Ravensclaw

by Maggie MacKeever

  Jamie stared blankly at her. As did Lady Alberta, Bela, Zizi, and Lilian. Emily cleared her throat. “Has he offered you advances that seem, um, unusual?”

  Jamie hadn’t survived ten years in the streets of Edinburgh by being slow on the uptake. “G’wa! Are ye thinkin’ himself is a mop-molly?”

  Emily wrinkled her brow. “A mop-molly? What is that?”

  “A deviant, my dear,” Lady Alberta said comfortably. “A gentleman who prefers relations with a member of the same sex. Or with an animal.” She glanced at Drogo. The wolf growled. Lady Alberta picked up another oatcake. “But to each his own.”

  Jamie snorted. “Himsel’s nae Jessie.”

  Perhaps instead of learning about matters supersensible, Emily should have devoted herself to the study of anatomy. Umbivalent, actually. Ravensclaw had said so himself.

  Isidore carried a huge bouquet of roses into the room and plopped them on a table. “ ‘One ass scrubs another.’ And someone should have her mouth washed out with soap.”

  Someone regretted that she had ever opened her mouth. Emily said, “I didn’t mean— Oh, never mind.”

  “She’s in a fankle,” explained Jamie. “Dinna fash yersel’, Miss Emily. How wid ye ken such things, bein’ unkenand lak ye are?”

  “I’m no such thing!” Emily snapped, exasperated. All eyes turned on her. Zizi, Bela, and Lilian tittered. Lady Alberta paused with her oatcake halfway to her mouth. Emily demanded, “What?”

  “Young Jamie said that you were unknowing,” explained Lady Alberta. “You said that you were not. We were talking about gentlemen and their preferences. You understand our astonishment.”

  Bright-eyed Zizi added, “You admitted you weren’t a virgin, miss.”

  “What’s a virgin?” murmured Bela. Lilian giggled.

  Emily ignored them, and Jamie’s gap-toothed grin. “I meant I’m not in a fankle, whatever that is. At least I think I’m not. Where did the roses come from, Isidore?”

  “You have a visitor.” The old man squinted at the calling card he held between forefinger and thumb. “A Mr. Michael Ross. Shall I send him up?”

  “You’ll bring him up and announce him properly,” Lady Alberta said sternly. “Pretend for a moment that this is a properly run household.” She snatched the book off Jamie’s tray. “We will need more tea.”

  Zizi hurried off to the kitchen. Bela and Lilian darted around the chamber, setting things to rights. The carpet was already in pristine condition, Drogo — exhibiting a fondness for oatcakes rivalling Lady Alberta’s — having gobbled up all the crumbs.

  “Jamie, wait.” Emily followed the boy to the stair. “When Mr. Ross leaves, I want you to follow him. Don’t let him see you. Then come back and tell me where he went.”

  Jamie shook his head. “I hae ma doots ye’ll be unkenand long, miss, if ye keep on lak this.”

  Did the entire household know she’d fallen asleep in Ravensclaw’s bed? “Mr. Ross may have something of mine in his possession. I mean to have it back.”

  Jamie brightened. “Shall I mak’ the dive? Pick his pockets, miss?”

  Emily was tempted. However, she had no great faith that Jamie was any more adept at picking pockets than filching candlesticks. “No. Just tell me where he goes.”

  She returned to the drawing room. Lady Alberta picked up her magazine and resumed where she’d left off. “ ‘... the tale of the living vampire, who had passed years amidst his friends, and dearest ties, forced every year, by feeding upon the life of a lovely female to prolong his existence for the ensuing months ...’ ”

  Isidore reappeared in the doorway, announced: “Mr. Ross.” Michael entered the room, a vision of sartorial splendor in a violet-colored coat, cream-colored breeches, and gleaming leather boots. In one hand he carried a tall beaver hat and leather gloves, items he tried to give to Isidore. Flapping his hands as if to fend off flies, the old man backed away.

  Lady Alberta continued reading. “‘... the dead grey eye, which, fixing upon the object’s face, did not seem to penetrate, and at one glance to pierce through to the inward workings of the heart...’ ” Michael peered around the room, taking in every detail of his surroundings from the plaster ceiling to the perpetual almanac in its frame. Emily was not unhappy to see him so ill at ease.

  Her wits had gone wandering. She had forgotten to warn Lady Alberta that they had suddenly become kin.

  Hopefully, Lady Alberta’s faculties were in better working order. Emily said, meaningfully, “Michael, I don’t know if you have met my aunt, Lady Alberta Tait. Aunt, uh, Bertie, may I present Mr. Michael Ross.”

  “How do you do?” ‘Aunt Bertie’ shot Emily a speaking glance. “The roses are lovely, young man.”

  “A pleasure to make your acquaintance, Lady Alberta.” On the hearth, Drogo stirred. “That’s a wolf!”

  “He’s nothing of the sort. Drogo is a rare Carpathian sleuthhound.” Emily gestured toward Machka, who was crouched to pounce, her attention fixed on the tassels attached to Michael’s highly polished boots. “And that is a cat.”

  Michael hastily moved his foot away. Machka followed, a hunter stalking prey. “I dislike felines,” he said. “Shoo. Go away.”

  Emily snatched up the cat and sank down in a chair. Machka hissed. “Stop that or I’ll pull your tail. Pray be seated, Michael.”

  Lady Alberta gestured toward her magazine. “Are you familiar with Mr. Polidori’s The Vampyre, Mr. Ross? ‘... his dead eyes sparkled with more fire than that of the cat whilst dallying with the half-dead mouse ...’ ”

  “I’ve no taste for popular fiction.” Michael deposited his hat and gloves on a nearby table and arranged himself elegantly on an upholstered chair.

  Zizi arrived with the tea tray. Lady Alberta put down her magazine. “Ah, black buns! I am especially fond of black buns.” She picked up the plumpest, sweetest specimen and popped it in her mouth. Drogo edged closer to her chair.

  Michael’s vraja — or one remarkably like it — dangled from his watch fob, Emily noted, and a sprig of hawthorn adorned his lapel. Hawthorn was useful in repelling the nonliving, according to the literature, which had thus far been proved wrong more often than right.

  He was fidgeting about as if he expected Ravensclaw to pop out of the teapot and bite him in the neck. Emily murmured, “Compose yourself, Michael. The devil’s spawn is out cavorting with his fellow fiends from hell. You’ve nothing to fear.”

  “You should not jest about such matters!” Michael drew in a deep breath. “Is there somewhere we may be private? I must speak with you.”

  Emily hadn’t the least desire to be private with Michael. Unlike Ravensclaw. “You needn’t mind Aunt Bertie, she’s deaf as a post. What is it you want to talk about?”

  Michael glanced dubiously at Lady Alberta, who had polished off her black bun and returned to her magazine. “I apologize for my behavior yestere’en. If I seemed a trifle high-handed, it is because I have your best interests at heart. Toward that end, I have made arrangements for your return home. I will join you there as soon as my business here is done.”

  And what about her business? Michael really did flatter himself that she would let him lead her around by the nose. “You may un-make your arrangements. I am perfectly comfortable where I am.”

  “What you are,” hissed Michael, “is all about in the head. Someone must look after your concerns and Lady Alberta is clearly not up to the task. I see nothing for it but that you leave Society matters in my hands.”

  Emily saw a number of things. Michael’s concern for her well-being was not among them. She watched Machka leap onto the table, settle down near his hat. “What you mean is that you consider me incapable of bearing responsibility for the Society.”

  Michael leaned closer. “You know bloody well you aren’t. And then there is the matter of offspring.”

  “Offspring?”

  “Children to carry on the Dinwiddie name. It was the Professor’s dearest wish.”

  Emily tried, a
nd failed, to imagine Michael touching her the way Ravensclaw had touched her in her dreams — and hadn’t what he’d done to her bosom been interesting? Emily had not realized that bosoms could be the source of such intense sensations. She was curious to find out what else she didn’t know.

  But she didn’t care to learn from Michael. And if Michael told her once more what her papa had wanted, she would box his ears. “Aunt Bertie! Did my papa ever tell you that his fondest wish was for me to bear offspring?”

  Lady Alberta marked her place in her magazine with her fingertip. “Why no, I don’t believe he did. Although perhaps he wouldn’t have, because he knew that I was unable to bear offspring myself. Such a tragedy, I felt at the time. Although I have since changed my mind. Children are so unpredictable. You never know how they’ll turn out. Why, I have a friend…”

  “Why would he tell her anything?” muttered Michael. “You said they were estranged.”

  Emily decided she would box Lady Alberta’s ears when she was done with Michael’s. “They were estranged. Sometimes. And sometimes they weren’t.” Oh, to blazes with discretion. “Did the Professor ever show you a ceremonial knife with a cabochon ruby and a double ouroborus set into its hilt?”

  He shook his head. “I’m certain he did not. Is it important?”

  Important? Immensely. “The athame is missing. Did you steal it? Did you sell it? You have no idea how dangerous it is.”

  Michael looked astonished. “Are you accusing me of theft? How can you think such a thing?”

  “You wouldn’t like to know what I think of you in this particular moment,” Emily informed him. “I must get the knife back.”

  “This is precisely why you need me! You shouldn’t have lost the thing in the first place. Let us approach this in a logical manner. When is the last time you saw the athame?”

  Emily did not choose to share any further information. “I cannot recall.”

  “So you don’t know how long it’s been missing. Or,” Michael added shrewdly, “in fact, if it was ever in the vaults at all.” He risked a glance at Lady Alberta, who appeared rapt in her reading. “Marry me, dammit, Emily. As soon as we’re wed, I’ll help you find your blasted knife.”

  Emily regarded him over the rim of her spectacles, which had again slid down her nose. “I don’t believe I mentioned that the athame had been kept in the vaults.”

  He flushed. Lady Alberta read aloud: “ ‘The dreadful shrieks of a woman mingled with the stifled, exultant mockery of a laugh…’ ”

  Michael rose, brushing cat hair off his breeches. “You are determined to be difficult. We will speak of this another time.” He snatched up his hat and gloves and stalked out of the room.

  His voice drifted back from the stairwell. “My hat! That damned cat clawed my hat!”

  Emily patted Machka. “Good kitty,” she said.

  In the silence came the distant slamming of a door.

  Lady Alberta reached for another black bun. “I feel compelled to point out that one catches more flies with honey than vinegar. Yes, I know you don’t care to catch Mr. Ross, but I think you want him to think you do. No, pray don’t confide in me! I do not wish to know.”

  Chapter Eleven

  Two sparrows on one ear of corn make an ill agreement.

  (Romanian proverb)

  Many legends surrounded Marie d’Auvergne’s athame. Some said she had bargained with the Darkness, pledging her body and soul in exchange for twenty-four years’ enjoyment of unlimited knowledge, power and wealth, but had never intended to repent before her time was up, believing that the Light would prove more potent than the Dark.

  The time came for repayment. At midnight on the eve of the 395th day of the 24th year, a fearsome din was heard from Marie’s rooms, and a woman’s scream. When the servants dared investigate the next morn, they found no trace of Marie. The athame, which never left her possession, lay abandoned on the floor. Legend had it that the Darkness repaid Marie’s treachery by imprisoning her in the knife itself, which is why the thing was sometimes called the Hand of the Undead.

  It was pure foolishness, thought the slender man, as so many legends were, but there was no denying that the knife was a point of convergence for dark energy.

  He savored its coolness against his flesh.

  It was cold as the Thames in winter, and at the same time hot as sin.

  Contained power that burned strong enough to melt flesh and bone.

  His destination was before him. He closed one gloved hand around the knob of the shop door.

  Madame Fanchon — née simple Franny Brown — was totting-up her monthly accounts. Astonishing, how one’s expenditures could outpace one’s income. She had closed the door to the workroom, so her employees couldn’t catch her at her bookkeeping, and thereby be reminded that they also needed to be paid. When the shop door opened to admit an elegant visitor in a fashionable claret-colored coat, tightly fitting inexpressibles, gleaming Wellington boots, his cravat tied in the complicated Gordian knot, she shoved her post-obit bills into a drawer, pushed back her chair, and rose to greet her visitor with a smile.

  That smile continued, broadened even, through an inspection of silks and muslins and cambrics, a perusal of hand-colored fashion-plates. So intense was her excitement that Franny almost forgot her accent, and had to fan herself.

  The slender man leaned back in his chair. “I will give you the word with no bark on it,” he said, interrupting the modiste’s paean to jaconet and lutestring. “You may turn out my mistress in the first stare of fashion on one condition: tell me how it came about that you are dressing Emily Dinwiddie. Don’t deny you are dressing her, I recognized your handiwork. And why you are costuming Lady Alberta Tait as well.”

  Franny’s clients were not prone to appreciate their affairs being bandied about town. She murmured, “Je m’excuse?”

  He raised one gloved hand in an impatient gesture. “Do not waste my time, madame. Answer my questions or not only will you not gain my patronage, you will lose your other customers as well.”

  Franny regretted, suddenly, that she had closed the workroom door. There was something about this client that unnerved her. A certain reptilian cast to his eye.

  She was growing entirely too imaginative. One sometimes had to cut one’s losses. “Ah, that Miss Dinwiddie. Now I recall. Ravensclaw summoned me to his house. The demoiselle required a refurbishment of her wardrobe. Ravensclaw said he meant to make her ‘presentable.’ Lady Alberta seemed to think Mademoiselle might set a new style.”

  Her visitor picked up a length of ribbon and ran it idly through his fingers. “And well she may. A style for freckle-faced little nobodies with portions of fifty thousand pounds.”

  Fifty thousand pounds? Ma foi! Franny wondered if Miss Dinwiddie might be interested in new fashion plates just arrived from Paris. A rose-colored shawl. Some lovely pearl embroidery.

  “And your impression of Lady Alberta Tait?” the slender man persisted. “Had you any impression of a previous relationship between them?”

  Franny goggled at him. “Between Lady Alberta and Ravensclaw? C’est moui!”

  “No, you imbecile. Between Lady Alberta and Miss Dinwiddie.”

  Franny was not sufficiently an imbecile as to antagonize a potential customer, dislike him as she might. “I saw no indications of a previous acquaintance. Is one permitted to inquire why you ask?”

  “One is not.” He fixed his dead dark gaze on her. “Tell me everything that transpired, from the moment you arrived at Ravensclaw’s house until you left.”

  Franny felt perspiration pop out on her brow. Not for the first time she wished she had been content to remain a simple seamstress instead of scheming to acquire her own shop, where people could walk in and abuse her at will.“Comment?”

  “I’m waiting.” The slender man rose from his chair.

  Franny was tempted to tell this fine gentleman that he could wait until hell froze over. One look at that cold face caused her to change her min
d. Franny recounted, as best she could, her dealings with Emily Dinwiddie, Lady Alberta, and Ravensclaw.

  “Ah, so,” he murmured. “It is as I had thought.

  Franny thought she would happily forgo a commission, if only he would leave. Instead the slender man paused beside her chair.

  She made as if to rise. He grasped her shoulder and held her in place. Franny stared at the flesh revealed between his gloves and the edge of his coat sleeve. Flesh that no longer looked entirely human. She tried to pull away.

  Too late. She felt the ribbon slide around her throat. “Alas, Madame Fanchon,” said the slender man, as she clawed futilely at his fingers, “I find that you shan’t suit me, after all.”

  Chapter Twelve

  Who keeps company with the wolf will learn to howl.

  (Romanian proverb)

  Edinburgh’s Royal Exchange, which boasted a fine piazza, was home to a custom-house and thirty-five shops, some with living-rooms above; ten other dwelling places; three coffee houses and now the Town Council, many of the merchants for whom the Exchange had been designed preferring to conduct their business elsewhere. The Exchange had been built on the steeply sloping site of several old closes and consequently stood four storeys high around the quadrangle which faced the High Street, while its north wall rose like a great grey cliff to the height of twelve.

  Buried down around the Exchange cellars were remnants of streets that had been partially demolished during its construction, frozen in time since the seventeenth century. Derelict tenements and shops flanked the broken pavement. A tavern, a sawmaker’s establishment. Warrens of interconnecting rooms where entire families had once lived. A stockroom, its ceiling still hung with gruesome hooks.

  Deserted though the close might be, it was not forsaken. The secret meeting place of the Breasla lay here, deep beneath the cobbled streets of the Royal Mile. One of the aftereffects of his condition being an ability to see cat-like in the dark, Val needed no lantern to light his way. He halted before a certain door, inserted a key.