Spectris: Veritas Book Two

by Quinn Coleridge

  When the butter is finished, I return to the kitchen and sit on the floor with Tabby. She screeches and kicks the side of my leg. I turn down my hearing and smile at the infant.

  “Give her that wooden spoon, will you?” Cordelia asks. “It’s a few inches from your right hand. The baby’s teething, and she likes to chew on it.”

  The spoon is easy to locate, and I give it to the noisy moppet. When is Cousin Jane returning? Soon, I hope. Tabby has an excellent set of lungs.

  Wiping drool from my hand, I hear Cordelia scooping the fresh butter from the churn bucket, then depositing it into a ceramic crock. The aroma is one of life’s great pleasures, and I reconsider having a roll. After getting one from the table, I sit back down on the floor, and pop a piece of the bread into my mouth. Tabby pulls at my skirt, and I pick her up carefully. The wet spoon hits my face—more drool drips off my chin. Lovely. Cordelia laughs and puts the butter in the cold closet. As she begins to prepare vegetables for supper, I feel a chilling breeze swirl around my legs.

  Oh, no. Not Him . . .

  Reaper-vision expands within my head, and I see myself sitting on the blanket, cradling Tabby. She really does have hair like a cat. Death then turns his head and looks at Cordelia aggressively chopping celery and carrots.

  Please, Sir. How may I help? I’m obviously occupied.

  He pulls out His pocket watch and grimaces. You are busy, though not with the investigation. Time is marching, isn’t it? What have you learned about the bombing?

  Death notices the child in my arms and studies Tabby as though she is a rare species at the zoo. I relay the things I discovered while sleuthing yesterday. Death laughs out loud when I tell him I’m now working in the kitchen at Griffin House, scraping dishes.

  Daughter of Rome, you do lead an interesting life. Who is this little one?

  Reaper-vision switches off, deo gratias, but it is replaced with the image of Him on the floor next to me, lying on His side, reaching out a finger toward Tabby. I twist in the opposite direction, moving her out of His reach.

  Death is wearing a lavender tie under His robes, with a beautiful linen shirt and tan trousers. His attention is still riveted on the child. In all the years I’ve known the immortal, I’ve never seen that expression of wonder in His cold, blue eyes. The gaze flickers up to me. Such a tiny body with so much life inside. I wish I could hold it.

  Not ‘it’, Sir. Tabby is a she.

  I wish I could hold her, if that suits you better.

  I recoil at the thought. You could if you were mortal. Though she’s teething and her saliva would get on your wardrobe.

  The Reaper looks dismayed at the thought of His lovely clothes being ruined. Tabby gurgles and smiles right at Him. Only a pure soul could do such a thing. Death drops His hands, stunned. Did you see that, Visionary? She likes me. In fact, I think she likes me better than you.

  Not in the mood to disagree with the Reaper, I sigh in relief when Cordelia’s cousin bustles into the kitchen. Jane thanks Cordelia and walks over to me. Death sits a foot away from her left shoe.

  “You look natural holding a baby, Miss Hester. Tabby seems quite content.”

  I smile and give the woman her daughter. The clean baby smell fades away as Cordelia escorts mother and child to the front door. Death seems sad, watching them depart.

  He lifts His chin toward the retreating humans. Do you want children? A family of your own one day?

  Speechless, I shrug. The Reaper’s question makes me uncomfortable. Mothers are supposed to be wise and kind and gentle. None of those characteristics apply to me at all. Surely the gods would not trust a new life to my kind. I’m only good with the dead.

  But the immortal isn’t satisfied with my response. Tell me, Hester. Do you ever wonder what it would be like to be human?

  Again, I can do nothing but shrug. What is wrong with Him? He knows my situation. Although I am not a typical human, per se, I am perfectly mortal and prone to all the pain and temptation most people experience. In addition to my magic, I heal faster after being injured, but that is all that separates me from them.

  Sir Death grows thoughtful and stares off into the distance. The gods ask too much of us, don’t you think? They take all, but what do they give?

  He disappears suddenly, causing a thin layer of frost to form on my skin. I’ve never been so relieved to see Him go.

  Cordelia returns from saying farewell to her cousin and pulls out a chair to sit down. “I’m exhausted, Hester. Would you like to join me for a glass of lemonade?”

  I get up from my place on the floor and take a seat near her. The glass she hands me smells of tart lemons. Actually it’s not a glass, just a fruit jar. Water beads on the sides of it and runs between my fingers. Thank goodness it’s not Tabby’s spittle.

  Contradicting her declaration of weariness, Cordelia sets her drink down and brings the cutting board to the table. With the baby gone, my chum is letting her chipper façade crumble to dust. The emotions I get from her are fear and anger and more fear. It doesn’t require a genius to know why she’s feeling these things.

  I hesitate over asking about Isaac, but from the way Cordie’s attacking innocent root vegetables, she needs an outlet for her troublesome thoughts. Knocking on the table gently, I get her attention. How’s our guest?

  She chops harder. “Bored and perspiring like mad. But who can blame him?”

  I point to my fruit jar. Lemonade?

  “Already took up a whole pitcher of it. As well as my new fan and a book from the library.” Cordelia strides to the larder, takes something from the baskets inside, and returns to the cutting board. “He’s still miserable, despite my best efforts. We’re thinking we might run away.”

  Where? When?

  “I don’t know, I don’t know!” she exclaims. “But he can’t stay up there. We’ll both go out of our minds.”

  I can’t disagree with this. I would have gone crazy my first night in the attic. But they mustn’t leave Stonehenge. Life on the run wouldn’t agree with them at all. They’d get caught before clearing fifty miles.

  Hold on a little longer. Sweat drips down my neck, and I wipe it away. Was the ice delivered?

  “Yes, Hester. I had the man put it in the cold closet like always.”

  Take ice to Isaac.

  She turns her knife upon something else. Smells like a sweet pepper. “It would help him cool off, but at such expense! Are you sure?”

  Kiss him, too. Happy man.

  This last comment brings peals of laughter from Cordelia. “But that might defeat the purpose of the ice bath!” she replies.

  I cover my smiling mouth with my hand as she laughs, and a voice enters my mind, uninvited. Who’s Isaac, Hettie? And why are you hiding him in the attic?

  My smile feels like it’s turned sour. I imagine I look the same way when I drink warm buttermilk. Get out of my head, Tom. And stop calling me that.

  Aw, I like your nickname—it fits. Now who’s Isaac?

  Leaving a happier, less fearful Cordelia to her food preparation, I take my cane from the umbrella stand and climb the stairs to Tom’s room. The cane is a useful tool. It helps me negotiate open spaces, and I can hit Tom with it if needs be. He opens the door before I knock, and I step inside.

  Tom shuts us in, and the panels in the door protest under his weight as he leans against them. “My, my. What will the others think? Married landlady visiting the bachelor tenant.”

  Before going to sleep last night, I decided to give this person a chance at sleuthing. He has supernatural talent, after all, and good Interpreters are hard to find. But I did not reckon with the new, unimproved personality. My cane feels solid in my hand. Is it too early in the interview to hit him with it?

  I decide to test how much Latin he remembers. Caper iste ex ore inverso balat.

  He gasps mockingly. “You’ve grown a salty tongue since I’ve been gone.”

  If the subject matter fits the description.

  Tom leaves the
door and walks over to me, standing a little too close. “Still got that hot temper.” He makes a tsk-tsk sound, like he’s scolding a child. “Let me assure you, I am not a goat who speaks, and if I were, I wouldn’t do so from my backside. My Latin is intact, if that was a test. Caput tuum lana repletumst.”

  I step back. My head is full of wool? The old Tom would often say this when we were children. I guess the new one does remember some things. Though not the rules of telepathy, but then he never did. Among the supernaturally inclined, it’s considered bad form for a telepath to alternate between vocal and mental communication with his associate. Like showing off or boasting of one’s dexterity. In the past, this idiosyncrasy was endearing. Now, it grates upon the nerves.

  No need to reminisce, I reply, and open the psychic channel between us. I’ll show you the vision, and you tell me what it means.

  De integro. From the beginning. Is Isaac involved in the crime?

  I shrug in response—I’ve been shrugging so much today. Collaterally speaking, I suppose. He’s a suspect in the bombing.

  And you’re sure he’s innocent?

  See for yourself.

  He entwines his hand with mine, palm hot and work-worn, and the vision begins, in all its detailed, tragic glory. We stand in the lace factory, the flies buzzing lazily near the windowsill. Both of us are inside Willa Holloway’s body, and we walk the room and watch the lace makers at work. Her thoughts are the same as before—the pride in her position and her sense of responsibility. Shaw and Pilgrim have it out with Charcoal Suit Lennox. Knowing what lies ahead, I wish to weep or scream, to stop the killer and prevent the explosion. Yet the building implodes just as it did, debris flying everywhere. All the people die—the moment of their passing preserved within our memories. Whereas this vision once belonged to Willa and me, now Tom is a part of it too. How will he react?

  Tom tears his hand from mine, and the ropes beneath his feather ticking stretch as he sits down. I can’t do this, Hettie. Those poor souls. Scared as hell, so much blood . . .

  I cross my arms and wait. No going back at this point, I’m afraid—the ghosts won’t let him quit. It would be kind to comfort this man who wears my old love’s face, but I can’t bring myself to do it. Unless it’s the cold variety.

  Breathe, Tom, and listen. You have a calling, isn’t that what you said last night? A role in this as well?

  He mutters about wanting a stiff drink, and I soften toward him momentarily, remembering the wastrel of not so long ago. Before his memory returned, Tom drank copious amounts of alcohol, but it brought him no clarity or relief, just addiction.

  Not to opium, like me, but an equally destructive mistress all the same.

  Keep breathing. I sit down beside him and pat his back. What did you once tell me, transit umbra, lux permanet?

  Shadows pass, light remains.

  That’s right. You’ll get some distance after a while. The rawness and shock will fade.

  Dropping his head between his knees, Tom forces air in and out, and then Sir Death glides through the wall. He’s back again? Of all the times for Him to appear! As my Interpreter, the old Tom could sense the Reaper, but they never communicated directly, only through me.

  Jet robes swirling, Sir Death crosses the room with unearthly grace, wearing the same ensemble He had on while visiting me in the kitchen. He’s been known to change outfits on the hour. Craddock has returned to Stonehenge, I see. What does he make of the bombing?

  Poor Tom is still hunched over, gulping air.

  The aftermath of the vision is still very new, Sir, but I’m sure he’ll have some valuable insights given time.

  The Reaper grimaces and floats to the window. Time is exactly what we don’t have, Visionary. The spirits grow restless.

  Tom sits up and shivers. “Why’s it so cold? I can nearly see my breath.”

  Touching his hand again, I transfer the image of Death to his mind, and he jumps to his feet. If Tom thinks this is bad, I hate to imagine how he’ll react to Willa Holloway’s bloody eyes. Fortunately for him, she doesn’t appear.

  “Domine Mors,” he says, voice shaking. “Is it Sir Death?”

  Yes—use telepathy when you talk of supernatural things. What if one of the other tenants heard you asking me that question?

  He exhales slowly, calming himself. All right. I’m sorry.

  As the Reaper looks out the window, I take out my lucky stone, rolling it between my fingers. I tell Tom of the things I’ve already shared with Death but in greater detail—beginning with Sergeant Drown’s visit and my subsequent trip to the police station and Griffin House. When I finish with Tom, I switch over to Sir Death and discuss His impressions of the case. Both of them speak to me off and on, without exchanging a word with each other. I feel as though I’m volleying a shuttlecock back and forth as I answer. Not that I’ve actually participated in badminton, of course, but this exchange is as tiring as the matches sound when Kelly and Alice play.

  I do not mention the Furies. I’m the subject of the investigation, and it’s my business. Besides, I’m embarrassed by the whole thing, and I’d rather not give Tom more fodder with which to humiliate me.

  An hour passes, and Sir Death, Tom and I now find ourselves on equal footing as far as the bombing is concerned. Tom taps his fingers on his knee, deep in thought, and Sir Death sighs, not at all His usual self. What’s next, Visionary?

  Why not check on the ghosts, Sir? They haven’t appeared at all over the last day.

  I know exactly where they’ve been. Willa’s walking the sidewalk across from the ruins of the lace factory. She has some unfinished business there, I gather. You’ll have to nip that in the bud, Hester. The other ghosts follow whatever she does, and we don’t want the lot of them manifesting and traumatizing innocent people.

  His disapproving tone makes me feel inadequate, as though I should whack myself, instead of Tom, with the cane. I agree to discuss the matter with Willa.

  What could her unfinished business be?

  As I muse, Tom turns my way. You said the fellow at Griffin House, the one named Benedict, came from Birmingham. And the other, Morris, was a Yorkie?

  That’s right. They mentioned another man, an Abernathy, and the deceased Mr. Shaw.

  What do Birmingham, York, and a lace factory have in common? You thought they were in trade together, didn’t you?

  Not together but maybe in similar fields.

  What do they manufacture in Birmingham and York?

  I relay Tom’s questions to Sir Death. You know, you might tell Craddock there’s a great deal of stained glass in Birmingham. Their churches and mausoleums have extensive collections. Magnificent artistry.

  Stained glass? Well, Death would know. He’s certainly been to enough graveyards.

  After I share Death’s comment with Tom, he returns to the door and leans against it. What about artistry here? Immigrant craftsmen arrive all the time and get jobs in the factories. We export artwork throughout America. Lots of money’s being made, and if one man monopolized it all, he’d be a king.

  Tom’s interpretive skills don’t seem rusty at all. He’s as sharp as he ever was. Stonehenge does have a thriving art industry sustained by immigrants from the Old World. Painters, potters, sculptors, weavers, glassblowers, etcetera. I sift through the information I’ve gathered recently and filed away in my brain, each tidbit flying through my mind at high speed, like the fanning pages of a picture book. I can’t remember what happened when I went to our peach orchard a couple of weeks past, but I have perfect recall about this.

  During my trip to the police station yesterday, I overheard the constables discussing a fire at the potter’s warehouse, set by an arsonist’s hand. The kilns were broken to bits as well and all of the fine English-style creamware in the connected shop had been destroyed.

  Arson—as intentional a crime as bombing a lace factory. My bones begin to burn as truth vibrates through them.

  Two men, Shaw and Abernathy, were punished b
y Lennox, according to what I overheard at Griffin House. Shaw dealt in lace, and perhaps the latter owned the burned out potter’s warehouse. Does Abernathy still live? Would he speak with the police if they guaranteed his safety? If Abernathy’s gone into hiding, he might be difficult to locate.

  I shake my head at the concept of artisanal organized crime. How elegant and profitable . . . how very James Scarlett. While away from town, he still has his dirty fingers in so many pies. Why didn’t I grasp it right away?

  Tom reaches out with telepathy. You’re in a different world. What are you thinking?

  About Abernathy, I suppose. What happened to his workers when the warehouse was destroyed, Tom? Are there guilds or unions to protect the artists?

  I don’t think so, Hettie. Pa always thought it was a shame, making skilled craftsmen into indentured servants. All because they wanted to start over in a new land.

  Death is dissolving and materializing as we talk, clearly bored. I rise from the corner of Tom’s bed and carefully stretch my back. How are they indentured?

  As Pa explained it to me, sponsors bring them over, rich men like Shaw and Abernathy, and then the artists repay the costs through years of hard work. Yet they hardly make a dime from it.

  The injustice of their predicament makes my blood boil. Americans throughout the country purchase import-quality art at domestic prices from our warehouses. Since Stonehenge is a railway hub between coasts, transporting the merchandise to either side of the country is easy. All of the boxes leaving our factories have a special stamp on the outside—a reproduction of the natural rock formation that lies a few miles outside the city. Colorado’s Stonehenge. The spitting image of the one in England but on a larger scale. My father admired the stamp, believing it to be an ingenious marketing ploy.