Then Edwin spoke in a tumbling rush. “I, Edwin John Courcey, claim the witnessed inheritance of the magicians of Britain, and I make blood-pledge for myself and my heirs with”—another incredulous, bitten-back sound—“as much of this land as will have me, even if it’s only these few fucking square yards. Mine to tend and mine to mend, and mine the—the pull and the natural right.” He turned his head to look at Robin. He looked ghostly, ghastly. “This man is a guest. He has no magic. He means you no harm.”
