The Coldest War by Ian Tregillis

behind them. He motioned for Klaus and Gretel to seat themselves in the pair of chairs that fronted the desk. They did.
    To Klaus’s surprise, their host didn’t take the seat behind the desk. Still standing, he said, “My name is Samuel Pethick. But the fellow you truly want to talk to, my superior, isn’t here at the moment. I’ve dispatched a driver to collect Mr. Pembroke. He’ll be here shortly.
    â€œIn the meantime, perhaps you can start by telling me why you’ve come here.”
    Why have we come here, Gretel?
    But she only said, “We’ll wait, thank you.”
    Klaus felt frustrated and weary again. Gretel’s evasion had him ready to take the stranger’s side.
    Pethick chewed his lip. He said, “You’re siblings, correct? The ghost and the oracle. If I’m not mistaken, you’ve both been here before. And now you’re back, in the flesh, after all these years. I wonder why.”
    Ah. Pethick had recognized them downstairs. Klaus wondered how.
    After that, they waited in silence. The setting sun sank below the curtain of clouds, filling the office with a few minutes of sunlight before it dipped below the cityscape. Streetlamps flickered to life in the park. Pethick turned on a desk lamp.
    Klaus craned an arm over the back of his chair when a man wearing a tuxedo entered the office. He was slightly shorter than Pethick, with a long, narrow face and high eyebrows. It made him appear frozen in a state of permanent surprise. A thatch of wavy auburn hair topped his forehead.
    The tuxedo man addressed Pethick. “Well?”
    Based on the way Pethick deferred to him, Klaus concluded the newcomer was Pembroke. “They came through the screen, on the Whitehall side. Approximately an hour ago.”
    â€œThere must be more to it than that, Sam, if you sent an armed matelot to collect me. Which caused quite a bit of consternation, not incidentally.”
    â€œSir, you don’t understand.” Pethick licked his lips. His gaze darted to the siblings, just for a moment. He looked back at Pembroke, and when he spoke, he precisely enunciated every word. “They came … through  … the screen. And the wall. And a handful of sentries.”
    Pembroke looked again at Klaus and his sister, more carefully than the cursory glance he’d tossed in their direction as he entered. She twirled a finger through her hair, black onyx braided with silver, pretending not to notice how he stared at them. A furrow formed between Pembroke’s eyes. It deepened when he came around the desk and saw the disabled wires hanging over their shoulders. A flash of alarm or surprise might have appeared on his face, too, but it was hard to tell.
    â€œAre they—?”
    â€œI believe so, sir.”
    Pembroke took the seat behind the desk. He laced his fingers, rested his hands before him, and said, “I’m Leslie Pembroke. I believe you’ve been waiting for me. I would like to know why you’ve come here, and why you want so very badly to speak with us.”
    Klaus looked at Gretel. He wanted to know, too.
    Gretel looked back and forth between Pembroke at the desk and Pethick, who had moved closer to the window. From her blouse she produced a page torn from the newspaper. She slid it across the desk to Pembroke. Klaus saw she had circled a small article, two short paragraphs under the headline, LANTERN BLAMED FOR GLOUS. FIRE.
    â€œYou gentlemen have a problem,” she said.
    Pembroke glanced at the newspaper, then back at her. “What sort of problem?”
    She shook her head. “The warning is free. An explanation of your troubles is not. We’ll give you everything we know—” She fixed her stare on Pembroke, saying with emphasis, “I’ll tell you what I know—after you bring in Raybould Marsh.”
    Pethick interjected. “What?”
    â€œRaybould Marsh. He worked here, long ago.”
    Pembroke