A Cauldron of Secrets (The Dashkova Memoirs Book 2)

by Thomas K. Carpenter

  "Almost like..."

  "Science," she said, raising an eyebrow. "You feel differently when you eat a braised meat pie than you do when you have a shucked corncob, right?"

  "Sort of," I said.

  "It's no different," she said. "I give them colorful descriptions to help guide the emotion."

  "I suppose there's no harm in that," I said.

  "Exactly," she responded spritely, clapping her hands. She scooped up a chocolate and handed it to me. "Here, take one on me, and you'll see."

  The tag on the chocolate read Memory. "Thank you, Miss Hightower. Do you have one for Commerce?" I asked with a laugh.

  "Why, of course. I think it's in the back." She turned and hurried towards a beaded exit I hadn't seen previously, before I could tell her I'd only been joking. The beads tinkled as they settled back into place.

  While she was gone, I examined the other treats, touching each tag as I went. On the second tray was a row of treats with black cloth wrappings and tags written in angry slashes. There were only six, and they had strange descriptors on them: Volcano, Arsy Varsey, Eternity, Cat's Foot, Condense, and Nothing. I heard footsteps and shoved one of the chocolates in my pocket.

  Morwen appeared moments later like a bright ray of sunshine. The candy-making contraption had been removed from her arm. She dropped a tiny parcel into my hand, which I stared at with longing.

  "I can't take this," I said, leaving out that I was broke.

  She waggled her fingers at me. "No trouble. Think of it as a gift. I'm confident enough in my abilities that you'll come back later for more."

  "Why thank you, Miss Morwen, but I didn't come to your shop for chocolate," I said. "I came because of your husband."

  She blinked twice before recovering. "Oh yes, him. Such a terrible tragedy. I wish I knew where he went."

  I paused and studied her face. It didn't have the hint of melancholy that I’d detected upon our first meeting.

  "You came to see me about the pamphlets," I said.

  "Oh yes." She brightened. "Can you make them?"

  "No, but I thought rather than the pamphlets, I could try and find him. For a fee, of course, the same you would have paid for the pamphlets—except you don't have to pay unless I can find him."

  She let out a heavy sigh, like a mother dealing with an impertinent child. "I suppose that could be agreeable."

  We stared at each other for an uncomfortable time. She was looking at me as if she expected something.

  "Apologies, Miss Hightower," I said, after clearing my throat. "Can you describe him? What's his first name?"

  Her eyes widened. "Yes, his first name." She looked away. "It's Francis, Francis Hightower. And he looks like...sorry, it's hard to describe someone with whom you've lived so long...he's a smallish man, but he has a big heart, and eyes like buttons. Rather unmemorable unless you've met him, and then you would know him anywhere." She smiled wistfully. "I'm sorry, Miss Carmontelle, it's the best I can do."

  "Where was he going when you last saw him?" I asked.

  She tapped on her lip with a forefinger. "He'd gone down to the wharf, something about a business deal."

  "Would it relate to this shop?" I asked.

  "Oh," she exclaimed. "No. He did his own thing. A little of this and a little of that."

  I hid my sigh behind tightly clenched teeth. "It'll have to do."

  "Is there anything else I can do for you?" she asked, moving towards the front door.

  "No, I should be going," I said, falling in beside her.

  At the doorway, Miss Hightower offered her hand and I took it and inclined my head. A tiny shock startled me as I let go.

  "I wish you a good evening," said Morwen as she ushered me out.

  The door closed behind me and I felt a longing to stay inside. I could have explored the shop's secrets for days, I felt. But I had more pressing duties, including a job that could alleviate one of my concerns.

  Not wanting the two chocolate treats in my hand to melt, I slipped them into my jacket pocket, only to find a third already there. The tag on it read Eternity. It was the one I'd taken inside on a whim.

  "Now how did that get there?" I muttered sardonically to myself, before marching down the street.

  As much as I wanted them, the chocolates would have to wait. I had to find this Francis Hightower if I wanted to get paid. Morwen's description was less than helpful, though one thing she mentioned sparked an idea on how I might learn more about my problems.

  There was a certain lady in a whorehouse near the wharf that might be able to help me with information, though I would have to make a stop at another establishment before I visited her. I wasn't even supposed to know about this woman, except Ben had let her name slip once, though he'd quickly followed up that I should never under any circumstances visit her. I'm fairly certain that precluded the kind of circumstances I was in at this moment, though.

  Or at least, so I hoped.

  Chapter Eight

  When I'd come to Philadelphia at the behest of Ben Franklin, I'd arrived at a tumultuous time for the old inventor. He'd had a falling out with a number of associates on account of something he'd done.

  The details of the incident were left unmentioned, though I knew the identities of those involved. One of them was an immigrant like me, Djata Mahmud. He was a scholar from Africa who'd come to this new country upon Ben's invitation, again just like me. He'd been an assistant to Ben before I'd arrived and lived about five blocks from Morwen's chocolate shop.

  I arrived at his home well after dark, when the gas lamps gave the streets a warm glow and the evening's revelers were moving deeper into the city. If I was to grasp the reins on my many problems, I needed assistance.

  The building was nearly the twin of the foundry next to the chocolate shop. Djata had purchased it after inventing new machines for the military - and after he and Franklin had their falling out. As I lifted my hand to knock, I resolved to ask him about the new rifles I’d seen and the strange masks around the soldiers' necks. Possibly they were his inventions.

  After trying to banish the traitorous tremble in my hand, I rapped my knuckles against the door three times, as hard as I could, which seemed dreadfully weak. The meek sounds echoed inside the building and I wondered if Djata could have heard me at all.

  I was about to knock a second time when something clicked and whirled like a gyroscope from the curving brick walkway behind me. I spun around, jamming my hand against the frame to keep from falling on the loose stones.

  Rolling out from the weeds that grew liberally at the front of the lot was a golden ball of overlapping scales. The object moved in a zigzag pattern, clicking as it went, dodging around sticks and loose rocks with purpose, before coming to rest at the center of the path, blocking my escape.

  The object appeared to be made of scales, the kind used for armor, except they were the color of tarnished gold, rather than dull gray. My lips parted in exclamation, though nothing came out. I reached down to pull the knife I had hidden beneath my skirt when the golden ball unrolled into an unfamiliar creature that immediately reminded me of a squat dog with a long face.

  The knife in my hand gave little comfort as I stared at the black-eyed creature. I wasn't sure how I was going to defend myself should it attack me, and I wished I'd brought the pistol instead.

  The creature opened its mouth, and for an unearthly moment, I thought it was going to speak, but then the door behind me swung open. Faster than I could have imagined, the squat, dog-like creature with scales rolled itself into a ball and disappeared into the high weeds.

  "Why Miss Dashkova, I would have expected you to wait until after I'd threatened you to pull your weapon," said Djata from the open door, barely a trace of accent in his English, something I wished I could say for myself.

  "Did you see that?" I asked, checking behind me to see if the scaled creature might have returned.

  Djata was seated in a wheelchair made of brass, polished hardwood, and red velvet cu
shions. He strained to the side to see. "I see nothing but a woman who creates more problems than she fixes."

  "Spare me your flattery, Djata," I said.

  "What is it that you want?" he asked, his lips screwed into a permanent scowl. He had a bald head and a pleasant face, though it was hard to tell at the moment. I'd thought he was almost attractive upon first meeting years ago, until he'd spoken.

  "I need your help," I said, knowing anything less than the straight truth would get the door slammed in my face.

  "At least you're smart enough to acknowledge that," he said, turning his wheelchair back and forth. "But I'm rather busy with work for the government, so it had better be something I'm wildly interested in, or you're going to pay me lots of money."

  "I'm broke and I can't tell you what it is I'm doing," I said.

  His eyes fluttered as if he might be getting a migraine. "At least try to woo me with words, Princess," he said.

  "I beg of you not to use that title in public," I said. "Or my last name." Djata was one of the few people in the States who knew my real identity.

  "It wasn't a title, it was an insult. I'm surprised you're not begging the Federalists for help. They'd love to have a member of actual royalty to fawn over," he said.

  "Can we speak inside?" I asked, glancing over my shoulder. The street teemed with pedestrians and steam carriages. A woman in a wide dress and carrying a pink carousel passed the path leading up to the doorway.

  "What's in it for me?" he asked, his upper lip curled in a sneer.

  "A favor," I said. "Whatever you want."

  A short laugh slipped from his lips. "You're lucky I'm a little lacking in some departments," he said, glancing into his lap. "But as it were, I think I have just the job for you. I accept."

  "What is it?" I asked, not liking the grin on his face.

  "You won't tell me about your little secret, so I won't tell you mine," he said. "But please come in, Princess."

  After sheathing my knife, I slammed the door behind me and followed Djata through a torturous path surrounded by stacks of books and buckets filled with gears and springs and rods. He maneuvered through his maze with grace, yanking on the wheel of the chair to dodge around the obstacles.

  "Wouldn't it be a lot easier if you cleaned?" I asked.

  "I have a system," he said, wheeling into the next room.

  A distillery commanded the center of this room. Glass pipes bubbled with liquid, condensation and flecks of black grit adhered to the inside, and a mustard smoke rose in the contraption. Based on the water stains and bleached clouds on the wooden beams of the ceiling, I estimated the distillery had been working for quite some time. At the end of the fires and glass pipes, a leather bag with intricate stitching expanded like a malformed tumor.

  "Still sniffing gas?" I asked, nodding towards the row of multicolored vials.

  "It's quite restorative, you know," he said, adjusting some valves on the still.

  The humidity of his home made my skin clammy. "I don't know how you live in this. It's worse than the jungles I've been in."

  Djata spun his wheelchair around. His lips were a thin line.

  "While I'm thrilled to be the recipient of your insults, I have work to do. What is it that you want?" he asked.

  "I need a way to defend myself," I said.

  "Looking for a new husband, Princess?" he asked.

  The distillery made a hissing noise and sections of the leather bag crinkled outward.

  "Not going to answer? I guess that knife isn't good enough," he said, frowning.

  "I want to be discreet," I said, keeping my face placid.

  "So you are looking for a new husband," he said with a smirk.

  All at once, my knees buckled and I had to grab the end table near me to keep from falling into the still. His forehead creased with concern.

  "No need to swoon over me, you're not my type," he said.

  Shaking my head, I answered, "I haven't eaten today. And I find it hard to believe I'm not your type. From the stories I hear, every woman is your type."

  "I can't deny it," he said, making a roguish shrug. "While some parts of me don't work anymore, I still do enjoy the company of a fine lady."

  "Whores, you mean," I said. "Or maybe, fille de joie?"

  "I prefer the term women of mystery," he said. "Anyway, they're the most honest women out there, unlike politicians and royalty."

  I crossed my arms. "Can you make it?"

  He scrunched up his face momentarily before breaking into a laugh. "Oh, yes. To defend yourself. Sounds noble. I assume by the sounds of it this defense must be subtle."

  "Unobtrusive," I replied.

  "Big words from the princess," he said. "Of course, didn't you head the Academy of Science in Russia? It's amazing what royal connections can do for you."

  I bit down on my lip and swallowed my response. "Can you do it?"

  He gave a sharp, cutting laugh. "Of course I can do it. I just want to make you squirm for it."

  I crossed my arms. "Make it, or not, but I don't have time for your petty humor."

  "It's not petty," he said, with mock injury. "I think my humor is quite grand. And I still haven't named my price."

  "Nor have you explained what you're going to do. I'm not trading for shoddy craftsmanship. Nor something from your gas-sniffing delusions."

  As if to prove my point, Djata pulled a vial out of his jacket with two-fingered ceremony, unstoppered it and jammed it against his nose, taking a full hit of whatever the violet gas inside was. His eyes fluttered white while his lower lip quivered, and when he looked back to me, I swore that his eyes flashed purple for a second.

  When he was finished, he tucked the empty vial into his pocket and gave me an obscene smile. "Better than sex."

  "Doubtful," I said quietly.

  Djata twirled his wheelchair around and, with twin thrusts of his muscled arms, propelled himself into the next room. The scene of disarray here made the entry look like a well-maintained library. Tables lined every wall and made a cross pattern in the center, and on every surface were contraptions of various shapes, sizes, and states of completion.

  "This is my idea room," he said proudly.

  I walked past the tables, touching the items as I went. Even the things I didn't understand made me envious. It had taken me half the day to fix my press while Djata conjured up dozens of new inventions by mid-morning.

  A little brass ball suspended on the sides, with two tubes sticking out and pointing perpendicular, caught my interest. I spun the object, eliciting a faint whistle from the ends of the tubes.

  "What is it?" I asked.

  "Nothing special anymore, but once it changed an empire," he said cryptically.

  My gaze fell upon the rod in his hands. He held it up and I took it. It appeared to be a fancy walking stick with an ivory handle. It was heavier than I expected and moved with a shifting weight.

  "This is my weapon?" I asked.

  His grin made his white teeth glow in the dim room. "Grab the shaft right under the grip and spin it once around—only once."

  The rest of the cane was smooth, but the area under the grip had been crosshatched, making it easy to hold. Though my hands felt weak, I managed to turn that part of the cane, feeling a grinding resistance as I rotated my fist.

  "Now touch the end of the cane, right on the brass button," he said.

  A shock leapt from the end of the cane before my fingers brushed against the brass. The cane clattered to the floor while I shook my hand.

  "What was that?" I asked.

  "Did you ever see Ben with one of his Leyden jars?" he asked.

  I nodded. Ben liked to put on a show when he had guests. Using the jar to store up energy and shock them was a perverse thrill of his.

  "This is like one of the jars, except more discreet," he said.

  "I need a weapon, not a toy," I replied, picking the cane up by the ghostly white handle.

  "Turn that thing at least two dozen times b
efore touching it to someone and you'll knock them to the ground," he said.

  I frowned. "And if I need to use it a second time will my attacker wait while I wind the cane?"

  Djata crossed his arms and stuck out his lower lip. "You wanted a discreet weapon and I gave you one. Now you're changing the request. And I don't think you'll need it a second time. I changed how it's made, using a liquid other than water. A special recipe. Hitting someone with two dozen turns will leave a burn mark on their arm."

  The cane was comfortable, at least, despite its weight. Might even be useful for getting across town, given my sudden aging. I leaned on it and sighed, letting my eyes drift closed. When I opened them, Djata was studying me with his head tilted.

  "You look different, Miss Dashkova," he said.

  Maybe I was exhausted, but I thought I detected a hint of concern. Or maybe it was just that he hadn't called me Princess.

  "I'm tired, that's all," I replied.

  He revealed a winsome smile, and I wondered if he knew the reason. Ben had never told me who else he'd offered the powder to. Obviously, I knew Voltaire was a part of the Society, and a few others, but I didn't know if Djata knew. I wondered if Ben hadn't asked him and that's why he treated me so roughly.

  "Will this work in water?" I asked softly.

  He narrowed his gaze at me. "Why would you ask that?" His lips bunched into a frown. "If that means what I think it does, don't you even think about it."

  "What do you think it means?" I asked, holding my hand over my breast.

  "You're going to see Chloris, aren't you?" he asked. "I wouldn't do that if I were you. Ben told me about her, said to stay far away, and that's enough for me. Heard some things myself, too."

  "What did you hear? Did Ben say anything specific?" I asked.

  His brow knotted. "So you are going to see her." He shook his head. "If Ben were here, he'd tell you not to go."

  "If Ben were here, I wouldn't need to go," I shot back. "I need answers, and no one else can help me right now."

  Djata chewed on his lower lip while he pulled on his wheels, turning the chair side to side. "Ben and she used to be close and now they're not, and he never said why. If what I heard about Chloris is true, you'd best stay away."