The Shadow Revolution: Crown & Key

by Clay Griffith

  He dipped the needle-tipped pen into the green aether. He hunched over the blade and carefully began to apply the glowing instrument to the blackened runes. If he got even one slight inscription wrong, it would be a waste of time and the ruin of a perfectly good stick sword.

  After only a few strokes onto the steel, he went back to the inkwell and it was clear again. Once more, he spoke aether into the bottle, dipped the pen, and returned to his scribing. He continued this procedure as he worked his way down the thin blade. He must have been perspiring for suddenly a cloth patted his forehead and he paused to smile gratefully at Nick. He flexed his hand to ease the cramping. He took in his art and he smiled. The sword was incised beautifully, making the new blade appear eons old. Then he bent to complete the final strokes, and the moment he did, the blade flared a brilliant hue of emerald. Simon touched the blade and whispered, and the glow altered to a watery blue.

  “Well done, old boy.” Nick stepped back with an exclamation but quickly came forward again when the glow faded and the blade lay dormant upon the table. “What does it do other than glow?”

  Simon announced with a smile, “Think of it as thaumaturgical galvanism. When active, it will be like holding the heat of a bolt of lightning.”

  “That seems safe enough.”

  Simon accepted the cloth and wiped his face. He stretched out his tight shoulders and laughed. “And it didn’t take nearly as long as I suspected.”

  Nick pointed to the mantel clock. “Three hours.”

  Simon thought his friend was playing a joke, so he checked it against his pocket watch. In fact, it had been more than three hours since he sat down before the sword to inscribe it. “Well. I suppose I should get dressed for the party. Wouldn’t want a nasty comment in the papers tomorrow.” He jumped up but had to put out a hand to steady himself as the room tilted.

  “Easy.” Nick took his elbow in a firm grip. “You’ve a touch of aether euphoria.”

  “Nonsense, I’m as fresh as a baby,” Simon exclaimed before taking a few staggering steps with knees that felt far too unsteady. “I’ll just have a seat.”

  “Wise.” Nick guided him back to the chair. “You used a lot of aether for that sword. I’m surprised you’re even coherent.”

  Simon shook his head to clear it. “When will I stop being impacted by aether this way?”

  The older magician said, “I’ve seen a few who always have it. It’s just the way it is for them. Others, like me, never have even a touch of aether drunkenness. We burn out of aether temporarily if we use too much, but we don’t get falling-down stupid and start laughing like an imbecile. You’re too eager. You burn through aether too fast. You’ll probably get past it.”

  Simon sat back and closed his eyes. He had to admit, he actually enjoyed the sensation of aether euphoria, but he knew it had a price. It limited the length of time he could practice magic, and it could be a risk if he was overcome by it during a dangerous struggle, as with the werewolf in the Rookery.

  Nick pulled his overcoat off the arm of a chair and plunged a hand into the pocket. He came out with a small crystal vial. He shook it to determine if there was still clear liquid inside. He thumbed off the cork and drank. Nick scowled at the taste but then made a few peculiar motions with his hands. The unshaven, slovenly man shimmered and was replaced by a finely dressed young aristocrat. He was a handsome, almost pretty, young man with wavy blond hair and shapely lips that might have been rouged in the old style. Nick turned to survey himself in a wall mirror that was largely covered by coats.

  “I’m ready for the party.” Nick’s gravelly voice issued from the lovely young man’s mouth. “Sir Thomas Wolfolk won’t mind if I’m him tonight.”

  “You go on ahead.” Simon replaced the blade in its wooden sheath. “You’ll forgive me if I shave and put on actual dinner clothes.” He began to unbutton his waistcoat.

  “Do you have time?”

  Simon gave the man a cold stare. “You’re not suggesting I arrive early at a party, are you?”

  “God forbid even a lycanthrope deny Simon Archer a fashionable entrance.”

  Simon eased himself back to his feet, grateful the euphoria was waning. He saluted with the walking stick and kicked off his shoes into the hallway. He hurried upstairs to dress, beginning to enjoy the anticipation over the coming evening.

  Simon strode up the Grand Portico steps of the mansion, a Georgian pile north of Great Russell Street. His stick tapped sharply on the stonework, the only outward sign of his agitated state. Inside the buttressed vestibule, the stiff-limbed butler stared at him in surprise, clearly doubting that Simon belonged at this ball. Simon smiled and produced the invitation from his jacket pocket. The servant studied it for a long moment but then nodded and handed what he believed was an expensive engraved invitation back to Simon. In fact, it was a piece of blank cardstock with a few runes inscribed on it. Simon tossed his crisp white gloves into his hat and handed them over with his overcoat but kept his stick. The servant’s face remained impassive as he turned elegantly on his heel. He announced to those already gathered at the late hour the arrival of Mr. Simon Archer.

  All heads turned to stare.

  Secret whispers circulated openly around the vast entry hall as Simon confidently swept in with a commanding and unrepentant stature. He extended a gracious greeting to his host, the Right Honorable and Extremely Surprised Viscount Gillingham, who bowed and introduced his rather homely wife, who stood with mouth agape.

  Next to the host couple stood the round and ruddy Prime Minister Charles North, and his extraordinarily beautiful spouse, Grace. The prime minister greeted Simon with admirable civility and presented his wife. While Simon had certainly heard of Mrs. North, he had never met her. She outshone her husband in every respect, and unlike the prime minister, she was beloved by the lowly and the powerful alike. Her angelic air and calm pastel gown didn’t fool Simon as he noticed her covetous gaze when she acknowledged him.

  She offered a demure smile, and said, “A distinct pleasure, Mr. Archer.”

  Simon kissed her hand, his lips lingering just a second too long. “One that is all mine, madam.”

  Her glittering smile was hypnotic though her eyes were full of constant scrutiny, taking the measure of him in a way that would have cowed a lesser man. Simon held her very direct stare and stepped back, with a bow aimed at Mrs. North. That deed done, he plunged deeper into the crowd seeking out Lord Oakham; his scrutiny penetrated every corner of the room but to no avail. His thoughts turned dark against his wishes despite the fact that many young gentlemen of leisure lifted hands in jolly greeting, doubtless relieved by his arrival as it meant the dull gathering might be infused with new exhilaration. Most of his random encounters were pleasant, but sometimes eyes went wide with surprise at seeing him here. Simon did make eye contact with a young woman who was unfamiliar to him. Likely new to the London scene. She was perhaps eighteen and quite lovely. To his amusement, a large woman in a vast hoop skirt snatched the girl by the arm and pulled her to safety. Simon continued on, expanding his search into more distant parts of the rambling mansion.

  “Mr. Archer?” came a feminine voice from behind a half-closed door.

  He cautiously pushed the door back a few inches. A shapely figure stood outlined in the pale light of the window.

  “Would you step inside, please,” she asked, “and close the door?”

  When he did, the woman stepped into the glow of a lamp. Grace North. Her smile was both winsome and alluring; the interpretation was left up to the viewer, as were the consequences of a misstep based on that interpretation.

  “Mrs. North. May I help you?” Simon bowed. He chose to assume she had only broken away from the receiving line for some specific and practical errand.

  “I have a question for you.”

  He nodded for her to proceed.

  “How did you come to be here?” she asked.

  “You beckoned me in.”

  “I believe you take my me
aning, sir. I mean here at this party.” Grace looked him in the eye with the quiet steel of an experienced politician. “I personally reviewed the guest list. Your name was not on it.”

  Simon took a step closer. “I was a late addition to the field, like the Derby.”

  “There were none.”

  “I am a dear friend of the viscount’s.”

  “You are not.”

  Simon displayed surprise. “You are impossibly well informed. I am stunned you even recall my name from meeting me at the door.”

  “Please, Mr. Archer. You are a gentleman of some repute.”

  “You give an odd accent to gentleman.”

  “I use it politely. You are widely considered a scoundrel and bounder.”

  “Am I?” Simon now feigned melodramatic insult. “I thought I was well liked.”

  “As are most scoundrels. So, tell me, why are you here?”

  “I am flattered that such a talented, powerful, and beautiful woman is so engrossed with me.” Simon moved close enough to smell the delicate lavender scent in her flaxen hair. When she moved her head slightly, the shadows slid over her glass-smooth features, creating an odd hardness that quickly faded like a strange glimpse from the corner of the eye. She showed no fear or hesitation. Clearly, he would not overwhelm her with physicality.

  “My husband is the prime minister. I prefer that he remain prime minister. Therefore, I am compelled to distance him from scandal or from characters of ill repute. If I believe you to be a threat to his reputation, you cannot be allowed near him.”

  “Madam, I haven’t the slightest desire for intercourse with your husband.”

  She stared at him evenly. “I have no reason to trust you. I don’t know you, and you are a man of questionable family.”

  Simon felt a jolt of true coldness, and his false, smoldering gaze vanished. “Mrs. North, I should not like to think a woman of your refinement is impugning the honor of my mother.”

  “Do you deny your own mysterious pedigree, Mr. Archer?”

  “No.” Simon looked down at her with a cruel smile. “I am a bastard.”

  “What is your business here tonight?” Grace repeated, unconcerned with his anger.

  He considered walking out. And he considered cursing her, then walking out. That, however, seemed unworthy to him, and even in his bitter state, he still couldn’t waste the potential value of a connection to the prime minister’s wife just for a momentary satisfaction. He took on the attitude of a roué no longer pretending that his charm or rage was legitimate.

  “Why else would I be here?” he said with a sly narrowing of his eyes. “Beating the bushes. Trying to flush a quail or two for a cold winter night.”

  A slight smile touched Grace’s lips and her eyes slid quickly over his tall frame. “I’m not sure I believe you.”

  Simon shrugged without comment. She seemed perceptive and capable of smelling out his rakish burlesque. Still, she tilted her head with nominal acceptance. Then a peculiar softening of her eyes betrayed an interest in Simon beyond her political interrogation. At least, that was one interpretation. She held out her hand. Instinctively, he took it.

  “Good shooting to you, Mr. Archer.” Her warm fingers closed gently around his. “Would you mind leaving the room now?”

  Simon kissed her hand with as much conviction as he could muster to play the gentleman who sensed a chance at unusually rare game. “I hope I will see you again.”

  Grace North stared into his green eyes with an enigmatic invitation. Her voice took on a slight huskiness. “Who can say what the future holds?”

  He let her fingers slide from his and stepped back with a satisfied purse of his lips. He went to the door and left her standing in the gloom. Once out in the hall, he dropped the foolish smirk. He was annoyed by the diversion from his task at hand and angered by the comments that reflected on his mother. He was not unused to snide chatter about his illegitimacy, but coming from such an angelic face, it seemed even more savage. Grace North had put Simon badly off his game. Under normal circumstances, he already would have been acquainted with her corset. Now, all he could do was eye the crowd for Lord Oakham.

  In lieu of finding his quarry, Simon sought out Nick’s dandified alter ego, Sir Thomas Wolfolk. And he was likely in one spot. He strolled through the ballroom, where he signaled to a waiter carrying a tray of champagne. Glass in hand, he threaded his way to another room, where a savage cribbage game was being waged. He greeted the players and joined the table.

  Sir Thomas Wolfolk leaned around a lovely young lady to acknowledge him with a broad smirk. Simon merely raised his eyebrow and brushed his well-tied white silk cravat. A new game was played and Simon consulted his cards.

  Sir Thomas grinned. “I saw you scoring points with the wife of the prime minister. Was she probing you as to your opinion on the Reform Act?”

  “Please don’t diminish Mrs. North with your scandalous taint,” muttered an amiable voice from across the table. Henry Clatterburgh was technically the third Earl Moorhaven, but never advertised it. He was a longtime fixture at the Home Office who ignored Simon’s awkward social standing because he apparently enjoyed losing at cards.

  Without looking at his hand, Simon displaced one of his cards, announcing the total to be twenty-eight. The assembled players groaned and folded their cards, while the observing crowd laughed and applauded.

  Sir Thomas’s mouth fell into a minor scowl. “I had hoped the champagne would have rattled your mathematical abilities.”

  “Yes rather, I have more than six cards left,” grumbled Henry Clatterburgh. Then his head shot up from his cards, gaze riveted across the room. “Oh my!” His features fell with disappointment. “Oh. It’s just Kate Anstruther.”

  The entire table turned to see a woman paused in the doorway. She was extraordinary. Not only was she tall, but unlike the other women in the room who wore their hair tight against their heads or tossed into ringlets, she let her lustrous auburn hair, full of waves, fall on either side of her face before gathering upon her straight but slender shoulders. Her high cheekbones accentuated emerald eyes that flashed in all directions. She wore a long gown of red so dark it was all but black. It was drawn tight at the waist and flowed over the hips. The sleeves were full, but not to the wild extreme of others in the room. Her shoulders were bare and the curve of her throat was accentuated by a simple pearl choker.

  There was a sureness about her, and her mouth displayed a disregard for her surroundings. She understood the potency of the crowd but didn’t care. She wasn’t trying to garner attention, but she did nonetheless. It gave her a power so strong it almost had a scent. Beatrice, in her heyday, had drawn the eye with equal power but in a completely different way. Beatrice had done it through astounding displays of personality and pure sexuality. It now struck Simon as having been a bit desperate as he watched the profoundly self-contained Kate Anstruther.

  Simon turned back to his cards with an ache in his chest and managed a mildly interested, “Hm.”

  “That’s all you have to say?” Sir Thomas stared at him. “You’re not in any way affected by her? Were we looking at the same woman?”

  “We were.” Simon shifted a few cards in his hand. He turned to see Kate’s form vanish into a jungle of black tails and opulent gowns. “She’s very pretty.”

  “She’s very pretty,” the blond man repeated in a bland monotone. He shook his head in dismay. “Have you died?”

  Simon didn’t reply. He removed and fingered the gold key he always carried and waited for the man with the next play.

  “Just as well, Simon.” Henry scowled with disappointment. “She is a beauty, but I hear she’s a reader.” He spoke the word as if it had been radical. “I’m surprised she’s here tonight. Since her father disappeared a few years back while exploring some damnable dark jungle,she flitters on the edge of society but never quite lights on a branch.”

  Sir Thomas laid a card on the table with his eyes fixed on Simon. “Sixteen.
”

  Henry hooted in triumph and discarded also. “Twenty-six!”

  Simon slowly placed a four of clubs. “Thirty.”

  “Bah,” Henry grumbled, then spouted, “Unbelievable luck!”

  Simon calmly collected his winnings. “You dealt me a grand hand, Henry. You have no one to blame but yourself.” He scooped up a pile of gold sovereigns, declaring that he had grown bored with the game.

  “You’re not leaving so soon, Archer?” declared Henry. “You have my year’s allowance in your hand.”

  “You’ll find me at Lord Remberton’s garden party in a fortnight, Henry. Make sure to skim enough money from your ministry coffers to attract me.” Henry snorted good-humouredly at Simon’s droll statement. “Gentlemen, I and my creditors bid you a good evening. Sir Thomas, a word with you?”

  Simon wandered down a corridor past a large library with the winsome blond man at his side. “Have you seen Lord Oakham about?”

  “No. I was here easily an hour before you, but he hasn’t made an appearance.”

  “Did you have any problem coming in?”

  “No. Sir Thomas Wolfolk is always welcome,” Nick said with a laugh, “even when he’s actually in Jamaica for the year.”

  Simon shook his head in exasperation when a noise from the library caught his attention. It was a woman’s firm but alarmed voice along with a man’s forceful command.

  “Excuse me,” Simon said.

  “Oh leave it be. It’s just a lover’s quarrel. We have other interests.”

  “I won’t have a woman fighting off a drunken bully when there are gentlemen about.”

  “As you please. I’m back to the tables. If you need me, Sir Galahad, do call.”

  Simon kept his scowl of disappointment from showing as he entered the library.

  “Remove your hand, Sir William!” came Kate Anstruther’s agitated but resolute voice.

  “Don’t be so shy, my dove.” Sir William Titchmarsh had the woman pressed against a large Grecian amphora partially hidden by a spray of fronds.