James Potter and the Crimson Thread

PROLOGUE FOUR YEARS EARLIER

Keynes could sense her coming.

The lights had blinked out while he was on the stairs, causing him to stumble and eliciting a chorus of startled exclamations from his entourage. A second later, when the lights flickered back on, he was alone.

He glanced around quickly, turning on the spot, taking in the painted brick walls and the concrete steps. Gone were the guards that had accompanied him, as well as the official court Obliviator. Keynes barely noticed. What mattered most was the little girl, Isabella Morganstern.

He'd been gripping her by the wrist, squeezing with the full force of his fist, as tight and merciless as a cuff. He knew that he was hurting her, and not just because of her incessant screams. His anger made him vengeful. The thought that he might be bruising the girl's wrist made him squeeze even harder, viciously grinding the fine bones of her forearm.

He'd been furious with her for running away from him, but even more, for embarrassing him. This squalling, unmagicked, precocious, British dimwit had dared to defy Albert Keynes, General Arbiter for the Wizarding Court of the United States. She'd actually had the audacity to make him chase her.

Fortunately, even though the rest of his entourage had somehow vanished, the girl was still there, dragging behind his fist, her eyes wide as

the lights flickered back on. Her hair swung in sweaty blonde curls around her face as she looked up and down the stairwell, searching. For a moment, Keynes thought she was looking for the missing guards, but then he understood otherwise. She was looking for her sister. Petra Morganstern, the young woman whose name the little brat had been shrieking only seconds earlier, the young woman whom they had just left, sleeping the cursed sleep of guilt, lying on a bare bed in a guarded basement cell.

"Don't be foolish," he said, mocking the little girl's hopeful expression. His words were lost, however, obliterated in a sudden gust of cold wind. It flapped the brim of Keynes' black hat, threatening to whip it from his bald head like a teasing ghost. The whickering air was so cold that he fancied he could feel flecks of ice in it, stinging his cheeks and eyes.

The blonde girl turned to look at him for the first time since being recaptured. Her mouth was still pressed into a worried frown, but her eyes glittered like emeralds, suddenly expectant, even eager.

He shook his head at her, not quite daring to speak again, and wagged an admonishing finger at her with his free hand. He tugged her forward again so that she stumbled up the steps, dragged by his white- knuckled fist. He didn't know what was going on, but unexpected magic was no surprise in his line of work.

The stairs stopped at the next landing, leading to a single door, thrown open so wide that its handle had cracked the brick hallway wall beyond. Keynes stopped, momentarily confused. They'd been climbing from the basement. There were at least nine more flights of stairs to the top of the building. How could they have reached the top already?

The air was still icy with cold. His breath puffed before his face, chugging with just the faintest tremor of a shiver.

And of course he understood how he'd gotten to where he was after all. His entourage hadn't been vanished away. He had. He'd been magically transported up nine flights of stairs in the blink of an eye, during the flash and flicker of the lights. The only reason the girl had come with him was that he'd been holding onto her so tightly.

The girl hadn't performed the magic. But the glimmer in her eyes told him she knew who had.

"You'd better let me go," she said with quiet emphasis.

Keynes tried to imagine fear and petulance in her plea, but he knew there was none. Instead, she almost seemed to be taking reluctant pity on