by Zoë Archer
“Tell me about this reward.”
“Greater power. Should you so desire it. You will be able to see farther into the future, decades, and to trigger this ability, you will no longer require coins, but simply any object belonging to your intended prey.” Laughing, the creature said, “Is this not a wondrous gift? And most generous of my master to offer it?”
Leo turned the idea over and over in his mind. Tempting, indeed. Obtaining items owned by his quarry would be an easy matter. The cuff of a coat during a handshake. Inspecting a gentleman’s ornate walking stick. The rewards would be even greater than before, his power immense. Anything he desired—his. Anything Anne could ever possibly wish for—hers.
The old order, based on ancestry and blood, would crumble. He could fashion a new world, where a man’s value was based on his deeds, not birth. Any who opposed him and this new world would see themselves utterly crushed, smashed to powder beneath the relentless grindstone of progress, with his shoulder pushing the stone forward.
“Yes, you see my master offers you a most marvelous power.” The geminus moved from the fire, its footsteps muffled by the carpet. “Speak but a word, and it is yours.”
“Tell me the price.”
“It has no cost, sir.”
“There is always a cost.”
The geminus tutted. “Time on the Exchange has made you chary. What I ask is merely a trifle.”
Leo narrowed his eyes. “I gave you one, months ago. At the temple.” In order for him and all the other Hellraisers to receive their gifts, they had been required to present tokens. Leo had given the geminus a snuffbox, which had been a minor loss indeed, as he never took snuff, only kept the thing as part of a gentleman’s effects.
“One more. Anything shall suffice.”
Glancing around the room, Leo espied a tortoiseshell-and-silver quill stand on his desk. He removed the sharpened, waiting quill, and held the stand.
“Yes,” said the geminus.
Leo had no remembrance of buying the thing. A memory did come to him, though: the battered pewter quill stand and matching ink pot his father used. The pride in his father’s face when he would take up his pen and write, and how happy it made Adam Bailey to see his son make use of it as though the act of writing was itself a commonplace skill, not something painfully acquired later in life.
It had cost his father a week’s earnings to buy that pewter quill stand, and it had already been well used by the time he’d purchased it from the chandler.
The ornate object Leo now held likely cost ten times the quill stand his father had bought. And yet, he didn’t care about this thing at all. It meant nothing. As for the dented pewter writing accessories once belonging to his father, those were kept securely in a strongbox in a locked drawer of Leo’s desk. Only Anne knew of their whereabouts, their significance, for he had shown them to her, and she had handled them with the respect one saved for sacred relics.
This was why she meant so much to Leo, why he had to keep her with him at all costs. Only she understood what he valued. Only she accepted every part of him.
Staring at the expensive trinket in his hand, Leo wondered: what would his father do in this situation? He might refuse the Devil’s offer of power. Or he might seize any advantage given to him, for his father had been at all times ambitious. This was the greatest bequest he left for his son—the need to rise ever higher.
His back heated as greed surged through him. He wanted to take, to claim. Everything he could. For himself, for Anne. For the memory of Adam Bailey.
He glanced up. The geminus stood before him, though Leo had not heard it move. It held out its hand.
“That thing has no value,” the geminus said. “But what my master offers is inestimable.”
Leo’s fingers tightened around the quill stand. Then released. He placed the object in the geminus’s hand. The creature immediately put the quill stand in its coat pocket.
“A wise choice.”
“When will this gift take effect?”
“Immediately.”
To test this, Leo considered taking something from the footman dozing in the entryway, but he had little care for the fortunes of a servant. It must wait until the morrow, when the Exchange opened and Leo could prey upon any number of men.
“If our business for the evening is concluded, I shall away.” The geminus practically sang with good spirits. It strolled toward the door and opened it.
“You have no need of doors,” said Leo.
“Ah, but sometimes I find them amusing, sir, and my humor is too pleasant to waste on tedious appearing and disappearing. I believe I shall take a stroll in your garden. Such a place at night will suit my fancy.”
Leo shrugged. His thoughts were too occupied with whom he should meet tomorrow at the Exchange, what fortunes he would make for himself, and whose he would demolish. “As you wish.”
“Good night, sir. And may I say again how very gratified my master is made by your continued efforts on his behalf.”
“I act on my own behalf.”
The geminus smiled, or so Leo sensed. “That you do, sir.” With that, it quit the study, closing the door behind it. A moment later, Leo heard its footsteps outside on the garden path.
Leo stood alone in the chamber, searching within himself for a sense of his new power. He could not perceive it, not yet, but he felt its potential. Damn, but he wished the sun would rise so the day’s work could begin. If only that were one of his abilities. He felt sorely tempted to run up to the bedchamber and wake Anne, tell her of his greater power. Yet he could not. At the least, he wanted to see her, hold her. His greed for more encompassed them both.
After dousing the fire and candle, he returned upstairs. He threw off his banyan and walked toward the bed.
“Leo?” Anne’s whisper floated through the darkness.
He settled between the covers and pulled her close, fighting the urge to reveal what new gift had been given to him. They would both reap the benefits. “You sound surprised.”
“I thought you were in the garden.”
He stilled. “I was in my study. Some work needed attending.”
“But ... I just saw you out there.” She edged back, away from him. “I heard footsteps outside, and you weren’t in bed, so I looked out and there you were, walking up and down the garden.”
The geminus. He hoped she did not mistake the creature for a would-be burglar, and want to summon the constabulary. “The gardener, perhaps.”
“No. The moon came out, and I saw your face. It was you. I know my own husband. But you weren’t wearing your nightclothes, you were fully dressed.”
Leo was out of bed in an instant. He threw back the curtains and peered into the garden. No one was there. Not the geminus, and not the gardener Leo had invented. He glanced back at Anne, moonlight turning her to silver and shadow, caution in her gaze.
She had seen the geminus, and thought it was him. It could not be possible.
Memory like a knife pierced him. Months earlier, Whit had deserted the Hellraisers. They had fought on Saint George’s Fields, guided there to intercept Whit by his geminus. Whit had pointed at that geminus, told his friends to look at the thing as if expecting a revelation. When none came, when they had seen naught but a faceless creature, Whit had despaired, and turned his back on them. The Gypsy girl with him had seen something, though.
The same as Anne had seen. Whit’s geminus looked like Whit. And the geminus who answered Leo’s summons was his double.
And there had been Robbins, who had insisted on seeing Leo at a coffee house when Leo had been, in fact, home.
Hot pain shot through his left calf. As though he were being branded. He staggered into the small closet and fumbled for a candle. It flared to life with a hiss. Hand faintly shaking, he held the light up to see his calf.
Just above the ankle: an image of a flame.
“Leo.” Anne’s voice was very close, right outside the door to the closet. “Tell me what is going o
n. If something is wrong, I need to know.”
Using his fingers, Leo snuffed the candle’s flame. He did not bother wetting his fingertips, simply crushed out the fire with his bare skin. But if there was pain, he did not feel it. He felt only the thick, choking smoke of approaching doom.
“Nothing.” He left the small chamber and found Anne waiting for him, ghostly in her night rail, and beautiful. His arms wrapped around her, pulling her close, and he rasped, “Nothing is wrong.”
Anne threaded her way through the cramped alleys, dodging men in sober woolen coats and tricorns, their faces serious as though the fate of nations weighed on the next few hours. Which it did, in a fashion. For her many discussions with Leo had revealed to her that commerce comprised the blood of statehood. Money flowed through England’s veins. Should it cease to flow, death would follow, and decay.
Yet the men she passed were not too deeply involved with business that they did not see her. She attracted many curious stares, and one gentleman in a full-bottomed wig stopped outright in his tracks to gawk at her.
Pulling her cloak closer, Anne gave the gentleman a polite, cool nod, but kept walking. A footman trailed close behind her.
“At which of these coffee houses will I find my husband?”
The footman shrugged. “He always leaves the carriage and walks in. I never even been here before.”
Meaning Anne had no guide for this new, masculine world of Exchange Alley. A cartographic challenge, then. The native populace always knew where they were, but it was left to the cartographer to learn the landscape.
The scent of coffee and the sounds of men’s voices thickened the air. Everyone walked with great purpose, else they huddled close in grave conversation. Signs adorned each storefront. LLOYD’S. NEW UNION. NEW JONATHAN’S. JERUSALEM. Inside, a continual supply of coffee and newspapers was provided. A far distant country from the gossip and idleness of genteel women. A palpable energy buzzed, making her heart beat faster.
Or perhaps it was not the energy of the place, but Anne’s errand.
She ducked her head into one coffee house, and scanned the crowd within. Startled eyes turned to her. So many men, but none were Leo. Moving down the street, she peered into another, yet the results were the same. The process repeated itself, again and again.
“Are you sure he is here?” she asked the footman.
“Coachman told me he dropped Mr. Bailey here this morning.”
There was no help for it but to ask. She stopped a man hurrying by. “Excuse me, sir.”
The man took in the details of her clothing, her fine cloak, her soft hands. He blinked in surprise. “Madam?”
“I seek Leopold Bailey.”
He frowned. “The Demon? You’d best keep away from him, madam, for he’s been on a tear these past days. Either makes a man laugh with joy or weep with despair, as the humor takes him. A demon, indeed.”
“That demon is my husband.”
“Beg pardon, madam.” The man gave her a shamefaced bow. “At this time of day, you’ll find him at the Albatross. Which is just around the corner. Third shop on the left.”
Anne murmured her thanks and walked on. Each step made her pulse drum harder.
A sign painted with a large seabird told her she had found the place she sought. She gazed through the dust-streaked windows. Her heart leapt up to lodge in her throat. There he was, sitting at a table with three other men. The men listened intently to whatever it was Leo said, nodding and scribbling in small notebooks.
Gathering her courage, Anne moved to the door. “Wait out here,” she told the footman. Then she walked inside.
Smoke from countless pipes striped the walls, and the floorboards tilted unevenly. Tables were jammed close together, men huddled around them, and she heard words such as interest, profit margin, and dividends. She knew what those words meant now. Yet this still was a strange and alien place.
Anne kept her gaze fixed on her husband’s tawny head, and his wide shoulders. His back was to the door, so he did not see her approach. The men seated with him did, and one by one, they fell silent and stared as she neared.
Leo turned, frowning. His expression shifted to one of pleasure. Followed by fierce concern. He rose in a single, sinuous motion and stepped close.
“Something has happened,” he said. “Are you ill? Hurt?”
She shook her head, though she did feel both ill and injured. “We must speak.”
“Not here.” He took her hand and led her from the coffee house, without saying a word of farewell to the men with whom he had been conversing. “There’s a tea shop not far.” His stride long, he strode down the alley, Anne hurrying to keep up.
They left the close alleys and coffee houses, and walked on until he guided her into a shop with a clean bow window. Here, the air smelled of congou and butter, and framed prints of pastoral bridges adorned the walls. Though the hour was still early for ladies of fashion, there were yet a few women gathered at the tables, their calico gowns of good but not exceptional quality, their hair and hats artfully arranged by an unseen maid. The wives of the merchants who worked a few streets away.
She and Leo took the table in the corner. Dishes of tea appeared before them, served by a rosy-cheeked girl. Anne watched the leaves swirl within her cup, caught in miniature vortices.
“I’m half sick with worry,” Leo said. “And you’re pale as frost. Tell me what has upset you.”
To give herself a moment to compose herself, she took a sip of tea. “The mine,” she said at last.
Leo’s expression tightened. He leaned back. “Your father’s investment is safe.”
“I don’t give a damn about the investment.”
Several feminine gasps sounded in the quiet of the tea shop.
Lowering her voice, Anne said, “There was a collapse at the iron mine in Gloucestershire.”
“Word circulated this morning.” His gaze was shuttered. “Three men died. How did you learn of it?”
She would not look away from his storm gray eyes. “I had one of the footmen making inquiries, keeping me abreast of any developments.”
“Then you and I know the same things.”
“You know far more than I do.” She leaned over the table. “Such as: the cave-in at the mine.”
Cold sickness spread through her when he did not deny this. He looked away, his jaw tight.
“How? How could you know? Unless ...” She swallowed. “It was planned. Deliberate sabotage.”
His gaze snapped back to hers, angry. “Not deliberate. Simply ... an act of God.” A bitter laugh escaped him.
“Men were killed. Somehow you knew. And did not try to stop it.”
“I tried. But couldn’t.” Self-recrimination roughened his voice.
“How, Leo? How did you know?”
“Doesn’t matter.”
She stared at him. “I cannot believe you would say that. To me, out of everyone.”
The agony in his eyes carved her apart. “It has to be this way.”
“You’ve shown me that we can shape the world as we see fit, make it bend to our will. Whatever secrets you keep, you do so for your own benefit.” Eyes hot, she pushed back from the table and headed for the door, ignoring the stares of the tea shop patrons.
Leo’s hand formed an iron band around her upper arm as he stood next to her. “Stay here,” he bit out to the footman.
Anne had no idea where they walked, until they emerged on the embankment. A dank, thick scent rose up from the dark Thames, and close by came the din of London Bridge. Vessels plied the water, tall-masted ships at anchor, and small rowboats ferrying people through the dangerous currents beneath the bridge.
She felt a choking sensation in her throat, as she and Leo faced each other. The treacherous river was to his back.
What Lord Whitney had said, it could not be true. It could not, for if he did speak the truth, it meant that the Devil was real, that there was actual magic in the world, and wickedness embodied. It meant t
hat not only was there genuine evil, but her husband had willingly bargained with it.
Her heart and mind reared back.
“I swear to you, Anne,” he said now. “Nothing between us is any different.”
“You’ve no idea how much I want to believe that.”
He reached out and ran the back of his fingers over her cheek. His gaze was bleak. “We can make it so.”
His fingers drifted up from her cheek to wind through her hair. Oh, she loved his hands, broad and rough. She loved the strength of him, and how, when he touched her, his eyes flashed silver. Seeing her, seeing into her. A simple touch, yet with it, she felt the chaos of the city retreat, the perilous river recede.
A curl tumbled down as he tugged a ribbon free. He stroked the coil of hair, longing in his eyes, but then his gaze turned distracted as he wound the ribbon around his finger.
He seemed to visibly withdraw. His body remained precisely as it was, but his mind went elsewhere.
She recognized the look. He had appeared much the same when her father had brought him a coin. Right before Leo told her father he would not invest in the mine.
“What do you see?” she asked.
His focus returned, a sudden sharpening of awareness. He became wary, guarded—of her. As though she concealed a dagger in the folds of her skirt.
“I see my wife.” Yet he dropped his hand and the ribbon slid from his fingers. It gleamed in a satiny curve as it fell to the ground, where it lay in the mud.
“That is exactly what I am, Leo. Your wife.” She stared up at him. “The one person you should trust above all others.” Tell me, she willed him with her gaze. Whatever it is, I must know. Yet she feared his honesty.
He took several paces away from her. Then turned, and cautiously approached, as if uncertain whether or not she would bolt away. She stood her ground. They faced each other, scarce inches between them, testing each other, testing themselves. His hand came up to cup the back of her head. She tilted her face up. In slow, slow degrees, he brought his mouth to hers. With the sound of the surging river enveloping them, she felt herself slide beneath a tide of yearning, wishing life could be as simple as a kiss.