The Great Game (Royal Sorceress) by Christopher Nuttall

regularly. Olivia had told her that it was a common rite of passage among the young men unfortunate enough to grow up in the Rookery. Raiding an aristocrat’s garden made them feel like they were fighting back, even though it was petty and pointless.
    Lord Mycroft led the way down towards the gates, which were guarded by a line of burly policemen in blue uniforms. She winced as she saw a handful of reporters already there, shouting questions towards the policemen and a handful of men in black suits, who probably worked for Mycroft. Some reporters were decent people, she was prepared to admit, but others had a remarkable skill for twisting the truth into something unrecognisable, without ever actually telling a lie. The freedom of the press was yet another consequence of the Swing – there were over two thousand new newspapers founded in London in the last six months – but there were times when she thought that it had gone too far.
    And they recognised her, of course.
    “Lady Gwen,” one reporter shouted. “Do you have any comments?”
    Gwen ignored them as best as she could, even though the questions were growing more and more absurd. Hardly anyone seemed to know that Sir Travis was a Sensitive – which did make a certain amount of sense – and half of the reporters seemed to have decided that a magician had killed him. It hadn’t been that long since Jack had terrorised the aristocracy, after all. A couple of rogue magicians could easily break into a house and kill the inhabitants...
    She pushed the thought aside as Lord Mycroft led her through the gates. Mortimer Hall was smaller than Gwen’s own home, built in a dark gothic style that had been all the rage a hundred or so years ago. It seemed to have survived the Swing with very little damage, but she couldn’t help noticing that a number of windows were boarded up and the Garden had been allowed to slip out of control. The handful of statues – all angels weeping and covering their faces, as if they were trying not to see the evil of the world – sent a shiver running down her spine.
    “I believe that Sir Travis’s mother died while he was in India,” Lord Mycroft said. “His father died when he was very young, leaving her to bring up their child on her own. She refused to move back with her family, even though there was no hint of scandal tainting the birth. Instead, she stayed here.”
    Gwen nodded, sourly. Magical children terrified the non-magicians; God knew she’d terrified hundreds of servants into giving their notices and seeking employment elsewhere before Master Thomas had taken her to be his apprentice. A Sensitive wouldn’t accidentally burn down the house or go flying, but he’d still have too much insight and a complete lack of discretion. Gwen suspected that Sir Travis’s mother had decided, after one or two incidents, that it was safer to keep her child isolated.
    She could have given him up for adoption instead , she thought, realising that she would probably have liked her, if they’d ever met. But then, Gwen’s mother had never seriously considered giving her up, even after her social reputation began to suffer. Maybe she’d underestimated her mother all along.
    The doorway was wide open, but guarded by two more policemen. “The Inspector is awaiting you in the study,” one of them assured Lord Mycroft. The other was staring at Gwen, as if he couldn’t quite grasp how she was wearing male clothing. “Do you require an escort?”
    “I have been here before,” Lord Mycroft said. “But thank you for the offer.”
    Gwen stared at his back as they walked inside. If Lord Mycroft had been here... Sir Travis had to have been important . Maybe it made sense to have the meeting away from Whitehall, where a Sensitive would find it hard to avoid being overwhelmed by his surroundings, but if that had been a problem, how would Sir Travis have been able to operate in India?
    She couldn’t ask when there were so many policemen around, so