Though I'd never marched as a soldier, the burdens of royalty came with strict etiquette, including the way one approached a receiving line during an official ceremony. It took a few steps for my muscles to remember, but by the time I reached the gate, the soldiers stationed there were saluting me even though I was dressed in a woolen skirt, white blouse, and riding jacket —thoroughly drenched.
The pair of soldiers, who were wearing dress navy blue coats and standing inside a small hut, glanced at each other as I gave them a stare that would have made Empress Catherine proud.
"Madam?" asked the first soldier.
"How long have you been an ensign?" I asked in as unaccented English as I could muster.
He looked to his mate. "For a year, Madam. Why do ya ask?"
The art of authority was to be as vague as possible so the receiver might imagine the worst consequences possible, and nothing was so vague as silence. So while the rain kept falling into my eyes and my clenched hands shook vigorously behind my back, I kept my lips as thin as a razor and waited.
Eventually the soldier blinked, shook his head, and said, "Yes, Madam," before lifting the gate. I continued my march into the marshalling yard while the second soldier stared at the first as if he'd turned into a frog.
Once inside, it was easy enough to move around. Women worked in the yards as cooks and cleaning women. The soldier at the gate had probably assumed that I was in charge of them or that I was the wife of a ranking officer. Either way, before long I was standing between two long rows of the Continental Army's steam carriages while rain tapped vigorously on the tin roof above my head.
Each steam carriage was a deep navy blue, with a golden eagle painted on the back. There were at least forty vehicles in about five different designs: longer carriage, musket holes, double wheels for rough terrain, that sort of thing.
I found the one I wanted in the back of the yard against the fence. I didn't pick it because it was much different from the others or because it had a fine layer of dust on it indicating its infrequent use. More because, viewing the steam carriage, which was a slightly different shape than the others—bulges and roundings in odd locations, as if it contained many secrets—I was struck by a memory that brought my fingertips to my temples.
I wasn't sure if it was the aftereffect of the memory chocolate, or an uncovering of an old memory, but I had the strong sense that I'd seen this steam carriage before. It was as if I'd crept to the windows of my mind, previously curtained and pulled tight, and stuck my hand into the gap to pull away that which blocked my vision, seeing the eye-squinting light threatening to burst through. But I could not look through, only sense there were things beyond that I should know. So I focused on the steam engine before I was detected in the marshalling yard.
Preparing the steam engine took little time; I'd had plenty of practice helping Ben, though I cringed when the pistons fired, making a bang and a clatter that could be heard throughout the camp. When no one came running, I climbed in and found myself overwhelmed by the interior.
The typical steam carriage had a steering wheel, hand-adjusted throttle, and possibly a few levers that controlled the settings on the engine. A top-notch carriage made for carrying royalty occasionally had a velvet rope connected to a bell near the driver to let them know when to stop. Never in any steam carriage that I'd seen had there been any buttons, but the dashboard that surrounded the steering column of this carriage had rows of buttons, at least a couple of dozen.
I climbed out and back in a few times, trying to determine what the buttons might actuate if I pressed them. I had the vague suspicion that this was one of Ben or Djata's designs. Only when I studied the carriage closer did I realize the shell was larger than I thought, thicker too, with rounded cylinders at the edges that suggested hidden compartments.
Eventually I decided it was too risky to switch to a different steam carriage and prepared to drive out of the marshalling yard with the one I'd commandeered.
Staring out the front window with my hands around the steerage, I remembered that I'd ridden in steam carriages, observed the design and building of steam carriages, and even had the principles of driving one explained to me, but I had not actually ever driven one myself.
I placed the hand-throttle into the first position and the vehicle lurched into motion like a kicked mount. But not in the direction I wanted. I'd forgotten to set the throttle to reverse and the steam carriage rammed into the fence and, before I could jam the throttle into neutral, cracked the boards and broke through to a field behind the storage barn but still within the confines of the marshalling yard.
It hadn't been raining long, so I was able to ride out my mistake and steer through the rough grass until I'd made my way to the cobblestones. Upon reaching them, I pressed on the brake with my feet and idled the throttle.
Already my arms were tired, and I shook them at my sides. Driving the steam carriage required more strength than I’d expected, and I wasn't at my best.
The gate was a hundred feet away, around another building, so I blew out the lantern in the carriage and put the throttle into gear. Immediately the vehicle tried to escape my control, veering from side to side. I fought the steerage to keep it pointed towards the open gate.
As I neared, I realized I didn't know the protocol for exiting the marshalling yard. When a soldier stuck his head around the corner, I moved the throttle forward three clicks and blew through the gate, knocking his tricorn hat off in the process and barely getting the vehicle turned, almost hitting the brick building on the other side of the street.
I might have heard yelling behind me, but I was too focused on not crashing into a passing horse-drawn buggy to pay attention. The muscles in my shoulders and arms knotted with effort. When an old man in a farmer's rain jacket stumbled onto the street from a tavern, I had to swerve hard to the left, nearly slamming into a hitching post.
The next few streets were a blur of rain-slicked cobblestones, pedestrians trying to impale themselves on my wheels, and the ache of muscles screaming for a break. I felt I was trying to break a wild stallion made of brass, steel, and steam.
Then a young boy, who should have been in bed, darted in front of the carriage. I jammed both feet onto the brake and the steam carriage skidded across the cobblestones. The boy froze mid-street, directly in my path, and I was sure I was going to run him down.
When the vehicle stopped inches away from the boy, both he and I were holding our breath. Then he jumped away and disappeared into the shadows between the gas lamps.
I throttled back to idle and placed my head against the steerage, while my arms shook. Once I got them under control and had given them a fair rest, I put the throttle in the first position, which seemed like a slow mosey compared to the frantic escape from the marshalling yard.
Controlling the steam carriage at the slower speeds was considerably easier, and after circling back to collect the things I'd hidden in the pile of leaves, I at last found myself on the northeastern side of the city, near the Warden's home.
He lived on the second floor of a two-story brick building. The lower flat was occupied by an apothecary and his wife. I left the steam carriage idling on the street, vowing to paint it a different color when I had time.
The front door was locked. I bent into a crouch and pulled my tools out. Using a long pick and a tension hook, I teased the tumblers and was through the door in a moment. Wolfgang, who'd taught me the art of using them, would have been proud.
Before ascending the stairs to the upper living quarters, I retrieved my pistol and reloaded it. The boards on the stairs creaked as much as my knees, but I made the upper level without incident.
The upper door opened without complaint, and I turned my ear to listen before moving into the Warden's home. A faint snoring reverberated through the apartment.
I adjusted the hood on my little lantern, letting only a bit of light ooze into the front room. It was a loner's pad, without the accoutrements that a woman could add. I t
ried not to picture my divan lining the wall rather than his ratty cushioned chair.
When I stepped into the room, the muscles in my right leg seized with agony. At first I thought I'd been shot or stepped into a fur trapper's leg trap and almost fired my pistol into the darkness. I kept my eyes clamped shut and waited for the pain to pass. Eventually the muscles released their hold on my leg and I could move again. I realized I'd pushed myself too hard. This failing body needed more rest than I'd given it, or needed more powder—either way, I was running out of time.
Sneaking through the Warden's apartment should have given me a thrill. Instead, I was waiting for the next attack from my muscles, the right calf already tender from its seizure.
Simon kept a simple table as a desk, with an inkwell and quill next to a stack of papers. I licked my finger and paged through them, looking for the note that'd been slipped under his door. Mostly what I found were bills and notes from creditors. Simon was more in debt than I was, and to the Bank of North America. Which meant his loyalties were strongly on the side of the Binghams’, should it come to that.
When I found what I thought was the note, I became acutely aware that the apartment had gone unnaturally quiet. Using my thumb, I pushed the hood back over the light and let my eyes adjust to the darkness.
The doorway to the bedroom was on my left, but there was no ambient light and that direction was a blackness that painted ideas into my head. I thought I heard a scuff and pointed the pistol in that direction.
The darkness pressed against my skin. It felt like something was right outside my reach. What if that thing that had attacked me in my home was in the Warden's apartment? What if it had followed me and came in through the open door?
My heartbeat filled my ears, covering the idling of the steam carriage outside. I thought I heard a second scuff and stifled a noise in my throat.
I couldn't take the darkness any longer and pulled the hood back with my thumb, enough to see in front of me. A man was standing right there. My finger twitched against the trigger on the pistol.
It was Warden Simon. He was standing in front of me, completely naked. His eyes were unfocused, and he wavered on his feet.
"She comes over the ocean," he said.
I leaned to one side to see if he was looking at me. When his gaze didn't follow, I realized he was asleep. I'd heard of such an affliction before. Empress Catherine's cousin Aleksy, when he would visit us at the Winter Palace, would wander around in his bedclothes during the middle of the night. Catherine, ever concerned about her cousin, assigned a guard outside his room so he wouldn't injure himself during his nightly travels.
We could even talk to Aleksy when he was asleep, and he would give nonsensical answers. Some said that the words of a nightwalker were prophetic, but we thought of them simply as entertainment.
But I didn't know if Simon was like Aleksy, or if he would wake up if I said something to him. So I stayed perfectly still.
Eventually, Simon nodded drowsily as if something had answered him, and he returned to his room, climbing onto the squeaky bed. I couldn't help but watch the hollow of his pale buttocks flex as he burrowed under the blanket.
Rather than risk discovery, I slipped the note from the pile of papers and shoved it into my coat pocket. With every step towards the door, I swore that Simon would wake, but I made it out and back to my waiting steam carriage without further incident.
After unfolding the paper and spreading it against the steerage, I shone my lamp on it. The words were written in a scrawling script that looked all too familiar.
A man has died in Ben Franklin's parlor.
I compared the note to the tag on the chocolate, and though I wouldn't swear my life on it, I'd say the two were written by the same person. The revelation that Morwen Hightower had been the one to report the murder—no, the death of the thief—only confused me further. It was also curious that it said that a man has died rather than a man was murdered, a distinction that Simon had neglected to mention.
Her identity as the note-writer made it clear why she hadn't been surprised by the cauldron. She'd seen it before when she found the thief. Had she been the one to kill this Jonas? It didn't seem likely, since she'd come to me about her missing husband, whom she'd named as Francis, but described as Jonas.
I knew that others might consider the cauldron and the circumstances of the death as reason to suspect supernatural interference, but I was a woman of science and knew that a reasonable explanation would eventually be found.
It was more likely that the cauldron was not really a cauldron, but rather an object of Ben Franklin's that I'd never seen before, and that the dead thief had something to do with why Morwen Hightower was in town. I'd already established that she wanted her poisoned chocolate returned before the Binghams’ big event. Maybe she was trying to distract the Warden from bigger things?
Whatever it meant, it didn't change how I felt about Mrs. Hightower. She was clearly up to no good, and I would not be returning the chocolate, no matter what she demanded.
Exhausted as I was, I had one more stop for the night and then I could sleep. I needed to fetch proper attire to attend the afternoon party at the Binghams’, so I might learn more about their motives. I needed to stop by my house, but worried that the Warden was having it watched. And I had no idea what had happened to Voltaire. Was he still lurking in the cellar, or had Simon let him out? I hated going back, but getting into the Binghams’ party would require an elegant gown, and home was the only place I knew that had my size.
Chapter Sixteen
The interior of my front room smelled like a vagrant's soiled clothes as I stepped through the door. I held the crook of my elbow over my nose as I pointed the pistol at the doorways, feeling that Voltaire would spring from the darkness the moment I let down my guard. The cellar door hung by one hinge, a tilted rectangle casting shadows from my lamp against the wall.
"Bonjour, Monsieur Voltaire," I called sweetly.
The whole lower level had been ransacked, drawers opened, cushions upturned. He'd been thorough in his destruction. My kitchen had seen similar treatment. What few spices I could afford had been spilled upon the scuffed wooden floor in overlapping blobs of light brown, white, and chunky black.
By the smell, he'd urinated in the corners a few times like a wild beast, which maybe he was by now. When I was sure he wasn't on the main level, I examined the second floor. Like the downstairs, every drawer and cabinet had been opened, contents strewn across the room like a hurricane had blown through.
The cellar floor sparkled like a moonlit lake. Glass had been broken into fine pieces and spread across the stone, stains of the alchemical materials marking their ending. Most of the items had been expensive and irreplaceable, at least on my current earnings. What a mess he'd made of my home, looking for more powder. Is that what I would turn into soon enough?
Content that I was safe for the moment, or at least that Voltaire wasn't lurking in the corner, I put away my pistol and returned upstairs to retrieve a proper dress. For now, I didn't think I'd be able live here, so I packed a traveling bag.
With a dress over my arm, I prepared to leave and found a letter right inside the door. The seal in the red wax was a gear at the center of a spoke-wheel.
"Djata," I whispered, and broke it open to read the letter. In it, he requested a favor in return for the cane he'd given, asking for my assistance at the Merry Meadow Dock house on the Schuylkill River, two nights hence.
I knew the place. There was a long boathouse near the bend in the river, and its roof had been painted a bright red. The poorer residents of Philadelphia went swimming in the oxbow lake that had formed behind the boathouse. Memories of laughing children throwing black, earthy mud balls at each other tugged the corners of my lips upward. I tucked the letter away and moved my things to the idling steam carriage.
Next to the wheel of my vehicle was the creature that had stalked me at Djata's place. Its golden scales reflected in the gas lights
. Standing on hind legs, the beastie was as tall as my waist. I nearly dropped my dress onto the damp cobblestones in surprise.
Its black, pebble-like eyes regarded me with an alien confidence. On its jaw, a faint line ran across its cheek, as if it were hinged.
A horse-drawn carriage turned onto the street, filling it with the clatter of hooves on stone. Glossy black stallions pulled the ornate carriage—some wealthy resident returning from a late-night adventure, maybe a rendezvous with a mistress.
When I glanced back to the wheel, the golden creature was gone. This time I had the impression it hadn't meant me harm, but I couldn't be sure, based on the briefness of our encounter.
The meager belongings I'd rescued fit easily into the spacious carriage, which could hold four adults comfortably, not including the driver. Somehow, this made me sad.
While my luck was holding, I drove the carriage to an alley a few blocks away and shut down the steam engine. The brass pipes ticked as they cooled. If I was to get around town tomorrow, I would have to refill the water tanks and get more fuel, but at the moment I could barely hold my eyes open.
The back bench in the carriage wasn't quite wide enough for me to curl upon, so I had to wedge myself between the two walls so I wouldn't fall off. As uncomfortable as it was, I fell asleep right away.
The next day, I woke stiff and sore and stretched my tired muscles, trying to get the crick out of my back. After eating the remainder of the hard bread, I refilled the tanks on the engine using a rain barrel.
Coal was only a little harder to find. I had to sneak behind the general store and take a bucketful from the wooden bin in back. Once I'd liberated the fuel, I went into the store and traded a silver medallion in the shape of the Winter Palace I'd been given by a Prussian viscount for a bucket of black paint and a brush. It hurt to let the medallion go, not because I'd liked the viscount—he'd been a handsy fellow with bad breath—but because it was one of the few remaining pieces I had from my previous life. I'd traded most of my things to pay the bills and the expenses that went with the press.
A Cauldron of Secrets (The Dashkova Memoirs Book 2) Page 11