by Gail Dayton
"He flexes his fingers," Rosato said. "Constantly. It has helped him, I think."
Elinor nodded in agreement, hesitating to speak. Her voice might draw Cranshaw's attention, where the touch of her fingers or the sight of her skirt spreading over the stone floor had not. She took his hand in hers and spread the curled talons as much as possible, to see his palm. If they could build up the flesh and loosen the drawn-up skin--
"I think the burn ointment has healed as much as it is going to," she whispered. "We should change to another potion."
"Si, one designed to soften the scars." Rosato pointed to a harsh knot of shiny, melted-looking scarring. "And perhaps we should cut this to heal again, better?"
"Let's see how the potion works first." Elinor turned in her crouch toward the door. "I'd like him to have a larger dose of restorative as well. He seems very weak to me. Low on magic."
Cranshaw shivered. Elinor stroked the hand she held in instinctive comfort as she signaled for Amanusa to send in the restorative. Norwood, at his post near the door, took it from her and brought it to Rosato.
The prisoner noticed Norwood. He followed his jailer's progress across the room, eyes swiveling with his approach until Norwood passed behind Elinor. At last, Cranshaw's gaze intersected with Elinor's presence.
He screamed--a hoarse, graveled sound, but a scream nonetheless. He yanked his hand from Elinor's loose hold and swung wildly at her with both hands, shouting incoherently. Elinor jerked back, falling onto her bottom, catching herself with her hands on the rough floor. The blow struck Rosato's arm instead, knocking the vial from his hands.
Norwood shouted something, slashing his wand forward--Elinor didn't catch the word--and Cranshaw froze motionless. Harry was there, lifting her to her feet without saying anything, wonder of wonders.
"Don't hurt him," Elinor managed to say.
"He's not." Scorn scraped in Harry's voice. "He's just using the air to 'old him. Thom's got the keys to the warding as well as the doors. He can use the magic 'ere."
"Porco mondo."
Everyone turned to stare at Rosato who was picking up pieces of the glass vial. The bottom was out of it, all the potion--complete with Amanusa's blood and magic--spilled on the floor. "You have more medicine, yes? I am sorry to let go of your small bottle. Thicker glass for them, si?"
"Yes, indeed." Elinor pressed her lips together to keep her own swear words inside. Several more doses of the restorative remained in her bag, but they had lost the opportunity to get any blood inside him. At this moment.
Rosato retrieved a restorative from his own bag and poured a measure from the bottle into the tin cup on the wall-hung table next to the window. He carried it to Cranshaw and got Norwood to release the magic's hold enough to pour the potion down the prisoner's throat. "You should be glad we work to heal you, signore. Maybe we should leave to you be a cripple, eh?"
"Foulness!" Cranshaw hissed. "Blight upon the earth. Wickedness crawls like--"
He continued to rave, but Elinor ceased to listen. Harry tugged at her arm. Gently, but a definite urging to depart.
"I have a good ointment to help stretch his skin," she said to Rosato as she stopped resisting Harry's pull and let him lead her out the door. "I'll send it over to let you get a look at it, see what you think."
"Bene." Rosato followed. "I am sure it will be well. Better than well."
Norwood exited last, closed and locked the door, then poked his wand--which appeared to be a thickish cylinder of polished granite--through the grille and released the spell holding the wizard motionless.
Elinor brooded the rest of the afternoon. Cranshaw's injuries disturbed her less than his madness. She could fix the injuries or at least alleviate them sufficiently to make his body usable again. But without a functioning mind, what use was a working body?
Her brooding wasn't helpful. She knew it, but couldn't seem to stop it. She wanted to fix him herself. Yes, Amanusa was the magister, the master of all sorcerers. But she'd only been a sorceress since last June or thereabouts. And Pearl had taken up sorcery only last fall. No one knew much about it, except Jax, and he couldn't work it, only describe it. So really, all the sorcery being practiced these days was essentially experimental.
Why couldn't she do this? Why shouldn't she? Elinor had already learned wizardry. How difficult could sorcery be? The way Pearl and Amanusa practiced it, it seemed to be mostly wild leaps of intention into the dark. Elinor could do that.
As she nicked her forefinger with her worktable paring knife, Elinor's conscience gave a little twinge. Or maybe that was her common sense. She shouldn't be doing this. Not alone.
But the man was suffering. She truly did want to help him.
But she'd only known of her sorcery talent, only been a student of the guild for one day. Two, if she wished to push the point.
But she was a magister. Of wizardry, true, but the wizardry could fill in the gaps of her admittedly small knowledge of sorcery.
And she would be careful. First, do no harm. She wasn't a physician, but magicians--wizards, at least--followed much the same creed. She would simply go in and familiarize herself with his mind. If she could make some tiny adjustment--not even a change, really, just a--a tweak--she might do it. But only might. If it seemed there would be no harm come from it.
She nicked a little deeper than she meant to and blood flowed out. Quickly, she pushed magic into it and wiped the blood on her alder wand before stanching the wound with her handkerchief. It took considerable stanching to get the bleeding to stop. Obviously, she needed to use a lancet rather than a knife. She would have to see about getting one.
Elinor stirred the blood-daubed wand into the small beaker holding a fresh dose of restorative potion, making her plans. She poured the potion into a bottle, tucked it into her wizard's bag, and put on her jacket and shawl. She would have to hurry. It was 4:30 already, and the sun was going down.
Harry stood in his front parlor, nursing a glass of gin and tonic water, watching the world go by on the street outside. Gin might be a plebeian drink but he was a plebe after all, a member of the unwashed masses, and he rather liked it. If you drank your gin in a fancy crystal tumbler, that gave it a bit of class, and if you mixed it with tonic water, that kept you from drinking too much too fast. He was trying to decide whether to attempt a breach of Elinor's fortress, otherwise known as her stillroom, when he heard Freeman speaking in the front hall. The door opened and closed.
He leaned forward to look toward his front door and saw Elinor briskly descending the steps, heading toward the hotel and all the hackney cabs that clustered nearby. Where in blazes was she going this time of day? Especially after a day like this one had been.
Harry tossed back the rest of his drink and shouted for his coat as he set the glass on the drinks table. In moments, he was out the door and trotting down the street after Elinor.
He considered calling after her, but she didn't like being shouted at and if she didn't want anyone knowing where she was going--which it appeared she didn't--she might bolt and then he'd never catch her. As it was, he was just a hair too slow to jump in the hack with her and had to hire his own to follow. What in bloody hell was she up do?
And where were all these other idiots going? The streets were crammed with carriages and omnibuses and wagons and cabs, and all the cabs looked alike. He managed to keep Elinor's cab in sight, as did his driver, but they fell farther and farther behind.
Dense traffic delayed Elinor's trip to Holborn and had her seething with frustration, but in the end it didn't matter. The magician at the gate recognized her as wizard's magister and let her promptly through. Mr. Norwood had gone home, he said. Elinor told him not to bother the man, she knew the way to the wizard's cell. She had a potion for his poor hand.
She had to knock on the door at the proper floor to get through from the stairwell landing. A small window in the door slid open and an alchemist peered out, his eyes widening as he saw her. "Miss Tavis. How may I assist you?"
"I've brought a potion for Mr. Cranshaw." She raised her bag to show him. "To help calm his mind." She hoped it would, at any rate. "Would you be willing to take it to him? I doubt he will drink it from my hand."
"Certainly, Magister." Keys turned in locks and bolts were thrown. "If you'll give it to me?"
"I'd like to wait a bit and see how it affects him, if you don't mind."
When he admitted her, Elinor looked about the small guard station, but could only see the thick ceramic mug that held the guard's own tea. "Is there a cup I can pour it in, Mr.--"
"Biggs, miss. John Biggs." He opened a shallow cupboard above his tiny table and took out a tin cup.
"Why does that name sound familiar?" Her eyes narrowed in thought as she uncorked her vial and poured her potion in the cup. "Are you the alchemist with the daughter?"
"Aye, miss. Sarah's a good girl and sharp as they come."
"Amanusa--Mrs. Greyson sent round a note for her to come be tested. If you haven't got it yet, you will. We're anxious to have every likely girl we can find, especially if she's from a family that understands magic and has supportive parents like you." Elinor beamed at him as she handed him the cup.
"The missus, she's not so sure, but--well, it's not likely our Sarah will find a husband. She's lovely as can be, to be sure, but she has a birthmark, a port wine stain over half her face. That's a hard thing for the fool idiots that most men are to look past, you see."
"Do send her. Straightaway." Elinor nodded briskly and tried not to actually shoo him off to do what she wanted.
"Right." Biggs lifted the cup to show he knew what that was and trundled down the corridor.
Elinor came into the hallway to watch him open the cell door, enter, and close it behind him. She eased down the way to hear what was said. She wasn't quite tall enough to see through the grille, but she didn't think she wanted to be seen anyway.
"Here we are, Mr. Cranshaw," Biggs was saying in that too-hearty voice people often used with the ill and insane. "A nice tonic to revive your health."
A space of quiet fell. Elinor pictured Biggs handing the cup to Cranshaw. Or perhaps helping him to drink it.
"Hmph. Smells competent enough, I suppose." Cranshaw sniffed more audibly this time and Elinor modified her mental picture to match. "Though I don't know why he would have put marigold, tagetes patula, in it. Still..."
"The doctors want you to drink it, sir." Biggs sounded firm enough. "Here, I'll help you."
"I'm not entirely crippled, young man. No thanks to that dreadful female."
Elinor envisioned him taking the cup. And draining it? She could only hope.
"Females aren't so bad, sir. I'm married to one myself and have five more for offspring. Not a dreadful in the bunch. All bright as sunbeams, they are."
"Corruption," Cranshaw snarled. "Wicked and bent to sin."
"No more than any lad. Less so, if you ask me. But you didn't."
Someone knocked at the stairwell door. Pounded, more like. It made Elinor jump. Who else could have come here at this hour? Mr. Norwood would have his own keys. Her brows came down into a frown.
"That's it, sir. Drink it all up. I'll take the cup back with me. Got to see who's come calling. You rest easy tonight, Mr. Cranshaw." Biggs let himself out of the cell again.
"Who could that be?" Elinor clutched at his coat to slow his progress.
Biggs shrugged. "Dr. Rosato, maybe. Could be Mr. Norwood again. Won't know till I answer, will we?"
"I'll stay here to observe Mr. Cranshaw." In truth, Elinor wanted to start her ride. If someone had come after her, to stop her--like, oh say, Harry--she wanted to be well on her way.
Elinor opened her magic sense and looked for sorcery for the first time. Even when she'd ridden Harry's blood, she hadn't looked, just felt around. This time, it was still more feel than sight, but the magic was there. A bit of herself in the chamber beyond the heavy iron door that she could reach out and--
Step into. Elinor found herself buffeted from all sides as she tumbled down some long darkness. She reached out to slow her fall, but it did no good. The magic hadn't--hadn't settled yet.
"Elinor!"
The sound of her name--not quite shouted, but nearly--disoriented her even more, so much she almost fell over. Hands, Harry's hands, caught her and hauled her up against his broad chest.
Harry's voice spat sacrilege. Then, "She's workin' magic and I don't know 'ow dangerous it is to try to pull 'er out. Where can she sit?"
She was swept up into a pair of powerful arms and carried away, back toward the guard station, the tiny part of her mind still in her body decided. She didn't have to concern herself with that any more. Harry was here. He would take care of everything.
But when she tried to focus on the larger part of herself inside Nigel Cranshaw, things began to go wrong.
Harry had never hit a woman in his life. Not even a girl, back when he was a kid himself, living in the Dials. He wouldn't now. But for the first time, even he understood how a man might be driven to it. God knew he wanted to shake her till her teeth rattled and he just might, a little.
He'd managed to spot her going through the great iron and oak gate at Holborn Tower. The traffic had been too thick for his cab, even here, so he'd paid the man off and run through the gate on foot. He still hadn't been fast enough to stop her from whatever fool craziness she had planned.
Riding Cranshaw's blood, he assumed. She had that distant, distracted look Amanusa and Pearl got when they went out riding. But Amanusa and Pearl had the sense to be sitting when they did it. He'd have thought Elinor possessed of more common sense than either of those two ladies, but apparently, when it came to magic, she hadn't a soup spoon of the stuff.
He was carrying her back to the chair in the little alcove of the guard's station when Elinor convulsed in his arms. And kept convulsing.
Panic flooded up from somewhere in his gut and he shoved it right back down. He didn't have time for it. Ignoring the guard's cries of alarm, Harry turned round and marched back to Cranshaw's cell door. Her shudders became twitches, but she was still in a seizure. Maybe if he got her right up next to Cranshaw, she would come out of it.
"Open the door," he ordered the guard.
"Sir, do you think that's wise? Let me call for help. Dr. Rosato--"
"Yeah, do that. And send for Amanusa Greyson as well, but first, open the door. She's caught 'erself in that bastard's blood and I need to get her closer to 'im." He thought so, anyway. Hoped so. "If she's close, she can get the blood untangled."
The guard's hands shook as he fumbled for the lone key on his ring. "Isn't she the wizard's magister?"
"Yeah, but she can work sorcery too." Harry scowled down at her. "But she obviously ain't quite learned 'ow."
The key finally went in the lock and turned. The door creaked open and Harry burst through with Elinor in his arms. He turned in a full circle, unable to see Cranshaw.
Elinor went limp, her twitches and stiffness vanishing so abruptly Harry had to look to reassure himself she still breathed. She did, barely.
With a hoarse scream, Cranshaw erupted from the dense shadow beside the door, rushing at the guard and bowling him over. The lantern went out and in the darkness Harry felt a chill rush past that froze his blood with its foulness. Before he could take a step, the door clanged shut and the lock turned, clicking the bolt home. He heard a grunt and a thud and prayed the guard was still alive.
Carefully, Harry shuffled his feet across the stone floor, searching for the cot without light, trying to listen for what was happening outside. Cranshaw searching the guard. Cranshaw running down the hall, searching the alcove, plucking keys off the wall, opening the stairwell door. Closing and locking it again. Damnation.
He didn't put too much heat behind the oath. Elinor was hurt, but he was an alchemist locked in a wizard's cell. He was surrounded by metal and stone, the elements of his magic. Granted, the elements were heavily warded by magic with keys he didn't have, b
ut he was the alchemist's magister. Surely he could grasp enough magic to escape the cell. Elinor needed help and he knew damn-all to help her.
His knee banged into the side rail of the cot and he cursed. The metal bunk was bolted to the floor and he'd hit it hard. He would have one hell of a bruise. He lowered Elinor to the rough woolen bedding and smoothed her hair back. "Where are you, love?" he murmured. "You need to come back."
Elinor put out her hands again, determined to stop her wild tumble this time. The magic felt more settled, more as if it had found its place in this body. And finally the crazy spinning slowed and stopped. She let herself rest a moment, get used to being motionless again. Or relatively so.
She could sense Cranshaw's muscles flexing as if he were walking, going somewhere. She also felt very odd. Stretched, or-- Did it matter? She was here. She needed to do what she came to do and get out.
First things first. She wanted a look at his burns from this side.
The burns on his chest and arm and hip seemed to be healing nicely. The skin pulled when he tried to move, but it would stretch enough to allow him to walk. His hand, though--Elinor cringed a little when she saw the drawn-up tendons and internal scarring. She wondered if she could push something, stretch something, but--first, do no harm. Later, they could try.
She turned to his mind then, willing the magic to show her Cranshaw's mental state. It dropped her into such a maelstrom of fear and excitement and abhorrence and anticipation and disgust and who-knew-what-else, that she feared she could never break free. When she "stood" once more inside his physical self--somewhere close to his eye, she thought--Elinor realized she didn't know what to look for inside his mind.
How did other sorceresses know? Usually, they were looking for evidence of crimes, from what Elinor had picked up. So what was Nigel's crime?