Staring at the cauldron gave me that uncomfortable feeling I'd had before, like sudden onset of seasickness while my skull was squeezed in an invisible vise. The closer I moved to it, the more I had to resist the urge to vomit. When I looked away, the feeling subsided, but only a little. It was as if it didn't want me looking at it, like a blushing maid on her marriage night.
I hesitated to touch it. The nausea seemed like a defense mechanism, and I worried that coming in contact with the cauldron would release some hidden force that, like the shock cane, would injure my person.
I left the cauldron and moved to the door that led out of the parlor to parts deeper inside the house. The last time I'd been here, the handle had shocked me. I wanted to test that before I moved on to more dangerous things.
The shock hit my fingertips before they touched the brass handle. It made a tiny snapping sound, and I shook my hand to get the tingling feeling to stop.
No sense in getting out my tools. I'd never get a pick in there while it kept shocking me. I wished I knew what it was that created that sensation and if it had anything to do with the cauldron.
I rubbed the back of my neck, trying to remember something that would help me. A younger version of myself would have had an easy time piecing together the events of the last few nights. Even the version of myself from last week, before the powder began to wear off, might have done better.
When I traveled, before coming to the States, many a sovereign would call upon me for advice. Mostly, I listened to their problems, asked a few questions to shine a light on that which they already knew, and accepted their misplaced praise when they found the solution to their problems themselves. Oh, they always felt like I'd been the one to figure out their problems, but it was never me, always them.
A second reason for my caution was that giving advice to royalty was always dangerous. If your words led them to bad events, they might be quick to blame the person who gave them the idea, rather than themselves. Royal blood often brought with it the curse of expectations, that they were guided by a divinity that could do no wrong.
But that woman, that Katerina Dashkova, seemed like a different person than I. My limbs had grown brittle, my mind carried a bewildering fog within its confines, and it seemed like I grew weaker by the second.
With a heavy sigh, I put my hand in the pocket of my riding jacket. Three small lumps bound in decorative wrappings found their way into my hand: the chocolates from Mrs. Morwen's shop. The tag on the first read "Memory," the second "Commerce," and the last "Eternity."
I put Commerce and Eternity back in my pocket and stared at the tag on Memory for longer than I should have. The sudden appearance and disappearance of the chocolate shop left me with concerns about the identity of Morwen Hightower, though it was possible that both the Warden and I had been confused. Or maybe it'd been only me that was confused and I'd told Simon to visit the wrong street.
There was another explanation that worried me even more. That, like Voltaire, I was slowly losing my mind without the powder to sustain me. Which meant I couldn't even trust myself, and everything I'd said and thought had to be discounted.
It was an odd thing to wonder if I could trust myself. But how do you know if you've gone mad? Madness is just a reality that no one else except you can agree on. This was a maze I felt I couldn't begin to solve. Once I went down that path, I'd never get out. I decided the best way to get through it was to assume I was sane and rush to my goal like a woman fleeing a burning building.
For the moment, I decided that Morwen Hightower could be trusted. She seemed too wholesome, too American, to be anything other than what I thought she was. Which led me to the chocolate.
The delicious candy might be a hoax, nothing but a milky sugar wrapped in a decorative wrapper, but maybe it was exactly what Morwen said it was. A candy with a bit of this and that in it, a bit of science, maybe even a drug that might help my memory.
Before I lost my nerve, I unwrapped it, revealing a nugget of unremarkable chocolate (though who was I kidding, every piece of chocolate is remarkable in how delicious it is). The treat slipped past my lips and sweetness exploded onto my tongue.
If I spent the next thirty seconds leaning against the wall with my eyes closed, moaning as I chewed, it was a private joy reserved only for me. At the end of that time, when I swallowed the chocolate, a tingling sensation ran through me, first up to the top of my head until I felt like I'd been dipped in mint, and then down to my toes, making me shiver.
My thoughts, which had been marching through boot-sucking mud, crystallized in my head. My memories, which before had been hazy recollections, like old paintings rescued from a flood, drew themselves into existence. Vivid colors and scents and sounds filled in as if the painter had returned to retouch his masterpieces.
The clarity of my memories hit me so cleanly that a heat rose in my cheeks and my nipples grew hard, a sensation I hadn't realized I'd been having when I was in the presence of the Warden the last time. I heard the musicality of his voice in my head and knew he probably sang sweetly in church. I saw the way his eyes of no-color, of rain showers over a cold sea, flickered over me with warmth even while his words were biting.
Then I heard our conversation by the cauldron replay itself, every word, every inflection, as if I were standing in the room three days ago.
I heard the flirting in our voices, the back and forth that, despite the unfortunate ending of our previous courtship, had lain dormant like a banked fire, which only served to make my heart ache that I'd knocked him out with the shock cane.
Then I heard what I'd been missing, the clue that might lead me to some answers. A phrase that had been lost amid the bustle of the last few days.
A note was slipped under my door saying that someone had been murdered. I tried the entrance when I first came up, but it's locked.
"Who slipped that note under the door?" I asked out loud.
I'd been so distracted at the time that it slipped my mind, though not right away. I'd asked to see the note, but he'd politely declined. If only I could see that note now, maybe I could figure out who it was.
The note itself was curious. Why would someone tell the Warden about a murder? Who might have seen the body? One of the neighbors who kept the yard neat and trim? Or the person who'd put the cauldron in the room in the first place?
I reached out to pull back the curtains only to find the tremble in my limbs had returned. The further I reached, the more the vibrations shook my hand as if it were a struck tuning fork. Eventually, I was able to pull back the curtains. I wanted to see which neighbors might have a good view of the estate. I could visit them later and ask if they were the author of the note.
I recoiled with surprise when I saw a woman stalking up the path to the front door of the estate. She was wearing dark airman leathers, which reflected the glossy moonlight. Her flaxen hair had been braided into a rope which hung over her shoulder, and she moved with liquid grace. I vowed if I should ever escape the predicaments I was in, I would acquire a set of leathers like she wore.
But I doubted that Mrs. Morwen Hightower had come to the Franklin Estate to discuss fashion for enterprising women. In fact, her face was drawn with such serious lines that I knew without a doubt that she was looking for me. Before the door swung open, I quickly turned the cane a few more times and aimed the pistol towards her.
Chapter Fourteen
During my travels, it had not been unusual to encounter a duke or a viscount in a froth about something that had bothered their royal person. The game of power kept them hopping at shadows, trying to determine the best way to make their offspring the favorites of their sovereign, which came with it many benefits—until that royal was unseated, of course.
To have royal blood was to have expectations that the world worked a certain way. Like a clockwork that, once the mainspring was turned, ticked through its motions until the desired results flowed from the spigot, once and forever.
Since I'd been the favo
rite of Empress Catherine, the most powerful ruler alive, many a noble thought I knew the secret of attaining such a position. The truth was that I never felt the favorite of Catherine during my time, though many people told me I was. I always felt that it was my duty to do my best for the country, the best for her, whether or not she'd asked, and even sometimes when this went against her wishes, as it had with the Moscow papers.
I sensed this expectation in the march of Morwen Hightower. It was clear that I'd underestimated the owner of the confectionary. The insistent stamp of each boot as she came up the path told me she was a woman who was used to getting her way.
Yet, I did not get the feeling she was of royal blood. Seeing her in that strange contraption of blue flame and great glass cylinders indicated she was a woman of action. Lifting even one finger to toil on common causes was considered anathema to most royals, which was why they thought me an odd bird and came to me frequently for advice. The truth that all their ambitions would come to nothing without some adventure on their part was a truth they were too enamored of their position to accept. Apathy will be the death of the monarchies.
When Morwen entered the parlor, her face went through none of the motions of surprise. She stopped at the edge of the expensive carpet, hands on her hips, silver-tipped boot tapping.
The braid hanging over her shoulder had been wrapped in steel wire adorned with metal flowers that looked as deadly as they were beautiful. A gray metal headband covered the juncture between her smooth forehead and her flaxen hair. In the light of the lamp, patterns revealed themselves on what I had thought were black leathers, but were actually a deep verdant green. The leather appeared to be covered in the imprints of vines that had wrapped themselves around her thighs and torso, climbing up past her breasts and shoulders like a web of growth.
The smell of fresh flowers hit me a moment before Morwen spoke. "I want returned what you've taken."
I steeled myself from glancing down at the pocket that contained the stolen chocolate.
"I don't know what you're talking about," I said.
She held out a hand towards me as if she was holding back something and then squeezed her fingers into a fist.
"You have no idea how dangerous it is," said Morwen, completely ignoring that I was pointing a loaded pistol at her. Nor had she noticed the cauldron. Did that speak to her single-mindedness or something else?
"How did you find me?" I asked.
Being confronted about a stolen chocolate, dangerous or not, was less of a concern than the Warden knowing my location and coming to arrest me. I didn't think the cane trick would work a second time.
"It doesn't matter. What matters is that you return what you've stolen from me," she said. "There's only a few days left. I need it back. Events greater than you depend on it."
A foreboding wormed its way into my gut. Clearly, Mrs. Hightower was not what I’d thought. Was she a covert agent for the government? It felt right and explained how she found me so quickly, but which government? And if it was the States’, then was she with or against the Federalists? I figured my best course of action was to deny everything until I understood more.
"Mrs. Hightower, or whoever you are. I am not a thief, nor do I have anything of yours. And while your problems seem quite severe, I have issues of my own that need attention. So I think it best if you leave my presence, or I will fill your hide with lead," I said, trying to keep the shaking from ruining my aim.
Her gaze narrowed to a razor-sharp line at my weapon. I had the feeling she was not impressed by my pistol.
"I doubt you could hit me," she said, frowning.
"From this distance, I could hit anything."
My traitorous hand gave a wobble and Morwen smirked. Then her gaze fell upon the cauldron.
"What are you doing here?" she asked, nodding towards it.
"As I said, I have problems of my own."
Morwen glanced back to me. "And this...thing is one of your problems?"
Her question was asked delicately, as if it was fine crystal that might break with the wrong touch.
"Not that I know of," I said. "I don't know what it is, but it guards its secrets well. My problems are more mundane and entirely mine to worry about. And I think it's time I left." I waved the pistol towards the couch. "Sit over there, and I'd prefer if you not follow me."
I thought for a moment she might break out in laughter. She lifted one shoulder with such amusement that I wondered for the third time if I'd greatly underestimated Morwen Hightower. But she moved to the couch as requested and sat with one leg over the other in a pose of absolute comfort, as if she was sitting for a painting.
"Three days," said Morwen before I left. "I need it back before three days have passed. If I don't have it back well before then, I will come looking for you."
Outside the estate, I allowed myself to release the breath I'd been holding. Then I made for the back alley as quickly as I could, wanting to put as much distance between myself and Mrs. Hightower as I could.
Once I'd gone up three blocks and ducked into an alleyway behind a barrel-making shop, I pulled out the two remaining chocolates, paying special attention to the one with the word "Eternity" on the tag in a beautiful scrawling script.
What was so dangerous about the chocolate? Did it contain poison, and if so, who was it meant for? I gave a brief shudder that I'd eaten the one called "Memory," thankful that it hadn't contained any toxins.
When I shoved the treats back into my pocket, my fingertips brushed the note that I'd liberated from the gas lamp post. It was the flyer about the Binghams’ party. During it, they would give their airship, the Brave Eagle, to the military as a gift.
Morwen had mentioned she needed the chocolate back in three days, which matched perfectly with the date of the party. The identity of Morwen Hightower started to crystallize in my mind. She wasn't a confectioner, but a spy for some other government, sent here to slip poison into someone's meal.
But if it was just poison, why did she need this particular chocolate? Couldn't she make another? Something wasn't right about my assumptions, but I couldn't suss the truth from the facts learned.
As if I needed more prodding, I was possessed by a back-bending cough that left my sides hurting and blood spittle on my hand. A quick wipe on my skirt removed the blood, but the idea that I was quickly dying was a stain on my mind.
I had more questions than answers, and time seemed to be running away from me. But I had ideas on where I could find at least two answers, or three if I was willing to take another chance. The first would require sneaking into Warden Simon's house to get a peek at the note so I might ascertain the identity of who sent it. The second answer might be found in the parlor of Mrs. Anne Bingham on the morrow, during one of her nightly parties.
The last, I wasn't ready to consider until I'd run out of other options, but my gut told me it was probably the most important, and most dangerous, of the three.
Chapter Fifteen
The Warden's house was on the other side of Philadelphia, the north side, near the docks on the Delaware River. It would take me entirely too long to walk, leaving me too exhausted to break into his house to get a peek at the note, and afterwards I would have to return to my house to find clothing for the Binghams’ party. I needed a way to move around the city without being seen and so that my failing body would have time to recuperate.
Those few residents of the city who owned steam carriages kept them locked up, not that a lock was much of a concern. The real problem was that I didn't want those carriages.
The traditional steam carriage design hadn't changed much in the eighty years since they'd come into common use. The oval space that held the passengers, complete with velvety benches and floorboards, had stayed pretty much the same. The designers had merely lopped off the breeching pole that connected it to a team of horses and replaced it with a steam engine and a seat for the driver to steer. Fancier steam carriages had a larger rain-proof compartment for the driver, but
otherwise they kept to the same designs.
What I wanted was a steam carriage that concealed the driver from prying eyes, and I only knew one place that had them: the US military's marshalling yard. The military had used closed carriages during the revolutionary war to keep the English from identifying the rank of officers inside and had continued the practice well after the war with England had been declared over.
The marshalling yard was only a couple of blocks from my hiding location. The whole way, I had the sensation I was being followed, but each time I turned, there was only an empty street.
I was standing on the opposite side of the street from the gate when a heavy rain began to fall. Using my body as a shield, I unloaded the pistol so the gunpowder wouldn't get wet. The military had sealed shots that could be fired in the rain, but my dueling pistol was meant for ceremonial battles, which never seemed to happen when the weather was poor.
Gray hair slopped into my eyes, and I threw it back over my shoulder. Only a few strands of black remained, which meant that Voltaire's madness couldn't be far beyond, another reason to acquire a suitable transport.
A gray and white steam carriage with the symbol of the Bank of North America on its door entered the yard. The soldiers at the gate waved it through without checking for identification. I wouldn't be so lucky.
There was no way I was going to climb the fence, not in my woolen skirt, and certainly not in the rain, which meant I was going to have to go through the gate. I stashed my sack in a pile of dry leaves. If I was successful, I could get it on the way out. If not, I wouldn't need it much longer.
Tired as I was, I summoned a younger version of myself to my memory. One that had worn a Russian military uniform after the coup that had put Catherine on the throne. With snow painting the city white, the two of us ladies, both dressed as colonels, had reviewed the soldiers who had pledged their lives to the empress.
A Cauldron of Secrets (The Dashkova Memoirs Book 2) Page 10