There was a cat. It was black and white with sprinkles of ginger, lying heavily on his chest and shedding on his best waistcoat. It wasn’t even a cute and friendly kitten. In fact, it was giving him a distinct feline version of a stink-eye.

Completely disoriented, he moved to push the cat away and felt the sharp pull of metal at his wrists. His hands were bound to the bedpost with handcuffs.

Memories came rushing back:  St Clair’s sweet smile, the scratch, the blood. He had allowed that aristocratic brat to play him for a fool. The memory of that exhilarating kiss made the humiliation a thousand times worse.

He pulled himself together and looked around.  He couldn’t even tell what time of day it was, since dark curtains were drawn over the windows. A large fireplace offered the only source of light, casting shadows across elegant furniture and a large fern drooping from its porcelain pot near the hearth.

Not a prison cell, then. More like a comfortable cage. With a lunatic cage master.

Worse still, what if that innocent-looking youth was the Phantom? None so blind as those who don’t want to see. Indeed.

The cat didn’t seem to care for Ned’s predicament and pressed a claw against his collarbone as if making a point. The green feline eyes flashed amber before the creature stretched and jumped off his chest to strut towards the door.

There was a sound of boot heels on tiles outside. The cat fled as soon as the door opened. Ned watched after it with envy and braced himself.

Golden threads flew through the room. They hit the candlestick on the nightstand, and it lit up.

“Really, Uncle Gio. We do have electricity in this house,” St Clair’s reproachful voice rang out.

“Young people. No appreciation for atmosphere,” his companion replied with a sigh.

The ceiling lamp came on. Ned stared at the two madmen at the foot of the bed. The elderly gentleman next to St Clair spoke with a distinctive Italian accent. He was half a head shorter than his companion and wore a blindingly crimson waistcoat embroidered with black vines. Snow-white hair fell to his shoulders, a striking contrast to his dark eyes and olive skin.

The old kook bent over the bed, observing his captive curiously, but without any hostility. St Clair raised his hands, making the whole room light up like a kaleidoscope. The colours swirled around Ned in beautiful patterns, then went out abruptly as they touched his skin. 

“What an interesting anomaly. I’ve read about such cases in old Vatican records, but I never thought I would see one with my own eyes,” the old man concluded happily.

Anger over being treated as a specimen finally shook Ned out of his fear and confusion, but St Clair spoke before he could.

“Don’t talk about him like that,” he said with a frown.  

“You abducted him, thinking he is a murderer. I think he’ll object more to that than me calling him an anomaly,” the old man replied with a grin.

Ned’s jaw dropped as he understood what was going on, and he glared at St Clair,

“You brainless brat! Uncuff me right now!”

The Italian chuckled. “He’s got quite a temper for an Englishman.”

“He’s Irish,” St Clair muttered.

“Ah. That explains the good looks, too. I once knew this girl from Kilkenny…”

“Not now, Uncle Gio,” St Clair interrupted. “Are you sure it cannot be him?”

“I don’t see how. I’ve never sensed such a complete absence of magic in any living being before. A dangerous man for sure, but not a Shadow.”

An unexpected flicker of relief crossed St Clair’s face. Looking quite rueful, he got a small key from the pocket of his vest.

“I know you must be quite put out with me, Sergeant, but I’m sure you’ll understand when I explain everything.”

Ned swallowed down a reply about what he could do with his explanations and held himself back while the young man unlocked the cuffs. His hands throbbed as blood came rushing back in, and the pain didn’t exactly soften his fury.

His head was still spinning, but he aimed true. St Clair didn’t even have time to move before Ned's fist broke his nose.

The fleeting satisfaction fled instantly when the amber eyes lit up, and golden swirls exploded around the room. The heavy iron poker rose from the fireplace, then flew across the room right into St Clair’s hand. With blood streaming down his face, his nose crooked and upper lip split, he looked like a berserker from an old legend.

“That was unwise,” the Italian commented, but settled into an armchair like a man expecting to watch an interesting play.

Ned’s eyes turned back to the fire poker. St Clair grasped it so hard that his knuckles turned white, but he didn’t raise it. He drew in a deep breath through his bloody mouth and said,

“I would hate to hurt you. Don’t make me lose control.”

The voice was breathless and muffled by the swelling nose, but the threat was unmistakable. Ned weighed his options. Strangling the brat could wait. Getting out of this madhouse was the priority.

He held the glowing gaze for a moment longer, then nodded curtly. St Clair wiped the blood from his face and cautiously stepped towards the fireplace without turning his back. He put the poker back where it belonged, then grasped the hanging leaves of the potted fern. A pale light rose from the plant, bathing his skin in a greenish hue.

Ned watched in horror as the green leaves turned brown and dried up while St Clair’s swollen nose went back to its narrow, straight form. The cut on the upper lip closed and healed without leaving a scar behind. Of all the madness he had seen in the last few hours, this was the most unsettling.

Fighting down panic, he pushed past St Clair towards the window and pulled the curtains aside. All he could see through the fogged glass was sheer whiteness.

His heart almost stopped in shock when he opened the windows. There were no buildings, no streets, no smoking chimneys. Only fields and orchards as far as the eye could see, all of it covered in a thick mass of snow under a pale morning sky. Even the air smelled different. It was crisp and fresh without the smoke and stink that plagued the streets of London.

He inhaled deeply and turned back to face his captor.

“You are in Ravenstone Manor in Kent,” St Clair volunteered.

Trying to keep it together, Ned managed only one word.

“Why?”

“Because the staff in the townhouse is too nosy,” the lunatic said as if that explained anything.

“One can’t execute someone in the middle of Mayfair anymore without causing a fuss,” the old man added with a regretful sigh.

Ned froze in place. “Execute?”

St Clair shrugged as if that were obvious. “If you turned out to be a murderous witch, we couldn’t simply give you to the police, could we?”

“That’s why those modern houses are so inconvenient. Things were easier when we had dungeons,” the Italian chimed in.

Ned looked from one to the other in disbelief, then pinched the bridge of his nose.

“St Clair.”

“Yes?”

“Get me a drink. Then start explaining.”