Harbor for the Nightingale

by Kathleen Baldwin

  She holds the knife—not I.

  Scarcely moving my mouth, I ask, “What is wrong?”

  Even in the dim light, I can see how much she hates me. She practically vibrates with the desire to kill me. But I also see that she is afraid. Through clenched teeth, she says, “I need your help.”

  Surprise jumps out of my throat—a breathy choked laugh. “Me? My help?”

  Is she delirious? Has she been poisoned? Gone mad?

  This can’t be real.

  I blink, trying to wake up, thinking surely, I must be dreaming. Lady Daneska would never be so desperate that she would ask for my help.

  She rams her forearm into my chest.

  That felt real enough.

  “Do you think I like this?” she hisses. “Coming to you!” Some of her spittle lands on my cheek.

  I wipe it away. Let her cut my throat. I don’t care. “What do you want?”

  “What do I want?” She pulls back only slightly, but enough that I have room to breathe. “I want you dead.” Her chin juts out. Her French accent has slipped, crashing hard into her native diction. “All of you at this dratted school—dead. Out of my way. Yah, that is what I want.” She pulls back, composing herself. “A better question would be, what do I need?”

  There it is. Desperation whistling through her again. This is not the same Lady Daneska I knew before. Something in her feels broken. Maybe it always was, and I failed to notice. Without thinking, I employ a soothing gentle timbre. “What is it you need?”

  “None of your tricks.” She presses forward with the knife, but it is as if part of her melts. “None of your tricks,” she says again, this time without any heat.

  “What is wrong, Daneska?” The softness in my tone is not artifice, I genuinely want to know what is disturbing her so intensely.

  She takes a long breath and draws back. “Do not think I won’t use this on you.” She holds the knife between us. “I will. If you force my hand.”

  “You know me well enough to know I won’t fight you.” This is true, although since coming to London I have secretly been studying combat with Madame Cho. Even so, my skills are no match for Lady Daneska’s. “Force your hand? How? You have a knife. I cannot do anything except listen.”

  “No? You dare not even try?” She squints suspiciously and pushes her face closer to mine. “Too bad. I had hoped to cut you here and there. Just enough to teach you that I am your master.”

  Her bravado annoys me. She is afraid of something. “A master does not usually plead for help.”

  “Fool!” Hate returns to her eyes. “I do not plead. Does this look like I am pleading?” Fast as a snake strikes, she cuts a jagged line down my arm. Stunned, I watch as a lightning strike of dark red etches through the white sleeve of my nightdress.

  A second later, it burns.

  Burns as if she’d seared me with a red-hot poker instead of a dagger. A scream rises up from some bottomless well. My mouth opens—but Daneska clamps her hand over my lips, turning it into a muffled whimper.

  She snarls into my ear. “Hush, unless you want me to cut the other arm.”

  I close my eyes. Shutting her out. Shutting out the screaming pain. Quiet. I need quiet. I will sink into the peaceful dark.

  Away from her.

  Away from England.

  Away from this wretched nightmare.

  “No!” she jerks my chin, forcing me to open my eyes. “No. You cannot faint. You’re no good to me asleep. Stand up. Do you hear me? And listen.” She digs her fingernails into my jaw. “You will listen to me or, by all that’s holy, I’ll make you hurt like you never hurt before. Do you understand?”

  I fight my way to the flickering light on the surface and manage to nod, once.

  “Good.” Her grip relaxes slightly. “It’s true I want your help. But you will see, I do not plead, and I never beg. I have come to offer you a trade.”

  A trade?

  She is a madwoman. I remain silent. I do not want anything Daneska has to offer.

  As if she’s reading my mind, she says, “I know exactly what you want. I know what you crave more than anything else in the world.” She eases her hand away.

  I cannot tolerate her smugness. She knows nothing about me, so I say, “You, in chains?”

  The plush darkness of the bedroom with its Turkish rugs, thick bedding, and heavy draperies swallows up the sound of her tinkling laughter.

  “Bird brain.” She flicks my forehead. “You don’t really want that. I’ll wager that not once tonight did you think to yourself, ‘Oh I do so wish I could see Lady Daneska bound up in chains and thrown off the nearest bridge.’ Is that not so?”

  I dislike that she would win that wager. And, I dislike that she mimicked my voice as if I am high-pitched and squeaky. I never squeak. She stands there waiting, glancing from the bloody tip of her knife to me, as if she expects me to answer her absurd observation or she’ll stick me again.

  “Very well,” I use an intentionally low even-keeled tone. “I admit that I did not think it, not in those exact words. Although, I do rather like your idea involving a bridge.”

  She wipes the blade on my cheek. “Do not jest with me, my dear silly princess—”

  Princess.

  My eyes flare at her mockery. Blood drips from my fingers despite the fact that I am making a fist. She smiles and pokes my earlobe with the tip of her dagger. “Princess. That is what a Maharajah’s granddaughter should be called, is it not? La princess? Of course, it is. You are royalty, are you not? Oh, but no. Pardon me. I have forgotten. All of that is behind you now—your grandfather was overthrown by the English. In this country, you are la nullité. A little nothing. The foreigner. A mere curiosity. It must be hard to have fallen so far.”

  “You don’t know anything about me.”

  “No?” She pulls back as if I’ve wounded her. “I know this, you used to cry yourself to sleep when you first came to Stranje House.”

  “I did no such thing.” I refuse to look at her.

  “No? Ah, well, perhaps not every night. But I know you used to miss your grandmother, is that not so?”

  In those early days at Stranje House, I had not thought Lady Daneska noticed me at all, except when she needed someone besides Sera to torment. I stare into the shadows surrounding us, wishing ghosts would come flying out. At least then, Daneska might stop badgering me.

  She exhales with considerable irritation. “I know you miss her. You played such mournful songs on that annoying lap harp I wanted to bash your head with it.”

  “I’m surprised you didn’t. Why are you bringing this up?”

  “Because my little turtle dove, I know you want to go home to India.”

  Breath freezes in my lungs, and I stare at her unblinking.

  How can she know the thoughts that spun through my mind earlier tonight?

  “Oh, don’t look so surprised. Anyone could’ve guessed that much.”

  I swallow. “Is it so obvious?”

  “Don’t be a widgeon. It’s not as if it’s written across your face in ink.” She thumps my forehead with the butt of her dagger. “C’est la vie.” Her voice raises pitch, turning back into her haughty fake-French self. “In my opinion, anyone from anywhere else would want to leave this pathetic little island and return home.”

  “If England is so pathetic, why does Napoleon want it? Why do you want it?”

  She waggles her knife at me. “You know why. Power. Britain has too much of it. And they need to share.” That edge of desperation thrums through her again. “Enough questions. Do you want to go home or not?”

  “Are you offering me passage to India?” I know now Daneska won’t kill me, she needs something from me. I nudge her back so that I can clasp my bleeding arm. “In exchange for what?”

  “Ahh, oui.” She plasters on her French accent. “Now we are speaking the same language, no?” She laughs. Georgie once told me she thought Daneska’s laughter sounded like breaking glass. It does, but it also reminds
me of the cackle of the myna birds outside Calcutta, empty of any real emotion. “Passage home, yes. Bien sûr, but we are offering you much more than that.”

  “We?” I’m afraid of her answer. The blood in my hand is warm and sticky, the smell sickens me. Suddenly, I have trouble feeling the floor beneath me and start to slide down the wall.

  She holds me up, forcing me in place with her body. “Emperor Napoleon and his friends.”

  His friends. Our enemies.

  “You mean the Iron Crown,” I mumble. She presses close and her breath, heavy with the scent of wine, fills my nostrils. I concentrate on that sour smell, rather than the tarnished-penny tang of my own blood. “What do they want?”

  “First, let us discuss what you want. You want to go home, but do you want to go home to an India ruled by Britain? To your homeland held in servitude by that pompous plum pudding of a Prince? Or, would you rather return to a free India, to your own province ruled by your family as it was for centuries? As it would still be if Britain hadn’t decided the land of spice belonged to them.”

  She waits, squinting at me in the dark. I’m terrified the truth shows on my face. I do want all those things. Heaven help me, I do.

  She smiles. “That is what Napoleon does, you know. He restores local rule. All he requires is that the rightful rulers swear fealty to him. If they do, the Emperor will leave them alone to rule themselves. Do you not remember he allied with your people against the British at Mysore?”

  Mysore. Now she has overstepped.

  I frown. “You know perfectly well, Napoleon wanted to rule India as much as the English. And anyway, Tippu was not ‘my’ people. He was a greedy warlord, no better than the French and English—always attacking the surrounding dynasties.”

  She shook her head. “Napoleon is not greedy. That is not how he thinks. The Emperor wants peace and prosperity for all people. For his people. He wants freedom from tyrannical rule.”

  I nearly laugh aloud. The man crowned himself Emperor. In England, they call Napoleon the little tyrant. He is hardly the noble benefactor she’s painting him to be.

  “I’m telling you the truth.” Lady Daneska argues against my unspoken skepticism. “I can prove it. In my country, he set up duchies and gave the dukedoms to local leaders who were faithful to the cause, men such as my father. Everything was grand and wonderful until the British came and stuck their muskets in where they didn’t belong. They killed my father and took his dukedom away.”

  Gloom ripples across her features, quickly displaced by drumming anger. Then that underlying moan of desperation returns. I want to ask her again what she is afraid of, but I know she won’t answer.

  Instead, impatient and weary, I ask flatly, “What is it you want from me, Daneska?”

  She looks away, at the amber darkness pooling around us. “Napoleon feels we made a . . . a mistake trying to bomb the shipyards.”

  A mistake. Ha! It was a colossal blunder. It enraged the entire Admiralty. They are more determined than ever to capture her beloved Napoleon. Not only that, but Alexander Sinclair’s new warships will be finished soon and ready to speed troops across the English Channel.

  “The bomb was not Napoleon’s idea, was it?” If not, it does not take a mastermind to conclude the Emperor blames Daneska and Ghost for it going wrong.

  She drags in a deep breath, afraid of saying too much.

  I blurt out my theory. “Ghost concocted the plan, didn’t he?”

  Her head tilts enough that I can tell the answer is yes.

  “And Ghost blames you for it failing?”

  Her eyes flash wide, and that deathly music thrums from her so loud I nearly cringe. Daneska clenches her teeth, then spits her venom. “It was Jane’s fault. If she hadn’t meddled . . .”

  Her words drop—a twisted lie—writhing and squealing at our feet.

  Ghost might blame Lady Jane, but ultimately, he would hold Daneska responsible. If it weren’t for her, Lady Jane would never have escaped from his ship. The Grand Master of the Iron Crown would not take kindly to his plans being crossed. And being the vengeful creature he is, Ghost would exact punishment.

  “Did he hurt you?” I ask softly, lacing each syllable with gentle healing salve.

  She quietly pleads, “No tricks, Maya. Please.” But she does not fight it. Or threaten me. Her shoulders droop. The wound inside her spills open, convulsing like a dying bird.

  “No tricks. I promise.” The thing I do with my voice is not a trick. It can be a mercy. A kindness. It is a soothing balm, not a trick. “You could run away from him.”

  “Run from Ghost? From the man who knows how to disappear—how to make the world think he is dead? The same man who knows every hiding place in Europe? Each and every stratagem for escape? Are you mad? He’d hunt me down and—”

  “We could help you.”

  “You?” Humor flits across her face, then vanishes. “He blames all of you. You have no idea what he’s like, what he might do . . .”

  “I saw how badly he cut up Lady Jane.”

  “Yes, and he intends to kill her for her part at the naval yards. He’ll do it, too, if we don’t turn things around for him. He’ll slaughter everyone at Stranje House—all of you! And your deaths won’t be easy. Trust me. Lucien knows how to make a person pay for their sins against him.”

  She shudders, and I can tell it is not an act. Her strength melts, and she looks up at me with eyes bulging with terror. “You’ve no idea what he’s capable of.” She licks moisture onto her lips and blinks her fear away. “If Napoleon does not take England, Lucien means to burn it to the ground, the whole bloody island. But first, he plans to set a plague loose in London and—”

  “Plague? What? No!” Memories hammer through my mind. Memories from my childhood that I’d blotted out long ago. The stench of death. Flies buzzing after the carts that clattered through the city to collect the dead.

  “He can’t do that.” I blindly argue against the horror. “How? He wouldn’t. It’s unthinkable. I’m sure he was angry when he threatened those things. Ranting. People say things when they’re in a rage—”

  “Angry?” Daneska stares at me as if I’m the one who has run mad. “You think he swore to do all those things in the midst of a rage?” She shakes her head. “You don’t know him. You don’t know him at all. Lucien doesn’t rant. He plans.” She waits for me to absorb her words. “He makes things happen.”

  I gulp down the fear she is spreading to me.

  She lowers her knife and leans closer. “He and his men will do it. I’ve seen his papers. He has a plan, and he will carry it out. Genghis Kahn catapulted diseased corpses over the walls of cities he wanted to conquer. Ghost will do no less. He will destroy England if you don’t help me.” She catches herself. “I mean, if you don’t help Napoleon.”

  Her words leave me stunned. So numb, I can’t even feel the cut on my arm. “Wh-what would you have me do?”

  A Chorus of Inharmonious Schemes

  “I told Napoleon about your gift. I explained that you can use your voice to manipulate people—”

  “I don’t manipulate people.”

  “Very well. The way you are able to use it to calm people and allay their concerns. I lied to him. I told him that yours is an ancient art from India. The occult fascinates him. So naturally, he was intrigued.” She stops briefly as if vexed that he should admire one of my skills. “He relies too heavily on numerorum mysteria, magical numbers and dream interpreters—all that nonsense.” She waves her hand as if she thinks all that nonsense stinks like rotten fish.

  I clamp my teeth together, holding back my annoyance. Never mind that using sound to influence the mind truly is an ancient art. “And?”

  “And we want you to work for Prince George.”

  “That makes no sense.”

  “Oh, but it does, because you will secretly be working for us. I will go to Prince George and convince him to use your talents. It won’t be difficult. He raves about your singing.” Da
neska purses her lips for a moment as if it annoys her that Prince George should like my voice.

  “That hardly means he would—”

  “Hush.” She pinches up at me. “One need only look at his palace in Brighton to know he is enamored with Asia, and India, in particular. I will act as if it is an idea he has already conceived. I’ll pretend to be outraged that he would use your voice to bend Napoleon’s thinking to his will.” Daneska pantomimes a damsel-in-distress expression.

  I roll my eyes up to the ceiling.

  “Don’t mock me.” She flicks my cheek. “I shall plead with him to not allow you in the room when he negotiates with Napoleon, insisting that it would give him an unfair advantage to use you as an unofficial mediator. Naturally, that is exactly what he will want to do.” She leans in, a sneering hyena barring her teeth. “But you will actually be there to persuade our Royal Duckling to comply with Napoleon’s terms.”

  I shake my head. “Prince George will never agree to it. Never! A girl acting as a mediator? Unofficial or not, it is unheard of. The whole thing is beyond the pale.”

  “Is it? Who better to act as a mediator than an innocent who has ties to neither country? An innocent who helped save His Highness’s enormous royal ass from being blown to pieces only a few weeks ago.”

  Put like that . . .

  Still.

  Me?

  “The whole idea is mad.” I stamp my foot and press against the wall, lifting my chin to avoid her scornful leer. “You’ll never get him to agree.”

  “Oh, won’t I?” She flashes me a wicked grin. “You have your methods of persuasion. I have mine.”

  That, I do not doubt. Lady Daneska is, by English standards, extraordinarily beautiful, and when she applies herself, she can be charming. Fatally so.

  While contemplating her outlandish plan and trying to keep all the blood in my arm from draining onto the floor, it occurs to me that Daneska’s scheme would fall in quite neatly with the Patronesses’ desire to control the situation. Except for the fact that it will trap me squarely in the middle of their tug-of-war. If I bend Prince George to Napoleon’s will, Miss Stranje and the others will hang me as a traitor to England. On the other hand, if I persuade Napoleon to leave England unbreached, Daneska and Ghost won’t help me return to India. No, indeed. I’m quite certain they will murder me.