.

"Sorry," Finn mouthed to the darkness beyond, already retreating.

A hand shot out, pale as a spider lily against black silk sheets. Lucian's fingers closed around Finn's wrist.

"Explain properly."

The earl's voice held none of its daytime frost. Finn stared at the morphine pump's LED glow reflected in Lucian's eyes—twin galaxies collapsing.

"Cordelia was hungry," he lied.

Lucian's thumb brushed the boy's racing pulse. "And you?"

***

Dawn found Harrow's East Quadrangle shrouded in exam-season gloom. Finn slouched at his desk, the teddy bear's camera eye peeking from his satchel as invigilators distributed calculus papers. Allister Beaumont's cronies snickered two rows back—"Oi Fitzgerald! Your cripple daddy write these for you?"

Finn's pencil snapped.

In his mind, the hybrid monster uncoiled—Break his jaw. Shatter his molars. Make him swallow the pieces.

Instead, he scrawled Malcolm's old equations in the margins: Reaction 47: Neurotoxin aerosol dispersion rate.

***

The staff room reeked of burnt coffee and desperation. Deputy Headmaster Zhang—"Bald Zhang" to generations of C Streamers—mopped his sweating pate as his cousin Wei Ding's Rolls-Royce purred into the quadrangle.

"You incompetent waste!" Wei exploded before the door fully closed. "Do you have any idea what you've done?"

Zhang's jowls quivered. "The Sinclair boy—"

"Not boy!" Wei's fist dented an Oxford University prospectus. "Heir. The Earl of Wessex's ward."

The blood drained from Zhang's face as Wei hurled documents across the room—property deeds frozen, bank accounts seized, all bearing the Sinclair Holdings crest.

"You'll resign," Wei hissed. "Tonight. Before he skins us both alive."

***

Finn was sketching poison delivery systems in his margins when the announcement crackled through ancient speakers: Deputy Headmaster Zhang has retired effective immediately.

Pang Dong swiveled in his chair, moonface alight. "Prophet Fitzgerald! Predict the lottery numbers next!"

Wang Luohe peered over Pang's shoulder at Finn's notes. "Is that...chemical notation?"

The hybrid monster bared its teeth. "Mind your business."

***

Mayfair House's west wing hummed with the static of thirty-seven surveillance feeds. Lucian watched Finn's exam footage stream across ceiling monitors, his IV drip hissing counterpoint to Pembroke's disapproving clucks.

"Master Finn's chemistry master reports...unusual enthusiasm."

The earl zoomed in on the boy's margin scribbles. "Define unusual."

"According to Dr. Hargreaves—"

"According to me," Lucian overrode, tracing Finn's neurotoxin formulae, "he's three years ahead of Harrow's curriculum."

Pembroke sighed. "Shall I prepare the usual donations?"

"Double them. And have Zurich overnight the new stimulants."

***

Dusk bled through the crypt's stained glass as Finn confronted the earl. "Why?"

Lucian's wheelchair left skid marks on ancestral bones. "Why what?"

"The teacher. The donations. The—" Finn's voice cracked. "The care."

The earl produced a velvet box—Malcolm's sapphire signet ring beside a mercury-filled bullet. "You mistake strategy for sentiment."

"Liar." Finn's fist closed around the bullet. "You kept his slipper."

Somewhere beyond the crypt, ice cracked on the Serpentine. Lucian's smile cut glass. "All revolutions require relics."

***

Midnight found Finn at Heathrow's Departures, the teddy bear's camera eye peeking from his coat. Pembroke's note burned in his pocket—His lordship requests discretion.

As the Learjet pierced storm clouds, Finn unzipped the bear's belly. Nestled between neurotoxin vials lay the slipper—and a single gardenia petal preserved in resin.

Omnia Mutantur, read Lucian's spidery script on the accompanying card. But some ghosts demand feeding.