"Why did you come?" he asked, studying me like a withered hawk.
"I'm tired. It's been a long day," I said, smoothing the fabric of my riding coat.
"Not home. This country. Why leave Russia? Why leave Catherine?"
His eyes were wide like an owl's, or two great magnifying lenses, and he focused his intellect on me. As it was with him, every question had layers of meaning beneath it. I wasn't ready for these questions, not now, with everything that had happened. Even Ben hadn't asked me these things.
"It's personal," I said, coughing into my hand.
He gave a weak grin. "Humor a dying man."
I hoped my cutting glare was sufficient enough. "As you wish." It took a moment to gather my thoughts, though gather wasn't the right word at all. Dredge, maybe. I had to dredge up the past, bringing with it worn artifacts and forgotten roots.
"Because she was dead," I said, looking away.
"She was a great woman," he said.
"The best of the royalty. The best anywhere," I said. "Peter drove people to their deaths to get what he wanted. Elizabeth treated the throne like an endless party. Only Catherine cared for the people, took the time to understand her country, and did right by it."
"You loved her," he said.
"Of course I loved her. She was Russia. She brought us out of the dark. When they look upon that time, they will call it a Golden Age," I said.
"Then why not stay?" he asked, his voice still wounded. "Or are you running from something?"
"I told you," I said, picking another gray hair from my lap. "Once she died, I had nothing left but my son to stay for and then Paul exiled me, so even that couldn't hold me."
Though his eyes were stained with blood, he held his gaze straight and true. "I heard otherwise."
I frowned at him. "Yes, fine. I could have stayed in Russia. I didn't have to be exiled, but better that than watch Paul bring the country to ruin, turning over her good deeds like bad soil. I was her closest confidant, remember. My existence only reminded him of her."
"But you still have not answered why you came here," he said, and when I didn't answer, he followed up, "It was the powder, was it not? Eternal life, or at least a longer one."
"I came because Ben asked."
Voltaire grinned weakly. "And Ben has the powder."
"Fine," I said, shaking my head while looking into my lap. "I came because this is the great experiment. This country is the Enlightenment in action. The light in the dark. She loved the idea of this place—Catherine, that is—though she knew it would never work for Russia. Too much past dragging it down like chains on a swimming man. Russia must drown and be reborn for it to embrace its own Enlightenment."
His gaze swept across me, sifting my expression for lies. "You don't believe me," I said.
"No," he replied.
"It's the truth," I said softly. "Though the truth is always more complicated than a few words."
"Then what is truth? I am not going anywhere soon," he said, motioning towards his inert body.
My eyes drifted closed, pulled down by the weight of the years. "If I had stayed I would have endangered my son. I'd given him the best education in England, carefully guided his career from afar, and wrote him letters often with my advice, all without the help of his father, who had died when he was young. But when Catherine died, my influence became nothing, turned to mud. I counseled him to separate himself from me, join Paul's close circle. If he had to disparage me to do so, I gave him my blessing. But even then, the whispers followed, and I knew it was time to leave. I chose exile for Pavel; my presence would have unraveled everything."
"The best liars tell something of the truth," he said, mocking me.
"Then why do you ask if you think you already know?" I stood up, turning away from him.
A cough caught him in its clutches and I thought he might snap in half from the violence of it. Feeling badly for mistreating him, I sat back down with the rag and dabbed away the blood that had formed on his lips.
"You think I'm a spy?" I asked.
With bright red eyes, still recovering from the fit of coughing, he nodded.
"You told Ben this?" I asked.
He nodded. His voice crawled from his lips. "I was not sure. I am now."
"You're wrong," I said forcefully.
He shrugged. "You and Catherine, in the end, not friends. And Catherine, she was no friend of the Enlightenment. A tyrant, like the rest."
"How dare you?" I said, holding my fury. "You didn't know her like I did. She could only do so much as empress. Even the changes she made took courage and put her in grave danger during her reign. She was constantly besieged by pretenders to the throne. A plague of them." I stood again, holding my hands to my chest. "And though Catherine was angry at me in the end, that did not change my feelings for her. She was my sovereign, once and forever. If she were alive today, I would be there for her."
Voltaire had more to say, but the coughing claimed him again. Eventually, the effort was too much and he closed his eyes. I found a patchwork blanket in the armoire and laid it over his frail body before climbing the steps to take my own rest.
He was right about one thing, and I was too tired to lie to myself. I was running. Running from a Russia that had changed, turned dark under Emperor Paul. Though I did not want my new country to go to war with Russia, there was something sinister about the rumors coming out of Moscow, a patient darkness.
I'd felt it in the whispers even before I left: rumors of men gone missing without warning, great soldiers that seemed changed, with hangdog faces and a gaze that always seemed to be searching the corners and expecting to see something.
When I left, I thought I was escaping that sense of doom, but it seemed to have followed me across the ocean. That creature, the impossibly tall, bone-faced man with mail made of teeth, seemed like something from the lands I’d left. Since the attack, there'd been times I thought I knew the creature's name, just for an instant, and then it was gone and the feeling left me irritated.
I was also running from myself. Running from a world that didn't need me anymore. When Empress Catherine had asked me to head the Russian Academy of Science, I'd tried to turn it down, give the honor to someone else more worthy, but she'd insisted, and one couldn't refuse an empress when they had decided. And though my worries were many, those twelve years at the head of the academy were a wonderful gift. They gave me purpose, direction, a reason to trudge through the waist-deep snows in winter to go over the papers our scientists were producing, and a feeling of pride that Russia was contributing to the great awakening.
Which was why I hadn't minded when Ben had encouraged me to start anew. It had given me something to do, a new chapter in my life, though now I realize, after the questions from Voltaire, they were just papering over the holes. I had things to do, but no purpose.
I knew Voltaire had opposed my entrance to the Transcendent Society, and at the time, I thought it had been because I was a woman. I know better now.
He thought me a Russian spy, not in the sense of international espionage, but in the battle between the Enlightenment and ignorance. Despite all I'd done for the Academy of Science in Russia, he didn't trust me. Although to be fair, I wasn't sure I trusted myself at this moment, owing to the skittishness of my memories.
With my nightgown on, I was prepared to slip into the inviting confines of my bed and let my exhaustion carry me to sleep, when the sound of glass breaking startled me.
"What the blazes?" I muttered before clamping my lips closed. If that creature had returned and was causing havoc downstairs, I was in trouble, and so was the incapacitated Voltaire. I cursed myself that I hadn't brought the cane or my dueling pistol upstairs. At least I was clothed this time.
There was enough light from the moon flickering through my windows that I didn't bother taking the candle with me. I cringed at every creak of wood.
When I realized that Voltaire was no longer on the divan, my fear turned to confusion. The
door to the cellar was open and I could hear the clinking of glass.
That devilish bastard. He'd duped me into letting him in my home and now he was searching for powder. I lit a candle and, on my way down the stairs, grabbed the ivory cane and gave it a turn.
"You lying thief," I said, marching down the stairs. "To think I pitied your condition—"
The words fell off a cliff when I saw him. It was Voltaire, but it was not Voltaire. He was sniffing around the bottles, tapping them with an ink-stained fingernail until they rattled like brittle bones.
When he turned, his eyes glowed with bloodshot madness. The sane Frenchman on the divan was missing and only some primal rage remained. If he hadn't taken one patient step towards me, I might not have gotten out of the cellar with my life.
He'd barely been able to move his arm upstairs, let alone walk, but when he took that predatory step, like a tiger moving in for the kill, I realized he had changed. With fear as my engine, I scurried up the stairs, praying I didn't trip on the way.
I heard a growling cry and the slap of feet against stone. I closed the door as he flew up the stairs. The lock clicked into place as the primal Voltaire hit the door with dust-shaking force.
Whatever was on the other side of the door raged as if it were a caged animal, clawing at the wood, rattling the door in its worn frame. I clutched the cane in my hands and worried for a moment that he might break the door down.
When he realized his blows were futile, I heard his heavy breathing return to the cellar. Soon after, the sounds of more glass breaking filled the air. If he wasn't careful, he might accidentally mix the wrong chemicals and cause an explosion, or start a fire. Wide-eyed, I listened with my ear to the door until he calmed. Then Voltaire came up the stairs again, and his sniffing at the bottom of the door, as if he were a bloodhound on the hunt, made me shudder with revulsion.
When finally he stopped trying to get out of the cellar, I backed away and let go of the breath I'd been holding, feeling dizzy when it passed my dry lips. I almost decided to collect my things and leave that instant, but I wasn't ready to do that yet. Maybe he'd be better in the morning.
But I also didn't want to be caught defenseless, so I changed into my traveling gear: tan woolen skirt, white linen blouse, and my hiking boots. Rather than sleep in my room, I made camp on the divan, setting a loaded pistol and the cane on the table next to me.
I didn't fall asleep for a long time, and when I did, I woke up frequently and grabbed for the pistol, pointing it at the door in wakened confusion. It's a wonder I didn't blow a hole in the wall. After I realized he wasn't coming through the door, I would listen quietly for signs of Voltaire trying to escape, before trying to fall back asleep again.
Little did I know, I should have left the house in the middle of the night.
Chapter Thirteen
The knock came like a woodsman's axe, swift and relentless. I blinked away the morning light and sat up too fast, grabbing the back of the divan for support.
"Have patience," I shouted at the door. "I will receive you when I'm good and ready."
The knocking stopped. In the silence, I thought I heard a tinkle of glass from the cellar. Maybe Voltaire was waking. I wasn't about to open the door and find out.
A half-eaten piece of hard bread and a hunk of cheese waited on the table next to the pistol. I'd gotten up in the middle of the night to eat when my stomach had protested. I shoved the sweating cheese into my mouth, savoring the sharp flavor, before grabbing the cane and moving slowly to the front door.
No sooner had I turned the lock than the door burst open, revealing headache inducing white light that sliced mercilessly through the air, making me double over as I turned away.
"There was no candy shop," said Warden Simon after he marched in.
"What?" I stuttered, my wits encased in sleep and my eyes aching from the sudden exposure to daylight. A steam carriage rumbled by, spitting black smoke into the street, the industrious city in full throttle while I slept.
"The candy shop," he said, arms crossed. "You're a liar and a thief, and I will arrest you now."
I shrugged away from him when he grabbed my arm. "Wait. Are you sure you went to the right place?"
"I'm certain," he said.
"Marvelous Morwen's Confectionary and Sweet House? On White Horse Alley next to the typeset foundry?" I asked, feeling a cold emptiness fill my chest.
"Nothing but a lot full of weeds," he said. "How could you think I would not uncover this lie? Do you think me addle-brained, or are you that unaware of your wagging tongue?"
Hearing that there was no shop made me feel like I was standing in the middle of a winter storm without a coat and a chill wind was turning me into ice.
"I don't understand," I said. "There was a shop there. Why would I lie about that?"
He gave me a quick once-over. "You look like you're preparing to flee. Maybe in your arrogance, you thought I might not check, or that you'd be gone before then."
When Simon reached out to grab me again, something scraped against the cellar door. Well, I knew what that something was, but Simon didn't, and he frowned in that direction, his face sagging in disappointment, as if he was slowly realizing I was even worse than he'd thought.
"Don't open it," I said, regretting my words immediately.
"Are you keeping prisoners here?" he asked.
"No," I said. "It's complicated. Just don't open that door."
He moved to the cellar door, holding his hand out towards the lock.
"Simon, stop," I said.
I wasn't sure which Voltaire we'd find, but I wasn't ready for either of them. Unfortunately, it didn't really matter. Simon was going to arrest me, whether or not he opened the door.
"Stand back, you monster," he said.
That phrase, and the way he looked at me, disgust dripping from his lips, hurt more than what I was about to do to him.
"My apologies, Simon. I greatly admire you and wish this could be any other way," I said.
He pulled his hand away from the door and turned to me. "What can you possibly—"
I jabbed him with the end of the cane and he flew against the door, hitting it like a cannon blast. He fell to the floor in a heap, his hat lying near his outstretched hand, the smell of burning ozone in the air. His lush brown hair fell across his face haphazardly, leaving him in a pose that was surprisingly peaceful.
"Well, I guess it did hold the charge, maybe too well," I said, as I checked him for a pulse.
When I felt the warm beat of his heart against my fingertips, I moved to the kitchen to throw some things in a traveling bag. I needed to be out of the house before Simon awoke. Besides food and a few other minor things, I grabbed the leather wrap that held my tools and shoved it into the bag.
Before I left—checking on Simon one last time—I shoved the ivory-handled dueling pistol into my belt, slipped my riding jacket on, and gave the cane a few more twists in case I had to defend myself again.
Closing the door behind me, I headed west through the city. I knew exactly where I needed to go, even though a myriad of questions raced through my head. I didn't know what had happened to Voltaire (and what might possibly happen to me eventually), nor did I know where to find that duck egg to get back in the Binghams’ good graces, or even why Morwen's confectionary had disappeared, but I knew one object that demanded further investigation.
The cauldron in Ben Franklin's parlor had bothered me from the first time I laid eyes upon it. I suspected that it might have supernatural beginnings, but it could have also been an advanced design of Franklin's that I'd never seen. The man was always working on something. The oddness of it became clear after my other encounters, and certainly, after the conversation I'd had with Voltaire last evening about Russia.
After realizing that quite possibly something had come over from the old lands, I knew that cauldron could be at the center of it. What it was, I didn't know, but I couldn't leave Philadelphia and escape my troubles. And not
because I was tied to the city until Ben returned with more powder, if he returned at all. I wanted to fix this problem, to have purpose again.
And maybe the cauldron had something to do with why he was missing. Figuring it out might help on two fronts: these strange occurrences, and Ben's disappearance. It could be that they were entirely related. Or maybe they were just random unconnected secrets that would keep me running around the city until I succumbed to the lack of life-extending powder.
The Franklin Estate, despite the absence of its owner, seemed quite well preserved. Even the bushes in front had maintained their manicured style that reminded me of the gardens in the Winter Palace, but had an American feel all its own. I suspected his neighbors, or the city crews, kept his estate in order, which meant that people might be watching it.
Once evening set in, I approached from the back, through an alley that went behind the stone wall. A gate let me in, its hinges sweetly oiled. I walked around the back, peering into the windows, though I could see nothing, as the shutters had been pulled tight before he left.
I tried the cellar door, recoiling when a shock hit my fingertips before they touched the iron handles. Whatever device was protecting the inside reached all the way to the back.
The front door was open, I hoped from the Warden's previous investigation and not because of a recent interloper. I produced my pistol in case I was not the only one intruding on Franklin's estate. As I shut the door behind me, using the heel of my foot, I thought I heard something clink outside, but when I looked through the little rectangular window next to the door, nothing revealed itself.
The parlor was as I remembered it, minus the dead thief and Warden Snyder. The cauldron stood at the spot that I'd seen it last, and I wondered if Simon had made any attempt to remove it. Probably he'd decided it was meant to stay with the house, or that Ben could decide once he returned.
I pulled the thick ruffled curtains over the bay window and closed the shutters on the side windows, before pulling out my personal lamp. It shed no additional light, except what was focused through a round hole in the front. No one would know I was inside the house, unless they opened up the door. Content that I could investigate without being interrupted, I turned my focus to the center of the room.
A Cauldron of Secrets (The Dashkova Memoirs Book 2) Page 9