“How went the surgery on your father’s unusual patient, Hannah?” Her mother looked up from her study.
“It is fascinating. The hand displays an incredible determination to escape, whereas the forearm is inanimate and dead.” Hannah took her usual spot on the window seat.
“Two different people?” Seraphina asked.
“Yes. One stitched to the other in a sort of forced marriage. We suspect the hand is from an Afflicted man—most probably the first victim of Jonathon Rowley. Lord Wycliff has gone to verify that today.” A shiver ran over her skin at yet another thought of him.
“How odd for the hand to be active if it is from a secondary Afflicted. They are usually such slow, shambling creatures.” Her mother waved her quill through the air and gentle strains of music filled the room.
Hannah closed her eyes as the soft music swirled around her. “There is a slim chance it could be from a primary Afflicted. There are not many, and I doubt it will take long to count their hands. It could even be from a vampyre.”
Lady Miles chuckled. “The male Afflicted we know are rather dramatic by nature. I doubt they would have remained silent if some fiend had removed one of their hands. A vampyre might be more likely. But there is no evidence of any taking up residence in London.”
The song seemed to melt away Hannah’s worries and left her with a clearer focus. “The hand has a number of callouses, further, which makes it unlikely to be an Afflicted of our acquaintance. We shall have to wait for the viscount to return to know for certain. Until then, I require your assistance to create a harness for the hand. Lord Wycliff wishes to use the limb to find the rest of the body.”
Seraphina clapped her hands and the music fell silent. “You will walk the hand on a lead? How marvellous. It has been some time since our family set society a-twitter.”
“You did promise me a puppy, Mother. If I had a pet, I wouldn’t be so looking forward to walking a hand that has lost its body.” People would talk. Did she have the strength not to care?
“I have not forgotten your puppy, Hannah. I am merely waiting for the right one to show itself.” Lady Miles wagged a finger at her daughter.
Joy ran through her veins. A puppy! She wondered what sort her mother had decided upon and whether it would be a female or a male. “I shall try to restrain my excitement. We do have Timmy’s laughter to echo along the house’s hallways now.”
“And we have the viscount, for without him we would not be researching how to harness a hand.” Seraphina pointed to a spot on the library shelf and two books wriggled their way free to float down to her desk.
“I am curious about Timmy, Mother. He is a strong third-generation aftermage. How is it his grandfather did not cultivate his talent and he was left alone in the world?” When she’d found the lad a few weeks ago, he was a lowly, orphaned stable boy.
Her mother wheeled her bath chair around the desk and patted Hannah’s knee. “His grandfather is Mage Tomlin, a horrible old curmudgeon. His daughter, Timmy’s mother, ran away with a groom and Lord Tomlin declared her and any offspring dead to him.”
Hannah swung her feet to the floor. “How horrid! I cannot imagine anyone turning their back on their own blood. Yet the situation is to our advantage. The lad is bright and keen to learn, and I’m sure will be a marvellous doctor one day.”
“The old goat will miss knowing the fine young man Timmy will become under Sir Hugh’s tutelage. Now, let us find what we need for today’s task.”
Her mother consulted the old books and then sent Hannah on an errand to find the materials they required: old lengths of light chain and disused bridle pieces from the stables.
Using Hannah’s own hand as a model, Seraphina wrapped leather straps and chain around her daughter’s fingers as though she were a dressmaker draping silk on a form. They decided on a design that fitted around the middle finger, with another strap that went between thumb and index finger to encircle the palm. Those straps joined at the back of the hand, where the leash was attached.
Hannah wriggled her fingers and walked them across the desk. A faint tingle came from the leather.
Seraphina held the end of the long chain as Hannah tested the device. Her mother nodded, satisfied with their work. “There. The buckles can be tightened to ensure a good fit. I have written a spell upon the leather ensuring that whatever is contained by the straps cannot remove them itself. Only by another hand can they be undone.”
“Then we are ready for our promenade. It would be marvellous if Mr Barnes’ hand is able to find the rest of him.” Hannah wondered how hand and body would be reunited. Would Papa need to stitch the two together?
“I hope the poor man is not suffering too much. You must be prepared, Hannah. You know secondary Afflicted cannot be helped and your father will have to enact the protocol.” Seraphina laid her hand over the top of her daughter’s and gripped her fingers.
Hannah stared at their connected hands, hers clad in leather and chain, her mother’s in a linen glove. “The hand is so…alive. I find it hard to contemplate that the man had his brain removed by Mr Rowley. Perhaps we might find that he is an exception.”
Seraphina squeezed Hannah’s fingers and then released her to gesture for the books to return to their spot on the shelf. “Hope for the best, but prepare for the worst. Speaking of being prepared, you are expected at the Loburns’ this afternoon. Kitty has the modiste coming to discuss Elizabeth’s trousseau and you do not want to miss that.”
“Oh! No.” Hannah scrabbled at the buckles, but they kept sliding through her fingers. Then her mother’s words penetrated her memory and she held out her hand. “Would you release me, please, Mother?”
Her mother chuckled as she undid the buckles. “Well done, Hannah. Now we know the spell works.”
Hannah changed her plain and sturdy gown for her second best muslin in pale green. She layered a deep green velvet pelisse over the top and chose a shawl. The weather seemed disinclined to advance toward spring and it remained unseasonably cold.
People had begun to mutter that there was something unnatural about the cold that plagued England and Europe. England’s mages were tasked with preventing crops from failing, due to lack of warmth and rain. People would starve if the earth couldn’t sustain and nourish crops for harvest before next winter.
So many thoughts occupied Hannah’s mind that she barely noticed the ride to the Loburn mansion. Always a dark shadow prowled the edges of her mind, and she heaved a sigh. What was to be done about the man? The situation couldn’t be left to fester and the time approached when she would need to lance it with a needle. But what course of action did she want to pursue—demand that her mother evict the man, or make her peace with his presence?
The carriage rocked to a gentle halt and a footman clad in maroon and silver opened the door for her. The butler showed Hannah through to a bright parlour decorated in tones of cream and blush pink, and quietly announced her name. Not that anyone within noticed. Their attention was focused on something Hannah couldn’t see.
Her dearest friend sat next to an older woman who wore a deep burgundy gown, her silver hair pulled up in a bun under a plain cap tastefully trimmed in lace. Lizzie wore a gown of pale rose and peered at a sketchbook on the older woman’s lap.
Lady Loburn stood behind, looking down her avian nose at the visitor.
Before the two women seated on the chaise was a large leather trunk such as a lady might take on a grand tour. The lid was open and the contents strewn over the sides as green silk, pink muslin, lace, and ribbons in an array of colours tried to escape.
Whether her presence was noted or not, Hannah still performed the social courtesies. She bobbed a small curtsey. “Good afternoon, Lady Loburn, Lady Elizabeth.”
Lizzie looked up at the sound of her name and smiled. She held out a hand to her friend. “Hannah! Do come and look at what Madame Fontaine is drawing. We are considering ideas for my wedding dress. Do you think it should have a train?”
; “Of course it must! A long one, too. It will give your walk down the aisle more drama.” Hannah took her friend’s hand and then sat on the floor at her feet, beside the enticing trunk, so she could look at what the seamstress drew. The page was covered in designs, some with revealing décolleté, others more modest and with a variety of types of train.
“Perhaps we should settle on a colour first. How do we feel about pale blue, yellow, or pink?” Lady Loburn walked around the chaise and peered into the open chest of samples that sat before the ladies.
Madame Fontaine dove into the trunk and pulled out a length of silk. “For mademoiselle, ivory. It will complement your colouring and not overpower. We want your natural beauty to shine.”
“What about some form of decoration? Plain ivory silk sounds ever so boring.” A faint line appeared on Lizzie’s brow as she frowned at the sample.
Madame Fontaine tapped her chin with the pencil. “Perhaps around the hem we could embroider wildflowers, to make it appear as though you walk through a meadow in full flower?”
Hannah thought it was a charming idea and wished for such a gown for herself. Imagine having every step surrounded by wild poppies, cornflowers, and daisies. Then her dream expanded to include a good book in her hands as she sank into the bed of flowers to lose herself in prose.
Lady Loburn sucked in her lips. “Wildflowers? I think not. Elizabeth is to marry a duke, not a common lad.”
“Roses,” Hannah suggested, thinking of a more aristocratic flower and taking her cue from the decoration in the parlour. “In the palest pink to match her complexion. Perhaps a spray of them cascading over her shoulder?”
The modiste’s face lit up. “Oh! Oui. As though angels had scattered roses over her from above. We could bead some of them so they appear to hold the dew of a new morning.”
With quick movements, she sketched a new idea, showing roses tumbling from the right shoulder to scatter over the skirt and train.
“Oh, it’s beautiful,” Lizzie sighed. “Could my bonnet have matching silk roses?”
With the wedding gown decided upon, they moved on to discuss the ensemble Lizzie would wear as she embarked on her honeymoon. That led to a discussion about possible locations and things to wear. A walking dress suitable for strolling the avenues of Paris was very different to that required if she were to sit under an olive tree in Italy.
Some hours later, the floor was littered with sketches, with pieces of fabric and trim pinned to the pages.
Lizzie leaned back on the chaise with a look both exhausted and fulfilled, as though she had consumed a wonderful banquet. “Now, what of Hannah? She is to be my bridesmaid and should also look becoming on my day.”
“I don’t need a new dress.” A conflict arose inside Hannah, despite her mother’s saying there were adequate funds for her to have a new outfit. She desperately wanted a pretty new frock, but such a desire seemed so shallow. It called to mind the porcelain facade of Lady Gabriella as she’d taunted Hannah for wearing a gown two seasons old. If she indulged in buying pretty things, would each such purchase make her a little more shallow and vain? She hoped not. She promised herself she would remain strong and committed to improving her mind, whatever she wore.
Lady Loburn smiled on her daughter’s friend. “Need is irrelevant. This is a special occasion and you will have a new dress, Hannah. This will be the wedding of the season! You are to stand next to my darling Elizabeth while all of society looks on. What do you suggest, Madame Fontaine?”
The modiste turned a critical eye upon Hannah, who dropped her gaze to her hands. Was this how a specimen felt under her father’s microscope? As though all its faults were laid bare?
The modiste clicked her tongue as she thought. “Mademoiselle has such strong colouring of hair and eyes, I think she needs a similarly bold fabric.”
“Bold? Oh no, not for me. Perhaps a pale yellow?” If Hannah had a choice, she would opt for something the same grey colour as the stones of the church so that no one would notice her.
The modiste rummaged through the open chest. Then she made a triumphant noise and pulled out a piece of silk.
“This is from India and is what the women there wear. They call it the sari.” She held the length up next to Hannah.
The silk had a rough slub and was spun in an orange so dark it bordered on deep red or brown. It changed hue as the fabric moved and reminded Hannah of embers flickering in a fire. The border was woven with an intricate pattern in a paler orange, red, and brown. Instead of wildflowers, Hannah would walk through fire. For some reason, that conjured Lord Wycliff’s stern face in her mind and she wiped it away from her inner vision like a cobweb.
Lizzie clapped her hands together. “Oh, yes. It will look divine, Hannah. Don’t you think, Mother?”
Lady Loburn nodded. “It does indeed suit you. Your mother would approve, I am sure.”
“Thank you, Lady Loburn.” Hannah would have to embolden herself to wear such an eye-catching gown. Surely a glass of fortifying champagne before the ceremony would be appropriate in such circumstances?
Lizzie picked up the final sketch of her wedding dress. “I wonder what present the duke will give me for our wedding? He says it will be quite a surprise for me.”
“What if it is something scandalous, like having your name tattooed on his back?” Tattoos were much on Hannah’s mind, with the half ship on the amputated hand. Such a thing was the most scandalous she could conjure.
Lizzie gasped. “He wouldn’t dare! Besides, I wouldn’t see it if it were on his back.”
The modiste collected all the sketches into a pile. “My son had a tattoo, mademoiselle, because as he said, he loved his maman.”
“What was it?” Hannah asked, curious how anyone decided to have an image permanently etched into their skin.
“A needle and a spool of thread. A loop of the thread made a heart and it said Mère inside. He had it placed here.” She tapped her chest above her heart. “I scolded him when he showed it to me. Now I would give anything to see that tattoo again.”
“Why can you not see it again?” Lizzie blurted.
Hannah wished she could recall her friend’s hasty words. Her heart tightened at the longing in the modiste’s voice.
The older woman’s eyes misted and her smile drooped. “We lost him last month. My poor boy. He looked like a lion but had the soul of a lamb. He had problems with his heart and the doctors did everything they could, but God had a higher plan and called him to his side.”
“I’m so sorry for your loss.” Hannah reached out and touched the modiste’s sleeve.
The woman drew a lace handkerchief from a pocket and dabbed at her eyes. “None of us can control whom Death takes into his embrace. And I have ruined Lady Elizabeth’s excitement with my maudlin tale. I am so sorry, my lady.”
“No mother could bear to lose a child,” Lady Loburn murmured as she walked to the tasselled pull hanging by the door. She gave a tug of the velvet rope. “Shall we have some tea and a change of topic?”
The footman appeared in the doorway and Lady Loburn sent him for tea and biscuits.
“How is your new houseguest behaving, Hannah?” Lady Loburn perched on a sofa opposite her daughter.
“La, Hannah! Is it really true that the horrid Viscount Wycliff is staying at your home? I could not believe it when I heard.” Lizzie’s blue eyes were wide with horror as she ventured the question.
Hannah clutched the dark orange silk a little tighter, then caught herself and smoothed the creases she had made. “Yes. Mother extended the invitation. She thought it would assist the viscount in his investigations to be closer to her and Father if he had questions about Unnaturals.”
Lizzie gasped and a hand went to her breast. “How terrible for you. Does he storm the corridors yelling at the servants and making unreasonable demands?”
Hannah frowned. “No. Rather the opposite. He is as quiet as a mouse.”
Well, not like one of the Afflicted mice. They made q
uite a noise in their cages.
How to explain the effect of his dark presence as he swept along the corridors or the black gaze that drilled into her, searching out her deepest secrets? He did bring a certain something to the large mansion. Hannah just wasn’t sure what that something was.
“Pythons are quiet. So they can sneak up on you and when you least expect it, devour you,” Lizzie whispered. She nodded so vigorously her blonde curls bounced in front of her ears.
“Oh, Lizzie. He is no python waiting to strike.” Hannah laughed and took her friend’s hand. Then dark thoughts swarmed into her mind. He was more like a panther waiting to pounce.
Or Black Shuck roaming the moors with its death-inducing stare.
9
The next morning, Hannah scanned the newspaper headlines, and read them aloud as her father tucked into his breakfast. “More tales of the monster lurking in the area around Chelsea. It says the locals are banding together to patrol at night and that they are afraid the creature will snatch their wives and daughters.”
Her father huffed. “That’s all the area needs—a lot of drunken men waving pitchforks in the dark. We’ll be lucky if no one is stabbed.”
She flicked through the other articles but couldn’t see any mention of a large black dog with fiery eyes terrorising Westbourne Green. Perhaps the scandal sheets could only cope with one monster at a time.
Wycliff entered the room and Hannah carefully folded the paper and slid it across the table for him to read. Then she took a large sip of her tea and held the fruity warmth in her mouth before swallowing. “The harness is ready, Lord Wycliff, if you wish to attempt to use the hand as a compass today.”
The man in question served his breakfast from the buffet and took his seat diagonally across from her. He shook out his napkin and draped it across his knee before replying. “Yes. I did not find Mr Barnes in his grave, so let us see if the hand has better luck finding the rest of him.”
Galvanism and Ghouls Page 7