Its voice was like two coins rubbed together, silky and metallic.
"Thank you for saving me from Koschei," I said. "I would have died without your help."
"Help," said Aught. "Help, Ben sent me to."
I snapped up, the weariness on my bones shaking free like wind-blown dust.
"Ben?" I asked. "Ben Franklin."
"Yes, Ben."
I reeled against the table. "Where is he? Why isn't he here? Did he know that Morwen was going to try and kill the President?"
The pinched little face of the golden pangolin drew out in thought as if it were thinking. Its eyes fluttered like Morse code on a ship lantern.
"Binghams, Ben sent Morwen to stop," said Aught.
An ache formed in my stomach. I had to rearrange the sentence in my head, since Aught's speech pattern was scrambled. "Ben sent Morwen to stop the Binghams?"
Aught nodded his head.
"Morwen is an ally?"
Aught nodded again.
"What have I done?" I whispered. "Why isn't Ben here? Can you tell me that?"
Aught stared back unblinkingly.
"You don't know?" I asked.
"No," said Aught.
"But he sent you to help me?" I asked.
"Yes."
I wanted to scream. "Then why didn't you come to me earlier?"
"Aught, Ben said no one can see," said the pangolin.
His earlier behavior became clear. "Ben didn't want anyone to see a functioning Automaton, so he told you not to be seen, but to help me. Which is why you've been lurking around the edges. Each time you tried to talk to me, someone else showed up, forcing you to flee."
"Yes."
Everything was becoming painfully obvious. "Ben made you, didn't he?"
"Yes."
"Dear me," I said. "He must be traveling abroad then. Is he in the Ottoman Empire? They're doing amazing things with electricity these days."
"No," said Aught, as he licked his back foot.
The earlier encounter with Morwen came back. "Then what is Morwen? How did she do that? She almost swallowed me."
"Morwen, Morwen is."
"Right," I said. "But she was sent to help me?"
Aught hesitated and then answered, "No."
I tapped my finger on my chin. "Were you supposed to tell me to help Morwen?"
"Yes." Aught nodded eagerly.
"But you couldn't because I kept moving around the city."
Aught stared back with wide eyes. The lantern light inside the tent reflected warmly across his golden scales. I could tell he wanted me to probe further. "Morwen was sent to stop the Binghams."
"Yes," said Aught.
"Stop the Binghams from killing the President?" I asked.
His answer sent a chill through my gut. "Yes."
"That doesn't make any sense," I said, mostly to myself. "If the President dies, then John Adams will be President, and they won't need a Federalist candidate, which leaves William Bingham out of a job. Of course, he has the Bank of North America to fall back on and with a war on the way..."
Like a giant clockwork settling into its gears, the world suddenly started to make sense.
"Yes," said Aught, mirroring my thoughts.
"This was never about him being President. This was about guaranteeing a war that would have to be funded by his bank. And with him losing out on a chance at the presidency, everyone would feel sorry for him and not see the real motive behind it. And even if someone did, how do you stop a country thirsty for revenge for killing its most revered citizen?" I placed my hand over my mouth. "Which means that Anne acquired the duck egg not to protect them, but to kill the President. If even one soldier survives, and Anne will make sure of it, they will report that George Washington was killed by a soldier in a Hussar jacket. This has been about a war with Russia all along."
Aught turned his golden head towards the sky. "Brave Eagle."
"Yes," I said. "I get it. They're on the Brave Eagle. But I've gone and screwed it up. I took out my ally unknowingly and acquired for them the very tool they will use in the assassination. I'm a fool, Aught. A fool. Just like Djata and Voltaire said I was. And now I have no way of getting to the airship. I have no way to stop them."
"Airship, fly to," said Aught.
I lifted my arms, stretching them out and giving them a flap. "With these? I'm not a bird, Aught. Maybe if Ben were here, he could make me a flying machine, but all he sent was you."
"Fly," said Aught. "Fly, Morwen."
"I can't fly a woman, or whatever she is, you silly..."
For the second time in the tent, my words failed me. The cauldron. It had to be Morwen's. That explained why the note was in her handwriting. She'd flown her cauldron into Ben's house, though I wasn't sure how she did it without breaking down the door or window. Either she'd done it to stop the thief, or that'd been an accident. Figuring that part out would have to wait.
I leaned forward and placed my lips on the pangolin's pointy face. The creature's forehead was surprisingly warm.
"Thank you, Aught," I said, before leaving the tent and racing up the street towards my steam carriage. The alacrity at which I made the journey worried me that the Koschei part of me was taking over, but for now the unexpected strength was a blessing.
As I restarted the engine on the steam carriage, turning levers and adjusting valves, it occurred to me that something had happened to Ben Franklin to keep him from returning. He'd known he would be delayed, so he sent Morwen Hightower and Aught, so the three of us could take on the Binghams. But they'd arrived too late, and the communications got scrambled, with Morwen not realizing I was meant to be an ally. I feared that whatever had befallen him would have grave consequences for the future. Ben, more than anyone, had been the architect of American progress.
I dispensed with subtlety and parked near the iron gate at the Franklin Estate, rushing up the stone path. The door was half open. Muddy boot prints stained the carpet, leading into the parlor.
The hair on the back of my neck stood at attention. I twisted the cane while I crept to the opening of the parlor.
Crouched beside the cauldron was Voltaire, down on his hands and knees sniffing the air like a hound on the scent. His head lifted in a sharp movement, bloodshot eyes filled with menace.
"I smell powder!" he said, and bounded towards me in a four-legged ramble.
I hit him with the shock cane across the head, the discharge blowing sparks across the right side of his face, but he kept coming and tackled me into a door. Stunned, I was sure I was broken beyond repair, but I found myself able to sit up and push him off of me.
The beastly Voltaire had momentarily knocked himself out on the door frame, but was coming to, a hoarse growl in his throat. I scrambled to my feet as he grabbed for me, his abnormally long, sharp fingernails slicing the folds of my dress.
With a two-handed grip, I swung the cane overhead, coming down on his upturned face, the shaft connecting with his temple and shattering into shards of metal and wood. Voltaire's arms and legs gave out and he fell back to the carpet, tongue lolling out of his open mouth.
The result of violence trembled through my limbs like aftershocks. I feared to see my visage reflected back at me, knowing that I was turning beastly like Voltaire.
I stared at the French writer snoring on the expensive carpet. The swirling designs from the rug were like thoughts from his wispy white head. Though I had pressing business with the Brave Eagle, I couldn't leave him on the rug. He was a danger to anyone who came upon him.
I touched the door handle that had shocked me on previous visits, finding it benign. I guessed as much from the impact, which had not injured me, at least by way of spark. With a jiggle of my tools, the way was open to me.
The room right beyond was a dining room, though its current state of clutter suggested it had been repurposed as a supply room. The long, dusty, hardwood table was covered in crates and boxes. Coils of rope sat in neat rows along the wall. Filled sacks that
put off a potent aroma of rotting food lined the wall. Ben had been preparing for an expedition, but hadn't bothered to take his supplies with him—or had been kidnapped before he could leave.
When my gaze fell upon a familiar satchel that I'd seen Ben carry, I knew I would find powder within, especially since Voltaire had smelled the life-extending substance. My guess was rewarded when I found a worn leather pouch filled with sixteen vials of violet dust in two neat rows. If one was careful, it was enough dust to last an astonishingly long life.
Then I spied a letter tucked into a side pocket, the efficient scrawl immediately recognizable. I snatched it up, my face numb with concern.
It was a letter from my son, Pavel. He'd sent it to Ben Franklin knowing it would reach me, but the timing couldn't have been worse. A quick glance at the date showed it had arrived right before Ben left, which confirmed that Ben had planned to return quickly. He wouldn't have left without passing along the letter.
I scanned the message, reading it a second time in case I'd missed something. The paper rattled in my hands as I understood the danger. The Emperor knew I was in Philadelphia and would be sending agents to kill me. I guessed that only the distance between our two countries and the skirmishes with Napoleon had kept them from reaching me already, though it was entirely possibly they were in Philadelphia, converging on my location at this moment with intent to eliminate.
I heard groans from Voltaire and set the pouch of vials aside, fetching the rope. Before he could awake, I entangled him, tying his limbs together and leaving him as helpless as a swaddled baby.
His eyes opened around the time I was finished. He hissed, nostrils flaring. "Powder," he said, almost a command.
I returned to the satchel, claiming a vial for my own. With a practiced hand, I portioned out a pyramid of violet dust on my palm, snorting with great relish. The stuff burned in the back of my throat, reeling me on two feet, bright flashes of light rebounding through my vision.
A mortal weariness sagged onto my bones, until I stumbled to the floor. I realized the mistake of taking the substance at this moment. I'd lost the beastly strength I'd enjoyed while the powder had been out of my system. Eventually, with time and enough powder, I might return to my youthful vigor, but for now I felt every bit of my fifty-seven years.
When I opened my eyes again, Voltaire was staring in rapture. I dumped out a dose of the dust and put my hand under his nose. He snorted it like a bull. Voltaire's eyes flashed in ecstasy before fluttering to a close. He was asleep on the carpet, looking no more menacing than an old faithful dog curled before a fire. Voltaire had been further along the path of madness, so the reintroduction of the powder hit him harder.
With the powder in my hand and the steam engine still hot outside, the thought of fleeing entered my mind. It was entirely possible that President Washington was already dead, and going after the Brave Eagle would only get me killed or imprisoned as a Russian spy. I could head to Canada, or to New York, and take an airship to some African country. The Emperor's agents would be hard-pressed to find me there.
I had enough powder for as long as I cared to hazard this earth. This would give more time for Ben to come back, though the powder now in my possession meant I really didn't need him. Not for a few decades. And if he wasn't coming back, I would have the time to explore those parts of the world I had not yet visited. It was quite tempting to consider leaving this city that did not want me and heading out for greener pastures. My time as an unknown immigrant had left me wanton.
Even if I decided to stay, success was barely an option. Finding the Brave Eagle in these night skies would be difficult, and it was doubtful I'd be able to overcome Koschei. What alien strength I'd enjoyed was gone, and I'd resumed my nearly sixty-year-old self. And my cane was shattered across Ben's parlor, not that I thought it would affect the old Hussar, in so much as every other weapon used against him had also failed.
Leaving would be cathartic, as Philadelphia, despite its moniker as the City of Brotherly Love, had been anything but welcoming. Still, where had I ever truly felt welcome? In Russia, because of my birth in St. Petersburg, I was too European. But in Europe, I was considered a savage imperialist because I was Russian. While I was sought out for advice by the royal houses of every country, none of them wanted me to stay long, as my history of upsetting royal orders could not be ignored. And few wanted their wives infected with my bluntness of tongue. Even my relationship with Empress Catherine had become strained in the final years.
I was a princess without a country. Which was why I'd had hope that the United States could be my new home. It had been an easy decision when Ben Franklin was here. Without him, did I feel that strong a pull? I could leave now and avoid the debts I'd incurred during my brief stay. I would leave the debt with the Bank of North America behind. I wouldn't have to face Djata's wrath that his gases were destroyed. I would no longer have to worry that the Warden would drag me to the courthouse for crimes invented by the Binghams. In short, it would be a fresh start, and there was enough powder to ensure I'd enjoy the benefits of youth while holding the wisdom of old age.
My hand reached for the satchel. I could be on the road to New York in minutes. Escaping a terminal mess had never been easier, or more lucrative. A few pieces of gear in the room could be sold for a ticket across the ocean.
But when my fingertips brushed the canvas, they did not immediately close around the strap. I crouched over it, back bent stiffly. Then I squeezed my eyes shut, trying to silence the voice in my head.
Despite my desires otherwise at this moment, my propensity for telling truths extended to truths about myself. That voice reminded me that I'd tried to make a new home before, under more welcoming circumstances. The Wilmot sisters in England had taken me into their home during my son's education. My late husband's family in Moscow had been generous with their estates and serfs, when they could have turned me away. Even Catherine had begrudgingly allowed me to travel, though I knew it was in her heart that I should stay by her side.
Was I the problem? I'd always thought it was the circumstances of the moment contriving reasons to move on, to visit the next country. Was it my failure to commit? I'd been accused of being cold and impersonal. Was that a barrier I put up so I wouldn't connect with the people of one place? If anywhere in the world should fit, it would be Philadelphia, the heart of the American experiment.
And if I left now, that experiment would die. Washington would be killed, sparking a war with Russia that would place power into the hands of the Federalists’, who wanted a more imperialistic country.
When I was sixteen, I'd made a decision that changed the world. By leading the coup that put Catherine on the throne, I'd changed the course of the Russian Empire, and the greater histories, forever. But then I'd left Russia, spent my time traveling, rather than staying and helping Catherine rule. Maybe I thought that change like that was easy and that I could do it again if I wanted.
I looked at all the obstacles before me. If I stayed in Philadelphia, it wouldn't be easy. There was no guarantee of success and, by the blazes, it was probably more a guarantee of failure. I had no allies, at least none conscious or capable at this point, and no advantages to my name. The only thing I had was the desire to stay and make it right, stave off the darkness, and breathe life into the faltering flame of the Enlightenment.
The decision hardened in my chest, while the rational part of me trembled with the grim probabilities ahead. Before Ben left, he and I had spoken at length about the fragility of the Enlightenment. In France, it hadn't taken Napoleon long after the Revolution to subvert the will of the people to his desires. When Emperor Paul had taken the place of his mother in Russia, he'd wiped out many of the laws she'd introduced protecting the serfs from tyrannical nobility. And even the United States of America was showing signs of imperialistic overreach based on the Federalist ideals. The progress of the Enlightenment could be wiped out in short order, and I couldn't let that happen.
I tucked
the vial of powder back into the satchel. I didn't want it damaged or lost during my rescue attempt on the Brave Eagle.
Then I climbed into the cauldron, placed my feet into the metal stirrups in the bottom, and yanked on the control rod, bringing it to the level of my waist. The door was too small to exit, so I frowned at the wide window, knowing I would have to go through it to escape. I took a deep breath and engaged the control lever.
Chapter Twenty-six
The cauldron surged forward as I cradled my arm over my face. The window shattered into a million pieces, exploding outward into the grass upon impact.
I had little time to cheer my escape. The wrought iron fence and vine-wrapped trellis appeared in my way. I yanked to the right and the cauldron bumped along the ground sideways, like a butter churn dragged across the cobblestones.
I was headed for the east wing of the estate, right into a brick wall. With two hands on the control rod, I yanked in the other direction, willing myself into the air. The cauldron, now slightly angled upward, flew over the fence, and I was headed for my steam carriage.
In a fit of fright, I pulled up on the control rod and the cauldron shot into the air like a firework, pushing my body to the floor. My knees buckled against the inner wall, and I couldn't catch my breath as I soared into the night sky.
Wind whistled past the flying craft, the air much colder further up. My stomach was in my throat. Soon the lights of the city were far below me, growing smaller by the moment.
I pushed back down on the control rod, and the cauldron slowed and then began to plummet back to earth. The force of falling made me feel like I was about to fly out of the cauldron. I clung to the rod for stability. The earth rushed up towards me.
The buildings of the city grew larger, and I was sure I would hit the ground. I pulled carefully upward on the rod until the cauldron slowed and then stopped in midair. My palms were sweaty and my knees trembled. The cauldron hovered only a couple of dozen feet above a cobblestone street, the warm glow of gas lamps reflecting on its coppery surface.
A Cauldron of Secrets (The Dashkova Memoirs Book 2) Page 18