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June 30, 1996
Alfred Mandrake
Hampshire “The Hidden Borough” of New York
In hindsight, Alfred shouldn’t have entered the speakeasy to meet with his loyalists that day. He had only chosen to because he wanted to prove that the Mandrake family remained strong in the wake of the upcoming betrothal ceremony, but the weather tonight was insufferable. The rose bushes at the entrance had wilted, and the stray cats wandering the nearby alleys were huddled together for warmth.
“Strange weather,” Malicent said. His younger brother stared up at the gray clouds in the sky. “Even for Hampshire.”
“Especially for Hampshire,” Alfred corrected. As they both gazed skyward, he noticed the clouds moving erratically, as if they were concealing something. “We should head indoors.”
“Yes,” Malicent said, still looking up at the sky. “After you.”
Alfred nodded. He knew there was something lurking in the clouds, and then, as if on cue, a massive wing cut through the cloud cover, confirming his worst fears.
Dragon, he thought. And a rather large one at that. It concerned him more than he was willing to let on. Alfred wasn’t sure his brother could see it, but he knew the Dimitri family wouldn’t be so bold as to attack him in Eaton—it was a neutral city.
Their great-grandfather, Mason Mandrake, had come to an agreement with Police Commissioner Ward before either party’s passing to ensure it was a safe area for the wizarding community. It was one of the Sacred Thirty-Eight treaties and the first Alfred had learned about in childhood. Eaton was Hampshire’s only city that could be used for entry into the non-magical boroughs of New York, with Queens to the west and Brooklyn to the east. Every security measure around Hampshire assured that non-magical beings couldn’t access it without a magical escort—and those were rare cases. After all, Magicks weren’t exactly eager to marry non-magicks—or mundanes, as most called humans. It was impractical for all involved, but Alfred had seen it as worthwhile for his third marriage. He had been a widower twice—though he’d been estranged and then subsequently divorced from his second wife prior to her death during the birth of their second son, his third son—and now a married man once more. In truth, he felt nothing more could be expected of him. Alfred was the eldest of four brothers and had performed his duty two times over. Therefore, he deemed it was only right his third marriage was purely for love.
Thus, making their meeting tonight imperative. As if he was duty bound to marry his only daughter to the Carmines’s son to keep the wizarding world from falling into an all-out war, he would at least meet the young man first.
The Sun Club was where many of the sacred treaties were made. It was Mandrake property and, therefore, heavily warded with every protection spell known to
wizard-kind. If anyone attempted to cast a lethal spell indoors, it would rebound and consequently kill the caster. Which was rather unfortunate for the few drunken hot-blooded American wizards that wandered in.
Alfred took out his wand and waved it over the lock. It creaked open, and he stepped inside, his brother following closely.
The door slammed shut abruptly, and the wards sealed once more. Alfred strolled calmly through the dimly lit corridor until they were near the main dining room. The room’s yellow light shone gold, complimenting the rich red walls that seemed to echo the numerous voices of the lively patrons. The tables were evenly dispersed throughout the room and filled with smiling patrons ordering off the menu. Drinks came from the bar, but food came from the kitchens in the back. The bar took up a corner of the room, and even the barstools were full.
Patrons who noticed him enter smiled at him, and Alfred nodded at them politely. He counted at least forty-four guests tonight, and it was only ten o’clock. He expected it’d fill up the closer it got to midnight.
Most present were young witches invited into the club by the bouncer, likely seeking eligible partners. The bouncer was Jaime, the second son of Vincent Augustine, the Head of the Augustine family. The Augustines had been loyal to the Mandrake family for ten generations. Jaime was bald and the tallest and palest of Vincent’s six children. He and his elder brother, Duncan, typically managed security at the club. Alfred imagined that Duncan had gone to manage the lower floor of the club, where three separate rooms hosted live acts that guests could dance to and would need constant surveillance. But Duncan knew how to divvy up the guards.
“Mr. Mandrake,” Vincent Augustine said, bowing in respect.
“Vincent, it’s good to see you,” Alfred greeted.
“Where’s Carmine?” Malicent asked abruptly.
Alfred almost wished to excuse his brother, but Malicent had never been one for formalities. And, of course, he was right; they had business to attend to.
“Carmine, yes, of course,” Vincent said. “I escorted him to the tables in the VIP room with
his son. I didn’t want anyone to disturb your meeting,” he continued, and Alfred smiled approvingly. “They’re right this way.”
Vincent escorted them to the back, passing by the security that held up the back curtain to reveal two brown leather couches accompanied by armchairs and tables. The lights here were brighter and reflected in the square mirrors on the walls. Behind them, the wallpaper was beige and brown, though the beige looked golden in this light. In the corner, two young men played pool, one of which was his future son-in-law Mordecai Carmine.
His father, Joseph Carmine, sat on one couch in a gray suit, holding his belly as it rumbled with laughter at something Eric Graves had said. Both heads of their respective households appeared in high spirits. Eric was tall with a pale, pointed face, slate gray eyes, and golden hair that came to his shoulders. He wore an all-white ensemble with the matching blazer lain on the arm of the leather couch he sat on.
“Ah, Alfred,” Joseph said, wiping a tear from his eye. “You simply must hear the story Eric has just told. He encountered the funniest human in Manhattan today.”
“Manhattan?” Malicent repeated, taking a seat in an armchair. “You have business in Manhattan?”
“Yes. According to the humans, I have a son on the way,” Eric explained, picking up a glass of scotch from the table between him and Joseph. “It’s been proven through both magical and non-magical means that I’m the wretched thing’s father.”
“Well, you can’t expect much when you play with fire,” Malicent said. “And how’s Martha taking it?”
Eric laughed dryly. “Martha won’t be hearing anything about it. My lawyers will be in contact with the young woman soon enough. Of course, I’ll cover the medical expenses and include a small inheritance for the child.”
“And if they have magic?” Malicent asked.
“If?” Joseph repeated before letting out a bark of laughter. “There has never been a non-magical Graves. Boy or girl, that child will have magic.”
“You will be taking the
child in then,” Alfred said to Eric.
Alfred did not like to intrude on personal matters, but a child living a life of bastardy among the wizarding world wouldn’t be treated well. To be a bastard was to be marked for life. It kept many from getting housing or employment. If Eric claimed them—as Alfred had done with the four sons he’d fathered during his separation from his second wife—then the child would have a chance when they were inducted into the wizarding world. And that was if they had magic, as even the strongest magical bloodlines could fail.
Being mundane was not a crime, but it simply wouldn’t necessitate them being brought into the magical world.
Eric sighed. “Well, I wouldn’t leave them to rot,” he answered, taking another sip from his drink.
“Atta boy, and then you’ll have time to explain to your missus,” Joseph said, nodding to himself. “Five years—seven if you’re lucky.”
“Claiming him is the right thing to do,” Alfred told Eric.
Eric muttered something in Gaelic. “It’ll be a relief to have another son,” Eric said with a wry smile. “Perhaps I’ll be able to sway the Wrens to wed their newborn daughter to him. Take another loyalist faction from the Dimitri family.”
“Yes, and I wouldn’t mind helping you,” Joseph said, taking a pint of beer from the waiter, “once my boy is wed to your daughter, Alfred. The Dimitris are my distant cousins, but the Wrens have been slighted by them. I received a very unsettling letter from Norman the other morning.”
“They could defect,” Malicent said, giving Alfred a knowing look.
Alfred knew Joseph was starting the proceedings, no matter how slyly he was trying to go about it. The head of the Wren household, Norman, had maintained a close friendship with Joseph for years. The Wren family controlled Gates Village, the City of Gates, known for its trade routes. An alliance with them would destabilize trade for the Dimitri family. If the Wrens defected, others would follow. The Dimitris could quickly lose their stronghold in the Big Three and fall into obscurity. It
would be a big win for the Mandrakes.
Alfred cleared his throat and said, “Yes, I’d daresay she’s looking forward to it.”
Joseph nodded silently. “I’m glad to hear it,” he said with a smile. “As much of an honor it is for my son to be wedding your daughter—and I say this with the utmost respect—I wouldn’t want to marry my son to a woman who couldn’t stand the sight of him.”
“Well, I assure you, Hermione has been preparing for this for years,” Alfred said.
Alfred looked over at the two young men playing pool. Tall and dark haired, Mordecai was well-built and well versed in charms; Alfred could trust him with his daughter’s safety—if it ever came to that. Though he had been sure to give Hermione the best magical tutors money could buy, he wanted her to have a bodyguard if the worst-case scenario were to ever happen. If he weren’t here, he didn’t want her to be alone. Because if he were struck down, her brothers would soon follow. This marriage wouldn’t be her undoing—she had been taught the importance of family and duty, the same as himself. He’d hoped that his wife could forgive him for that. But even he hadn’t been above duty, and the Carmines were a loyal ally. And he hadn't heard a single word of criticism about the boy's character, only an unending chorus of praises. As for the smaller, spindly Graves boy, Elliot, who was laughing and snorting beside Mordecai, Alfred had heard rumors about his escapades. From the wenches he’d impregnated in brothels to the gambling debts he owed to the Egleston family. Simply put, Alfred was glad the boy wouldn’t become the next head of the Graves family.
“I suppose introductions are in order,” Joseph said with a bark of laughter. “Boy! Come present yourself to Lord Mandrake.”
Mordecai jumped at
his father’s request, shooting upright from his hunched position. After putting away the pool stick, he walked over and stopped before Alfred. Mordecai bowed his head with a tight-lipped smile.
“Good evening, sir. I am honored to have been chosen to marry your daughter, and I look forward to the day I join your family,” Mordecai said formally.
Alfred looked at the boy. He noted his rolled-up sleeves had ink splatters on them and his black vest was folding at the bottom. His pants were the only thing that seemed perfectly tailored. Sweat beaded on his forehead, and fear flashed in his green eyes. He favored his mother in looks, and Alfred assumed most of his upbringing came from her. Joseph spent too much time hanging around the Barley family’s gentleman’s clubs to be an attentive father. But Alfred had some difficulty in reshaping the mindsets of his loyalists. Most of the men were old-fashioned and believed that women should handle the child-rearing, requiring them to be both nurturing and partial disciplinarians.
Mordecai was the heir apparent of the Carmine family, and Alfred was beginning to think that it may have been better that Joseph hadn’t had as much involvement with the young man’s upbringing—or that of his other seven sons. Perhaps there was a chance that Mordecai and Hermione would take a more modern approach, as he hoped his daughter would still be able to pursue her art.
Hermione was a fine painter. She had painted a portrait of Alfred and Isabel as a gift for his birthday, and he’d hung it proudly over the mantle. And as much as he desired his daughter to perform her duties, he did not want her to lose who she was. That was where he differed from his own father.
“I look forward to it as well,” Alfred finally said, and the boy let out a breath he appeared to have been holding. “Perhaps we can get better acquainted at the garden party this Saturday.”
Mordecai smiled. “Yes, of course—”
Joseph cleared his throat as if to tell his son not to be too eager. Mordecai seemed to gather his senses and nodded. But Alfred was happy that the boy wanted
to please him.
“Will Hermione be attending as well?” Mordecai asked.
The question made Alfred smile and Joseph cough. Mordecai messed with his hair and smiled nervously at Alfred.
“Yes,” Alfred said, suddenly feeling in high spirits. “Yes, she will be.”
Mordecai smiled. “Does she really paint as well as they say?”
Alfred nodded. “Well, as her father, I may be a bit biased, but I’m never one to discredit the truth.”
“Well, I fear I’m no good at painting, but I would very much like to see hers,” Mordecai said lowly. “My mother often says that it’s important to know a woman’s interest, especially in the case that the woman is your wife—”
“Oh, be quiet!” Joseph said, interrupting his son. “Do you truly believe that Lord Mandrake wishes to be bored to death with your mother’s silly little teachings?”
Mordecai fell silent for a moment, appearing disheartened.
“Well, I’m sure Hermione would love to show someone else her work besides an old fart like me,” Alfred told Mordecai, eliciting a smile from the young man. “And there will be plenty of her art on display in the gardens. And plenty more to look forward to in the future, I’m sure.”
Mordecai nodded.
“Then everything is settled?” Joseph asked.
“Yes,” Alfred answered, looking at Mordecai again. “Our children will meet on the first of July and then marry on the fifteenth, as it has been agreed upon for decades.”
Joseph nodded slowly as if he were considering whether the transaction met his approval. Alfred held his hand out to Mordecai. “I look forward to speaking to you more, Mordecai.”
“Yes, sir,” Mordecai said, giving Alfred a firm handshake.
When it was done, he turned to Joseph, who was standing and holding up his hands as though he were rejoicing.
“This is wonderful,” Joseph said, clapping his hands together. “Simply wonderful! Our families coming together into union, as your grandfather predicted they would. This will be a great wedding that all the Carmines will attend—and perhaps the Wrens too.” Joseph concluded with a wink. “We must celebrate! I will order us a round of beers.”
Alfred nodded and sat
down on the couch beside Eric.
“Hmph . . .” Eric said thoughtfully, and Alfred looked toward him.
While he didn’t approve of Eric’s infidelity, Eric had served as an advisor to him for most of his time as the Ruler of Merlin, a title he didn’t often use but was his official claim. Alfred, Head of the Mandrake Family, Ruler of Merlin—Merlin being their magical ancestor, who hadn’t been written into history as a criminal, and the namesake for the county of Hampshire they controlled. The pure Merlin blood flowing through his veins had given them six of the fourteen loyalist families that followed him now—war had given the Mandrake family the others. War had killed four of his uncles and many of his cousins. War had given his father the title before him.
And though he rarely drank, he drank tonight in honor of preventing the start of another war.
July 1, 1996
Hermione Mandrake
Hampshire “The Hidden Borough” of New York
All fourteen families had received invitations to Hermione’s twenty-first birthday, to be celebrated on the first of July, so that her betrothal could be announced on the fourth a minute before midnight in accordance with tradition.
Her mother, Isabel, recited these proceedings daily and had started repeating it more frantically as though it were some sort of divine incantation that would make Hermione fall in love with the Carmine’s son at first sight. That was unlikely, but she’d grow to love him—Hermione had promised herself that. The Carmine family produced by far the most handsome men of the wizarding community’s noble families, and Mordecai was no exception. The framed photograph of him that her mother held was proof of that, though that didn’t stop Isabel from grimacing down at it.
Hermione glanced up at her lady’s maid, Cressida, who didn’t return her gaze. Instead, the brown modelesque elf continued diligently working on Hermione’s curly hair, straightening each section to perfection but moving slower than usual. Cressida’s own hair was dark and cornrowed and certainly more well-kept than the curly bun Hermione had chosen to wear overnight. ...
