by Emily Larkin
He looked back.
A brown dog stood at the top of the stairs. It uttered another yip and trotted out of sight.
Marcus ran back up the stairs.
The dog was at the other end of the corridor. It scratched a door. This one, it seemed to say.
Marcus tightened his grip on the dueling pistol. He flung open the door. A flight of steep, uncarpeted stairs led downwards.
He took the stairs three at a time, thrust open the door at the bottom so hard it smacked the wall with a loud crack of sound, and emerged into the inn’s backyard. The dog bounded past him, nose to the ground.
Marcus followed at a run—through the yard, along an alley, out into High Holborn Street. He saw pedestrians and street hawkers and carriages, but no Smiths.
The dog led him half a dozen yards along the street. It sniffed, cast around in a circle, then sat and looked up at him and whined.
Marcus halted. He knew the dog was Albin, and he knew what Albin was trying to tell him. The trail ended here. The Smiths had entered a carriage, most likely a hackney.
He hissed between his teeth. God damn it.
Marcus became aware of the sight he presented, wild-eyed and unkempt, clutching a pistol. He retreated, back along the alley, through the yard. Now that he wasn’t running, he saw scarlet splashes on the ground. Jeremiah Smith’s blood.
He climbed the back staircase, let the dog into the private parlor, and latched the door again. The overturned table lay in the middle of the room, one leg snapped off. His armchair was on its back by the fireplace. Banknotes littered the rug.
Alongside the table was a pile of shredded clothes and an upturned hat.
“Albin.”
The dog cringed at his tone and tucked its tail between its legs. It backed two steps away from him. Between the space of one heartbeat and the next, it became Albin.
Marcus blinked, and shook his head, and gripped the pistol more tightly.
Albin swallowed nervously, his Adam’s apple bobbing in his throat. He picked up the torn remains of his coat and held it awkwardly in front of himself, hiding his nudity. “Sir.”
“What the devil is going on?”
“I . . . uh . . .” Albin swallowed again, his expression slightly desperate, as if he hunted for a believable excuse. Marcus could have told him there was none. Nothing—nothing—could explain what he’d just witnessed.
The silence lengthened. Albin’s expression became more desperate. He shifted his weight. Finally he blurted: “They were going to kill you, sir! I had to do something!”
“A bear?” Anger vibrated in his voice. “How?”
Albin’s toes curled under, as if he wanted to dig himself a hole to hide in. “It’s difficult to explain, sir. It’s . . . it’s to do with my mother.”
“She could turn into animals too?” Marcus said, with heavy sarcasm.
Albin flushed. “No, sir. She, um . . . she could fly.”
The absurdity of the answer made him even more furious. Marcus shoved the pistol into his pocket. Shards of wood crunched beneath his boots as he strode across to the armchair. He snatched up the banknotes.
“Sir,” Albin said timidly. “You’re bleeding.”
Marcus looked down at himself. Blood soaked the front of his shirt and waistcoat. No wonder he’d drawn so many stares on the street.
“Here.” Albin offered his own torn neckcloth, a tentative gesture, as if he expected to be rebuffed. “There’s a cut on your throat.”
Marcus’s anger evaporated, leaving him feeling ashamed of himself. “Thank you.” He shoved the banknotes in his pocket and accepted the strip of muslin.
“Sir . . . you’re cut here, too.” Albin indicated his own chest.
“I am?”
The lad was correct. His shirt, waistcoat, and the left lapel of his coat had been sliced by Jeremiah Smith’s knife. Marcus pulled the edges of fabric apart. A shallow cut ran from his collarbone to his ribs, passing over his heart.
“He almost killed you, sir.”
“Yes.” Marcus turned and surveyed the wreckage of the room. It made no sense. No sense at all. Why had the Smiths chosen to murder him rather than be bribed?
A knock sounded on the door. “Sir? Mr. Black?”
“Who is it?” Marcus asked loudly.
“Mr. Nutley, owner of this tavern.”
Marcus glanced at Albin. The lad was as naked as the day he was born. “What do you want?” he called.
“I’ve had reports of a disturbance, sir. I must request admittance.”
Marcus looked at Albin again. “Fuck.”
Albin blinked, clearly not understanding the word. “Sir?”
“Half of London thinks I drove Lavinia to suicide. I’ll be damned if I’ll be known for a back door usher too!”
Albin’s expression became bewildered. “A what?”
“He’ll take you for my lover.” And once arrested, he wouldn’t be Mr. Black for long. His identity would be exposed. Lord Cosgrove, sodomite.
London would fall upon it with glee.
Albin’s face cleared. “Oh. I’ll leave.” He hurried to the window and flung it open. One instant, he was standing naked, the next a sparrow hopped up on the windowsill and flew out.
Every hair on Marcus’s body stood on end. He took an involuntary step backwards.
Fresh knocking came from the door. “Mr. Black?”
“One moment!” Marcus snatched up Albin’s ruined clothes—coat and shirt, breeches, waistcoat, boots—crossed to the window in long strides and shoved them out. He heard the sound of a key in the lock. He slammed the window shut and swung round.
The door opened. A man stood framed in the doorway, an apron tied around his ample stomach. Behind him were two waiters.
Mr. Nutley stepped into the parlor. He surveyed the damage: the broken table, the upturned chairs, the puddles of spilled ale. His face reddened, swelling with rage. “Sir! This is a respectable establishment—”
“I apologize.” Marcus pulled a banknote from his pocket. Five pounds. He crossed to the man. “This should cover the damage.”
The landlord’s eyes widened. His outrage abruptly vanished. He plucked the note from Marcus’s fingers. “Yes. It will suffice.”
Marcus glanced around for his hat. There, on the floor. He picked it up, brushed it off, put it on. Over by the broken table, was a second hat: Albin’s. He picked that up, too. It was the only item of clothing that Albin’s transformation hadn’t destroyed.
A metallic gleam on the floor caught his eye. A silver pocket watch. Marcus picked it up and flipped open the lid. Charles Appleby, Esq. He frowned, trying to place the name.
Albin’s former employer.
“Er . . . do you require the services of a doctor, Mr. Black?”
“No.” Marcus slid the watch into his pocket. What he needed was to talk with Albin.
Chapter Twenty-Nine
He took a hackney to Chandlers Street; he couldn’t think where else Albin might have gone. Mrs. Stitchbury uttered a muffled shriek when she saw him. “Lord Cosgrove! You’re bleeding dreadfully!”
“Mr. Albin said I might wait for him in his room.” He displayed Albin’s hat, as if that item of clothing could grant him admittance.
“Certainly, sir,” Mrs. Stitchbury said, with an agitated curtsy. She led him upstairs and unlocked Albin’s door. “But your poor throat! So much blood! I can bathe it for—”
“No, thank you, Mrs. Stitchbury.” Marcus stepped into Albin’s room and firmly closed the door.
He waited until he heard Mrs. Stitchbury depart, then crossed to the window and opened it. A sparrow flew in, landing on the rug beside the fireplace.
Marcus latched the window again. When he turned round, Albin stood naked on the rug.
Marcus’s skin tightened in a shiver. What Albin did, changing the shape of his body, was impossible. And yet I see it with my own eyes.
“Are you all right, sir? Your throat—”
“Don’
t.” His voice was flat, hard. “I’ve just endured your landlady’s fussing and I’m not in the mood for any more.” He crossed to the table and laid Albin’s hat on it. “I want an explanation. No lies. And for heaven’s sake, get dressed!”
* * *
“On my twenty-fifth birthday, a woman came to see me.” Albin pulled on his drawers. “She wasn’t human, sir. She said she was a Faerie.” He blushed, as if aware how foolish it sounded, and hurried on. “She said an ancestor of mine had done her a favor, many centuries ago, and that I was due a gift. A wish.” Breeches and stockings followed the drawers. “She said I could choose what I wanted. Invisibility or levitation or . . .” He paused part-way through pulling on the second stocking, his brow creasing in an effort of memory. “Longevity and translocation and . . . and foresight and . . . speech with animals.”
Marcus shook his head, instinctively rejecting this as impossible. Albin didn’t notice. He continued: “I chose metamorphosis, sir.”
“Metamorphosis.” The word felt strange on his tongue, as if the vowels didn’t quite fit together. “That’s what you did this afternoon?”
Albin nodded. He shrugged into a clean shirt and began doing up the buttons. “I thought it might be useful.”
Marcus grunted. He touched the cut on his throat. Dried blood coated his skin, sticky and tight and uncomfortable.
“I didn’t tell you, sir, because . . . because I haven’t told anyone! How can I? It’s too fantastical. Too . . . too unbelievable! I wouldn’t have believed it myself if it hadn’t happened to me.” Albin’s voice, his expression, were an appeal for understanding.
Marcus gazed at him stonily. I am not a chawbacon to be won over by excuses.
Albin’s face fell. He picked up a waistcoat.
“Explain this to me.” Marcus held out the pocket watch he’d found.
“What—? Oh!” Albin dropped the waistcoat. “You found it. Thank you, sir!”
“Charles Appleby was your former employer. Why is his watch in your possession?”
“He left it to me. If I’d lost it—” Albin took the pocket watch and held it in both hands, as if it were precious. “I can’t thank you enough, sir.”
“You were close to Mr. Appleby?”
“He was like a father to me.” Albin picked up the waistcoat he’d dropped and carefully placed the watch in the pocket. “Uh . . . did you find a key, too, sir?”
Marcus shook his head.
Albin’s expression became dismayed. “Mrs. Stitchbury won’t be pleased with me.”
Marcus couldn’t care less. He was still furious. You lied to me. Except that Albin hadn’t precisely lied; he’d merely concealed a fact about himself.
Lie or not, it felt like a breach of trust.
“Have you done it before today? Metamorphosed in my presence?”
Albin’s gaze slid away from his.
Marcus’s fury flared into rage. “You have.”
Albin squeezed his eyes shut and nodded. “Yes, sir. At Hazelbrook. When I followed the Smiths.” His eyes opened, beseeching. “I couldn’t have run so far otherwise, sir.”
“You were the dog I met in the woods.”
“Yes, sir.”
Marcus strode to the window, trying to control his rage. He clenched his fists on the sill and stared down at Chandlers Street. “The night you went into Whitechapel—you did that as a dog, didn’t you?”
“Yes, sir.”
“And I was worried for your safety!” He swung back to Albin. “More fool me!”
“I’m sorry, sir.” Albin’s face was pale, miserable. “I was only trying to help.”
“You deceived me.”
“Yes, sir.” Albin looked ready to cry. He blinked and swallowed and looked at the floor.
“Tell me, Albin . . . how can I trust you?”
Albin’s head jerked up. “But, sir, I did it for you!”
Some of Marcus’s rage drained away. He turned back to the window and touched his throat, felt the dried blood. I’d be dead, if not for Albin.
“Sir . . . I heard them say something—the Smiths—just before they attacked you.”
“What?”
“One of them said—I don’t know which one—he said . . . he asked whether they should do it now, or wait. I think it means they were hired to kill you.”
Marcus lowered his hand and turned to look at Albin. “Kill me?” Phillip might wish him dead, Monkwood might, Brashdon and Hyde might, but they’d hardly—
“Sir, you need to be extremely careful.”
He stared at Albin, not really seeing him. The Smiths’ attack was now comprehensible; not greed, not panic, but a question of business.
Someone wants me dead.
His mind rejected that statement, pushed it away, sought for something else to focus on. His attention latched on Albin’s stockinged feet. He remembered the bundle of clothes he’d tossed from the inn window. “Do you have another pair of boots?”
Albin shook his head.
“Another tailcoat?”
Albin shook his head again.
Marcus took a banknote from his pocket and held it out. “Buy yourself new top boots and a tailcoat. And get yourself a greatcoat, while you’re at it.”
“I can’t take your money, sir.”
Marcus looked down at the banknote. Specks of his blood were dark on it. “You saved my life today.” However angry he was with Albin, that fact was unmistakable.
Someone wants me dead.
His mind gave another automatic flinch, another rejection of the truth. He pushed away from the windowsill, laid the banknote on the table, and strode to the door.
“Sir? Am I still your secretary?”
Marcus halted. He turned and looked back at Albin, considering this question.
The lad’s face was so pale it was almost bloodless. There was anxiety in his eyes, and mute entreaty.
Do I want you as my secretary?
He was angry with Albin, furious with him—and yet . . . despite the magic, he trusted the lad. Not as completely as he had before, but . . . enough.
“Yes,” Marcus said. “You’re still my secretary.”
* * *
Marcus presented himself for his meeting with Miss Brown at precisely seven o’clock. “Good evening,” he said, aware of the weight of the dueling pistol in his pocket.
He examined the room while Miss Brown latched the door, satisfying himself that no one was concealed behind the folded screen, no one hiding beneath the bed.
They sat at the table with a candle burning between them. Marcus removed his hat and gloves. He ignored the invitation of the bed—clean sheets, soft mattress, plump pillows. It wasn’t sex he wanted from Miss Brown tonight; it was answers.
“How did your meeting with the Smiths go, sir?”
Marcus resisted the urge to check that the bandage round his throat was hidden by his neckcloth. “Not as well as I had hoped.”
“What happened?”
“A few questions first, Miss Brown, if you don’t mind.”
She moistened her lips. “Is . . . is something wrong, Lord Cosgrove?”
Marcus ignored the question. “Did you see the Smiths today, before my meeting with them?”
She shook her head. “No.”
His eyes narrowed as he surveyed her. “How did you make contact with them? How did you arrange the meeting?”
“I left a message for them at a tavern, offering work.”
“Did you mention my name at all?”
She shook her head again. “I called you Mr. Black. Sir . . . what’s wrong?”
“What is your connection with the Smiths?”
“I have no connection with the Smiths. They wouldn’t know me if they saw me.”
Marcus frowned at her in baffled fury. “Then how do you know their names? How do you know how to contact them?”
“It was merely a . . . a lucky chance that I came by the information.”
“What lucky chance?”
/> “I can’t tell you,” Miss Brown said, twisting her hands together. “I just . . . I just wanted to help you, sir! I’ve seen what they’ve done—the windows and . . . and the nightsoil. You don’t deserve it, sir. You don’t deserve any of it!”
“A philanthropist,” he said, his voice flat with sarcasm.
She flushed at his tone.
Marcus scrutinized her. Was she telling the truth? Was she as genuine as she appeared to be? “The Smiths tried to kill me this afternoon, Miss Brown.”
Miss Brown was silent for a long moment, her hands clutched together. “I don’t understand,” she said finally. “Why would they do that?”
“You tell me.”
“Me?”
“You know more than I do.”
Miss Brown shook her head.
“Where do they live?”
“I don’t know. But I can try to find out.”
“How?”
She bit her lip, then shook her head again. “I can’t—”
“Can’t tell me.” Frustration flared inside him. If he took Miss Brown by the shoulders and shook her—
Marcus squeezed his eyes shut and pinched the bridge of his nose with hard fingers. Control yourself, man. How could he even think about offering violence to a woman?
“The Pig and Whistle in Aldgate. That’s where I left a message for them.”
Marcus lowered his hand, looked at her.
“I can’t tell you how I know they drink there.” Tears shone in her eyes. “If I could, I would tell you, sir. I give you my word of honor that I only wish to help you.”
It was impossible to doubt Miss Brown’s sincerity. She looked as tragic as Albin had. No one was that good an actress. Not even the celebrated Sarah Siddons.
Marcus’s rage drained away, leaving tiredness in its place. He released his breath in a sigh. “I offered the Smiths money today, Miss Brown—quite a significant sum—in exchange for the name of their employer. But instead of accepting, they tried to kill me.”
“Are you all right, sir?”
Marcus lifted one hand to his throat, feeling the layers of bandage beneath his neckcloth. “We fought them off.”
“You were hurt.” It was a statement, not a question.
“A little.” He let his hand fall. “But it begs the question—why? Why choose to kill me? Why turn down so much money?”