It’s an odd thing, seeing Carlyle distressed. His whole purpose in this weird pseudo-family system is to be a stable, calm factor. He weathers the storms Shay chases his way, ready with tea and nutrition for when the wind has stopped trying to smash the windows. He provided a counterweight, a listening ear, sanity. Watching him off-kilter is like watching cracks appear in the house itself. And usually, there’s nothing I can do about it.

This was one of the first times I saw him like that, maybe even the first time. It was very disconcerting.

Normally, wherever he is, there is sound around him. He whistles while he putters in the kitchen, shouts over the screaming of the kettle, paces with shoes creaky from wear. When Shay has one of her silent episodes, he’ll talk, and talk and talk, chatter on like a parakeet with a mirror until she responds. When everyone is buried deep within research and paperwork, he’ll turn on his audio system and fill the entire house with soft jazz. When Shay is stuck on the couch, he’ll fill the house with the smell of fresh bread and warm biscuits, sing until the sunshine returns to her eyes. When Peter comes in, soaked or cold or sad, he’ll dig out old movies and talk over them until we all feel better.

It’s not an image I’ll ever lose. He was standing over his desk, still like a statue, staring down at the picture. He looked ashen, grey, older than I’ve ever seen him, and he was completely silent.

Completely, utterly silent.

I watched with growing dread as he stood unmoving, and I startled as he moved. His hands tapped out something on his phone, quick and precise and without his eyes moving from the image before him, before he dialled a call.

“Fox.”

“You with Shay?” There seemed to be something stuck in his throat.

There was a minute pause on the other side. “What’s wrong?”

“Someone sent pictures from last night.”

“Shi-” I could hear Fox take a calming breath over the line. “Don’t touch anything. We’ll be- I’m taking her home. Hang in there.”

The line died, and he stood for a moment.

“Tea!” he decided, voice louder than expected. “They’ll need tea if they get here. Come on, it’s about time for lunch, too.”

(It’s a great thing he’s a good cook, and it’s fortunate for us that he likes to keep busy in the kitchen, but with the stresses Shay puts him through, he’s going to give me a pot belly one day.)

When Shay came in, it was like a breath of fresh air. She strolled in, all straight angles and focussed energy, and her confidence filled the room, seemed to drop my heart rate with the calm she exuded. Fox followed her on her heels, a man I assumed was Tom right behind them. He was as she described him: the kind of still-handsome that spoke volumes about the amount of care he took with his appearance.

Fox strode to the desk, but Shay made a beeline to the kitchen. I could hear their voices, muffled through the closed door, but it doesn’t take much guesswork to know what they were talking about. (“Are you all right?” - “Are you?”) It didn’t take long before they came out, both carrying trays of food.

“The emperor has declared lunch.” She stated. She glanced at Fox. “You secure the pictures?”

He held up an evidence bag. “You look good in them.”

“Later.” She led the way to the dining room. “No work at the table.” She gestured for me to join them, and I fell in line. “But Tom, you should really tell the guys about Vanessa.”

Fox groaned.

Watching Shay hatch schemes is something else. As much as I like to say I’m involved in what she does, I’m very rarely there when she comes up with her plans.

(That might also have something to do with the amount of winging it she seems to do.)

This, though, this was full-on scheming and it was very interesting, to say the least.

Over lunch, the conversation naturally shifted back to the photos, no matter how much she tried to slow it down. Eventually, she allowed it, passing them around and telling us not to get relish on them.

They were quite nice; the photographer had been lurking at a good spot. There were hardly any other people in the shot, nothing blocking the way, and among others, there was a shot where he’d lifted her above his head. He smiled brightly. The look on her face can only be described as ecstatic.

There was also the one of their dip, their faces less than an inch apart.

Carlyle had gone silent again.

“What do we do?” Tom was turning one of the pictures in his hands. “Your cover is blown.”

“Not necessarily.” She took the last bit of her sandwich. “Describe the picture to me.”

He frowned. “D’you want to see it?”

There was a brief pause. I exchanged a knowing glance with Fox.

She tilted her head, just slightly. “Did I ask you to hand it over?”

It was fascinating, watching her bring him off-kilter with just a few words.

“Describe it to me.” Her fingers played with the rim of her glass, her eyes inquisitive, face warm, everything to show him she had no ill intent.

“It’s us.” He looked down at the picture, “Dancing. Not much to it.”

“What else?”

He shrugged.

She sighed. “Fox?”

“There is nothing else.” He picked the photo from Tom’s hands, glanced at it. Put it face-down. “That’s the point. He was in front.”

“And you?” Her voice was soft as she turned to Carlyle. He was staring down at a photo, that photo. “Tell me what you see?”

He stayed silent.

She reached over, grabbed his hand, unfurled his fingers. Entwined them with her own. “Please.”

I could feel Tom’s stare, it must’ve been burning into her skull.

Carlyle took a breath. “You’re about to kiss.”

“But we weren’t.” It seemed an assurance. “So?”

“It was staged.” He realised, shoulders relaxing. “Framed to look like that.”

“And why would anyone do that?”

Fox groaned. “You’ve got to be kidding.”

“Wish I was.” A smirk was growing around her lips, though, slow and devious. “But we use it to our advantage.”

“You have a plan.” I had the feeling the entire conversation was passing me by, but I didn’t mind. Much.

“Don’t I always?” She let go of the hand, collected the photos and stacked them in the middle of the table. “These are meant for blackmail, probably. So we give him something to photograph.” She turned to Tom, “How fast can you set up an event for people to pick up their shirts? Somewhere… public, perhaps, but with a controlled guest list?”

Realisation dawned on Tom’s face. “Oh, that’s good. You’re good.”

“She’s the fucking best.” All right, so Carlyle wasn’t completely back to normal, yet.

She glanced at him before continuing. “Aiden will need a complete list of everyone you’re expecting, and access to a security camera. Or we need space to set one up.”

Fox whistled, “Going all out.”

“Fucker knows my address.” Her eyes landed on the envelope the pictures had come in. “Which makes it extremely personal. This is war, and I plan on making it a short one.”

There was something in her eyes, something scary and dark, and we all saw it. Tom, though, dared to comment.

“You’re scary.” He decided, “You’re like a god of War. Like Mars.”

“Or Ares.” I was desperate to prove I had a brain, too.

Fox hummed, “She’s more of an Athena, I think.”

(It took me some time and a Google to realise how right he was.)