“You are positively glowing, Cecy.”
“Because this is exciting! Oh, Sophy, you should have told me all of this sooner, because I am now entirely distracted from my own problems.” Cecy curled up at the far end of the sofa and wrapped her arms around her knees. “You should make a list.”
“A list?”
“Yes, of questions to pursue in Dream. So much better than to allow random possibility to dictate your Dreaming. I will begin. Ah… what about ‘where does he live?’ Or is that too direct?”
Sophia could not contain herself any longer. “Cecy!” she said, her laughter spilling out of her. “I believe you should call in at Bow Street and ask to be made a Runner! I doubt any of them is more tenacious and logical than you.”
“Yes, but none of them dress very well, and I understand the pay is often poor,” Cecy said. “I am quite serious about the list. Let us go to your room and use one of the numerous Dream notebooks you imagine I don’t know about.”
“Very well,” Sophia said, “but I wish to Dream tonight, and I believe you should watch over me when I do. I would prefer not to fall back into bad habits.”
“I will provide myself with a book, then. Sleeping people are boring, even if they are thwarting evildoers as they Dream.”
They had sat like this before, Sophia remembered, when they were girls at school, their legs folded under them as they whispered secrets after the lights were out. Sophia had sought specific Dreams then, too, other girls’ requests for secrets about the mistresses and the young men in the town near the school, but she had never before plotted the destruction of a man.
And it will have to be destruction, she thought as she chewed the end of her pencil. Lord Endicott must not be allowed to benefit from the Seer’s knowledge anymore. It was impossible the Seer was an innocent in all of this; she had seen him so viciously happy at revealing others’ secrets. Even so, she hesitated with the pencil’s tip hovering just above the paper long enough that Cecy said, “Sophy, he tried to ruin you.”
“He did,” Sophia said. “He took pleasure in it.” He thought he’d won, thought he had made her a laughingstock in the eyes of the law, and anger swept away her uncertainty. “What was it you said? ‘Where does he live?’ Let us start with that.”
“And ‘whom does he live with?’ Or is ‘how does he block your Dreams?’ more important?”
“Both, I suppose.” Sophia wrote them down, then added, What has Lord Endicott ordered you to Dream about?
Why do you work for him?
What do you love?
In which Sophia goes on the hunt once more
ophia came out of Dream with a gasp. Cecy lowered her book. “That did not sound good,” she said.
“It is nothing—no, truly, I am not pretending for your benefit, I was simply horrified by what I Saw. King is a detestable man. Dream after Dream of his threatening to expose people’s secrets if they do not pay him to remain quiet… I cannot even find it in myself to be appalled at the kind of secrets some people will pay to keep hidden, because he takes such pleasure in tormenting them.”
“That seems to be an excellent way to attack him, if it is such a common Dream,” Daphne said, returning from where she had been pacing near the windows.
“Possibly.” Sophia sat up and stretched. “At least I feel I am making progress. Five days ago I was not nearly so confident.”
“We eliminated so many possibilities, though,” Daphne said, “even though it did feel as if we were going nowhere. But I’m growing impatient. Aren’t you tired of looking only at the past?”
“Dreaming of his past has given me a sense of who he is that I believe will refine my prediction when I am ready to seek it out. Are we agreed King’s blackmail is not only in the past?”
“Yes. And I believe Lord Endicott is the kind of man who would not like his underlings to exercise their own initiative in carrying out crime,” Cecy said. “So if King is still blackmailing people, he is either doing it with Lord Endicott’s blessing, or he is risking his wrath by doing it secretly.”
“I would guess the latter,” Daphne said, “because he looks like the sort of petty, greedy little man who enjoys others’ pain, and—you know I believe he might do it because of that, and not because of the money?” She flicked the sheet of notepaper where Sophia had drawn the Seer’s likeness. “So when will you be ready to Dream about the future, Sophia?”
“Is impatience a Bounder trait?” Cecy teased.
“It is not, Cecy, and I hardly think it’s impatience when you simply cannot wait for things.”
“I believe that is the definition of ‘impatience,’ Daphne.”
“Well, maybe it is. But can you both just sit there and tell me you’re not anxious to be doing something about this vile person?”
“Soon,” Sophia said, retrieving the notebook from Daphne. “Let us review what we know, so I may narrow my Dreaming yet again.” They crowded around as Sophia turned the pages. “His name is King—I feel confident about that now that I have seen him sign his name three or four times. He lives somewhere in Spitalfields, in surprisingly nice lodgings—”
“Far nicer than he deserves,” said Daphne.
“Yes. He is a creature of habit—dines in ordinary at the same place every day, buys the Morning Post, which I find strange, from the same urchin, and either he never washes his clothing, or his suits of clothes are identical. He rarely meets with Lord Endicott in person, or at least has not done so as far as I can See, preferring to put his Dreams to paper. I say ‘prefer’ but I suspect this is Lord Endicott’s demand, as I doubt someone of King’s character would be comfortable giving anyone the means to blackmail him, which is how those Dreams could be used against him.”
“Wouldn’t Lord Endicott be implicating himself if he used those letters in court?” Cecy said.
“Not if he could conceal the fact that he had acted on them. He could prove King tried to entice him into crime, and it is illegal to use Dream to coerce someone else. But that is not how we’re going to attack him.”
“Then you have a plan,” Cecy said.
“The beginnings of one. I intend one more Dream today, this time to predict whom his next victim will be, and then we can use that information to destroy him.”
Daphne returned to pacing in front of the window. “We can reveal it to Lord Endicott… no, that wouldn’t make sense.”
“It would be satisfying to let Lord Endicott punish King for us,” Sophia said, “but you are correct that we have no practical way of giving the information to Lord Endicott without him knowing from whom it has come.”
“And we can’t guarantee he will believe it worth eliminating King from his organization,” Cecy added. “Since it’s unlikely he has another Seer available.”
“Right. So we will have to arrange for King to be apprehended in a more traditional way,” Sophia said.
“The Bow Street Runners will not listen to you.”
“I know, and that is a weakness of my plan. But I depend on the two of you to find a solution where I can’t.”
“Since your task is the most difficult, I believe it only fair Daphne and I should shoulder part of the burden.”
“Then I believe I should Dream again. I may need to Dream once more after this, Cecy, but I promise that one will be the last today.”
“You do not seem fatigued by your efforts, so I imagine it will be safe.”
“Thank you, Cecy.” Sophia lay back and laid her gloved palms on heart and navel. “This might take a while,” she said, closing her eyes. She heard the other two women shuffling about, then the calm sound of her breathing filled her ears, the thump-thump of her heartbeat made every part of her body resonate with it, and she thought, Show me his present crimes, and slipped into Dream.
Her Dreams in pursuit of King had grown darker the closer she came to understanding him, the doors of Dream turning black and twisted. There was no light in Dream because it was not needed, but Sophia felt as if she wer
e wandering deeper into a forest where the branches tangled overhead and blocked out the comforting lights of sun and moon and even stars. She was accustomed now to find few doors related to her prey; he was isolated, self-contained, in a way that implied he did not even want the friends he had, and he was unlikely to call them friends at all.
The better she came to know King through Dream, the fewer yet more reliable the doors became. This time, searching for his present crimes, she found only four. Two of them bore the marks of the counterfeiting operation, and she ignored those. The other two were marked with faces; on one, a teeming horde of people, on the other, a lone man’s face. Difficult to choose. Did the mass of people represent his attitude toward all of humanity, that anyone he met was a potential victim? Or was the lone face the man he was currently blackmailing?
It was irrelevant, Sophia realized, and after the slightest hesitation she laid her palm along the center of the lone man’s face, and let the Dream draw her in.
The shifting walls told her this was a Dream of something that might happen in the near future. King was speaking to the man whose face had been on the door; King displayed a large sheet of paper, and the man disintegrated into piles of banknotes and loose coin. Interesting. She let herself be drawn to the narrow, black-limned door in the nebulous wall and stepped through it to a street sketched out, as usual, with thick, generic lines and little detail. She looked around and was astonished. Pall Mall. You are reaching beyond your grasp, I believe.
A white painted circle in the sky told her it was mid-morning, so what she wanted would be… there. She quickly crossed the street to pick up a sheet of newspaper that was trying to disintegrate into Dream. Those sorts of objects left only transitory impressions on reality, and despite her considerable skill, this one vanished after only a few moments. It was more than enough time for her to read 5 January 1813 at the top. Tomorrow’s date.
She woke from Dream and lay still for a moment, savoring the feeling of settling back into her physical body, as if her spirit had flown from it, untethered, into a different world. “He is still engaging in blackmail,” she said, startling Daphne and Cecy, “and tomorrow, ladies, he is ours.”
It was strange, concealing her red gloves under a heavy fur muff, but Daphne had said, “Suppose word of this comes back to Lord Endicott? We don’t want him to know anything of your involvement yet,” and Sophia had had to agree with her. If they could make it appear King had been apprehended due to his own carelessness, Lord Endicott might not be as quick to defend himself against Sophia’s renewed attack.
They had also had a discussion over whether all three of them should go, or just Sophia, Cecy pointing out that three women shopping together would not be an unusual sight and Daphne complaining that she did not want to be left out of the fun, but in the end they determined Sophia should go alone. “Much as I wish to see King’s face when he realizes he has lost,” Cecy had said, “I believe men like our Mr. Parris are rather timid, and if we all come surging at him like a regiment over a hill, he might fail us.”
“Oh, bah, you don’t have to be so reasonable,” Daphne had said.
At the moment, with Cecy’s carriage jouncing her all over the seat and a cold draft seeping through a crack where the hood was imperfectly joined, she almost wished for their company. She did not believe it breaking the spirit of her agreement with Cecy not to tell her how anxious she was over the upcoming meeting. Sophia knew her Dreams to be true, knew herself to be accurate, and yet the memory of that last letter from Bow Street made her cringe.
This man, this Gerald Parris, would not dare to question her veracity; her reputation was unsullied, at least as far as the public was concerned; she need not fear bringing her Dream to him. What she ought to worry about was how he would react to her revelation that she knew his secret. Convincing him that she was not the blackmailer he should worry about might be difficult.
The carriage proceeded down Pall Mall and came to a stop at her destination, and Peter opened the door and assisted Sophia out, something made more difficult by her refusal to remove her hands from her muff. More carriages passed by, going in the other direction, and the normally placid horses stamped their feet. Sophia thought her nervousness might be catching. “I will return shortly,” she told Peter, and swept through the front door of 89, Pall Mall and into Harding, Howell and Company.
That King would dare blackmail anyone in this bastion of female fashion, packed full of silks, laces, furs, muslins, and anything else a woman with plenty of money and a desire to be at the forefront of society might want, astounded Sophia with his sheer effrontery. It even smelled of wealth, though the scent was more likely that of the rich furs being stroked and appreciated by customers on either side of the door. Sophia kept moving, slowly, waiting for the shop assistants to notice her in her expensive muslin gown and the cerulean blue bonnet she almost never wore because it shouted Money! at anyone who looked at her. The furs really were beautiful. She would need to return someday on a genuine shopping expedition.
From the corner of her eye, she observed a man wearing an imperfectly fitted black coat—surely the store would want its employees dressed well?—and a cravat starched so thoroughly it could probably stand on its own approaching her, just ahead of one of his fellows whose appearance was a little more spruce. Their resemblance to a pair of hunting dogs both trying to corner the same fox forced her to conceal a smile. “Can I help you, miss?” the lucky shop assistant said.
“Mrs.,” Sophia corrected him, “and I would like to speak to Mr. Parris.”
The shop assistant looked a little taken aback. Sophia guessed he thought respectable, wealthy women were not supposed to know the names of lowly tradesmen. “I am certain I can help madam with whatever her needs are,” he rallied.
“My needs are to speak with Mr. Parris,” Sophia said, “though I believe you are quite capable at your job.” If she had to reveal the red gloves to compel his obedience, she would, but that could ruin her plan. She stared down the overly helpful shop assistant and pretended she was Lady Daveril, who would certainly not put up with such behavior.
The shop assistant reddened, and said, “This way, madam.” Sophia followed him through two more wide openings, each topped with a row of fanlights, and toward a counter in front of a wall of drawers and shelves full of pasteboard boxes and, high above, giant bolts of fabric from which slivers of color were visible. Larger swaths of silk and satin hung from rings set into columns at intervals throughout the room. The shop assistant pointed toward the counter, bowed, and walked away as if in reproof that she did not appreciate his service. Sophia took a deep breath to calm herself and approached the counter. Everything depended on what happened next.
In which the lioness finds the right waterhole
he man behind the counter was the older, slightly fatter twin of Sophia’s guide, though his coat was of a richer fabric and a much better cut, and his cravat was tied in a complicated pattern that probably had a name like the Algebraical or the Montmorency. He was showing a length of puce silk to an elderly woman who huddled into the folds of her pelisse like a badger going to ground.
“I am sure madam will look splendid in this color, it is so rich and mature,” Mr. Parris said. He glanced at Sophia once, smiled pleasantly at his customer, then glanced at Sophia again as if wondering why she did not move on. Sophia stood with her hands gripped tightly inside her muff and returned his glance with a placid expression that said she was prepared to wait forever for his full attention. “It… it is worth every shilling,” he continued.
“Do not patronize me, young man,” the elderly woman said. “I know very well your job is to sell me the most expensive thing you have and pass it off as a bargain. Well, I’ve no interest in your game. Show me the lavender again.”
Mr. Parris nodded, and Sophia realized to her dismay this was the sort of woman who would take all day deciding on a gown, and in the end purchase nothing. She was old and wealthy and very likely bored, and S
ophia had no time to waste. So she said, “Lavender is entirely the wrong color for you.”
The woman turned, slowly, to face Sophia. “I don’t believe I heard that,” she said. Wrinkles dragged down the corners of her mouth and eyes, but Sophia guessed she had got in the habit of frowning at things long before Time had had a hand in souring her disposition. Sophia quickly took in the rest of her: hat designed for a much younger woman, neckline too low for day wear, hair styled in an attempt to mimic…
“I apologize for speaking out of turn,” she said, “it is only that you bear a striking resemblance to Lady Cowper, and she, naturally, would never wear lavender.”
The woman touched her hair. “I do? That is… yes, I have been told so.”
“I assumed that was why you were looking at the puce silk. I saw Lady Cowper at Almack’s just the other night, and she was wearing a gown of almost this color. The fabric was not nearly so fine as this, however.” Sophia sent up a silent prayer that this woman was ignorant as well as vain; the lovely Lady Cowper, patroness of Almack’s, preferred pale colors.
The woman put her hand out to touch the puce silk. “Not as nice as this?”
“No, much more faded. This is so vibrant, I am sure it will draw everyone’s attention.”
“I believe you are right. Ten yards, young man, and be quick about it.”
It took Mr. Parris several lifetimes to arrange for the silk to be sent to the elderly woman’s modiste, and several more lifetimes for Sophia to extricate herself from conversation with her new friend, during which time she agonized that someone else would approach her prey and she would have to do the whole thing over again. But presently the old woman was gone, and Mr. Parris said, “I ought to share the commission on that sale with you, miss.”
“Mrs.,” Sophia said again, “and you will not thank me when you learn why I am here. Is there somewhere more private we might go?”
Wondering Sight (The Extraordinaries Book 2) Page 19