Belmary House 4

by Cassidy Cayman

  “And then do what? Try the portal again?” Farrah didn’t bother to inject any sarcasm into her voice, and Tilly felt worse for it, as if she wasn’t even worth mustering up a bad attitude over. What was worse than that was she knew Farrah was right. They had no other recourse.

  “Should I fake an accent?” she asked. “I’m American, she’ll know the minute I say something.”

  “You already said something,” Farrah reminded her. “And she didn’t bat an eye. Their queen must look exactly like you, have the same scars and be from America as well. America’s it’s own country in this time, right? Yeah, der, sorry.”

  How was that possible? In a jolt she thought of Wodge, who was Ezra Ermine now. Was she really this queen now? That couldn’t be possible, no, no, no. She heard the clinking of tea things being set on a tray from beyond the doorway to the back, and she knew she was out of time. In all the crazy things she’d been through since she’d met Ashford and had her world turned upside down, this was the craziest. She got a sick thought, one she didn’t want to explore, one that made her feel like she’d gone off the deep end, far too deep to ever be reached.

  “Are we in an alternate universe?” she whispered.

  Farrah snorted and squeezed her hand. “If we are or not, we still need to rescue Thomas. Just go along with whatever she says and find out what we need to know, then we’ll get out of here and make Mrs. Hedley unlock the liquor cabinet.”

  She clearly wasn’t taking the situation seriously, but then again, she was still herself, while Tilly was now mysteriously some queen of something. She only wanted to continue being herself, the betrothed of the second Earl of Ashford and Happenham. That was quite as high as she ever wanted to reach.

  “Bugger,” she hissed, when Madame Celine returned with a lavish silver tray loaded with food and a gold rimmed porcelain tea set. She stood up as regally as she could considering she was close to hyperventilating, and set her nose slightly higher in the air.

  Madame Celine set the tray down on a dinky table covered in a tasseled brocade fabric, the large tray teetering precariously. All the while she eyed Tilly with fascination and curiosity, but fortunately her face didn’t show any suspicion or mistrust. Tilly’s confidence grew. This might just work.

  “Pray tell, Your Majesty, why you haven’t contacted the order yet? They’re becoming divided, half believing you’re dead and the other half waiting for instruction.”

  “There were circumstances out of my control,” Tilly said vaguely, glancing at Farrah for any kind of help. She shrugged slightly and gave her an encouraging look. “And of course there was the matter of …”

  As she’d hoped, Madame Celine jumped to fill in the dangling lead. “Yes, of course,” she hurried, eager to show she knew what was going on. Tilly almost laughed delightedly at how easy this was going to be, and accepted a slice of cake. “But I know that Sir Amos is bereft without you. He’s been searching tirelessly, though the factions are getting restless and are pressuring him to accept what we all thought was true. If you’ll forgive me, I myself believed the news that you had … left us.”

  Tilly wished she could be taking notes. So far there was an order of some sort, of which she was the leader, whether by birth or election, and she had been presumed dead by most of them. And it seemed some of them might be happier if she was dead.

  Her confidence slipped a notch and she sipped her tea, gazing with disdain over the edge of the cup. Madame Celine seemed like a nervous talker, so if she could discomfit her enough, perhaps the woman would prattle off more useful information, at least enough so she could fake her way through. To add to Madame Celine’s growing fidgets, Tilly made a small harrumph as if she thought what she’d said so far was utter hogwash.

  Farrah sat at the edge of her seat, her eyes glowing as if she was being greatly entertained by it all. Tilly thought she might need to throw up from her decision to rashly bluff through this. They should have left. Her delight from a moment before was gone. Madame Celine was as quiet as a tomb.

  Just a little longer, she told herself. Stay still a tiny bit longer and see what happens. She imagined Madame Celine overturning the already precarious table and shouting ‘Imposter!’ then cursing her to oblivion, but instead the psychic’s cheeks turned even redder and she swallowed hard.

  “Unless you still don’t trust Sir Amos?” She shook her head vigorously, as if angry at herself for going too far, and Tilly narrowed her eyes. “His transgression was severe, certainly, but he feels great remorse, or so I’ve heard … I’m merely a lowly traveler. I’ve remained neutral throughout, Your Majesty.”

  What a weenie, Tilly thought. Trying to play both sides.

  The look on her face must have reflected her true disgust because Madame Celine hurried to assure her she was always faithful to her queen. Tilly had heard enough. This woman was a salacious gossip, and would probably run to Sir Amos the moment she and Farrah left the shop. That man had apparently done something the queen didn’t approve of, and was probably who had Thomas.

  “I didn’t come to discuss politics with the likes of you, Madame Celine,” she said coldly. “I only came to find out where Thomas Adkins is. Do not deign to lie to me if you know his whereabouts, as I assure you I’m determined to have him back in my employ.” She couldn’t help but look over at Farrah after this magnificent speech. She was completely gobsmacked, as Tilly hoped.

  “I don’t know where he is, and that’s the truth, Your Majesty,” she stammered.

  “But you know who took him?” she asked, putting her tea things back on the tray.

  “I - I’m not certain. One of the factions, perhaps to draw you out, if you were truly still alive.”

  Tilly knew as well as she knew her own birthday that Madame Celine was once again trying to cover her own butt, not wanting to squeal on the culprit, and not wanting to get in trouble with her. Irritating, but she now knew this sort could be bossed around by people in power. And as far as anyone was concerned right now, she was the person in power.

  “I’m going to need a name and location, Madame Celine. Do you understand?”

  With a shiver, Madame Celine jumped to her feet. “I’m afraid I don’t know where they make their headquarters. That’s the truth, Your Majesty. I swear it on everything I own.”

  “But you know how to get a message to someone, I presume?” Tilly almost felt like a queen, the rush of power made her tingly all over and she rose from her chair as well, glad she was a bit taller than Madame Celine so she could tower over her.

  “Yes, yes, of course. Anything you want me to tell them, I will send to their messenger and he will, ah, go from there.”

  “I want to be taken to Sir Amos as soon as it can be arranged. I hope I won’t have to wait too long. I’ve already grown impatient with them for taking my servant.” She mentally begged Thomas’ forgiveness for calling him that, but she thought it might be the only thing these people understood. If they didn’t comprehend loyalty and affection, they’d at least get that she was pissed at losing her property.

  Shaking in her shoes now, Madame Celine nodded and ran off to prepare the message. Tilly gusted out a breath, not realizing how anxious her act had made her and sat back down, sipping her tea with a wobbly hand.

  “That was bloody amazing,” Farrah said. “You should be on the stage. You even had me going for a minute. I thought you were going to lop off her head or something if she didn’t do what you said.”

  “Well, that’s what I was going for,” Tilly sighed tiredly. “Hopefully we’ll be able to get Thomas back, maybe even today.”

  “Wait, what? You’re really going to meet this Sir Amos? And the people who trashed Mr. Ermine’s shop?”

  “What else can we do? They need to see I’m alive. Whatever their order is, it’s obviously going to hell from lack of leadership. Hopefully Thomas is with the faction that wants me back, I mean, their queen.”

  “I don’t know. I think we should find out where he is and then fi
gure out from there,” Farrah said, nervously twisting her fingers together.

  “You saw how Madame Celine reacted to me. She would have balanced a ball on her nose if I demanded it.”

  “Yeah, but Madame Celine isn’t that scary, she’s a low level witch at best, just making a living. These other guys are violent kidnappers.”

  “And I’m their queen,” Tilly said, refusing to let Farrah shake her resolve. “I’ll go in there and tell them Thomas needs to be released, he’s of no interest or whatever, and pretend I’m going to stick around and lead them again. As soon as I know Thomas is safe, I’ll sneak away. I might even be able to get Ashford’s book back.”

  Farrah didn’t look convinced, but like she wanted to be convinced. Tilly knew she wanted Thomas back as much as Tilly did. She managed to reassure her once more before Madame Celine returned and showed her the message she’d prepared. It wasn’t overly specific, only that she had urgent information regarding their beloved sovereign that was imperative to Sir Amos. There were several strange symbols that Tilly almost mistook for ink blots, but she figured they were some sort of code she should already know about so she didn’t dare ask, and only hoped the woman wasn’t betraying them.

  “If you’ll come back tomorrow at the same time, someone will be here to speak with you, Your Majesty.”

  “Good. See that they are.” She took Farrah by the arm and with one last glare at Madame Celine, swept from the shop.

  It wasn’t until they were halfway back to Belmary House that she fully realized what she’d just done. The success of fooling Madame Celine had made her mad with power, and now she regretted her rash demand to be taken to the villainous order. She felt certain they wouldn’t allow Farrah to come with her, nor did she want to risk her safety. She’d have to face them alone and the very thought made her want to buckle to her knees into the dirty street. But what other recourse did she have?

  “I hope you can get Mrs. Hedley to let us have some more rum tonight,” she said.

  Chapter 21

  Sunlight finally filtered through Ashford’s mental fog and he feared the spell hadn’t worked. He was on the brink of death, or at least wishing for the release of it, and he might still be in the same time. That thought added a layer of despair to his suffering. After what seemed like hours, the pain subsided enough to allow him to roll over and retch. He tried to rise to his hands and knees but his tormented muscles wobbled like jelly and he collapsed to the floor, shaking.

  Had he cried out during those moments of darkness? He wasn’t sure. His throat was raw, but it may have been from the burning pain. As his mind began to work properly again, he wondered if the transition between times during the spell actually caused heat. He managed to raise his hand in front of his bleary, raw eyes and saw that his skin didn’t appear damaged, but it felt as if he’d been rolled in needles and dipped in boiling oil. The less his limbs ached, the more his stomach hurt and he had a sinking feeling he was in for it. Curling into a ball, he rode out the repeated stabs in his gut until everything finally subsided and he lay drenched in sweat, too exhausted to be grateful it was over.

  One thing he did manage to be grateful for was he was clearly in another time. Whether it was the right one or not, he didn’t care at the moment. The room still had a bed but it was shiny dark wood with a faded patchwork quilt on it. The wardrobe was gone, replaced by a matching wood chest with more quilts neatly folded atop it. A table piled high with an assortment of vases stood in one corner, and piles of thin paper books lined one wall, with faded hats and a few pairs of strange looking shoes strewn in another corner. It must have been a sort of catch-all room, and a layer of dust everywhere confirmed to him that it was rarely entered.

  He dragged himself to the books, and slid one off its pile. It was something he recognized from his forays into the future. A magazine. He loved them. They were rich with information about their current time, and always had the date right on the cover. These were mostly related to needlecraft, and the one he’d pulled down said April, 1923. It wasn’t where Matilda had meant to go, but he wondered if she had ended up here. He’d have to go intimidate someone into giving him answers, but he needed to rest a bit first, still not certain he could stand, and not wanting to try just yet.

  He crawled over beside the bed and wedged himself half under it on the side away from the door in case anyone peeked in. If he’d made a ruckus of any kind during his transition, he thought they would have come already. He felt safe enough for the moment and let his eyes drift shut. But as he did, he caught sight of something that made him open them again. His heart raced and he was wide awake. Caught on the edge of a nail that protruded from under the bed frame was a bright bit of embroidered cloth. He knew it instantly.

  Matilda was always puttering away at her needlework and showing off her scarves and handkerchiefs, she so hated to be idle. He knew this bit of cloth because it was one she’d shown him shortly before their row. It had been a long thin blue piece of fabric she’d used as a sash. To help push up her bosom, she’d said, causing him to scowl at the time. She had embroidered it with a veritable garden of flowers, with a showy initial ‘M’ at the end. She must have been here, and crammed herself under the bed for fear of being found, much like he was doing now. He plucked the scrap from the nail and held it to his lips, the raised threads of the flowers giving him a surge of hope. He was on the right track. He would keep trying. He knew he should start now, go in search of someone who might know something, but his insides throbbed and his outsides ached.

  He pressed the scrap of cloth to his nose, hoping her scent still lingered on it, but it was musty and stale, leading him to believe it had been under there a while. He pulled it away and saw it was now speckled with blood and deep fear froze him, until he realized it was his own. The spell was tearing him up from within.

  Holding a handkerchief to his bleeding nose, he rolled to his side, deciding to rest a bit and try again. She’d been here, but she had to be long gone by now. The only thing that he dreaded more than doing the spell was never seeing Matilda again. He kept one hand pressed to his nose to stanch the bleeding, and the other wrapped around the piece of Matilda’s handiwork, and passed out.

  When he awoke, the cloth he’d been holding to his face was drenched with blood and when he hauled himself to sitting, he nearly fell back over. The pain came in ebbs and flows now and he was grateful to have a few moments respite when it receded. He thought food might make him stronger, and it was almost dark. He might be able to sneak down and forage for something, but his stomach violently recoiled at the thought.

  No, it was time to try again. He set up his necessary supplies, ashamed to see his hands were shaking, from fatigue and hunger to be certain, but also fear.

  “Take me to her,” he pleaded, then set to the spell. Perhaps it only took some getting used to, and it wouldn’t be so bad this time. He hoped so.

  It was worse. Besides being on fire, every muscle in his body twisted, feeling as if they would break his bones with each wracking convulsion. He was blind, but not deaf this time, and when he finally came to rest with a hard thunk, all he heard was screaming.

  ***

  Ashford knew he wasn’t dead. He was in too much pain. There was no way to tell where the pain started or ended, there was nothing he could do to alleviate it. He had no awareness of the position of his body other than that a burning fire consumed it.

  The screams he heard might have been coming from him, but they rose and fell, and it seemed they came from more than one person. Was he trapped in some special hell for all the fools who’d tried untested spells? He wondered briefly if he might have actually died and this was really Hell.

  It was disappointing if so, because he’d tried to be a good person. However, he’d done many rash and dangerous things in his life so he probably deserved it after all. He realized he was thinking more and more, instead of his mind being overtaken by physical agony, and with that realization came the one that he could now f
eel his hands and feet. The pain seemed to be receding, moving inward toward his gut, and as it did, his extremities stopped burning. He could feel he was lying flat on a hard floor, and he could finally roll over into a ball, trying not to cry out from the stabbing in his stomach. He only wanted it to end, whatever that end might be.

  The screaming wasn’t coming from him, though he wanted to, and the fact that it wasn’t a figment of his pain addled imagination worried him. After several more long drawn-out minutes of stomach torment, he lay in a gasping, sweaty heap. He was alive, and completely exhausted from the ordeal, but it had worked. He prayed he’d got it right and could find Matilda because he couldn’t bear to go through that again.

  He dragged himself to sitting, and looked around the room. It was dark, but the thin curtains hung open to let in the moonlight, allowing him to see the outlines of a plain wood framed bed and lopsided wardrobe, one of its doors hanging slightly open. He was definitely in another time, but he couldn’t tell if he’d gone backward or forward.

  Even if the generation that owned the house wasn’t aware of the curse, it had been passed down through the ages that this particular room wasn’t to be used, and it was generally left locked and empty or sparsely furnished and unused as it clearly was in this time.

  He sat recovering, leaning against the bed, jumping at every new howl from somewhere else in the house. What time was he in? He’d never been to a time where he’d heard such goings on. Looking out the window told him nothing and as weak as he felt, he knew he had to venture downstairs and get some answers.

  If Matilda was in this time, he had to get her out. If she was one of the poor tortured souls who kept crying out for mercy … he clenched his fists, the rage coursing through him renewing his strength.

  Every door on that floor was locked and he pressed his ear to one. It had become eerily quiet as soon as he left the portal room and even another scream would have been better than the desolate silence. Pressing his ear to one door, he heard a soft moaning, then a cough. It was a man’s voice so he moved on.