One thing about having Winston home was that Tyki's chances of being able to beat Kanda at his best were improving by leaps and bounds. One thing the Campbells generally considered sacred was practice time. It wasn't so much that they never interrupted each other, rather that they did it rarely and always respected a no. If Tyki was practicing, Wisely would leave him alone, so Tyki spent every minute he could practicing.

The problem was that he had to break for things like food and sleep, which made an ambush inevitable, and the first one happened as Tyki was heading for a much-needed shower.

"Oy," Wisely said.

"What?" Tyki said as he ran a towel over his face and hair, fighting back dread. In any space full of people who knew him, the first effect Wisely had was to induce paranoia.

"You want to know what Road's doing?"

A loaded question if there ever was one. "Is it illegal?" Tyki asked.

"No."

"Dangerous?"

"I don't know."

"Talk to her father then."

"You know how much good that will do!" Wisely scoffed.

It was true, and it was one of the reasons Tyki tried to keep an eye on her, a secret reason. His brother was older, and Tyki wasn't a parent. Whenever Road cried, Tyki used to hand her back to Sherrill or her mother, leaving them to deal with the problem. Tyki knew he was no authority on raising children.

Still, she was turning into a mess, and Tyki couldn't help but blame Sherrill. He tried not to, but at every turn, it always seemed as if there was something Sherrill could have done differently. He was too soft on Road in some ways, too hard on her in others, and Tyki thought it entirely possible that Road was cleverer than her father. Not that Sherrill was stupid, just that Road was slightly less stupid, and she was definitely less stupid than Tricia. She was running rings around them, from what Tyki could see, and it wasn't good for anyone.

Either that, or she was completely mad and needed intervention no matter what kind of fit she threw, but it didn't matter what the problem was. Sherrill was her father. He needed to deal with it, and he wasn't.

Tyki felt disloyal as hell when he thought that way, so he tried not to. He just did what he could as the favorite uncle and called it a day.

Wisely knew this because Wisely knew everything. It was where he got his nickname.

Tyki had no idea what Wisely was, and he wasn't sure anyone had a proper name for it. Telepath had gone out of style, as had sorcerer or warlock, which didn't leave much. Sociopaths were thought to be charming, which Wisely wasn't. He was sarcastic and abrasive at best, and vicious at worst. There was also the fact that sociopaths were thought to lack empathy, the capacity to relate to what others felt. Wisely didn't have that lack. He had empathy to a degree that was uncanny. It was where he got his leverage.

"So are you interested or not?"

If Tyki said yes, Wisely would tell him and then it would be Tyki's responsibility. If Tyki said no, he'd be no better than he thought Sherrill was, which would damn them both simultaneously. One way or another, Tyki was screwed.

"All right, so what's she doing?"

"I don't know," Wisely said. "That's why it's interesting. She's not rehearsing in her room or in her practice room."

"Where is she rehearsing?"

"You know the old sound studio? That's where she's practicing."

Tyki tried hard to stop that sinking feeling that was the blood draining from his face. Why had he thought Road would need a lock on her own personal door when she wanted proper privacy? There was a door in the house that could only be bolted from the inside, and the key was one of many nearly identical ones kept in a box in the Earl's desk.

"The floor's shit," Tyki said. Like the rest of the house, it was hardwood, but the finish was old and nothing special. She'd be lucky to avoid splinters.

Wisely smirked. "I know." And with that, he turned and went back down the hall.

Tyki leaned against the wall, hoping with all his heart that his niece was using her privacy to snort lines off strippers. It would probably be healthier than dancing something she wanted no one to see to a song she wanted no one to hear. Why oh why hadn't the Earl left well enough alone? He knew as well as anyone else that any attempt to set boundaries, as the books called it, was met with catastrophic escalation. If Road could not have Kate Bush, she would find something far, far worse.

What to do? If he confronted Road, it would set Road against Wisely, a crossfire he wanted no one caught in, least of all himself. However, if he didn't confront her, he would be left knowing that he'd done nothing. He could try spying, but she'd chosen that room for a reason. He could hold a stethoscope to the door and be none the wiser as to what was going on inside.

There was one person who might be able to give him a little hint as to what Road was up to. The family employed a seamstress, an absolute demon with a sewing machine, and if anyone had any idea what Road was doing, she would.

He knocked on her door. "Hello, Claire."

"Oh, hi!" she said, looking up from her work. "Are there any problems with your costume?"

"No, none at all," he said. "I was just wondering about Road." He smiled. "Can you give me a hint?"

Claire smiled back. "Not much to it this time, just a little white dress."

"Not a little black dress?"

"No, it's white, and not as tricky as last time, although she was a bit fussy about the fabric. But she really doesn't need anything tricky, does she."

"No, she doesn't," Tyki said. "Did she say anything about the piece?"

"No, why? Haven't you asked her?"

"She's being all secretive about it, so I'm trying to make it look as if I've guessed. Be a dear, and don't tell her I'm asking, all right?"

Claire rolled her eyes. "I won't, but I'm afraid I can't help you. She just asked for the dress."

Of course she hadn't mentioned the music, Tyki thought. That would have made it much too easy. "Thanks, Claire. This whole conversation is our little secret, right?"

"What conversation?" Claire asked with a wink. "All I remember is you coming down to let me know your costume's good."

"And so it is!" Tyki said with a return wink. "Thank you." But his heart sank. Now he had to check the room itself, to be sure Wisely was telling the truth.

The east wing had been built in the early part of the 19th century to house a growing, multi-generational family. Unlike other families of similar means, the Campbells weren't prone to evicting dependent relatives and had never had a period of having gone entirely broke, although every earl complained about the upkeep on the house and the expense of feeding, housing and educating what was essentially a small tribe.

Because that part of the house wasn't especially historical, the residents had a freer rein than usual in how they used the rooms. In the early twentieth century, someone had gotten it into their head that they had to have a private music room, so two rooms in the old servants' quarters in the basement had had their adjoining wall knocked out and had been completely soundproofed. Later, someone had put in proper acoustical panels and added a control room, turning it into a recording studio. It had gone unused since the wing had been emptied, although all of the children had played in it. It was the perfect place to practice one's screaming and swear words without any negative repercussions.

Tyki hadn't been in the east wing in years, but he didn't need to go there. Neither did anyone else, so he shouldn't have been so surprised to see that it hadn't changed. The rooms weren't merely furnished exactly as they had been fifteen years ago, they were furnished exactly as they had been fifty years ago. During one war effort another, the Campbells had acquired the virtue of thrift and hadn't let it go. Either that or they'd run out of attic space, but the general rule was that if one wanted furniture, one was free to raid the attics or unused rooms, but nothing new was brought in if there was something already in the house that would serve. Since everything in the east wing was adequate to the task, at least three generations had left well enough alone.

He had to shake his head to orient himself in his proper time and place, and then he caught the smell. No matter how regularly they were cleaned, unused parts of the house acquired a musty smell, and the east wing reeked of disuse. Maybe someday it would be filled again, but he didn't know how. Nobody wanted that many children anymore. Maybe the Earl would wise up and tear it down. Most likely, someone down the line would turn the place into a B&B once all of the ghosts were forgotten.

Tyki went down the servants' stairs into the basement. Ordinarily, Road had no reason to go there, but as soon as Tyki reached the room, he knew that Wisely was right. One wall was covered in mirrors, old ones taken from the practice rooms in this wing, and he wondered how long it took her to carry them down and mount them on the wall. More importantly, that smell of abandonment was gone. She was using this space regularly enough to drive it out.

He looked around, but the room was much as he remembered it. The old reel-to-reel machine and related equipment were still in the control room, but much of the space was empty, the computers having been removed and repurposed long ago. The speakers were still there, though, and when he looked he saw that they'd been been routed through a digital media cradle that fit Road's phone.

Tyki put his own phone into it and went to a random playlist before going back into the main part of the studio. It was small, too small, and the low ceiling made him feel claustrophobic. The floor was indeed shit, worn and dented where people had dragged years of heavy equipment over it. Road's diminutive size had limited the size of the mirrors she could use, so his reflection was broken up by a lot of vertical lines. The lights were old recessed fluorescents, and two of the tubes were flickering.

It was a terrible set-up considering what she had access to, and he wondered what she could possibly be working on that she would need to go to such lengths to keep secret. She hadn't hidden anything else, although she'd been subtle enough so that it had taken Tyki a while to catch on to what she was doing with her pieces. Perhaps this time, she was taking the gloves off.

Then he saw it. Leaning carefully in a corner was a tripod.

Tyki looked at the window between the studio and the control room, saw the dangling ring attached to the wide, heavy blind, and pulled it down. Sure enough, it worked as if it was new, and the blind was clean, a passable screen for a projector.

He went back to the control room, looking through abandoned drawers. Nothing, but while the tripod was too large to carry inconspicuously, the projector it was intended to hold was small enough to slip into a bag or even a large pocket.

It wasn't that Road was forbidden to use props or visual effects. She was working on a number for a charity performance that used both. It was that when she was competing, she eschewed any distractions, offering nothing to the judges but herself and the music.

So why the projector? And why keep it secret?

He thought of the pictures she had. Surely she wouldn't be that stupid!

Or would she? But if so, what was she trying to accomplish? Everyone involved was long dead. Why was it worth it to her to sacrifice so much for people she'd never met and never would?

Or did she have something else in mind?

This eclipsed her chats with Walker in terms of potential for serious trouble, and Tyki had no idea what to do. Last time he'd tried to intervene, she'd eviscerated him, each word she used sharp enough to cut a falling piece of paper. What would she do if he confronted her, and demanded to know what in hell she was working on?

He shuddered, but he felt suddenly like he was in the command center of an invading army, and he wanted to get out before he got caught and hanged for spying. He pulled his phone out the cradle, turned off the lights, and left as quickly as he could.

Tyki went back to his room and made a beeline for the hidden box, where his fingers ran wistfully over the stash of buds. One of the reasons he smoked was because he enjoyed it. Wisely, however, was neither stupid nor naive. He knew pot smoke when he smelled it, so it was best not to produce it. Instead, Tyki went for a small plastic vial. Inside was a wax that went into a special cartridge for his vaporizer. It was expensive and somehow less satisfying to use, but the smell was different, and it didn't linger as long.

He didn't want to be using this much. He didn't want to need it. He had an awful feeling that Wisely was trying to push him to a point where his chemical crutches could no longer hold him up, not for any real reason except to see what would happen. It was how Wisely entertained himself, learning everything he could about people and then figuring out how to use it to break them.

Most people would do what Wisely's parents had done, throw every possible therapy at it that they could find and afford, up to and including therapeutic boarding school. Whether it was working or not was an open question, but if Wisely had gained any ground at all, it was eroding fast now that he was home. Sherrill and Tricia were either fighting or apologizing, Martin was drinking too much, and Felix spent all of his time in his room with his fiddle. Ordinarily friendly arguments between Mason and Thomas were getting ugly. Tyki was going from casual to habitual drug use. Jasdero was falling apart, and David's ability to prop up his twin was slipping. Only Road was unaffected, which was worrying in itself.

Was it worth it? The Earl seemed to think so, but Tyki was rapidly losing track of what it was all about in the first place.