Eros Element

by Cecilia Dominic

  “That it has secrets and belonged to someone in danger.” She frowned up at him. “But that doesn’t make sense. How could a ring have feelings?”

  The expression on his face mixed pride and fear. “Don’t ever tell anyone about this special way you have of reading objects,” he said. “I brought this ring to you because it belonged to a little princess who was killed, although we don’t know why. Keep it with you this weekend and see if it tells you anything else.”

  Overwhelmed by the experience and the discovery that her parents’ marriage was worse than she thought, Iris shook her head in spite of the curiosity that made her want to grab the ring, put it on, sleep with it, and find out everything it had to say. “I can’t. It’s too much.”

  “I understand. I’ll keep it at the University, and you can visit it whenever you like.” He wrapped it, and Iris slipped out of the office. She made it as far as the stairs before her shaking knees made her sit on the bottom step and curl around her aching middle.

  “Are you all right?” her mother asked. She’d changed out of her opera clothes into her house dress.

  Iris shook her head.

  “Well, it is about time for you to start cramping again. Come on, I’ll put you to bed and bring you a hot water bottle for your tummy.” She held out her hand, and Iris took it. The look in her mother’s eyes told Iris she, too, was disappointed by Irvin’s surrender.

  Now Iris looked at the objects in front of her. She’d forgotten that conversation or had blocked it out amid all the conflict with Adelaide and the realization her father had given up on their family. But one thing he said, one phrase, now stuck out in her mind as significant—not to leave her unprotected. Not alone, as one would say to a parent of any twelve-year-old, but unprotected. Was it possible his work had brought him and his family into danger even then? Was that why he pushed Adelaide and Iris away?

  But why wait so long before telling me, before leaving these things for me to find? Her mother’s words echoed in her head, that she was a girl, and girls didn’t get to live in the world of excitement and danger like men did. You were quite wrong, Mama, and now I have to know what he meant for me to discover.

  First she held Irvin’s pipe. As in the museum, she got a strong image, almost a flashback, of holding it in her hand, its bowl warm, as she gazed up at the sky through the budding leaves of the trees in early spring. Then a horrible pain in her middle, and finally a clear image of the poison hiding device and counting seven scratches from the long one in the middle and twisting precisely there. She blinked and returned to the room, where the dimmed sunlight coming through the curtains seemed dark in comparison to her vision.

  Seven, the Pythagorean number of virginity. The irony of it being on a courtesan’s murder device didn’t escape her.

  Iris placed the cold pipe on the bed and picked up the pocket watch. This time she allowed the tears to slide from her eyes as the memories of all the times she’d seen her father holding it flashed through her brain. She closed her eyes and took a deep breath, willing it to tell her what it knew and trusting it would show her what was necessary.

  First she—in her father’s body—held the pocket watch in a classroom and looked at Lord Jeremy Scott, who gazed back with anger.

  “This is not acceptable, and this isn’t the last you’ve heard of me,” Scott said before standing and storming out. Iris had the impression he’d been caught cheating on a test, and Irvin had kicked him out.

  The image shifted, and now Irvin/Iris held the pocket watch in the study at Grange House and looked at the time to make sure he wouldn’t be late for his train. Ensuring the little piece of paper he hid in it didn’t block the device, Irvin pushed the two parts of the poison holder together, and Iris saw it click at the third scratch from the other end of the one he’d counted to in the other vision.

  Iris returned her attention to her cozy nook on the bed and listened for any of the little clockwork devices. Marie would be vigilant for them—as they all were now—but the little buggers were sneaky.

  Satisfied nothing watched or listened to her, Iris picked up the courtesan’s poison container. She hefted its light weight in her hand and thought about trying it under her breasts to see if it would fit but decided against it. That would be too bizarre, she thought, and what did she have to hide in it, anyway? Instead, she examined the scratches, which she’d thought the crystals in the volcano egg caused. The pattern Irvin studied jumped out at her, and she twisted the end at the seventh deep scratch forty-five degrees and pulled at the third one on the other side. The end popped off, and a small scroll of paper like the one she’d found in his shoe fell out.

  The little paper tube felt so flimsy, but in spite of its non-permanent material, it emanated a sense of something weighty, a revelation she wouldn’t be able to hide from once she uncovered it. It had the same air of danger that originally attracted her to the volcano egg that hid it. With trembling fingers, she unrolled it.

  Chapter Twenty-Eight

  Written from the Grange House, 13 April 1870

  My dearest child,

  If you have found this note, it means that all my greatest hopes and all my deepest fears for you have come to pass. My hopes because it means you have manifested the gift I, too, was given, to be able to discern the secrets of objects. My fears because with this gift comes the potential to discover secrets others want to leave hidden.

  You’ve heard the legend of the poor fisher boy who was murdered by the Pythagoreans for discovering that the square root of two is an irrational number, that is, not able to be described using simple number ratios. Although the legend itself is an exaggeration, the substance, of a cult willing to kill to keep its secrets and influence alive, is tragically true. I don’t disparage Pythagoras himself—as with many religious leaders, his followers have twisted his teachings to achieve power for themselves. If you are reading this, I am dead, another of their victims. All I can say is I hope you are reading this safe in my study at home.

  An opportunity will come your way, and it will be tempting. It will seem to be the key to unlocking all your hopes and wishes of following me into this life of an interpreter of the past. Let it pass you by, child, for it is a trap to use your talents to gain power for others. As much as I wish it wasn’t true for an intelligent woman, your safest course is to do as your mother always wished, to marry and have a family of your own, just not with Lord Jeremy Scott. My own desire for you is freedom and happiness, but not if it comes at the cost of your life. Some secrets are best left buried.

  Be well, my daughter.

  Love, your father, Irvin McTavish

  Hôtel Auberge, 13 June 1870

  A knock at the door startled Iris, and she reassembled the poison container as best she could. It hung open at one seam, but in her haste, she couldn’t figure out how to make it all click together as it should. Her head reeled with confusion, and her heart ached at the thought she’d blundered into something over her head in spite of the nobility of her intentions. Why hadn’t she researched the courtesan’s poison hider in England? She could have taken a day to go to London, where she was sure she would’ve found examples in a museum. But how would she have known how to open it without the clues left by Irvin in his objects? Unless he counted on them being sent back upon his death, and he knew she would read them. And perhaps they would have been had she waited. But Cobb’s offer came, and she jumped on it. Now she had one more reason not to trust the American.

  No matter how she turned it over in her head, Irvin’s letter didn’t change the fact Iris needed funds to attend the University and run her household. She especially needed money to pay off the mortgage Lord Jeremy Scott now held on the house. No, if she wanted to have a chance at an independent life, she had to push on.

  She hid the courtesan’s case and pipe in the pocket of her valise and put her father’s pocket watch in her own dress pocket. She lit his
note with the flame of the lamp and allowed it to burn in the fireplace before answering the door.

  “Are you all right, Miss?”

  Iris stepped back to admit Marie. “Yes. Is it already time for me to start getting ready?”

  “Yes, you’ve been napping for an hour and a half. I didn’t want to wake you, but—oh! Is something burning?”

  “It’s nothing. Now please make me some tea, and we can begin.”

  But begin what?

  By the time Marie had laced Iris into the evening corset, which plumped up what little she had to the point she thought her ribs would crack and her breasts would pop, put her hair up in an elaborate style topped with a jaunty mini-cap with feathers, and squeezed her into the light purple gown she’d gotten from Madame St. Jean, Iris barely felt like herself. She certainly didn’t recognize this woman who gazed back at her from the mirror. Marie also used some cosmetics, very subtly applied, to make Iris’s eyes stand out and cheeks appear higher.

  “Voila,” Marie said and stepped back. “You look like a fairy tale princess.”

  “I feel like a princess in danger of fainting. Does this thing need to be so tight?”

  “If you make a good impression on the Marquis, he’s more likely to let you peruse his collection. Or have you forgotten why you’re going?”

  “No, I remember, but I feel the pressure of this thing in my brain. No wonder my fellow women say and do such stupid things.”

  Marie shook her head, but she laughed. “The world would be better off with more like you, Miss. Now let me change into my formal maid attire, and we can go shock Mister Bledsoe.”

  Iris pretended to admire herself in the mirror while watching Marie dress. How did she do it, assume the role in which she wanted others to see her? She used the barest of cosmetics, but when finished, Marie looked dull of eye and intellect. She must be a fantastic actress, indeed.

  Bledsoe met them in the lobby of the hotel, and the look he gave Iris told her Marie worked her magic.

  “You look lovely,” he said. “Not at all like the prudish miss I’ve had to endure all day.”

  “And you are as much of a boor as ever even if you do acquit yourself well in your formal attire.” He did look dashing, she had to admit, in his white tie and tails.

  “Miss McTavish!”

  Iris turned her head toward the cry and saw Edward seated at a table in the hotel restaurant with Doctor Radcliffe and Patrick O’Connell. She found herself moving toward him before she recognized she’d turned in that direction.

  The three men stood, and Edward clasped her hands. “You look quite lovely.”

  Coming from his mouth, it sounded so much more genuine than Bledsoe’s compliment, and Iris knew it wouldn’t be followed by an insult. “You look well yourself.”

  “The doctor says I can start getting out and about as long as I don’t strain myself.”

  “Yes,” Radcliffe said. “He has made rapid improvement, particularly this afternoon.”

  “And I have a present for you,” Edward told her. “I’ll give it to you tomorrow.”

  “I look forward to it.”

  Marie plucked at Iris’s sleeve. “The Maestro is getting impatient. He asks that you remember he has a performance this evening, and although they cannot start without him, he doesn’t want to keep our host waiting.”

  “Right.” Iris curtsied to the gentlemen and smiled at Edward before following Marie out to the Marquis’s coach.

  Edward watched Iris walk out of the lobby. Her purple silk-clad figure stood out among the blacks and darker colors of the other visitors. Like her namesake, she appeared both vibrant and delicate, and he hoped that odious Lord Jeremy Scott wasn’t around. He would have to trust Johann to keep her safe, but his friend didn’t have the reputation one would like for a chaperone. At least the capable Marie accompanied them.

  “How are you feeling?” Radcliffe asked for the hundredth time, but this time Edward suspected the question was regarding his emotional as well as physical health.

  “Tired but well.” Edward picked at the salad in front of him. It had corn on it. Who put corn on a salad? Apparently the Parisians did. At least it came with that crusty bread he’d grown rather fond of, but he found himself wishing he could go to the chateau with Iris and the others.

  “She looked grown-up,” O’Connell said.

  “Yes,” Edward agreed. “She is quite a striking young lady.” But I like her better when she’s puzzling out a problem or challenging me about science. Then she’s really Iris. He stood. “I’m going with them.”

  “You’re doing what?” Radcliffe asked.

  “I’m going to the gathering at the chateau tonight.” He placed his napkin on the table. “There are dangerous men afoot, and the more protection Iris has, the better. Johann can hold his own, but not if he’s outnumbered.”

  O’Connell stood and put a gentle hand on Edward’s shoulder. Edward sank back into his chair under its weight.

  “If you’re that concerned about them, I’ll tag along,” the Irishman said. “Those Parisian lords don’t let anyone in without an invitation, but if I’m there to help with the steamcoach, they’ll think nothing of it.” He strode off before Edward could protest.

  “He’s right,” Radcliffe said. “I’m pleased with your progress, but I don’t know that you’re quite up for fisticuffs, or whatever you English call it.”

  Edward turned to him with a frown, and he saw the doctor regarded him with both amusement and respect. “But I could be ready for more physical activity soon?” Not that he ever anticipated needing to box anyone—he preferred to engage on an intellectual level, where he knew he had the advantage over most men.

  “Yes.” Radcliffe smiled behind the glass of wine he lifted to his lips and sipped. “Miss McTavish’s visit this afternoon seems to have done wonders for you. Plus she left us with an interesting puzzle to solve.”

  “I like puzzles,” Edward said. “Is it another clockwork?”

  “Better—it’s poison.”

  Iris saw the light and felt the pulsing energy from the Marquis de Monceau’s estate long before the chateau itself emerged from behind the trees along the long drive. Built of white stone in a classical style, it blazed with both gas and electric light, giving the flat walls a rounded appearance depending on where the shadows fell.

  “He likes a good trompe l’oeil,” Bledsoe told her. “I’m playing Bach tonight, so he wanted to make it look like a German castle.”

  “Did Bach live in a German castle?” Iris asked.

  “Probably not, but the Marquis has an interesting way of thinking about things. Don’t let him throw you off from what you’re supposed to accomplish.”

  “I know my mission.” Iris tried not to move much so as not to wrinkle her dress before they arrived, but she found herself restless. What was wrong with the place? It felt like something was trapped in there and wanted to escape, but it didn’t know how or why.

  The steamcoach pulled into the circular drive in line behind other steam-powered vehicles and the more traditional horse-drawn carriages. Some of the animals, perhaps not accustomed to the growing technology, rolled their eyes and snorted. Or maybe they sensed the same thing Iris did, that something coiled in the middle of the chateau, stirring and ready to wake and strike. The thoughts came to her mind before she could stop them with her usual ability to concentrate on solving the problem at hand.

  I’m willing to face the Pythagorean Cult and the Clockwork Guild, poison and spy devices, but this might be too much.

  A weight on her shoulder made Iris look at Marie, who once again somehow projected calm through her touch. “Whatever it is, Mademoiselle, you can handle it.”

  Iris tried to smile, and the muscles in her face relaxed so she could give Marie a genuine, albeit small, grin. “I’m glad you’re here. Something is in th
ere.”

  “I can feel it too.”

  “Whatever are the two of you talking about?” But Bledsoe fidgeted with the lock on his violin case. Their steamcoach pulled up to the front door, which was framed like a Greek temple with columns and a lintel. Iris adjusted her elbow-length purple silk gloves and focused on the weight of the amethyst bracelet around her wrist, a present from Lucille. The footman opened the door, and Iris and Marie accompanied Bledsoe into the house.

  The bracelet slid away from her wrist over the slippery glove when the marquis lifted Iris’s hand to his lips. “Welcome to my home, Mademoiselle McTavish. You grace it with your beauty.”

  Iris searched his eyes for some sign of sincerity, but all she found was flirtatiousness. What sort of man must he be to harbor something not evil, but wild and trapped, in his home? Or perhaps his reaction to it was at the root of his flirtatiousness. If there was anything Iris learned on this strange journey, it was how people responded in less than logical ways to their emotions.

  “The pleasure is mine,” she said and curtseyed when he relinquished her hand.

  “Allow me to finish welcoming my guests, and I shall be happy to show you my collection. Your maid can join the others in the kitchen. I’m sure my housekeeper can find something to keep her occupied.”

  Iris’s throat itched with panic at the thought of being separated from both Marie and Bledsoe, as annoying as he was.

  “Thank you, but I would prefer to keep her with me as my chaperone since Maestro Bledsoe will be occupied.”

  “Of course.” But his smile dimmed.

  They moved through the hall, down a wide flight of white marble stairs, and into the grand ballroom, which already filled with the murmur of voices and the clinking of glass, both from the champagne glasses being passed and the large chandelier overhead, which shimmered with a thousand rainbow sparks. The stage at the far end was set up for a small ensemble and faced chairs arrayed in rows. There were too many seats to count with a glance.