Chapter Text
Then in his usual way, Erskine marched straight through the house to Quentin's study. Torquil lingered, apologising to Catriona for threatening her career, and for threatening Howard.
“I’m a brat,” he told her. “It’s my burden to bear. I had to keep the others out, but I was still unforgivably rude.” He hesitated. “I wouldn’t actually have had you fired. You have an exquisite musical talent.”
Catriona glared at him fiercely. “You can’t just wipe all that away” she told him firmly. “But thank you.”
He grasped her hand gratefully. “Thank you.”
She snatched her hand away. “Not yet. But keep it up.” She looked pointedly after Erskine. “I think you were here to try to fix a lot of things?”
Torquil scurried forward to join Erskine in Quentin’s study. Together they looked at what Archer had done to the new red typewriter.
“Hmm,” said Erskine, loudly.
"Tricky," intoned Torquil, fingering his sceptre.
Erskine looked over the typewriter in a thorough, goonish way. He contorted his giant legs until his little head was pressed sideways into the desk, and he squinted carefully at the new typewriter. “Hmmm,” he said again.
Torquil flourished his crozier at the typewriter, and cocked his head like a dog listening to a high-pitched whine. He nodded thoughtfully. “Tied to reality in both directions. The magic is ever so neatly done, it’s really quite beautiful.”
Erskine pushed himself up from the table. "Archer’s doings. Always genius clever." He scratched the side of his chin. "Not always actual clever."
Howard shouldered his way forward between them. "So? Can it help us?" he asked insistently.
"Need to test it," rumbled Erskine.
“Ooh, this could be fun,” said Torquil, leaning forward eagerly. “I have so many ideas!”
“No,” snapped Erskine. “Not you. We don’t need to draw Archer’s attention.”
Torquil made a moue and Erskine grinned. The goon turned, his shoulders knocking Howard and Torquil sideways to face the door where Quentin was following them into his study. "Sykes!" he bellowed. "Come here. Need your typing."
"Everyone is, as always, welcome to help themselves to all I own," said Quentin pushing his way into the room. "But I'm still not sure that applies to goons. Just what is going on now?"
"I think we might need some more words from you, Dad," said Howard.
Quentin rubbed his forehead painedly. “I have spent thirteen years writing words for a machiavellian wizard sibling. This month I have apparently written words for Archer and Dillian as well, and almost Hathaway. What possibly possesses you to ask me to write for you lot as well?”
“Might get rid of Archer for good,” smirked Erskine.
Quentin paused, watching Erskine suspiciously.
"And Dillian and Shine," put in Torquil enthusiastically, jabbing with an episcopal elbow. "Could be even more of a bargain than thirteen years of council tax, eh?"
Quentin batted Torquil away and hesitated. He raised a finger thoughtfully. “What exactly is it you’re intending…?”
“Experiment,” said Erskine. “Try writing something about all of us when we were young.”
With a little bit more prodding, Quentin sat and cautiously poked at his new typewriter.