Shadow of the Templar: Cuckoo's Egg, Extended Edition: Chapter Seven

On timeline: early to mid-1990s, ten to fifteen years before the events of the books
Spoilers for: things
Warnings: same as always

7.

      Addled by the uncommonly late night and the four (or five) flutes of champagne that he'd managed to nick while Ethan's attention was elsewhere, on Boxing Day morning Bran managed to sleep through all of the noise involved in removing the decorations. By the time he woke, head all tender, every last bit of the pine was gone and the last few hired tables were being moved out one by one, which was harder to sleep through.

      Bran dragged himself into the bath and drank several glasses of tepid water before braving the shower. At some point while the water was running the last table was loaded up and carted away, and Bran stepped out of the shower into a quiet house.

      The only question was how many party guests had turned into overnight guests. There were always one or two, and sometimes they hung about for a few days, or in the case of one fellow whom the Yard had most earnestly sought for inquiry a few years ago, upwards of two weeks. Fortunately Ethan usually moved the longer-term guests out to the guest cottage, at which point they became none of Bran's business and really only a slight imposition upon his life.

      The pong of pine still hung about the place when Bran slipped out into the upstairs hall. There was a load of fallen needles strewn about, half-dug into the carpet, but the cleaning service would come in tomorrow and scrub away all the remaining traces of the party, and Bran could live with it until then. Ethan's door was closed, as was Jeremiah's. Bran picked his way downstairs as quietly as he could, keeping an ear open for the inevitable sound of voices. Two steps from the swinging kitchen door and he picked them up, which meant that they were being fairly quiet, which likely meant only one or two guests this year. Best that way.

      Ethan looked up as Bran pushed on in. The kitchen itself was a controlled wreck, with everything put away but all the surfaces in need of a good scrubbing; Ethan, on the other hand, looked irritatingly fresh, as though he'd had an early night and a peaceful sleep. "Good morning, Bran," Ethan said. "You remember Claude, don't you?"

      "Aye, I remember," said Bran, picking his way to the fridge. It'd be jammed with last night's rich leftovers, which were almost, in Bran's opinion, a good enough reason to have the party in the first place. "Pleasure to see you again, I'm sure."

      Claude (a tubby little man with sleek black hair, a ridiculous little vandyke beard, and the weight of the world's hangovers on his face) raised a weary hand in Bran's direction. "Forgive me," he said hoarsely. "I'm afraid I'll be no good until tomorrow."

      "But at least you'll be good tomorrow," Bran said. "Some people never will, aye?"

      "True, true." Claude buried his baggy-eyed face in one of the large cups and shut his eyes.

      "Claude's agreed to stay on for a while," Ethan said, making Bran freeze in automatic indignation in front of the fridge. Ethan was either unaware or pretending very hard to be. "He'll be seeing to Jeremy's polishing while I see to other things. Oh, and helping with the cooking. Frankly, I could use the help."

      After a moment Bran got himself moving again, digging out a container of last night's lobster spread and a handful of dinner rolls. "Staying in the guest cottage, then?"

      "Oh, yes."

      Bran relaxed a little. A guest out in the cottage was almost like not having a guest at all, and Claude wasn't that bad of a fellow, all told. "So where's our little tyke, then? Still sleeping it off?"

      "Jeremy? He was about earlier." Ethan glanced about, even though it was clear that Jeremiah wasn't in the kitchen. "I don't know where he's got to."

      "Aye, well, whatever." A few moments' fuss with a knife produced a handful of little lobster-spread sandwiches, which Bran tucked into while standing at the counter. Ethan gave him a long look, but as was traditional, he didn't mention it.

      Bran was almost done eating when Jeremiah pushed open the kitchen door and stuck his head in. Back in his t-shirt and fleece trousers Jeremiah looked mussed and sweaty and uninteresting under the unforgiving lights of the kitchen. Like a bratty child. Looking at him, it was suddenly impossible for Bran to remember why he'd been so worked up the night before. "Jeremy," Ethan said. "Come in, I'd like you to meet Claude. Claude will be staying with us for a while."

      "Er. Pleased to meet you," Jeremiah said, stepping into the kitchen just far enough to let the door swing to behind him. He sounded a little dubious, which was just about music to Bran's ears.

      Claude essayed a weak smile that didn't stick around long. "Likewise, I'm sure," he croaked.

      Bran snorted and popped the last of his terrible rich breakfast into his mouth. "You met him last night, remember?"

      Jeremiah's eyes flicked to Bran, then away. "I expect that I did," he said carefully, rocking out onto the outsides of his feet, as he did. "But I met such a load of people last night—and it was all such a fuss—"

      "In any case the sentiment was well-meant, I'm sure," Ethan said. "In any case, Claude will be helping you with matters of etiquette and such. He'll be much better at it than I would, I'm certain, and in any case I'll need to spend much of the next year focussing on Bran's progress—"

      Startled, Bran dropped the plate into the sink with a ringing sound. "Here, what?"

      Ethan turned about and hooked an arm over the back of the chair. "Well, you'll be seventeen soon, won't you?" he asked, his voice mild.

      "Aye?" Suspicious now. "What about it?"

      "So it's about time that you started putting all of this training to some use, before you become fully legally responsible for yourself," Ethan concluded. "By the end of next year I'll expect you to have carried off at least one real job."

      Bran's eyes went wide. His heart paused in his chest, then swelled with something that was neither fear nor joy, but some complicated mingling of the two. "Honestly?" he managed after a moment.

      "Oh, yes. Can't coddle you forever, can I?"

      Jeremiah's attention flicked back and forth, his mouth falling open. "Cor," he finally said, scrubbing a hand over his lips. "That's brilliant, that is. Can I help?"

      "No you bloody well can't!" Bran said, at the same moment as Ethan said, "I don't believe so, Jeremy. Not until your skills are a bit sharper."

      Jeremiah wilted. "Aw."

      "Although if Bran thinks of something for you to do that doesn't put you at too much risk, I don't see why not," Ethan said. "He'll be the one planning the job, after all, not me."

      "Will I get to do this too, then? When I'm older?"

      "Absolutely!" Ethan sounded a bit taken aback. "I'm certainly not training you for my health."

      Jeremiah considered this, then perked up a tad. "That's all right, then."

      "In the meantime, I expect you to listen to Claude," Ethan said. "I'll still be handling your physical education, of course, but Claude will help you to develop the less tangible skills that you'll need."

      Claude passed a hand over his eyes. "Starting tomorrow."

      "Tomorrow," Ethan agreed.

      His mind afire Bran skirted the kitchen island and pushed on into the hall, shouldering Jeremiah aside without thinking about it overmuch. A job—what sort of job, he wondered. Not a museum, couldn't be a museum, not for his first. A jeweller's, then, or a private residence? Bran shivered a bit, his fingers closing on the stairway railing.

      Behind him the kitchen door swept open and swung shut again as Jeremiah followed him out. "Here," Jeremiah said softly, trotting the few steps over and lurching to a halt a bit too close for Bran's comfort. "Who's this Claude fellow? D'you know him?"

      Bran backed up a step, hesitating on the second stair riser. "About as well as you," he said. "He only comes by at Christmas, like."

      "What's he do, then?"

      Bran shrugged. "Pretends to be French, that's most of what I recall. I think he's got some sort of dodgy art-appraisal scheme." He frowned. "Forgery, maybe?"

      "He's all right, though?" Jeremiah asked, glancing back over his shoulder at the swinging door that led into the kitchen.

      "Think so? Never felt anything wrong off him, any rate."

      Jeremiah didn't respond, just frowned at the kitchen, his eyes narrowed. Bran was about to give up and thump on upstairs when Jeremiah finally said, "Don't know that I like it, that's all. Strangers all in our business."

      "Don't be such a baby," Bran retorted, forgetting his own misgivings on the instant. "Ethan's got him staying in the guest cottage anyway—not like he'll be underfoot."

      "Still," Jeremiah insisted, but he let it drop. "So what sort of job is it you'll be doing?"

      "Don't know yet, do I?" said Bran, and he thumped on up the stairs. Halfway along, a minute too late, he realised that he'd let the perfect retort go by—well, now you know how I felt when you popped up, don't you!—but when he looked back over his shoulder, Jeremiah had gone.

      Bran was sitting on his bed and flipping blindly through his useless French text when Ethan rapped perfunctorily on his door and let himself in. "French, is it?" Ethan said, leaning in the doorway.

      "IGCSE in a month or so," Bran agreed. "Not like I don't speak it well enough already."

      "True." Ethan looked away.

      Bran fiddled with the book for another second, waiting. Ethan didn't seem inclined to go on, but Bran knew he wouldn't be standing there unless he had something else in mind, so after a bit Bran sighed and gave in. "What?"

      "I'm hoping that you don't have a problem with my asking Claude to stay on for a bit," Ethan said. His little smile flickered on and off.

      Bran blinked. "No? People are always staying on after Christmas, aren't they, and Claude's not as bad as some."

      "Yes, well." Ethan ran a hand down his face. "It's only that I asked him to stay on before I realised that you might take it as badly as you took my invitation to Jeremy. If that seemed to be the case, I'd intended to apologise."

      Bran fumbled his book and nearly dropped it. "That's different," he said, once he'd recovered.

      "Oh," said Ethan, nodding. "Different. I see."

      "Quit making fun," Bran said, bristling. "It is. You didn't ask Claude to come live right up in the main house for ever and ever and he won't be up in my face all the time or always clinging to you and... and people always stay on after Christmas! It's what happens!"

      "All right. I suppose you've made your point."

      "Too right," Bran muttered, looking down at his book. Some of the shiny plastic was starting to peel off its cover and he picked at it. "So... what about this job, then?"

      "Ah, well, there I suppose I owe you an apology," said Ethan. "I didn't quite intend to spring it on you in front of everyone. I suppose I spoke before I thought."

      Bran hunched his shoulders, uncomfortable. "S'all right," he said. "What kind of job is it?"

      "Well, that's up to you, now."

      "What? Serious? All of it?"

      Ethan shrugged. "Well, I wouldn't recommend aiming for a museum on your first outing, but if that's what you want to do..."

      "But..." Bran floundered for a moment, then rallied. "I don't have any guidelines?"

      Ethan quirked an eyebrow. "Don't get caught at it?"

      "Besides that!"

      "Part of the job is finding it and planning it," said Ethan, gently enough. "I'm more than happy to answer specific questions or critique your plans, but the idea is to help you become self-sufficient, not just to give you assignments."

      "Well... well... what if I need help? Like, help to do the job?"

      Ethan shrugged. "Hire people?" He kept up the act for another moment, then dropped it. "I'll be giving you a small budget, as if you'd earned money from prior jobs. You'll be able to hire on a certain amount of help."

      "I..." Bran hesitated, turning his book over in his hands. "I haven't got the slightest idea of what to do."

      "No? Well, think on it," said Ethan. He straightened up. "You've plenty of time to plan."

      "S'pose." Bran fidgeted for a moment. "Here, Ethan?"

      Ethan paused with his hand on the knob. "Yes?"

      "You... you never really wanted me about, did you?" Bran hunched his shoulders, already aghast at himself, unable to believe that he'd actually said it. Ethan—well, Bran could count on one hand the number of times he'd seen Ethan openly astonished, and now he had another instance to add to his collection. Bran hurried on before Ethan could completely misunderstand. "I don't mean you hate me, it's just... you never planned to have me about, did you? When I was small?"

      Ethan opened and closed his mouth for a moment longer, lost for words, then visibly shook it off. Bran cringed as Ethan came back into the bedroom—oh God but this was exactly the sort of scene he hated, he shouldn't have said anything—but shuffled his feet aside so that Ethan could perch on the side of his bed. "It isn't like that," Ethan said. "It never was."

      Bran looked down at his knotted fingers and made a little sound.

      "I'd already retired when you were born," Ethan went on, now determined to have his say. "Your parents asked me to look after you if ever they couldn't do so, and I said yes."

      "I know," Bran muttered.

      "In our line of work, we always knew that something could very well happen to us at any moment." Ethan's voice was uncommonly heavy; his eyes were on the far wall. "I don't think we actually... expected it to, no, but we always made plans in any case, to cover any eventuality. What's important—what I want you to remember—is that I said yes, Bran. I thought about it and I said yes."

      If Bran could actually curl up into a ball without Ethan noticing, he would have. As it were he just hunched over and stared at his fingers, waiting for this horrifying talk to be over, hating himself for having got it started. "I know," he said again, his voice somewhere between a groan and a squeak.

      "I suppose I haven't always done the best job of raising you," Ethan said. His hand lifted like he meant to pat Bran's leg, but he reconsidered and let it drop again. "But I've always done my best, and I'm sorry if I've hurt you."

      "No!" Bran squawked. "It isn't that—it isn't that at all!"

      "What is it, then?"

      Bran floundered. "It's just... I don't know. It was just you, like, and then it was you and me, and I was so small and all... I just thought that it must have been a shock or something, that's all!"

      "That it was," Ethan said. "I'm sorry that what happened... happened, but I've never regretted taking you in after."

      "You'd say that anyway," Bran said helplessly. "I mean, you wouldn't cop to it, would you?"

      Ethan's little smile was sad. "No, probably not." He sighed. "I'm not lying, though. For what that's worth." Abruptly he stood up again, moving to the window to give Bran at least some vague semblance of privacy for his embarrassment. "After all, if I didn't love you, I wouldn't have made Jeremiah the offer I did, would I?"

      "What?"

      "Well. I mean. If I wasn't comfortable with having one boy about the place, I certainly wouldn't have acquired another one." Ethan tapped his fingers on the sill in an idle pattern. "And I thought... well, I wanted you to have company. I worry sometimes—you haven't any real friends, you don't go to school with the other boys, it's all work for you—I thought maybe having another lad around might be good for you somehow." Bran was strangling on his shock, so Ethan kept right on. "That didn't turn out how I'd hoped, I'm afraid, although I do appreciate your being patient with him."

      "Thought you wanted him about to mould into your image," said Bran. "Like you can't really with me."

      "That too," Ethan said, with a shrug. "I can have multiple reasons for it, can't I?"

      "... I'll think on the job," Bran said desperately. "I'll come up with something, like."

      For a moment Ethan hesitated in front of the window. Bran watched him with something like dread, afraid that Ethan was going to insist on being embarrassing again, but in the end Ethan only inclined his head. "Feel free to ask me if you have any questions." He headed for the door; Bran made himself be entirely still and quiet until Ethan was gone, just to avoid prompting another round of awful.

      Once the door closed behind Ethan Bran folded into a ball, hands knotted together behind his head, face hidden between his knees. The embarrassment passed, eventually, and Bran was able to pick up his French textbook and stare at it—but his mind was elsewhere, poking gingerly at the idea of his first real job.

      The next morning when Bran came downstairs Claude was rattling about in the kitchen, humming under his breath and looking none the worse for wear. The smell of whatever it was was astonishing, rich and buttery. Ethan was already at table, cup of tea in both hands, communing with his morning cuppa with both eyes shut, as he liked to do; Jeremiah hung over the counter by the stove, watching Claude's hands with fascination. Bran shoved past and dropped into his chair at the table, reaching for the teapot.

      "—that's why you have to keep it moving," Claude said, shaking a pan about over one of the stove burners. "If you leave it, it'll stick."

      "Huh." Jeremiah craned over to look into the pan, then fell back, catching himself against the counter's edge. "Smells nice."

      Claude twitched his head at the kitchen table. "Go on and sit," he said. "I'll bring it over when it's ready."

      Jeremiah let go of the counter and more or less fell straight back into his chair, too fast even for Bran to consider kicking it out from under him. Claude stuck the pan into one of the ovens with a bang that made Ethan wince a bit—Ethan preferred quiet in the mornings, so as to wake up at his leisure.

      Bran dumped more sugar into his tea. Claude banged around with ever more authority until finally he spun up in front of the table and deposited plates of some kind of egg casserole in front of first Ethan and then Bran and Jeremiah. A basket full of toasted bread dropped into the middle of the table and Claude was gone again, fussing over something else.

      Filching a piece of toast from the basket, Bran inspected the eggy thing. It was a fat square of some kind, with onions and bacon in—Bran sliced off a corner and tried it, then ate two helpings. He would have gone for three, but the casserole was gone by then, a lot of it into Jeremiah, who insisted to this day on eating like he was still starving to death.

      Once they were done and Jeremiah had cleared the plates away, Ethan sat back in his chair and sighed out a long breath. "God, but I was tired of my own cooking," he said, with a tired little smile. "Thank you, Claude."

      Claude waved that away. "Pff, it was little enough."

      "At any rate." Ethan folded his hands about his cup. "Before we break for training, there are a few things I'd like to go over with you all."

      After lunch was done and the dishes seen to, Jeremiah and Claude went off together, who knew where. Ethan settled back in his chair at the breakfast table. "If you don't mind, Bran, I'd like to hear your thoughts on this upcoming job."

      "Aye. Well." Bran warily settled back into his own chair. "Haven't had but a day or so to think—"

      Ethan waved that away. "Of course. I'm just curious to hear what you've come up with so far."

      "Well... museums are right out," Bran said. "Too much security for a first effort, unless they're so piddly that they haven't anything worth taking." He knotted his hands together and cracked his knuckles, then laced his fingers together in another way. "S'pose a private home would be the easiest to crack, but..." He trailed off there.

      "But?" Ethan prompted after a moment.

      "It'd be hard to predict, like. Hard to control. People come home at odd hours and such, or don't go to work, or what have you."

      Ethan nodded, smiling ever so faintly.

      Emboldened, Bran sat forward. "So... it'll have to be a shop, like. Or an importer. But you said that shops were easier than wholesalers because they had to allow for customers..."

      "I did, didn't I?"

      "So... a jewellery shop." Bran frowned. "Er. How much should I be aiming to lift?"

      Ethan thought about it for a moment, rubbing one finger over his lower lip. "Let's not worry about that for now," he finally said. "What's most important is that you get in, take something, and get out safely."

      "All right," said Bran, relieved. "And... well, the shop can't be too close by because that would be suspicious, but it can't be too far because I'll need to look about. An hour away on the train, I'd thought. Two, possibly."

      "Ah. Good thinking."

      Bran scowled down at his interlocked fingers, pleased but struggling through the next bit. "Can't be too small or it won't have anything worth taking, but it can't be too big or it'll have nastier alarm systems. An older shop, then, and none of these branch shops."

      Ethan nodded. "Well-reasoned, I'm thinking. What else?"

      "Well... that's all I've got," Bran said. "Have to do some looking around next, find some place likely."

      "Fair enough. For the time being, shall we meet to discuss things after lunch?"

      Bran shrugged. "Good as anything else."

      Ethan inclined his head. "Let me know if you'll be needing train fare."

      "Oh! That's right. You said I had a budget...?"

      Ethan's smile was a tiny thing, there and gone in a flash. "I'll get it to you tomorrow."

      "Tomorrow. Right. I'll just..." Bran fumbled his chair back and stood up. "I'll go and look some things up."

      "Let me know if you have any questions," Ethan called after him, and then the kitchen door swung to behind Bran.

      By the time dinner rolled around Bran was more confused than ever. The yellow pages had turned up a ridiculous wealth of possibilities—he'd had to borrow a map from Ethan and start marking the various locations on it. It'd take him months to look at all of them.

      At least dinner took his mind off things. Whatever Claude did for a living, he was a pretty good cook to boot. Ethan's cooking was serviceable, edible; Claude's was actually good. An afternoon off with Claude had apparently done away with Jeremiah's reservations over the man—he nattered on about this and that with barely a pause to eat. Bran took advantage of the prattling to eat in silence, thinking about his list of shops and wondering how on earth he was going to whittle it down.

      "Just... start," Ethan said, brushing his fingers over Bran's well-marked map. "Pick a likely location and go visit, look about. Try not to let them notice your interest."

      They were sitting in the breakfast nook again, another day's lunch over with. Jeremiah had been packed off with Claude, the same as he had been every day that week so far. "How do I pick?" Bran wailed, his voice cracking and making him wince. "There's too many, Ethan!"

      Ethan held out a hand. "No, no, stop and think," he said, quietly. "You don't have to find the absolute best target. You only need to find one that looks suitable."

      "Well, yes, but... it'll take months!"

      "Yes?" Ethan quirked an eyebrow. "I might remind you that you have months, Bran. In fact, I'd be disappointed if you didn't use them wisely. There's no hurry. Hurry is the enemy. Take a deep breath, and take your time."

      "But..."

      Ethan stifled a sigh. "Look. Just... go down to London, it's not but an hour away." He touched a circle on the map with a number of pencil ticks on it. "I can guarantee you that you'll come away with a list of at least four shops that would serve your purpose admirably."

      "Well, aye, but..."

      "But nothing. Stop panicking and just do it." Abruptly Ethan sat back in his chair, looking at Bran, his expression unreadable. "You sit your French IGCSE in three weeks or so, don't you?"

      "Aye?"

      Ethan nodded. "Then do nothing until it's done. Let the idea percolate. Just... remember not to call any of the shops from the house, please."

      "I'm not bloody stupid," Bran flared.

      "No." Ethan ran a hand down his face. "I know that you aren't."

      It was odd, how quiet the next few weeks were. They were the quietest that Bran had known since Jeremiah had come along, and in some ways the quietest he'd ever known.

      By the time Bran managed to drag himself out of bed and into the shower, breakfast was almost done, and he'd have to hurry down if he wanted any. Barely a word got exchanged over breakfast: Bran was still half-asleep, Ethan preferred to mull over his plans for the day in peace, Claude was so busy with the cooking that he barely had a moment to say anything, and Jeremiah (always smelling of adolescent sweat, it was foul) stuffed food into his mouth too quickly for words to escape.

      After breakfast they'd leave Claude fussing about in the kitchen and move to the gymnasium—Bran was left to his own devices while Ethan worked with Jeremiah on this or that. It gave Bran a creeping feeling, really. It was as if Ethan considered him a finished work, like Bran hadn't anything else to learn. (Which was ridiculous. If Bran had nothing else to learn, why did he feel such a fraud?) Now it was only a question of keeping himself in top shape, which he could do with two hours of work in the morning and another hour or so in the evening. Dutifully Bran put in his two hours and then left Ethan and Jeremiah with their heads together over the pommel horse, going up to his room to study and fret until lunchtime.

      Once lunch was over and the dishes were done Claude and Jeremiah went off together—who knew where—who cared—and it was Bran's turn to have Ethan's attention. After so many months of being ignored, the new schedule was a balm on Bran's thirsty soul. They spent hours at the kitchen table or upstairs in the workshop, sometimes talking about Bran's upcoming job, sometimes just talking, and for all that Bran was desperate not to seem impressed, it was hard not to be. At some point he'd moved from a child to an adult in Ethan's eyes, without noticing, and suddenly Ethan seemed content to share stories that Bran had never heard before. Sometimes Ethan laughed. It was Bran's own private opinion that he learned more about what it meant to be a thief during those three weeks than he'd learned in all the years to date.

      Tea was Ethan's province, as it was too old-fashioned for Claude (save for when Claude felt like making an extra bit of this and that, which, to be honest, he often did). And since Jeremiah was generally off with Claude, well, often it was just Ethan and Bran for tea, along with the occasional guest. Ethan chivvied his friends into long, rambling conversations about their glory days—"How come you never told me any of this before?" Bran asked once, when it was just the two of them.

      "I wasn't certain that you were ready to hear it," Ethan said, fiddling with the handle on his cup. "And I suppose that part of it was selfish: I wanted to tell the stories as they came, without having to censor myself because some story or another was too racy for you. I think you're old enough for this now, though, don't you?"

      "Oh, aye," Bran said, aping a dismissive tone that he wasn't at all feeling. "I can handle it, like."

      The corners of Ethan's eyes wrinkled slightly as he controlled his little smile. "Good to hear it."

      They cleared the tea things away eventually (sometimes not until five or six, even) and moved back into the gymnasium for an hour or so of sparring, which wasn't so much about keeping in shape as it was about keeping in practise. At some point during the sparring Jeremiah would slip back in and join them, which Bran wasn't entirely unhappy about, as it meant that Claude had gone off to the kitchen to start dinner. And dinner was always amazing—Claude might only have been a hobbyist when it came to cooking, but he was terrific at it, probably better at it than whatever it was he actually did for a living. Bran still wasn't sure what that was. He kept meaning to ask and then forgetting again.

      After dinner Ethan repaired to his workshop and left everyone up to their own devices. Usually this would have meant that Jeremiah was constantly underfoot, looking to Bran to entertain him, but he seemed to have finally got the message that he wasn't welcome. Bran didn't know what Jeremiah did to entertain himself after dinner, nor did he care. Sometimes he heard the squeak of Jeremiah's trainers on the roof, though, and then he'd roll his eyes and turn up his music.

      "Ta for the ride," Bran told Liam, then shut the car door and loped up the front steps. Behind him Liam put the car back into gear and pulled away; Bran fumbled his house key out of his front pocket and let himself in.

      The grand old house smelt of furniture polish and always, ever so faintly, of cooking and dust. Out here in the front it was quiet. Bran had to nearly hold his breath to hear the faint thumps and voices coming from the gymnasium, and he wouldn't hear anything from the kitchen from this far away unless it was on fire.

      Bran picked his way through the front rooms to the back hallway and considered. To his right there was the gymnasium and the thumping sounds; to the left, the kitchen, and what smelt like something baking with cinnamon in. Bran made up his mind on the instant and banged on into the kitchen.

      "Hallo, Bran," said Claude, most of his attention on the tray of buns on the counter. He was wielding a small pastry bag with verve and dedication—he'd barely glanced up when Bran came in. "How did it go, then?"

      "The test? Aaw, it was a doddle." Bran drifted closer, much of his attention riveted on the buns. They were glossy and sticky with cinnamon, and Claude was dotting them with something that looked like it was all sugar and cream. Maybe if Bran played his cards right—"It's only French, innit," he said. "Here, those look good."

      Claude smiled a little. "I suppose Ethan's taught you all the French you'll ever need," he said. "They're for your tea. I don't think Ethan approves of all the sweets, but it certainly can't hurt on occasion."

      "Don't suppose I could filch one?"

      Claude started to respond, then hesitated, then laughed. "Well, I suspect that you could steal one, if you put your mind to it—but they still need to cool for a bit, so, no."

      "Aaaw." Still, Bran couldn't argue with that too much, so he flipped Claude a little wave and headed back out.

      Ethan and Jeremiah were in a huddle by the pommel horse when Bran banged in. Jeremiah was half-kneeling on top of the horse, his arms straight, his elbows locked, his forearms quivering a bit as he kept himself braced up; whatever Ethan was on about, he had most of Jeremiah's attention. Bran kicked off his street shoes and joined them on the mats.

      "Bran," Ethan said, with a quick smile. "How was the test, then?"

      Bran shrugged. "French?"

      It startled a little laugh out of Ethan. "I meant besides that."

      "Easy enough. One of the teachers said I had a fair accent." Bran scratched the back of his neck. "I don't think it's all that, really—"

      One of Jeremiah's arms snapped out from under him and dropped him back to his knees with a thud. "Aow," he said, flapping his arms around to work out the stiffness. "Don't think I'll ever get the hang of French, me."

      "No, probably not," Bran said, with some satisfaction. "You're bloody terrible at languages. I've seen. Can't even speak English properly."

      "I'm better," Jeremiah said defensively. "I've learned loads!"

      "Oh, aye. 'Loads'. Brilliant."

      "Try again, Jeremy," said Ethan. Jeremiah dropped the subject (although he gave Bran such a scowl) and raised himself back up, bracing his arms against his weight.

      Bran rolled his eyes and left, picking up his shoes on the way out. "Going to change," he called back over his shoulder.

      By the time he'd got out of his street clothes (with some relief) and put on his workout togs, Bran was anxious for this day to get back to normal. He'd barely had time to grab a bite of breakfast this morning before Liam was beeping from the drive—he hadn't had a moment to exercise or anything, and it had left him feeling all logy. A quick workout before tea, that was the ticket, and if he worked hard enough then no one would begrudge him two of those cinnamon buns. Bran nodded to himself and propped a foot on the bed to tie his shoe.

      Someone knocked on his door, a quick, peremptory double rap. "Come in," Bran called, even as Ethan pushed the door open and stuck his head in. It made Bran snort a little. "So what've you left him doing, then?"

      "Oh, pull-ups," Ethan said airily. "I'm sure he can handle those on his own."

      "Aye. Maybe." Bran dropped his foot and propped up the other. "What d'you need?"

      Ethan leaned in the doorway, crossing his arms over his chest. "I'd meant to ask if you planned to go down to London this weekend."

      "Meant to? I hadn't really thought so much about it."

      "Well, there's no hurry, but I expect you'll want to narrow down your choices as soon as possible."

      Bran shrugged, a little uncomfortable for no reason that he could explain. "This weekend or next, then. See how the weather holds."

      "Oh?" The sheer neutrality of the syllable made Bran pause and assemble his blast shields. Ethan hadn't moved, hadn't so much as batted an eye, but there was something assessing in his gaze that hadn't been there a moment ago. "What sort of weather are you hoping for, then?"

      Bran hesitated. "Not too nice," he finally said, feeling his way through. "Not too awful, either. If it's nice then everybody will be out and about—don't care for that idea—but if it's nasty then I'll suffer and people will wonder why I'm out in it."

      "So..." Ethan made a little encouraging gesture.

      "Bit of rain, like? Not too much."

      "And the temperature?"

      "... colder?" Bran guessed. "An excuse to bundle up means... well, it means less of me for nosy parkers to see."

      After a moment, Ethan inclined his head. "Logical," he said. It sounded like he approved.

      "Thought so," said Bran, trying to let out his held breath without letting on. "Still, I'm a bit fussed—can't go in, can I. Not that I'd want to, much, but if I were older I could at least take a look 'round without getting stared at."

      "Probably for the best," Ethan said. He'd straightened up and his voice was brisk. "That's not for this trip in any event. Just look round and see what's what."

      Bran pulled his shoulders in a little. "Aye," he said. "I'll do that."

      "Good." Ethan offered him a small smile and left.

      At mass that Sunday Bran obligingly knelt and clasped his hands on the rail, closing his eyes—it was only then that it dawned on him that he didn't know what to pray for. He couldn't precisely ask God to help him nick things, could he, it was only a Ten bloody Commandment, and his earlier fears seemed more and more ridiculous by the day as Christmas receded further into his memory. Bran was still fumbling around, trying to decide what to pray for, when the priest raised his head. "Amen."

      "Amen," Bran echoed, relieved to have at least one decision taken away from him.