Tempered: Book Four of The St. Croix Chronicles

by Karina Cooper

  Of all the things I learned in this journal, from my father’s favored reading to his alchemical concerns, it was this recognition that made me uneasy.

  By morning’s light, although I did doze off for a bit here and there between lines, I had run out of candles and finished the last of my grandfather’s pages. I enjoyed the read, for the most part, and it became easier once I’d deciphered and grown used to his shorter way of writing. That what I was most ecstatic over was his references to a laboratory. Though several of his later entries spoke of it in conjunction with the desire to cure the poison he was sure ailed him, I saw no directions as to where it might be—a fair lapse, for it wasn’t as if he needed to remind himself of its location.

  Armed with such knowledge, I vowed to find it.

  * * *

  Come the day, the house was no less gloomy. Most of it remained covered and dark. Ashmore seemed content to leave it this way, and Maddie Ruth did not appear to be inclined to argue.

  I probably should have felt guilty for abandoning the library she had so trustingly left me in, but I didn’t. The thrill of discovery filled me, a provocation I simply could not resist. If this estate claimed a laboratory, then I wanted to know what was in it.

  The anticipation gave me strength—or perhaps I was simply feeling more the thing. I hadn’t felt nearly so fatigued as I had after waking in my mother’s boudoir; all my rest had done wonders for my stamina. My limbs did not drag, and the ill humors I suffered from want of the thing I could not have had eased to a murmur. Bolstered by the promise of day and the hope of revelation, I resolved to begin in the south wing first and make my way through each door.

  Any that were locked, I would open. The few pins Maddie Ruth had used to hold my plait in place were more than sufficient to see the job done.

  Had I any inkling as to how dusty, befuddling and secretive this blasted estate could be, I might have begun with greater care.

  An hour passed as I made my way through room after room. Many were unlocked, covered by the same pale cloths as the rest of the lot, and some had shown recent signs of passage. A secondary study, for example, lacked the dust and stale air of the rest—one I suspected Ashmore had taken for his own use.

  As I made my way through three sitting rooms, a woman’s parlor, and a grand ballroom, I tugged futilely at my skirts and blew out an annoyed breath. There was nothing here to see, beyond that what one might expect from an abandoned estate such as this.

  Unsurprising, I supposed. The south wing was also where the library was located, and I doubted my grandfather would keep a laboratory where guests might stumble into it.

  So affirmed, I turned for the eastern wing, just below the family wing Ashmore had abandoned me within so unceremoniously. It was here I’d found that cast off music room, and the Broadwood piano.

  Simply by stepping into the wing’s wide corridor, it seemed as if I wandered into a different house. The shadows were lengthier, thicker. What paper had once elegantly softened the walls was mired in a rime of wear and time, patterned by cobwebs and dust. I paused, smudging a finger down one panel and revealing a bit of embossed design in sage green. Or perhaps it was meant to be a different color, and time had leached it of its original hue.

  I wondered if I should retrieve the chamberstick from the library I’d left it in, but the ambient light trickling through the narrow, dirty windows at the end of the hall provided enough that I could see where I traveled. Going back would waste time, and Maddie Ruth would no doubt hound me if I stumbled across her path.

  I would find the laboratory first, I decided, then bring her into my mischief. Maddie Ruth had already displayed a keen intellect to me, including a sharp observational eye. If I could show her a laboratory, I was certain she’d be all too happy to assist me in my plans to catalogue it.

  So bolstered, I tucked one hand into my lacy skirts to lift the hem out from under my slippered toes and strode all the way to the end of the hall. Starting there would provide me a means to working my way back out.

  I turned to regard the corridor behind me. Although nothing to my eye had changed, the foyer seemed as if it stretched a greater distance away than it should. Shadows pooled between the window I stood before and the farthest door. Here, the sound of the bitter winter wind tearing across the moor gained a life of its own. Were I an imaginative creature, I might have likened it to a woman’s wail.

  The window panes faintly rattled in their moorings, battered by the gust.

  I grimaced.

  Were this a Gothic romance, I would turn slowly to the window, stare outside it and raise a candle high. As all such stories demanded, I would then see a woman in white drifting alone and lost in the treacherous heath.

  The ghost of whatever foolish woman earned herself a murdering by the dark and dangerous lord of the estate, naturally.

  My grimace turned into a grin, and I glanced at the window in dismissive contempt. Through the spotty grime, the moor was as it had been since the day I arrived—damp, gray, brown, bits of dark green where the wintry cold hadn’t deadened the bracken.

  Any woman out there, ghost or otherwise, might do better to consider a kinder afterlife.

  I continued my search through the first door to my left, finding little more than a storage room. Many of the objects within were covered, and I spent a few moments risking dust and moldy spores peeking under the coverings. Old bureaus and tarnished silver, brass candlesticks by the dozens covered in a green patina. A few paintings, nothing I would have considered more than amateur watercolors—not that I bore any skill in the art—and two portraits of a rather morbid character.

  One was a stocky man with a towering white wig—such as seen in the annals of history. He wore a coat of a particularly vibrant shade of purple patterned by pale blue florets. His breeches nipped off at the knee, and his tights were white but also dotted by the same florets. Were I to speculate—and I could for once thank Fanny for her rigorous education on all matters of fashion—I thought the cut of the coat and style of breeches paired with the formal periwig might place this fellow somewhere in the midst of the eighteenth century.

  Anything else regarding time or era was unrecognizable. His face was that of a grisly haunt’s, a skeletal leer under drooping skin and dull eyes lost behind flaps of loose flesh. In his boney hand, a walking stick topped by a brilliant jewel in quite a lovely shade of amber. In the crook of his other arm, he cradled an elongated globe that appeared to be made of green glass. Brass topped it in an ornate crown, then banded it on all sides in a cage-like affair that would allow it to hang from the chain draped over his arm.

  I crouched before the leaning portrait, studying the strokes with what I liked to think of as a critical eye. I certainly had no education on the matter of paintings, save that the Lord Pennington’s lady mother-in-law—ensconced comfortably in the home beside my own Cheyne Walk residence—had taken to painting the most extraordinary nudes from the relative privacy of her veranda.

  My maid and I had spent many long hours peeping from my window and giggling over the scandal.

  Whoever this gentleman was, I saw nothing engraved upon a plate or marked within the frame. The colors were boldly chosen, however, and aside from the cadaver-like portrayal of the man’s face, I did note the way the artist had given the lord’s bearing a certain sense of self-righteous decorum.

  Behind Lord Floret’s—as I thought I’d name him—was another painting. This depicted another man, seated with one leg propped over the other in quite a rakish pose. He rested an elbow upon the back of the chair he sat on, the other raised in front of him to cup an astrolabe eerily similar to that my mother’s portrait showed. Unlike Lord Floret, this man’s placement was strange to me; the mode of his dress denied me any clues as to when it might have been painted.

  While the fellow did not wear a wig, he did sport a turban-like affair often seen on Orientals. This was an informal touch, utilized by the occasional philosopher or well-traveled gentleman even in thi
s modern age. Like the cap, his banyan was also not unusual for an informal setting. It was a muted shade of gold, lined by a pattern of red in elegant contrast. Kimono-like in shape and form, its folds hid whatever clothing he might have worn beneath.

  Were it painted in this modern day, Lord Banyan would be wearing trousers and typical shirtsleeves beneath. Or, if he were at a familiar dinner with friends, perhaps he’d wear it over a waistcoat for a certain rakish panache.

  As with the other painting, the man’s face was an emaciated compilation of peeling flesh and the hollow shape of gaunt cheeks. The blue color of his sunken eyes were startlingly bright in the deep circles surrounding them. His smirk seemed to suggest that my efforts to place him were amusing, though the left half of this grin peeled back even farther to expose the ghastly rictus of his skull.

  I stroked a finger down the canvas, feeling the faint impression of the brush strokes as I did. These, too, were made with rather vivacious colors, turning gold and red into brilliant patches in the gloom. They contrasted beautifully with the drape of green behind him. It was only where faces and flesh should have been that the artists had chosen to paint a nightmare.

  “You’ve had a rough go, my lords,” I said to them both. Each stared out from the canvas, twin terrors caught forever within a gilded frame.

  The quiet of the storage room only made the faux cheerfulness in my voice seem all the more chilling.

  Allowing the cloth to cover them once more, and ensuring the paintings did not fall when I laid them back into place, I left the silent portraits to their own and left the room.

  The hall had darkened in my wake.

  A shrill whistle drifted through the quiet, and I frowned at the murky window. The gray skies, always threatening to spill over, had turned black, and the window rattled beneath the onslaught of the heightened winds.

  A storm was coming in.

  Brilliant. I hadn’t come equipped for this. If the daylight faded too quickly, I’d lose all my illumination. I didn’t think to bring another candle with me.

  If I were fortunate and moved quick enough, I’d have a little bit longer to check a few of the other rooms. There was no telling when I’d be able to free myself of Maddie Ruth’s company again. I hurried to the next door, found it also unlocked and stepped inside.

  A brilliant flash of light seamed the drapes covering the far windows, turning the interior into a soft blue. Almost precisely on cue, a clap of thunder shook the walls. It did not fade, but grumbled over and over as it rolled from cloud to cloud.

  My heart sped in time with the stormy protest.

  “Get a hold of yourself,” I muttered, shaking out my skirts with force. As if by doing so, I could shake off the sudden rise of my own uncertainties. It was a storm, nothing more. A common enough occurrence out in the country, or so the books I’d read suggested.

  It did not seem as if a girl could retire to a bucolic estate without at least once finding herself assailed by a tempest.

  Of course, in those stories, that girl was often plagued by ghosts, as well.

  Ice slipped over my skin. Perspiration bloomed a breath behind. All at once, my heart seemed as if it filled my throat, pounding against the narrow confines.

  This overly sharp sensation of threat looming mirrored the feeling of watchfulness I’d felt in my mother’s boudoir. The room before me was dark enough that even if a ghost waited within, I wouldn’t see it. I held my breath, pulse throbbing in my ears, and wondered if black hands tipped with sharp claws might reach from the murky interior.

  The very thought was embarrassing enough.

  “Bosh,” I hissed, clutching my skirts tighter—just in case I needed to move swiftly. At this rate, I would only frighten myself out of nothing at all.

  With deliberate effort, I made my way into this new room. Though I informed myself that the groans I heard were simply caused by the wind within the drafty estate, that the walls were settling as the storm gathered its strength—and that the thunder, while rather loud, was only thunder—it seemed as if every step came slower and slower.

  The shadows fled when lightning burst around the drapery seams, then loomed thicker and closer around me when it faded. I felt as if I pushed through treacle with every moment. No obstacles impeded my path, and I flushed to think that it might be fear I struggled to overcome as I alternately held my breath and expelled it on miniature gasps with every illuminating flash.

  The furnishings within were clustered close together, sheltered under white cloths smudged with dust and cobwebs. Another storage room, I supposed, although my gaze remained bent on the tall fixtures at the far end. They looked like bookshelves. If so, I wondered if they held anything I might be interested in.

  Perhaps old family journals?

  Thinking of the laboratory my grandfather had only hinted at, I wondered if other recordings from his own parents or grandparents might speak of building the lab. Or how they had found it.

  Whatever the case, there was only one way to be sure.

  I would not be bested by wild imaginings.

  A scientist must only believe what she sees with her own eyes, and what I saw was prospective knowledge. Had there been anything to suggest my waking fears were tangible—a footprint, a bit of ash from a used pipe, even a swatch of fabric caught on a splinter—then I would have been more careful. I was no longer caught in the haze of opium’s grip; I understood what caring for myself in moments of danger meant.

  Yet all of this was moot, for this house was occupied only by myself, Ashmore, and Maddie Ruth. None of us cared to play such games—much as I would have preferred to blame either of my companions for my fears. This was all my own doing.

  I ignored the crackling energies splitting the stormy skies outside, did not jump when such streaks of light burned around the curtains, and I paid no heed to the thickening gloom around me. All of it was in my head, and I reassured myself this with every step.

  So it was with single-minded delight that I reached the first of two rectangular structures towering to the ceiling above me. In my wake, the room closed in, shadows reaching to snag the trailing hem of my tea gown.

  I grasped the cloth in my dampened fist. I stepped back, half-spun in order to put the whole of my weight into the pulling, and hauled on the cloth to wrench it completely from its rest.

  As dust flew into the air, turned the already dismal room into gritty murkiness, and the cloth sailed over my head to flutter to the floor behind me, every instinct I possessed urged me to run.

  I did not. I would not be defeated by my own fears.

  As the last folds of the protective cloth glided through the musty air, I looked up.

  I glimpsed a dull gray shroud—a figure that turned brilliant white in silhouette as lightning colored the room. I heard no sound but that of my own heartbeat, the subsequent crash of thunder so intense as to cause the floor to judder and the shelves to shake.

  I took a breath, my body snapped into a posture carved into my instinct by years below London’s fog, but too late. Pain erupted through my head. All of the world went briefly red, then stark white.

  I did not feel the floor beneath me as I crumpled upon it.

  Chapter Eleven

  I was cold. So utterly cold, shaking from the force of it. A dull roar filled my ears.

  Hands seized at me from the din and dark.

  “Cherry.”

  My lashes lifted.

  Ashmore’s face filled my vision, so bright as to nearly sear his features into my mind with an unspeakable radiance. His aristocratic face had twisted into a mask of barely concealed fury. A deep furrow wound between his dark red eyebrows; I wanted to smooth out the groove and lull the ire snapping from the frame of spiky red lashes.

  The grip at my upper arms was hard enough to bite through my hazy, nebulous grasp of awareness. The cold filling my heart and limbs sharpened, painfully so.

  I was wet; drenched near to the bone, more like.

  My gaze abruptly focu
sed.

  I gasped, turning my head to discover a veranda I hadn’t known existed until I found myself standing upon it.

  A heavy rain battered at us both, slicking Ashmore’s hair down to a crimson stain and turning my tea gown into a sodden mess of limp lace. It was bone-chillingly cold, and I blinked furiously as the rain slid into my eyes.

  “I—” My teeth chattered for it. “What are you doing here?”

  “What am I—?” A flash of light and an immediate clap of thunder cut short his furious rejoinder. This time, there was no curtain to mute the sight. A truly remarkable sheet of blue-white electricity arced from black cloud to black cloud.

  I stared up into the downpour, my mouth hanging open in mute disbelief.

  He shook me hard enough to snap my teeth together. “What are you doing out here?” he roared. “We’ve been looking for over an hour!”

  Impossible.

  But how did I get here?

  Another shake rattled what few thoughts in my head I’d managed to recover. “Get inside and dry yourself before you catch your death,” he shouted, and made as if to force the issue as he took a half-step to the side, dragging me along with him.

  Anger slotted into place, fueled by a fear I was afraid to give voice to. “Unhand me.” The storm all but drowned my demand. When he ignored me, I rotated my arms in a manner guaranteed to force his hands at awkward angles to retain his hold, then wrenched free when his fury turned to surprise.

  “I am not yours,” I shouted. “You cannot force obeisance from me.” I flung a hand as though I might sever whatever it was he considered between us. Droplets slid from my fingertips, splattering his already sodden chest.

  I don’t know what it was that shaped Ashmore’s glower as he looked down at himself, but it was not easily deciphered. Anger, certainly, but there was that moment of raw emotion too bare to easily look upon. Whatever it was he thought, it was not kind—though to me or himself, I couldn’t fathom.