Engraved: Book Five of The St. Croix Chronicles

by Karina Cooper

  Ashmore flicked that away. “You are being quite literal again. It is a game of power. Though the tiger—That is, though Hawke can threaten the Veil with his own strength, he is a more powerful pet.”

  I blew a hard breath, wiping at my forehead with my forearm. “This is all just so much fairy-tale nonsense.”

  “Perhaps,” Ashmore allowed. “And perhaps in a culture as rich with symbolism as the Orient, it would be wise to take what one can from each tale. The eternal war between the dragon and the tiger is not without its stability—and its tumult. Nor is it limited to simply the two.”

  “Stop.” I held up both hands, cutting him off before he could slip into his role as tutor too tightly. “I don’t care to know. There are already too many players with delusions of grandeur.”

  “Your impatience,” he said on a gusty sigh, “will be your undoing. Or mine.”

  “Neither, if I can help it.” Since he did not seem in danger of lapsing into the lyrical once more, I firmly returned to the subject I most wanted broached. “Here are my thoughts,” I said by way of preamble. “Our options are to leave Hawke where he is, knowing the Bakers plan an assault in four days’ time, and hope that all goes well—”

  “Not your forte,” Ashmore noted dryly.

  I resisted the urge to wrinkle my nose at him again. “Or we make our way into the Menagerie, utilize something of a distraction or a disguise better suited. I know where Hawke is kept. A bit of the black art, and he’s free.”

  Ashmore’s copper eyebrows rose. “The what?”

  “The black art,” I repeated, and leaned forward, elbows against the table because I could, and lowered my voice. “’Tis the art of picking a lock.”

  A flicker of relief softened his regard, replaced again by lazy amusement. “You know it, do you?”

  “Hadn’t I said?” I widened my eyes in the utmost of innocence.

  Ashmore’s chuckle was something rustier than I imagined it used to be. He was not so serious as Hawke, much more at ease than Compton had ever been, but he did not laugh very often.

  When he did, it warmed my heart. I had no doubts that his years weighed heavily upon him. As did the scars left by my mother’s betrayal.

  That he had loved her was a truth I shared with him. In a way, I’d loved her, as well; loved, rather, the idea of her. My mother had let us both down.

  Or perhaps we’d simply blinded ourselves to her true nature.

  Well, whatever it was, Ashmore remained by my side, now, and I was ever grateful. I smiled in reply. “Will you help me, then?”

  “Shall I assume you refuse the first of your options?”

  I nodded. That his offer was barely more than a rhetorical assumption remained obvious. I was not given to waiting.

  “And have you a plan for the latter?”

  When I hesitated, Ashmore shifted in the hard, unpadded seat and bent so that he, like me, rested his elbows upon the table. “Tell me,” he ordered softly.

  It wasn’t a plan I’d dared speak aloud, but I had little option. Chills slipped down my limbs as I swallowed an embarrassed smile. “I can think of one method by which to get inside,” I said. I clasped my hands over my plate, lest they tremble and revoke Ashmore’s willingness to assist. “But I will need your help. Or, rather,” I amended, “I will need the help of your man.”

  His eyebrows once more climbed, thumb running along his neatly groomed sideburns. “My man?”

  “I assume you have at least one somewhere with the wherewithal to help me get inside,” I said, raising my own eyebrows in mirrored inquiry. “Specifically,” I continued, and took a deep breath. “Specifically into the circus.”

  The eyes I attributed to those of a cat sharpened. “Into the stands?”

  I shook my head. “No. I mean to deceive my way into the rings.”

  Chapter Sixteen

  The planning took the whole of the day, shaving one off of Ishmael’s offered four. I had little ability to do anything save pace the confines of the newly rented room Ashmore reserved for us.

  The plan began to take shape come evening, when Ashmore returned to the little quarters over a butcher’s shop and laid out the process.

  As I’d suspected, he had a man with insight into the Menagerie’s trading habits. Said man knew another who owed him a favor, and who numbered among them what provided the Menagerie with various goods.

  Among those goods was flesh.

  I calmly ate the repast Ashmore provided, pretending the details he gave me did not cause my skin to creep and prickle. A cold sweat threatened to bloom, and I focused instead upon the meat pies he’d brought with him. They were a little overly greasy for my taste, but the meat and potatoes were filling enough.

  “He has agreed to take you in with the newest wares,” Ashmore finished. “No questions asked nor answered.”

  I forced a bright smile. “Wonderful.” If the utensil in hand trembled, Ashmore did not seem to notice. “What manner of flesh does he peddle?”

  “All, I gather,” my tutor said with a grimace, “but in this situation, he has collected young bodies fit to be groomed for the circus and various shows.”

  My eyebrows rose. “Convenient.”

  “Quite.”

  The fork I held clinked against the chipped plate I rested it upon. Lacing my fingers tightly in my lap did not help, but I dared not dim my smile. “Then all shall go according to plan.”

  Ashmore had never been a dimwitted sort, and I had little doubt he saw and understood my nervousness, but he was gracious enough to let it lie.

  Perhaps in me, he recognized something of his own stubbornness.

  “We shall make the exchange tomorrow,” he said. “The day will be full of preparation.”

  No doubt. Yet no amount of preparation could bolster me for what we planned.

  I slept fitfully that night, overly cognizant of Ashmore’s presence upon the floor beside my bed. The quarters he’d established claimed only a single room, and this cordoned off by a curtain for them what wanted a bit of privacy.

  I was afraid. The old fears came at me like overly saturated memories painted surreal shades; half-forgotten images that might have been true recollection or wild imaginings plucked from the remains of a memory crippled by the opium I’d consumed.

  Had I the tar handy, I’d have bitten in to it. It would have put the demons I entertained to rest.

  I had none. My throat closed around the need and I clutched at my bedclothes as the face of Monsieur Marceaux loomed over me.

  A deft hand and agile limbs was all he’d wanted of his children—and he had many. A fatherly sort, with the same lush mustache without need for blackening, Marceaux had at first seemed a welcome relief from the doldrums of the orphanage I’d been left to rot within.

  I couldn’t recall my age when I’d finally been plucked by the good monsieur, but it was old enough to fear getting tossed out by the matrons who had no use for them children who did not get claimed.

  I don’t know when exactly I became a limber sneakthief for the monsieur, but I recalled with almost suspicious clarity how easy it had been to return to the monsieur and his handlers with the earnings of the day. When he was particularly pleased, he doled out flakes of opium to his children.

  When he was not pleased, blood spilled in the rings.

  I turned over on my thin bed, folding the pillow over my head. It did not help.

  Marceaux had always an uncanny ability to bring out the darkest of an audience’s desires; like blood sport in the days of old. The first drop drew gasps, and the rest spilled to a rabid crowd.

  As long as one dressed it as a show, the mob responded.

  Monsieur Marceaux’s Traveling Curiosities Show traveled not because it was the most comfortable, but because authorities eventually grew suspicious.

  What had they done with the bodies?

  Surely there had been some.

  Not I. I had been a clever child, quick to nick and run, but I’d spent enough time
under the searing circus lights to recall the sheer terror of it.

  What had put me there?

  I squeezed my eyes shut, clutching the pillow over my face.

  A dance along a narrow line, a whisper of a razor’s edge as it nicked the ear. Blood; too little for the crowd to spot. Not enough.

  My heart raced.

  A dodge, a deft turn upon the lanyard, and then what?

  Survive the show and live to fogle again; not the heavenly life one might wish for, but lucrative enough if one was good at the art. Fail and suffer the consequences.

  What consequences?

  Girls what did not make do picking pockets became ringside shows—or flesh upon the auction tables. Had I disguised my sex so early? Was it Marceaux that had shaped my interests in a man’s calling?

  I blew out a hard breath that shuddered.

  The bedsheets I’d tangled lifted, and a long, warm body slipped into the narrow space beside me. Ashmore said nothing, though I’m certain he felt the damp of my nightdress. He simply wrapped a tight arm around my ribs, hands placed carefully, and held me until the nightmarish memories dulled.

  What he thought, what he looked like, I dared not explore.

  It would be easy—so very easy—to turn in his grasp and place my lips against the skin of his throat; to take from him that attention that would salve my fear and my loneliness.

  We were too accessible to one another, an uncomplicated substitute in place of problematical feelings for overly complicated people.

  He understood me, or at least understood that which motivated me. He must have known my needs stirred again; difficult times would forever awaken my craving for the tar I objectively knew I did not want. Or wanted too much.

  Ashmore offered his comfort and his silent understanding. He did not press me for a consummation the loneliness of the night would have allowed me to give. In truth, he demanded nothing while he simply held me.

  Were my heart any less constrained, I might have loved him as he was meant to be loved.

  Guilt was a burden I had resolved to let go, but now and again, it flared to life within me.

  And so I said nothing as he settled into my back. The warmth of his body seeped into my flesh, soothing the tremors of long-forgotten fears, and I finally found the sleep that eluded me.

  Come the day, after a quick repast and last-minute preparations, Ashmore did not broach the events of the night. Neither did I. We operated quickly, efficiently, sending missives to Ashmore’s man and preparing me for the showing.

  The most important was that of my appearance.

  “We cannot have you running about like that,” he said, guiding me into the small kitchen. The cast iron stove glowed warmly, and an array of bottles, flasks and tins had been set neatly at hand.

  Now this was a thing to which I could commit the whole of my interest.

  “Do not look so eager,” cautioned my tutor, though his lips twitched up at the corners. He plucked a book—a tome I was long familiar with, as it was near half-full of my own scribblings on the subjects of aether and alchemy. When he passed it to me, he fell once more into that role of severity that he adopted when his focus turned to teaching. “There will be no Trumps today,” he warned me. “Only science. Maintain your concentration on that what you know and the formula we are to utilize this day. Am I clear?”

  I nodded most seriously, for he’d tolerate nothing less. “Most clear, sir,” I assured him. When he rolled up his cuffs, baring the black ink upon his forearms, I did the same. Unlike my tutor, my forearms bore only that long white scar puckered over the left.

  I would wear it forever as legacy of my father’s demise; one that I had brought about through use of the blood I’d drawn from that very wound.

  “I took the liberty of inscribing the formulae we shall be utilizing in your journal,” Ashmore informed me as he plucked three phials from the items laid out before him. He set each, empty as of yet, into a stand. “Today’s efforts will culminate in a solution for your skin and your hair.”

  I thumbed through the journal until I found the pages he’d marked with his own strong, precise script. In a Society that prided itself on penmanship, his was most remarkable. Mine was also remarkable, but only in that it had stubbornly resisted Fanny’s determined standards.

  His bold hand rather overwhelmed what I knew to be my meager skill. Centuries of practice was like as not to do that. “I could simply use the false hair I have.”

  “Can you be certain it would stay in place through all manner of tricks?” A fair question. When I shook my head, he gestured to the book. “What do you see?”

  “Two formulae and several lists,” I dutifully replied.

  “You can do better,” he returned, reproach clear.

  Of course I could. I studied the pages he’d written, recognized many of the symbols drawn where others might expect simpler fare. Science and alchemy were not entirely strangers, each given a fundamental base in simple science, but the sigils used differed in many places. What passed for water in one would be a stylistic pictogram in another.

  I scrutinized the apparatuses laid out. Nothing overtly complicated. Various cisterns, though none claimed sand within. This assured me that all matters of heating would stem from either water or direct flame. Two separate retorts with accompanying stands, for those processes that required distillation.

  I raised my eyebrows. “One formula requires extract of walnut, clove, bark shavings and various oils. A reduction.” I thought about it. “A salve?”

  “Good,” he said simply. “A salve for your skin. Although I am loathe to alter the flawless tone.”

  It was, as such things went, fair praise, though the scars I had borne over the years turned my flesh somewhat less flawless than Ashmore called it. “Is it permanent?”

  “No,” he assured me. “Such things rarely are, barring elements that create a stable resource. This is meant only for a short duration. It will wear well under the damp of sweat or rain, but will not endure a bath.”

  He began to set up a small, unimpressive alchemical arrangement, placing crucibles in his own easy reach and mortar and pestle within mine. He moved easily, with an economy of effort that spoke clearly of comfort in such an environment.

  I watched him with interest—and with some amusement.

  For all my tutor might claim an austere demeanor, a determined kindness and something of an adventuring spirit, he was at heart a scientist; one could read such matters in the glee so often found in the face of those born to the intelligence of scholarship.

  “The salve requires some simple herbal ingredients easily acquired,” he said as he lit the flames beneath the retorts. He knelt before the stove, opened the small grate to stoke the embers within. I found a perch upon a tabletop, as the kitchen was scarce of all but the very basic necessities—and the alchemical supplies he’d brought in from somewhere.

  The fire gilded his profile, caught in his corona of red hair until the copper strands burned like the flame he coaxed to life.

  Truly lovely to look at. A fine specimen of a man, and one that seemed uniquely at home wherever he chose to be. These traits seemed almost effortless, yet as I considered it so—a simple characteristic of supreme confidence with none of Hawke’s conceit—I also considered the matter of his ongoing age.

  What had Oliver Ashmore—whose given name was Nicholin Folsham—been like as a child? As a young man?

  What had sparked such a fierce desire to learn? To master the exoteric truths and esoteric arts of alchemy?

  I caught myself smiling, moderated it to a flat line of focus and shifted my attention entirely to the journal cradled in my open hands. “What of the second formula?”

  “A distillation of indigo, soot and salt to bind it.” He did not look back from his intent, but gestured at me with one hand already smudged. “Your hair will no doubt garner a bit of a darker hue in the wake of its washing, but time will cure that. Unfortunately, it will not bind as strongly a
s the salve for your skin. You will want to avoid copious amounts of water.”

  Or sweat, I wagered.

  I read the instructions as they were written—terse and without flavor to soften the delivery. Ashmore might have been a gentleman, but he wasted little efforts when it came to matters of the mind.

  “Now,” my tutor said suddenly, and I looked up to find him outlined by a flickering frame of lit burners and the glowing stove. Water boiled in a pot upon it. “You’d best get to work.”

  “Me?” I tipped my head. “Won’t it be quicker if you do it?”

  Ashmore’s mouth tipped up at the corner. He stretched out a hand, palm up—no doubt to help me alight from my perch. “I’m afraid not, minx. This is your plan. It must be your concoction. There are no Trumps to muddle with,” he added as I slipped my fingers into his. “No risk of anything gone awry but the portions you may or may not pay attention to.”

  I slipped to the floor, sighing. “It would be more fun if I could—”

  His hand squeezed mine, both in reprimand and sympathy. “Walk, Miss St. Croix. Then we shall run.”

  A reminder I was already long tired of hearing.

  “And for every instance you call upon the Trumps,” he added as I shook out my skirt, “it will make your walking all the longer. So pay close attention and prepare your salve well.”

  “Tyrant,” I muttered.

  I did not have to look at him to know he smiled. “Termagant,” he replied affectionately, and said nothing else.

  I frowned at the formula I was meant to follow. Boring work. Dull, dreary work, lacking all excitement.

  The flames flickered as I set the journal where I could easily read it. Dusting off my hands, I ignored Ashmore where he lounged behind me—no doubt evaluating my every move—and set to work.

  I had spent years reading the scientific periodicals. I had been an unwilling student, but a good one. A thorough one. For months, I’d dedicated my intellect to chronicling those fundamental theories Ashmore taught me.

  I had not made for myself anything more complicated than extremely base mixtures meant to teach, not to utilize.