Heart of Gold

by Michael Pryor

  Aubrey was glad for George's addendum. It saved him having to ask. 'I don't suppose there's a chance of some breakfast?'

  George's face split in a wide grin. 'I'm sure Madame Calvert will whip up a lovely tray for you.'

  George fairly bounded for the door and galloped down the stairs.

  Caroline sat and studied him for some time while he fidgeted. 'He was very worried about you,' she said, finally.

  Aubrey ran his hands along the coverlet. It really was fine work. He wondered if Madame Calvert could purchase one for him to take back to Albion. 'He does get like that. Good man.'

  'Yes. You're lucky to have him.'

  Caroline looked towards the window. The light surrounded her with a glow that Aubrey thought was beautiful, but unnecessary, like a gold frame on a masterpiece.

  He touched his chest as he felt pain again, but instantly he realised this was different. It was desire's touch to the heart, a pain both piercing and delicate. Caroline was so extravagantly beautiful, so formidable in intellect and so dismissive of all of it. She humbled him. How could he ever think that he could attract someone so exquisite?

  'Lucky?' he said. 'I should say so. Without George, I would have been in very serious trouble any number of times.'

  She looked thoughtful. 'You seem to inspire loyalty.'

  'I do?' Aubrey was taken aback, but flattered as well. His spirits rose. 'Well, my father, Sir Darius, his troops were tremendously loyal to him, you know. And in politics, his supporters are steadfast, despite his setbacks, of which he's had a few.' He paused. 'You know, I don't do that with anyone but you.'

  'What?'

  'Babble.'

  'You'd best learn not to, then.' She stood. 'Your parents will be here in a few days.'

  Aubrey was still wondering at the first half of her statement.' Parents?'

  'Yes. You know, Lady Rose and Sir Darius.'

  He did his best to banter in Aubrey fashion. 'Oh, those parents. Sorry, you caught me on the hop. I was going through my list of parents one by one. I would have got to those two eventually.' He frowned. 'They haven't come to see me?'

  Caroline studied him for a moment. 'You told us not to let them know about what happened to you.'

  'I did?'

  'Just after we brought you back here. You don't remember?'

  'I'm afraid not.' Aubrey didn't remember, but he could believe it. Was it a streak of stubbbornness or a determination to be independent that made him do things like that?

  'George and I argued about it, back and forth, changing our minds and arguing again.'

  'While I lay here?'

  'We whispered.'

  'Ah.'

  They shared a smile. 'I'm glad to see you're well again,' she said.

  Aubrey sought for something to say that wasn't trite. Before he could, George bustled in. He carried an invalid tray laden with enough mouth-watering delicacies to feed an army of valetudinarians. 'Breakfast!'

  They shared the platters of pastries, breads and fruits that Madame Calvert had prepared. Aubrey learned that Inspector Paul had visited several times to check on his state of health. He'd reported that the river had begun flowing again, and that all the landmarks had regained their solidity. The earth tremors had ceased, as well.

  'Gallia is itself once more?' Aubrey asked. He sipped a cup of good coffee. It tasted like heaven.

  'More or less,' George answered. 'Political shenanigans all over the place, according to the papers.'

  'The government has strengthened its position,' Caroline said. 'After the incident at the airfield, the press has rallied behind the Prime Minister Giraud and the alliance with Albion.'

  George nodded. 'The Holmland government has repudiated the actions of the saboteurs. The Elektor claims that they were acting without orders, renegades of the worst sort.'

  'Does anyone believe that?'

  Caroline snorted, beautifully. 'Officially? Yes. In reality, of course not.'

  'What about the Marchmainers?'

  'Nothing in the papers. And no sign of Dr Romellier either. He's vanished.'

  Aubrey had a strong suspicion that Dr Romellier would be on his way by now to join Dr Tremaine, although Aubrey had no idea what the renegade magician would want with an ornithologist. Wheels within wheels, Dr Tremaine. Wheels within wheels.

  George pointed at Aubrey with a jam spoon. 'You'd be proud of me, old man. I've been practising my Gallian, with Caroline's help.'

  She inclined her head toward Aubrey. 'It filled in the time, although I despair of George's accent.'

  'Don't care about my accent. At least I can talk and read it rather better. Don't feel so much of a duffer.'

  'Marchmainers?' Aubrey prompted.

  'Ah, yes. The independence movement has distanced itself from the Sons of Victor, wouldn't you say, Caroline?'

  'As fast as they could. Once it became clear exactly who had the Heart of Gold, it was the only thing they could do to salvage something from the wreck.'

  Aubrey put down a cup that suddenly seemed very heavy. He was tired. 'They've lost their chance. They won't be able to regroup for some time, and by then war will have broken out.'

  George frowned. 'D'you still think it's coming?'

  'It's more and more certain every day. Holmland's machinations here in Lutetia show that it's not giving up on its plans to dominate the Continent.' He shuddered.

  'Are you all right, Aubrey?' Caroline asked.

  'I was just thinking about the war. And wondering if we can do anything to stop it.'

  'It may be inevitable,' she said slowly. 'Nations are notoriously stupid. But it wouldn't be right to throw our hands up and say that to resist would be futile.'

  'Agreed,' Aubrey said. 'We must do what we can.'

  'That means going to the embassy ball on Saturday,' George said.

  Aubrey groaned. 'Do we have to?'

  'Solidarity with our good ally, old man. It's important.'

  Aubrey appealed to Caroline for help. She looked back at him, evenly, and smiled. 'I agree with George.'

  Aubrey blinked. Was that an opportunity? 'You've convinced me. And since you have, will you do me the honour of accompanying me?'

  Aubrey saw Caroline trying to follow that twisted logic and becoming more and more suspicious. 'I –' he began.

  'No. Don't say anything more. Don't mess it up.' She pointed at him. 'Yes. I will go with you to the ball. Pick me up at eight.'

  Caroline bent. When she straightened she had a bundle in her hands. 'Your grandmother's letters. Mother kept them safe for you.'

  'She's unharmed?'

  'Safe and well. When I reached the tower, they were on the verge of leaving, after hearing the explosions at the airfield. I guided them through the woods until we reached a small village. We negotiated a wagon ride with a farmer. Monsieur Caron left us at St Charles Station, saying he had urgent business out of the country. I took Mother home.' She looked at him evenly, as if daring him to challenge her recount as anything more than a stroll through the countryside.

  'The tower?'

  'Still there in the woods near the airfield. Maurice has taken up residence there and fancies himself as a country gentleman, I think.'

  She left. Aubrey heard her chatting with Madame Calvert, then the door closing behind her.

  'Success, old man,' George said. He was eating a peach. 'A well-planned campaign, a few false starts, lost battle or two, but ultimately you were triumphant.'

  'Caroline isn't a military campaign, George.'

  'Well, it's taken you a while to realise that.'

  'Yes, I know, not everything in life can be reduced to tactics and strategy.'

  'Bad form, that. People are people, not pieces to be moved around at your will.'

  Aubrey squirmed.

  'Are you all right?' George asked.

  'I just remembered something I have to do. Very soon, too.' As soon as he regained some strength, he'd see about getting Caroline back into the university. Perhaps after the
ball? He'd appreciate having her near until then. To help his recovery, he assured himself.

  George stood. 'I'll let you have some time by yourself. You look as if you need it.'

  'Thank you, George.' Aubrey nodded. 'And thank you, George. For everything.'

  'Don't mention it. Just don't scare me like that again.'

  'I'd like to guarantee that, but . . .'

  'I understand. Just do what you can.' George took the breakfast tray and went to the door. Then he stopped and stared at the ceiling. 'This embassy ball. I'm not sure if I can be there.'

  'Really?' Aubrey brightened. This was better: something trifling, something commonplace. He sat up straighter in the bed. 'You've been summoned to an audience with the King of Oronoko? You've developed a sudden knee injury that will prevent you dancing?'

  'No, although I could work on the latter.' George sighed. 'It's Madame Calvert's niece.'

  'Ah. You've met her.'

  'That's the point. I haven't.' He glanced at Aubrey. 'Been rather busy lately, old man.'

  Aubrey laced his fingers on his flannel-clad chest. 'And the problem is?'

  'Madame Calvert has been talking about her niece for days. Dropping hints about how clever she is, how good she is at languages and whatnot.'

  'And you see this as a bad thing?'

  'It strikes me as a bit overdone, as it were. It's as if her niece needs to be promoted, like a new beverage.'

  'I see. And you think the reality may be different?'

  George shrugged, which made the crockery on the breakfast tray clatter. 'There is that, I suppose. But I'm more worried about what Madame Calvert is saying to her niece about me. I don't want to disappoint the girl.'

  Aubrey started to laugh, but stifled it when he saw the misery on his friend's face. 'George, you don't have to worry. You'll be impressive, as always.' He rubbed his forehead. 'Besides, I'd appreciate it if you were there with me.'

  'Ah. Of course, old man.' He smiled. 'Well, meeting young women and such is why we came to Lutetia in the first place, isn't it?'

  'It's why you came to Lutetia in the first place, George. I had other things to do.'

  'Quite.' George cocked an eyebrow. 'I prefer my reason.'

  After George closed the door behind him, Aubrey stretched out. He needed to examine his condition.

  It didn't take long before his suspicions were confirmed and his good mood evaporated. The psychic battering he'd received from the Heart of Gold had destroyed Monsieur Bernard's shield. Once again, he was balanced between life and death, a limbo land where his hold on his soul could evaporate at any minute.

  Aubrey lay on the bed, hands behind his head, and felt sorry for himself. For a time, it was good to feel so bad.

  With the cold comfort of hindsight he itemised all the things he should and shouldn't have done, beginning with the ill-starred experiment with death magic.

  Gloomy thoughts took up residence. The only future he could see was a depressing one, clinging to a half-life, weak and pained, unable to do magic for fear of making things worse. Caroline would judge him as a shallow, manipulative failure. George would grow tired of his erratic ways. He would be alone.

  Inevitably, he moved on to 'It isn't fair', but even as he went through the motions he started to become irritated with himself. He couldn't keep repeating 'Why me?' with any conviction because he knew that his situation was his fault. If he was willing to accept the kudos for his own actions, then he had to be prepared to accept the responsibility when things went poorly.

  Self-pity is a warm and comforting blanket, he thought, but I do find it itchy after a while.

  He ran through a few spells that had provided a modicum of stability in the past. They helped, somewhat, but Aubrey knew they held no prospect of lasting success. He was back on the treadmill again, researching and experimenting to find a permanent cure for his selfinduced condition.

  AUBREY RESTED THAT DAY, AND ALSO ON THURSDAY AND Friday, gathering his strength for the festivities and – after a letter arrived from Duval reminding him of his commitment – for the production of The Buccaneers. George helped him run through his lines, again and again.

  In between these sessions, Aubrey wrote a long letter to Prince Albert, detailing their successful finding of Prince Christian's tomb, and giving some indication of the state of affairs in Lutetia. Aubrey decided to leave the other, much more interesting, information until he could discuss it with Bertie, face to face.

  He wasn't sure that Gallia was ready for a king again, let alone an Albionite king. He was confident that Bertie wouldn't do anything straightaway, but what would the future hold?

  Before leaving for the ball, Madame Calvert made Aubrey and George stand in the entry hall while she inspected them with the eye of a regimental commander.

  Aubrey enjoyed formal clothes. The rigmarole of dressing in the stiff-fronted shirt and attaching the starched wing collar was an exercise in dexterity and determination. He'd learned enough to make sure that his white bow tie was tied imperfectly enough so any observer would know it wasn't a pre-tied affair, but one knotted by a real person.

  Despite feeling weary from his exertions, he was pleased to pass Madame Calvert's scrutiny. For a moment, however, it seemed as if she were going to make George get dressed all over again.

  'This tailcoat hasn't been brushed, has it?' she demanded. Instantly, a clothes brush appeared in her hand. She attacked George with it while she kept up her litany of the sartorial indiscretions he'd committed. He bore it with genial good humour.

  'The crease in your trousers, ghastly.' Brush, brush. 'And your waistcoat is crooked. Fix it.' Brush, brush. 'One of the studs is missing from your collar.' Brush, brush, brush.

  'Here it is,' George said mildly. He held it up. 'I was hoping you'd help me with it.'

  Madame Calvert growled with frustration. The brush disappeared. She took the offending stud and busied herself with attaching the rear of the collar.

  Aubrey nearly laughed aloud when George winked at him.

  'There,' Madame Calvert said. 'You look almost presentable now.'

  George bowed. 'And I'm grateful to you, Madame Calvert. With your care and style, I'm sure you've made a difference.'

  She seemed mollified by this. She took George's top hat from the hall table and handed it to him. Aubrey took his and held it in the crook of his arm. 'The cab is here,' she said. 'Now check your cuff links and your shoes before you enter the embassy.' She pierced George with a look. 'I won't be able to watch you all evening, so make sure you take good care of Sophie.'

  'I shall.' Aubrey noted that George wore his most dutiful expression.

  Madame Calvert stood in front of the mirror. She adjusted the double string of pearls around her neck, then nodded. 'Let us go then.'

  Twenty-

  Three

  THE EVENING WAS BALMY AS THEY ROLLED DOWN Honesty Street in their open carriage. Looking toward the river, Aubrey was glad to see that it was itself again. Steam yachts cruised along, full of sightseers enjoying the lights of Lutetia. Music and laughter wafted from the cafés along the way, with many revellers shouting out their good wishes as the paired greys clipclopped past.

  Twice, Madame Calvert asked George for the time, and a little later she wanted the driver to turn around because she'd forgotten her bag. Aubrey gently pointed out it was on the seat next to her.

  Madame Calvert's agitation increased the closer they came to her niece's house. It was off All Saints Square, a secluded part of the Crecy district. It was a very wealthy precinct, to judge from the grand, detached houses which were set well back from the street, behind stone or iron fences and well-established gardens.

  Aubrey nearly laughed out loud when George saw Sophie Delroy. 'Sometimes, one can be luckier than one deserves,' George murmured from the side of his mouth as they stood at the bottom of the stairs.

  Sophie was blonde and petite, with a smile that came as readily and brightly as her laughter. She was a witty and wry observe
r of Lutetia and Gallia, too. On the trip to the embassy, she entertained them with her views on the Prime Minister, the Assembly and the appalling progress of women's rights in Gallia.

  Aubrey was sure that she and Caroline would get on famously.

  'And what do you plan to do after you finish school?' Aubrey asked when they rounded the corner into Thriftiness Terrace. He was doing his best in the conversation as George was too flabbergasted to contribute anything useful. Aubrey was pleased that the boot was on the other foot for a change.

  'I intend to write for The Sentinel,' she declared, smiling, as they passed the Exposition Tower. It was aglow with electric light. Gulls wheeled around its heights, snapping up insects.

  'They don't have any female journalists, do they?'

  'They will when I get there.'

  George managed to contribute some questions about newspapers and, when he discovered that Sophie was just as intrigued by the agony columns as he was, they chattered away as if they'd known each other for years.

  Aubrey sat back, drumming his fingers, until they reached the Hepworth residence.

  He leapt out of the carriage before the driver had pulled to a halt. 'Would you like me to come along?' George asked.

  'No. Thanks. No thanks. I know the way.'

  'Here.' Madame Calvert leaned out of the carriage. 'Your tie is crooked. There.'

  Aubrey thanked her and bounded through the doors. He forced himself to wait for the lift rather than rush up the stairs as he thought it might give his heart time to slow. Urbane, he thought. Urbane would be good. He touched his hair as the lift clanked upwards. Debonair would be acceptable. Compliment her on her dress. He crossed the landing to the Hepworth apartment and realised he couldn't remember exiting the lift. Charming. I'll settle for charming. Charming would be satisfactory.

  He rang the bell.

  When Caroline opened the door, his brain turned to vapour. Dimly, he hoped it wasn't streaming from his ears.

  'Don't stand there like that, Aubrey. You look like a wax dummy.'

  It was green. The dress was green. White gloves. Very long. Sparkly things around her neck and wrist. Jewels. Her hair was twisty and wrappy and piled up. Shiny, too. With a feather in it.