The Brazen Bride

Eighteen

At Minerva’s suggestion, Linnet and Logan took advantage of the hours waiting for Royce and the others to return from Wymondham to refresh themselves and catch up on some sleep.

Retiring to the bedchamber she’d been assigned, Linnet discovered a steaming bath waiting, with a little maid laying out towels and scented soaps, and mentally blessed Minerva.

“Thank you.” Her tone was so heartfelt the maid grinned.

“I’m Ginger, ma’am.” The little maid bobbed. “Her Grace said as for sure you’d need this. Let me help you with that gown, and then I’ll unpack your bag, shall I?”

“Her Grace is a mind reader. If you’ll help with the laces, and then by all means unpack what there is-I’m afraid I wasn’t expecting the journey, so have had to borrow much of what’s there from Lady Penelope.”

“Never you mind, miss-we’re used to strange happenings in this household. Anything you need, just ask.”

Linnet hid a grin as Ginger bustled about, helping her off with her gown, then flitting about the room.

“Now you just settle in there-the hot water will do you good-and then you can rest.” Ginger flitted off to fetch Linnet’s bag from where it had been deposited by the door.

“I take it our coach and driver-David-arrived in good order?” Relaxing back against the tub’s edge, Linnet nearly groaned with pleasure.

“Aye, ma’am. All’s well there.”

Linnet closed her eyes. Scented steam rose and wreathed around her. For the first time in more hours than she could count, it felt as if warmth was reaching her bones.

Ginger remained, but was quiet. The respite was just what Linnet needed. She roused herself eventually, and made good use of the soap and flannel. Ginger helped her wash her hair, roughly dry it, then wind it in one of the waiting towels. By the time the water had cooled, and Linnet reluctantly rose and stepped out, and toweled her body dry, she was warm and clean and truly relaxed.

“I’ll just leave the bath until later, miss.” Ginger waved at the bed, turned down and inviting. “You go on and have a nice little nap. His Grace isn’t expected back until nearly dinnertime, and Her Grace said as that’s to be at seven o’clock tonight, seeing as how you all had an early luncheon. Now”-Ginger paused for breath-“is there anything else I can get you, ma’am?”

“No, thank you, Ginger.” Linnet smiled. “I’ll ring if I need anything else.”

With a satisfied smile, Ginger bobbed and departed.

Swathed in a big bath sheet, Linnet tugged the damp towel from her head. Her hair tumbled down, a riot of curls. Walking to the hearth, she raked her fingers through the damp mass of hair, then bent and let the tresses cascade almost to the floor, letting them warm in the heat from the fire Ginger had, of course, restoked before she’d left.

A large, thick rug lay before the hearth. Linnet knelt on it, the better to dry her hair. The copper bathtub stood beyond the rug, its polished side reflecting the heat thrown out by the fire, warming the air above the rug even more.

The door cracked open. Straightening, Linnet peeked over the tub and saw Logan look in. He scanned the room, then spotted her. Coming inside, he closed the door, then walked across to her.

He was in breeches and shirt, and was rubbing his black hair with a towel. “My room’s next door.” He glanced around. “Yours is much bigger.”

“You’re a man.” Linnet’s lips twitched. “And I seriously doubt Minerva imagined you’d be sleeping in the bed in that room.”

Logan sighed and dropped down to sit on the rug beside her. “She’s just a little frightening, Wolverstone’s duchess.”

“I have sound evidence she’s a mind reader.”

Still rubbing his damp hair, Logan raised his brows. His midnight eyes danced. “I’ll try to remember that.”

She smiled, for one long moment, lost in his eyes, rejoiced that he and she were there, alive, scathed perhaps, but yet hale and whole.

That they’d reached the end of the journey, and now…

His expression changed. Setting aside the towel, he drew a deep breath. “Linnet-”

“No. Wait. I need to speak first.” Sitting on her ankles, she pushed back her hair, used the moment to gather her wits, her courage, her words. As he had, she drew in a breath, then lifted her chin and fixed her eyes on his. “You said you wanted to marry me-is that still the case?”

“Never more so.”

“Good. Because I want to marry you.” She held up a hand when he would have spoken, when, his face lighting with a joy she couldn’t mistake, he reached for her. She held him with her eyes, spoke with her heart. “I want to be your wife. I want to spend the rest of my life with you, by your side. I want you by my side. I want… all the things I never thought I could have-and I want those things with you.” She dragged in another breath, let it out on the words, “And I’m willing to do whatever I must to have them, and you.”

Before he could interrupt, she hurried on, “You know I didn’t believe before-not your commitment itself, but that it would prove sufficient to trump the problems I could see. I kept focusing on the practical difficulties. I didn’t, at that time, understand-appreciate-that love isn’t about such things. That love takes no notice, makes no allowance, for such things. Such minor impediments. Love is”-with one hand, she gestured broadly-“all emotion. It’s need and want and desire.” She trapped his eyes. “It’s a hunger like no other, and once in love, there is no other choice but to own it and go forward.”

Shifting closer, she brought her hands to frame his face, looked deep into his midnight eyes. “I knew I’d fallen in love with you, but I didn’t realize, not until this morning in that little yard, all that loving you meant. If I underestimated your love for me, I barely saw my love for you-I had no appreciation of love’s strength and power. I didn’t realize that because I loved you, my heart had already made up its mind, given itself to you and would remain yours regardless of anything and everything. I didn’t realize that I am now, already, inextricably linked with you, no matter what I say or do-that you are, now, forever and always, all I want, all I need. All I will ever desire.”

The next breath she drew shook, yet buoyed by the hope, the understanding, the love shining in his eyes, she smiled mistily and went on, “So yes, Logan Monteith, I’ll marry you and gladly. I’m not yet sure how our lives will work, how we’ll deal with my practical difficulties, but I understand now that I have to trust in our love, put my hand in yours, and go forward together so we can find the answers.”

She searched his eyes, let her love color her own. “You’ll want to live in Scotland, and I accept that, but you’ll understand that I can’t leave Mon Coeur completely, not for all of the year. I’ll have to return for at least a few months-”

“Stop.” Logan grasped her hand, squeezed, then gentled his hold. He knew his expression had turned serious, sober-how could it not? She’d just offered to give up her life-her virgin queen’s crown-to be with him. To be his wife. “I…” He searched her green eyes. “You humble me with your courage. Stagger me with your love. I want nothing more than to spend the rest of my life with you-but on Guernsey. At Mon Coeur.”

When she blinked, surprised, he let his lips twist. “I love you-beyond words. I need you more than I can say. And I don’t want to live in Scotland.”

“But…?” She looked thoroughly confused.

“My turn to explain.” He took a moment to gather his thoughts, calm his heart, order his revelations. “From the beginning would be easiest, I suppose.”

One brown brow arched, faintly haughty, and he fleetingly grinned. He tugged her down so she sat on the hearth rug before him, so they were face-to-face… He drew in a deep breath and plunged in. “I’m a bastard. Yes, I’m an earl’s son, and my mother was of good family, too, but I’m bastard-born, born out of wedlock, however you want to put it. I’m”-it suddenly struck him; his lips twisted-“just like Thurgood in that respect.”

Her eyes narrowed. “You are not like Thurgood in any way. Regardless of your birth, you’ve lived a life that shows how little that distinction matters-and he did the opposite. He lived up to the worst possible expectations of his birth in every way.” She shifted closer. Looked into his eyes. “So?”

He searched the clear green eyes gazing up at him, then let his lids fall. Felt an incredible weight, an unvoiced fear, lift from his shoulders. Felt giddy with relief. Opening his eyes, he met hers. “You don’t care.”

She flung up her hands. “Of course I don’t care. You’re still you, aren’t you? The circumstances of your birth don’t matter. The kind of man you are does. And if I’ve learned anything over the past weeks, ever since you washed up in my cove, it’s what sort of man Logan Monteith is.”

He blew out a breath. “Well, that was the point of my campaign. Good to know it was successful.”

Her brows rose, haughty again. “You had a campaign?”

He grinned. “From the moment I decided I had to persuade you to have me as your consort. The virgin queen’s consort. That was the position I wanted, but before I declared myself-before I told you of my birth and formally offered for your hand-I wanted to show you what manner of man I was so, when it came to this moment, you would know me so well that my birth wouldn’t matter.”

Reaching out, he caught a lock of her hair, flaming like fire and glinting like gold in the flickering firelight. “I wanted to show you at least enough for you to get some idea of what I’d made myself into. I started life as the bastard son of the Earl of Kirkcowan. He acknowledged me from the first, sent me to school, to Hexham, then later bought me my commission in the Guards. Beyond that, however, I have nothing from him-I have no estate, no house. No home.”

He lifted his gaze to her eyes. “I fought for years in the Peninsula campaigns. Made friends like Del, Gareth, and Rafe, and later James, and the Cynsters. Then we five went to India. With the other four, aside from our pay as officers, we learned about trade, went into various ventures, and ended as nabobs. I’m wealthy, well able to afford a wife and family. Yet as I set sail for England, I knew I had no one-no family and no home-to come back to.

“Then I was washed up on Guernsey, and saved by an angel. And I found a family, and a home-one I wanted to be a part of. One I wanted to join.” Raising his hands, he gently framed her face, looked into her eyes. “I never intended to ask you to leave-just to let me stay. To let me be your virgin queen’s consort. To live by your side and protect you and yours. I don’t even care if you’d rather we didn’t formally marry-if you feel that would make things difficult for you in the community, on Guernsey, with the shipping company. I don’t really care how-I just want to live the rest of my life with you.” His lips twitched. “I’ll even herd your donkeys.”

Her face didn’t just light up; her features glowed with transcendent joy. She laughed, an exuberant, glorious sound, then flung her arms about his shoulders and kissed him.

A kiss that lengthened, lingered, that unexpectedly didn’t lead to a frenzy of urgent need but slid smoothly, seamlessly, into a long exchange of hopes and wishes, of shared wants and needs.

Of love.

It was she who bore him back onto the rug. He let her, smiled and helped her divest him of his clothes, then she flung away her towel and rose up and took him in, and loved him.

He held her, supported her, marveled at the way the firelight gilded her curves, shadowed her hollows. Marveled that he was there, that she was with him, that they were alive and free and able to grasp this, the future they both wanted.

Passion was there, but it no longer possessed the giddy, urgent need of a newfound, newly birthed emotion. What bound them now had grown, matured into a river that was infinitely deeper, infinitely slower, and infinitely more powerful.

The desire it fed still caught them, its ultimate need still wracked them, but now, fingers linked, gazes locked, when ecstasy shattered them and flung them into the void, they were aware to their souls of their deep and abiding union.

The togetherness. The closeness.

The reality that linked two hearts and forged a unified soul.

Later, after, when she’d collapsed upon him, her hair a warm veil spread over them both as they lay boneless and gloried, waiting for their breathing to even, their pounding hearts to slow, he shifted his head and pressed a kiss to her temple.

Murmured, “I never understood my parents before-now I think I do.”

“Hmm.” She shifted her head, dropped a kiss on his chest. “Tell.”

“They fell in love quite young. They wanted to marry-my mother was a Gordon, her birth as good as my father’s. But then my grandfather, the old earl, died, and my father inherited the title, and learned that the earldom was deep in debt. He suddenly had the responsibility for the welfare of countless people, including his younger siblings. He had to marry for money-there was no other way.” He was silent for a moment, then went on, “When I was younger, I couldn’t understand that-couldn’t grasp how responsibility could force someone to give up something they truly wanted. Now, of course, I do.”

Held safe and warm within his arms, Linnet smiled. “Your middle name could be Responsibility. I daresay you get it from him.”

He humphed, then continued, “He tried to break with my mother, but she wouldn’t have it. She loved him, knew he loved her, and for her, that was enough-she didn’t care where she lived, that she would never be his wife, his countess. But she held his heart, and he held hers, and that, for her, was all. You’ve heard the phrase ‘counting the world well lost for love’-she lived it. Her family disowned her, cut her off completely, but I swear that to her deathbed she refused to care. If that was the price to be able to love my father, she paid it and gladly. She never looked back. My father bought her a house in Glenluce, and he visited often. I have no idea what his wife, his other family, thought-they never intruded, he saw to that. My mother and I never wanted for anything.”

“Except you didn’t have a father,” Linnet murmured.

“Yes, and no. In retrospect I can see that he was as good a father as circumstances allowed him to be. He spent what time he could with me-he didn’t try to pretend it was normal or even the way it should be, but he did what he could. He didn’t interfere when my uncle, one of my mother’s brothers, decided to break with the family line. Edward eventually came to live with us in Glenluce. He was a scholar and a gentleman, and he loved sailing. He was independently wealthy by then, so could thumb his nose at the family-he was something of a black sheep, too. He filled in what my father could not-he taught me to sail, and so much more.”

Moving his head, Logan brushed his lips to Linnet’s hair. “My mother died shortly after I finished at Hexham-a fever. Later, my father sat down with Edward and me and asked me what I wanted to do with my life. Edward and I had already discussed the army, so I asked for a commission in the Guards. My father agreed. I think he was… bothered that he couldn’t do more for me, but that was all I wanted, and although the earldom’s coffers had recovered somewhat, he was still not wealthy.

“I lost touch through the Peninusla campaigns. When I returned to London, I learned he’d died, and by then Edward had died, too.” He tightened his arms around Linnet. “So, you see, I no longer have any family to return to. But I want a family-I want to build one with you. Children…”

When he let the word trail away, a quiet question, she smiled and nipped his chest. “Yes, please. Lots.”

He shifted so he could look down into her face. “I thought maybe you’d decided your wards were enough.”

“No-they were my compensation.” She held his gaze. “I’ll still have wards, of course. I’ll keep the ones I already have, and, I warn you, more will come with the years. And they’ll still be like children in many ways to me, but they won’t be, can’t be, my own.”

She looked into his eyes, and felt reality-the reality of their joint future-burgeon, grow, and swell with color. “I just never thought I’d have a husband to make children with me.”

Reaching up, she traced a finger down his cheek, along his jaw. Arched a brow. “So you’ll come and live at Mon Coeur?”

“You won’t be able to keep me away.” His lips curved. “As long as you and the others will have me.”

“Oh, we’ll have you.” She spread the fingers of one hand and swept them across the width of his chest. “I’m sure we can find ways to put these broad shoulders and all these lovely muscles to good use.”

He laughed, caught her hand, shifted beneath her.

She slid to the side and sat up, pushed onto her knees. She gave him her hand, tugged him up as she said, “We’ll start with what we already have at Mon Coeur, and add to it. Build on it.”

Sitting up, he caught her other hand, with his eyes on hers raised first one hand, then the other, to his lips. “Marry me, and we’ll make it ours-make it something more.”

Her hands clasping his, she looked into his eyes, smiled mistily. “Yes.”

He held her gaze. Softly stated, “You make me whole, complete, in a way I never imagined could be.”

Her heart lifted, soared. “You do the same for me.”

Alex sat in an armchair in the drawing room of the small manor house outside Needham Market that M’wallah and Creighton had found and commandeered. The family had, apparently, decamped for Christmas, leaving the house shut up, the furniture swathed in holland covers.

M’wallah and his helpers had been busy. The holland covers were all gone, and with evening closing in, a fire crackled cheerily in the grate.

Alex stared into the flames. The past already lay behind, done and gone if not yet buried. Ahead lay one last throw of the dice. The question was, did Alex need to play?

There were alternatives. Even if the last letter reached the puppetmaster, even if he, whoever he was, showed it to Shrewton, there was nothing to say that Shrewton, typical old tyrant that he was, would realize the part Alex had played. If Shrewton didn’t point his stubby digit at Alex… the way lay open to take all that was left of the cult and retreat to India, there to continue to amass wealth and power, albeit in more subtle and secretive vein.

Or, if not that, there was no reason not to stay in England, to take all the money that was left and fade into the background once more.

Alex’s lip curled. The thought of retreating once again into obscurity, becoming a nonentity, wasn’t to be borne.

No. The only true question was whether to make a bid for the fourth and final letter, or to let it-along with the associated risk of tangling more deeply with the unknown puppetmaster and his minions-slide past.

Yet that decision, too, hinged on whether Shrewton could be counted on to mentally dismiss Alex as he always had, and not think to link Alex with Roderick and Daniel in any meaningful way.

The odds, when it came to it, weren’t reassuring. Shrewton was a vindictive bastard who had just been dealt a major personal wound; he would be seeking to lay blame at someone’s door, to lash out.

So… no going back. No slipping away into the shadows, not yet.

At least with the cult’s reins in Alex’s hands alone, there was no need to pander to anyone else’s ego, and matters would proceed with greater efficiency, and commensurately greater succcess.

Despite the hurdles, the unavoidable sacrifices, three of the four letters had been destroyed. Seizing the last would eliminate any possible threat, leaving the way open to return to India and the rule of terror that delighted and satisfied on so many levels.

Alex’s lips curved. Decision made.

Stretching out one arm, Alex lifted a small brass bell and rang it. A second later, M’wallah appeared. A tall, lanky man of indeterminate age, with a walnut-colored face and long gray beard, he’d been Alex’s houseman for the last three years and had proved his devotion in every conceivable way.

“Fetch Saleem,” Alex ordered. “I wish to go through our preparations for welcoming Carstairs.”

M’wallah bowed low and disappeared without a word, reappearing minutes later with the captain of Alex’s guard. Saleem was a tall Pathan, and a frighteningly vicious man; he lived to inspire fear and terror-in Alex’s view, he thrived on those emotions, needed them like a drug.

Addicts were sometimes useful, especially when the addiction was coupled with rigid control.

Alex waved the pair to footstools arranged for the purpose of holding court, waited until they’d sat, waited a dramatic moment more, then commenced, “I have determined that Carstairs-unlike the three who have gone before-will not be allowed to escape our vengeance. And in that, the other three passing safely through will work to our advantage. They will expect the captain to do the same… but he will not.”

With icy composure, Alex regarded M’wallah and Saleem. “He will not because, this time, it will be I who will marshal our troops and lead them in the field. I intend to play an active role in apprehending and torturing the captain.”

Both men nodded, murmured, “This is wise.”

Alex smiled coldly. “Indeed. So let us revisit what we have already put in place, and decide what more we need to do to ensure the good captain does not slip through our net.”

With rigid attention to detail, they reviewed the dispositions of cult members, confirming the numbers amassed on shore nearby, in specific locations Alex had earlier decreed, and, most importantly, confirming the number of vessels already commandeered and actively patroling the waters off the east coast.

“This time,” Alex concluded, “we will not wait for Carstairs to make landfall in England. We strike before, and strike hard, enough to knock him off-course. Then we follow and strike again. But once the captain lands in England, it will be me and my guards he will face-you, Saleem, will lead the elite. We will not rely as we have in recent times on the lower orders of the cult-they are not sufficiently effective in this land.”

Both men inclined their heads in acquiescence; both pairs of eyes gleamed with fanatical expectation.

“The Black Cobra will be in the field tomorrow.” Alex’s tone was pure ice. “And we all know the Black Cobra is deadly.”

Both M’wallah and Saleem smiled in clear, malevolent anticipation. Neither had appreciated being held back, restrained by the more reserved role Alex had chosen to play in England. Now, however, they were about to be unleashed, and they couldn’t wait to taste blood again.

With a wave, Alex dismissed them.

Rising fluidly, then bowing low, the pair backed from the room.

Leaving Alex alone.

Entirely alone, yet being alone had its advantages.

Dwelling on all that would be gained-imagining Carstairs, and through him the elusive puppetmaster, being served their comeuppance-Alex purposely wove violent, vindictive anticipation into a cloak to keep the chill of the night at bay.

Royce sat at the head of his dining table, extended to accommodate the Cynsters, all six cousins and their wives, Gyles Chillingworth and his wife, as well as all those who had already been sleeping under Royce’s roof. The Cynsters and Chillingworths had arrived en masse, possibly-Royce wasn’t certain-invited by Minerva, at a time when their staying to dine was a foregone conclusion.

Certainly Honoria, Devil’s duchess, had marched into the drawing room, touched cheeks with Minerva, then sat and demanded to be fully briefed on all that was going on.

It wasn’t that Royce minded the company-indeed he valued the men’s support, both physical and mental-but having so many independently minded, strong-willed females all together in one place, a place not that far from real and present danger, was making him edgy.

And not just him.

Still, it seemed that this was one of those crosses that had to be borne in the interests of matrimonial harmony. Over recent years, he’d grown a lot better at simply accepting what had to be.

Of his combined troops, only Christian Allardyce and Jack Hendon, already on the coast waiting for Carstairs to land, and Rafe Carstairs himself, were absent. Royce suspected the three were very much in the minds of many about the table.

Devil, seated at Minerva’s right at the far end, leaned forward to say, “It doesn’t make sense that the last person-whoever is what’s left of the Black Cobra-isn’t named in that letter.”

“I also find it hard to believe,” Gabriel Cynster put in from midway down the board, “that Shrewton doesn’t know who that person is.”

“Actually,” Gyles Chillingworth said, “that I can believe. However, I do agree that Shrewton could, just as I’m sure we could, find the answer-learn who that other person was-if we had time.”

“Sadly, we don’t have time,” Lucifer Cynster bluntly observed.

Around and around the discussion went.

Royce, Charles, Gervase, and Gareth had reported on their visit to Wymondham Hall. The result had been discussed and picked over, their suppositions reshaped, re-formed, rephrased, yet they constantly came back to the same point, the one inescapable conclusion.

Del returned to it. “Regardless of all else, the one thing that’s certain is that there is someone else out there, and we don’t know who he is.”

“More,” Royce said, reclaiming control, “Carstairs is heading in. He’s expected to reach our shores tomorrow.” It was the first time he’d stated that-that their time frame was that tight. The meal was long over. He pushed back his chair. “I suggest we repair to the drawing room, put our heads together, and string as comprehensive a net as we can across the area.”

Everyone rose with alacrity, and followed Minerva back to the drawing room. When they were all settled, the ladies on the chaises and chairs, the men lounging against walls or furniture, some with hip propped against the back of their lady’s chair, from his customary position before the hearth, Royce scanned their faces. “Jack Hendon and Christian Allardyce are already in place-Jack, I understand, is haunting the harbor itself, while Christian is patrolling the town. As soon as Carstairs lands, they’re primed to whisk him away into hiding, then send word here. This will almost certainly be our last chance to catch the Black Cobra committing any criminal act on English soil.”

“And if we don’t catch him?” The haughty question came from Minerva, sitting in her usual chair to Royce’s right.

He smiled down at her. “If we don’t, then we pursue him by other means.” He looked at the others. “But I won’t disguise the fact that such a pursuit will be more difficult, and a lot less assured of success. Aside from all else, as Gyles pointed out, identifying the remaining villain or villains is going to take time, and they’re not going to wait in England while we do it.”

“So putting everything we can behind capturing our remaining villain-the Black Cobra’s ultimate head-is our preferred option, our best way forward.” Devil arched his brows at Royce.

As Royce nodded decisively, Logan asked, “Which port is Rafe heading for?”

Royce met his eyes. “Felixstowe.”

Logan was asleep, his arm around Linnet, when an unexpected sound dragged him from slumber.

The sound was distant, yet… he lifted his head the better to hear.

Linnet stirred, then stilled-listening, too.

The sound resolved into thudding hoofbeats. As the seconds passed, it became clear the rider was heading for the house.

Logan pushed back the covers.

“That can’t be good,” Linnet muttered, and slipped from the bed. Grabbing the coverlet, she wrapped it around her nightgown.

Buttoning his breeches, Logan stepped into his boots, roughly tugged them on, snagged his shirt from the chair as he went past. His face was grim as, shrugging on the shirt, he opened the door.

Linnet followed him into the corridor. Other doors were opening, both gentlemen and ladies venturing out in various states of undress.

No one asked what was happening, or who it was. Grim-faced, they all headed for the main stairs.

No one imagined it was good news.

They halted on the stairs and in the gallery above, all looking down into the front hall. Candles were burning on the central table. As they watched, Minerva lit a lamp. Royce was already at the door, tugging the bolts back.

Hamilton, Royce’s personal butler, arrived in his butler’s black just in time to swing the door wide.

They all saw the rider, exhausted and worn, trudging up the front steps.

Royce spoke with him, voice too low for any of them to hear, then he drew the man inside, Hamilton closed and bolted the door, and Royce consigned the drooping rider into his care.

Everyone saw the letter Royce held in his left hand.

Minerva joined him, holding the lamp high as Royce raised the missive, broke its seal, unfolded the sheet.

Read.

They all held their breath. Waited.

Only Minerva was close enough to see her husband’s face. She laid a hand on his arm. “What’s happened?”

Royce looked at her, then up at all of them. A moment passed, then he said, “Carstairs has disappeared. He failed to meet his guards at Felixstowe, but two others of his party-his man and some lady’s maid-made it to the rendezvous. As matters now stand, no one knows where Carstairs, and the young English lady apparently traveling with him, are.”

Silence stretched.

Eventually, Charles broke it, putting their collective thoughts into words. “Carstairs is out there somewhere, and we still don’t know who the Black Cobra is.”