She watched him walk away with the strange sense that there was something more to that invitation. As if she needed his approval.
CHAPTER 12
Dinner that evening, as promised was fish followed by a large roast hen that Mrs. Hinges had procured from her friend at the butcher’s. Normally roast chicken was reserved for Sunday luncheon, but the housekeeper would hear nothing of Elle’s protestations.
“I don’t know why you are making such a fuss,” Elle scoffed.
“There’s nothing wrong with putting one’s best foot forward. Whatever would people say if we did not look after our guests properly?” Mrs. Hinges hoisted a roasting tray out of the oven and shuffled the potatoes about. They sizzled in reply.
“Oh, tosh. Viscount or not, he’s quite the confidence trickster when it suits him.” Elle popped a piece of carrot into her mouth. “Besides,” she said between crunches of carrot, “We can’t be certain he’s not the one who’s behind all of this. All this is far too much of a coincidence for my liking. Mr. Marsh might be charming, but mark my words, the man is not be trusted.”
Mrs. Hinges gave her a dubious look. “I haven’t exactly seen anyone else rush forth to aid us. If I’ve said it once, I’ll say it a thousand times: I think we are very lucky that his lordship has taken an interest in us.”
“I don’t see why we should wait around for some hero on a white horse to help us. I’m perfectly capable of finding my father on my own.”
“There is no shame in sometimes asking for help, my dear. Pride cometh before the fall. In time you will come to see that.” Mrs. Hinges shook her head in disapproval. “And stop eating off the counter and speaking with your mouth full. Where are your manners?” She spooned basting juices over the chicken and a cloud of thyme-flavored steam rose from the pan.
Elle stood away from the counter and folded her arms. It was so much easier being a man sometimes.
“Why don’t you do something useful, like go upstairs and dress for dinner?” Mrs. Hinges stoked the coals in the cooker. “His lordship is upstairs in the guest room and said he would be down soon. And I’ve set the boiler heating, so there should be a nice hot bath waiting for you.” She closed the oven and gave Elle a friendly pat. “Now off you go.”
“All right, I’m going.” She stomped up the servants’ staircase that ran upstairs from the kitchen. It was the shortcut she had used to get to her to her room for years.
The house was not stately or particularly grand, but it was eminently comfortable and well appointed. Most houses employed brownies or house-goblins to assist in the cleaning and housework, but her father had always felt strongly about the abuse of creatures of Shadow and so theirs was entirely devoid of magic.
However, in what had been one of the guest rooms, they did install one of the new modern bathrooms that were becoming fashionable. A good long soak in the cast-iron tub was an indulgence Elle relished.
Back in her bedroom, Elle stared at the contents of her wardrobe. They didn’t socialize much, which was a good thing, because dressing for dinner was such a bore. Her uncle and aunt, in London, were far better at attending society. She shuddered when she thought about her coming out season a few years before. It had been an unmitigated disaster. Her well-meaning aunt had taken her under her wing, had done her best to give Elle a proper debut, but all those parties and balls … It was enough to drive anyone mad. Most of her suitors had been either dull or stupid or both, and she’d been quite forthright in her opinions. Until she made friends with Ducky Richardson, that is.
Ducky was enrolled in the Royal Flight Academy and had been drafted into the Dirigible Flying Corps. He was training to pilot one of the giant war dirigibles that made up the Royal fleet. It was good old Ducks who had filled Elle’s head with tales of dashing adventure high up in the sky. And Elle was sold. She’d wanted to be the pilot of her own airship more than anything, and all thoughts of suitors and proposals of marriage promptly flew out of the window.
Eventually her aunt had caught her smoking cigars with Ducky and some of his fellow flight recruits under the stairs at a ball. That was the last straw, for her long-suffering aunt, and Elle was returned to Oxford in short order, along with the news that a well-brokered marriage was most unlikely Her father was so caught up in his work that he barely registered she was home. It was only after she’d sold some of her mother’s jewelry to pay for flight school that things became bothersome.
He had ranted and despaired, shouted at her for days. But Elle had dug in her heels. In the end, mostly because it was less of an effort to agree with Elle than it was to fight with her, her father had relented. Strings were pulled and favors were asked and so she went off to train as a pilot. These days, she was either flying or too tired to bother going out. The professor was generally so engrossed in whatever he was working on that he hardly noticed her and it was not long after that that she had stopped bothering to dress for dinner when it was only the two of them
She flicked through her wardrobe. She had better make an effort to honor the roast chicken or else Mrs. Hinges would never let her hear the end of it. She pulled out a blue dinner gown and held it before her, looking at herself in the cheval mirror. She had bought it on impulse straight from a shop window in Paris and, much to the dismay of the shopkeeper, without a proper fitting. But Elle hadn’t cared. She liked the neckline and the way the dress draped around her. It reminded her of one of the Mucha posters that were all around Paris. And for Elle, that was good enough.
She towel-dried her hair and pinned it into a knot that made her neck look long and elegant. The dress was a little bit showy for dinner at home, but it would have to do. She only hoped they didn’t think that she was trying too hard.
As she worked at taming her hair, the diamonds around her wrist caught the light and she stopped to examine them. “I promise that if you behave, I will find you a lovely bottle of absinthe to bathe in tomorrow. Only please don’t hex me so I become insane, or turn me into something hideous,” she whispered at the bracelet. There was no answer. Fairies were strange creatures that lived by their own code. No one could make a fairy do anything it didn’t want to do.
The sudden clanging sound of a hammer against metal emanating from downstairs caught her attention. For the first time in years, Mrs. Hinges was actually ringing the dinner gong in the dining room. Elle suppressed a giggle. Soon they would be hosting polo tournaments in the back garden if things carried on this way.
Marsh and Patrice rose as she walked into the drawing room. They looked as if they had been in deep in conversation before she arrived. She felt Marsh’s gaze flick over her as he took in her dress. “Lord Greychester, Patrice. Good evening,” she said formally.
“Miss Chance, you look lovely,” Marsh said as he led her to her seat. He handed her a glass of sherry.
“Thank you.” She took a sip from her glass and felt the wine warm her throat. His stare was making her nervous, which was rather silly.
Mrs. Hinges rang the bell again. Marsh and Patrice were both looking at her expectantly. Marsh had an odd little smile on his face as he inclined his head to the door. It took Elle a moment to remember that with her father absent, she was the host. Her cheeks flushed and she rose quickly from her seat. “Um, gentlemen, shall we go in to dinner?” she said quickly.
“We would be delighted,” Patrice said. He fell in step next to her and escorted her into the dining room, leaving Marsh to follow behind, unaccompanied.
Dinner commenced with a bowl of fine leek and potato soup. With a pang of regret, Elle listened to Mrs. Hinges fuss and clatter in the kitchen. Their home was too modest for footmen, and Mrs. Hinges hired maids and knife boys only when needed. The rest of the time she did all the work herself. And so, instead of sitting in the kitchen all by herself, years ago, the professor had insisted that Mrs. Hinges take her meals with them. It was quite tonight it odd to see her so formally in service. Tonight, Eric from down the road had been roped in to carry platters. He looked fre
shly scrubbed and slightly anxious as he entered the dining room.
“How are you feeling this evening, Patrice?” Elle asked once the first course had been cleared away.
“I am much better, thank you, little one. A good rest does wonders for the body. And madame’s poultices worked wonders.” He bit into a chunk of Mrs. Hinges’ excellent bread and chewed with gusto. “We French are much tougher than you believe us to be.”
The chicken arrived in all its roasted and glorious splendor. Eric shuffled off to fetch the platters of roast potatoes and vegetables, while Mrs. Hinges served. Normally this was the task of the butler, but as they had no butler to command, the housekeeper took it upon herself to step in.
“I wouldn’t dare trifle with Mrs. Hinges,” Marsh winked at the housekeeper as she set about carving the meat. Mrs. Hinges looked at him sternly, but Elle could tell as the meal progressed that the older woman was completely in his thrall.
“I must tell you about my latest discovery.” Patrice looked up from his pudding of apple sponge baked with sugar, cinnamon and sultanas. He pulled a newspaper clipping from his waistcoat and spread it open on the table before him, all manners and decorum forgotten. “It is a new machine that can emulate the workings of the human heart. The machine has a tiny spark core and runs on clockwork gears. Within this generation, people from the Light side will have employed science to achieve immortality,” he announced.
And how would they go about inserting said mechanical heart?” Marsh made a face.
“Actually, I don’t think I want to know. Especially not at the dinner table.,” Elle said. She wasn’t usually this squeamish, but this evening, she found herself feeling tired and hollow. A soft throbbing just inside her temple was threatening to erupt into an almighty headache. She did her best to smile and maintain the conversation, but her mood sank and dwindled as dinner wore on. It was as if an oppressive weight was bearing down on her and nothing she did seemed to make it go away.
Eventually she sighed and set down her spoon. “I fear that I am terribly tired. It has been a very long day and I am quite exhausted. If you’ll excuse me, I think I shall retire for the night. In my absence, please make yourselves at home with brandies and cigars in the drawing room.” She rose and they stood in response. Marsh frowned but he said nothing.
“If you need anything, please ask Mrs. Hinges,” Elle continued. “She will see to your needs.”
She took herself back to her room before anyone made a fuss. Mrs. Hinges would have words with her tomorrow for being rude and abandoning their guests, but the overwhelming urge to run away as fast as she could was so strong, she could not fight it any longer
CHAPTER 13
The girl was being followed by ghosts. I knew those ghosts once. They were not malevolent—at least not to her. They were wise ghosts, with the knowledge of the ages within them.
I heard them whisper. They chattered among themselves in wonderment. Could it be that the girl was finally free of the constraints that kept her away from them and her true self? The ghosts were excited at the thought. There was much they needed to teach the girl. Would she listen to them?
I was not so sure. The years spent separated from the tethers that held them to this world had made the ghosts naïve. But ghosts rarely worry about the fate of the living, unless, of course, the living had something to offer that directly benefitted them. These ghosts had been silent for half a generation, existing like cowards in the realm of Shadow alone. It takes much to prompt them to rise up from the folds of reality where they dwell and they care little about progress and science. Those already dead feel little for those of us who must face the awful truths of our shrinking world.
But, these were matters of which the girl had no awareness. But I could tell that she sensed that something was amiss. That something would change within her, very soon.
Back in her room, Elle pulled at laces and layers of clothes until she stood naked in the half-light of the lamp. Grateful for the release from her stays, she took a few liberating breaths before throwing her cotton nightdress over her head. She padded over to the window and pushed it open. Cold air flooded around her and she shivered. In the moonlit garden, the plants and trees stood serene in the dark, their limbs stretched out in a silent invitation to her to run into the foliage where she could conceal herself, a place where no one would find her.
He’s coming for you. You had better run. Before it’s too late, something whispered inside her. It made her shiver. She lifted the bracelet, still tethered around her wrist. “Is that you, little fairy?” she whispered back. No answer. She looked about, feeling decidedly foolish. Now she was talking to fairies too.
Annoyed, Elle closed the window with a thump. Lack of sleep was starting to unhinge her mind. She smothered her bedside lamp and bundled herself up under the covers. The greasy-metallic smell of lamp oil hung in the dark. Downstairs had spark lighting, but upstairs they made do with more traditional lamps and candles. Her father said that there was no need for expensive lighting in bedrooms, because they had their eyes closed for most of the time spent there anyway. Elle sighed and closed her eyes, willing herself to sleep. She would be of no use in the search tomorrow unless she got some rest.
… Darkness. Nothingness stretched above and below … A shiver ran through her. She was not alone. Cloaked shadows soared through the darkness. Rows of runelike symbols glowed against the black.
The image shifted. Marsh stood in the sunshine in a garden. She raised her hand to wave at him. He smiled at her and disappeared.
Then the shadows were back. Their awful eyes probed and searched for her. Their faces covered in symbols that scarred their skin. They swirled around her; faster and faster they moved until they were nothing but a gray blur. Above the swirling shadow she saw Marsh. He was looking for something, peering down into the darkness. The maelstrom of the gray shadows gained momentum. They threatened to draw her into their midst. She screamed, but no sound came …
Elle sat up in bed. It was very dark and quiet. Too quiet. A floorboard creaked. Something in the dark made her skin prickle. She strained her eyes and blinked, but it was so dark it felt as if her eyes weren’t working. Her fingers found the box of matches kept on the table beside her bed. A little flame sprang to life in a sulfurous burst as she struck a match and lit the lamp. The small pool of light that formed on the wick made the farther reaches of the room seem much darker.
Without warning, someone grabbed her by the throat. She felt her attacker’s fingers dig into her flesh. She tried to scream, but his palm slipped over her mouth to silence her.
“’ello, my lovely. You might remember me from Paris.” It was the poet from the Café du Aleix. “I can see you do.” He sneered at her. “Now, where were we, before we were so rudely interrupted?”
Elle felt a horrible choking sound escape from her mouth. She writhed and struggled against the man. They dipped to the side and she hit her head against the side of the little table beside the bed. Dazed, her fingers closed around the lamp she had just lit. She lifted it and smashed it against her attacker’s head. Time slowed down as glass shattered and she watched with fascination as flames leapt up where oil and flame and bedcovers met. And in the burst of light, she saw his face.
She opened her mouth and took a strangled breath to scream, but smoke filled her lungs and all she could do was gasp and cough. Flames sprung up everywhere around her. The poet’s face contorted with fear and horror as his coat burst into flame. He let go of her and staggered across the room, flames licking over his back and dripping onto the floor behind him. He flailed his arms, but the movement only made the flames roar even higher as they consumed him. Acrid smoke swirled all around. Elle coughed and stumbled out of bed. She dragged one of the blankets along with her, to throw over the man in order to put the flames out, but the poet howled and, with the crash of breaking glass, threw himself out of the window. She heard an awful bone-crunching thump and then everything went silent.
El
le buried her face in the blanket and stumbled toward the door.
“Eleanor—Miss Chance!” Marsh burst into the room, nearly knocking her over.
“Here, take this. Help me put out the flames,” she said, shoving the blanket at him.
She grabbed the water jug from the nightstand and poured it over the flames, stamping and patting the fabric with the base of the jug as she went.
“Are you hurt? What on earth happened?” Marsh said between coughs as they put out the last smoldering patches on the bed.
“I’m fine. I hit him with the lamp … and then … fire … he fell through the window,” she managed to croak.
He went over to the window, cursing as his toe nudged some of the broken glass on the floorboards. In her daze, she realized he wasn’t wearing shoes.
“Oh, my darling!” Mrs. Hinges said from the doorway. She started coughing.
“Careful, Mrs. Hinges. There is broken glass everywhere. Would you be kind enough to wake Patrice for us?” Marsh commanded.
“I am here,” Patrice said, peeking out from behind Mrs. Hinges.
“Patrice. Good, you’re up. Mrs. Hinges, please take Miss Chance downstairs. Perhaps a cup of tea with lots of sugar might help. Patrice, come with me,” Marsh said. “But first I think I need to find a pair of shoes.” He bundled them out of the room.
Downstairs, Mrs. Hinges wrapped an old paisley shawl around Elle. She set about stoking the range cooker back to life, from where it had been banked down for the night. “Let’s get a pot of tea brewing, shall we?”
“I need to see what happened,” Elle said.
“Let the gentlemen sort it out,” Mrs. Hinges said, but she was speaking to an empty kitchen. Elle had already disappeared out the door.
“What happened?” Elle said as she walked up behind Marsh and Patrice. Both looked up at her in surprise. In front of them, in a crumpled heap was what had once been her attacker.
A Conspiracy of Alchemists Page 8