by A. G. Howard
“It looks as if I’m none too soon.” The judge grinned.
“Yes. We were about to start noshing on ink and paper.” Julian returned his smile then guided him to the desk so they could each claim a plate and a honey-glazed roll. “What have you heard … in the way of our reaching port?”
The judge drizzled some honey on his bread and licked his fingertip. “The storm has set us back only by a day. We should reach harbor by tomorrow morning.”
“Good. Then we can still make it with one day to spare before the opening festivities, granted the train has no delays.”
“Have you told Miss Willow yet?”
Julian noticed Newton’s head pop up at the question. “No. Not yet. Would’ve been the coward’s way to tell her when she was only half-conscious.” Noting Newton’s ever-growing interest in their discussion, Julian pressed a finger to his mouth to stifle any further questions on the subject of the fair.
Casting a sidelong glance at Newton, perception crept across the judge’s face and he led the way to a divan in the room’s center. “How is she today?” he asked as he sat down.
“She’s been asleep since early last eve.” Having taken a seat beside his friend, Julian sunk his teeth into the sweet, yeasty breakfast roll. “Surprises me that it hit her so hard,” he said between chews. “She’s an acrobat … used to swing from a trapeze on a daily basis. One would think her stomach could tolerate such motion.”
The judge gulped down his own chunk of bread. “Interesting. You say she was an acrobat?”
“Grew up in a circus.”
“Huh.”
“What?”
Judge Arlington smacked his mouth, as if the honey had stitched his moustache to his lower lip. “Just a coincidence, I suppose. In the barber shop, the day after the masquerade, a man was boasting about his liaison with one of Mr. Sala’s girls after the party—I believe he said it was the jolly, voluptuous one. Anyway, the man claimed…” The judge glanced over at Newton who had made his way back to the other side of the room for more food. Judge Arlington lowered his voice and leaned toward Julian. “He claimed the woman was a wild lover. That her limbs were flexible as flower stems. Like a contortionist. Doesn’t that talent bode with acrobats and their ilk?”
Julian fought a crimp in his gut. He’d had quite enough of all these coincidences. This one had to be explicable. “I’m sure those women have had many experiences performing. They are trained and well-travelled actresses, after all. Perchance that particular woman toured with a circus herself, before Sala pulled her into his troupe. That’s plausible, wouldn’t you think?”
“Of course.” The judge ate a chunk of bread glistening with honey. “Just think it’s interesting.”
Julian frowned as he stood to take his plate to the desk. He drew his spectacles from his pocket and secured them upon his nose and behind his ears. “I should be going. You’ll be alright here, with them?”
Newton had already taken Julian’s place on the divan. He had a map in hand, eager to show the judge some great discovery.
Judge Arlington smiled and took the other side of the map offered him. “We’ll be fine. See to your business. I’m sure your lady will be awake by the time you return.”
Seventeen
“All I ask is five minutes of his time.” Julian tightened his stance in the corridor to keep his shoe wedged over the threshold as the actress tried to close the door against him. He wasn’t leaving until he searched every corner of Mr. Sala’s stateroom for Newton’s sister and her ghostly footwear.
“He is too ill for visitors, Master Thornton. He’s only just getting over the seasickness.” The lady scowled.
Something in the turn of her chin reminded Julian of the night on the promenade. Come to think of it, her lips were very familiar as well. The looked like the lips he almost kissed. He couldn’t let on that he suspected her of distracting him that night—of being an accomplice in the theft of the shoes. He had to be smart … play the part of the besotted suitor.
He drew his spectacles down and peered over the lenses. “Ah. But surely you wouldn’t have me stand here and turn to stone as I wait.” It surprised him how at ease he felt. His tongue no longer swelled, his flesh no longer clammy with sweat.
He had nothing to fear of women anymore. He knew how to use his mouth to draw a purr from a woman’s throat … how to caress her until her bones melted to putty beneath his fingertips. It was an unforeseen boon of his and Willow’s blossoming relationship. One which he’d have to thank her for later.
“Stone?” A chagrinned expression met Julian as he focused again on the woman wedged in the doorway. “Spoken like a man who’s made acquaintance with Medusa.” She almost smiled.
He took his cue. “Yes, but I’ve lost all faith in mythology, I fear. Seeing as you look upon your fellow actresses every day, the rules state they should be naught but statues at this point, yet from what I understand, they’re flexible as any contortionist.” He propped his arm on the door frame, awaiting her reaction.
Her gaze disappeared behind long, blonde lashes as she studied his tasseled shoe crammed within the door jamb. “Contortionist.” She almost choked on the word. “Why would you make such a comparison?”
“You know, you never gave me the kiss you promised … or even your name.” He looked deep into her crystal blue eyes, noting that she was older than he had first assumed. At least a good six years older than him.
“My name is Louisa.”
“Miss Louisa. Please, I’ve been seeking you everywhere on this ship since that night. Don’t disappoint me again. Give me my faith back. At the very least, invite me in for a cup of tea so we might discuss these lapse rules of mythology. Perhaps even rewrite our own.”
She sucked in a breath. “A quiet cup of tea. My chaperone is on the other side of this stateroom, you see.”
“The noise level will be entirely up to you.” Julian kept his gaze on hers—words flowing from his tongue like honey-tipped rain.
Flushed, she pressed a hand to her chest, eased the door open, and ushered him in. Her blonde hair shimmered, parted in the middle and coiled against the back of her nape with tiny white flowers tucked into the seams. As she led him to the sitting area, her dressing gown swooshed across her ankles and the train dragged behind her—an exquisite beaded and embroidered ensemble of lavender chiffon over ivory lace.
Due to his sister and mother’s appreciation of fine clothes, he was well aware of the expense tacked onto such hand-woven artistry. Most travelling thespians didn’t make enough money to indulge in such fineries. This lady, as well as the others—judging from their attire the day he met them in the first-class dining room—were well paid for whatever their services to Mr. Sala might be. Services, which with each new day, became more and more suspicious.
Julian cast a glance around the room. Louisa seemed to be the only one here with Sala for now. The closed bedchamber indicated that the burly man was sleeping, hopefully as soundly as Willow. If Julian could rid himself of the self-appointed nursemaid, he could rummage through the stateroom and bedchamber without anyone being the wiser.
“Might I tempt you with a pastry, Adonis? They’re famed for offering vigor and stamina.” Brow arched, Louisa held out a plate piled high with panettones and strudels. The sugary crusts glistened as they passed through the sunlight which streamed from the portal windows. Julian’s nose tickled upon the fruited scent.
He took one, a plan formulating in his mind.
“The cook sent them over.” Louisa explained. “Mr. Sala won’t start his day without his sweets. I doubt he’ll feel up to indulging this morn, so we have them to spare.”
A glossy filling rich with crimson berries oozed from the edges of Julian’s strudel. He placed it upon the napkin offered him. “Thank you.”
With a nod, Louisa set a cup of steaming tea upon the table beside his chair. “So … how is the lad?”
Julian’s first thought was of Newton, and he almost strangled on hi
s piping sip of tea. Did Sala know about his son? “Lad?”
Her white teeth coaxed a dainty nibble off of the edge of a panettone. “The one you wrestled with on deck. Did you press charges?”
Julian flipped through the possibilities in his mind. With the proper response, he could turn this around—measure her guilt or innocence. “I turned the sot loose. I suppose he’s back with the immigrants. But I should’ve kept a closer eye on him. Bloody little thief stole the phantom shoes. I intended to speak to your employer of the loss. I thought he should know, since he feared the shoes as he did. He might be relieved to hear they’re gone from the men’s quarters.”
Louisa went pale and settled her tea cup on her saucer with a clink, leaning forward in her chair. “The lad stole them? On the night of the masquerade?”
Her shock appeared sincere enough. Or was she simply acting? Julian would leave nothing to chance. “Yes. I brought him back to my room and tended to his wounds. He insisted he needed no physician, so I let him go. It was only after he absconded that I realized the shoes were gone.”
“I see.” Sipping her tea, Louisa narrowed her eyes much the way she had when she kept regarding her pin-watch on the night of their dance. “And here I thought you were coming to return Mr. Sala’s property.”
“The shoes?”
Her brows twitched. “No. You have something else that belongs to him. Something far more personal and consequential than a pair of women’s shoes.”
Unease quavered in Julian’s gut. She did know about Newton.
He took a healthy bite of the strudel, forming words around the tart berry and citrus filling. “Perchance you might be a little less vague.”
The pulse in her neck throbbed beneath a ray of sunlight. “The ground plans for the World’s Fair. Those weren’t easy for him to come by. He left them behind when you switched rooms. We need them back. He … he needs them.”
Julian swiped a napkin across his mouth. “Whatever for? Everyone knows where the tournament of thespians is taking place. Or do you have something else planned for that night?”
Her lips tightened to a line.
Tiring of their cat and mouse, Julian caught a breath, locked it within until he felt veins protruding in his neck. He clutched his hands around his throat, gasping for air.
“What…” He wheezed. “Is in…” He hacked. “This pastry?” He bent at the waist, gasping. His spectacles slid from his face and clunked to the floor.
Louisa leapt to her feet so she could slap his back. “Why it’s … it’s barberry chutney is all!”
“All-erg-ic …” Julian clenched his throat tighter so his eyes bulged, his body rocking with the violence of her pounding palm between his shoulder blades. “Can’t—breathe!” He flopped to the floor in a gasping heap—all for effect.
“I’ll get the physician!” She was out the door in an instant, her skirts rustling as she raced down the hall.
Julian replaced his spectacles as he stood. This would be an amusing tale to share with Nick one day, how the unpracticed, intellectual clod tricked and out-performed a grand actress. The thought of his brother sent a painful twang through his chest. He dusted off his clothes, shut the door, and locked the latch with a click.
He had less than ten minutes to search for the shoes before Louisa returned with help.
“You’re sure you’re up for this, Miss Willow? You’ve been quite ill—”
“Shhh.” Willow shushed the judge over her shoulder as they took the first steps down the empty stairwell toward steerage. “It’s Wilson.” She tightened her gloved fingers through Newton’s, an attempt to ease the child’s fear of the steep incline. “We must get a manifest number off the trunk. How else is Julian to ask the captain of its owner?”
“I am sure Julian could seek the number for himself,” the judge interjected between rasping breaths.
“He’s no idea which trunk it is, has he?”
The judge grew silent, aside from his panting. The descent was obviously difficult for one of such stoutness.
Willow, on the other hand, felt invigorated by the exercise. Ever since she’d awakened, bathed, and dressed, she’d felt buoyant and charged. Three days laid up in a bed had left her bones and muscles twitching for some form of active stimulation. Winding her legs around Julian and kissing him breathless would have been her first choice for expending such energy, but he had already left when she awoke.
After eating a boiled egg—one of the first times she could remember ever craving something other than sweets for breakfast—she talked the judge into letting her take this little jaunt. Truth be told, she actually didn’t talk him into it so much as insisting he let her go. Then he, in turn, insisted he follow.
She’d withheld the real reason for this sojourn. During her twelve-hour doze, her subconscious had replayed her visit to that trunk in a vertigo-induced circus nightmare.
In the dream, she was a child again. With each barefooted step around the stacks of baggage in steerage, she found them taking on new shapes: pyramids of clowns, bears, horses and feathered performers, all balanced atop one another. She was back at the circus, albeit a much hazier and dimmer rendition than she remembered. She skipped along the center ring, excited to be home at last. Grit and discarded trash snagged between her little toes. A spotlight clicked on to illuminate a trunk. From within came a thumping sound, and girlish giggles. “Tildey!” Willow cried out, racing across the distance to find her doll, her pigtails slapping her face and neck upon each bounding step. The creak of abandoned trapezes swung overhead, cutting intermittently through a thick cloud of fog. Yet it wasn’t fog. It was tobacco—a stench that seeped into her leotard, her tights, her very pores, until she could taste it coating her tongue like bile. The spotlight shifted from the trunk to a trapeze just above her where a shape took form in the light: a graceful silhouette in a shimmery leotard and glistening tutu. “Mama?” Willow whispered in the dream, forgetting Tildey for the chance to see her mother perform once more. The trapeze vanished into thin air but the aerialist continued a controlled descent toward her, held in place by harnesses attached to the center pole. A face came into view, painted white like a clown, with bloody eyes and a hollow of a mouth—stretched wide on a perpetual scream. Willow yelped and squeezed her lashes shut, willing away the creature … for it was not Mama. When she opened them again, the freakish performer exploded into a flock of hummingbirds made of ink. They skittered around Willow, buzzing wings scraping her skin and hair, imprinting tattoos everywhere they touched. She screamed and stumbled backwards, bumping into the trunk which was then somehow right behind her. A tinkly, off-key lullaby drifted from inside the giant box. The lid shook and shuddered, as if something wanted out. Whimpering, Willow had tried to back away, but her feet grew heavy. She looked down and ballet shoes, covered in steel spikes, swallowed them up. The empty harness that had held the ghastly aerialist slithered toward her like a snake, coiling itself around her legs and arms to hold her in place. On the final haunting strains of music, the trunk’s lid popped open, and out from the midst rose a hunched old man, holding Nadia’s haunted shoes upside down. Blood and water gushed out of them—a stench of copper and stagnancy—and the man laughed with a voice that gnawed into her bones like a thousand snarling wolves.
Newton’s fingers squeezed Willow’s, bringing her back to the present. She shook off the memory of that nightmare, though was left with the same suffocating sense of dread that had coated her, along with a fine sheen of sweat, upon first waking from it hours ago.
She proceeded to descend the stairway, needing to see the contents of the trunk again in reality. She had to know if it was a clarified memory, or simply a feverish dream. Finding Tildey had caused everything else within that luggage to fade into the background. But now that her subconscious had had time to replay what she’d seen, she knew what the harnesses and spiked shoes were used for. She’d used such items herself while practicing aerial stunts with her mother as a child.
&nbs
p; If she was right, and she hadn’t imagined those items, it was proof that whoever owned that trunk wasn’t Vadetta … that they were someone far more dangerous, someone tied to her life—and her parents’ deaths— in the circus.
Willow stalled on the last quarter of the steps as Engleberta came bounding toward the stairs to greet them—her bald head as round and blue in the dimness as a full moon. “Wilson! Newton! You’re back!”
“Good morn, Berta.” Willow adjusted Julian’s jacket over her shoulders to assure the lapels covered her chest. Her fingers paused on her pin-watch, prompting a concern for the time. They needed to hurry before Julian found them missing from the cabin. He would not be so understanding this time, were he to find her gone.
Engleberta stared at the judge and Willow gestured toward him. “This is our new friend, Judge Victor Arlington.”
Engleberta offered a hearty hello and the judge did his best to reciprocate, despite his worried and winded state.
Newton tugged at Willow’s hand and nodded toward the empty stairs behind their German friend as she hopped her way up to them.
Catching his inference, Willow asked the girl, “Where is your brother?” Though they fought constantly, they were never more than two steps away from one another.
“Oh.” The girl snorted as they began descending the stairs again. “He ate two whole boxes of those chocolates you brunged before the storm hit. Had his head in a bucket for three days. Stinky wart. Serves him right for not sharing.”
Willow grinned. She’d missed the ongoing rivalry between the two children. She almost envied it, having never had such a sibling relationship. Leander had been a wonderful brother, but he lacked feistiness. Every time Willow had tried to start a fight with him, he’d surrendered, led by his submissive nature. She used to imagine a brother who could give back what she gave. Nick and Julian were both prone to squabble with her. Perhaps that’s why she’d spent so much of her youth gallivanting with the twins instead of her surrogate sibling.