Quentin locked himself in his hotel room and finally got a look at it.

It wasn’t too bad, he supposed. It was larger than Laurence’s above the Jack in the Green.

He leaned against the door and exhaled as the world which had been on pause finally came crashing down around him.

No.

No.

Laurence needed him. Quentin did not have time for this self-indulgent claptrap. He had to… He had to do something, for God’s sake! He couldn’t just stand here crying like a child.

He was crying.

He leaned his head back against the door and struggled for control. Bad enough to destroy Freddy’s drawing room, but if he wrecked a room at the Dorchester of all places it would get back to Father faster than lightning, and then matters would go from bad to considerably worse.

Quentin sniffed and wiped his eyes, then pushed away from the door and headed for the bathroom. He had to get out of these drenched clothes and switch into fresh ones that he could subsequently get soaking wet when he next went outside.

Was there any cause to go outside right now, though? What would it achieve? He had no idea where Freddy was, and until he tracked his brother down, there was nothing Quentin could do to stop him.

There was nothing he could do.

Unless he called Father.

Quentin leaned against the sink and scowled at himself in the mirror. That was not a viable solution, even though it was what all this was about. There was no guarantee that Father would call Freddy off and leave Laurence alone even if Quentin were to walk right in through the doors of Castle Cavendish this very evening.

Strategically, Quentin was in a weak enough position without capitulating to the enemy.

He pursed his lips and began to peel his jacket and shirt off, but had to turn away from the mirror to do so. He wasn’t robust enough for that sight. Not right now. He emerged back into the bedroom and placed them on separate hangers from the wardrobe so that they could dry out a little, then emptied his pockets onto the bed.

Phone. Wallet. Keys. Hotel room key card. Passport. Drenched boarding pass. Luggage receipts.

He sifted through the small pile and picked up his phone and switched it on.

It seemed to take longer than usual to get itself ready, and then he received a flood of text messages about roaming call and data charges, none of which he cared enough about to decode. So long as the bloody thing worked he didn’t care what it cost.

He turned to the case which had been placed on a luggage rack by the wardrobe and carried it to the bed, then unlocked it and lay the contents out across the soft duvet of the Queen-sized bed.

These were his assets. The sum total of what was available to him right this moment. He could get more, but this was what he had to hand, so he took a moment to catalogue them and prioritize his requirements.

Making the list helped calm him, push aside the fear that he could have lost Laurence forever, and the worry about whatever could have happened to trigger his blackout.

He would need a charger for his phone. In the rush to leave the house he had neglected to pack one. That was no problem. He could have the hotel concierge fetch one for him. But the phone itself was access to far more resources than those merely represented on the bed before him.

He pursed his lips and picked it up, paused to do a little mental arithmetic, then called the Jack in the Green. London was eight hours ahead of the shop, so it should be open now.

“The Jack in the Green.” It was Ethan’s voice. “How can I help you?”

“Ethan. Quentin. Is Myriam available?”

“Oh! Hey, Quentin! No, she hasn’t come in today. I figured she was at the farm.”

Quentin nodded faintly. “Could you try to get in contact with her and let her know that I’ve arrived in London and that there are… complications with regards to the situation here.”

Ethan swore quietly. “Okay. I tried to call Laur but his phone goes straight to voicemail.”

“I wouldn’t be surprised if Frederick has removed his phone,” Quentin agreed. “I believe Myriam knows Rufus. If he knows any way of locating someone without the use of their blood, that would be lovely.”

Well, hardly lovely. It would involve magic, after all, but needs must.

“Okay. I’ll pass it on. You’ll be on this number, yeah?”

“Yes.”

“Great. Anything else?”

Quentin shook his head briefly. “No. If I think of anything, I shall let you know.”

“Right on. Be careful, dude.”

“I shall do my utmost.” He hung up and set the phone down, then moved to the hotel phone and called concierge for a spare charger to be sent to his room. For a brief moment he considered calling room service too, but he was even less interested in food than usual, so instead he helped himself to a bottle of water from the minibar.

The rest of the minibar’s contents looked reasonably tempting, but he shut the door on them. He needed a clear head if he was to work this out.

Laurence needed him, and every second Quentin wasted was a second Laurence had to spend trapped under Freddy’s control, but trying to even concentrate without Laurence in his life was like attempting to play Pachelbel with one hand tied behind his back.

He couldn’t shake the feeling that the answers he needed were locked away inside his own brain, where he couldn’t reach them. He’d blotted out an entire conversation, he was sure of that much. Hell, Freddy had said so.

It was unpleasant, to say the least, to be confronted with the fact that his own memories had failed him. To know it for certain, not just to have a suspicion or a vagueness. To be utterly certain that he had undertaken an entire dialogue with Frederick to which, now, only Freddy was privy.

And that meant Frederick had information Quentin lacked, which brought him right back to Freddy’s strategic advantage.

Quentin peeled his shoes and socks off, then removed trousers and boxers. The hotel provided pajamas, so he put them on and then wrapped himself in the hotel-provided robe so that, when concierge arrived at his door, he didn’t show them anything untoward.

He plugged the phone and charger into a socket at the desk. It was oddly reassuring to have a British plug in his hand after all these years. Those silly two-pronged American ones fell out of their sockets so easily.

“For the very same reason that I am hardly about to allow you to meet me face to face.” Freddy released Laurence’s head, and it hung forward. “We d’Arcys are immune to telepathy and mind control. It’s why Wilson couldn’t boss you around. It’s why Mother married Father in the first place. She thought it could bring her some peace and quiet to be around people she couldn’t read. Instead she married a monster.”

Quentin sat heavily in the Edwardian chair by the desk as the flash of memory bubbled to the surface. It came from nowhere, then wandered away again, as though it had somewhere important to be, and he had to chase it to pin it down.

What had happened?

He’d gone to the house and Michael was there, but Michael was under Freddy’s control. Then there was the laptop, and Laurence… Laurence was on the screen, with Frederick, and Freddy was talking to him. Telling him things.

Things Laurence didn’t want him to remember.

But they were important. Jesus Christ, Mama was telepathic!

Why hadn’t she ever told him?

There had to be a reason. Did she not wish for Father to find out, or was it something deeper?

Was it a reason Frederick had already informed him of on the video call?

She had obviously noticed that Freddy shared her gift. Perhaps she had even taught him how to use it before she passed, and the idea of it ignited a flush of jealousy. Not only did that mean that Freddy had access to and knowledge of his power several years ago, it also meant that he had been able to share something with Mother that Quentin could never have.

It was irrational, and if Freddy weren’t in the midst of destroying Quentin’s whole life it might not even exist at all, but as things stood he couldn’t help but despise every edge that Freddy had over him.

And one of those advantages was information.

He shucked his robe and pajamas decisively and locked himself in the bathroom for a shower. Some warmth, freshening up, should clear out the cobwebs and help him reach a decision, although it wasn’t a decision that he was even sure he could take action on.

It was not as though he had even tried to recover lost memories before. Not in earnest. For most of his life he had no idea that these episodes existed, and once he had learned about them his priority was hardly to excavate what had been lost. If it was so disturbing that his mind protected him from it then it seemed to be for the best that such things remained buried.

Except now.

Whether he could do it or not was largely irrelevant to the debate over whether or not he should at least try. There was no question that it was dangerous - the state of Freddy’s drawing room was testament to that - but things which were easy were rarely worth obtaining. He’d worked his arse off to be good enough for Laurence and it had paid off.

Now he had to do better.