Operation_Endgame

by Pip Ballantine

  She tried to distract him. "You know Axelrod and Blackwell were not the only ones behind the analytical engine’s construction?"

  "Oh?"

  "Yes, I failed to mention that a recent recruit took a keen interest in the project and showed quite a disposition for the sciences."

  "We have been in the field. How did you hear of this?"

  "Alice told me"

  "Alice?" Wellington glanced at the machine, then back to her. "How would your maid—?"

  "Miss Eliza, Mr Books!" Liam’s face appeared around the corner of one of the stacks of books.

  Eliza blinked. She hadn’t seen the Ministry Seven for months, and now she was reminded that the clock was ticking on their childhood. His face had gone from rather round, to a more adult square jaw, and the spectacles on the tip of his nose gave the young boy a far-too mature look.

  Wellington looked like someone had stood on his toes. "Liam, what on earth are you doing here?"

  The young man gave him an odd look and then straightened to his full height. "Been working on fulfilling the office of Archivist in the Ministry."

  "I didn’t even know you could read," Wellington blurted out. Eliza slapped him on his shoulder at this slight to Liam’s character.

  However the youngster didn’t seem to take any offence from it. "Nah, I could, but not very well. Miss Shillingworth says I am a good study though. And this science?" he began, motioning to the engine. "I see why Verity enjoyed it so much. Bloody fun putting that together, it was."

  Eliza smiled, thinking, now there’s the Liam I know. The lad’s Cockney accent was definitely toned down. He was doing what the Seven did best: fitting in.

  "How are the others?" she asked.

  "Oh, makin’ do." Liam ruffled his hair. "Most of us got apprenticeships within the Ministry. All well an’ good, all except Christopher and Serena. They’re..." He must have seen the concern knotted in her brow as he stammered a bit. "Well... they’re not so happy about moving out of London. They thought Whiterock was just a place to lie low. Now we seem to be... you know... " and he motioned around them, "layin’ down foundations and such."

  "Quite," Eliza responded.

  Christopher was the eldest of the Seven, so Eliza wasn’t surprised the changes bothered him. Serena, however, was a bit of a shock. She might have expected the young girl to bounce back a bit better. Even though Phantom Protocol had driven them out the city, the House of Usher was on the rise. It was never a safe place, London, for the Ministry Seven; but on account of their association with Eliza, they were assets. That meant the danger was far worse, more imminent.

  Wellington cleared his throat. "And you are enjoying it here, in the Archives?"

  Liam shrugged, as his hand dropped on the keys of the analytical engine. "Gotta say at first I didn’t care for it, but once we got this engine in order I started to come around."

  It did not go unnoticed by Eliza that Wellington flinched at that, but she tucked her fingers around his and gave them a reassuring squeeze. He nodded and smiled—perhaps a fraction stiffly.

  "Well, I am glad of it. Perhaps the Archives might not be the most adventurous assignment, but I enjoyed it a great deal. Quite the challenge, and essential to the operation of the Ministry." Was she imagining it, or did his eyes get a little glassy as he spoke? "But everything must change. I’m happy to see you find a place."

  "A little less adventure seems like a mighty fine thing," Liam said in a low voice.

  The young man’s sober look was a reminder that it wasn’t just she and Wellington affected by recent events. The Seven had lost one of their members and seen London torn apart. She would have liked to talk with them about it all, but their own pursuit of Jekyll had sent her off within weeks of the Diamond Jubilee’s clean-up. As street urchins, they had seen plenty of horrors. The Ministry had always offered them a chance for a taste of adventure in the streets and abroad. The events of the Jubilee, however, was a very different matter.

  Wellington and Liam shared a look, and Eliza saw in them the same thing: terrible childhoods overcome, battles won.

  "Perhaps we should go," she suggested to Wellington. "Leave Liam to his work, and we can pack."

  Wellington nodded, absently touching the knot in his bowtie. "Yes, that sounds like a grand idea."

  They went back up the stairs, Liam’s gentle humming of a music hall ditty growing further off until they emerged on the main floor of the manor.

  "I think he will do very well," Wellington commented, though from her angle she could not see his face.

  "He has changed a lot, matured quickly," Eliza agreed, "and as we know, the Archives is a place of sanctuary."

  He didn’t offer any additional thoughts on the new Archives, and she knew better than to press the matter. Wellington was still at odds with not contributing to the reconstruction. The important thing was the new Archives appeared to be in safe hands with young Liam.

  As they continued down the corridor to the main staircase, Wellington let out a long, almost contented sigh. Whiterock had been his childhood home, full of terrible memories and haunted by the ghost of his maniacal father. Now it was bustling with the activity of the Ministry. The kitchens further down the hallway were putting forth tempting smells of roast meat, and Eliza supposed soon the recruits would be enjoying their repast in the grand dining room, now lined with far more utilitarian benches to accommodate everyone. Ascending to the second floor, they could hear the rumble of earnest conversations between field agents either returning from or about to embark on assignments.

  Yet here amongst their fellow agents was not where she wanted to be. Tugging on Wellington’s arm, she whispered, "Race you home!"

  It was hardly a fair challenge as she was wearing her preferred attire of trousers and a short jacket. Even as practised as running in heels and a corset as she was, she would never have beaten him. His hazel eyes lit up with a sudden burst of his competitive nature just before they barrelled down the hallway. She managed to get a good start on him, bounding up the first set of stairs before his longer legs stood him in good stead on taking the lead. They nearly collided with Agent Peter Atkins in their sprint, his stack of papers threatening to topple as Eliza slid around him. Wellington stopped to steady the man and his workload, his kind deed granting her an advantage once more.

  "I say—cheating!" her partner yelled up to her as she raced on.

  Wellington soon made up the ground again, her elbow to his ribs no avail as they raced down the final hallway towards large, ornate doors. Eliza’s palm slapped into the maple first, a proclamation of her victory.

  "Now just a moment," he said, resting next to her and crossing his arms. "I would at best call that a tie."

  After considering him for a moment, Eliza decided kissing him was a far better option. Then she drew back and touched one of her fingertips to his nose. "Just admit it: I won."

  His eyebrows raised, but he smiled. "If it means that much to you, fine... I won."

  Before she could kiss him once more in spite of his impertinence, the door opened, and they both sprawled across the floor.

  "Mr Books! Miss Braun!" Alice said with a twist of her lips. "I thought you two were the Seven children with all that noise!"

  He flushed an adorable shade of red. "It was very much Miss Braun’s idea."

  Alice shook her head. "Well, either way, it is good to see you. Come in, I think you will like what I have done with the place."

  Eliza and Wellington entered the master chambers with some amount of trepidation. Though Wellington had given the Ministry free use of Whiterock, he had not given up the grand master wing on the third floor. After the Diamond Jubilee, it was not just the Seven who had decamped to the Yorkshire countryside; both Eliza and Wellington had given up their houses in the City. However, the physical move itself was left in Alice’s capable hands. How she would manage to fit out two people’s residences into one—albeit large—floor of a country manor had been worrying to Eliza. She wasn't
married to her home, but she had over the years collected some rather nice things.

  "Oh Alice," she said, staring around, "you’ve done a marvellous job."

  Wellington too looked rather surprised and delighted by what she had done While they had been in the field. The sitting room was full of a mixture of their treasures. The Venus sculpture she had acquired from a dealer in Brussels. His favourite rug in front of the fireplace. The picture of his mother above the mantle.

  And there, sitting on the overstuffed chair Eliza considered a favourite reading location, was the cream-coloured fluffy shape of Wellington’s cat, Archimedes. He raised his handsome face with the gold eyes and let out a little chirrup of welcome.

  While Wellington went to pet him, Eliza gave Alice a hug and kissed her cheek. "Thank you so much, Alice," but then her smile fell as she considered the toll. "How are you able to manage all this and still continue with your own field training?"

  The maid smiled and shrugged. "Nowhere near as complicated as getting the Seven to that safe house in France. Now that was a challenge."

  "And are the Ministry chaps all treating you well?" Eliza tilted her head and squeezed together her eyebrows into what she hoped was her best furious stare. "Because if not I can go down there and knock some heads together."

  "Oh, the lads and lasses are fine," Alice replied. "Though that Shillingworth bint gave me a spot of bother in the beginning, but we’ve come to an arrangement. She doesn’t come up here and give me orders and I don’t blow holes in her skirts when on the range." The maid tapped her right leg, which rang out hollow and metal. So—the shotgun was still in her prosthetic leg.

  Wellington shot her a glance, but didn’t seem to dare to get in the middle of that conversation. Eliza though that was a very wise choice.

  "So are you in for a bit?" Alice asked, and the tone of her voice suggested she hoped the answer was ‘yes.’ Still she had been Eliza’s maid for long enough to know the answer she would most likely get.

  "We have orders to take leave. Indefinitely," Eliza replied. She chewed the inside of her lip before adding, "The Director believes we need some time to rest, think things over."

  "If you want my opinion," Alice whispered, glancing over her shoulder as if someone was lurking in the shadows, "you should keep going until you hunt that bastard Jekyll down. He’s no match for the likes of you or Mr Books here."

  "He is proving rather elusive," Wellington said, petting the purring Archimedes.

  "Then I’ll put the kettle on," Alice said. "We have all the modern conveniences up here. A cup of tea will set you right, allow you to potential scenarios and likely hideouts as you pack," she offered with a sly wink. Then she bustled off, with only the slightest of limps in her gait.

  Eliza rubbed Archimedes’ chin, which he lifted for her to access. "I am not sure even tea can fix this."

  It disturbed her to see that Wellington looked to be in total agreement.

  Chapter Four

  In which Dark Delights Are Indulged

  Wilber Inversill tried to relax. Considering the circumstances, considering the breath-taking woman before him, grabbing hold of that calm was elusive. If he could just do that, then perhaps she would feel it too. Their eyes communicated so much to each other at the moment. Barely a word needed to be uttered. If she understood him in this silence, then perhaps his own calm would carry over to her.

  When she stepped out of from behind the screen, his breath jammed in his throat. She wore breeches that were more like jodhpurs. The form fitting pants showed off her fine toned legs, causing his base instincts to ignite. At first she cast her eyes downward, but then glanced up at him. After a long, silent moment shared between them—she began to turn in place, as if she were the tiny ballerina in the open jewellery box, dancing en pointe. As the music box continued its sweet melody from the darkness, she slowly slid her hands across her hips and buttocks. With fingers splayed and palms pressing into the fabric of her breeches, her gestures remained languid. The whole thing was a dream to him, but he found the crimson curls that cascaded down her shoulders, framing her sweet face irresistible. She was a nymph from the faerie-realm, crossing the Veil to be with him.

  Wilbur took in a long, slow breath, terrified that his deep draw of the warm air might shatter the serenity of the moment. If all he heard was the music box, then he knew there would be no cause for concern. If only he could sit still enough, he would maintain this illusion. When he shifted in his seat, he did so as quietly as he could. The sound of his own suit rubbing against the fabric of the fine leather chair he occupied was deafening to his ears.

  Still, the music box played on, even when she stopped her turn. The blouse she wore would have been better suited for a man. In fact it was proper button-up shirt, admittedly with the top three buttons undone; and in the candlelight of their boudoir, shadows flickered and frolicked along the curve of her breasts. She was nothing like his wife.

  He pushed the thoughts of home and family to the farthest corners of his mind. While the notion of mind reading was nothing more than purest poppycock reserved for carnivals and back parlour trickery, Wilbur did not want to leave anything to chance. Who knew what was possible?

  She took a few more steps closer, her wide eyes never leaving his. There was no questioning it—she felt the same as he did, and that bought a tingle underneath his skin. Fire raged in his blood, and yet he dug his fingers deeper into his chair’s armrests. The sweet smell from the candles—was it vanilla?—made him slightly dizzy, but he remained where he sat. The time was not right. He had to wait.

  The woman dropped to her knees, and like a cat, she slinked across the floor towards him. Wilbur grew more and more uncomfortable, most especially in his crotch. His body betrayed his higher moral standings and ached to have her lips on his own. He longed to feel her breath against his flesh, hot and delicious against his skin. Maddening as this all was, a part of Wilbur knew it would be delightful.

  Her fingers fumbled with the buttons of his shirt. On freeing the fourth button, she pushed the fabric open. Her fingertips tickled the hair running across his chest, and his breath shuddered in his throat.

  "Does this please you?" she whispered.

  Oh yes, it did. Wilbur did not want it to do so, but it did. And if he lied...

  "Yes," he stammered. It was something of a small miracle he could speak at all with his emotions lost in a maelstrom.

  "I want to please you," she said with a gasp, her touch turning from a caress into a slight tremble.

  She wouldn’t look up at him. He needed to see into her eyes. It was strange how he drew strength from her. It made no sense, but he did, and he longed for that connection.

  "You will," he assured her.

  Wilbur let go of his chair and put his arms around the beautiful girl. She was so lovely, so delicate. She should not be here. He didn’t even know her name, but there she was. With him. Tumbling deeper and deeper into this darkness.

  He pulled her closer, and when her lips touched his skin, he gasped. He had hoped his moment of ecstasy had not been too loud. Wilbur swallowed through the sudden tightness in his throat and nodded. His hand absently stroked the back of the girl's head and said again, "You will."

  She finally looked up at him, and he smiled. He hoped the gesture offered her something.

  "Tell me your name."

  The snap of the music box made both of them jump, and the tears that she had been holding back crept free of her eyes. He kept his gaze locked with hers, but his silent imploring was not enough. He hoped the slight shake of his head was large enough for her alone to see.

  "You know her name," the gravelly voice insisted from the shadows of the parlour. "Don’t you?"

  "Why, yes," Wilbur said, trying to calm his breathing. So long as he didn’t see their host, he would be able to keep his semblance of bravery intact. "Of course I do."

  "Say it," the monster growled.

  "Beg your pard—"

  Each word grew
in their tenor. He was getting angry. "Speak. Her. Name."

  Wilbur nodded. He wiped the woman’s tears away and tried to make his smile appear strong, confident. "You will please me, Eliza. I have no doubt."

  A soft click from a latch, and the music box began once more.

  "She is beautiful, your Eliza, isn't she?" asked the monster.

  "Yes," Wilbur replied. "Yes, my Eliza is quite beautiful."

  The music box played for a few notes, uninterrupted, and then the monster spoke. "Touch her."

  He took a moment and traced the curve of her breast with the back of his fingers. Her skin was softer than he imagined. If he wasn’t already married to another, had they not been under the watchful eye of this perverse creature, he would have found this encounter tantalising. His body thrilled at the prospects of what the evening would offer. Even his rational mind could not suppress base, animal instincts. Perhaps he did want this complete stranger in a carnal fashion. Perhaps his physical reactions to her was a betrayal of everything proper in society.

  That did not change the fact that they were both prisoner to a madman, and their fate rested in this little pantomime they performed for his pleasure.

  "Does this please you, Eliza?" Wilbur asked.

  The girl nodded quickly.

  "Now," the monster sighed. Wood creaked as the monster leaned back in his chair. "Consummate."

  Wilbur wanted to look at the monster, wanted to refuse crossing this last boundary between himself and this stranger. If he were to see the beast, all notion of reality and sanity would disappear. The gentleman he had met in the pub had been so kind, so charming. No indication of this bizarre macabre play Wilbur and this girl were creating for the Doctor’s pleasure.