Dusk's Revenge

by A. W. Exley

  Elijah stood in a long corridor that ran alongside the enormous room housing the clattering looms. His head ached and he pressed a hand to his temples. That was the last time he went drinking with the lads; it was muddling up his thoughts. He couldn’t even remember what he was doing in this part of the building. Miss Hamilton had sent him on an errand for something.

  A clock chimed six times and Elijah pulled out his pocket watch. Six? Impossible. He was sure it had only been five o’clock just a few minutes ago. He was still staring at the timepiece when the double doors were flung open and women and children poured through.

  Knocking off time. The workers flowed past him and took the next corridor, which led to the cloakroom and the doors to the fresh outside.

  “Eli!” A tall lad waved at him above the throng. It was Reuben, who was apprenticed to one of the floor overseers. “Coming to the pub?”

  He snapped the watch shut and shoved it back in his pocket before calling out, “Not tonight. My grandparents want me to do chores this evening.”

  He stepped out into the cool dusk and closed his eyes for a moment. Then he rubbed his face with his hands. Maybe he was working too hard. What he needed was a quiet night playing checkers with Hector and perhaps a word of grandmotherly advice from Marjory.

  11

  The next day, Elijah awoke feeling refreshed and less wool-headed. His thoughts were clearer, and while he still had nothing of any import to share with his uncle, he felt that surely, soon, he would find the missing vessel.

  He spent the morning working in solitude as he threaded the spools onto the looms and created the weft threads from the colours Beatrice had selected. It was mid-morning before she appeared.

  The door whispered open and her footsteps were soft across the floor. She looked how he had felt the previous night. Her eyes were dull and swollen, as though she had been crying. Her hair was messy and hastily pulled back into a bun, but pieces had escaped already.

  “Good morning, Miss Hamilton. Is everything all right?” He frowned and wondered what had made sleep elude her this time. The Hamiltons seemed fond of all-night parties, which were more the domain of London society than a small rural hamlet.

  “Yes. Fine.” She waved a hand at him, then used it to smooth back a strand of hair. “My aunt is in failing health and I spent all last night and most of this morning with her.”

  “I am sorry to hear that.” It was the first he’d heard of Francis Hamilton having a wife, but the Lord Soarer would need a partner who was the heart or spirit of their clan. “Do your aunt and uncle have any children?”

  She picked up a spool of bright orange silk and played the strand through her fingers. “No, I am the only child in my family for this generation and have never had the pleasure of cousins for company.”

  “Did you play with the local children?” While he had been the only young Elemental in Alysblud, his uncle had ensured he’d had a constant stream of playmates among the village children. Even Dr Day, the serious mate of his aunt Lettie, had once been his co-conspirator in juvenile antics.

  Her hand stilled in the silk and she dropped her eyes to the floor. “No. Uncle did not think it fitting. That’s why I took up painting. It is an activity that can be done alone.”

  He swallowed a lump in his throat. This conversation was getting worse. He needed to change tack before he discovered she had a pet dog that had died in tragic circumstances. “I’m sure your uncle knows best. A well-bred lady like yourself shouldn’t be found at the old barn.”

  She looked up and a spark flared in her eyes. One sharp auburn eyebrow arched. “You’ve been to the old barn?”

  He shrugged. “The lads took me. There’s not much else to do around here at night.”

  Her eyes narrowed as she stared at him and her fingers tightened on the silk. “While there, did you find a pretty and willing companion with whom to while away the hours?”

  His throat went dry and the air in the room became hot and stuffy as a heat haze rose off of her. He glanced at the window, wishing it would open and allow a gentle breeze in. “I had offers, but none were to my taste.”

  Her eyes widened and then she gave a nod, as though his answer were acceptable. She dropped the spool back into the box and gestured to the looms. “You have done excellent work setting these up. Thank you, Eli.”

  “Is there anything else you need me to do? Otherwise, all we need to do is start these up and let them do their job.” He resisted the urge to pull on his collar. The room still seemed overly warm, and he kept thinking how cool the river would be if he ran outside and jumped into it.

  She pressed a hand to her forehead and closed her eyes for a moment. “Yes. I require your help with that old thing.”

  Beatrice walked to the old handloom and dropped a hand to the wood.

  Elijah glared at the antiquated thing, a relic from a long-ago era that had no place in the modern world. “You were serious about hand weaving?”

  He had read in the newspapers that there was a growing arts and craft movement for what the wealthy called artisan workmanship. Meaning they paid extra to know some poor person laboured by candlelight for weeks, if not months, over a piece of fabric.

  “Yes. Some designs are too intricate for machine weaving. My uncle promised I could have two workers and the second will be a woman from the village. I have employed her to work on this beauty to make a very special piece. Do you think we can break the loom down and move it by cart?”

  His initial reaction would be to break down the heavy antique and use it for firewood, but a part of him was curious to know what would be woven on it. Her painting of the bird up a tree?

  He looked at the loom afresh. It was old and heavy and would be akin to moving a dead horse, albeit one that could be broken up into smaller pieces. “If I can use another set of hands, we should be able to take it apart and load it on a cart.”

  “Could you organise that, please? I’ll be in my office when it’s ready to go.” She raised a hand in thanks and then slipped through the door.

  He was left wondering what had just happened. For a moment, he’d imagined that if he’d responded to her question about the barn with “Why yes, I enjoyed the charms of the luscious Peggy,” he might have been incinerated on the spot. That at least would have got him out of moving the loom.

  Elijah pushed his musing aside and reminded himself that she was no concern of his. He stared at his hand, remembering the luminous red tendril that had sprung into life between them. The Cor-vitis was wrong. There was no other explanation. He rubbed his palm on the leg of his trousers. If he pressed hard enough, he might be able to dislodge the confused seedling.

  He walked back to the warehouse and found Mr Baxter. He explained Miss Hamilton’s request, and it resulted in a fair bit of pencil waving before the instrument settled on Manny. Although his friend didn’t look entirely appreciative.

  He groaned when he saw the old handloom. “This thing is a beast and heavier than a bolt of thick twill.”

  Elijah grinned while feigning an innocent expression. “Hey, I got you away from the warehouse for a couple of hours of my scintillating company.”

  They set to, unscrewing all the moveable pieces of the loom.

  “What did you think of Peggy the other night?” Manny asked as they worked.

  “She seemed nice and pretty.” He stared at Manny for a moment, sure his friend must have exchanged words with Beatrice Hamilton in the hallway. He didn’t have any objections to the young maid he’d met the other evening; she just wasn’t what he was looking for in life.

  “Nice? Ouch. You could do a lot worse around here than her. She asked after you last night.” Manny moved on to loosening the next set of bolts.

  The problem was that Elijah couldn’t see Peggy ever igniting his internal fire. Which was such a Soarer thought. Why did he keep conjuring salamanders and heated things? He should be thinking of earthy gargoyles or willowy undines. Either would be a more suitable match for him. �
��I met Miss Hamilton’s fiancé the other day. Have they been engaged for long?”

  Manny chortled under his breath. “Ah. Now I see why Peggy doesn’t interest you. Only been here a week and you’ve already set your sights high above your station and on Miss Hamilton.”

  That cut too close to the bone. Elijah’s hand tightened on the piece of loom under his fingers. “Of course not. Don’t be daft. Just making conversation. They don’t exactly strike me as being in love.”

  Manny shrugged. “It’s different for toffs, though, isn’t it? They keep all their emotions locked away. How do you know they don’t both burn for each other away from our eyes?”

  They would burn all right, but not in the way Manny thought. Salamanders could envelope each other in fire that left both unscathed.

  Elijah steered the conversation back to easier topics. Like fishing spots and Manny’s feminine conquests. Between the two of them they managed to disconnect the main pieces of the loom and then load them into a cart.

  “That’s two hours of my life I’ll never get back,” Manny muttered when they slid the last piece into place.

  “I’ll pay you in beer tonight,” Elijah said, which cheered up his friend.

  “You bet you will,” Manny called as he waved and headed back to the warehouse.

  With the cart loaded, there was only one thing left to do. Elijah headed into the office part of the building, knocked on a particular door and waited for the muffled “Enter.”

  Beatrice Hamilton was seated at her desk, her head bent over a ledger as she tallied numbers. Her brow furrowed and she chewed her lip.

  “Miss Hamilton, is this a bad time?” Elijah asked as he approached the messy desk.

  She raised her head and released her lower lip from between her teeth. “No, just doing some accounting and calculating how much of my allowance remains and how much more silk I can buy.”

  “The loom is loaded onto the cart, but we can leave it until tomorrow if you would prefer?” She looked busy, tired, and troubled. He wasn’t entirely sure how she would respond, and he didn’t want to inadvertently throw a match into a powder keg.

  “No, a ride in the fresh air might perk me up, and a breeze might brush away the numbers swirling around in my brain.” She picked up a leather map case from the desk and slung the strap of the tube over her shoulder.

  Out in the courtyard, Elijah helped her up to the seat of the cart. There was no way to assist her without offering a hand, and as soon as flesh touched flesh, the tiny Cor-vitis burst into life. The bright red tendril wriggled between their palms and patted the back of Beatrice’s hand.

  He glared at the mystical plant and whispered shoo under his breath. To his relief, it dissolved into transparent fragments as she took her seat and let go of him.

  Elijah climbed onto the seat next to her and took up the reins. “Where to?”

  “Out the gate and to the right.” She waved her hand in the general direction.

  Elijah clucked to the horse and it walked on. He directed the equine right and away from the village.

  “I hear your grandfather is from Kessel,” she said as the horse plodded down the road.

  Local gossip made its way through all levels, apparently. Hector and Marjory made a point of chatting to all the locals during the day, as they sought to learn more about the family that controlled the village. “Yes, he was born here, but he moved away as a lad when his mother died. Now that he and Grandmother are getting on, he wanted to return and show me the area.”

  She closed her eyes and lifted her face to the sun. “What of your parents? Did you not want to stay near them?”

  His hands tightened on the reins. “My parents are dead. My grandparents raised me.”

  Beatrice opened her eyes, and he swallowed at the sympathy that shimmered in the amber depths. “Oh, I’m sorry. My mother died some years ago, and my father is off somewhere, exploring. He’s in South America, I believe, but I rarely hear from him.”

  Both of them were parentless. What else did they have in common? How convenient if she also harboured a deep dark desire to see her uncle fall.

  Elijah concentrated on the road ahead and the steady plod of the horse’s hooves. “Did you meet your fiancé here in Kessel, or in some exotic location while doing a grand tour?”

  “It’s a rather boring tale, I’m afraid. Archie came here for business purposes and stayed. Now he will become part of our family.” As she spoke, she fidgeted with her skirts, balling up fabric and hiding the sparkling ring on her left hand.

  From what Elijah had learned from his aunt Lettie, Soarers considered marriage a business arrangement, with no emotional attachment. A pang of sympathy for the woman shot through his body. She would spend her long lifespan tied to a man she didn’t love, unless affection grew over the decades. “Perhaps he will take you on a grand tour for your honeymoon?”

  A faint sigh brushed past her lips. “How marvellous it would be to explore the world. Paris, Vienna, New York, or even to just journey to London for a season.”

  That gave him a start. She had never been to London? His family had been confined to their village because of Ava, and now they’d all spread their wings. Why did the Soarers not venture further afield? “Have you never been to London? What about Bath, or the seaside?”

  She shook her head. “My uncle travels, and other members of the extended family come and go, but I have always been here in Kessel, and I always will be, just like my aunt.”

  He had no intention of staying in one spot for his entire life. He planned to be the rolling stone that gathered no moss. There were a myriad of experiences waiting for him after he destroyed Beatrice’s uncle. “Once my grandparents are settled, I intend to travel. There is a whole world out there, and I want to see as much of it as possible.”

  She turned to him with a small smile on her lips. “Perhaps you could send me postcards of your adventures, so that in a way, I might share your travels?”

  Sadness glistened in her eyes, and a strange ache took hold of his heart. What were the Soarer men doing to her? He wanted to take her hand and ask her to run away with him, and together they would explore other countries and cultures. But he didn’t.

  She’s not yours, a tiny, rational voice pointed out to him.

  “Oh! This is the one.” She leaned against him as she pointed to a tidy cottage on his side of the road.

  The dwelling was so perfect that it should have been framed and hanging in a dining room. The whitewashed walls gleamed in the sunlight and competed with the reflection from polished glass windows. The rich thatch on the roof showed the perfect alignment of ends that must have been trimmed with nail scissors. The garden was an abundance of colours that merged to create a harmonious whole, with just the right amount of greenery around each blooming plant to show it off.

  “Someone put a lot of hard work into this place,” Elijah said as he pulled the horse to a halt.

  “Rose loves her garden, and she has such nimble hands. That’s why I think she’s perfect for my project.” A larger smile bloomed over Beatrice’s face as she regarded the garden.

  At least something today has brought her a small amount of joy, Elijah mused. Not for the first time, he wondered why it mattered to him. He needed to lock down his feelings before he forgot his task in Kessel and became a poet mooning below her window reading terrible verses he’d written.

  Beatrice knocked on the front door, and it was promptly opened by a tiny woman. She cried out in surprise and flung her arms around Beatrice for a hug.

  The salamander kissed the old woman’s cheek and then gestured to Elijah. “Eli, this is Rose.”

  “Pleased to meet you,” Elijah said.

  Rose was a diminutive creature who looked part sprite and part wizened walnut. Her face was deeply lined with wrinkles that nearly made her eyes vanish. Bright white hair shone and reminded Elijah of the white-washed cottage walls. For a tiny person she exuded an air of good humour and the vague aroma of warm b
read.

  Beatrice kept her arm around the tiny human, and for the first time that day, she appeared more lively, as though the old woman had reignited her spark.

  “I have something for you, Rose,” Beatrice said.

  The woman’s eyes widened as she craned her neck to look up at Elijah.

  “Oh, Miss Hamilton, is he just for me?” She nudged Beatrice and burst out laughing.

  Beatrice glanced at Elijah and giggled behind her hand. “Get your eyes off him, Rose. Eli is my assistant. What we have for you is out in the cart. Can you manage on your own, Eli?”

  Of course he could handle it on his own, he wanted to snort. Two women watching would always make a lad work a little harder. Even if one woman was ancient and the other far out of reach. He wondered if it would be going too far to remove his shirt before he began working, so he could show off the muscled physique he was developing.

  Even rock-hard gargoyles needed a little appreciation now and then.

  12

  “I’ll manage,” Elijah said.

  Piece by piece, he hauled the loom into the tidy cottage. By the time he had all the pieces in a pile, he had stripped off his jacket and rolled up his shirtsleeves. He hadn’t removed his shirt, but he’d considered it. Next, he needed Beatrice’s help to hold bits still while he put the thing back together.

  Rose fetched lemonade and kept pressing glasses of the stuff into his hand every time he paused. It had a sharp, refreshing tang that made him think of sunshine and mown grass.

  “Made it myself,” she said with a wink.

  The old woman wrought marvellous things with her arthritic hands. That made him ponder her name, Rose, and if she might be a Meidh. The flower itself was full of symbolism. The ancient Greeks saw the rose as representative of love and associated with Aphrodite. Some mystics saw the flower as a symbol of hope and new beginnings. The thorns represented loss. Did her care for the garden show an Elemental trait at work?

  By mid-afternoon, he was done and stood back to survey his handiwork.