Wondering Sight (The Extraordinaries Book 2)

by Melissa McShane

  The convulsions went on for so long. She felt as if she had been holding his head for hours. Mr. Rutledge’s face grew even paler, and his lips were tinged blue as if he were not breathing, though he was thrashing so hard she could not tell if that were true. She wished she could put her arms around him, stop the awful jerking motions that were such a contrast to his still, unmoving face, but all she could do was hold his head still and pray a series of unconnected, fragmentary pleas.

  Then he bucked hard once, jerking his head from between her hands, and lay unmoving once again. Sophia held her breath. “Doctor,” she began, but her voice was too faint, and the doctor ignored her—or was it that she did not want to tell Sophia the truth?

  Then the little hole in Mr. Rutledge’s chest quivered, and a deformed ball of lead popped out of the wound and slid a little way down his bloody chest. Dr. Garland spread her hand over the wound again, and pressed down with her palm, gently, then slid her hand away, revealing skin that was bloody but unmarked. There was not even a scar to show where he had been shot.

  Sophia breathed out, feeling dizzy, then breathed in more deeply as Mr. Rutledge exhaled, shallowly, the movement of his chest barely visible, but steady. Dr. Garland picked up the ball and held it out to Sophia. “Hold onto it,” she said. “Some men like to keep them.” Sophia turned it over in her hand, grateful for the gloves that prevented her from Seeing anything associated with it. She hoped he would not want to keep it.

  “Is he… will he be perfectly well, doctor?” she said, her voice still unsteady. “He looks….”

  “You saw how the Healing affected him,” Dr. Garland said. She looked exhausted, grey-faced, but her voice was strong. “He won’t wake for an hour or so, and it will take him a few days to be fully recovered, but since he survived the Healing, I see no reason he should suffer any lasting damage. Good thing he’s so solidly built, or there might have been complications—but you don’t need to hear my war stories. I imagine you’ve Seen enough of your own.”

  Dr. Garland wiped her shears on the sleeve of Mr. Rutledge’s bloody coat and stowed them away. “Lady Daphne, do you know the signature of St. Margaret’s Hospital?”

  Daphne stood, wiping her forehead. “Yes, Dr. Garland. And I can manage to get him there. Please forgive me.”

  “Happens to a lot of people. It’s nothing to be ashamed of.”

  Daphne nodded, closed her eyes against the sight of Mr. Rutledge’s gory chest, and crouched, worming her arms under his shoulders and knees. She grunted, and heaved, and was gone. The watching crowd, who had taken advantage of the doctor’s distraction to gradually move closer, let out a collective sigh of admiration. The doctor stood, stretching until her joints popped. “Plenty of rest, a lot of tea, and he should be back to normal in a day or so,” she told Sophia.

  “But I… you should tell that to… I do not know who will care for him when he leaves the hospital,” Sophia stammered.

  Dr. Garland’s eyebrows went up. “Not you? My mistake.”

  Sophia blushed. Now that Mr. Rutledge was gone, she began to doubt what she had heard. He had been barely clinging to consciousness; probably he did not remember saying anything to her, or if he did, thought it was a dream. “We are friends,” she said. She hoped it was still true, whatever else might happen. Whatever else she might feel for him.

  A blur in the distance turned into Daphne, Skipping toward them. “Shall I take you next, Dr. Garland, or Sophia?”

  “The doctor, please, and… to the hospital?” Sophia said. Dr. Garland nodded, put her arms around Daphne, and then they were gone, and Sophia was left alone. The onlookers, who seemed not to realize her gloves were red from more than Mr. Rutledge’s blood, seemed also not to know what they should do with her.

  “I am perfectly well, please do not trouble yourselves,” she said to those few who made as if to approach her. She pulled her cloak tight around herself to conceal the bloody mess her gown had become and began walking back in the direction of the tavern. Behind her, the crowd began to disperse, and soon there were only a few people standing there, telling, from what little Sophia could hear, exaggerated stories of what had transpired there. She tried to summon revulsion at their gruesome eagerness, but was too weary to be properly outraged on Mr. Rutledge’s behalf.

  She peeled off her blood-soaked gloves and dropped them on the ground, then remembered the pistol and retraced her steps, looking for it. It was gone. Good. Someone else would put it to better use than she nearly had.

  The empty bag lay nearby, still within the shadow of the narrow alley—but it wasn’t empty, was it? She picked it up and felt for the outlines of the ring and the watch fob. It might be too overwhelming for her to touch the ring right now, since Mr. Rutledge had owned it for so long it could have absorbed the horror and shock of the attack despite not being on his body at the time, but…

  She reached inside and pulled out the watch fob, and steadied herself against the whirl of images, seeking out Lord Endicott’s current Vision. The other Visions, both static and moving, were so familiar they were easy for her to ignore, but it still took her several moments to locate the one she wanted. Passersby must think she was a madwoman, staring at nothing like that. She drew in the correct Vision, settled herself to See through her enemy’s eyes, and had a moment’s terror at seeing her own face looking back at her.

  She dropped the fob into the bag and blinked as the Visions faded. Lord Endicott stood across the street, his body occasionally obscured by passing traffic. He was smiling at her with that pleasant, happy smile that concealed who knew what kind of madness. He did not appear to be armed.

  Sophia stood there watching him, her mind a blank slate waiting for instructions she was helpless to provide. There was nothing she could do to stop him escaping justice, but then he did not appear to be trying to flee. She felt as if there were something she ought to say, or do. Before she could stop herself, she was crossing the street, weaving between the carriages until she stood before him.

  “I can’t remember which of us was the hunter, and which the prey,” he said, conversationally, and held out his hand as if inviting her to dance. She ignored it.

  “I thought I was the hunter,” she said, “but your trap nearly caught me.”

  “I only want you to think well of me.”

  “I don’t intend to think of you at all, from this time on.”

  The smile vanished. “At first you were an obstacle,” he said, “an impediment to my affairs. Then you were an adversary. Now you are nothing but an annoyance. That fat bastard stopped me putting an end to you, but I see he’s not here now. I suppose it’s too much to hope he’s dead?”

  Silver flashed in his right hand, and now his smile was that of the predator he had claimed to be. Sophia took a step backward, then to the side, unable to look away from the knife but also very conscious of the carriages passing behind her, blocking her escape. “Time enough to kill you, then take—”

  A blur struck him. He flung up his arms, and then he was simply gone, with nothing more than a pop to indicate he had ever been there. Sophia, stunned, looked up the street, then toward the harbor. He had vanished. The knife lay on the ground in front of her; she thought about picking it up, then kicked it away, thinking in her confusion that it might carry Lord Endicott’s madness on it.

  She looked around again. No one seemed to have noticed anything was wrong, but in the distance she saw someone she recognized. She met Benjamin Vane halfway up the street; he was breathing heavily from running. “Did you find Endicott? Where’s Rutledge?” he said. Then he said, “Good Lord, Mrs. Westlake, you’re covered in blood! Are you all right?”

  Sophia opened her mouth to answer and realized it was all too complicated to explain. “Did you send a Bounder here?” she said.

  “All our Bounders are busy bringing men in to capture Endicott,” Vane said. “Where is he?”

  “I don’t know,” Sophia said.

  “He’s at Bow Street,” Daphne said, S
kipping to a halt beside them. “I don’t know what you were saying to him, Sophia, but he was preoccupied enough I could snatch him—do you know no one’s ever done that before, Skip and grab someone and Bound away? I believe I’ve redeemed myself.” She dropped into a crouch and bent her head, breathing heavily. “I’m so tired, Sophia, I had to carry Mr. Rutledge twice in the last hour, that’s four times in all today, and I wish I hadn’t bragged because he is heavy.”

  “Oh, Daphne!” Sophia exclaimed, and fell to her knees before her friend, clasping her around the shoulders and drawing her close. “Such heroics!”

  “I guess that means we can all go home,” Vane said. “Is any of that blood yours, Mrs. Westlake? Then you should clean yourself up afore anyone draws the wrong conclusions. Lady Daphne, can you take Mrs. Westlake home?”

  “Just… give me a minute,” Daphne wheezed.

  “Thank you for everything, Mr. Vane,” Sophia said, almost extending her hand to shake his before remembering that it, like the rest of her, was covered in Mr. Rutledge’s blood.

  “I’m not sure I did aught, but I can tell you I’m grateful I didn’t have to arrest you today,” Vane said with an uncharacteristic grin. Daphne stood up, then shuddered and looked away from Sophia.

  “This is so embarrassing,” she said, “it’s only blood, everyone has it inside them, it’s just when it’s on the outside—” She glanced at Sophia and squeezed her eyes shut, then opened them again. “I can do this.” She put her arms around Sophia’s waist, and in a blink they were in Cecy’s drawing room.

  “Oh, Sophy, I am—Sophia!” Cecy’s face went as white as Mr. Rutledge’s, and Sophia had to leap forward to catch her as she fainted.

  Sophia laid her carefully on the chaise longue and began chafing her wrists, saying, “Daphne, I believe there are smelling salts—no, never mind, she is waking up. I beg your pardon, Cecy, I forgot how I look, but I assure you I am quite well—none of this blood is mine.”

  Cecy gasped, then began to cry. “You killed him, Sophia, why did you do that, they will hang you now!”

  “No, Cecy, Lord Endicott is alive, this is Mr. Rutledge’s blood, Lord Endicott shot him—no, Cecy, he is alive, you know Daphne fetched Dr. Garland for him. Everything is all right.”

  “I do not know any of that! All I know is that Daphne came running into my bedroom, crying out that Dr. Garland must come now, and I thought—oh, I do not know what I thought!” Cecy sat up and threw her arms around Sophia. “Where is Lord Endicott?”

  “Bow Street. Daphne captured him.”

  Cecy looked at Daphne in astonishment. “You?” Then she began to laugh. “I believe the War Office will regret not taking you on earlier. Imagine what you might do to Napoleon’s forces.”

  “Oh, I have no regrets,” Daphne said. “I would never have had cause to learn these things in the War Office. Just as you owe Lord Endicott a debt for forcing you to expand your talent, Sophia.”

  Sophia buried her face in Cecy’s shoulder. “I owe him for a great deal more than that,” she said.

  In which there is, after some argument, a happy ending

  t took a message from Sir Arthur, thanking her for her part in bringing Lord Endicott to justice, to finally persuade Sophia it was all over. She had been so obsessed with hunting down her prey that everything else seemed unreal.

  Now, scrubbed clean and dressed in fresh, untorn clothing and gloves that were red only from cochineal dye, she sat at the dinner table and nibbled her food and could not quite believe she would not settle into Dream that night, searching for a way to defeat her nemesis. Had it been only five hours? She replied to something Cecy said without really hearing her, and then was startled to hear her friend laugh.

  “I believe Lady Ormerod is a lovely woman, but I would hardly call her ‘delicious,’ “ she said. “Come now, Sophy, you should be celebrating.”

  “I will, soon,” Sophia said, “but for now I still cannot believe Lord Endicott is in prison.”

  “I can,” Lewis said, “and I’m just as happy we no longer have to worry that he will send anyone after us.”

  “What did you do with the watch fob, Sophy?” Cecy asked.

  “I had Daphne throw it in the Thames. Right into the center where it’s deepest.” She had watched from the shore as Daphne had Skipped overhead and the speck of silver had plummeted into the icy water. She had no desire to See anything related to Lord Endicott again.

  “You should return Mr. Rutledge’s ring to him,” Cecy said. “I hope he recovers quickly.”

  “Dr. Garland thought he would,” Sophia said. She took a large bite of fish to give herself an excuse not to speak further. Surely he had regained consciousness by now. Did he remember what he had said to her? Did he want to remember? Why on earth would he say such a thing, if they were nothing but friends? Be honest. It is a long time since you thought of him as only a friend. She took another large mouthful of fish, as if she could stop her inner voice speaking as easily as she could her lips.

  She excused herself after dinner, pleading tiredness, which was true as far as it went. Dressed for sleep, she lay in her bed, still wearing her gloves, and turned the ring over and over in her fingers. He had given her permission to use his eyes, yes, but she did not think that permission extended past the exigencies of the moment, when they were searching for Lord Endicott. And she did not imagine he would want her prying into his past, much as she wanted to see more of his many adventures. What she wanted was to see him again, to ask him if he truly meant what he’d said, and handling his ring was a poor substitute for that. She put the ring away in her drawer, removed her gloves, and tried for the next two hours to fall asleep.

  The next day began with a message from Sir Arthur, asking Sophia to come to Bow Street to swear out an affidavit against Lord Endicott, since as an Extraordinary she was not required to testify personally in court. From there everything was a blur of questions in which Sophia repeated her story—her whole story, from her first Dream of Lord Endicott down to Daphne’s spectacular capture—to Sir Arthur and Benjamin Vane and several other people until it seemed to have happened to someone else. By noon she had become impatient, and by one o’clock she remembered she was an Extraordinary and did not have to put up with that kind of treatment.

  Sir Arthur, in a last attempt to exert his authority over her, warned her that as an Extraordinary she would have to make one more statement, this one to the Crown, and it was then she realized Lord Endicott’s attempt on her life was a capital crime for which there could be no commutation. He would hang for trying to kill her. The idea gave her no satisfaction. She went home and sat in the drawing room, staring at nothing. Mr. Rutledge did not come.

  Word reached the newspapers sometime late that day, and the next morning the house was plagued by eager men wanting Sophia’s story. Lewis tossed a few of them into the street, and the rest dispersed. “They will probably make things up to sell their papers,” he warned Sophia.

  “I find I am no longer disturbed by anything they might write,” she said. “This will pass, and some other excitement will draw their attention, and everyone will forget about me and Lord Endicott.”

  “If that’s what you want,” Lewis said, and went back to his study.

  Mr. Rutledge still did not come.

  That night Sophia once again lay wakeful, conscious of the ring in her drawer the way she might be aware of an open flame threatening to set her bed afire. Perhaps she needed to call on him. Though he might not be well enough to receive callers. Or was he regretting his delirious words, and hoping never to see her again? Unless he thought she had only accepted his offer to humor him, to keep him from being agitated in his wounded condition, in which case she ought to go to him and reassure him of her affection for him. Her love for him.

  It is so strange, she thought, I truly intended never to marry again because I did not believe I would find anything like what I had with Richard again. It never occurred to me to look for something different. F
ive times she opened the drawer and held her hand over the ring, five times she closed it and went back to staring at the high, invisible ceiling.

  She woke groggy and exhausted the next morning, and dressed slowly, aching as if she had spent the night in Dream. I do not know why I bother sleeping at all. She settled herself in the drawing room with a book she had no interest in reading. Someone would likely come this morning to escort her to Whitehall, to make her statement yet again.

  Representatives from the War Office would be there as well, ostensibly to give her support, but Sophia was certain they would face intense questioning about the War Office’s role in everything that had ensued from Sophia’s first Dream of Lord Endicott’s crimes. It gave her a feeling of wicked pleasure at their discomfort and an even better feeling at having the chance to look her former superiors in the eye and watch them cringe in embarrassment at how wrong they had been. Mr. Rutledge had said she had grounds for suing them, though she was not sure it was possible to sue the government. She only wanted them to grovel for her forgiveness so she could be patronizingly gracious at them.

  Simon opened the door. “You have a caller, ma’am. Shall I say you are at home?”

  “Who is it?”

  “Mr. Rutledge, ma’am.”

  It was as if thinking of him had made him appear. How strange that Simon did not react to the sound of her heart trying to Skip out of her chest. “Please show him up,” she said, probably too loudly, but her ears were filled with a low hum that made everything else seem very far away. She took a seat in the uncomfortable chair—or should she be standing when he entered? She stood, paced, sat down again, and was in the process of rising when the door opened and Mr. Rutledge came in.

  He showed no sign he had ever been injured. On the contrary, he looked very good—better than good, because he was wearing a well-cut suit with a handsome waistcoat and a cravat that, while not the height of fashion, at least looked as if he had spent some time on tying it properly. She had never seen him dressed so well, and for one mad moment she thought He is here to propose again, properly, but his expression was closed off, severe, and not that of a man on such a happy errand.