Burning Lamp

by Amanda Quick

  She was fashionably dressed from head to toe in striking shades of black, silver and gray. The black lace veil of her fine velvet hat concealed her features. The skirts of her gown were draped into intricate folds and trimmed with a street-sweeper ruffle at the hem to protect the expensive fabric from the dirt and grime of the pavement. The pointed toes of a pair of dainty gray leather high-button boots peeked out from beneath the ruffle. Black gloves sheathed the lady’s hands.

  “Good morning,” The Widow said. “I’m delighted to see that you all have hearty appetites. That is a very good sign.”

  Belatedly, Irene Brinks got her mouth closed. She jumped up from the end of the bench and managed a small curtsy. There was a great deal of scraping of wood on floorboards as her four companions pushed back the bench and stood.

  “Please sit down and return to your breakfasts,” The Widow said. “I just wanted to have a word with Mrs. Mallory.”

  The small, stout, cheerful-looking woman at the stove wiped her hands on her apron and gave The Widow a radiant smile.

  “Good morning, ma’am,” Mrs. Mallory said. “You’re here early today.”

  “I wanted to see how you were getting on after the excitement last night,” The Widow said briskly. “All is well?”

  “Yes, indeed.” Mrs. Mallory glowed with satisfaction. “The young women are eating good breakfasts, as you noticed. I suspect it’s the first decent meal most of them have had in a while.”

  “Just like last time,” The Widow said. But she said it very softly. “The girls are half starved.”

  “I’m afraid so,” Mrs. Mallory said. “But we’ll soon fix that.”

  Irene did not move. Neither did the other girls. They stood rigidly at attention, unable to determine the correct course of action. They had some experience with social reformers like Mrs. Mallory but nothing in their lives had prepared them for The Widow.

  The Widow looked at them. “Do sit down and finish your breakfast, ladies.”

  There was a moment of confusion while Irene and the others looked around to see if there were some actual ladies present in the kitchen. Belatedly realizing that The Widow had addressed them, they quickly took their seats on the bench.

  Mrs. Mallory crossed the room to join The Widow. The two women continued to talk in quiet tones. But the charity house kitchen was not large. Irene could hear what they were saying. She was sure the other girls were listening, too. Like her, though, they pretended to concentrate on the food. It was not much of an act, Irene thought. They were all very hungry.

  Last night they had panicked initially when, upon fleeing the burning brothel, they had been whisked into carriages and taken away. The men who had seized them had spoken in reassuring tones, but Irene and her companions knew better than to believe in the kindness of strangers. They concluded that they had been kidnapped by a rival brothel owner and would soon be employed again doing the same type of work they had done at the Avery Street whorehouse. They all knew that once a female started making her living on her back, there was no other future available.

  It was not as though whores did not have dreams, Irene thought. A girl could always hope that some gentleman would take a fancy to her and perhaps give her a few pretty baubles or even set her up as his mistress. Admittedly, the chances of that happening were poor, but the possibility kept one going. When a girl gave up her dreams she turned to opium and gin. Irene was determined not to follow that path.

  Upon arrival at the charity house they had been greeted with hot muffins and tea. It was obvious straight off that Mrs. Mallory was a typical social reformer, not a brothel manager. Irene and the others had been quick to take advantage of the food, aware that the charity house respite would be short-lived. Social reformers were always well intentioned but they lacked common sense. They did not begin to comprehend the realities of the world in which Irene and her friends lived.

  The best the social reformers could offer a girl was the workhouse and, ultimately, a life of grinding servitude as a maid-of-all-work. Even that miserable existence was unlikely to last long. One could expect to be dismissed without a character reference the instant the lady of the house discovered that the new member of the staff was a former whore. Irene preferred to cling to her dreams, impossible though they sometimes seemed.

  “The Avery Street brothel is more stingy than some when it comes to feeding the poor things,” Mrs. Mallory said to The Widow. “The manager believes that if the girls are kept thin they will appear younger. As you know, that particular establishment caters to clients who prefer the young ones.”

  “If the girls survive they are old at eighteen,” The Widow said. “And then they are tossed out onto the streets. We must try not to lose any of this lot, Mrs. Mallory. The eldest cannot be a day above fifteen.”

  Her voice was cool, soft and very even. Irene sensed that The Widow was not just another lady who dabbled in social reform work because it was considered the fashionable thing to do.

  The Widow walked across the kitchen and halted at the head of the table. Once again the girls bolted awkwardly to their feet.

  “I know that you are all anxious and confused,” The Widow said, “but I want to assure you that you are safe here. Mrs. Mallory will take excellent care of you. No man is permitted to enter this house. The doors are all locked and bolted. Tomorrow morning, once you have been outfitted with proper dresses, you will be taken to my Academy for Young Ladies, a boarding school for girls like you.”

  Irene could not believe her ears. She knew the others were equally dumbfounded.

  It was little Lizzie, the newest whore, who voiced the question that was on everyone’s mind.

  “Excuse me, ma’am,” Lizzie said. “But would you be talking about sending us to another brothel?”

  “No. I am talking about sending you to a respectable boarding school,” The Widow said firmly. “You will have clean beds and uniforms and you will attend classes. When you are ready, you will go out into the world with some money of your own, enough to feel safe and secure. You will also be prepared to support yourselves as typists, telegraph operators, dressmakers or milliners. Some of you may choose to use your money to set yourself up in a business of your own. The point is that those of you who choose to take advantage of what I am offering will all have choices in the future.”

  Irene lowered her eyes to her unfinished eggs. The other girls did the same. The Widow might be passionate, even fierce in her zeal to save them, but upper-class ladies were not always as intelligent as one might expect.

  Lizzie soldiered on bravely. “Begging your pardon, madam, but we can’t go to a real boarding school.”

  “Why not?” The Widow asked. “Do any of you have families to which you wish to return? Any decent relatives who will care for you?”

  The girls swallowed hard and looked at each other.

  Lizzie cleared her throat. “No, ma’am. It was my pa who sold me to the Avery Street house. He won’t be wanting me back.”

  “My parents died of a lung fever last year,” Sally explained. “I was sent to the workhouse. The manager of the Avery Street brothel took me out of there. She said I was going to go into service as a house maid. But, well, that wasn’t what happened.”

  Irene did not offer her own history. It was all too similar.

  “As I thought,” The Widow said. “Well, rest assured you will have every opportunity to embark upon new careers now.”

  “But, ma’am,” Lizzie said, “we’re whores. Whores can’t go to a proper girls’ school.”

  “I assure you they can go to this school,” The Widow said. “I own the Academy. I make the rules.”

  Sally cleared her throat. “What good will it do? Don’t you see, ma’am? Even if we learn to type or make fine hats no one will hire us because we were once whores.”

  “Trust me,” The Widow said, “you are about to disappear forever. By the time you graduate from the Academy, you will be respectable young women with irreproachable backgrounds. You
will have new names and new identities. No one will ever know that you once worked in a brothel.”

  That explained everything, Irene thought. The Widow was mad.

  “What if someone recognizes one of us in the future?” Sally asked. “A former customer, perhaps?”

  “That is highly unlikely to happen,” The Widow said. “London is, after all, a very big place. What’s more, you will be a few years older by the time you leave the Academy. You will look different. Furthermore, your new, respectable backgrounds will be fully documented all the way back to your birth. You will leave the school with excellent character references that will guarantee that you will find decent employment.”

  Sally widened her eyes. “Can you really make us disappear and come back as different people?”

  “That is precisely why my Academy exists,” The Widow said.

  The lady was offering a dream. It was, Irene realized, a very different vision of her future, not the one that had sustained her since embarking on her career as a whore. But unlike those vague fantasies, this dream seemed almost real. It was as if all she had to do was reach out and seize it.

  3

  “IT’S AN INTERESTING ARTIFACT BUT THERE IS SOMETHING DECIDEDLY unpleasant about that stone vessel, don’t you agree? I suspect that is why the museum staff chose to tuck it away back here in a gallery where very few visitors are likely to stumble across it.”

  The words were uttered in a deep, masculine voice that stirred Adelaide’s senses and sent a whisper of heat through her veins. Energy shivered in the atmosphere. The man was a talent of some kind, a powerful one at that. She had not anticipated such a turn of events.

  Nor had she expected such a strong reaction from herself. She was unnerved. There was no other word for it. She had never met the man known throughout London’s criminal underworld only as the Director of the Consortium, but she would have recognized him anywhere. Some part of her had been waiting for him since her fifteenth year.

  For a few seconds she continued to look at the ancient vessel as though studying it. The truth was that she was using the time to pull herself together. She must not let the Director see how badly he had unsettled her senses.

  It took a supreme effort of will for her to steady herself, but she managed a deep breath and turned slowly around in what she hoped was a cool, controlled manner. She was a woman of the world, she reminded herself. She would not let a crime lord rattle her.

  “I assume that you asked that this meeting take place in this particular gallery because you don’t want any visitors to stumble across you, either, sir,” she said.

  “I took it for granted that the leader of the notorious brothel raiders would appreciate a degree of privacy as well.”

  Although she recognized him in a psychical sense, she knew almost nothing about the Director, just some fragments of the mystery and legend that surrounded him. The women of the streets who showed up at the charity house talked about him in whispers.

  She tried to get a better look at him but she could not make out his features. He lounged, arms folded, one shoulder propped against a stone pillar. He appeared to be enveloped in shadows. There was an eerie, phantomlike quality about him. It was as if she were seeing his reflection in a pool of dark water.

  She sensed that he was contemplating her as though she were an interesting artifact in the museum’s collection. Although she could not see him clearly, she could tell that he was expensively dressed in the manner of a respectable, high-ranking gentleman, a gentleman who patronized a very exclusive tailor.

  It bothered her that she could not make out his features. Certainly the light was dim in the gallery, but her eyes had adjusted to the low level of illumination. In any event, the crime lord stood only a few feet away. She ought to be able to see his face quite plainly.

  She slipped into her other sight. Understanding struck immediately when she saw that the stone floor glowed hot with darkly iridescent dreamprints. The Director was employing his talent, somehow using it to conceal himself. She could not identify the nature of his ability but the raw power of it was very clear.

  “I am not the only one who came veiled to this appointment,” she said. “That is a clever trick you are using. Are you an illusion-talent, sir?”

  “Very observant, madam.” He did not appear to be alarmed or irritated. If anything he sounded approving, even satisfied in a cold, calculating fashion. “No, I am not an illusion-talent but your guess is very close. I work shadow-energy.”

  “I have never heard of such a talent.”

  “It is rare but it certainly has its uses. If I employ a sufficient amount of power I can make myself virtually invisible to the human eye.”

  “I can understand how a talent of that sort would be helpful to one in your profession.” She did not bother to conceal her disapproval.

  “I have found it extremely useful since the earliest days of my career,” he agreed, evidently not offended in the least. “The fact that you perceived my little disguise is very encouraging. I have never encountered anyone else who could do so. I believe we may be able to conduct some business together.”

  “I doubt that, sir. I cannot imagine that we have anything in common aside from our mutual acquaintance.”

  “Mr. Pierce.” He inclined his head. “Yes. But before we discuss our connection to him, I would like to verify the conclusions that I have reached concerning the nature of your own talent.”

  She stilled. “I do not see that my talent is any concern of yours, sir.”

  “I’m sorry, madam, but the exact nature and strength of your own abilities is of considerable interest to me.”

  “Why?” she asked, very wary now.

  “Because if I am correct, there is a possibility that you can save both my sanity and my life.” He paused. “Although if you cannot salvage the former, I will have little use for the latter.”

  She caught her breath and glanced again at the seething energy in his prints. Power and control burned in the currents of his dreamlight. She saw none of the murky hues that indicated mental instability.

  “You appear quite healthy to me, sir,” she said crisply. She paused before adding, “Although I can see that you suffer from unpleasant dreams.”

  She sensed immediately that she had caught him off guard.

  “You can tell that much just by reading my dreamlight patterns?” he asked.

  “Illness of any kind shows strongly in dreamlight. I do not perceive any signs of mental or physical disease in your prints. But powerful nightmares also leave a distinctive residue.”

  “Can you see my dreams?” He did not sound pleased.

  She understood. Dreams were among the most private of all human experiences.

  “No one can view the actual scenes of another person’s dreams,” she said. “What I perceive is the psychical energy of the emotions and sensations experienced while dreaming. My talent translates that energy into impressions and sensations.”

  He contemplated her for a long moment. “Do you find your talent disturbing?”

  “You have no idea.” She slipped back into her normal senses. The trail of hot footsteps disappeared. “What is it that you want of me, sir?”

  “It is not just your paranormal abilities that interest me. I am also intrigued by your passion for saving others.”

  “I don’t understand.”

  “I realize that you specialize in rescuing young women from brothels. I am also aware that I am neither young nor female.”

  “I did notice,” she said, her tone sharpening. “Are you trying to tell me that you need saving, sir? Because I very much doubt that there is anything I can do to assist a man in your, uh, position.”

  She could have sworn that he smiled at that, although she could not be certain because of the cloak of shadows that he wore.

  “I am too far gone, is that what you are saying?” he asked. “I will admit that there is no vestige of innocence left in my nature for you to salvage. But that is not w
hy I asked for this meeting.”

  “Why, then?”

  “I turned thirty-six two months ago,” he said.

  “How is that significant?”

  “Because it appears to be approximately the age at which the family curse strikes, if it does, indeed, strike. My father and grandfather and several generations before me were spared. I had dared to hope that I, too, had escaped. However, it appears that I am not so fortunate.”

  “Sir, I really do not see how I can help you,” she said. “I am a modern thinker. I do not believe in curses and black magic.”

  “There is nothing of magic involved, I promise you. Just a great deal of damnably complicated para- physics. But I am hopeful that you can deal with it, Adelaide Pyne.”

  For a second or two, she did not grasp the significance of what he had just said. Then horrified comprehension crashed through her.

  “You know my name?” she whispered.

  “I am the Director of the Consortium,” he said simply. “I know everything that happens on the streets of London. And you, Mrs. Pyne, have been very active on those streets of late.”

  4

  HE COULD SEE THAT HE HAD DELIVERED A GREAT SHOCK TO her nerves. Her control was admirable—she scarcely flinched—but he sensed that she was fighting panic. He had overplayed his hand. That was unlike him.

  “My apologies, Mrs. Pyne,” he said. “The last thing I want to do is frighten you.”

  “I cannot believe that Mr. Pierce told you my name,” she said, recovering her outward air of composure. “I thought I could trust him.”

  “You can. I have always found Pierce to be a man of his word.” He smiled faintly. “Or should I say a woman of her word?”

  “You know Pierce’s secrets as well?” Disbelief echoed in Adelaide’s words.

  “I am aware that Pierce is a woman who chooses to live as a man, yes. We met years ago. She was orphaned as a girl and forced out onto the streets. She learned early on in life that she was not only safer when she went about dressed as a boy but also more powerful. How did the two of you become acquainted?”