Belmary House 4

by Cassidy Cayman

  “I liked you better when you pretended not to know anything,” Ashford grumbled.

  “Ignorance isn’t bliss, my boy. You most definitely cannot use this spell.” He awkwardly patted Ashford on the shoulder. “Get a little rest. I’ll discuss this with Helen and we’ll see what we can do.”

  He left the room muttering how it was always something and Ashford slumped into his chair and cast his eyes around the room, hoping to get some inspiration for a new plan.

  The empty pan lay face down near the hearth where he’d tossed it earlier and he had the overwhelming urge to try again, even though he knew the eyes of the followers, those damn bloody unhelpful creatures, probably weren’t too keen to show him anything.

  “Please,” he whispered, resting his head on his arms, shoving the huge old book out of the way so he could close his eyes for a minute. “Just let me see her once more. If it makes any difference, I do love her so. I’ll let you think about it for a bit, eh?”

  He was so tired that the gnawing fear he’d been living with since the first vision slipped to the back of his thoughts, and sleep overtook him.

  ***

  He found himself looking through a hazy film of mist. No, it was smoke. He reached out to try to sweep it away but his hand was heavy at his side. Instinctively he held his breath and turned in a circle, looking for an escape route. Everything around him was a blur of smoke. He couldn’t see walls, or any furniture, or a door.

  Was he outside? He looked straight up, hoping to see sky, but it was only more of the same blurry swirls of white and grey. Finally, he had to breathe, and gasped in a great lungful of the deadly air only to find it didn’t affect him at all. He didn’t sputter or choke, but at the same time he heard someone else who did.

  Matilda! He heard her saying something, in a self-conscious sing-song kind of way. Her voice was firm though she struggled with the smoke, until she was overcome by a bout of wracking coughs. He heard another voice that he couldn’t make out, and then a powerful burst of red and orange blinded him. He recoiled from the flames but felt no heat, and clawed at the air with his leaden arms, unable to clear the smoke.

  Finally he caught a glimpse of Matilda, far too close to the blaze. She had something in her hands and there was shrieking in the background. With every ounce of strength he had in him, he flung himself toward her—

  — and fell out of his chair, knocking his head against the edge of the desk. It had been a dream, only a dream. He repeated this to himself several times, and said it aloud for good measure, wishing one of Serena’s dogs would wander in, or a servant would come and ask him something. Anything to free him from the icy jaws of terror the dream had him in. Anything real.

  Could the dream have been real? With a jolt that made him hit his head again, he ignored the jab of pain and lunged for the pan. The pitcher had barely enough water to cover the bottom but he ruthlessly clawed open the cut on his hand and squeezed in a few drops of blood. What else did he need? He worked as if someone, something else was guiding him. For the first time since he’d begun the distasteful adventure of learning to harness his powers, he felt at ease, in control.

  “Please,” he breathed before spitting out the words to the spell.

  A moment of nothing, only the murky mixture settling in the bottom of the pan. He continued to stare at it until his eyes burned with the need to blink, and like a curtain being snapped shut, the water turned black. Finally Matilda appeared.

  It was exactly like his dream. She stood in front of what looked to be a blazing inferno, desperately beating at the flames with some sort of cloth. Was she mad? Why didn’t she flee? Unless she couldn’t, and the only way out was to fight through the fire. She turned her head away, so that he saw her heartbreakingly clearly, struggling to breathe as the flames grew higher.

  As soon as it appeared, it was gone. He rattled the pan, but knew that was all he would get and he should be grateful for it.

  “Where are you?” he bellowed.

  How could she have got herself into so much danger? Had tinkering with the portal unleashed the curse onto her? He tried to calm himself enough to go over any detail of the vision that might give him a clue what time she was in.

  Her dress was far different than what he was used to seeing her in, and different still from her own, future time. It looked vaguely familiar to him, but he couldn’t place it. He’d seen a lot of different styles in his travels and paid little attention to any of them.

  Should he call for Liam? No. The man hadn’t given him any useful advice as of yet, and had only served to shake his confidence in the spell he’d labored over for so long. He’d been able to do the scrying spells, even Liam had seemed impressed by that. Unfolding the paper, he read his homemade combination spell three times, making a few minor changes. It should find her, and take him there, as simple as that.

  So what if there were some worrisome footnotes at the bottom of two of the original hexes he’d used to cobble it together. He was certain if any of them were truly dangerous, or deadly, they would have been omitted from the book.

  He could almost hear Kostya laughing derisively at that thought, knowing there were truly dangerous and deadly spells in that ghastly book. But either way, he was as good as dead if Matilda was. If she never returned to him, if he never found out what fate had befallen her, he didn’t know how he could go on. He’d spent the better part of his life distancing himself from others and had liked it that way. Until Matilda. She’d managed to find her way into his heart and now it was hers. Yes, he was as good as dead anyway if he couldn’t save her.

  He’d already collected everything he needed before Liam and Helen showed up and swayed his decision. He gathered it up, and then got his gun from the locked cabinet Matilda made him keep it in. He thought it was a ridiculous place to keep it, but she had an aversion to it, so he did it to make her happy. With everything he needed, he headed for the portal room, not wanting to do the spell in a place where, if it worked, he might end up sitting in someone’s lap. Upstairs, he locked himself in. It was time for action, long past time.

  As carefully as if his life depended on it, which indeed it did, he added each ingredient into a small metal dish, set them afire and let them burn to ash. He ground up the rest of the items, trying not to think about a few especially disgusting ones as he did, then slashed his hand, squeezing out an alarming quantity of blood. No few drops for this spell. He had to be sure.

  Swallowing hard, he spoke the words he’d written and rewritten, concentrating so hard he thought he might burst a vein. He felt the rush of a freezing wind, but before he could even shiver, it was gone, replaced with the most horrific pain he’d ever experienced.

  Surely his skin was being ripped away from his body, his open wounds doused in lye. And then heat consumed him, a searing fire that burned deep into his lungs and turned his eyes to useless chunks of coal. He couldn’t see or hear. It was only dark, silent agony.

  Chapter 20

  The current lord had finally dragged himself home, so Tilly hid out in the kitchen for most of the next days, helping to chop or clean or whatever anyone would let her do, and never without giving her a suspicious look first, as if she’d set fire to the potatoes. Farrah was out and about as usual. The girl could not sit still to save her life and she insisted on going out to shake the trees, as she called it, trying to get information on Thomas’ whereabouts.

  It had been an agonizing three days since her failed attempt to force open the portal, and Tilly didn’t think she could get any more miserable. She longed to be outside as well, shaking people down for information and listening at doors like she imagined Farrah to be doing, but Mrs. Hedley wouldn’t let her.

  “Our dear Lord Ashford — not this one, mind—” she nudged her chin toward the ceiling to indicate her actual employer. “Your betrothed would have my head on a plate if I let anything happen to you. Let’s just let him take care of things from now on, shall we?” And she pushed a great bowl of potatoes i
n front of her to peel.

  At least she hadn’t been put out on the street after their drunken misadventure. It rankled her to not be doing anything she thought was worthwhile, but they did need to eat after all, and she most certainly did owe them for their kindness to her, so she woke up every morning, rolled up her sleeves and set to work, trying not to sink into despair, and praying Farrah would find something out.

  She came home just as the sun was setting, disheveled and ruddy cheeked, with such a grin on her face, that Tilly knew at once she had news.

  “What?” She put down her potato and motioned for her to take a seat.

  Farrah shook her head and asked Mrs. Hedley if Tilly could retire for the evening, as if she was a scullery maid. Her cheeks burned with shame as she waved her off and wished them a good night, but not before loading up a huge plate of food for Farrah to take with her. They crept up the back stairs until they came to the servants quarters where they shared a tiny unoccupied room, out of sight of the current lord.

  She dug into her cold feast, offering Tilly some. She declined, having already eaten. She only wanted to hear what had Farrah so excited when she first came in.

  “I went and saw Mr. Ermine today,” she said around a big mouthful of buttered bread. “He’s doing better, got his shop mostly back in order …”

  “Did you find something out?” Tilly interrupted.

  She frowned, clearly wanting to tell her story the way she thought it should be told, and Tilly took a deep breath and sat on her hands to keep from strangling her.

  “Mr. Ermine had this idea that if he were someone who could actually do magic— he kind of laughed nervously because he still doesn’t exactly believe it’s real, right? Anyway, he thought they might hide in plain sight: seers, card readers, fortune tellers and the like.”

  “Yes, yes, that’s true, I’ve heard of that,” Tilly said, still astounded that Ermine and Wodge had so many of the same thoughts. Solomon Wodge had probably killed countless of those witches who tried hiding in plain sight.

  “Mr. Ermine gave me a list of reputable ones, who he thought someone might want to try and sell the book to. I really wish I could tell him the truth, he’d be so chuffed to find out it’s all real.” She laughed at Tilly’s look of horror. “Anyway, I went to three of these women,” she said, pushing a stray strand of hair behind her ear. “The first one told me I wouldn’t get married until I learned how to hold my tongue, the second said I’d find peace by the sea, but never love, and the third told me my second choice in whatever I wanted would always be for the best.”

  “That’s probably all true except for the last one, that just makes no sense,” Tilly said. “But was there a point to all that time wasting?”

  Farrah stuck out her tongue, whether at her dismal love fortune or at being accused of wasting time, Tilly didn’t know or care. “Yes. After they read my leaves or looked at my cards or whatever, I just flat out said I knew that they had Thomas and the book and I wanted to know what they were after.”

  “What?” Tilly’s attention was grabbed now. “Why would you think that would work?”

  “It did work,” she gloated. “The last one, Madame Celine, got all red in the face and stared for a long time. I figured I’d play chicken with her for as long as she could hold out, and sat there, cool as a cucumber, like a bloody member of the SIS and finally, she totally caved.”

  “She knows who took Thomas? She knows what they want?”

  Now Farrah bit her lip, not looking as elated as before. “Yes, but it made no sense to me. She said they want their queen.”

  “Well, we certainly can’t help them with that,” Tilly said, disappointed. “Is it some foreign faction who’ve got him? It doesn’t make any sense.”

  “That’s why I think we should go back tomorrow and grill her some more. If she hasn’t run off, that is.”

  Tilly thought Farrah was being rather melodramatic, caught up in her spy game, but it didn’t seem that far off the mark with this new information they had. They agreed to get some sleep and go back the next day, and in the morning, Farrah convinced Mrs. Hedley that it would be safe for Tilly to be allowed outside.

  She bristled with humiliation, but as soon as she began walking in the somewhat damp, fairly smelly air and felt the weak morning sun on her face, she cheered up considerably. She was decked out in a mass of silk and feather finery in the hopes to intimidate Madame Celine into telling them everything she knew. Farrah bought them hot crossed buns with a few coins, further surprising Tilly.

  “Where do you get the money?” she asked. “Seriously, you blend right in here.”

  “I like it here,” Farrah admitted. “Some of it is still a bit annoying, but I’ve lived in London my whole life. They might dress and smell different, but the people are much the same as my old time.” She took a thoughtful bite of her bread and sighed. “I wouldn’t mind staying here if we had to.”

  “But you’ll come with us if— I mean, when we get Thomas back, and then figure out a way to …” she trailed off, deciding it was too depressing to think about. Her warm bun didn’t seem so appetizing anymore now that she had to consider she might have to get used to this time. “At least we’ve got about twenty years or so until the next war,” she mused sadly.

  “You forgot about the Boer war,” Farrah said. “I think that’s coming up soon? It won’t affect us here much though, if I remember right. I wish I’d paid more attention to that sort of thing, but how could I possibly know?” She looked worried for a moment. “I hadn’t thought about the first world war at all, though. Oi, do you think we could prevent it?”

  Tilly couldn’t help herself and burst out laughing, spewing crumbs in an unladylike display. “I’m sorry,” she said, brushing off her bodice. “But do you think we could prevent it?”

  Farrah scowled, but good-naturedly, and giggled at the preposterous thought. “It would be nice, though.”

  She pointed to a side lane and waited for a slow moving cart to pass before she went into it. Tilly followed, and at the end of the lane, in a small storefront whose house was completely encased in thick growing ivy, stood a circus-like display advertising Madame Celine’s powers to tell one’s future. There were numerous crystal balls on golden stands, richly drawn star charts and long scrolls with unintelligible writing. Piled onto a tapestry covered table, there were exotic looking clay figurines, and even several tablets with what looked like hieroglyphics.

  It all screamed scam, which Tilly supposed was exactly what Madame Celine wanted. When they entered the shop, a tinkling chime announced them, and Tilly saw that she must do a brisk business in spite of, or maybe because of, all the gewgaws. Beads and crystals hung everywhere, along with small linen packets tied up with different colored strings, each one labeled with what it was purported to do. Tilly spied a whole row of love potions, a few revenge packets, and another long line of tiny sachets that promised riches on their tags.

  A stout, pink cheeked woman with the most magnificent head of dark auburn hair came into the front room at the sound of the chimes, her patient, mysterious smile dissolving when she saw Farrah. She was dressed disappointingly simply in a russet gown with a black shawl tucked around her shoulders, but her ears glittered with rows of shiny hoop earrings and her glorious hair was adorned with several intricately carved combs.

  Tilly ducked behind a glass display featuring small metal charms, more beads, and tiny stone animals. Madame Celine started to shoo Farrah out of her shop, insisting she didn’t know anything else about their missing man.

  “If you aren’t going to purchase anything, you can leave at once,” she said, in a lilting Irish accent.

  When Madame Celine raised a marble candle holder over her head menacingly, Tilly stepped out from behind the display.

  “Just a few more questions, if you don’t mind, please, Madame Celine?” Tilly asked, trying to strike the right note between authoritative and deferential.

  Madame Celine spun toward Tilly, and
her chin quivered as her mouth gaped open, rivalling her eyes with shocked roundness. She quickly lowered the makeshift weapon with a trembling hand and dropped into a low curtsy.

  “I beg your pardon, Your Majesty.”

  ***

  Tilly was stunned as Madame Celine continued in her deep curtsy, finally realizing she was waiting for her to tell her to rise. Unable to do so, she waved the woman up. Farrah looked half horrified and half delighted, the way someone reacted when seeing a huge explosion in a movie.

  “Your Majesty, if I may?” Madame Celine reached for her hand, and Tilly wondered if she was going to kiss it, but instead she took her wrist and turned her arm facing up, gently moving aside the sleeve. “The scar,” she said reverently. “A bite from a wild rabbit you thought to keep as a pet.”

  Tilly looked down where the psychic pointed, and wanted to say it was actually a guinea pig from a pet store, way back when she was six. She wouldn’t stop picking at the bite, and as warned by her mother, she was left with a small raised scar. It was inconsequential, no one would think to use it to identify her. It was likely Ashford had never even noticed it. But Madame Celine knew exactly where it was.

  She dropped Tilly’s arm and backed up a few steps, apologizing some more for having doubts. “It’s only that I was told you were dead. How joyous that you’re not. Oh, please let me get you some refreshments.” In a tizzy, she backed out of the room, making small ducking bows as she went.

  “What in the hell?” Tilly managed as soon as she was out of sight.

  “She thinks you’re the queen,” Farrah said unhelpfully.

  “The queen of what?” she yelped, quickly lowering her voice. “We need to get out of here, this is too much for me to process.”

  “No, we need to stay and play along. Don’t you get it? She’ll tell us anything now.”

  “I can’t pretend to be this queen,” Tilly moaned, rubbing at her decades old scar. Oh, God, how did she know about the scar? It was too strange, and she had the sensation that she was falling. She gripped the display case, careful not to knock it over and make a huge mess. “Let’s just go.”