by Kat Dunn
Oh. Camille’s locket. Inside, she knew there were two miniatures of her parents. Ada was surprised she hadn’t taken it to England.
Maybe she hadn’t wanted the reminder of France, of everything painful in her past. Ada wondered how easy it might be for Camille to forget her.
Out of sight, out of mind.
Maybe she didn’t know Camille as well as she thought.
Ada dropped the locket back into the drawer and slammed it shut.
Outside, the sun broke through the clouds, sending a blast of heat. Guil was waiting by the carriage. Ada paused, making a show of fanning herself before getting in.
‘I’ve decided what we should do.’
‘And?’
‘Robespierre is gone; Royalists are everywhere, it’s not just the duc. A coup is coming, we both know it. The Revolution has already fallen; they’re just waiting for someone to announce the death.’ She steadied her nerve. ‘No fate. No destiny. Everything is a choice – remember? So we make the only choice we have: we trust Olympe’s mother. We tell her we can reunite her with Olympe and ask for her help. What else can we do?’
Guil’s expression was unreadable. ‘I’ll follow your lead.’
She wanted Guil to say something comforting. But he was silent, and the carriage pulled away, leaving him stranded, a solitary figure fading behind her. She thought of him walking north with his old demi-brigade from Spain towards the Vendée, orders to rain destruction weighing him down. She wondered when his decision to desert had been made, whether it had come quickly or crept up on him slowly over weeks. Either way, his leaving only took a moment.
Ada sat alone, fan gripped tightly in her hand. She could feel the lump of her mother’s earrings in her pocket.
She would do what she had to.
Whatever that meant.
7
Wickham’s Study, St Bart’s Hospital
Wickham let himself into the study, drying his hands with a cloth. James’s head snapped up to track his movements across the room, assessing his enemy.
The events of the past few days hardly seemed to have left a mark. Wickham’s rich brown hair was long enough he could tie it back in a cue, a style left over from his time as a surgeon in the Navy. He was dressed in rolled-up shirtsleeves, his waistcoat hanging open, but somehow he still commanded the room; the tense, uncontrolled man James had squared up to the day before was gone. After all, he had won. Olympe was his, and James was at his mercy. Once, James had found his presence inspiring. Now he knew what Wickham was capable of, James saw the cruelty in his authority, the violence in the strength of his hands.
‘Here, take a look at this.’ Wickham tossed him a preserved resin liver with a strange growth attached to its side. James caught it awkwardly with his good arm. ‘Cut that out of a man stationed in St Kitts in ’82. Seemed perfectly healthy, until the day he dropped dead. Captain had me autopsy the body in case there was something on board the ship killing the men. Surgery on ship is more often a saw and a bucket of pitch while the guns fire, so I leaped at the chance. Turned out to be a massive haemorrhage in his brain. But I found that while I was rummaging around. Do you know what that growth is?’
James frowned, turning the liver over in his hand. It was a strange echo of their past tutorials – Wickham lecturing on some point, James taking hurried notes or holding a magnifying glass over a specimen. Wickham thought him no threat, he realised. This world was his world, and if he wanted to stop a moment to elaborate, show off his intellect, then it was his prerogative to do so.
‘A cancer, perhaps?’ said James.
‘You’d think, but no. Look a little closer.’
He squinted at the hideous mass of swollen flesh. It looked like nothing, and then at once it came together in his mind like a trick-eye puzzle.
‘It’s a person. I can see limbs.’
‘Bingo.’ Wickham clapped his hands. ‘That is the man’s twin. Died in the womb and was absorbed into his body. He lived his entire life not knowing he carried inside him the husk of his unborn brother.’
James felt sick. ‘How fascinating.’
‘Isn’t it? The human body is a marvel. We know so little about it, or what it’s capable of. We are explorers, James. As surgeons, we hunt the dark interior to uncover hidden treasures.’
What had Olympe said? I’m not a resource for you to plunder. I know that’s the sort of thing you people do.
James eyed the liver. ‘A conquest.’
‘Of course. We strive, we struggle, we win. To the victor the spoils.’
James had seen Wickham in this triumphant mood before, when the three of them had made some breakthrough; he liked it less now that it was Olympe strapped to the dissection table.
‘Tell me, so I don’t have to sit here wondering about my fate: what’s your plan? Kill me so I can’t steal your secrets?’
Wickham took a dented metal tray and began to load it with tools and pieces of equipment. ‘Perhaps. I have done worse in my life for less. But it is no longer you that I’m concerned about.’
‘My father—’
‘Your father has stood in my way for too long. He has dismissed and belittled me, and so many others, time and time again. If he encounters an … accident, then I don’t think I am the only one who would be pleased.’
James felt the hair at the back of his neck prickle. ‘What about Olympe? You’ve demonstrated your theory is true with Edward, what do you need her for?’
Wickham paused with a trepanning bore in his hand and laughed. ‘What do I— You really do lack ambition, James. What won’t I need her for? Think of the possibilities – if nothing else, now I have a constant source of power I can truly begin to discover the potential of electricity. No one will be able to deny my legacy then.’
‘Killing the competition doesn’t sound like a glowing reputation to foster.’
‘Oh, stop being so sanctimonious. Men who make history don’t often make friends. If you have the strength to do what it takes, then glory can be yours; a legacy that will outlive you for generations to come. If you don’t … well…’ He looked at James, tied and prone on the floor, the bandages fresh over his wounded arm. ‘I would be doing a service to science and progress to eliminate obstacles in my path.’
James thought for a moment about the Revolution. About Robespierre and the guillotine, about the duc and his work. About his own father, deciding which men to send to die in battle. About Camille, putting her battalion in danger in the hope of saving people.
‘The ends justify the means,’ he said softly. ‘Like using Edward for your test.’
Wickham held his gaze, the light in his eyes replaced with something of that frightening coldness James had seen outside his father’s study a handful of days before – before this all went so wrong.
‘There, you grasp it now.’
He had grasped it long ago.
A few months before, he would have said the same. Now, he didn’t know what he thought.
James fell silent as Wickham gathered the last of the things he needed for whatever he had planned for Olympe. It was raining incessantly, rattling down the windows and misting the insides of the panes.
Wickham selected a long, thin blade, and held it to the light as thunder rumbled.
‘Now, where to begin?’
8
Paradise Lost, a Gambling Den in Covent Garden
Camille placed her chip onto the Faro board and tried not to glance at Al. He was sitting beside her at the green baize table, bet already placed and his snuffbox attracting more of his attention than the other players taking turns to set their chips.
She was sure he was cheating, but she hadn’t the first idea how. The board had a suit of cards stencilled onto it and bets were placed by laying chips on the number or face card you thought would be drawn. The banker pulled his two cards from the top of the deck; first the losing card – the Six of Spades this time – which he placed to the right side of the dealer’s box, and then the King
of Diamonds on the left – the carte anglaise, the winning card.
Al looked up long enough to accept his pay-out from the banker and push his stack of chips onto a new position on the Faro board, before going back to his conversation with one of the men crowding around the gaming table. Camille frowned. She was sure Al’s chips had been on the Queen, and yet there they were, on the King to win.
Her own chips lay on the Three – not a winning bet, but not a losing one either. She had the choice now to swap location or try her luck for another draw of the cards. She hesitated, finger resting on the scant three chips she had bought in with. She wished Ada was with her; she would have calculated the odds in her head already and have an entire game plan. Camille never felt so stupid as when Ada wasn’t there and she had to use her own intellect.
A mixed pang of longing for the comfort of Ada’s presence, and the sting of knowing she wasn’t good enough for her distracted Camile from the betting for a moment, until Al made his move. He had amassed a fortune in chips, a small stack in play now positioned on the Ace, but most heaped in front of him like a dragon’s hoard. They were halfway through the deck, but they had already gone through three of the Aces – it didn’t make sense as a bet, but he seemed entirely unconcerned. There was more than just money riding on the bet; it had been nearly twenty-four hours since she’d seen Olympe and James dragged off by Wickham and Edward, and the longer they took to rescue them, the more time there was for something awful to happen. Given free rein, she didn’t know how far Wickham would go.
The dealer called time, and Camille left her chips where they were. At the other end of the oval table, their quarry, a dandyish young man with thick chestnut curls brushed into a quiff, frowned intensely at his chips. He had only two left. At the last moment, he tossed them on the Three, along with Camille’s. The dealer pulled the cards – the winner’s card was a Ten; the loser, a Three. Camille and the mark’s chips were collected by the banker. Al, safe on the Ace, leaned over to pour the man another drink.
‘Buck up, Malvern, some of us are simply born winners.’
‘And some of us are born losers, I take it?’
Al smiled blandly. ‘If the shoe fits…’
The mark was Alastair Malvern, Viscount of somewhere Camille had no interest in learning about, and regular patron of the gambling house Al had been making himself acquainted with since their arrival in London. With no membership of a gentlemen’s club, Al had happily ensconced himself in the seedier gambling dens and backroom drinking clubs that littered the city.
Paradise Lost was a club that touted itself as catering to the finer gentleman, who wanted to lose their fortune in a room that had been cleaned at least once in the past decade and where the brandy was almost entirely made up of real brandy. Camille thought it looked like the fever dream of some designer who had never encountered the concept of taste. Tucked above the stately colonnades of Covent Garden, the rooms were decked in gaudy silks, rugs as thick as her fist, smoke-blackened paintings reaching to the ceiling, and mirrors everywhere, so the sweaty, undulating mass of patrons was doubled.
They had waited until the Harfords retired, weary from the pleasure gardens the night before and the matinee that afternoon, then Camille had borrowed a set of Al’s breeches and the two of them had climbed out of her bedroom window and made their escape through the mews. Al had spotted Malvern immediately and button-holed him in a game of Faro, where he proceeded to haemorrhage cash as if he was allergic to being wealthy.
‘Lend me some iron, will you, Ravenscar?’ Malvern asked the man beside him.
‘Will I hell. I’m hardly flush in the pocket myself, dear boy, you owe me for enough. I’ve no interest in throwing good money after bad.’ Ravenscar quit the table.
‘Tell you what,’ said Al, topping up Malvern’s glass again, ‘my friend and I are having a pleasant time, so I’m happy to make a proposal to let you try to win some of your money back – I do seem to have rather a lot of it in my lap. I hear you’ve come into some sort of whizz-bangs from abroad. I’m having a party and they’re just the sort of thing to make a mark on the social calendar.’
‘Oh – I—’ Malvern tugged at his collar. ‘They’re not mine, exactly. My father imported a sample…’
‘Don’t play coy, I saw you demonstrate one for Old Rumpy in the smoking room and nearly singed his eyebrows off. I know you have a supply on you.’
‘Maybe I do.’
‘Stole them off the old man, did you? Worried about going back empty-handed? I’d be more worried about going back without a farthing on you.’
Camille thought Al might have pushed it too far; the man looked genuinely anxious at the mention of his father. The memory of blood on James’s arm, Olympe’s terrified expression as Edward dragged her away, flashed across her mind. They couldn’t mess this up.
The Faro dealer had finished paying out from the last round and was calling for last bets before he drew again. Malvern made a snap decision and held his hand across the table to Al.
‘Deal.’
Al shook his hand, then tossed him a chip to stand in for his wagered goods. Malvern agonised for a minute while Al placed his own bet, positioning a stack on the Jack, along with a hexagonal copper token that Camille had twigged indicated a reversed bet – if the Jack was pulled as the losing card, the token would flip the result and make it a winning bet; if it was pulled as the winning card, the token would make it a losing one. Malvern, a desperate look in his eyes, copied Al’s bet, placing his one chip and his copper token on the Jack.
In the jostle of players reaching to place their bets, Camille hardly paid attention to where she dropped her last chip – either Al was being incredibly clever, or incredibly risky.
Knowing Al, it was probably both.
The dealer pulled the first card – the banker’s card, the losing card – and it was the Nine of Clubs. She leaned forward, eyes trained on the dealer’s fingers plucking the next card off the deck. Lifted, turned and placed down for all to see: the Jack of Hearts.
Malvern went pale. He had reversed his bet. The Jack would have won him everything back; instead, he had lost it, and the firecrackers.
‘Tough luck, old thing.’ Al scooped his chips into his hoard, along with his new pay-out.
‘Hang on a minute.’ Malvern frowned.
Camille had to bite her tongue to stop herself from smiling. The copper token Al had seemed to place had inexplicably vanished, making his bet a winner. In the confusion of the crowded table she hadn’t seen him do it, but the result was the same.
‘You’re cheating! You should have lost too!’ Malvern exclaimed. ‘You coppered your bet, I saw it.’
‘I don’t know what you mean,’ said Al, eyes narrowing. ‘And I don’t like your accusations.’
‘Where’s your copper, then? I’ve seen men like you have the damn thing on a wire so you can move it about like a toy – I demand you show it to me.’
Al stood up from the table with more drama than was necessary. ‘How dare you, sir! An insult!’
‘So you claim, yet you do not show me proof otherwise.’
‘I have nothing to prove to a deluded man that far into his cups. But I shall humour you.’ With a small audience now paying attention to the brewing fight, Al presented his copper token and threw it down for Malvern to examine. ‘Do you see a wire?’
Malvern faltered. ‘No – but—’
‘Then I wait to hear a retraction of your accusation forthwith, or I shall be forced to demand satisfaction, sir!’
‘Now there’s no need for that.’ Malvern threw the token back at Al. ‘I withdraw my words.’
The crowd dispersed, denied the spectacle of a duel, and Malvern led them to a quiet corner, swaying with drink and entirely subdued.
‘Take your damn firecrackers.’ He pulled a paper packet from his jacket and thrust it into Al’s hands. ‘Come for some other fool next time.’
He sloped off and Al grinned in triumph. ‘Another man
ruined at the card table. What a tragic story.’
‘Good job.’ Camille looked at the small packet, so innocuous. ‘They’d better work.’
‘They will, just aim them at the right thing.’ He looped their arms, tucking their spoils away. ‘One more for the road? Oh, don’t give me that look. All right, all right, I’m getting my coat.’
They left the club and hired a waiting sedan chair to run them across the city, along the Strand and Fleet Street.
‘Out of curiosity,’ she said, as the sedan chair lurched in time to the chairmen’s gait, ‘how did you move the copper? I saw you place it.’
In the dark of the box, he smiled and produced the token from his pocket. Only this one had a fine thread dangling from it. ‘He was right. I cheated.’
At St Paul’s they turned north up Old Bailey and Guiltspur Street, until the lofty pediment of the gate to St Bart’s Hospital drew into view.
Camille and Al stood side by side in the deserted night-time street.
Inside, who knew what horrors they might find. Perhaps they were already too late; perhaps Wickham had already strapped Olympe to his dissection table and started experimenting. Camille had never tried to pull off a rescue with only two people. Given the choice, it wouldn’t have been Al by her side. But maybe she’d been wrong about him – he’d proved his worth more than once. Al was who he was. At some point, either she trusted him or she didn’t. She thought she’d made the right call.
Tonight would put that trust to the test.
9
The Operating Theatre
Wickham had decided against leaving James unsupervised, so he was bound to the lecturer’s chair a few feet behind the operating table. Olympe was tied down on it in the same way as he had seen so many patients before. He was glad he was by her feet. He couldn’t bear to see her face.
The storm had blown in loud and fierce; flashes of lightning illuminated the theatre like day, throwing lurching shadows up the rows of viewing platforms. Edward looked worse in the poor light; the grey had spread from his fingertips, discolouring his wrists, and James noticed two of his nails torn from their beds. As if his grip on life was slipping.