Quentin followed the doorman through the manor’s darkened rooms. In true seventeenth century style the only corridor on this level was for the use of the staff. Occupants and visitors passed through a daisy-chain of drawing rooms, sitting rooms, dining rooms and other rooms to reach their destination. It was an excellent way to show off one’s status and wealth to guests.

It was also an excellent way to waste time.

Quentin eyed the back of his guide’s head as they continued to plod through the maze of interlocking chambers. “You appear to believe that I do not have intimate knowledge of this house,” he finally said.

The doorman glanced over his shoulder. “Forgive me, Lord Banbury. The Red Drawing Room is undergoing renovation, and we must circumvent it.”

Quentin glanced idly toward the ceiling, then back over his own shoulder. “I very much doubt that,” he mused. “I’ve recently been living with renovation in progress. You would have more dust-proofing down, have removed some of the soft furnishings, protected the hallway floors. The smells of plaster and paint carry quite well, yet are undetectable throughout the house. Now will you stop walking me around in bloody circles, or must I go rouse Grandfather myself?”

“It is not much further, my lord,” was the answer.

Quentin narrowed his eyes. If there was one thing he’d learned from Michael’s visit it was that if a situation felt a little off, it likely was off.

He stopped.

It took a few extra steps for the doorman to notice, by which time Quentin had situated himself in a better position, with his back to a vast stone fireplace so that he could see both doorways to this room, as well as the windows which overlooked the landscaped gardens. “I shall wait here,” he said calmly.

The doorman’s hesitation was only brief. “Of course, my lord. May I interest you in-”

“Please stop wasting my time. I have little enough of it as is.”

“Very good, my lord.”

The doorman bowed deeply and backed out of the room, and Quentin rolled his shoulders, loosening his stance.

He was impressed that it only took a further two minutes for armed staff to pour into the room from both doors.

* * *

The staff were outlined as crisp silhouettes against the windows. Mostly they bore shotguns, so Quentin guessed they were most likely groundskeepers. That they were up so early, fully dressed and alert, suggested some modicum of preparation.

He preferred not to think too hard about that right now. If Frederick had alerted Grandfather that Quentin might visit, it implied that Frederick was several steps ahead of him.

But then, Frederick did have Laurence at his disposal.

Quentin’s mood soured considerably. If Frederick were forcing Laurence to use his gifts, then nothing Quentin did could circumvent that.

“We don’t want any trouble, Lord Banbury,” said one of the groundskeepers.

He quirked an eyebrow. “Then why bring guns?”

Another silhouette entered the room, moving behind the others and toward the windows. “A man brings a loaded gun to a party,” he mused, “and then complains that everyone else is also armed. You’re early, Quentin,” he added.

Quentin tilted his head slightly to better track the newcomer. White hair was faintly lit by the early morning beyond the glass.

“Grandfather,” he said with a frown. “I’m unarmed.”

The silhouette laughed bitterly. “Don’t be absurd. You are a weapon.”

“One you cannot control.” Quentin staked everything on the guess which had brought him here.

“Mm. Funny how that works out, isn’t it?” Montague Dovecote, the 14th Earl of Hastings, settled into an armchair, which rendered him all but invisible with the dawn light behind the high-backed seat. “You haven’t spoken to me since she died, and now here you are. Imagine my surprise on receiving a call from Frederick to forewarn me of your intentions. I hear that you take after Hieronymus in more ways than one, which is most unfortunate.”

Quentin took a step forward to test the waters, and eight guns immediately adjusted position to aim at him more squarely. “Whatever Frederick may have said could well be untrue,” he murmured once all the shifting had died down. “We are at odds at present.”

“And you come to me in the hope that I would favor you over him?” Hastings snorted loudly. “You who left us without so much as a farewell. You who desecrated Margaret’s funeral. My only daughter, and you would have thrown her body to the winds if Frederick hadn’t had the presence of mind to drag you off. Now you break into my property in the middle of the night and expect me to drop everything for you?”

Quentin heard a rasp of breath from his grandfather. Perhaps it was a sob, or it could be the man preventing himself from saying more, but either way it was indicative of some high emotion, and if Hastings were telepathically controlling his staff that could lead to sub-optimal side effects.

He glanced along the row of staff. None of them held a pump-action weapon, but if any of them were actually gamekeepers then their weapons might hold more than the legally-mandated limit of three cartridges. Some of the dual-barreled guns might be able to discharge both cartridges at the same time, so he was doubtless looking at a lethal blow if they all fired together. He could shield himself, but he had no idea whether he could stop something so fast as a shot.

The preferred option, then, was for the guns to not be fired in the first place.

Quentin dipped his head briefly. “You’re right,” he murmured.

“I know I am!”

Quentin looked to the silhouette of his grandfather. The dawn light was slow-growing, with full sunlight well over an hour away yet, but if Quentin set a fire there would be immediate gunfire, so he would have to make do with the low light situation for now. “Are you really about to shoot me? You can’t guarantee every pellet will hit, and even if it does you’ll ruin this rug. Blood is a bugger to clean out.”

An arc of blood cutting through the darkness.

He blinked quickly, but there was nothing there.

Had Hastings somehow managed to affect his mind?

“Frederick tells me that you’re here to kill me,” Hastings spat. “Just as you killed Margaret. Tell me how you did it, Quentin, and then tell me why.”

He felt the balance in the room shift beneath his feet. Hastings wasn’t interested in a peaceful talk. He wanted answers.

Ones which Quentin did not have.

“I didn’t kill her,” he said, doing his best to keep his voice soft and even. “She was already dead when I returned home that day. And I’m not here to kill you. I need your help.”

“Get out,” Hastings spat. “Get out of my house, get off my property!”

Quentin eyed the guns.

“No,” he said.

He still had a split second in which he hoped Hastings wouldn’t want to risk the property damage, but he was no longer naive enough to cling to that hope above all other evidence, and for his own safety he wrapped his telekinetic grasp solidly around the hands of everyone in the room foolhardy enough to have brought a firearm to the party.

The gasps of surprise when they couldn’t move to fire were enough to confirm that Hastings had indeed ordered them to do so.

Quentin stepped forward and idly eased a barrel aside with his fingertips. “Excuse me,” me murmured as he slipped between two helpless groundskeepers. “We could use a little light in here, don’t you think?”

He reached out to the fireplace at his back and ignited the wood, then settled in an armchair and faced Hastings.

The orange light which sprung across the room cast Hastings’ lined features into view. Shadows from the groundskeepers danced between Quentin and his grandfather, as though amused at the situation.

Hastings’s eyes were wide with terror, despite remaining seated. Like a rabbit caught in headlights, he stared at Quentin and held perfectly still.

“Make them leave,” Quentin said.

Hastings shook his head, a jerk of his chin so sharp that his hair fell across his forehead. “Do you think I’m that stupid, boy, as to do away with the witnesses?”

Quentin rested his elbows on the arms of his chair, then steepled his fingertips together and regarded Hastings. “If you are so convinced that I am here to kill you,” he countered, “what makes you believe that I will not use their guns to do it with, before they then turn on one another? Removing them from this situation protects you far more than keeping them here does.”

Hastings curled his lip, so Quentin extended his hold.

He cocooned each and every one of the groundskeepers, and then spun them around to level their weapons at Hastings. They yelped in horror.

Fire picked out a gleam of sweat across Hastings’ brow. “Let them go,” he whispered, “and I’ll do as you ask.”

Quentin inclined his head and plucked the guns from their hands. He set the assortment of shotguns down at his own feet. Only then did he return any sort of mobility to the groundskeepers.

Hastings squirmed in his seat. All the guns were facing toward him.

Purely coincidentally, of course.

“There,” Quentin said. “Now they may leave.”

Hastings looked toward the groundskeepers, an unspoken plea in his gaze, but they filed out of the room nonetheless.

Quentin crossed his legs and sat back in his chair. He allowed his hands to drop and come to rest in his lap.

“We are going to have a conversation,” he said evenly. “You will listen to what I have to say. And then you are going to help me, because lives are at stake and I will not allow your faith in Frederick’s lies to be the deciding factor in who gets to walk away from all this in one piece.”

This intimidation thing was rather effective. No wonder his father wielded it so much.