Phoenix Rising by Pip Ballantine

to be hustled out of the cell. Yes , she thought, her eyes fixed on Harrison, I understand.
    Thomas secured the cell, Harrison’s screams still audible despite the door’s thickness, and then propped himself against the wall. He looked tired. “Mister Thorne’s gone now, Miss. You won’t get anything sensible out of him now.”
    â€œI’m sorry about mistaking that wound,” Eliza whispered, looking down at the locket. “I just assumed . . .”
    Thomas’ retort came in silently motioning the way they had come, and escorting her back towards the main atrium. Passing through the Gallery, the wizened man she had seen earlier in the gallery was waiting, his eyes gleaming. “Booooooooom!” he whispered with a wink.
    It was almost too much, and Eliza quickened her step after the orderly. On reaching the entrance, Thomas stomped off with no politeness or pleasantry. Taking note of both their expressions, the nurse wisely chose not to ask questions.
    Eliza now left Bedlam as she had arrived but feeling considerably more shaken. She hadn’t even been able to say goodbye to Harrison—not that he would have noticed.
    As she walked down the path towards the gate, she took the odd locket and put it around her neck to serve as a challenge to those who ripped her partner and friend from her. It lay chill against her chest and she pressed her hand against it, as if to memorise the feel of it.
    Her racing heart had not quite returned to normal when she looked up to see a familiar figure. Standing beneath the statue of Madness was Wellington Books, as dapper and well turned out as Harrison had once been. All his outfit needed was a walking stick, and he would have turned a few of the ladies’ eyes in his direction.
    â€œSo.” He spoke dryly, his words sobering. “How is the luncheon in Bedlam, Miss Braun?”

INTERLUDE
Where the Agent of the Outback Makes
New Friends in High Stations
    A gent Bruce Campbell was happy in a variety of places: hanging off a cliff face in Bengal, fighting off belligerent Sherpas in Nepal, or even swimming amongst the deadly great whites in his own Australian waters. And he was adroit at any number of activities; shooting, chasing beautiful women, and mixing the perfect after dinner aperitif.
    What he was not happy doing was drinking tea with a Privy Counsellor in the midst of the finery at the Grosvenor Hotel. Glancing out of the corner of his eye, Bruce realised that the people surrounding them were mostly ladies of fashion. He shifted in his seat. Dammit, he recognised some of them—even with their clothes on. As long as they weren’t with their husbands, he had a fighting chance of getting out of here and into more friendly settings like, say, a gunfight.
    That was, if the man opposite of him would allow it.
    Peter Lawson, Duke of Sussex, needed no card, no introduction—Bruce knew very well who he was, but not quite how to address him. So instead he sat still and waited for the Privy Counsellor to speak.
    Sussex leaned back in his seat, replaced the cigarillo carefully between his lips, and fixed Bruce with a gaze that he recognised from a hundred different predators. The agent knew how to cope with such looks when locked in a stare-down. Flash a devil-may-care smile, wink if time allowed, and then deliver his world-renowned (at least as far as he was concerned) “Thunder from Down Under” blow that left many a jaw shattered and opposing agents on the floor.
    This time, the look was coming from someone with the ear of Her Majesty the Queen. A bureaucrat. And he was in a tearoom.
    Bruce did the only thing that came naturally—he froze.
    The sound of the dumbwaiter rattling up from the centre of the table was a welcome relief in the middle of this tense moment. Bruce swallowed—he would have much rather had a beer than tea. With the poms however, it was always bloody tea.
    Sussex stubbed out his