Wondering Sight (The Extraordinaries Book 2)

by Melissa McShane

  After a minute or two, the notepaper disappeared, and she was looking at a plate of food, then around a room—it looked like a gentlemen’s club. He was dining alone. She set the ring aside and stretched. “I have found Mr. Rutledge,” she announced to Cecy, “and in two days we will see Baines captured, and then… oh, Cecy, let us pray I am not arrested before then!”

  In which the lioness corners her prey

  ophia sat in her chair in the drawing room, Mr. Rutledge’s ring clenched in her gloved right hand. Cecy, Daphne, and Lewis had drawn chairs and sofas close by and were leaning in as if they, too, might see the Visions if they were close enough to her. “How will we know it is time?” Cecy said.

  Sophia glanced behind her, out the drawing room window at where the sun was setting. “Soon,” she said, removing her glove. It took mere moments for her to locate the correct Vision this time; nothing could distract her from this.

  Mr. Rutledge was somewhere in Whitechapel already. It had been a beautiful, clear, warm day, and now the street vendors lured out by the unexpectedly clement weather were closing up shop for the day. A colorfully dressed woman loitered on a corner, apparently paying attention to no one; Mr. Rutledge’s attention lingered on her a moment or two longer than necessary, and Sophia bristled a little before reminding herself that he was not likely to be interested in a common prostitute.

  He never stopped moving. Sophia described what she saw as he went, though she left out the part about the prostitute. “He seems to be alone,” she added, “and I believe he must be dressed as a workman, because no one is looking at him with the expression that says ‘wonder what brings his lordship into the slums.’ “

  “Is he there yet?” Daphne asked.

  “No.” He seemed not to be going anywhere in particular, was not walking very fast at all, and Sophia started to become impatient. The sun was going down, and although the lamps hanging well above street level were being lit, they were not well maintained, and the light they emitted did little more than cast shadows into the spaces between them. The narrow streets looked oppressive even at the remove of Vision. How they felt to Mr. Rutledge, she could only guess.

  Just then, Mr. Rutledge stopped and removed a notebook from his coat pocket. He wrote, in the same large block letters, STOP BEING IMPATIENT. THERE IS A PLAN. Sophia choked back a laugh. He knew her so well, didn’t he? And she knew him.

  His eyes stayed focused on the notepaper for nearly a minute, then he put the notebook away and continued walking. Sophia hoped his messages to her would not distract him from, for example, some footpad creeping up on him to rob and murder him. Now he walked more quickly, and his attention flicked in all directions, and Sophia realized he was looking about for her benefit.

  The neighborhood, what little she could see of it, was growing rougher, well-kept buildings giving way to tall, narrow houses of crumbling brick that looked as if they might fall down if someone brushed against them the wrong way. People leaned out of unglazed windows two or three stories above the street and, by the movement of their mouths, called out to their neighbors below. Mr. Rutledge turned a corner into a street narrow enough that it looked more like an alley, consulted his watch, then broke into a trot. “I believe he is a little late,” Sophia told her listeners, trying to ignore the ache of nervousness that filled her stomach.

  “This will work, Sophy,” Cecy said.

  Sophia nodded, but could spare no more attention to reply. She still saw no one who might be one of Mr. Rutledge’s men, only a few roughly-dressed loiterers who did not meet anyone’s eyes. The narrow alley came out on a wider street, and Mr. Rutledge’s gait slowed back to a walk. This street was still crowded, though it was nearly full dark, with people who leaned against doorways or sat tucked into whatever corners they could find out of the rising wind that made their clothing flutter. Some of those figures were horribly small.

  One of the men began sauntering in Mr. Rutledge’s direction, only to abruptly turn and walk the other way when Mr. Rutledge shifted his coat. It was a strange encounter, but Sophia had no interest in working out what it meant; she wished only for him to pass through this dismal neighborhood and leave all those tiny shapes behind. She owed Miss Travers an apology, and a large donation. No one should have to live like that.

  He was moving so slowly now that Sophia’s impatience drove her out of her seat to pace, willing Mr. Rutledge to move more quickly, to finally reach his destination, and Lewis’s hand grabbed her shoulder before she could trip over a low table near her seat. Someone should have moved it where it could not attack her.

  “Sit down,” Lewis said, thrusting her back into her uncomfortable chair. She realized she had lost the Vision, and panic sent the images whirling like leaves in a storm. She squeezed her eyes tight shut and forced herself to calm down. There, the correct Vision was right there. She settled back in to watch.

  “He is approaching a warehouse,” she said. “It looks deserted, but it is not.” It was in terrible shape, bricks missing everywhere, windows smashed in, piles of refuse in the doorways—no, some of those were people, weren’t they?—but there were lights burning behind the gaping window holes. They were far too bright for this neighborhood, as if the inhabitants were, contrary to the evidence, wealthy enough not to worry about wasting candles.

  Mr. Rutledge did not slow down; he was nearly there, and then he was passing it, and Sophia let out a squeak of indignation. “That must be it, why are they not attacking?” she exclaimed, then squeaked again as the notepaper, almost illegible in the darkness, filled her field of Vision: THE PLAN, it read, underlined twice. “He is infuriating,” she said with a laugh, but only shook her head when the others asked what she meant.

  Someone was approaching Mr. Rutledge now, someone walking with his head down against what Sophia imagined was now a brisk wind. Those poor children must be freezing. The man turned his head to look at Mr. Rutledge as they passed each other, and Mr. Rutledge nodded at him and received a nod in return.

  He was turning, going around to a side of the warehouse where two large double doors stood. They looked newer than the rest of the building, and sturdier, and although they had hasps for a padlock, they were unsecured. Mr. Rutledge approached the doors, and Sophia watched him remove a heavy padlock from one of the deep pockets of his coat and ease it into the hasps, then close it. How much noise had that made? She wished with all her heart that she could hear as well as See.

  Mr. Rutledge seemed unconcerned about noise. He took a few steps away from the doors, then continued his path around the warehouse. Two more men passed and received nods. It was dark now, darker than usual because of the high clouds that covered the waxing gibbous moon, and Sophia could see nothing but the lights of the warehouse. If Mr. Rutledge were sending her messages, she could not read them.

  He was coming close to one of the smaller doors now, where a bundled figure curled up in its frame, as much out of the cold as it could manage. Mr. Rutledge bent down to shake the person gently; the man looked up at him, terrified rather than angry. Then he looked confused. Mr. Rutledge was no doubt telling him something—“probably that they are about to make an arrest, and he should take himself elsewhere,” Daphne said when this was relayed.

  Eventually Mr. Rutledge held out a few coins to the man, who snatched them, then half-ran, half-scurried away. Mr. Rutledge surveyed the area, then took out his watch again and brought it close to his eyes—likely more because he could barely read it in the dimness than because he thought Sophia would like to know the time. 8:14. Sophia realized she was clutching the ring so hard it was leaving welts in her palms, but she was afraid to loosen her grip.

  Mr. Rutledge put his watch away and reached into his pocket again, and pulled out a long-barreled dueling pistol, which he checked for… Sophia had no idea what one checked a pistol for, possibly whether it was loaded, but her heart was beating fast and her palms were sweating and she could barely remember to tell the others what she Saw, she was so anxious.

/>   Then Mr. Rutledge flung the door open and stepped inside, raising his pistol, and everything was chaos. What lay beyond the door was not a room, it was the entire ground floor of the warehouse, open and without interior walls, and more men were crashing through doors across the way. Sophia could almost hear the shouting and the sound of firearms going off.

  She saw what had to be the press sitting near the double doors; it was more squat and less angular than her imagination had shown her in Dream, and Mr. Rutledge looked at it long enough she could see two men ducking behind it and a third running for the double doors. Then Mr. Rutledge advanced into the room at a run, looking everywhere at once, and Sophia realized he was again doing it for her benefit.

  She had no idea what the warehouse had once stored, but there were barrels flying toward Mr. Rutledge’s men that stopped to hover in midair, quivering as Mover fought Mover for control of the missiles. A few weapons went off, the flash of powder visible even in the bright light, but mostly it was hand to hand fighting, and for a few moments Sophia was disoriented and thought herself back in Portugal, watching a band of guerrillas ambush an unsuspecting party of French soldiers. The men at the press were shouting, and the man who had gone to the double doors and found them locked turned around and drew a pistol from his waistband. It was Baines.

  “Take him, take him!” she shouted, then remembered he could not hear her any more than she could hear him, and sat back down, though she could not remember standing. Mr. Rutledge had put his pistol away somewhere and was in the middle of the fight now, and he was moving so quickly she thought she might become ill from how quickly his perspective shifted.

  She clenched her teeth together and made herself keep watching, though the others were all shouting at her to “speak, Sophia, tell us what’s happening!” She ducked to avoid a blow aimed at Mr. Rutledge’s head, then cried out as another blow connected and made the Vision go dark for half a breath. Then he was out of the melee, and racing toward Baines, and Baines’ pistol was raised and aimed at Mr. Rutledge’s heart, dear God, don’t let him die, I cannot bear to lose my love again—

  Mr. Rutledge ducked to one side as the pistol went off practically in his face, grabbed Baines’ arm and did something that had Baines folded up over his knee, his face red. Then Sophia saw Mr. Rutledge’s pistol pressed to Baines’ temple, and Baines lifted his head to look Mr. Rutledge in the eye, seeming not to care how close to death he was. His lips moved. Whatever he was saying was long, and had Mr. Rutledge’s attention. Mr. Rutledge’s nod dizzied her again.

  The pistol withdrew, and Mr. Rutledge brought out handcuffs from somewhere and secured Baines’ hands behind his back. He turned to look at the rest of the room. The fighting was over. A number of men lay on the ground, unmoving; others sat with their hands bound, guarded by more men with pistols. The press, untended now, was still and innocent-looking, as if it were not the proximate cause of death and mayhem. Well, that was all to Lord Endicott’s blame, wasn’t it?

  The notebook came out again. Mr. Rutledge wrote BAINES WILL INDICT ENDICOTT IN EXCHANGE FOR FULL PARDON. HE KNOWS MORE THAN ENOUGH.

  Sophia released the ring and sat back, breathing as heavily as if she had been in the fight herself. “I cannot believe it is true,” she said, and quickly related what she had Seen. “Surely one man’s testimony is not enough to convict Lord Endicott.”

  “It will not be just one man’s testimony,” Lewis said. “I imagine many of those men will make the same agreement to avoid being hanged. And the printing press is evidence enough that your Dreams are valid. Taken all together, it will mean Endicott will certainly be transported.”

  Sophia’s elation vanished. “But—counterfeiting is a capital offense,” she said.

  “Endicott still has power in Parliament,” Lewis said. “Not enough to escape justice, but his friends will not allow him to hang.”

  “That is not justice,” Sophia said angrily. “He should pay for his crimes.”

  “Sophy, that is payment,” Cecy said. “He will lose his fortune, such as it is, possibly lose his title too, have to make a life in the Australian colony—what more will satisfy you?”

  Sophia could not bear to look at Cecy’s eager, concerned face. “I suppose it is enough,” she lied. She picked up the ring again. “Let us see if there is anything else, but I believe it is over.”

  She was just in time to see Mr. Rutledge close the notebook and put it away. That was a message she’d missed. She would have to ask him if it was something important when she saw him next. He didn’t seem to be doing much at the moment, just talking to one of his men, so Sophia put the ring away and pulled her gloves back on. “I am so tired now,” she said, though in truth she was too wakeful to sleep.

  “Of course you are, dearest. You should go to sleep.” Cecy put her arm through Sophia’s and drew her close. “Daphne, we will see you tomorrow, yes?”

  “Of course. Do you imagine this will be in the morning papers? Or—Mr. Rutledge will still need to conceal his employment, though now Lord Endicott is—oh, I am tired too, I cannot think properly. Good night.”

  After Daphne had vanished, Sophia let Cecy lead her to her bedroom and help her undress, refusing to allow her to call Beeton. “Remember how we used to have to do this in school because we weren’t allowed maids? Oh, Sophy, it has been such a marvelous day. I am so glad you are free from worry about Lord Endicott. Think how much better life will be, now that he can no longer hurt you.”

  “I know,” Sophia said, but she was thinking, He ought to die for what he did to me, and if he does not, he will mock me, and wait out the term of his transportation—they will not make it permanent, not for someone like him, and fourteen years is nothing—and then he will return, and nothing will have changed.

  Cecy kissed Sophia on the cheek, said, “Sleep well,” and shut the door behind her. Sophia stood in her nightdress, staring at the lamp flame until it was burned into her brain, then extinguished it and got into bed. She was still too wakeful to sleep. I am not free so long as he lives, she thought, and despite her head, which still ached, she willed herself into Dream, searching for a future in which Lord Endicott was dead and she was truly free of him.

  She woke late, feeling as if the house were trembling in its foundations, but it was only Cecy, shaking her awake. “Sophy, you must come quickly,” she said. “Mr. Rutledge is here with news.”

  Sophia dressed more quickly than she had in her entire life and bolted down the stairs to the drawing room. Mr. Rutledge looked rumpled, as if he hadn’t slept all night, and one of his cheeks was cut and bruised. “Mrs. Westlake, I apologize for disturbing you this early,” he began.

  “I seem to recall you telling me that only days ago,” Sophia said with a smile. He didn’t smile back.

  “I’m afraid we were not as thorough as we should have been,” he said, his voice a bass rumble the way it always was when he was very serious. “Bow Street sent men to apprehend Endicott early this morning, after receiving my report. He was gone. No one has seen him in any of his usual haunts. We believe someone slipped away from the warehouse and warned him. He’s escaped us.”

  In which the prey escapes the trap

  hat is impossible,” Sophia said. “Impossible.” If she said it vehemently enough, it might become true. He could not be free.

  “It is true,” Mr. Rutledge said. “If he had access to the right Bounder, he could be anywhere in the world now. We have no way of finding him.”

  “Oh, I will find him, you may be assured of that,” Sophia said, and left the room at a run. She scrabbled at the drawer of her bedside table, saw faint images crowd her field of Vision, and realized she was not wearing her gloves and had no idea where she had left them. Gingerly, she picked up Lord Endicott’s watch fob with her skirt wrapped around her hand, then Mr. Rutledge’s ring, and juggling them in the folds of her skirt, she hurried back to the drawing room.

  She tossed Mr. Rutledge’s ring at him; he caught it deftly out of the a
ir and looked at it as if he’d never seen it before. “Thank you for the loan of your eyes,” she said, dropped into her chair, and took the watch fob in her right hand.

  She was so angry it took her a moment to find the right Vision, during which time Mr. Rutledge said, “Do I want to know where you got that?”

  Cecy replied, “It is better that you don’t, Mr. Rutledge.”

  There, off to the side, a Vision that moved too rapidly by comparison to the rest. She drew it close and watched for a while. “I can only see that he is mounted, and that he is riding in the open, somewhere that might… how strange. I believe he may still be in England.”

  “You can’t be more specific than that?” Mr. Rutledge said.

  “Not yet.”

  “Then he is near London?”

  “I cannot tell, Mr. Rutledge, I believe I have already said that.”

  “Calm down, Sophia,” Cecy said. “Why would he not have left the country?”

  “He is mad,” Sophia said. “Who knows what he might do?”

  “Are you speaking metaphorically, Mrs. Westlake?”

  “I am not, Mr. Rutledge.” She dropped the watch fob into her lap. “I would guess he does not believe he has lost, and has a plan more cunning than the simple solution of going abroad.”

  “Possibly,” Mr. Rutledge said. “If he has no Bounder of his own, there is no reason he could not use a public Bounder service, but few of those have Bounders who know the signatures of any places outside London, let alone England. He may have no choice but to take ship somewhere. Can you tell in which direction he is traveling?”