Chapter Text
CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE
OH, THE THINGS I’D WRITE YOU FLEAMONT POTTER
Disembarking was not a simple process.
First, there were Aurors from the Egyptian Ministry of Law and Order to deal with. Each of the passengers explained the tragic accident that had befallen Mr Collin Finch: he’d accidentally swallowed one of the local species of insect and during attempts to resuscitate him, they had accidentally wounded him further.
What sounded flimsy and weak to Fleamont’s ears was clearly not so improbable to the Aurors, though that may have had something to do with Alphard Black’s discreet side conversation. It helped that Finch’s grieving sister insisted she’d played witness to his horrible death, and that the diagnostic spells had revealed the remnants of an Avraka beetle and other plant life in his stomach. Fleamont supposed this was not the first foolish tourist death they had dealt with involving such a toxic species.
Secondly, Fleamont found many of his belongings being taken in as evidence, including his potion’s store, much to his fury. The Aurors said it would likely be released in four to six weeks but in the meantime, he would be returning to London with a fraction of his supplies. Dorian told him that it was a lesson in learning to pack lightly but he could sense the other wizard’s tension.
Lastly, there was the matter of disembarking itself. Fleamont made his way off the gangplank, his stomach lurching slightly as he encountered solid, unshifting ground for the first time in a week. It felt a little like sea sickness, as if his sense had acclimatised to the gentle rocking of the Karnak and had no clue what to make of the bustling port. Dorian, Augusta and Beatrice were escorted for further questioning to the police station, but Dorian assured him it was a formality, to get them to release Collin’s body into their care.
“Thank you, my friend.” Dorian said to him as they embraced a final time. “These past two weeks…Well, I was right, they would have been hell without you.”
“Don’t invite me next time.” Fleamont told him bluntly.
Dorian cackled as he and Augusta departed. The Finch heiress threw him a thankful smile over her shoulder. At least she’d finally come around to him, even if it was just a little.
Sabella and the former Mr Harlan had escaped the whole disembarking process entirely through some unknown means. She must’ve spirited them both away at the first opportunity, or so Alphard said when Fleamont questioned him about it.
“She’s on her for a while, I think.” He mused. “I suppose we both are, really.”
“So, you think you’ll stay?” Fleamont wondered, peering up at the Karnak. She was no worse for wear on the outside. “How do you think you’ll go, persuading tourists to board a crime scene?”
“Are you kidding?” Alphard snorted. “I’ll have to bat the nosy bastards away with a stick. I might stay a while. Youssef and I have some things to figure out.” He admitted, abashed. “Speaking of…if you don’t mind keeping this all to yourself…”
“Black, I don’t think I’ll be reciting any part of this story to anyone in a hurry.” Fleamont cut in firmly. But, unable to resist the jibe, he added: “Though, you know, Youssef is Half Blood. He only exists because of our world mingling with Muggles.”
Alphard let out a pained sigh. “You’re relentless, Potter.”
After a moment’s hesitation, Fleamont extended his hand. “Well, it was a terrible two weeks, Black. Let’s do it again soon.”
Alphard laughed at that, grasping his hand firmly. “Count me in.”
And there was nothing left to but face the music.
Mr Misra was busily arranging for a driver to collect their trunks, but Euphemia had paused at the edge of the gangplank.
Fleamont took a moment, committing every detail of her to his memory. The way her dark rose pink dress hugged her figure gently, the end of the fabric draped over her left shoulder. The way it fluttered in the same river breeze that playfully tussled her dark, wild curls. Each of her wrists were decorated with fine enamel bangles; he could almost hear the phantom clink of them even in her stillness.
But despite all this loveliness, her starlit eyes were sharp with annoyance, mouth twisted in a scowl as if the port had personally insulted her.
Fleamont thought he might live a hundred more years and never see anything half so beautiful in all of them.
“You have to step off eventually.” He stopped directly in front of her, brows raised.
“I don’t want to.” She muttered, rebelliously.
“Why?”
She caught his gaze. “You know why.” Because then we’ll be on solid ground, went unspoken.
Fleamont offered her his arm silently and after a long pause, she accepted his escort onto the port, back to reality.
“You and your father are bound for Cairo, then?” he asked, his tone deliberately light. “For that investor’s meeting?”
“We are. And you’re headed back home to London.” She said with a rather aggrieved sigh. “How perfectly awful of you.”
“Of me?” Fleamont echoed, plaintively.
“Of course.” Euphemia arched her brows in his direction. “Who am I supposed to solve mysteries with now? We’re partners, you and I.”
“For the last time,” Fleamont complained. “We are not detectives.”
“Thank Merlin for that. We nearly had the wrong man thrown in prison.” Euphemia agreed dryly.
“I think I’ll stick with potions for a while.” Fleamont agreed with a shudder.
She laughed brightly and Fleamont knew he would dream of that sound for a long time to come.
“And our deal?” Euphemia finally said, studying him carefully.
“Euphemia,” he gave a weary, disheartened sigh. “The circumstances haven’t changed. You have responsibilities to your life back home. As do I.”
“What is the point of living in a world with magic,” she muttered, resentfully. “If it can’t bring me to you?”
“Now that’s an impossible question.” Fleamont’s smile tasted bitter.
“You promised you’d ask me.” she insisted. “I’m not a fool, you know. I understand why it wouldn’t work.”
“Euphemia…”
She stepped closer to him, until he could have merely tilted his chin down to press a kiss to her forehead. It was torture to restrain himself from doing so.
“Ask me anyway, Fleamont.”
“Euphemia Misra,” he said, enjoying the taste of her name on his tongue and the way her starlit eyes brightened at hearing it. “London is cold and wet and far away from everyone you know. But there are things to love about it, and there’s a windowsill overlooking the city which would make a perfect reading nook in winter. Come home with me.” he begged, with longing in his voice even though he knew it was hardly fair of him to ask.
“You’d burn to a crisp in an Indian summer, Fleamont Potter.” Euphemia’s starlit eyes were bright and fierce and terribly sad. “It’s very far from everything dear to you. But I hear they have cauldrons.” she added, pleadingly. “Come home with me anyway.”
For a long moment, it was all they could do to soak the sight of each other in.
“We could arrange Portkeys.” Fleamont suggested half-heartedly.
“And owls,” she agreed, softly. “With extra-large wingspans. Oh, the things I’d write you Fleamont Potter.” But Euphemia’s teasing smile was forced.
He knew she was picturing the same as he: juggling back and forth between India and England, staring over and over at creased love letters worn soft, long nights wishing the other person wasn’t an entire world away. Frustration and resentment and pain over the handful of minutes they could share, estranged by lives which were, at their core, incompatible.
“You know,” she said, with a suspicious sniff. “I think we’d make each other very happy. Until…”
“Until we didn’t.” he finished, grimly.
His sense of self-preservation had been long dormant, but it rose with fierce demand now, insisted that they cut these feelings loose, once and for all. That stupid little voice reminded him that obeying the same compulsions over and over again in the hopes of a different outcome was madness. That love might rain dreams, but dreams could not sustain a life.
“Perhaps it just isn’t the right time for either of us.” He forced the words out, unable to hide his disappointment.
Euphemia nodded slowly. Those stars in her eyes had faded. “Perhaps you’re right. Maybe next time, things will be easier.” she sounded hopeful.
“Until the next time then, Miss Misra.” Fleamont carefully lifted her gentle brown hand to his lips in a soft kiss.
Euphemia studied him carefully and he knew she was still looking for different answers to those same questions. Madness, indeed.
“Until then.” She whispered back.
Then she was gone, headed for the cab her father had arranged for them both.
And as Fleamont Potter watched Euphemia vanish into the bustling port town, he was suddenly certain he was the stupidest bastard alive.
* * * * *
* * * *
Fleamont Potter & Euphemia Misra will return in
THE SCANDAL IN OLD SHANGHAI
It’s been two years since Fleamont Potter farewelled the witch of his dreams on the banks of the River Nile,
having just spent the most ludicrous, stressful two weeks of his life aboard the SS Karnak solving a murder.
Euphemia Misra has never been far from his thoughts…even if it appears she’s forgotten him entirely.
Attending the International Society of Brewing and Boilers’ Annual Conference in Shanghai
is a huge opportunity for Fleamont’s new line of Sleakeazy products.
He can’t afford to turn it down, even if it puts him directly in the path of his old flame.
But something foul is afoot in Shanghai. After one of the conference attendees is found brutally murdered,
Fleamont finds him unexpectedly involved in yet another investigation.
Only this time, he’s the prime suspect.
It’s up to Euphemia and Fleamont to track down the real killer,
hidden amongst Fleamont’s competitors, a famous Seer on tour, Euphemia’s own sisters
and several hotel guests who are not all they seem.
Now if only Fleamont could stop getting caught in Miss Misra’s starlight eyes…