Her Majesty's Necromancer

by C. J. Archer

  "What time is it?" I smothered a yawn and uncurled my feet from beneath me.

  "Early hours of the morning. You should be in bed."

  "So should you. Did you see anything at the cemetery?"

  "The robbers didn't return, and it was too dark to look for clues."

  "You mean you can't see in the dark? And here I thought you were capable of anything." When he didn't respond, I mumbled an apology. It would seem he didn't like my teasing and I needed to remember that my position at Lichfield was a precarious one. The committee members had wanted me removed from the country altogether. Only Lincoln had wanted me to stay and only then because he thought the nation was safer where he could keep a close eye on me. He could change his mind and have me sent away at any moment. No one would gainsay him.

  "Can I get you anything?" I asked, rising. "You must be hungry."

  He dismissed my offer with a wave of his hand. I bobbed an awkward curtsy—something I didn't usually do but felt I ought to every now and again—and was about to walk away when his hand on my arm stopped me.

  "Charlie." He let me go and resumed his military stance. "I want to apologize for my joke earlier."

  "You made a joke? Was I present at the time?"

  His jaw hardened. "About locking you up again."

  "That was a joke?"

  "I can see now that it might not have been taken as such, considering the circumstances under which you were first brought here."

  "I see. Thank you. I appreciate you seeking me out to say so."

  Without another word, he strode past me and disappeared in the direction of the service area. I sighed and extinguished one of the candles. I grabbed the other to light my way upstairs. I thought about going to him in the kitchen, but since I wasn't sure what to say, perhaps it was best to avoid him. Every conversation we had of late just widened the gap between us. I wished I'd never let him see how much I desired him.

  ***

  I waited for the rain to stop before heading to the cemetery. It was Saturday, my morning off, and I wanted to visit my adopted mother's grave.

  "You haven't been there in two months," Lincoln said when I informed him. He liked to know when I was heading out, and I had no objection to telling him. I had no secrets, and he was simply worried, after what had happened with Frankenstein.

  "Then it's high time I go." I fastened the glove at my wrist and pulled on the other. "I do think of her as my mother still, and she did care for me."

  He rested his hand on the doorknob then after a brief hesitation, he opened it for me. "Of course."

  I half expected him to announce he was coming with me, but he didn't. He seemed to believe that my calling upon my mother was entirely innocent and had nothing to do with looking for clues as to the grave robbers' identities. I was able to fool him easily when I put my mind to it.

  The damp air curled the ends of my hair before I'd even reached the estate's gates. My hair had grown a little but it was still short at the back, skimming my collar. I wished it would grow faster.

  I quickened my pace and reached the cemetery's grand stone entrance a few minutes later. I headed for my mother's grave and spent a few moments thinking of her as I stared down at her headstone. She might not be my birth mother, but she'd loved me—and I her—when she was alive. She'd been the first spirit I'd raised, and her death had sparked my banishment by the man I'd thought was my father, Anselm Holloway. Yet I couldn't be angry with him—or her. I would never have ended up at Lichfield Towers if my necromancy hadn't been reviled and feared by Holloway. Lichfield was where I belonged. I knew that to my core.

  I muttered an apology to Mama about seeking out my real mother, even though I knew I had no reason to feel guilty. I'd made little headway, anyway. None of the orphanages I'd visited so far had records of an adoption by a couple named Holloway. But there were still more orphanages to visit, and I'd not given up hopes of finding something. All I had to go on was my mother's first name—Ellen—and that she was a necromancer like me.

  I removed one of my gloves, kissed my fingertips and touched the headstone. With a sigh, I turned away and went in search of the robbed grave. It was easy to find, as a pile of soil marked the empty hole. I half expected to see Lincoln there, having anticipated my real motive for going to the cemetery, but there was no one about.

  The ground near the grave was scuffed up and boot prints headed away from the site. There was nothing special about them. They were of average size and could have belonged to Tucker or one of the other groundsmen.

  There were several other graves nearby, all of them quite new. Lincoln was probably right about the spirits not knowing anything. They needed to be present to have seen anything, and according to the books and what I'd already observed, spirits parted from their bodies at the time of death, not at their burial. Besides, the thought of raising the dead chilled me to the bone. I only wanted to do it as a last resort and preferably when I wasn't alone.

  But I wasn't alone. A man watched me from beneath a tree, where he leaned on a rake. When he saw that I'd noticed him, he quickly continued to rake up leaves.

  "Excuse me," I said as I approached. "Do you work here?"

  He turned his back to me and continued raking a patch of earth that was already clear. Well, that was rude.

  "My name is Charlotte," I said. "They told me my uncle's grave was robbed last night. Do you know anything about it?"

  He nodded.

  Since he made no effort to look at me, I skirted his pile of leaves to face him. He was a young man with a port wine birthmark covering one cheek and a squint that made his eyes all but disappear. He removed his cap and scrunched it in his hand.

  "Is it your job to tidy this area?"

  He nodded into his chest.

  "But you weren't here last night when the grave was robbed."

  "I was, miss," he mumbled. Thank goodness the man could talk. I was beginning to think he'd have to write his answers in the dirt.

  "But Mr. Tucker didn't mention a witness."

  "I didn't see anything, miss."

  "That's a shame. I hoped you could tell me something about the men who took the body of my uncle."

  He glanced at me then down at the ground again. His hand tightened around the rake handle while the other continued to scrunch the cap. He seemed quite agitated.

  "Is there something you want to tell me?"

  He nodded.

  "Let me see if I understand you. You were here, you know something, but you didn't see anything." I gasped. "Did you hear them?"

  He nodded again. Finally, I was getting somewhere. Shyness was one thing, but I didn't have all day to coax the answers from him.

  "What did you hear?" I prompted.

  "One was called Jimmy."

  "Anything else?"

  He shrugged. "Jimmy said the body was heavy. I mean, your uncle was heavy. Pardon, miss." What little I could see of his face colored. He placed his cap on his head again, pulled the brim down, and resumed raking.

  I suspected he had more to say, but his sudden flare of embarrassment had caught his tongue. If I wanted answers, I had to make him feel comfortable. I fetched the empty wheelbarrow from beneath a tree and wheeled it over to him. He stopped raking and actually met my gaze with his own. I smiled gently.

  "Did you learn the other man's name?" I asked.

  He shook his head.

  "Did they say where they were going?"

  This time he gave a half-shake before he stopped and frowned. I encouraged him with a broader smile. "They mentioned The Red Lion," he said.

  "The one in Kentish Town?"

  He shrugged.

  "In what context did they speak about it?"

  "They had to be there by nine to meet someone for a game of dice."

  I tapped my finger on the wheelbarrow handle. The Red Lion tavern in Kentish Town wasn't too far. I knew the area well, having lived in a gang there a few years ago.

  "You going to tell the police?" he asked.
>
  "Yes," I lied.

  He looked relieved. "I thought about telling them…"

  "There's no need for you to do so now," I assured him. "I'll pass on everything you told me."

  He dipped his head and continued to rake.

  "Thank you," I said. "You've been very helpful." I didn't admonish him for not speaking up to Tucker, Lincoln or the police. Being confronted by authority figures must have been daunting for such a shy man.

  I thanked him again and headed out of the cemetery. The costermonger who often parked his cart near the entrance eyed me from beneath the brim of his wide hat. The man's scrutiny unnerved me. I'd been arrested because of him, and he'd told Anselm Holloway where I lived. Both incidents had almost ended badly for me. Those dangers had passed, so why was he taking such an interest in me now?

  I hurried home to tell Lincoln about the link to The Red Lion, but decided to wait when I saw Lady Harcourt's carriage at the house. She mustn't be staying long, or the driver would have taken the horses and coach around to the back. Still, I didn't particularly want to see her. While I liked her on the whole, she'd been distant toward me since I'd become a housemaid at Lichfield. Perhaps she felt I'd snubbed her after she offered a similar position to me in her own household—before she'd agreed that banishment from London would be better. Or perhaps she didn't want to associate with a mere maid. I shouldn't be surprised. She ought not to even notice me now. I was privileged to get a nod in greeting from her whenever she visited.

  I walked around to the servants' entrance and hung up my coat and hat on the hook inside, by the door. Cook and Gus looked up as I entered the kitchen. Gus greeted me by handing me a tray with teapot and cups.

  "Now that you're back, you can serve 'em," he grumbled. "Your pretty face will be more 'preciated than mine."

  "Is something wrong?" I asked. "Where's Seth?"

  "Out. He gets to run errands and I get stuck here serving tea. It ain't fair."

  "Tell that to Death," Cook said with a grunt of laughter.

  I carried the tray to the parlor and was just about to enter when I overheard Lady Harcourt mention my name. An eavesdropper hears nothing good, so Mama once told me, but I couldn't help myself. I hugged the wall and inched closer to the doorway.

  CHAPTER 2

  "She shouldn't be given so much leeway," Lady Harcourt said in her perfect clipped tones.

  There was no answer and I couldn't imagine how Lincoln reacted to her comment.

  "Charlie's a maid now," Lady Harcourt continued, "and maids do not rearrange furniture."

  "I don't care how the furniture is arranged," Lincoln intoned.

  "That is not the point. The point is that you are the master, and you set this room up in a certain way. She shouldn't come along and move things as if she were mistress here."

  "Lichfield has needed a woman's touch for some time. Charlie is the only woman here. If she wishes to move things, I don't mind."

  Lady Harcourt sighed. "You're much too easy on her."

  I almost choked on my tongue to stop myself bursting into laughter. If she'd seen the way he drilled me in our training sessions, she wouldn't claim he was easy on me. Indeed, the thought of Lincoln being easy about anything was absurd.

  I should have taken advantage of the pause in the conversation to announce tea, but I needed a few moments to compose myself, and by the time I had, she was speaking again.

  "You need a wife, Lincoln."

  My lips parted in a silent gasp. I leaned forward, straining to hear Lincoln's response. But if he gave one, it wasn't audible from where I stood.

  "You think you won't marry, but you will. Lichfield needs a mistress, for one thing."

  "There are too many secrets here. A wife would only get in the way."

  "Then you need the right wife." Was she offering herself? A woman who already knew ministry secrets? "Besides, you ought to have a companion." Her voice had become velvety thick, throaty.

  I held my breath and tried not to picture her draping herself over Lincoln and he holding her, but the image wouldn't go away.

  "I have all the company I need," he said.

  I breathed again and relaxed my fingers. I didn't realize I'd been clutching the tray so tightly.

  "Oh, Lincoln." A swish of silk skirts followed her deep sigh. "What about love?"

  "You know I'm not capable of it."

  I blinked slowly. This was obviously a conversation they'd had before, and I felt horrid for eavesdropping on their private moment, but I couldn't drag myself away now. I'd wanted to learn more about Lincoln and this seemed to be the only way to do it.

  "You are capable," she said. "You simply don't know what it is. Since you've had no love in your life, you don't see it when it's staring you in the face."

  "That's enough, Julia."

  "No, it's not. You owe it to me to listen." She paused again, perhaps waiting for his response. "You need to love and be loved in return, just as much as anyone."

  "Julia—"

  "Don't deny it. I can see it in the way you protect your family."

  His family! I knew Lincoln had parents, both of them still living, but he told me he'd never known them. He'd been raised by General Eastbrooke, to be the leader of the Ministry of Curiosities, since birth, so perhaps she was referring to the general's family. It was likely he thought of them as his own.

  "I have no family," Lincoln said in that cool, bland voice of his.

  "Oh, my darling—"

  "Don't."

  Silk rustled and swished. "But Lincoln—"

  "It's time you left. There's nothing more to discuss."

  I backed up a few steps then walked forward. I was several feet from the parlor door when Lincoln emerged. Our gazes locked and a spark of surprise burned in the depths of his eyes.

  "You're back," he said to me.

  "I brought tea." I held up the tray, feeling somewhat exposed and terribly guilty. Did he suspect I'd overheard their conversation? It was impossible to tell.

  "Lady Harcourt was just leaving."

  Lady Harcourt sailed past us as smoothly as a swan on a lake, her head high, her long white neck exposed above the low-cut gown. She didn't meet my gaze, or his, and if it weren't for the vein pulsing in her throat, I would have thought her unperturbed by his dismissal.

  "Take the tea back to the kitchen," Lincoln told me. "Have one of the men bring a cup to my rooms."

  One of the men, not me.

  Lincoln followed Lady Harcourt to the front door, but it opened and shut before he reached it. I slipped back to the kitchen as her carriage drove off.

  "Does Mr. Fitzroy have a family?" I asked as I set the tray down on the central table.

  Seth had returned and he looked up along with the others upon my entry. "None that we know of," he said. "He doesn't want tea?"

  "Lady H just left."

  He formed an O with his lips.

  "He wants you to take tea up to his rooms." I removed the extra cup and saucer. "He has parents, I know that much."

  "Does he?" Gus asked mildly. "Thought he was spawned by the devil."

  "Or the Reaper." Cook grinned as he held out a plate with a scone on it. "That be why he's called Death."

  Gus took the plate. "No it ain't. He's called Death because Seth and me saw him dressed in a dark hooded cloak one night, holding a bloody big knife."

  "And because he killed a man with the knife," Seth added. "The fellow's head had been almost severed from his body."

  I felt the color drain from my face. Seth took my elbow to steady me, but I waved him away. I knew Lincoln had killed people; there was no need for me to be shocked at hearing about another death he was responsible for.

  "He knew the fellow," Gus said. He set the plate down gently on the tray yet the clink sounded loud in the silence. "Fitzroy called him Mr. Gurry."

  "Who was he?" I whispered. Even Cook was listening intently now, the pot on the stove forgotten.

  Seth shrugged. "We don't know. We didn'
t dare ask him."

  "The fellow begged Fitzroy not to kill him," Gus said. "He pleaded for his life, but Fitzroy killed him anyway."

  "I'll never forget the look on his face when he ordered us to remove the body," Seth went on. He and Gus exchanged bleak glances.

  "Was he upset?" I asked, unable to imagine such an expression on Lincoln's face.

  "No. He was satisfied."

  Satisfied? After killing a man who begged for mercy? The notion left a sour taste in my mouth and set my mind reeling. Surely there had to be an explanation. Lincoln had a reason for everything he did. Didn't he?

  Seth picked up the tray but I touched his arm. "I'll take it," I said.

  "Are you sure?"

  I nodded. "I need to tell him about something I learned at the cemetery."

  "He'll probably be in a bad mood. He usually is after Lady H leaves.

  I smirked. "He's always in a bad mood of late." I took the tray and steeled myself for an awkward meeting with my master. I had some questions that I wanted answered, and now was as good a time as any to ask them.

  ***

  "I asked for one of the men to bring up tea." Lincoln blocked my entry to his rooms with his arms crossed over his chest. His shoulders and jaw were rigid. I was a fool to want to speak to him. I knew it, yet I couldn't help myself. I wanted to get a reaction from him. Anything was better than the way he'd been ignoring me of late.

  "They're busy." I inched closer, and he had to step aside or risk touching me. He chose to step aside.

  I set the tray down on one of the occasional tables near the deep armchair. There was no room to place it on his desk, between the papers, books and another tray laden with dirty dishes.

  "Why haven't Seth or Gus collected these yet?" I asked, picking up the breakfast tray.

  "They haven't been up."

  The sunlight spearing through the window picked out the thin layer of dust on the sill. "They haven't dusted in some time either. And I see your bed hasn't been made."

  He shut the door to his bedroom. "They've become lazier with their duties since you became maid. I'll have a word with them."

  "Or you could allow me in here to clean."

  "You already do enough."