"Maybe two years of my life are in that worm. It must have put one there right after I came to Philadelphia. It'll be like everything I did was for nothing," I said with my hand to my mouth.
"We're not lost yet," said Ben. "We have the advantage of knowing we're going to lose the worms."
A nod. "Right. We can't let them stay on and keep sucking up our lives."
"We can leave ourselves a good record of what's happened the last two years so that we're not completely ignorant of the coming dangers. Then we can try to find a way to return the memories. Maybe by knowing we can counteract it," said Ben, his jaw pulsing with purpose.
"It'll be like starting over," I said.
"Help me up," he said.
He looked a tad greenish.
"Are you sure you're well enough? I'm afraid once I get you standing you'll make a dive for the floor."
"It'll have to do," he said, sitting up. "We should get back to the Binghams."
Trisella returned with a piece of bread and a mug of water. Ben took them and started on the bread right away.
"You. Eat. I'll get started on those letters while you recover. When you're feeling better, we can go back," I said.
The argument rose in his chest but quickly dissolved as he examined his wounds. Ben gave a reluctant nod.
"I would be most pleased if you would stay and watch Temple," I said to Trisella.
She seemed relieved and turned her attentions to Ben, sitting next to him. He feigned a moment of delirium and put a hand on her knee.
Shaking my head, I left for the drawing room. Ben kept his papers neat on the desk. I pulled out two sheets, one for each of us, and started right away on my letter.
I didn't try to get everything, only the major points of what'd happened the last two years. This wasn't meant to be my memoirs, I would pen a longer letter later when I had time, but I didn't want something to happen and be found wandering the streets in my small clothes without my memories.
When I was finished, I read through it and almost tossed it into the wastebasket. I'd left out too many important details, and I didn't have time to fit them all in. But more importantly, reading my accomplishments, or lack thereof, left me underwhelmed. It seemed the only real salient point was that I'd assisted Ben in his investigations and had spied for the Emperor of Russia. The last point was full of regret.
It occurred to me that it was an opportunity for reinvention, but that kind of self-deceit was foreign, so I blotted the excess ink and folded the letter, dripping a bit of wax before placing it in my coat pocket. It wasn't much, but it was what had happened. I would have to make sure the coming years were something to be proud of.
Starting Ben's letter was rather imposing. I knew the points I wanted to make to myself, and the ones I wanted to leave out, but what did Ben want to know? This seemed more difficult than writing my own letter. I felt like I was placing suggestions in his brain.
Clearing my head with a forced breath, I began his letter:
Dear Ben,
I, Ekaterina Dashkova, write this letter in case misfortune falls us. The last two years we have spent our time investigating the arcane in Philadelphia. It appears forces wielding powerful magicks have made their way to our realm and seek some—hereby unbeknownst to us—succor. Among other things, they have sent a spy into our midst that can steal thoughts. The creature killed Adam Smith when we came upon it. If you are reading this, it probably means the worms have fallen off and we are without the last two years of our memories. As hard as this will seem to believe, please do grab a hold of this idea with all your intellect and prove the missing time, only then will it be clear the extent of the danger we're in. Hopefully we will have time to illuminate the experiences of the last two years in great detail, but if not, this letter will have to do. I suggest contacting the other members of the Society to fill in the details.
Your Friend,
Ekaterina Dashkova
Setting the quill back into the pot left me with an agitation. Even after blotting the ink and dripping wax on the folded paper, I felt like I had missed something important. It didn't take long for the words to float into my head.
I suggest contacting the other members of the Society to fill in the details.
I realized my agitation lay there. I knew exactly the conclusion they would come to should the worst befall us. They would claim I had done this to Ben on purpose, a task befitting a spy, and without Adam Smith to confirm my version of the truth, they would send me from the Society.
I refused to let that happen, but knew of no way to prevent it. Tapping on the desk, I came to a difficult conclusion and captured a second piece of parchment beneath my palm, dabbed ink on my quill, and began vigorously writing anew.
Dear Ben,
If you are reading this then misfortune has befallen us. A creature from another realm has stolen our memories. We killed it, but we had to take the worms off our bodies, thus losing our memories. This surely sounds strange, but believe me.
In fact, I know you will have a difficult time understanding this, so I offer this truth that I have hidden from you these last few months to help prove it.
I have been spying for Emperor Paul.
I did not set out for this to happen, but his spymaster blackmailed me into helping him, threatening my dearest Pavel, my only child. I have since severed this relationship, and I assure you I revealed nothing important, but the previous reluctance with which you shared information was well deserved.
It is my great regret that I did not come to you right away. I thought I could handle it alone, as I so often try to do. I pray you will forgive me.
Contact the rest of the Society as soon as you read this letter. You may tell them about my betrayal, but more importantly, the Society must be on guard for more incursions from both Russia and this foreign place of magicks.
Your Friend,
Ekaterina Dashkova
With a heavy heart, I lay the quill down. The catharsis I desired was left unclaimed, as guilt felt more appropriate.
It was a bold letter, but could I really go through with it? I wanted to send it to the flame. It was the right thing to do, yet I feared for what it would mean for my place in the Society.
The choice was delayed when I heard a sound at the back of the house. I went to investigate, retrieving my rapier first. Padding forward with blade held at attention, I peered around the corner.
The door had been left partially open and had banged against the frame when the wind blew. These large houses breathed in strange ways, opening doors when least expected.
After closing it, I returned to the drawing room to find Ben Franklin standing at the desk reading the letter. The accusation in his gaze was like a hundred lashes of the whip.
"Is this true?" he asked, holding himself sideways, as if to shield himself from my presence.
Answers turned to ashes in my mouth. Despite having penned the letter only moments before, I hadn't yet decided which letter I would give him.
He waited for my answer, his brow drawing deeper as the seconds passed.
Chapter Fourteen
The answer was lost when a scream erupted from the parlor. I reached the front of the house a moment after Ben. Shock nailed me to the spot.
A hunched humanoid with a circular mouth full of jagged teeth stood over a fallen Trisella. A second memory thief. We hadn't considered there might be more than one. The Bingham's servant was alive for the moment, gasping and gurgling, blood gushing between the fingers held to her neck.
Before we could retrieve weapons, the creature lifted its hand and the obsidian stone turned opaque, energy crackling within the dome.
When the ball of energy seethed through the air towards Ben, I deflected it with my rapier. The impact threw me into the wall, knocking the breath from my lungs. Dazed and gasping, I tried to get up, only to find my limbs numb and unresponsive.
What happened next both shocked and elated me. Benjamin Franklin was well known for his p
ractice of Virtues. Rarely did I ever see him raise his voice, except for political effect. I most certainly had never witnessed him losing his temper. He was not a cold man, but he was calculating, tuning his response to the moment like Mozart tuned a piano.
The unbridled rage that flew from Ben's lips warmed my heart. Though I had no illusions that Ben and I would ever find ourselves romantically involved, what he thought of me meant more than I cared to admit.
Seeing him charge the creature without a weapon in hand, foolish as it was, helped me realize that Ben had some feelings for me, however platonic.
The creature raised its greenish-grey arm to block Ben, but he tackled it onto the carpet. Ben straddled the creature, striking blows about its head and chest. Screams erupted from the creature like a thousand nails against a chalkboard.
Though disabled and still unable to move much more than a few neck muscles, I silently cheered the battle. Ben's blows rained down on the memory thief, exacting punishment for all it had done.
I was so busy watching Ben that I didn't see the stone on the creature's hand turn opaque until it was too late, not that I could have warned him.
Before Ben could roll off, a portal opened up right beneath the struggle, like an ink-black eye revealing its ebony depths, swallowing the two combatants and Trisella. In a blink, they were gone, and the portal winked out of existence, trapping them on the other side.
Blood drummed in my ears as I struggled to my hands and knees.
The air tasted of that rotten orange. It was like the smell of a funeral parlor when the body had been above ground too long and the mortician had liberally applied sweet perfumes to hide the stench.
The numbness in my limbs had retreated, but another kind—the sting of shock—replaced it. Benjamin Franklin was gone, sucked through a portal to another dimension.
Still crouched on the carpet like a dog stretching, I buried my face in my hands. He was as good as dead. The same sharp pain that had invaded my body when Catherine died returned.
Tears rolled down my cheeks. More than anything, I knew the world needed Benjamin Franklin.
Who was I kidding? I needed him.
Without Franklin and America, I had nothing. I refused to return to my homeland. The Russian court had been a hungry fire, burning up those who dared to get too close, warping even those who tried to only warm themselves on the flame. Even Catherine could not escape the conflagration, feeding her enemies to it when the opportunity arose and eventually succumbing herself.
It was why I'd traveled as much as I had. Most on the court thought I was Catherine's favorite, and maybe I was, but I had not wished to earn my place at the hem of her golden gown, nor attract the sharp whispers and even sharper daggers that would have found my back had I stayed.
Lifting myself into a standing position sent waves of nausea through my gut. My head ached from the impact with the wall.
Curling into a ball would have to wait. I had to do something. I moved towards the door of the dining area, only to recoil when a painful shock hit my fingertips as they neared the door handle. Thinking it nothing more than carpet sparks, I tried again, only to let out a yelp from an even stronger shock.
The glimmering shield that Ben had created with the gauntlet had grown, blocking entry into the rest of the house. I was stuck in the parlor with my only exit leading outside.
The energy field reminded me about the silvery gauntlet. With it I could dismiss the field of energy and more importantly, once I had the gauntlet, I could follow Ben into the other plane. I knew it would take me more than a few tries, as I had no idea how to use the gauntlet, but I was determined to make it happen.
Lifting the hem of my dress, I hurried out the front door. The Bingham Estate was four blocks away. The carriage might be contained within the energy field, so I would have to walk. I wanted to have the gauntlet back before an hour had passed.
A light rain had fallen briefly while we'd been inside, leaving the street slightly slick and oily in its luminescence. I was so busy trying not to slip, I barely paid any attention to the steam carriage slowing next to me.
Not that it would have mattered. I had little chance to escape when the two men leapt out and grabbed my arms, dragging me into the carriage.
Once I was inside, the vehicle increased speed. The two men who had swooping mustaches and beady black eyes, held my arms to my sides. Their breath stunk like cabbage.
I recognized the sound of the driver's voice as he slightly turned his head.
"Miss Dashkova," said the spymaster, "the emperor is quite displeased with you."
Chapter Fifteen
"The emperor is dead," I said, reverting to Russian.
The spymaster reacted with a faint snort, like a black bear warning away its foes.
"You need not speak that tongue," he replied in English. "I need to practice so I can continue my work after you're gone."
With that I knew his plan wasn't to kill me, not yet anyway, or he wouldn't have threatened my life. He needed something. What it was I would have to figure out to improve my chances of surviving.
"Meslav. Nikodim. Check her for weapons," said the spymaster.
Rough calloused hands groped and prodded me. The two assassins enjoyed their work much more than I would have liked. The one on the left pulled the letter from my jacket and placed it in a pocket.
"Angry, Princess? Not used to being handled in this way?" mocked the spy-master.
After the assassin on my right—I wasn't sure if it was Meslav or Nikodim—removed the dagger from beneath my skirt, he placed his hand back underneath and felt around. I elbowed him in the fruits and he punched me in the jaw. Stars bloomed in my vision and the pain was intense, but getting his hand from under my skirt was worth it.
"You should be more like a lady," said the spy-master as he steered the steam carriage onto Vine Street, which would take us to the northern bridge across the Schuylkill River.
"Treat me like one and I will act like one," I spat, letting my French accent carve each word into an insult. "Treat me like an animal and I will respond in kind."
"What if we treat you like a whore?" laughed the spy-master.
"Then you might find a few parts missing," I said.
The assassin on my right was still bent over slightly. At least I knew he'd try nothing for the next few hours.
As we rumbled across the wooden bridge, I glanced at the fishing boats with lanterns hung on their bows headed upriver to check traps. If the assassins hadn't had my arms pinned down, I would have tried to scramble out and leap into the river to escape.
"You never answered me," I said.
"There was a question? I don't recall," he said.
"It wasn't a question. I said that Emperor Paul is dead." I glared at his back.
The spy-master tilted his head, just so, and lifted his shoulder up enough to signify how little he thought of the comment.
"Your sources are wrong. The emperor may not be in charge anymore, but he's certainly not dead," said the spy-master with a hint of laughter.
The amusement in his tone confused me. "Then who sent you?"
"Emperor Paul."
"You make no sense," I said.
As the steam carriage went into the countryside, the reflective gas lamps on the front spread its golden light into an arc. Small animals careened out of the way as we bumped across the two-track dirt road. The further we got from Philadelphia, the more I worried.
They took me to a cottage outside of the city proper. When they pulled me from the vehicle, only the faint glow of the city reflected on the low cloud cover. Somewhere nearby an owl hooted while crickets performed their symphony.
The inside of the cottage was sparsely furnished, but looked well lived in. The two cots along the far wall were rumpled and mud stained. The stench of old cabbage was thick in the air.
I was placed in a chair. One of the assassin sat behind me while the other threw logs into the fireplace, causing smoke to billow into th
e cabin. For a few minutes we were all coughing and waving our hands across our faces, until the fire was crackling and the smoke went up the chimney.
I might have attempted an escape except the assassin in back had a knife to my midsection the whole time. The message was clear. Don't move.
The spy-master set himself up across from me. It was the first time I'd really gotten to study him. He had pale complexion with dark grey highlights as if ash had been rubbed into his skin from spending too much time indoors. His hair was coal black. The ridge on his forehead was thick, suggesting a lack of intelligence, but his position and the keen spark to his steady gaze revealed otherwise.
"Why did you try to kill me?" asked the spy-master with an amused twitch to his lips.
"I don't know your name," I said.
"You don't have to."
"I need to call you something," I replied.
He let a little breath escape his barely closed lips. "Then call me Rarog."
The meaning of the word escaped me, but I knew it was significant. The assassin tending the fire with an iron glanced over his shoulder at the choice of the word.
"Well, Rarog, I tried to kill you because you were threatening my son, Pavel. You understand how these things work," I said.
"Why did you think it was going to work?"
The mien of arrogance was like an extravagantly jeweled cloak around his shoulders. He wore it like royalty though I knew he was not. This confused me at first, until I made the connection.
"Whoever sent you sent the memory thieves as well," I said.
His gaze narrowed sharply. I'd hit close to the mark, but not close enough.
"No," I said. "Someone else sent them, but you didn't know about them."
He hesitated before speaking. "How did you know?"
"If the emperor's not in charge, he would be dead if it were a rival. That he's alive, still giving orders, but not in charge, leads me to believe that whatever sent those memory thieves has already taken over in Russia," I said.
The barely perceptible flinch at the corner of his eye was either a confirmation of my statement or the subtle misdirection of a master liar.
Revolutionary Magic (with Bonus Content) Page 10