by K. T. Hunter
Christophe's face went numb. "What happened? Did he find the girl?"
"Don't know. The local constabulary found him in an alley with a crushed windpipe. There was no sample on his person or at his hotel. They never discovered his murderer's identity, but I'm certain it was one of Brightman's lot. She took boys as well, kept in a separate facility. They do the truly nasty jobs, including keeping a watch out for the Girls. After word of that incident got out, no other investigator would go near my case."
"Surely the TIA could--"
"An international consortium of robber barons and self-aggrandizing philanthropists that thinks of itself as a sovereign nation has better things to do than look for a girl that everyone assumes perished a quarter-century ago. I had to take matters into my own hands to get access to that one last living candidate, and now she is a member of the Cohort. That bit was relatively simple, in the end. Petunia has friends in high places. Friends that are also my friends. How else would she have… no. No. I think I've said too much on that account. All I can say is, ask me no more. Not now. As far as I know, Gemma hasn't stolen anything, even when she's had ample temptation and opportunity. Of course, I have kept her 'visible' and in my notice as much as possible. Her wireless messages are in cipher, like everyone else's, but they are far too short and too infrequent to include anything vital. She hasn't yet found what Brightman wants. No crimes have been committed, as of yet, so there is nothing for you to do here. There is a possibility that she really is a scientist. Or she will be, when I am done with her." He stuffed the watch back into his pocket. "Let me deal with our Miss Llewellyn. I need to know."
"You haven't confirmed it yet?"
"I've been trying to gain her trust, first. I'm a bit nervous about finding out the truth, finding out that -- that you may have a sister, in a manner of speaking." Dr. Pugh unfolded himself from the chair and yawned. "You have things to settle here, so I will take my leave. I will let you know what I discover."
He departed, leaving the young captain alone with his thoughts. In all his life, he had never known Elias to keep anything from him; now he had just revealed something so deeply held that Christophe had never even guessed at it. What else had he kept hidden all these years?
He recoiled from the idea of what Brightman had done. Discipline aboard ship was always strict, sometimes cruel, but there was always a reason behind its severity. Life at sea was brutal, and discipline was required just to survive. He had heard that schools could be difficult, but he could not imagine any reason why life at any school would need to be harsher than life on the waves.
He could not puzzle out why someone would want to browbeat those wide brown eyes and that upturned nose dusted with freckles into some sort of unfeeling automaton. And now there was a possibility that this strange girl was part of Pugh's family, and by extension part of Christophe's family. It unnerved him to think that he had felt more than brotherly affection for her before the incident with Cervantes. A small part of him was grateful to Pugh for holding him back from further pursuit, as agonizing as the process had been.
Sister. Stranger. Definite Victim. Possible Thief. He didn't know which to hope for. He was so stunned from Miguel's sudden absence that he could not endure any more shocking revelations. He could use a long talk with Maggie, but he had no time for it.
One thing was certain, though. He had known Pugh long enough to know that if Gemma Llewellyn were indeed his daughter, this Petunia Brightman would have hell to pay. She was not the only one with friends in high places.
~~~~
Gemma
The dreaded Knitting Circle of Doom was upon her.
The picture was surreal: Gemma hurtled through space at a heretofore-inconceivable speed to rain destruction down on a faraway world full of slimy tentacled aliens, and in the meantime, she faced down the steely menace of a crochet hook.
She had dreaded it like nothing else. Gemma was equipped to discuss science with scientists, or at least to bob her head in feigned interest. She could pump numbers through an equation in the blink of an eye. Despite all of her training and accomplishments, she had no idea of what to say to the other ladies. She knew how to hold her teacup and how to be coy with men. But in a group of women who were not Brightman trained, she was lost.
It was not even much of a break from her strange research for Dr. Pugh. The second journal, written by an engineer named Cyrus Smith, seemed to have no connection to Aronnax at all, at least in the parts she had read. Smith's story began in 1865, two years before Aronnax's adventure. His escape with several other men from imprisonment during the Americans' Civil War had been a thrilling tale. She found the hurricane that they had encountered to be a bit fantastic, but no less so than Nemo's giant squid. Having nothing else to do, she had plowed on through the text, hoping to find some glimmer of Orion in it.
The knowledge that Caroline would be at the Circle had been some small comfort to Gemma, as she had grown quite fond of the girl. However, when she got to the parlour, Caroline's chair was empty.
"There are only seven of us on the ship!" Frau Knopf snarled to no one in particular. She had put away the teacups and now sipped from a tumbler of liquid that smelt of evergreens and cinnamon. "How can we have a proper circle with only five!"
The miscount caught Gemma's attention, but she chalked it up to the matron's irritation and to the general excitement over the news that Nigel's wife had gone into labour that morning.
Gemma looked past her steel nemesis and studied the women around her. These women had spent most of their time in the galley and the stables on the journey so far, and this was the first time she had seen them. As it turned out, she didn't have to worry about what to say to them; they barely spoke English. She could hear them whispering to each other in some Eastern European tongue. They consulted each other on their various pieces of handwork and cast the occasional suspicious glance at Gemma. Frau Knopf read a poem aloud to them while they worked, so Gemma did not have to converse at all. Gemma didn't know whether to feel awkward or relieved.
Frau Knopf had stated that the wool had been sheared off the Fury's own herd of sheep, down on the stable deck. She had then handed Gemma the crochet hook, a hank of black thread, and a pattern for making lace written in German. She had said little else; the matron did not seem inclined to idle chatter.
As Gemma struggled to grasp the pattern, Frau Knopf read to them. To Gemma's ears, it was a lot of nonsense about a lady trapped in a tower in the days of Camelot. Frustrated, she set the booklet aside and listened for a moment.
There she weaves by night and day
A magic web with colours gay.
She has heard a whisper say,
A curse is on her if she stay
To look down to Camelot.
She knows not what the curse may be,
And so she weaveth steadily,
And little other care hath she,
The Lady of Shalott.
"What rubbish," Gemma muttered under her breath.
Even as she whispered them, her words did not feel quite real. They felt hollow and rehearsed, as if from a script written by someone else. She found herself hanging on to the words in spite of herself. Besides, she did not want to give the good matron a reason to withhold her daily bacon.
And moving thro' a mirror clear
That hangs before her all the year,
Shadows of the world appear.
There she sees the highway near
Winding down to Camelot:
There the river eddy whirls,
And there the surly village-churls,
And the red cloaks of market girls,
Pass onward from Shalott.
Sometimes a troop of damsels glad,
An abbot on an ambling pad,
Sometimes a curly shepherd-lad,
Or long-hair'd page in crimson clad,
Goes by to tower'd Camelot;
And sometimes thro' the mirror blue
The knights come riding two and two:
She hath no loyal knight and true,
The Lady of Shalott.
But in her web she still delights
To weave the mirror's magic sights,
For often thro' the silent nights
A funeral, with plumes and lights
And music, went to Camelot:
Or when the moon was overhead,
Came two young lovers lately wed;
"I am half-sick of shadows," said
The Lady of Shalott.
The delicate thread hung limp in Gemma's hand as the last two lines lodged in her heart like an arrow. I am half-sick of shadows, Philippa had once said to her, not long before she had left on her final journey. Had this poem been in Philippa's little library, too? Was this the beauty that she had tried to share with her?
"Bah," Frau Knopf said as she put the book down. "I will finish this next time."
She said something to one of the other ladies in their language, and one of them rose in reply. She reached behind the bookshelf into some dark and hidden place, retrieved an unlabeled record, and replaced the eternal strings and flutes with it. When she lowered the needle, a new music emerged from the horn, one that Gemma had never heard on the wireless in London. A voice of pure velvet crooned to her absent lover in a tone both mournful and seductive. A muted trumpet and wailing clarinet shadowed her words and punctuated the lonesome moan of her song.
"Ah," mused Frau Knopf as she closed her eyes and bobbed her head along with the music, "I am so very glad that the Martians missed New Orleans. There are some things even the TIA censors cannot keep silent."
"I've never heard this kind of music before," Gemma said.
"It's the blues. American blues. Helps exorcise one's own sorrows. As does this." She swirled the liquid in her tumbler and stared into it. "Mr. Pritchard smuggled the albums up with the bacon. Not illegal, mind you, but Mr. Wallace, he has no ear for it. My Karl--"
A clamour of rattling interrupted her, and they all turned to see Caroline bursting through the door. She stopped just inside and bent over, hands on her knees, trying to catch her breath. Frau Knopf rose and touched her shoulder.
"Whatever is the matter, child?" Frau Knopf demanded.
"I'm all right," Caroline gasped as she looked around the room. "It's Nigel. He just got a message. About his wife, I think. He's gone wild! He won't let me near him! Gemma, d'you think you could get some sense out of him? Father Alfieri is in a meeting with the captain and Mr. Wallace about the memorial service, and the yeoman won't let me in to see them. But Nigel respects you, he does. I think he might talk to you."
Gemma stood up and tossed the crochet hook into her chair with a mixture of urgency and relief. What was it about her that made people think such things? Who, exactly, had appointed her ship's counselor, she wondered. Still, she was not about to look a gift escape hatch in the mouth.
"Go on, Fraulein," Frau Knopf said. "Take care of our young father."
"Where is he?" Gemma asked.
"Somewhere in the Gardens. I'll show you. Please!"
On the winding path, past the roses and the cherry trees, they passed crewmembers that pointed the way to Nigel. They found him in the gazebo, in a state of near-collapse on one of its benches.
He clutched a message to his chest with one hand. His other hand hid his face from the world. His ever-present glasses sat on the bench next to him, ignored, as if the words could not be true if he could not see them.
Caroline urged Gemma to go ahead without her. She sat on one of the benches beside the path just out of sight and waited.
As Gemma approached him, she wondered what could possibly have upset the calm and unflappable Nigel. She had never heard a cross word from the man.
He didn't notice her approach until she mounted the steps. Her sudden presence startled him. He met her with stranger's eyes, eyes that were empty of the calm determination that normally inhabited them. Gemma could now understand why Caroline was so distraught.
"Nigel? Caroline asked me to come. What--"
"She's gone," he said, choking on the words. He moaned. "Oh, Gemma, she's gone." He crumpled the paper even more in his hand and pushed his fist into his scrunched-up eyes.
Gemma sat down next to him, her knee barely touching his. She brushed her fingertips against the crushed paper between his fingers.
"May I?" she asked in the gentlest voice she could summon.
He didn't reply. She reached for his fist and very slowly pulled it away from his chest. He didn't resist as she opened his hand, finger by finger, and retrieved the message, now ragged and damp. She smoothed the sheet between her fingers, careful to keep it from further damage. Years of uncovering the secrets of others left her no qualms about prying into Nigel's privacy. This was the first time she had done such a thing for someone's benefit besides Mrs. Brightman's; but there was a first time for everything.
The message was shockingly brief, appallingly stark in its plaintext clarity, considering the weight it carried:
WE REGRET TO INFORM YOU THAT MRS DAVIES DEPARTED THIS LIFE AT 3:57 AM AT ISLINGTON LYING-IN HOSPITAL STOP INFANT GIRL ALIVE AND WELL STOP PLEASE RADIO BACK WISHES FOR DISPOSITION STOP BRIGHTMAN SCHOOL REQUESTS CUSTODY UNTIL YOUR RETURN STOP
Gemma had to read it three times before the message registered. Mrs. Brightman sought custody of Nigel's child. Nigel's wife, his entire world, Caroline's dearest friend, was dead.
All this technology, all this wonder! They can send us to Mars, but they can't keep a woman from dying in childbed?
Even in her cool analytical mind, that seemed unbalanced, wrong. Something rumbled deep inside, and she felt a flood of anger sweep over her, even stronger than the anger she had felt when she had confronted the captain about Cervantes. Gemma had not felt -- or allowed herself to feel -- such a rush of emotion for so long that it made her dizzy. The cold efficiency of the word "disposition" incensed her. It was a strange sensation for her. Should she not be glad that Mrs. Brightman was gaining a new pupil, a new Girl to carry on the cause?
Nigel was shaking with silent sobs next to her. She could feel a fever of grief rolling off him, and she reached for his hand. She was no great comforter; she had no instinct for it. But Nigel had always been kind to her. He was one of the few men that had treated her as a friend and a colleague, not just a cog in a machine or a bit of fluff to flirt with. She could not allow him to bear his grief alone, yet she did not know which key to grasp to calm him down. So she simply held his hand.
"I wasn't there," he cried at last. "Oh, my Jennie, my sweet Jennie. I should've stayed." His intake of breath was ragged, as if he were breathing through shredded lungs. "She died amongst strangers, Gemma. We were all she had. Caroline and me. I won't even be there to bury her poor little body. Or take care of my daughter. Oh, my little, little child. Will I ever see her face?"
"I wish the wireless could transmit images," Gemma said softly as she squeezed his fingers. "It would help if you could at least see her picture."
"I have a photograph," he said, finally gaining some lucidity. "Of Jennie, I mean. I don't think you've seen it." He fumbled in his pocket, pulled out his watch, and popped it open. "Here she is. My Jennie."
Gemma gave him the warmest smile she could summon as he handed her the watch. She had been curious about it for a while. Men always kept important thoughts in their watches. As she opened it, she saw a watch face with no hands. Instead, there was a lock of glossy black hair, curled up behind a small pane of glass, opposite the photograph.
"I don't have anyone to take care of her," Nigel went on as she studied the wedding picture. His voice was rough and broken. "No family. Neither did Jennie. We're all orphans, you see."
He took a deep breath before continuing. "Brightman's school, your school, has offered to take her. I think -- I think that would be good, yes? They can make her like you--"
"Oh, my, yes," she said, nearly automatically. "They--"
Her next words froze in her throat.
&nb
sp; The woman's face was not the face of a stranger.
There, staring into the camera, seated next to Nigel and draped in lace, was her beloved Philippa.
The Philippa that Mrs. Brightman had told her was dead.
She could hear Dr. Pugh asking the question: Who knows what Brightman will do when it is time to put you out to pasture?
Gemma was a talented computer, one of the best. It was not difficult for her to put the picture and the question together. And the sum burned her.
Her mind spun into a maelstrom. Everything Mrs. Brightman had taught her, every rule, every aphorism, every bit of discipline, tore itself loose from the walls of her mind in that moment. The lie burned her like acid from one of the lab's test tubes poured on her heart.
Philippa. The one person she had truly loved. The one whose death -- once a lie, now a horrible truth -- had seared her heart and cauterized it closed, leaving her with hatred of the Martians and gratitude to Mrs. Brightman as her only acceptable passions.
Some rescue! The other Invasion Orphans on the ship did not seem half so miserable with their lot as she had been led to believe. Trapping her finest student on a ship full of them had been a grave miscalculation.
Philippa had been alive. Alive, and vital. The face in the photograph looked happy, happier than Gemma had ever seen her. She choked back a sob of her own, stuffing her own grief back down deep into herself, fearing she would lose all control.
Gemma felt as if she would never be calm again.
"Gemma?" Nigel asked. "Are you all right? You look as if you've seen a ghost." He swallowed hard. "Had you met her before? Did you know--"
"No, no!" Gemma protested. She snapped the watch closed. "Nigel, your child is not an orphan! Not while you live! We're not dead. Not yet."