The Lady in the Coppergate Tower (Proper Romance)

by Nancy Campbell Allen

  “Exactly.” His voice rose in conviction. “That is exactly my meaning. Your mother charmed that length of gold, and through it, gifted you with an affinity to gold in general.” He placed his glass on the side table and leaned forward. “That simple piece of jewelry”—he pointed at her bracelet—“has become a physical manifestation of magick.” He sat back in his chair. “Healing magick, I believe.”

  She followed his logic and turned her eyes to the shelves holding priceless antiquities. “Do you mean to suggest the pieces you collect possess magical properties?”

  He nodded once. “Precisely.”

  They were silent, and she realized the glass in her hands was slick from her sweating palms. She carefully placed it on the table and turned her attention again to the far wall, her imagination now lending the inanimate objects a life of their own.

  “Hazel, my dear,” he said. “I would like to show you something. Look at that wall.” He indicated with a flick of his finger to her right.

  She leaned forward and gasped. A portrait hung there, a woman with a child at her knee, and it was large enough that she should have seen it immediately upon entering. Yet it had not been there a moment ago. The colors were vibrant, the subjects arresting, lifelike, but what stopped her cold was the woman’s face. It was the very image Hazel saw each morning in her mirror.

  Hazel pushed herself slowly from the chair and took a few steps forward to examine the portrait fully. It was as though the artist had seated Hazel and a child only that morning and painted their likenesses with incredible skill. The only disparity between Hazel and the woman was the clothing—the clothing style in the portrait had been worn in the Middle Ages. The dress was a long sheath with a braided rope around the waist, and her long curls were parted in the middle, with a circlet adorning her head. The painting itself and its frame, though, showed no age.

  “What is this?” Her voice was hoarse.

  “That is a portrait of my mother and me.”

  She felt her uncle’s eyes on her as she stared at the picture. “Surely now you accept the truthfulness of my claim. If you doubted before, here is proof of our relation.”

  Still, she stared. “Why did you not show this to me before?”

  “I did not see the need. The proof was evident enough in Rowena’s reaction and your own birthmark that matches mine.” He rose from the chair and stood beside her, studying the portrait dispassionately. “You knew I spoke the truth from the first moment. You will not admit it, but it is true.”

  She lifted a shoulder, confirming his statement by not admitting any such thing.

  “I was prepared to show you and your mother this, if necessary. It is rather cumbersome, so I had hoped to avoid carrying it around London.”

  Her heart thrummed steadily. The image unnerved her, although it wasn’t unreasonable for her to resemble her own grandmother. “Your mother had an affinity for the Middle Ages?”

  “Yes. We periodically sat for her favorite artist, and each time she chose a different era for our clothing. This one is my favorite.”

  She studied the child, features that showed a very young Dravor Petrescu, one hand on his mother’s knee. There was a softness to the mother’s face, and the sense of affection she felt for the child was evident in the slight angle of her body toward him. Protective.

  Hazel swallowed. “Why did I not see this when we entered?”

  “Because I hid it.”

  She finally tore her eyes from it and looked at him. “I never saw you move it, and there is no curtain or panel to obscure it.”

  “Look again.”

  She looked, and the portrait was gone. “What magick is this?” she demanded.

  “I funded a recent excursion to the polar regions. My scientists recovered an odd ship buried in the ice, one that had settled deep below the surface. Among several mundane pieces of pottery and various supplies, they found this.” He pulled his hand from his pocket and held it out to her. Sitting in his palm was a flat stone, perfectly round, and translucent white. “Take it,” he urged.

  She touched her fingertip to the stone, which was smooth and cool. She glanced up at his face, which bore a pleasant mask, and with reluctant curiosity, took the stone. “To whom did this belong?” She examined it, nestled in her palm.

  “A Nordic tribe, predating even those we consider ancient. One of their practitioners of magick—legend does not identify who—created a spell that would render an object invisible to an enemy. That object could be a person, an animal, an entire ship. The spell was tied to this stone, and the bearer controls it.”

  Hazel turned the stone over in her palm. “Any bearer?”

  Dravor chuckled. “Very astute. No, only one of magick affinity.”

  She frowned. “What are the mechanics of it?”

  “The spell?” His voice rose in surprise. “It works as any spell does.”

  She shook her head. “All magick has its roots in science. One cannot simply defy laws that govern physical properties. What seems magical to the lay person is actually an extension of principles we already know. I do not understand how all spells work, but I do know I cannot create something out of nothing, nor can I make something become immaterial.”

  He smiled. “Energy, which is what you use to heal. Displacement of the elements that form the physical makeup of the object.” He indicated the portrait. “Close your fingers around the stone and envision the portrait melting into the wall behind it.”

  She followed his instructions and felt waves of energy stretch between herself and the painting, the kind of waves she saw during hot days outside. The portrait shimmered before her, translucent and hazy, but not entirely gone from her view. “I still see it.”

  “But I do not.”

  She looked at Dravor, who raised a brow and nodded. “Truly. It is gone from my view.”

  Hazel regarded the shimmering portrait for a moment and then released the image. It returned to the wall as before, real and solid.

  “You learn quickly. But patience is a virtue with these objects. You must understand that proficiency with bigger items and living objects requires a fair amount of practice. In fact—”

  Hazel held an image of herself in her head and closed her fingers around the cool stone.

  Dravor abruptly stopped speaking, and then he muttered a short Romanian word, probably a curse, under his breath.

  She looked down at her own arms, which now shimmered, ghostlike. Her heart skipped a beat at the oddity of the phenomenon, but also at the ease with which she had commanded it. She released the spell, and her form returned.

  Dravor watched her, his gaze stoic and calculating, and then finally turned up a corner of his mouth. He held out his hand. “You’ve more talent than I realized.”

  She placed the stone back in his hand. “Why did you hide the portrait from me?”

  He nodded his head toward it. “Had you noticed it immediately upon entering, your visit’s purpose would have been forgotten, and I was curious to know the reason you would venture here alone, without your doctor or his ’ton for protection.”

  Her head spun as she looked at the shelves full of artifacts. “Am I to understand that each of those objects is bound to a spell?”

  He followed her eyes and shrugged. “Some of them. Not all.”

  She felt cold. “And do you have a purpose behind your ownership of these magical tools?”

  Dravor sighed and put his hand on her shoulder, subtly guiding her toward the door. “Ah, my dear, the world is a chessboard, and while I do appreciate a good game, my purposes behind my collection are innocent. I simply enjoy owning them. I have no grand plan involving their use.” He smiled and opened the door. “I must finish some correspondence, but I am so glad you visited. It has been enlightening.”

  She stepped into the hallway, and he inclined his head in a bow, closing th
e door. She leaned against the wall and took a deep breath, staring down the hallway at a few ’tons, her brain still spinning. What on earth had happened? She’d come hoping for answers but had exited with questions and more than a few concerns.

  What sort of power did Dravor Petrescu have at his disposal?

  She pushed off the wall and made her way quickly to the stairs. By the time she reached the main level, she was skipping steps, and she ran the last stretch of hallway to her cabin, which she hastily unlocked, entered, and slammed the door. Her notebook sat on a bedside table, and she grabbed it and her pen.

  Flipping to a blank page, she began sketching each item Dravor had on his shelves, closing her eyes periodically to see them again clearly. She’d skimmed over each shelf, looked at least briefly at every artifact, and she was able to draw the setting exactly as she remembered it. Once all items had been rudimentarily drawn, she wrote the culture or country of origin beneath all the artifacts she recognized. The items had originated from various points around the globe, and while the general regions were clear on many, specifics evaded her.

  She snapped the book closed, grabbed her pen, then left her cabin and made her way up the stairs to the library. The whole experience had been odd. Witnessing magick spells at work often felt like watching a stage magician at work. She might have been tempted to believe her grape juice had been tainted if not for the fact that she had produced magick of her own with the Nordic rock.

  Her mind felt that familiar fever of having a puzzle to work out. She was grateful beyond words that she now had somewhere to turn, something to focus on instead of feeling as though the walls were closing in and her mind was fracturing.

  Her purpose in the library was threefold: research methods and rules for tying spells to objects; discern the cultures of origin for the items in Dravor’s study; and uncover Dravor’s ulterior motives, of which she was certain there were some.

  Hazel entered the library and saw Sam at a table, absorbed in work and tapping a pencil against his well-traveled, thick notebook, the pages nearly all used. He looked up as she pulled a chair close and sat opposite him with a flourish.

  “This will be good news, I hope?” His pencil stilled, his expression wary.

  She leaned forward. “My uncle has a magical rock that makes things disappear.”

  He frowned, brows knit. He opened his mouth, then closed it. He tried again. “I’m not entirely certain what to do with this information.”

  She shook her head, wishing she could just open her brain and show him everything she’d seen. “He collects artifacts that are tied to spells. Ancient items, old and powerful magick.” She huffed out an impatient breath. “I must read.” She stood and crossed to one of the tall bookcases. She slid a ladder down its track and climbed up one rung, running her finger along several titles until she found the one she sought on elemental spells.

  “Yes,” she whispered, and returned to the table. She noted two ’tons in the room, dusting shelves and watching her.

  In her periphery, she saw Sam glance at the door and then back to her. “What does that mean?”

  “I am not certain. Yet.” She flipped through the book until she came to a section on casting and utilizing physical objects as aids. “I’ve not seen much casting, just a few times in the Dark Quarter.”

  “What sort of casting—” He paused, then leaned toward her. “When were you in the Dark Quarter?”

  She ran her finger down the page. “A few months ago, researching Isla’s curse.”

  He sat back in his seat, and she finally looked up at him. She recognized the tightened lips and slight flare to his nostrils. “Do I even need to say it?” he demanded.

  “No.” She looked down at the book and continued turning pages. “I did what needed to be done. If I hadn’t learned about the permanence of the spell, Isla would be sleeping like the dead, and Daniel Pickett would still be a disgruntled bachelor.”

  “The Dark Quarter, though, Hazel. Of all the places in London—I would have accompanied you.” He paused again. “You thought Daniel Pickett a disgruntled bachelor?”

  “That was my assessment, yes.” Movement at the doorway caught her eye, and Eugene entered with a sheaf of papers.

  “Your patient notes,” Eugene said and handed the stack to Sam.

  “So, you knew him well then? Daniel?” Sam took the papers from Eugene without looking.

  Hazel shook her head as she continued looking for specific information that proved frustratingly elusive. “Everybody said that about him. Do you never read the society pages?”

  “I should say he does,” Eugene said and pulled up a chair. “Every morning at breakfast, even before he reads the more serious news one would think a physician of some renown would find more relevant.”

  “I did not instruct you to join us,” Sam told his automaton.

  Hazel glanced up with a quick smile, glad his full personality and programming had been restored. “Perhaps he might be of use.” She stopped her scanning and looked at Eugene. “My uncle”—she lowered her voice, leaning forward, causing Eugene to lean in as well—“has in his possession several ancient artifacts I believe may be cause for concern.”

  Eugene pitched his voice to match hers. “What manner of artifacts?”

  “Ancient.”

  Eugene nodded. “So you said.”

  She frowned, preoccupied. “I need to know what sort of spell is tied to each object.”

  “Interesting.” Eugene’s brows pinched together. “I am finding it difficult to follow your thought process given the amount of information you’ve offered to this point.”

  “Finally,” Sam muttered, “I am the superior intellect. She is saying Petrescu is in possession of ancient items which have been imbued with certain magical elements via spells, but there is no rhyme or reason as to the pairing of spell to item.”

  Hazel nodded. “Yes. Precisely. And they range in origin from numerous cultures, many I cannot identify, though he has a Nordic relic that renders objects invisible to the human eye.”

  Eugene’s cogs whirred.

  Hazel stream of thought continued. “Which I believe is a random coincidence. I would not think ancient Nordic cultures have enjoyed a particular talent for rendering things invisible any more than any other group of people.”

  “Ah.” Eugene nodded.

  Sam sat back in his chair, one arm stretched on the table, tapping his pencil absently. He watched Hazel with speculation, and she tensed. “You told me after breakfast you wanted to rest in your suite for a time,” he said, eyes narrowing.

  Drat. She sighed. “I have every right to speak to whomever I choose.”

  “Of course you have the right. That doesn’t make it wise, Hazel. You shouldn’t have spoken to him alone.”

  “I wanted his honest reaction to me, not the flippancy he would affect in your presence.”

  “And did you get it—an honest reaction?” There was a subtle bite to the question.

  “Honest may be the wrong word. Different, I suppose. He showed me that stone, demonstrated it on a portrait of himself as a child with his mother. I do not think he would have done that if you had been there, or Eugene.”

  Sam pursed his lips. “Did Petrescu confirm that each item has some sort of magical property?”

  She frowned, thinking, and flipped open her notebook. “He said some of them do. But even knowing which culture they represent, that doesn’t offer clues as to the type of spell they contain.” She studied her own sketches for a moment.

  “May I?” Eugene offered.

  She slid her notebook across the table to the ’ton. He nudged Sam’s paperwork aside. Sam glared and gathered the pages, stacking them together while the ’ton placed his finger on one of Hazel’s drawings.

  “Islands of the Pacific,” he said.

  She raised her brows in surp
rise. “Truly? The fossil?” She handed him her pen, and he wrote the identification beneath the small sketch as she had done with others.

  Eugene continued labeling sketches Hazel had left blank. He settled fully into his task and elbowed onto more of the table space.

  Sam scowled and shifted his chair a few inches away from Eugene. “Hazel, what do you know of this Nordic artifact?”

  Hazel shrugged. “Dravor funded an expedition to a polar region where a ship was found, buried in ice. The stone was among the items recovered.”

  “Could be the recent discovery of the Icemen Expedition, perhaps. I read about it in The Times.” He cast a pointed glare in Eugene’s direction.

  “I did not say you never read anything of substance,” Eugene said, cogs still whirring and pen still scratching.

  Hazel shook her head, trying to focus. “What of this expedition?”

  “The initial supposition is the crew was attempting to evade detection by a herd of polar saber-mammoth. The ice froze around the ship, and they were stranded without cover or means of escape.”

  Hazel sat back in her seat and folded her arms. “The sort of instance when a shield of invisibility would be beneficial.”

  Sam nodded, leaning on the table and tapping his pencil against his notebook. “And would have been effective had they not been facing an adversary who detects prey through scent as well as by sight.”

  “Did the article mention human remains at the site?” Hazel asked.

  “A few scattered bones.”

  They fell silent, and the only noise in the room was the ticking of a clock on the wall and the quiet hum of Eugene’s gears and scratch of his pen.

  Hazel released a slow breath. “How in blazes am I to discover the origin story behind any of these objects? I suspect that will be the only way we will learn what sort of spell binds them.”

  “What do you hope to do with the information when you have it?” Sam asked.

  “I want to know what sort of magic Dravor has at his disposal,” she said quietly. “And if any of the spells can be reversed, or eliminated, or destroyed without destroying the object itself.”