Fires of Hell: The Alchemystic

by Maureen L. Mills

  None of this good advice helped in the slightest.

  Three days after returning to London, I still had not managed to pry myself out of the house to visit the Falcon’s Flight offices. The first day I spent asleep, for the main, when not fending off Mrs. Allred’s attempts to ply me with tarts, comfits, and other dainties.

  “You are wasting away to nothing.” She deliberately ignored my instructions to take away the tea tray she’d set on the table at my elbow.

  “If I were wasting away, as you put it, I’d surely feel hungry. I don’t.” In fact, the scent of the almond cakes made my stomach churn.

  Mrs. Allred hmphed, and left the room. She also left the tea tray, but I couldn’t force myself to eat any of it.

  The second day, I drifted through the house, gazing out windows at the leaden sky, beginning letters to Maman over and over, crumpling each and tossing them into the fireplace as I ran out of words to explain what had happened—and to demand some sort of explanation of my beginnings from her, a more detailed one than the hasty story she had told me in Paris.

  Today, I was determined to shake off this strange ennui, this feeling of being anchor-less, of floating with no course or destination. I still needed to find some way to avenge Captain Rollins’ death. Also, a way to support myself. I would take myself off to Falcon’s Flight this very afternoon and procure another position.

  Yes, I would.

  And yet, when teatime came, I found myself staring out the parlor window yet again, the sight of a break in the pervasive smoke covering the London sky capturing my gaze as if it were a work of art, not a mere blue sliver amid the dirty grey.

  I started, blinking like an owl, when Allred tapped at the door and entered.

  “Miss Amelia, a gentleman is here to see you,” he said. “Should I send him in?”

  I blinked, returning my thoughts to some sort of coherence from the semi-trance-like state they had sunk into. “Send him away, Allred. I am not receiving today.” I knew I should be curious who would visit when only I was in residence. People came to see Maman, not me. But I could not seem to muster the energy.

  Allred held out a little silver tray with a single calling card on it. “He said his name was Captain Rollins, miss. He was quite insistent,” he said in an apologetic voice. I heard sympathy in it, as well. He knew how hard I had taken Captain Rollins’ death, and he had some idea of what hearing that name attached to some other personality would do to me.

  Josiah? Here?

  I sat silent a moment, struggling with a terrible mix of emotions. My heart cried, “Yes! He has come back to me!” Which was foolishness in the extreme. Something else, something small and horrid inside me, said, “Send him away without a single backward glance, as he did to you.”

  An honest reaction, but neither kind nor useful.

  At last my sanity reasserted itself—or at least my natural curiosity. “Send him in, Allred. Let us see what the man wants from me now.”

  Allred bowed and slipped out. I used the few moments before he returned with Josiah to smooth the fall of my russet taffeta and pat at my hair, tidying the fashionable twist Mrs. Allred had created that morning.

  I thought I felt Josiah approaching like the change in atmospheric pressure preceding a storm. Who would have guessed my imagination was so strong?

  I stood as he entered, wearing a black coat with fine blue-and-green pin striping, a black neck tie, and a black crape armband.

  The reminder of Edmund Rollins’ death felt like a slap.

  “Miss Everley,” he said, giving me a nod in substitute for the bow that would have been more proper, had I been more proper. His father’s absence seemed to intensify with the son’s presence.

  I blinked to clear the quick tears, hoping he would not notice my momentary weakness. “Captain. I hope you have recovered from the voyage.”

  He shifted uncomfortably at my cool, formal tone. Perhaps he had not yet fully regained his land legs. “Yes, thank you. And you?”

  “I have.” I could feel his gaze studying my frame, and wished I had eaten more of Mrs. Allred’s offerings. My dress had fit a little too loosely that morning. “Would you care to sit?”

  “I shall not stay long,” he said, but he lowered himself to the edge of the chair nearest the door. I resumed my place on the window seat. The entire length of the room stretched between us.

  I cleared my throat. “How is the Mercury, Captain? Have there been any more accidents?”

  “No. And no other ship in the fleet suffered any unexplained damage. I now suspect the sabotage was aimed at Mr. Jones, not at Winged Goods.”

  “But you have kept the guards, have you not? To be on the side of safety?”

  “Yes, of course. Although they are costing us a fortune. I shall have to dismiss them in a few days if nothing else alarming occurs.”

  “Yes, you are probably correct.” Still, it did not sit well with me. “Has any progress been made on finding the guilty party? After all, he is responsible for Henry’s death. He is a murderer, not simply some lad up to mischief.”

  “Scotland Yard is not hopeful, and I cannot afford both guards and private investigators.”

  And so another friend’s death would go unpunished. I returned my gaze to the street outside the window, counting measured breaths until my emotions were back under control. “What can I do for you, Captain? Surely you must be busy with your ship. Have you found an engineer, yet?” To replace me, I did not say. “I can give you recommendations.”

  “We have a few possibilities,” he replied. “That is not why I came.” He fell silent, toying nervously with his watch chain.

  I allowed the lapse in conversation to grow, feeling not a bit of guilt at enjoying his discomfort. It was little enough revenge, after all, for his throwing me away.

  He seemed to come to some sort of conclusion for he stood and came toward me. My heart, that lunatic organ, leapt, creating a plethora of scenarios where Josiah fell to his knees at my feet, begging me to return with him to his ship; asking me to marry him, in truth this time; pleading for my forgiveness of his odious behavior.

  He, of course, did none of these things. He did not even sit on the chaise situated conveniently near my own seat. Instead, he loomed over me. “My mother has asked to speak with you.”

  I can honestly say those particular words had never entered my mind as having a possibility of coming from Josiah’s mouth.

  My astonishment prevented me from immediately answering, but my reply was, apparently, unnecessary.

  “I suppose it goes without saying that I do not wish for either of you to meet. You cannot desire to meet her.”

  “No,” I said, gaining some limited control of my speech. “I do not. I will not.” I could not see the advantage in putting myself in a position to receive yet more judgment and abuse, this time at the hands of the woman who had taken so much away from Maman and me. “How perceptive of you to anticipate my response. Good day, Mr. Rollins.” I stood, in an effort to herd Josiah toward the door.

  He did not step away, holding his ground as I moved forward. My skirts brushed the knife-sharp creases of his trousers, yet he still did not move. I halted much too close to him. He smelled of the sandalwood and chamomile soap he favored, fresh air, and coal smoke. And him, of course. I could smell him.

  I felt warm for the first time in three days, as if he were some special sort of furnace designed to heat only me.

  I stared at the subdued, crinkled texture of Josiah’s neck cloth, since I refused to look up to meet his eyes. Cowardice? Or a wise course of action calculated to protect my feelings? I did not know, nor care to know, at the moment.

  “I cannot leave without you, Miss Everley. We have…” He cleared his throat, and moved away to the door, closing it gently but firmly and leaning back against it. What did he expect me to do, rush past him in a mad attempt to escape from my own house?

  “We have a problem,” he continued in a low voice.

  “Which i
s…?”

  He ran a hand through his hair, disturbing the precise lines no doubt constructed by his valet that morning. “My mother has threatened to go public with the story unless you agree to see her.”

  I shook my head, not in the least enlightened by his response. “The story of…what? A woman being an engineer aboard your father’s airship? A bit scandalous, perhaps, but there have been female aeronauts before. Since I am no longer with your establishment, I cannot see how the revelation would hurt you overmuch.”

  “Not that story, Miss Everley. Somehow she learned of your existence, and who your mother is. She will spin a tale of how your mother seduced my father and kept the product of that union at his side. She will say she tried to save him from your mother’s greedy, salacious clutches but failed, to her eternal sorrow. She will say you tried to seduce me, taking after your mother in this respect, regardless of the fact I am your half-brother…”

  “You are not my half-brother!” I cried, moving to the fireplace. If I could not have the warmth of Josiah’s proximity, I’d settle for the little fire I’d kindled to chase away the gloom of the dreary afternoon. “Do you think I would have allowed matters to progress so far between us if that were the case? I know you do not think highly of me, but what have I done that you would think me the sort of person to…”

  “No,” he broke in, striding to stand across the hearth from me. “I do not think that. I am merely stating what my mother will say. Despite our differences, I know you would not do that.”

  “Our differences?” I muttered, staring down at the leaping flames. “The differences were all on your side. At the end.”

  Josiah pretended not to hear me. “You see what she is doing, do you not? She will twist the truth until she drags my father’s name—and yours—through the mud, condemning us all in the eyes of civilized society. Your mother and I, and even my own mother, cannot avoid getting some of the mess on ourselves.”

  “Then speak with her. She adores you. You said she refused to let you travel far because she could not stand to be parted from you. She will listen.”

  “Do you think I have not tried? I almost think she wishes to destroy Winged Goods’ reputation as well as yours. Perhaps she believes I will be able to stay by her side if the business fails.”

  “But that’s insane! You would still need some way to support yourself. And her.”

  Josiah shrugged, wearily. “She comes from money. She would be happier if I assumed my position in society as an idle gentleman.”

  I frowned. “Do you have enough investments to do that?”

  “Gentlemen should not pay heed to such petty concerns, in her opinion.”

  “So, no, you do not.”

  I took his silence for agreement.

  We had fallen into a reasonable discussion, despite both our efforts to remain aloof. He appeared so discouraged. Distraught, even. Now that I studied him with a more dispassionate gaze, I could see how pale and pinched he seemed. His cheekbones stood out more than they had in Constantinople.

  I quashed the pity that rose in my breast. I held no blame—or little blame, at any rate—for his distress. I sank to my knees on the hearthrug, reaching out to warm my hands over the open flames. “What does she want from me, Josiah? Why must I be the one to face your mother’s vitriol for something our parents did? Why must I be the one to crawl to her for the privilege?”

  “She will not come here.”

  “No. She would lose the advantage of home territory if she did. In that, at least, she shows sense.”

  Josiah’s feet moved restlessly, and I thought for a moment that he might crouch down beside me. That he might unbend far enough to meet me face to face.

  But he did not. “Come with me, Miss Everley. Hear her out and answer her questions. Help me convince her of the harm she would do to herself and me by going to the papers. Then you can be rid of us forever.”

  The pain of those words “rid of us forever” struck deep. Henry, dead. So, too, Captain Rollins. Josiah, lost to me. The Mercury, beyond my reach. My breath sucked in on a strangled gasp, and my hands clenched as I drew them back to press them against my stomach. The flames followed like a row of orange ducklings, dancing upon my knuckles as if to say, “Never mind the weakness of humans. We will never fail you!” I hastily shook them off and they leaped obediently back to the grate.

  “What is the matter?” Josiah snapped. He dropped to his heels, reaching for my hand. “Did you burn yourself?”

  I jerked away, stumbling to my feet. “No. I am fine.” As if a little fire such as burned on any household hearth could injure me. But Josiah did not, could not, know that.

  Josiah rose to his feet, as well. “Do not be silly, Everley. Show me your hand.” He held his own hand out, demanding.

  “You are no longer my captain, Mr. Rollins. I have no obligation to obey you.” I put both hands behind my back.

  “Everley . . .” he growled.

  My head whirled from the whiplash of emotions. Did he care about me—or not? What did I feel for him? I had no clear idea anymore. Did any of that matter? If he did not stop, did not leave me alone to collect myself, I would burst into tears from sheer confusion. “I said I was fine! Please, go away.”

  “I cannot. I told you I would not leave without you.” He dropped his hand, a remote expression firmly back on his face. “If you will not come to save your own reputation, do it to save your mother’s.”

  I gave a short, bitter laugh. “She has no reputation left to lose here in England. And in Paris, such a tale would only bring her more custom.”

  “For my father’s sake, then. I had thought you respected the man.”

  I had respected him, before I learned that he had abandoned love to accept an arranged marriage for the money it would bring him. Before I knew he had kept so many secrets from me, from his wife, from his son.

  But…

  He had been good to me, kept me safe, taught me to hide what I was, taught me mathematics and engineering and flight. And Maman loved him, still.

  I loved him, still.

  Perhaps he had done what he thought best at the time. No human was perfect. Heaven only knew I possessed plenty weaknesses of my own.

  “Yes,” I whispered. “Despite everything, I still respect Captain Rollins.” I shook out my skirts, reducing the wrinkles in the taffeta from where I had knelt by the fire. “You win, Mr. Rollins. I shall go with you to confront your mother. For Captain Rollins’ sake.”

  Chapter Twenty-Seven

  We arrived at Josiah’s townhouse in under an hour, a beautifully restored, red-brick Georgian situated on a quiet court in a fashionable Kensington neighborhood. The westering sun threw slanting shafts of withered yellow through London’s cap of smoke, casting a sulfurous tint over the white pillars and trimwork.

  Josiah escorted me into a soaring entryway where a manservant ushered us up a sweeping staircase.

  Mrs. Francis Rollins, Captain Rollins’ widow, sat like a darkened scab on an ice-blue sofa in a white room. Empty bud vases, stiff porcelain figurines, and crystal candlesticks—all in tones so light the paleness of the room remained undisturbed by their presence—sat in precise rows on the mantel and side tables. Mrs. Rollins’ black crape seemed to suck all the light from the strangely sterile room. She did not stand as we entered.

  Josiah stepped in front of me. “Good afternoon, Mother. Miss Everley has graciously consented to call upon us. Shall I have Johnstone bring a tea tray?”

  “That will not be necessary. Move aside, Josiah. Let me see the chit.” Even her voice was cold and dark.

  Josiah hesitated, as if reluctant to expose me to his mother’s disdain. Or to expose her to mine. However, he had been the one to drag me here. He now had to live with the consequences.

  I swished past him, the rustle of my skirts echoing the sound of carriage wheels on the pavement outside. “I understand you wished to meet me, Mrs. Rollins.” Any greater show of deference or friendship would be sound
ly rebuffed, I suspected, and so I offered none, choosing to retain whatever small advantage I had in this encounter.

  Her lip twitched in a genteel sneer. “I wished I had not had to deal with any sort of person as you or your mother, but I have no choice.”

  “That we exist is neither my fault nor my mother’s.”

  “Not yours, perhaps. But certainly your mother’s.”

  A muscle in my jaw leapt as I clenched my teeth, but I firmly reined in my temper. I had only to grovel a bit and persuade this woman to expend her bitterness on me instead of bringing us all down with her. “A woman may find herself in an untenable position through no fault of her own. Surely you can understand the hard choices a young woman has to navigate.”

  “I am the proof that such choices can be made responsibly!”

  I should have let it go. The obvious response would not advance my cause, and yet… “I can see how happy your choices have made you.”

  Josiah stiffened beside me. “Everley…” he warned.

  “Let her speak, Josiah,” Mrs. Rollins said. “It proves her low sensibilities. She is as ill-bred and weak as her mother.”

  My chin jutted upward, taking the blow in silence.

  “Mother, that was uncalled for.”

  She turned her haughty gaze upon her son. “You may leave, Josiah. Or take a seat and keep quiet like a good boy. This is between Miss Everley and me.”

  I glanced over at Josiah, shocked at the casual dismissal of the man who was, after all, a captain, business owner, and the person responsible for the woman’s welfare. He had gone even paler than when he had come to fetch me. Two bright spots of color stood out against his white cheeks.

  I waited for him to storm out, but he stayed beside me, stiff as Nelson’s column in Trafalgar Square.

  Mrs. Rollins appeared to think she had adequately dealt with his insolence for she paid him no more mind. “So this,” she said, waving a hand at me, “is the by-blow who stole my husband’s time and attention from his legitimate offspring.”