The Crimson Shard

by Teresa Flavin

  The last thing Blaise remembered was being dragged roughly over the stage floor, broken plaster spiking his cheek and scalp.

  A strange man in a chair by the bed came awake with a snort. “Ah, you are with us then, are you?” He leaned over Blaise, pulling down his lower eyelids and prodding a bandage tied around his head. “Very well, my labors here are at an end. Do not exert yourself, and you will soon be fit again.”

  “Wait! Who are you?”

  “Dr. Loftus. I shall alert your hosts that you are awake. Good evening to you.”

  The man packed an array of tiny vials and instruments into a bag and hurried off. A woman in a dark dress and shawl swept in and laid one hand on his brow. He vaguely recognized her from somewhere.

  Blaise tried to talk, but only croaks came out. She shook her head with a smile.

  “Do not speak.” The lady propped him up and poured some cold sweet tea into his mouth. Just lifting his head that much nearly did him in, and he dropped back to the pillow with relief. She pulled a chamber pot from under his bed and said, “Do you have need of this?”

  He turned his head away in embarrassment and managed to say, “No, thank you.”

  “You are safe here.” She snuffed out most of the candles and checked the state of the fire’s embers before picking up the last lit candle and moving toward the door. “Sleep now.”

  He raised one arm and called, “Who are you?”

  “Miss Featherstone. All will be explained.”

  “Where’s my friend?”

  “She is asleep. You will see her in the morning.”

  “M-my bag . . .”

  Amelia pointed to a chair. The satchel Blaise had bought from Jenny was propped up against one leg. Their money pouch sat on a small table nearby.

  “Sleep now,” she said, and glided out the door, taking the light with her.

  Where are we? Blaise lay in the blackness for some time, feeling his bandage and going over what had happened at Neptune’s Grotto. He was okay, sort of. Sunni was okay, apparently. That lady knows she’s a girl.

  He knew he shouldn’t get up, but he couldn’t help it. He inched his way across the mattress and swung his legs over. Realizing he was wearing a nightshirt that made him look like Ebenezer Scrooge, he started to laugh, but it made his head hurt too much.

  Blaise felt his way to the chair and picked up the satchel, noting with a jolt of alarm that it was unbuckled. The earthy, smoky smell of it took him straight back to the Green Dragon. Anxiously, he fished around for the familiar shape of his own messenger bag and sandals mashed down to the bottom, and the soft jersey of his T-shirt and cut-off shorts. There was his phone, too, and a collection of London museum leaflets, pencil stubs, pens, and a pack of gum. At last he touched his sketchbook, flat against the back of the satchel, and heaved a sigh of relief.

  He moved toward where he had seen the candles and stumbled into something, sending it and everything on it tumbling. A blinding pain shot through Blaise’s ear, and he had to steady himself against what he guessed was an overturned table.

  The Red Room’s door creaked open and revealed Sunni in a white nightgown and shawl, holding a candle. “What are you doing?”

  “Trying to get this.” Blaise held up the sketchbook. “Bring that candle over so I can look at it.”

  “Are you crazy?” She quietly closed the door behind her and bustled to his side. “Your head . . .”

  “Where are we?” he interrupted. “Who are these people?”

  “We were sitting with them in the theater, remember? Two of them are a brother and sister, Henry and Amelia Featherstone, and this is their house, outside the city somewhere. The other guy’s called Martingale. They got us away from Throgmorton and his thugs.”

  “The people in front of that guy we talked to? The one who said he’d met real magicians?”

  “Yes,” she answered. “You don’t look too good.”

  “Thanks a lot. My head’s splitting, but other than that, I’m okay. What about you?”

  “Fine. I got off lightly.” She shone her candle over the mess of objects on the floor. “Just leave this till the morning. You’ve got to rest and get better.”

  He held the satchel to his chest and nodded.

  “I like your nightgown.” Sunni smirked.

  Blaise dived back into bed. It seemed like the least embarrassing option.

  She grinned and padded to the bed, setting her candle down on the bedside table. “Is your sketchbook okay?”

  He hastily leafed through it. “Seems to be. Throgmorton didn’t get hold of it, anyway.”

  “Wouldn’t it be useless to him without you there to explain your sketches? After all, he could have taken it from you before.” Sunni perched near him on the edge of the bed.

  “I suppose. But just in case,” Blaise answered slowly. He dropped back against the pillows. “So these Featherstones rescued us. Why? They don’t know us.”

  “I think it was because of the guy we talked to. Amelia told me he’d taken our story seriously.”

  “But can we trust them?”

  “I don’t know. My instinct says they’re honest,” said Sunni.

  “My instinct was to follow Throgmorton through the painted door, and look where it got us.”

  “Stop beating yourself up,” Sunni chided him. “I went into the labyrinth after Dean, and look where that got us.”

  “We got ourselves out of that situation. I don’t know about this one,” he said.

  “Stop it, Blaise.”

  A stabbing ache made him cringe. “S-so they know you’re a girl.”

  “Yeah, I told Amelia. They were about to throw me in the bath, so it would have been hard to keep under wraps.”

  “Any reaction?”

  “Shocked. And I think she was intrigued, too. I gave her only the basics about why I was dressed as a boy, but we’ll have a lot more explaining to do in the morning.”

  “We’ve got to keep Fausto Corvo out of this,” said Blaise.

  “I know. It’s complicated enough without him.”

  He pulled himself up higher against the pillow. “Did you see what happened to me in the theater?”

  “No, I spent almost the whole time with my head in a sack,” Sunni answered.

  “The sack-’em-up men,” Blaise whispered.

  “What?”

  “That’s how they took Will away — in a sack.”

  Sunni shuddered. “The last thing I saw was Throgmorton coming for us. Just as I was about to jump off the stage, one of his cronies caught me.”

  “Me, too. I wonder if they’ll figure out we’re here.”

  “No idea.”

  They sat quiet for a moment, and then she asked, “You’re going to be all right, aren’t you?”

  “Some doctor looked me over. He said I’ll live.”

  “He didn’t want to put leeches on you, did he?” She grimaced. “Isn’t that what they did in this century?”

  “Yup, he’s coming back with a giant jar of them in the morning.”

  “What?”

  Blaise snorted. “I’m only kidding. I’ll be fine once this headache goes away.”

  She shook her head and smiled.

  “You look nice,” he said sheepishly.

  “Thanks, I scrub up all right. And it’s nice to have my boy corset off. It was starting to itch something wicked.”

  “Your boy corset?”

  “Material wrapped around my chest to make me look flatter.”

  Blaise raised his eyebrows. “Oh. Right.”

  “Oops, too much information.” Sunni stood up. “Look, you’d better get some sleep. We have to be ready for questions tomorrow.”

  “Yeah.”

  “See you in the morning.” She took the candle and quickly tiptoed from the room.

  Late the next morning, Sunni followed the maidservant, Anne, along the corridor, half wishing she’d kept her mouth shut and let everyone think she was a boy. Her torso was laced into a corset Am
elia called “stays,” and the hoops under her skirt made her feel as if she were wearing a balloon she had to steer around furniture and people. Her leather satchel was slung across her chest, and she held it close; she knew it looked odd with the flouncy dress, but she was determined to keep her belongings with her at all times, no matter where she went.

  “Where is my friend?” Sunni asked.

  “The footmen have carried him down already. The master and mistress are waiting for you. This way.”

  The maidservant led her down staircases and across halls, winding through the enormous house with its seemingly countless doors and elaborately decorated ceilings.

  At last Anne stopped before a tall door and knocked. She showed Sunni into a gloomy library crammed with books, urns, and statues that looked as if they could have come from Rome or Egypt. Henry Featherstone sat solemnly in an imposing wingback chair with several stone heads on plinths behind him. The group of gentlemen they had sat beside at the theater, and Amelia, were seated in high-backed chairs next to small tables bearing floral teacups, saucers, and a large teapot.

  None of the gentlemen showed any of the boisterous camaraderie from the night before. They sat like a panel of judges, silent, with inquisitive eyes.

  Blaise was among them, looking pale, his leather satchel by his feet. He gave her a wary nod, and Sunni’s stomach clenched with nerves.

  “That will be all, Anne.” Henry Featherstone dismissed the servant and directed Sunni toward an empty chair beside Blaise. “Good morning, Sunniver — I should say, rather, Miss Sunniver. We trust you slept well.”

  “Yes, thank you.” But Sunni remained standing, just out of reach, her mouth suddenly dry. “What are you going to do with us?”

  “What shall we do with you?” Henry folded his hands together and looked at the other gentlemen. “We shall listen to your tale with open minds, though I must say you are off to a questionable start. You might have a good reason for disguising yourself as a boy, and I would like to know it. But if you turn out to be lying scallywags, we will thrust you so quickly into the arms of the Law that it will make your heads spin.”

  “I — I was forced to dress as a boy so I would not stand out,” said Sunni, holding the strap of her satchel tight.

  “Stand out from whom?” asked Martingale.

  Blaise hated seeing her squirm, so he spoke up. “From the other boys. In the place where we were kept.”

  “I cannot abide guessing games,” said another man. “Explain properly.”

  “If we’re going to explain everything, we’d like to know who you all are first,” said Blaise.

  Henry stood up and tugged his waistcoat down. “A fair request, I suppose. I am a man of business, and I run this estate. These gentlemen and I call ourselves the Pell Mell Supper Club. We meet for conversation and amusement over dinner, as we have done since our university days. With the exception of my sister, of course, who only happened to accompany me to Smythe’s theater yesterday evening.” He gestured toward each man in turn. “That gentleman is Mr. Trevelyan, a poet; Mr. Martingale, whom you have already met, is an architect; Mr. Wheatley is a natural philosopher.”

  He introduced the remaining gentlemen, but Blaise only half listened after Wheatley’s introduction. Is he going to help us find a magician who can get us home?

  Martingale spoke up. “Featherstone, I believe you have neglected to introduce one person.”

  “But I have introduced all the members of the club.” Henry caught sight of his sister’s irritated face. “Ah, yes. I could not run the estate without my dear sister, whom you have already met. She manages the house admirably, does very well at music, watercolor painting, and stitchery. And she reads a lot.” He turned to his friends with a wink. “But, gentlemen, do not hold that against her!”

  “Indeed we do not. Miss Featherstone is a lady of great intelligence,” said Martingale.

  Blushing furiously, Amelia said, “Sunniva, please sit down.”

  Sunni slid into the seat beside her friend, trying to smooth down her skirts.

  “Are you all right?” she whispered to Blaise.

  “Sort of,” he murmured, holding his sore head.

  “So, Miss Sunniva, formerly known as Master Sunniver,” said Trevelyan. “I place your speech as Scots, but I cannot place your companion’s.”

  “Colonial,” said Blaise, girding himself for questions. “Massachusetts.”

  “Oh ho, how came you to be —?”

  “Sir, it’s a long story and has nothing to do with why we’re here.”

  “Pah!” exclaimed Trevelyan. “I do not see how . . .”

  “Gentlemen, let us call the Pell Mell Supper Club to order.” Henry pressed his hands together. “We should question these two in a logical fashion. But first, I must say I am glad to see you all survived last night’s fracas.”

  Blaise noticed that each of the gentlemen bore scratches and bruises.

  A man the others called Catterwall, with piercing eyes, said, “Perhaps we should commend ourselves to the king. He may have use of us in his next campaign against the French. We saved these two urchins — bravo. But who is to say those men were not pursuing them for a good reason?”

  “Hear, hear. We deserve an explanation as to why we were obliged to rescue them,” said Trevelyan. He glared at Blaise, who shrank back into his chair.

  “You seemed to enjoy the melee, Trevelyan,” said Martingale. “I certainly did.”

  Trevelyan shrugged. “I admit it was the best entertainment I have ever experienced at Smythe’s theater. But that is beside the point. I still want a justification for our involvement.”

  Wheatley leaned forward. “You may blame me if this escapade turns out to be a foolhardy venture,” he said in a solemn voice.

  “And I begged my brother to intervene,” Amelia added, looking a bit nervous. “I will also take the blame if they fabricated their story.”

  “Well, let us have the answers from their own lips,” said Henry.

  Blaise blurted out, “Are we on trial here?”

  “In a way,” said Wheatley. “You made an extraordinary request of me last evening — to help you find a magician as a matter of life and death. Now one of you has turned from a boy to a girl overnight and things grow more murky than clear. I want an explanation.”

  The gentlemen of the Pell Mell Supper Club murmured agreement.

  “What I told you last night was true,” said Blaise, sitting taller, though it made his head ache more.

  “That you were kidnapped,” Amelia prompted him.

  “Yes, ma’am, by a man called Throgmorton.”

  Sunni added, “He had trapped us, but we escaped.”

  “Why did he kidnap you?” asked Martingale.

  “To make us slaves in his Academy,” said Blaise.

  Catterwall and Trevelyan shook their heads.

  “This man kidnapped a Colonial lad and a Scottish girl to enslave them?” asked Henry, puffing out his cheeks. “Where did this supposed abduction take place?”

  “We’ll tell you everything if you promise to help us find a true magician,” Sunni said stoutly. “Because if you can’t, we need to move on and keep searching.”

  Trevelyan harrumphed. “Are you giving us an ultimatum?”

  “Yes, sir,” said Blaise. “We have no choice.”

  “You speak plainly,” said Henry.

  “We’re in a hard situation, sir, with nowhere to turn.”

  “And how in the world would a magician assist you?”

  Sunni stole a glance at Wheatley. “We hope a magician will know how to open up the way back to our home.”

  “Open up the way?” Henry repeated. “You make no sense.”

  Blaise took a deep breath. “Throgmorton came to our century and lured us into this time. We don’t belong in 1752.”

  A grumble of disbelief erupted from around the library.

  “Pah!” Trevelyan scoffed. “Slaves brought from another century? Very far-fetched, I s
ay.”

  “Agreed,” said Wheatley. “And how did a mortal man cross centuries, pray tell?”

  “That’s what we need a magician to work out,” said Blaise.

  Sunni added carefully, “Throgmorton told us that this moment in time is separated from the past and the future only by a kind of invisible barrier. We don’t know how, but Throgmorton opened a hole in the barrier and we walked through it.”

  Trevelyan’s expression softened as he thought about this, while Wheatley’s grew more intense.

  “Ether,” he said. “When you say you came through a ‘barrier,’ do you mean ether?”

  “I — I don’t know what ether is,” Sunni stammered.

  Wheatley frowned.

  “All we know,” said Blaise, “is that we are in the wrong time, and we need to go back where we belong.”

  “And the only way back is shut,” added Sunni. “Because Throgmorton closed it.”

  The Pell Mells shifted in their seats and muttered. Amelia hurriedly poured more tea into their cups.

  “You think Throgmorton is a magician?” she asked.

  “We don’t know who or what he is, ma’am,” said Blaise. “Just that he trapped us here and we have to find help.”

  “Wheatley, what do you think?” asked one of the men.

  “Aye,” said another. “Are any of your conjurors up to such a task, if this story is true?”

  Wheatley did not move a muscle as he scrutinized Sunni and Blaise. “Possibly. But this may need more than a magician.”

  The Pell Mells exhaled a collective breath, and Blaise’s heart began to pound with hopeful excitement.

  “Will you help us, please, Mr. Wheatley?” Sunni pleaded. “We don’t know where else to turn.”

  “Yes, I think I may be of assistance,” he answered. “Now, from what century did this man supposedly bring you?”

  “The twenty-first century.”

  A roar erupted among the gentlemen. Several laughed and others snorted, while Wheatley pulled out a small notebook and began scribbling into it, his eyebrows knitted together.