o0o
Ratisbon knew Sir Willoughby very well indeed. He recalled even the most minute of details: such as that Sir Willoughby favoured strong tea over coffee, and that he tied his cravat in a rather old-fashioned manner, because he fancied it made him look dashing.
It was a small vanity in a man who otherwise had none. A good man, as the servant saw him. “He looks at those whom the world deems to be beneath him,” said Ratisbon, “and sees them. Truly sees, as fellow creatures.”
For Ratisbon, Emma could see, there was no higher praise. She would judge the man well for it herself, if that magnanimity extended to the so-called gentler sex.
There was nothing in Ratisbon’s tale of Sir Willoughby’s relations with women. He had no wife and no sweetheart. He lived the life of a monk, without apparent temptation.
On that, Emma reserved judgement. That there were men who could live such lives of stainless purity, she could not categorically deny. But she had never met one.
o0o
The spires of Cambridge floated dreamlike above the fens, tinged with pale gold in the morning light. They had travelled until after sunset the night before, having changed horses twice; the third pair, a team of broad-rumped greys, trotted sturdily onward towards the ancient university city.
“It will be a joyous day when the railway joins London with this place,” Emma observed.
“Soon, one hopes,” said Ratisbon, “but I should miss the horses. As intriguing as gears and steam may be, nothing quite compares with the warmth of a living thing.”
“Gears and steam are our future,” said Emma.
“Then I hope we shall not forget our past,” he said.
That past rose up before them in brick and stone. Emma had seen far older cities, and many that were more beautiful, but this gathering of colleges by its shallow river had its own considerable charm.
o0o
Lady Jocasta’s name and countenance opened the halls of Queens’ to Emma—gingerly, with sidelong glances in this bastion of the male, but with grace enough.
She would dearly have loved to explore Sir Willoughby’s public laboratory at leisure, but he was still missing and time was running on. His assistants knew nothing; his work, while of great scientific interest, invited no controversy. The automata that whirred and ratcheted and sang in their cages and on their pedestals told Emma little but that their maker was very clever indeed.
There was nothing to learn here. The assistant who had seen Sir Willoughby departing the laboratory was quite sure of the fact. “I saw him,” the young man said, “dressed in his gown, departing at dusk two days ago.”
“You are certain that it was he?” Emma enquired. “For surely, in such dim light, one figure in a scholar’s gown might look very like another.”
“It was Professor Smythe,” the assistant said. He managed not quite to sniff at her plebeian ignorance. “He had a distinctive gait, which all in College knew well: long-legged, like a wading bird—ardea cinerea, perhaps, or that rarest of vagrants, the great ardea herodias, which—”
“Great indeed,” said Emma, “and most helpful. You have my thanks.”
He nodded curtly. It was clear that he had work to do, and she was interrupting it. It was equally clear that he not only expected Sir Willoughby to return, he was not excessively perturbed by the professor’s absence.
That might serve Emma’s purpose, in its way. No one yet, save Lady Jocasta, had called out the hounds. Emma was free to pursue the hunt in peace.
o0o
Sir Willoughby had rooms in college, but those told Emma no more than his laboratory had. The answer, or a clew to it, must be in the house that he kept on the edge of the town, in a village that looked out upon the Backs, the long lawns that rolled from the river to the colleges. It was, for his station, a smallish house, hardly worthy of the title of mansion, built in the style of old King George.
Beneath that old-fashioned elegance lay a secret. The mansion perched atop a mediaeval foundation: a dungeon indeed, a crypt of low stone pillars and Romanesque arches.
Ratisbon knew where the key was hidden. He knew the use of the brass lever by the door, as well: to bring about a veritable sunrise in that dark and ancient place.
Electric lights drove every shadow into hiding, illuminating what seemed at first to be a mere and disappointing echo of the laboratory in Queens’. The same long wooden tables; the same assortment of instruments. The same glass-fronted cabinets. Even, though in much reduced numbers, the same collection of automata.
Those in the College had been as often bestial as human in form. These were uniformly human, and beautifully wrought. By coincidence or design, the light in that place recalled the sharp clear light of Greece, and the automata had an air about them of Classical statuary.
Unlike the automata in Queens’, however, these were lifeless and still. They were also, on closer inspection, lacking in varied ways: missing a limb, a face, a heart.
Emma stood over the automaton that lay supine on a table, with its hollow breast and its empty eyes. Her mind had been denying for some time what her own eyes recorded.
These were not constructions of metal and gears. They were, to the eye and to the touch, flesh. Cold, empty of life, as dead things must be—but they had, or had once had, the capacity to breathe and walk and live.
“But,” said Emma, “how are they preserved? If they are indeed flesh, they should decay.”
“That was one of his lordship’s secrets,” Ratisbon said.
“Were you perhaps privy to it? Or inclined to speculate?”
“No,” he said, “and yes. Electricity, I believe. Phlogiston, possibly. And perhaps certain qualities of the flesh itself, born not of mortal womb but in what he liked to call the brow of Zeus.”
As he spoke he moved past her towards what she had taken for another of the many cabinets that lined the crypt. This lay on its side, in shape and height like a sarcophagus, connected by a thicket of tubes and wires to a second, much smaller case. Beneath the glass of its lid lay not a shrivelled mummy but—
Emma was a woman of strong constitution and iron stomach, but even she knew a flutter of nausea. The thing under the glass should have been another of the beautiful simulacra: that much she could determine. But something had gone terribly wrong.
Here was the decay that she would have expected in the rest. Flesh had melted; organs had dissolved. The scaffolding of bone gleamed white beneath.
Ratisbon bent closer than she could bear to. His breath caught. He reached as if to lift or shatter the lid, but caught himself with a visible effort. With equal effort, he said steadily, “I believe we have found Sir Willoughby.”
That, Emma had not been allowing herself to think. The remains of thick dark hair and the pronounced aquilinity of the nasal structures did suggest that the body had resembled the missing man. Yet—
“Cleave a planarian in two,” she said, “and two separate worms emerge. What if—”
Ratisbon’s face as he whirled upon her was wild. For an instant she saw what he would have been had he been born in his father’s country, far from the strict confines of British manners. It was an instant only; then he recalled himself, with lowered eyes and shuttered face. But a hint of that ferocity lingered in his voice. “Madam, he had dreamed of that indeed, but between the worm and the man is a vast gulf of complexity—far wider than he was yet able to cross. No, madam; whatever befell here, this is Sir Willoughby’s body, his one and only.”
“And yet,” she said, “what was he doing, if not seeking to divide one body into two? Why would he place himself in this device? What would he hope to accomplish? Was this a tragic mishap? Or was it murder?”
“There is the question,” said Ratisbon, “is it not?”
“Had he enemies? Rivals? Secrets that certain parties would not wish to be known?”
The flicker of Ratisbon’s eyes hinted at an answer. “Tell me,” she said.
Ratisbon shook his head. “If certain
parties would destroy Sir Willoughby, they would think nothing of destroying a woman with neither connexions nor family.”
Indeed, thought Emma. They, whoever they were, if indeed they existed at all, would crush her. She lifted her chin; she looked him in the face. She smiled. “Would they even see me? I am, after all, a woman, with neither connexions nor family.”
“Madam, you cannot—”
“I have an obligation to Lady Jocasta,” Emma said.
“Surely she never intended that you venture into danger.”
“That may be,” said Emma. “Shall I inform your lady that you prevented me from discovering the cause of her brother’s death?”
Their gazes locked like swords. Emma had no intention of yielding. Nor did he, but she had the weight of Lady Jocasta’s will behind her. He had only his own.
He gave way, as he must. “In Xanadu,” he said, “you may find what you seek.”
o0o
Ratisbon had not fallen into a fit over the demise of his mistress’ brother. He was speaking literally.
The late Mr. Coleridge’s poetic fever-dreams had inspired no few impressionable souls to fits of imitative zeal. One such personage, endowed with a considerable fortune, had transformed a stately manse into a pleasure-dome that rivalled that of an Eastern prince. Ratisbon fumbled and stammered most uncharacteristically in speaking of it; had he been of English complexion, he would have been blushing scarlet.
Emma did her best to comfort him. “I spent many a happy hour with the hundred wives of the Maharajah of Ranipur,” she said, “and heard many a tale that would be deemed unsuitable for a young woman’s ears in England. You need have no fear of my maiden blushes. I assure you, I have none.”
The same could hardly be said of him. Her words discomfited him even more, if it were possible, but in time and with effort she extricated the truth.
Sir Willoughby’s beautiful automata, his ivory Adonises and bejewelled Helens, had found homes and ample occupation in Xanadu. As many of them as he would make, the manse would take.
“Scions of noble houses travel up the river in punts or ply the road in fast carriages,” said Ratisbon, “and there take pleasure in the arms of the most discreet and yet concrete of dreams. Each dream is different; each eidolon, for such he calls them, is designed to fulfill the heart’s desire—whatever that desire may be. It is—was—Sir Willoughby’s great pride that no two are alike, and none has ever failed to provide satisfaction.”
He choked somewhat on that last word, but he had recovered his composure. Emma had never lost hers. “You believe that one of them might, after all, have failed of its purpose?”
“Or succeeded too well,” said Ratisbon. “If a patron had become so enamoured of the glittering beloved, and resolved that there could, and should, be no other…”
“It is a possibility,” Emma conceded. “Certainly we must investigate.”
“One does not,” Ratisbon pointed out with edged delicacy, “in such an establishment, simply knock on the front gate and demand to speak to the proprietor. Xanadu opens its secrets to no common mortal.”
“Of course it would not,” said Emma. “Will you assist me?”
“In what manner, madam?” asked Ratisbon.
The power of Lady Jocasta was indeed mighty, but Emma gave some small credit to her own strength of character. Although Ratisbon’s unhappiness was manifest, he was in all ways the perfect servant.
She acknowledged that perfection with an inclination of the head. “First,” she said, “let us leave this place, and secure it against discovery. Lady Jocasta must be told, of course, but I should like to present her with a fuller reckoning.”
“Yes, madam,” he said. His tone was colourless, his face without expression.
He would serve her purpose, or rather Lady Jocasta’s. That for the moment was all that need concern Emma.
o0o
England’s Xanadu wore the stalwart semblance of a country estate, a rambling pile of no particular distinction, surrounded by a high wall. The road from Cambridge wound towards it, walled likewise in hedges taller than a rider’s head.
The carriage that rattled between the hedges in the long light of the summer evening was dark, discreet, and drawn by a pair of sturdy black horses. Its like came down this road several times in a day, presented itself at the gate and spoke the words that granted entrance.
The gate, which seemed a structure of mortared stone and wrought iron, was in truth a mechanical. It replied to the coachman in soft, cultured tones reminiscent of Belgrave Square. “Monsieur de Ratisbon, escorting the Rani of Majipur. Welcome.”
The Rani of Majipur did not fret. Fretting was beneath her. The air inside the carriage was close and still, thick with the fragrance of patchouli and sandalwood. Her slender hennaed hands were folded in her lap amid the gold and crimson silks. She schooled her breath to come regularly and slowly.
There was still, well beneath the surface, a flutter of—apprehension? Anticipation? Excitement?
Ratisbon had assured her that her bona fides was assured, and her pretended rank and alleged wealth thoroughly vouched for through Lady Jocasta’s good offices. She would not be called out for a fraud.
In her judgement, she could trust Ratisbon. Judgement could fail; Ratisbon could be inclined to betray her, or at the least to abandon her and continue the hunt on his own. His intelligence of this place could have failed, or its ways changed, or…
Enough, she thought. She had gambled on this one perilous throw. She was to create a diversion; to provide opportunity for Ratisbon to discover what he might while the inhabitants of the house exercised themselves to please a royal guest.
That was her duty and her pleasure. She would see it through to its end.
As the carriage rolled through the gate, she raised her chin. She was, after all, a Queen.
o0o
As nondescript as Xanadu was to the passing eye, its interior was a haven of surpassing elegance. Emma had rather expected the excess of the seraglio, but the public portions of the house were decorated with exquisite and subtle taste.
The butler who ushered her into a small yet perfectly appointed salon was human, although the maid who served her a light collation of tea and cakes was not. The automaton was of the highest quality, its movements as smooth almost as a natural creature’s, and its face was capable of some small range of movement: the lifting of the brows, the stretching of the lips into an approximation of a smile. Still it was indubitably mechanical, no more or less finely wrought than any wealthy house might boast.
Emma arranged herself on a settee of polished mahogany and emerald velvet, which set off her crimson saree admirably. The tea was milky and sweet, which was not to her taste. The cakes were exceptional; someone here had mastered the French art of pastry.
In her own persona she would have devoured the plateful, for she had been too preoccupied with preparations to dine, but the Rani of Majipur was a delicate creature. She nibbled the edge of a single madeleine and set it aside with a world-weary sigh; she took one sip of the tea and turned her face away. She folded her hands in her lap as she had in the carriage, composed her face and body in the manner of the Eastern sages, and set herself to wait.
She was motionless, but her mind and her eyes were not. She took notice of every detail of that room, the placement of each furnishing, the paintings on the walls, the carpets on the floor. Any one or all of them must conceal watchful eyes, whether human or mechanical.
She gave them nothing whatsoever to observe, except stillness. The walls were thick, for she heard nothing beyond them. Within, there was only the soft, regular sigh of her breathing, and the ticking of the gilded clock on the mantel.
Half an hour passed. The maid came to remove the scarcely touched plate and the tea service. As its black-clad form vanished through the rear door, that through which Emma had entered swung gently open.
At the first soft click of the door’s latch, she coiled within, ready to leap. If
Ratisbon had been discovered—if her deception had been unmasked—
A woman glided into the room. Her features were flawless, her gait supernaturally smooth, but no automaton yet created could imitate the breath that lifted her bosom or the expression that animated her face. She was smiling, and her eyes though sharp with curiosity were brimming with human warmth.
“Your highness,” she said. “I welcome you to Xanadu. I am called Mistress Artemisia; I shall be your guide. Follow me, if you please.”
Emma sighed. She sat up languidly, trailing silks and the scent of musk. “I waited,” she said in the accent of a certain province in eastern India, “so long. Is it your custom here in this barbarous country to leave a Queen alone, all unattended? To come here in such a way—such a game; so wicked, is that your word? But now I am here, and still am forced to solitude.”
Mistress Artemisia’s glance barely flickered; her smile wavered not at all. “Ah, your highness, but is that not a singular road to ecstasy? If one suffers discomfort and even pain, the pleasure thereafter is all the stronger. To the lonely spirit, what can be sweeter than true companionship?”
“I do dream of that,” Emma said. “And yet, if that companionship is merely mechanical, how true can it be?”
Mistress Artemisia’s smile deepened; laughter woke in her eyes. “Come with me and see.”
Emma wanted nothing more than to do that. Because, for this hour, she was the Rani of Majipur, she drew her painted brows together. “Am I not the daughter of a king? Will it not come to me?”
“Does a king in your country summon his sweet companions to him? Or does he, of his grace, condescend to visit them?”
Emma smiled inwardly. This was a woman of quick wit and no little experience of royalty. Emma shrugged with a hint of pique, and rose with the air of one who is compelled to humour one’s inferiors. “Lead me, then. Show me this marvel that is whispered of where the wise and the unwise gather.”
Mistress Artemisia dipped in a curtsey, and said, “Come.”
o0o
They left the room through the rear door, down a lamplit passageway and up a discreet stair. It was narrow, like a servant’s stair, but thickly carpeted. They passed in a whisper of skirts, with no sound of footsteps.
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