A Spark Unseen

by Cameron, Sharon

  I finished the thirty-seventh turn, returned the key to its place inside the clock, shut the glass door, and then folded my hands to wait while Uncle Tully argued with himself. This was a common enough debate, and one that almost always meant he told. He lifted his bright blue eyes to me for the briefest moment and then whispered, very loudly. “I went down the stairs.”

  I nodded, thankful it was nothing worse. “I know you did, Uncle. It’s all right this time, but we —”

  “No, no!” he said, voice rising. “It is not right! No!” He pulled on his coat sleeves. “The rooms were wrong, and the floors did not squeak where they should, and there were things outside, not the right things. …”

  “What things? You didn’t go outside, did you, Uncle Tully?”

  His head was in a permanent state of shaking back and forth now. “No, no. Not outside. They were all the wrong things. There were other places, not hills, not grass, and there was no Mrs. Jefferies. Where has Mrs. Jefferies gone, little niece?”

  I kept my voice calm. “Mrs. Jefferies is Mrs. Cooper now, do you remember, Uncle? She is at Stranwyne, keeping your things tidy, just as Marianna told her to.” He rocked slightly in his position on the floor. “Just like we are doing what Marianna told us. Do you remember? But, Uncle, I want you to think about something. Sometimes we like one thing better than other things, isn’t that right? I like the flower best, and Marianna liked her piano, and you like your bells and the box with the lightning right now. Isn’t that so?”

  He frowned, mulling this over, and I continued before he could find an objection.

  “And sometimes we like one place better than another place, yes? We both like to be at Stranwyne, and would rather be there than here. But, Uncle, even if I like one place better than another, what I like best is when you are in it. If you are there, then I think that place is right. Do you understand?”

  Uncle Tully’s face was screwed up, his mouth puckered, as if he were studying the complexities of a very tiny engine. Finally he looked up and said, “I think a place is better with clocks, little niece.”

  “Yes, Uncle,” I said, smiling.

  “Will Lane ever come? Or did he get tired and it’s the forever kind of gone now?”

  I paused before I said, “He will come, Uncle Tully. I’m certain of it.”

  “You always know, little niece,” he sighed, some of his distress ebbing. “You always know what we should do, and Lane always knows what is right. You always know what we should do, little niece, like Marianna said.”

  How I wished that were true.

  His words were still running through my head when I stood before the mirror in my bedchamber, Marianna’s portrait watching me from the wall, the silver fish now sitting beside the swan on the bedside table, trying on first one dress and then another before carefully arranging my hair. I had to believe that Lane was coming here just as much as my uncle did, and that Lane would know the right thing to do. That some of this weight inside me would lift, and that I would have to make no more of these decisions alone.

  There were two more hours until Ben Aldridge came.

  I turned down the gas, all the sconces dark except for two, leaving the salon in a soft yellow light, almost like candles. The shutters were latched, curtains drawn, the clock pointing to three minutes until midnight. Our stage was set. One of Joseph’s cousins waited on the upper landing, two were with Joseph in the library, and one with Jean-Baptiste in the cabinet beneath the foyer stairs, ready to block the doors as soon as Ben Aldridge and whoever came with him entered the ladies’ salon. I had not asked how they planned to subdue him or get the required information, but when Joseph shut the door to the library I had heard the distinctive click of a gun being loaded.

  Henri leaned on the chimneypiece, smoking, his dark brows pulled down. He had spent part of the day napping on my settee while I did the same in my bedchamber, and I’d been too busy the rest of the time to pay much attention to his doings. I had not asked him to be here and he had not asked to stay, so we just didn’t speak of it. Mary fidgeted on the settee, playing with her apron as if she wanted to find something to scrub with it. I sat down beside her, nerves jangling, wondering what I had put in motion, and where it all might end. We watched the clock hands move.

  A carriage went by, and our three heads jerked in unison toward the front of the house. But the rattling moved on down Rue Trudon, fading with the seconds. I smoothed my skirt, touched my knot of hair, feeling my pulse beat hard in my neck. The clock struck and I jumped.

  Henri looked quickly away from my face, throwing his cigarette into the hearth, while Mary, who had been frowning at Henri, flipped out her pocket watch to adjust the time, a bit of tongue sticking out between her teeth. Eleven more times the chimes rang, and half an hour later they struck again, and then once more on the hour. Three more times this happened. Two thirty in the morning. The room was silent, the street outside was silent, and we sat like people in a sepulcher.

  I stared down at my hands, still and folded in my lap, mildly surprised to see the tiny splashes of water dotting my fingers. He wasn’t coming. I counted the drips, five, six, seven, eight, as they fell from my cheeks. Something had changed. We had been too obvious. For whatever reason, Ben had decided not to trade. I heard his voice again in my ear, whispering, “And what do you think I do with things I have no use for? Do you think I will hesitate?”

  My chest heaved, and heaved again, but no matter how hard I tried to fill my lungs, I was still short of air. I was suffocating. I stood, pushing away Mary’s hand, turned away from Henri Marchand, half hidden in a haze of smoke, and walked out of the salon. I passed the open door of the library, startling the half-asleep men inside, and then ran down the back corridor. Still struggling for air, I threw open the door into the cool green smell of the courtyard.

  I needed to be thinking, laying out a plan. But I could not. I hurried down a graveled path, wiping my cheeks, until I was leaning over the edge of the fountain, letting the spray wet them again. The bricks along the fountain pool’s edge were loose, the mortar crumbling beneath my hand, like everything was crumbling. I didn’t know how to correct this. I didn’t know how to find Lane, how to take care of my uncle, how to provide for Mary and Mrs. Cooper and the village and Stranwyne, or even what to do when I went back to the house. It was like the numbers had no order, as if one no longer proceeded to two and three and four, leading in circles instead of straight, honest lines. The knot of pain returned to my middle, doubled in intensity; I couldn’t stand straight against it. I had failed them. All of them. I had, and I alone.

  And almost as soon as this revelation came, I had two others: The first being that I was not alone, not in this garden, the second that I was very, very stupid. The water splashed and played and I heard the noise again, a sound that could not be made by wind or a falling branch or even the paw of an animal; it was the soft crunch of gravel beneath a foot, near, and directly behind me.

  Now my mind was moving, thoughts shooting like the crackling blue electricity. I considered the speed of the unhurried footsteps, the nearest path and how fast I could get there, the brick that was cold beneath my hand, loose in its mortar. The sound of the footsteps disappeared, masked by the paving stones surrounding the fountain and the splashing water, but I felt the presence. Maybe it was the change in the wind or the atmosphere, or maybe I could almost hear breath. But the presence was there. And then I felt a touch on my shoulder.

  I spun, swinging my hand as if delivering a slap, only my hand now held the brick. The brick connected with flesh, there was a grunt, and the tall figure that had been standing behind me staggered back a step before falling to the paving stones. And there he lay, rolled onto his side, hands clutching his head where the brick had done its job.

  But I did not run as I’d meant to. I stood still as the man on the ground moaned once and sat up, still clutching his head, murmuring some of the same curses I’d heard Henri use in French. But even in the darkness, in the
wrong time and place and in the wrong language, I knew that voice, and the long fingers, the way the elbows were now resting on his knees.

  I knew the sound of my name when his low voice said, “Katharine, was that a brick you just hit me with?”

  I stared at Lane like an imbecile, my mind as blank and numb as the brick in my hand. He was thin, sitting in a pale square of light from a moon I hadn’t even noticed, his hair long and several days’ growth of beard on his chin. I tried to set down the brick, but I could not remove my gaze from what was in front of me. It fell with a watery thunk into the pool. And then Lane was on his feet. I’d almost forgotten how quickly he could do that. Lithe, like a cat.

  “What in God’s name are you doing here?” he said, keeping his voice soft. One of his cheekbones was darker than the other.

  “You’re bleeding,” I said.

  “Where did you come from? Are you next door?”

  “What?”

  “Get back inside, Katharine.”

  “But —”

  “Go! Quick!”

  “But —”

  He repeated the French phrase I had heard a few seconds earlier, his low voice both familiar and new, then grabbed me by the arm and I was trotting after him, away from the fountain and across the paving stones, where he thrust me straight into a clump of ornamental trees. I squeezed into the damp, leafy space, the branches snagging at my dress, the ground beneath my feet soft with moisture and uneven roots. Lane pushed in after me.

  It was very dark. I sensed rather than saw the motion of his finger going to his lips, stopping my questions. We stood still, listening. I heard the wind, the fountain, my heaving breath, and far away, the howl of a dog. I could make much more sense of those things than my thoughts at that moment. Then I heard a little hiss of pain as the long fingers I loved so well began exploring the side of his face.

  “Katharine,” he said, his voice barely a whisper, “why did you just try to kill me?”

  “I wasn’t trying to kill you, I … you were sneaking up behind me.”

  “I didn’t reckon on it being that dangerous,” he murmured, trying to see the stickiness on his hand in the dark. I bent down, feeling beneath the hem of my dress for the seam of my petticoat.

  “Don’t …”

  I got my teeth on the edge, and ripped a piece of thin muslin away from the lace.

  “Katharine …”

  I finished tearing away a vaguely rectangular piece of cloth and reached up to press it on his wounded cheek.

  “Katharine,” he said. “I had a handkerchief in my pocket.”

  I pressed hard on the wound. Either I was standing in a hole or he was taller than I remembered. I couldn’t think of a thing to say. All I could think was that the blood soaking through the cloth was warm on my fingertips, the skin beneath my hand present and real. Here, solid, not gone, not dead. With me. My breath caught as I held the torn cloth, and I realized it was because I was crying.

  I heard him sigh again, and then the space between us went away. My wet cheek was pressed against his chest; there were hands on my back and I was being held tight, tucked beneath his chin, his mouth in my hair. Long fingers steadied my head, kisses working their way from my forehead to my cheeks to my ears and around to my mouth, where I tasted the saltiness of my own tears. I had no knowledge of what had brought him to this courtyard, no understanding of anything, really, except that for the first time in so many days and months that I could not remember, something was as it should be. The ever-aching knot inside me loosened, relaxing its grip.

  After too short a time he reached back and unwound my fingers from his hair, put my arms around his waist, and rested his chin back on top of my head. I became aware of the garden again, of the quiet, the branches poking my back, and the heartbeat beneath my ear.

  “You have a beard,” I whispered.

  “Razors have been scarce.”

  “Where have you been?”

  “Locked up,” he replied. “Unofficially. What are you doing here?”

  “Looking for you.”

  He leaned back and I tilted my chin, his face a frame of shadow. I felt the tension drawing inside him, like a coiling spring. “But what about Mr. Tully?”

  “He’s here, safe. In the attic.”

  I felt him flinch. “In Paris?”

  “Yes, he’s —”

  “What? How did … Is he —”

  But then his fingers went to my lips, shutting them, as if it had been my voice rising above a whisper. The darkness became charged, strained with listening, and then I heard what he had. Voices in the garden, male, speaking very quietly in what I thought was French. He pulled me in close as two figures passed not ten feet from our hiding place, avoiding the gravel paths, moving quickly through the foliage toward the street door.

  We listened to them go, to the faint footsteps in the stone passage, and the quiet returning. I felt Lane’s body relax, and risked a whisper. “Who are they?”

  “I don’t know,” he replied in my ear. “Just watching, maybe, or more likely looking for me. I have to go, Katharine. I only came to get my things.”

  “From Mrs. Reynolds’s, you mean? What were you doing there? And where are you going?”

  “Shhh.”

  “Lane, where do you have to go?”

  I could feel him shaking his head. He was pushing me away now. I held on to his arms.

  “Listen to me, Katharine. Get Mr. Tully out. I don’t know how you managed it, but he can’t stay here. Ben Aldridge is here, and he needs him. He …”

  “I know it. He came to take him from Stranwyne. … I had to …” I searched for a way to explain, to keep him from bolting away from me. “They all think he’s dead now. The village, Aunt Bit … We told them that so we could —”

  “You told my aunt Bit that Mr. Tully was dead?” The note of condemnation I heard there made me stiffen.

  “And what else could I have done? Let Mr. Wickersham have him?”

  “No, but you could have …” He paused.

  “Could have what? Did you have a better plan? If so, you really should have written and told me of it. You’ve let Aunt Bit worry that you were dead for months.” I felt hurt creeping into the words. “And why didn’t you? Why didn’t you write? One word to …”

  I felt the muscles of Lane’s arms go tense beneath my hands. He stood ramrod straight, looking over my head, gaze fixed on the house. Color blushed faintly on his face, on the leaves and the rosebushes, as if the first rays of dawn had reached over the rooftops. But it was too early for the sun. I spun around. The kitchen window of my grandmother’s house was glowing, as was Mrs. Reynolds’s, and it took a long moment to realize that the rosy flicker was not the light of gas or even candles.

  It was fire.

  Lane broke from the little clump of trees and ran down the graveled path, while I untangled my skirts from the branches and went after him. His long legs reached my back door far ahead of me, smoke billowing as he threw it open.

  “Stay here!” he yelled over his shoulder before rushing inside.

  I did not slow my stride, even for the back step, dashing into a thick cloud in the back corridor. I glanced to one side and through the smoke saw Lane throw the bucket of kitchen water onto the fire that was licking the wall behind the stove, and when I turned back to what was in front of me I nearly collided with Mary.

  “Out the back,” Mary managed to say, coughing, pushing me backward, “the front room’s on fire!”

  “So is the kitchen!”

  We paused for a mere second, then ran in opposite directions, Mary presumably for the back door, while I dashed into the dining room and through to the library. The curtains were a flickering pattern of orange and yellow fire. Joseph and a cousin were pulling them down, trying to stop the spread of the flames, while Jean-Baptiste picked himself up from the floor, rubbing his jaw. I hurried into the foyer to fling open the front door, took a few quick breaths of the cleaner air, and then ran into the empt
y salon to unlatch the windows and draw out the smoke.

  I saw the lights being lit in the house across the street, people pouring from Mrs. Reynolds’s onto the sidewalks, nightgowns and bed caps and hair tied in rags, mistresses and servants indistinguishable in their confusion and dishevelment. I caught a quick glimpse of Mrs. Hardcastle in a dressing gown before I pushed the last window open, hiked up my skirts, and ran for the stairs.

  Smoke rose through the central stairwell, thinning as I climbed above the cloud. Twenty-eight stairs, twenty-nine, thirty … My body demanded more breath, but the smoke burned, like it had that night in the workshop, the night that had changed everything. Fifty-two, fifty-three … I reached the final landing, coughing and sputtering.

  The smoke was very thin here, barely noticeable beyond the stairs, but all I could see was that the storeroom was unlocked and open, giving me a straight view to the bookshelf door, also swinging gently on its hinges. I burst into Uncle Tully’s workshop in an explosion of sooty skirts.

  Most of the toys were still there, but Uncle Tully’s lightning box was gone, his bench turned over, the tools in disarray. And Henri Marchand stood coolly in the middle of the room, hands in his jacket pockets. He turned his dark eyes on me, but I had no time for him.

  “Uncle!” I yelled. “Uncle Tully!”

  I ran into the little bedroom, but it was empty, and so was the bathing room. The other door, the one that connected with Mrs. Reynolds’s, was unbolted, slightly ajar; the painted cracks had been slit with a knife. My insides wrenched, so hard I thought I might be ill.

  “Uncle Tully!” I screamed, stumbling through the door. The large chest that had been blocking the way in from Mrs. Reynolds’s was now toppled on its side. I scrambled over it and through the debris of the silent, dusty storeroom. “Uncle!”

  I went like a demon down Mrs. Reynolds’s stairs, and there was no one anywhere, nothing, not even a fire, each landing, each bedchamber soundless and empty, the overstuffed foyer quiet in a smoky haze. Whatever had caused the glow in her back windows must have already been put out. I stood still in the hushed gray air, panting, not heeding the pandemonium I could hear on the other side of the front door. Uncle Tully was gone. I had been outmaneuvered. Ben had played his hand skillfully indeed, and now my uncle was paying the price.