The walk back to my steam carriage took two hours. Along the way, I passed Market Square, where the celebrations for the launch of the Brave Eagle were already underway. Huge bleachers were being constructed at the four cross-streets by industrious men wielding hammers and crawling over the skeletal creations. When the time came, the frames would be covered in the country's colors.
On the side streets, tents were being erected by vendors planning to make a little money from the festivities. I tried to keep an eye out for Morwen Hightower's tent, but could barely keep my eyes open.
By the time I reached my vehicle, I couldn't stand. I locked the doors, stripped out of my wet clothes, and curled up on the backseat despite the ache in my side. As I drifted off to sleep, the last thing I noticed was that my fingernails had grown twice their normal length over the last day.
Chapter Twenty-four
When I woke, I found the silken covering on the ceiling of the carriage torn in four long gashes. Even the metal plate behind the silk had scars. The ends of my long fingernails had flat spots.
I fell back onto the seat in contemplation. It didn't take long to see the connection between myself, Voltaire, and Koschei the Deathless. Had some long ago Russian knight uncovered the secret to immortality, only to have it snatched away, until he became a madman? Or had the alchemical powder eventually turned on him?
Using the reflective surface of my garter knife, I examined my bloodshot eyes, the dark lines encircling my gaze, and my extended gums. The worry that I'd concocted Koschei out of thin air from my memory of Russian myths trembled through my hands as I removed the remaining black hairs from my head, not by choice, but when I touched them they fell out.
Eventually I realized that I had to assume that the immortal assassin was real, even if my gut twisted with doubt. The delusion of hope was still hope, worthy of following.
Which left Simon as my current problem. A bit of bile surfaced in my throat when I realized how up in the boughs I was about the Warden with his frontier good looks and honest virtues. I'd bought his honest act—and maybe it had been real at one time, but he'd traded that for a shot at the Governorship. With the Binghams’ connections and money, I had no doubt he'd win the office.
Which meant that I couldn't be seen in Philadelphia if I wanted to survive. I had no idea if Koschei could communicate with the holder of the duck egg, but both Simon and Mrs. Bingham likely thought I was dead. That was at least one advantage in my favor. The rest of my suspicions would have to be answered at the launch party for the Brave Eagle.
I'd slept most of the day, which left me barely enough time to change. Expecting trouble, I wore my tan woolen skirt, white linen blouse, and my riding jacket. I tucked the pink vial in the pocket that contained the remaining chocolate. In my right hand, I carried the shock cane, charged to a dangerous number of turns. Other accoutrements, like lock picks and blades, I hid on my person where possible. I wished I could carry a repeating pistol or rapier, but those would ruin my disguise as a simple old woman enjoying the festivities. The final touch to my outfit was a floppy-brimmed sun hat that I could tuck my gray hair beneath and use to keep my face hidden.
I left the steam carriage in an alleyway. Soldiers in continental blue stood guard at the top of the street, rifles tucked against their shiny black boots, bayonets pointed to the sky.
The Binghams couldn't have asked for a better day. Idyllic clouds caught the sun's fading rays as a sea-cooled breeze washed across the city. Military airships on patrol kept a wide perimeter, moving like silent sharks in the sky.
The descending crowds wore their Sunday best. Gowns and petticoats on women were the norm, complete with those awful gigot sleeves that made me feel like the drapery when I hazarded to wear them. The upper-class women wore silken Brunswick dresses and perfumed themselves to be noticed at fifty paces.
The men who wanted to display their wealth, or indicate their allegiance to the Federalist party, wore embroidered court suits. Those that leaned Democrat-Republican tended towards homespun linen coats and dark trousers.
Thomas Jefferson and a cadre of his admirers passed me on the way to where the Brave Eagle rested at the center of Market Square. As the leader of the Democrat-Republicans, Jefferson was the opposition of William Bingham of the Federalist party.
I thought briefly of unmasking myself and confiding in Mister Jefferson, as he would know my royal name on account of his dealings with my brother, Semyon, when he was a diplomat for the Russian Empire. But if I did so, word of my existence would eventually reach Emperor Paul's ears and encourage a visit from his royal assassins.
I followed briefly, listening to him and his companions debate about the Bank of North America. The details sounded tedious, but I was pleased to know that men like Thomas Jefferson took time to understand the mundane details of governance. I'd counseled many a royal that “divine right” was not a substitute for having a working government.
The street leading to the market held some of the tallest buildings in the city, reaching six stories, so the enormity of the Brave Eagle didn't hit me until I stepped into the square. The venue was as large as a city block, yet the airship crouched over it like a grapefruit on a teacup.
The peak of the ship's bladder reflected the setting sun like a snowcapped mountain, while the rest was draped in shadow. Brass ribs formed stripes on the leather gas bag while a fine wire mesh covered the whole structure.
The gondola beneath the bladder was as large as a five-mast clipper on the deep sea. Cannons bristled from the lower floor. A larger orifice on the front of the gondola formed a mouth, around which a beak had been painted. The hole appeared to be a cannon, but my gut told me it was something else entirely.
A ramp led up to the gondola. Men and women strolled onto the ship and exited by a second ramp further down. The Binghams were allowing the citizens of Philadelphia a tour before launching it. I was curious to see the inside, if I had time, but that was not my primary reason for attending.
Circling the market, it wasn't until I reached the north side that I found Morwen's tent. Its owner was immediately apparent by the flag sticking from the central pole that displayed a twist of licorice in the shape of a bow.
For an old woman, I had sharp elbows, which I used to move through the crowd, careful not to discharge my cane on an unsuspecting citizen. I nearly tripped over my own feet when I saw Morwen Hightower speaking with Warden Snyder at the threshold of the tent flap.
The Warden's interest in the flaxen-haired woman was laid plain by the way he could hardly meet her green-eyed gaze. She played the part to its fullest, touching him intimately on the elbow and leaning forward to expose her generous bosom.
The conversation ended as I pulled the brim of my sun hat over my face. The feeling of being watched passed through me, though I declined to confirm my suspicions. Moving behind a fruit vendor hawking his fresh apples, I glanced back to find Morwen returned to the confines of her tent and the Warden stalking away towards the Brave Eagle.
Staring at Simon's broad shoulders brought a heat to my face. My hands curled to fists and spots formed in my eyes. I shook my head to clear the feeling, but it persisted until I turned my back on him.
Rather than dare the front of Morwen's tent, I moved to the back, hoping to catch an indication of her intentions. The rear of the tent butted up to an alleyway, and I had to squeeze myself against the brick building to catch a glimpse inside.
Men in servants’ clothing, white shirts and tan pants, loaded a steam carriage with boxes decorated with the emblem of the Continental Army. The contents of the boxes were destined for the Brave Eagle it seemed.
One of the men, a tall man with lanky bent limbs, caught his toe on the cobblestones, spilling a box onto the street. Little packages of red, white, and blue fabric tumbled across the stones.
Morwen Hightower exploded out of the tent, blonde hair coiled into tresses falling onto her shoulders as she marched to the unfortunate servant. Her dark green dress s
wung angrily as she addressed him.
"You gollumpus! Pick those up, right now!"
She waved her hand like a fencing sword, and if the servant had been her opponent, he would have been skewered a dozen times. The servant hesitated, appearing at a loss, until Morwen yanked the remaining two boxes from his hands.
The servant scooped up the treats and deposited them in the broken box, his shoulders curling further inward the longer it took. He moved without regard for his knees, but he wasn't quick enough to catch all the treats before a large black bird swooped down and spirited away a bright package.
Morwen glared at the bird, but surprisingly didn't send a verbal barrage its way. Instead, she shrugged her shoulders and took the box from the servant, shoving the pile of them into the back of the carriage.
Before she could turn around, I ducked behind the corner of the tent, feigning at examining the planter's box of field flowers that ran along the side of the brick building.
When I heard the collective out breath from the servants, I turned back around, looking for the thieving bird. He'd flown to the top of the building and had begun unraveling his prize.
The door to the building was open. It appeared to be an apartment for small families. I took the stairs that ran through the middle up to the upper floor. A spiraling iron staircase led to the roof and I was winded when I arrived.
I thought the bird had flown away when I first looked across the rooftop. Then I saw its almost motionless body lying on the tar roof, the colorful wrapping spread open beside it. When I reached the bird, I saw it had nibbled on the chocolate inside the wrapping. Its eyes were dull like stone and its body twitched.
The bird was either near-dead or had lost its memory. Though I'd often thought birds had an alien gaze that could give a woman the shivers, this one’s seemed abnormally so. Its spindly feet grasped the air while its beak yawned in slow motion.
At that moment, I glanced to the Brave Eagle to see a parade of figures climbing the ramp amid cheers and clapping. Even from this distance, it was easy to recognize the tall gentleman in his military uniform. George Washington, even at his advanced age, cut a striking figure. Martha walked at his side, arm tucked under his.
The Binghams followed the Washingtons, waving to the crowd as they climbed, spending much more time on the ramp than the first couple. William Bingham wore a formal black suit that appeared similar to one I'd seen President Washington painted in during his third term. Anne Bingham wore a silken blue dress with a matching ribbon in her hair.
I was about to rush back down the stairs when I saw the final member of their little party, the Warden Simon Snyder, climbing sheepishly up the ramp. My face warmed at the sight of him, but not for any pleasing thoughts. Murderous visions blasted through my mind, and when I recovered, I found little crescent gashes on my palms where I'd dug in my fingernails.
The details of who was conspiring with who remained unclear to me, but the poisoned chocolates could eliminate everyone on the airship if that was Morwen's intention. The Warden's involvement with Morwen placed his loyalties into question. Maybe he wasn't beholden to the Binghams as I’d thought, or I was missing the point of this launch party altogether.
Either way, I knew that something bad was going to happen on the Brave Eagle and that if anyone died, it would give the United States of America ample pretense to go to war with either France or Russia, depending on who was behind the plot.
A carriage door slammed in the alley below. The vehicle full of poisoned chocolates was ready for the Brave Eagle. Morwen Hightower moved around the carriage towards the driver's spot.
A surge of adrenaline carried me down the apartment stairs, my feet barely touching the steps. I curled around to the other end of the alley. Morwen's steam carriage headed in my direction. I picked up a plant box that should have been too heavy for me to lift and launched it at the steam engine on the front of the carriage. The stone box demolished pipes and steam exploded into the air, hissing like a thousand angry snakes.
Morwen Hightower burst from the vehicle. My first impression was that I'd stopped the wrong vehicle. Though she wore the same green dress, the face I saw was not Morwen Hightower's, or at least not all of it. I had the impression of three faces overlapped, the others older and wrinkled.
"You fool," said Morwen, and then she flew at me, dress and hair streaming behind her like dark wings.
She was too quick for subtlety. I jammed the cane into her gut as her curled fingers caught me around the neck, leaving bloody wounds. A smell of burning filled the air, but Morwen did not falter.
Morwen swiped away the cane, ripping it from my hand to clatter across the cobblestones. The force of the blow surprised me. She grabbed my arm as I reached for the blade in my boot. The woman was as strong as a bear. I swore my arm would snap from her grip.
"When I send you back, tell the Lady of Eternity that her time has come," said Morwen.
Then Morwen Hightower opened her mouth. She opened it further, her jaw unhinging, growing, like a sinkhole in the earth. In seconds her mouth was as big as a kettle, then as wide as a serving plate. It wasn't stopping.
A horrible stench wafted up from the darkness of her mouth. The smell reminded me of swamp mud, but worse, as if I could smell it with my soul as much as my nose.
Her grip on my arm relaxed and I was able to reach the blade in my boot. In an upward strike, I pierced the skin of her neck, but the blade only went in half an inch, hitting what felt like a stone wall.
Her mouth, now an impossible barrel-size, was a glistening cave ready to swallow me whole. Morwen retightened her grip on me, pulling me towards the hellish orifice. My heart leapt around in my chest like a jackrabbit.
Without a weapon and my arms restricted to only a few degrees of movement, it appeared there was nothing I could do but wait to be swallowed by this creature masquerading as Morwen Hightower. Still, I fought against my bonds, trying to struggle free. She easily lifted me off the ground, and my head tipped towards the opening.
In my struggle, my fingertips caught the edge of my coat pocket. The chocolate! I extended my fingers, grasped the wrapped treat, and pulled it free. Wedging my fingers into the ribbon, I unwrapped the package. With a flick of the wrist, I launched the chocolate into the terrible maw about to swallow me. The cubed treat tumbled down the wide black tongue, collecting viscous goo as it slipped further into the cavernous opening. Then it sank into darkness.
When my shoulders passed the edge of her lips and my hips were horizontal, ready to be tipped over and swallowed whole like a minnow, I flailed against her iron grip one last time.
As I fell, I closed my eyes, expecting pain and terror to seize me. When my feet unexpectedly kissed the cobblestones, I stumbled away, confused, but ready to flee. I hesitated only because I realized that something had happened to the woman who had been about to swallow me whole.
Morwen's mouth had shrunk back down to normal size, as if it were a piece of molder's clay reworked into her original face. Her knees wobbled like a newborn foal and then her green eyes rolled back into her head.
She hit the cobblestones face-first. The crack of her skull echoed down the alley. I wanted to collapse beside her, but I had pressing business with the Brave Eagle.
Crouching down, I examined the tag on the chocolate I'd force-fed Morwen. It read “Eternity” in her scrawling script.
Before leaving Morwen and moving back through the tent to the street, I retrieved my shock cane and stuffed a few treats from the patriotic boxes in my other pocket.
When the crowd started cheering, my blood ran cold. Rushing out the front of the tent, I ran smack into a row of backs watching the Brave Eagle's engines roar to life. American flags waved in a sea of red, white, and blue. The guide wires grew taut as the airship surged upwards.
The crowd repelled my attempt to push through and ignored my pleas that I had to get on that ship. I considered screaming out that the President was in danger, but who would believe a crazy
old woman, let alone hear me over the deafening roar?
When the guide wires fell limply to earth and the Brave Eagle soared above the city, engines singing in harmony, I slumped back into the tent and buried my head in my hands.
Chapter Twenty-five
The sounds of the crowd dispersing chilled me until I was shivering as if it were the middle of winter. Whatever plot had been hatched would carry on to fruition without anyone to stop it.
Images of dead soldiers wearing bloody uniforms, their youthful faces caught in the realization that warfare would not be an honorable affair, filled my head. It mattered not even who we might fight, though my heart hoped it was Napoleon rather than my former home. If we fought the Russians, it would be my son on the other side of the battle lines.
I shouldn't have bothered with Morwen, but gone straight to the airship, stealing myself onto its gondola before worrying about her.
In my despair, I didn't hear the clicking of the little golden Automaton until it was seated on a table near where I was slumped, my forehead against the soft sleeve of my riding jacket. Aught sat on its haunches and licked its scaly hands before rubbing them behind its ear.
"Aught," I said, my spirits not up to further greetings.
"Aught?"
The creature tilted its head in a curious manner and despite myself, I smiled.
"I named you thus after our last encounter, the name being a combination of Automaton and Knight. If you have another name, I would be happy to use it, I just needed something to think of you by," I explained, though I refrained from the part about zero and emptiness, not wanting to offend the little creature.
Its hinged jaw opened wide in what could only be described as an eager smile. "Aught. Good, name is. I like."
A Cauldron of Secrets (The Dashkova Memoirs Book 2) Page 17