Canon in Crimson (Symphony in Red Book 1)

by Rachel Kastin

  The remnant of a smile faded from R7’s face, and she looked away, watching reporters start to crowd around the immobile robot in the street. The pain was there, waiting patiently to hit her again—but her walls were safely in place, and it didn’t break through this time.

  “Maybe now isn’t the best time for you to remind me of how we met,” she said drily after a moment’s silence. “You’re kind of at my mercy right now.”

  G3 laughed, bringing on a coughing fit. He turned his head to spit blood on the sidewalk and grimaced.

  “If you wanted...to leave me for dead...you just missed your chance,” he pointed out.

  R7 shrugged, leaning back against the brick building as she watched the Agency’s black Aerofords start streaming up the street toward them.

  “Yeah, well, I couldn’t,” she said. “You’re my partner.”

  Chapter 14—Bon Voyage

  As I’d discovered long ago, during the vanished years of my former life, someone had apparently taught me how to speak pretty well. But no one had taught me what to talk about, to whom, and how to avoid looking like a “disreputable vagabond,” as Alger put it. So, for the first couple of weeks of our transatlantic voyage, he and Shifty spent hours every day teaching me table manners, French, and the secrets of making myself presentable in less than three hours. Tired of lessons and stuck in a small space, I found the trip less exciting than expected. On the other hand, after what we’d just been through in New York, I didn’t really mind.

  Then late one afternoon, Alger dragged me away from watching the Ghost trounce Screwdriver and the Doc (together) at chess. Assuming I was in for another etiquette lesson, I grumbled under my breath all the way to one of the lounges: an expansive two-level room connected by a spiral staircase, arrayed with couches, tables and chairs, and a full bar at one end. But Shifty didn’t show up to join us when we took a seat on the upper deck overlooking the room below, and Alger didn’t set out any silverware or wine glasses, so I figured out soon enough that that wasn’t it. After a couple of minutes of waiting while Alger made sure the flowers on the table were perfectly centered, I succumbed to curiosity.

  “Okay, I give up,” I said. “What are we doing here?”

  “Watching,” he answered, evening out the flower arrangement absently with one graceful hand.

  “Watching for what? Why?”

  “Lately you’ve shown some natural aptitude when it comes to people, wouldn’t you say?” he asked.

  “Well, I was right at Tony’s,” I said.

  “Yes, I’m delighted for you,” Alger said.

  I grinned.

  “So, you were saying about my natural aptitude?”

  “I thought it would be advantageous to supplement it with a bit of guided practice,” he said. “I told you, you still have a great deal to learn.”

  I glared halfheartedly at him, but by now, I was more interested than annoyed by whatever he had in mind.

  “Okay,” I said. “What do I do?”

  “I’ll point out someone, or a number of someones, and you’ll tell me everything you can glean about them by looking,” he told me.

  I shrugged agreement. His eyes danced across the room and the passengers, and I watched him watching them, studying the shifts in his expression as he ruled out some subjects, and finally chose one.

  “There,” he said. “The man in the corner.”

  I followed his gaze and found the fella he was talking about, craning my neck to get a better look.

  “Don’t stare,” Alger said sharply. “It’s conspicuous. And besides,” he said mildly, “with your memory, you don’t really need to look very long, do you?”

  I nodded, my annoyance at the reprimand immediately erased by the rare thrill of the compliment.

  “Go on then,” Alger said. “What did you see?”

  I concentrated and conjured the image of the man in my mind, examining him carefully: an unusually tall, classically handsome man with dark hair, alternating between practicing a card trick and taking swigs from a flask.

  “Well,” I said carefully, “he’s drinking a lot. But…”

  “But?”

  “But he’s really good at the trick. I can’t even see how he’s making the card disappear.”

  “And consequently?” Alger said.

  “He’s…only pretending to be drunk?” I said.

  “I’ll have to pick a more difficult one,” said Alger, his voice betraying a hint of approval. “How about…” He assessed the room again. “The two at the bar. The stout fellow and the blonde woman.”

  I glanced at them, remembering not to gawk this time, but they didn’t seem particularly out of the ordinary.

  “What do you want to know?”

  “Anything you can think of,” he replied unhelpfully.

  “Okay,” I said. “They both look, I don’t know, in their twenties, maybe thirty? Lots of money. And they seem pretty happy. Really relaxed. They must be on vacation.” What else? I considered them again. “Actually, they kind of look alike,” I realized. “Do you think they’re brother and sister?”

  He smiled; I’d taken the bait.

  “What do you think?”

  I took another quick look at them, checking for anything I’d missed, and thought about it some more.

  “I don’t think so,” I said.

  “Why not?”

  “Well…” The reason seemed so silly, I didn’t want to say it. “She keeps touching his arm,” I finally told him.

  “Is that all?”

  “No,” I said. I wasn’t sure if I was doing well or failing miserably, so I forged ahead. “Also it’s the way he’s watching her. He’s—I don’t know. Paying attention to her. And she’s laughing whenever he says anything.”

  “Very well,” Alger said, apparently satisfied. “If they aren’t siblings, then what are they?”

  I frowned a little, unsure.

  “I don’t know. I mean, they’re a couple or something, but…what do you

  mean?”

  “They’re married,” he told me.

  “What? How do you know?”

  Could he have really figured that out from their movements, their expressions? I knew he was good, but that was impossible. He gave me a wry smile and pointed to his left hand.

  “Wedding rings.”

  For a second, I felt like an idiot, but then we both just started laughing. Maybe I could get the hang of this after all. As he started to hunt for the next subject, I went back to watching him.

  And I started to think. In retrospect, I’m sure that this was the moment when everything changed for me. Looking at him, I started to wonder: what would someone playing this little game guess about our relationship? Naturally, even the sharpest observer would never guess “master thief and orphan he rescued and made his protégé.” As for family, well, our age difference was much too small to make him my father, but likely too big to make him my brother. And, since we didn’t look at all alike, I don’t think anyone would’ve guessed that we were related anyway.

  So what would they think? That we were acquaintances? Surely we seemed too comfortable around each other for that. Friends, then? Or…maybe more than that? Anyone paying attention would undoubtedly know I was crazy about him, but would they think he felt the same way about me? And then I wondered, would they be right?

  And that’s when it occurred to me for the first time that maybe, just maybe, I could actually have him.

  “Victoria?”

  I jumped and blinked to find that Alger was waving a hand in front of my glazed eyes.

  “Yes. Sorry. What?”

  “Good to see you’re paying attention,” he said, his near-concern flattening into slight irritation. “Tell me about the man with the handkerchief.”

  Dragging myself back into reality, I quickly found the fella he was talking about: a well-dressed, thirty-something gentleman with a handkerchief arranged in the front pocket of his jacket.

  “He’s nervous,” I said
first, without any preliminaries about his wealth, dress, or age.

  “Well, I was going to ask why he’s alone, but this is interesting,” said Alger. “Why nervous?”

  “He checked at his watch twice just while I was looking at him,” I said. “And he’s alone because no one wants to talk to the twitchy fella.”

  Alger frowned, clearly disagreeing this time.

  “You don’t think he’s simply bored?”

  “No,” I told him confidently. “He can’t sit still for two seconds. It definitely has to be nerves.”

  Alger shook his head.

  “Look at his hands. His shoulders. He’s not tense at all.”

  “Of course he’s trying to look relaxed,” I said. “Maybe someone’s after him.”

  Alger raised an eyebrow at me.

  “That’s quite an assertion. Other than your remarkable imagination, do you have any reason to think so?”

  “Definitely,” I said, even though I didn’t. I glanced over at Handkerchief Man again and came up with one. “He’s watching the door,” I said triumphantly.

  Alger shrugged. “Very well, I can see we’re not going to agree on this. Go find out who’s right.”

  I hesitated, thrown off balance.

  “What? How am I supposed to do that?”

  “Well you could attempt to read his mind, but asking is probably easier,” he suggested.

  “But…” I started to panic a little. “What will I say?”

  “That fantastic imagination I referred to a moment ago,” he said, tapping my forehead lightly with his index finger. “Use it.”

  I took a deep breath and stood up.

  “Fine,” I said, lifting my chin in a mock challenge. “But I’m only going to prove you wrong.”

  He gave me a smile that made me fight off a blush, putting his feet up on my chair.

  “Best of luck,” he told me. “I’ll stay here and monitor your progress.”

  I picked my way slowly down the stairs, my hand trailing along the banister. This is your chance, Vic. Show him you know what you’re doing. At the bottom of the stairs, I got a better look at Handkerchief Man, and up close, I was sure Alger was wrong. He’d never have missed it from here, I was sure: this fella was definitely watching out for something. Getting noticed would be no problem, but not scaring him off might be more of a challenge. The best thing, I decided, would be to make it look like an accident. A little obvious, maybe, but it should work.

  So, I traipsed through the room trying to seem oblivious, coincidentally making my way over to where my target was sitting. Minding my own business, of course. But as I approached him, I just happened to miss the chair that was, for some reason, sticking out into the aisle. Since I wasn’t watching where I was going, it must’ve been easy to believe that I tripped—sending me crashing straight into the arms of Handkerchief Man.

  Perfect.

  “Oh! I’m so sorry!” I righted his upended glass and started using a napkin to dab ineffectually at his soaked shirt. “I’m really sorry. I should look where I’m going.”

  “Not at all,” he replied smoothly, placing his hand over mine to stop me from scrubbing. “It’s not every day a beautiful girl falls into my lap.”

  Had I been that far off the mark? I’d been so sure. Between that and the unexpected English accent, now I was the one feeling rattled.

  “Well, um.” I laughed and looked away shyly, covering my surprise. “That’s very nice of you.”

  Handkerchief Man kissed my hand and took the napkin from me, and I started to untangle myself from his grasp. Steadying myself on the dripping table, I took the arm he offered as he stood up to help.

  “Thank you,” I told him with all the sincerity I could muster, letting my hand stay on his arm even after I’d gotten to my feet. “I didn’t mean to bother you.”

  “Really, it’s no trouble,” he said. “I just hope I didn’t hold you up too long. Assuming you’re on your way somewhere, that is.”

  It certainly sounded like he was leading up to an invitation. But since I’d pretty much found out I was wrong, there wasn’t any need—

  Then I saw it. As I hesitated, he glanced at the door again—someone was coming in. I felt his arm tense almost imperceptibly, then relax again once the person kept walking. I was still in the game.

  “Actually, I’m not…really in a hurry or anything,” I confessed. “But I thought—I mean, are you waiting for someone?”

  “Heavens, no,” he laughed. “If I have company, it won’t be welcome. Unless it’s you, of course.”

  “Well, it could be, if you’d like,” I answered, slipping a sliver of mischief into my tone. He rewarded me with a helpless grin, confirming that yes, he’d like that very much. “But I did make a terrible mess of your table.”

  “Right you are,” he said. “So I’ll tell you what. If you’ll let me replace that drink and get you one as well, we can sit somewhere else and call it even. What do you say?”

  I gave him my most radiant smile.

  “It’s a deal.”

  He caught my lingering hand in the crook of his elbow, pulling me just a little closer, and walked me over to the bar. I could do this after all, and I was learning: unlike the last time, I hadn’t promised anything but a drink.I could get out of this with nothing more than a pleasant conversation. My new escort ordered us two mint juleps and turned back to me.

  “So where are you headed?” he asked.

  “Paris,” I told him, too excited to hold back the answer.

  “An excellent choice,” he said. “Are you traveling alone?”

  I resisted the urge to glance up at Alger.

  “Sort of,” I answered vaguely.

  “How mysterious,” he teased.

  I just smiled in return. He took the drinks the bartender had just finished, tipping ostentatiously and handing me one. I took a sip, watching him over the rim of the glass and trying to think of how I could become the one asking the questions.

  “So tell me, my femme fatale,” he said, “are you too mysterious to have a name?”

  “Not quite,” I said. “I’m Victoria.”

  Damn! I knew it was probably a bad idea to start giving away information before I had any. I hid my irritation, taking another sip. It tasted terrible, I noticed. Who made a mint julep with almond liqueur, anyway? Maybe it was just because we were on a boat, and—Wait. Pay attention, Vic. He’s talking. But for some reason, it was quickly getting harder to stay on task.

  “Victoria,” he was saying. “That’s an unusual name for an American girl.”

  “I’m an unusual American girl,” I answered.

  And that seemed suddenly hilarious to me. I had to choke back a giggle. Was I…drunk? That quickly? Couldn’t be. Luckily, he didn’t seem to notice. I tried to focus, taking another almond-flavored sip.

  “And you?” I asked.

  “John,” he said, sounding as if he’d been waiting to tell me. “John Kingston.”

  Felix Madden, Julius Rowles, Patrick McManus, Yvonne Devereaux, Tony Signorille, and John Cyrus Kingston, two million dollars, my memory recited. I almost fell over. Actually, I really almost fell over—the room was starting to spin a little. I wasn’t even in control enough to hide my surprise.

  “Are you serious?” I asked incredulously. “Not John Cyrus Kingston?”

  “That’s right,” he answered. I don’t know if it was my response or just my general demeanor at that point, but he was starting to look worried. “Why so surprised? I know I have a bit of a reputation stateside, but…”

  He trailed off, obviously waiting for some reasonable explanation. But it was definitely getting hazier in there. What the hell was going on?

  “You—you’re—”

  Sudden stabbing pains started to assault my stomach, and he had to catch me as my knees gave. I saw his eyes widen in alarm.

  “You’re the one who bought the box,” I managed to whisper. He drew a sharp breath, his alarm escalating rapidly into
terror as he realized what was going on.

  Then the pain swallowed me, and I tumbled into the dark.

  Chapter 15—Whispers and Ashes

  I can’t breathe. Something’s where the air should be. It’s sticking fingers down my throat and clutching my stomach. I try to tear it away, but I can’t grasp it. It just seeps through my fingers like…

  Smoke. It’s smoke, and I’m suffocating. Terror shoves me out of bed and hurls me towards the door. Coughing and gasping, swallowing mouthfuls of burning air, I throw the door open and stagger through. Right into the flames.

  Dragon’s breath, eating me alive, devouring my skin. I’m supposed to run. This is where I run, I know it! But I can’t get out this time. Stuck in slow motion, I drag myself along the wall, clawing at it, tears pouring from my eyes. I can see my skin burning, charring and falling away.

  My skeleton crawls towards the window. But the bones are fragile and splinter; they fall apart before I get there, and I’m kindling in the middle of the floor. I can hear screaming, and my name. I try to scream back, but I have no lungs, no throat, no mouth. Only pain…

  §

  “One-hundred and five. Do you know how dangerous that is?”

  “I may not be a doctor but I’m not an idiot either.”

  “I know. I’m just trying to tell you that even if she were to recover somehow, there could be permanent damage.”

  “And I’m trying to tell you that she will recover. We’ll deal with anything else later.”

  “Boss, she’s got enough cyanide in her to put down a horse. The fact that she’s alive at all, is…well, you could say miraculous, but I’m not so sure. Her system’s fighting it, but I don’t know how this is going to work exactly. Except that most likely, she’ll die, and it won’t be pretty.”

  “I understand. But we have to give her a chance.”

  “A chance? To do what, suffer? Do you have any idea how much pain—”

  “Yes. I know. Believe me, I don’t like it either, but I’m not going to let you end that pain at the expense of her life. Treat the fever, do what you can for the symptoms. But otherwise, don’t touch her.”