Tom and I both exhale with relief. I turn to him as I once again remember Hammersmith. We’ll have to tell Sir Death the truth about the professor, Tom.
He banks the coals in the stove and swears after burning himself. I’d suggest using tact with the Reaper.
Oh, the more tact, the better. It frightens me to imagine how He will respond.
You’ll do fine, Hettie. He likes you.
I’ll do fine? I thought you’d be with me when I tell Him.
Tom takes the pots off the stove and sets them aside to cool. I need to go. Cordelia wants me to find Kelly and ask him to meet her at the station. May I borrow Jupiter?
Taking my permission for granted, Tom is already walking away, and I follow after him. Can’t we hail a cab and both go?
What would we do with Tabby? She’s not well.
Panic grows as I think of being solely responsible for the child. Leaving the baby with me isn’t the best option. I’m not the motherly sort.
Tom stops at the door, and it sounds as though he’s brushing off his hat. Pretend that you are.
Yes, but . . .
The streets are full-up with traffic, Hettie. Willard said a riot broke out on Belfast Road and a couple of shops were set on fire. You need to keep Tabby safe here at home.
The mention of a riot clears away my worries over babysitting. I saw a fistfight on the street the other day. Both men were amiable until they heard each other’s accents.
“A hot summer brings out the lunatics.” Tom reverts to speaking aloud. “I’d better leave. Even Jupiter can get me uptown faster than a hansom.”
I nod in agreement. Be careful.
The back door opens and swings shut, and Tom strides toward the barn. As I listen to his boots smacking the dirt, I realize Tom and I just had a conversation without either of us getting angry. It was refreshingly mature and temperate. We might be making progress after all.
I walk out to the porch as he saddles my horse, Tabby clutching my neck with her chubby arms. Jupiter neighs happily, as if he can’t believe his good fortune at being allowed out of the corral.
“I’ll be back once I’ve delivered the message to Kelly,” Tom calls as he mounts Jupiter.
I follow the sound of their departure until Jupiter’s hooves blend in with all the others clattering against the cobblestones. Thank goodness Gabriel fixed the old boy’s shoe.
Bees drone softly around the grapevines. Their busyness makes me restive. Sitting down in my favorite rocker, I lean back with the baby and wonder what I can do to fill the time until Tom returns. Not laundry, that’s for certain. Nor baking, sewing, or mopping . . .
My break earlier in the garden was lovely, but I never intended to stay at home for long. Help Cordelia for a spell, eat dinner, and then out into the world again. That was my original plan. But I can’t walk to the police station or go to Hammersmith’s class to confront Sir Death. Neither are feasible until Jane comes to collect Tabby.
The baby must sense my agitation because she presses a sticky kiss to my chin. Aside from the drool, it’s quite sweet. I wipe my chin, and she gurgles and laughs before sucking on the teether again. I cup Tabby’s cheek, surrendering completely to her charms. Who can fight such cuteness?
A chorus of birds chirp in the orchard, and I turn my hearing down a bit. Willard won’t be happy if they devour his prize fruit. If only we had a few scarecrows about the place, but they are something of a conundrum in our house. They’d help Willard protect the trees, but he finds their lifelike presence in the garden disturbing.
Leaving the rocker behind, I hike Tabby higher on my hip and follow the steps to the yard below. Squatting down, I search for something: a stone or a piece of wood. Instead I locate some apricot pits, most likely left there when someone ate lunch outside and spit the kernels into the grass. Maybe Gabriel and Willard had a contest.
I collect three pits and stand, listening for the loudest bird. The one I select sounds robust and content with life. A large specimen, I believe. His throaty call is fairly easy to pinpoint, and I draw back with my throwing arm and pitch the pit at the bird. There’s an unhappy squawk and a fluttering of wings when he’s struck. The angry fellow flies away, and I throw the other pits in succession. I hear the rest of the birds relocate to a safer spot, though not far from the orchard. Tabby screeches with glee.
So many noisy little bodies moving through the air now. Adjusting my hearing for the extra sound waves, I curtsey to my indignant audience. Before returning to the house, Tabby and I whirl around in circles as she giggles against my shoulder. It won’t be long until the orchard is under attack again. Only minutes, I’d guess. But throwing the pits gives us something fun to do.
It reminds me of practicing with my knives. I pat them where they rest in the sheath strapped to my thigh and walk into my bedroom. It feels cool and peaceful and blessedly empty. No Aunt Mary Arden looking for the journal of Rasputin, just the faint smell of lilac soap. As Tabby pulls at my hair, I open the wardrobe door and check my winter coat. The smell of mothballs isn’t pleasant, but I suppose that’s the point. No moth of sound mind would eat material that smells so revolting. Reaching into the inner pocket, I exhale with relief. Rasputin’s book is still safe. It warms to my touch and vibrates. My skin crawls, and I make haste to cover the coat with the canvas and return it to the wardrobe.
A different book caused me a great deal of trouble at Ironwood. It nearly cost me my life. Once this matter is resolved, perhaps I should leave books in general to other people.
Tabby laughs as though she heard my thoughts, and I dance about with her until I stub my toe on Mr. Ming, my cast iron dragon doorstop. He, of the bulging eyes and flaring nostrils, belonged to my mother and prevented me from being burned alive when my parent’s home was destroyed. Ming has a special place in my heart.
The door to the house opens and someone strides down the hall. I leave my room and go to the kitchen. “Such a meal!” Sir Death says, standing by the table. “Did Cordelia cook all this? The chicken smells divine.”
Pro di immortales. What luck! It galls me to thank Fate, but the old crone has obviously had a hand in this. Since I couldn’t go to Hammersmith’s lecture to find Death, she has brought Him here.
He rattles some dishes around and chooses a plate. Tabby coos, and I cuddle her as I think of what to say. I need to expose Hammersmith as a killer. And isn’t it time for the Reaper to give up this holiday of His and get back to working with the ghosts? Curse and blast. Telepathy isn’t an option with this human Death. I’ll have to vocalize.
The Reaper finishes preparing His plate and sits at the table. After depositing Tabby on a nearby blanket, I pull out a seat next to Him and push against my throat gently. Before I utter a word, Death launches into a description of his afternoon. He and the murderer Hammersmith had quite a time.
“You’ll never guess what we did. We rode in a hot air balloon! It was thrilling. Stonehenge looked like a toy city.”
Sir Death eats a few bites of Cordelia’s chicken, has raptures over that too, and then goes on. “After the hot air balloon, we had ice cream. One cannot say they have lived until they eat ice cream! Its inventor is a certifiable genius.”
He goes on to regale me with swimming in the Turkish baths, an open-air concert at the gazebo, and a pie-eating contest. They certainly know how to have fun. I’ve lived in Stonehenge my whole life without doing most of those things. But where is Hammersmith now?
I hold my throat and rasp as loudly as I can. “I thought you were having supper out.”
“Phineas said he had something to do. An unexpected development of some kind.” Sir Death puts down his utensils. “Tell me, what was all that at the circus with Craddock? Junior going missing and having your own buggy?”
“We were sleuthing.”
“What is there to sleuth about at the circus?”
My voice grows softer, my throat more sore. “At first we found information connected to the bombing. Then I discovered another killer.” I
pause, thinking of a diplomatic way to explain the professor’s history. I decide to skip that and take the direct approach. “It’s Hammersmith.”
I feel Sir Death bristling. “What of him?”
“I’m sorry, Sir, but he’s evil.”
The Reaper pushes away from the table and stands. “Phineas is a great man. You don’t know what you’re saying. Are you jealous? Is that it? You’ve never had a holiday, so you wish to spoil mine? It’s pathetic, and I won’t listen to another word.”
Am I jealous of Him? Somewhat, perhaps. Who wouldn’t like to cast their cares away?
I reach out to Death, hoping to bridge our rift. “Ghosts don’t lie, Sir. They need you—I need you. Come back.”
“I won’t,” says Death. “Not yet. You haven’t solved the case. ”
“We’re so close.”
I try to speak again, but my voice disappears. I get up from the table, rush to the parlor, and get my chalk and slate from the escritoire. The Reaper is doing something at the sink when I return to the kitchen. The slate feels dusty so I wipe it off with a tea towel and begin writing. I remind Him of our obligation to the dead, of duty and honor. I may also have pointed out that He will most likely get in serious trouble if the other immortal beings learn about His holiday. I admit it, I have a temper. And very little of the tact Tom said this revelation would call for.
Sir Death has an even worse temper. He grabs the slate from my hand and strikes it against the table. Pieces of slate fly across my body, soundwaves hit my ears. Poor Tabby begins crying, fearful of the loud noise and the tension in the room. Thunderation! This is not like the Reaper.
“Do not preach about duty or honor, Visionary.” His voice is quiet but penetrating. “They have been my companions since time began.”
He leaves me in the kitchen, walks upstairs, and slams a door.
I’ve finally got Tabby calmed down, and she’s nearly asleep when a rig of some kind pulls up in front of the house. It can’t be Kelly. Tom hasn’t been gone long enough, and why would the doctor come here? He’d drive to the police station to help Cordelia. Perhaps it’s Jane. Fortunatus mea. Let it be her.
The baby fusses slightly when I put her on the infant’s cot we keep in the parlor. I hurry to the front door after hearing a knock. It’s a faint sound and lands in the middle section of the wooden panel, as though a shorter person is doing the knocking. I open the door to the smell of bark chips, mud, and horse manure. Not Kelly or Jane at all.
“Sorry, miss,” an apologetic voice says. “But he offered me more than a nickel.”
It’s Finn, from the circus. How did he get here? Why is he talking about money?
A hand takes hold of my shoulder and the words begin, spoken by that dark, seductive voice. “Come with me now, sweet one. You must follow and obey.”
I know this is wrong, but I don’t care. Logic has been replaced by emotion and want. Yes, I will follow. Take me wherever you will.
“Professor?” Sir Death asks, walking down the stairs. “How wonderful. Did your plans change?”
“Yes, Exitus,” Hammersmith replies. “I am sorry.”
“Sorry for what?”
Hammersmith tells Bloom to take me out to the carriage. He’ll be there once he’s dealt with Night. What does he mean by “dealt with”?
I quickly lose interest in the question and cannot summon concern over anything as Bloom takes my arm. I leave my home without protest, knowing Tabby needs me. A faint thud—a crash—comes from within the boarding house, but I do not think to question what it is. Bloom settles me into the carriage and whispers more beguiling words.
Stop! He means to kill you! My own inner voice sounds an alarm within my psyche. Send a message to Tom’s mind, Hester. Tell him what is happening.
“Not now, my beauty,” Bloom says, blocking out the inner voice.
He talks from the window of the carriage to someone outside. “You did well, Finn. I never doubted you could lead me to her, my little spy.”
“Where’s the rest you owe me, the five dollars?”
“Be patient, Finn. You’ll get your just desserts back at the circus.”
I frown and shake my head with a detached sense of dismay. Just desserts are never good—they are not something Finn should pursue. Professor Hammersmith climbs into the carriage, and Finn is left behind as we roll away. Smoke wafts around me, and I hold my breath, terrified and bewitched by the substance.
Opium.
No! No! The smoke is bad; I cannot partake.
But the voice returns and a strong hand lifts my chin and removes my spectacles.
Give me my glasses. I don’t want . . .
“Nothing to fear, dearest. All is well. You’ll come to no harm with me watching over you.”
Will I not, snake charmer?
His lie registers enough that I open my lips to object and inhale the cloying sweetness. Again I breathe it in, again until my body is limp and floating within itself.
“I can always tell,” Hammersmith says. “The ones who like the poppy have a taste for danger.”
I shake with amusement and I sense that this bothers the professor. Frankly, I don’t care if he’s bothered or not—I don’t care about anything. Nothing matters but this feeling.
“Well, Phineas, you did see the girl outside the Chinese tents, didn’t you?” Bloom asks, his fingers stroking my throat. “Your conclusion hardly requires a great leap of intellect.”
“You said I could have her, remember?” Hammersmith asks. “When the questioning is done.”
What questioning?
Bloom touches my hair, and I smile at him as he pulls the braid apart. His fingers toy with the unbound waves. “Yes, but it might take a while. She’s rather unusual, isn’t she? An intriguing specimen.”
“Still, you promised I could watch her die.”
Hearing this, I snort and turn toward Hammersmith, laughing in my raspy way. But Bloom pulls me against his side, possessively. “All in good time, Doctor. Give her another dose of the pipe, if you would be so kind.”
“That’s it, my sweet,” he says.
His voice entrances, even as I wonder how this man will kill me.
I awaken on a damp pile of bark chips, and my hands are tied with rope, resting low on my abdomen. Everything itches or aches and my stomach feels nauseated. This discomfort is dulled by a stupor of some kind. It is too much effort to wonder where I am or why I’m here. What I wish for is more of something that I cannot name. Oblivion, perhaps. Numbness.
Hester, are you all right? Tell me where to find you.
Why is Tom yelling in my head? Can’t he leave me alone for one bloody moment? And what has happened to the voice I wish to hear? I feel bereft without Bloom.
A person is sneaking this way. Is it the snake charmer? Disappointment burns through me when I realize the person is not a male, the tread is too light. The woman pauses, and then I hear the sound of something coming undone, like a flap thrown wide. The wall behind me gives a little, as though it is made of a strong fabric like canvas. Is this structure a tent? I remember Tom telling me there were some near the performers’ wagons. Rather big ones, too.
“Oh!” Louella gasps. “Are you hurt?”
She dashes across the tent and the vibrations of her movements form a graph in my head. Louella kneels at my side and pulls on the ropes that bind me. “You’ve got to get out of here,” she says. “Don’t let Bloom find you again.”
Still rather blasé, I smile at Louella and nod. She’s probably right, I should escape immediately, but I cannot muster the drive to move a muscle. Then I hear a hissing sound—a very, very loud hissing from the other side of the tent. It remains in one place, as though the snake is held there. In a cage or tank, maybe. Louella swivels around, and I hear her heart jump a little in her chest.
“Oh, no,” Louella cries, yanking on my ropes harder. “Not Delilah!”
Another person enters the tent, a man this time. Louella inhales as though she is
about to scream, and I wince, wishing that I could cover my ears but the ropes prevent such movement. Instead of Louella, the human alarm, sounding far and wide, I hear a soft thud, feel her body fall over my knees.
“Stupid woman,” Bloom mutters, less charming, less hypnotic than before.
He grapples with Louella’s small body and leans her against my left side. Bloom tugs at the dwarf’s arms, probably tying her up as he has done me. Deo favente. Louella’s heart still beats.
Something about Bloom hurting her penetrates the mist that veils my mind, and I slowly rise to the surface, remembering the shadowy voice, the drugging smoke. Anger races through my veins and reason returns like a hard slap. How can I get Louella out of here? There must be a way. Bloom is just a man, isn’t he . . . with a hissing snake.
More anger builds upon that which I feel about Louella. After all these months of sobriety, I have taken opium, and it makes me want to weep. Damn Bloom and Hammersmith and damn myself. Grieving the loss of innocence I had begun to feel, I likewise sense the dirty yearning for more. I wish I could scrub myself with lye and be rid of it, but I will always battle my desire for the drug.
Louella sighs softly and sinks back into oblivion. How dare Bloom treat her in such a way? She could have been seriously hurt when he hit her. The circus owner is near the tent flap, preoccupied with the hissing snake. It sounds so big. My chest seizes up, restricting all air flow. Stop it and breathe, you little fool!
I summon the image of an alpine meadow with wildflowers and evergreens, a real place Tom visited when he was fifteen to search out stray cattle for his father. Listening to my heartbeat, I breathe deeply, trying to conquer my distress. Aspen trees sway—leaves shining—and wildflowers bob in the wind. Nothing but peace and beauty abound in every direction. A bit calmer, I take one more breath, and release the meadow only to hear the hissing again.
Bloom’s snake sounds hungry as her owner fiddles with the container, cursing the lock. It won’t open with his key. He’s breathing hard, facing the door, with his back to his prisoners.
With the awkward way I’m leaning, the sheath that holds my throwing knives presses into my thigh. I try to move right—to ease myself away from Louella—but her body sags toward me. This attracts Bloom’s notice.
Spectris: Veritas Book Two Page 23