“What has alchemy got to do with this?” asked Blaise.
“Alchemists believe that all matter is alive and can be transformed under the right conditions, hence their attempt to transmute base metals into gold. Everything in the universe contains an element called ether, a substance that fills all space, like an invisible glue holding everything together.” Wheatley touched the glass. “I believe that an innovative red elixir, unlike any other, has been used on this painted door. One that can bend ether and dissolve the membranes separating the strands of time.”
Henry raised his eyebrows. “You think Throgmorton makes alchemical pigments?”
“It would require a laboratory with the correct equipment, like mine,” said Wheatley. “And the process is lethal in the wrong hands.”
“There’s no laboratory in the Academy,” Blaise insisted. “The only paint we ever saw was carried inside pigs’ bladders.”
“Then I do not know where he could have obtained such an elixir,” said Wheatley. He pawed through a pile of books and papers and held up a crude manuscript. “There were a few men who openly sought to transmute ether. One was Peregrin, a London alchemist of the distant past. This is one of the only records of his recipe, and I paid dearly for it. Inside that vessel is my first attempt at creating the elixir, but Peregrin’s directions are almost impossibly cryptic, and I may only guess at them.” He nodded at the sealed glass container. “To begin, I have married quicksilver with sulfur. This will produce a vermilion-colored red pigment.”
“Quicksilver is mercury,” said Sunni, covering her nose in alarm. “It’s poisonous.”
Wheatley scrutinized her as closely as he had in the theater. “How do you know this?”
“We learned about it in my t-time,” Sunni stammered.
He raised his eyebrows but said nothing.
Amelia sat down on the chair and, from behind her handkerchief, asked, “Mr. Wheatley, did this alchemist — Peregrin — succeed in making his red elixir?”
“I have found no proof that he did.” Wheatley wobbled slightly on his feet. “And he died, poisoned by his own experiments, in 1583.”
“1583!” Amelia blinked. “That is the second time today we have heard that date.”
“How so?” asked Wheatley.
“A date on a painting in our gallery.” Henry coughed loudly. “Wheatley, I think you should beware or you will also poison yourself. Now the most important question: when will this red elixir of yours be ready?”
“According to Peregrin’s recipe, in forty days. The work must incubate like an egg, and no one may interfere with it as it does so.”
Forty days! He might as well have said forty years. Sunni nearly fell over with the heat, putrid air, and her own disappointment. And there was no guarantee that it would even work.
“Is that not hopeful news?” Amelia asked Sunni and Blaise.
“Very hopeful, ma’am,” Blaise muttered, and Sunni knew that he was as crushed as she was.
With a determined look, Amelia whispered something into Henry’s ear. He listened, poker-faced, and nodded.
“Excellent work, sir. We shall await your results,” he said. “In the meantime, Sunniva and Blaise shall have to stay with other members of the Pell Mell Club. I will explain later, but it is too dangerous for them to reside with us. You are far too occupied with work, Wheatley, so we will ask Martingale to take them after our meeting at the masquerade tonight.”
“I see,” said Wheatley.
Henry smiled. “Come, now, sir, enough work for today. You must ready yourself for the masquerade. Time is flying.”
Wheatley burst into wheezing laughter at the mention of time.
“Have you a costume, Mr. Wheatley?” asked Amelia.
“Yes, yes.”
“We shall wait for you in the dining room.” Henry offered his arm to his sister and they quickly made for the door.
Shielding their noses, Sunni and Blaise followed.
“Wait,” Wheatley called to them in a hushed tone. “What do you make of my news?”
“Very good, sir,” said Sunni, trying to keep moving out of the foul laboratory.
“Excellent,” Blaise agreed. “If the elixir works.”
“It shall work,” said Wheatley. “I will see to it. No matter how long it takes.”
The oddness of his voice made Sunni glance back at him again.
Wheatley’s eyes were unnaturally round and glittery, riveted upon the sealed glass vessel. “And it will be a work of genius.”
When Wheatley finally appeared in the dining parlor, he wore a tattered cloak, a white wig, and a three-cornered hat above a startling mask with a long pointed bird’s beak.
His mouth was set in a thin line. “I am ready.”
Masks back on, they left the shuttered house, setting off in the direction of the river Thames. They had to pick their way around discarded animal bones, horse manure, and other unmentionables. For Sunni, this meant having to hold her dress and cloak up the whole time, while getting used to her high-heeled ladies’ shoes. Blaise was not much better off, contending with the oversize bows on his shoes, which thwacked against his ankles.
“Look at that traffic jam,” he whispered to Sunni as they turned into the main road leading toward the sprawling Royal Hospital. “I thought our traffic was bad.”
There was a cacophony of clattering hooves, bellowing coachmen, and irate pedestrians all the way to Ranelagh Gardens, where the carriages stood three deep at the entrance. They had to thread their way through the chaos, even resorting to crawling under the bellies of horses and stepping over railings to join the costumed revelers streaming into the masquerade.
“We shall make for the Rotunda building and secure a private box in which to have supper. There is one we Pell Mells particularly like,” said Henry. “From there we shall have a good view of the entertainment.”
“Make sure you stay close to us,” Amelia said to Sunni and Blaise. “It will be easy to become separated.”
“Yes, I strongly suggest you do not become lost.” Henry held up a finger in warning. “The Rotunda is surrounded by tree-lined paths. That is all well and good in daytime, but at night you must keep your wits about you, even though the paths will be well lit. Anyone may attend Ranelagh Gardens, including pickpockets, and all will be masked until midnight. Perfect conditions for anonymous mischief.”
“But you will have no reason to be wandering about the gardens. And we shall be gone by midnight, I hope,” said Amelia, shivering. “I wish to be well away from Chelsea before then.”
Where will Sunni and I be at midnight? Blaise wondered as they arrived at the Gardens.
“Yes,” Henry agreed. “I do not want to be away from home for long. Blaise and Sunniva, you should refrain from speaking. Keep your voices low at the very least.”
By the time everyone had squeezed through the entrance, paying their few shillings for tickets, the sky was bloodred over the darkening lines of trees leading down toward the Thames. A thousand lanterns twinkled in the branches, and strains of music came from a huge round building with three levels of windows.
Blaise swung his head back and forth as they headed toward it, trying to take in everything — and everyone — through his narrow eyeholes. Unsettled by the strangeness of people’s costumes lit only by flickering candles, he concentrated on following Henry and Amelia and keeping Sunni by his side. Wheatley trailed behind them.
They filed through the Rotunda’s high-arched entrance, where a costumed orchestra played under huge chandeliers. Blaise looked around at the strolling guests smiling under their eye masks and elaborate headwear, sweeping their wide gowns and capes behind them and causing little breezes in the stuffy air. Some wore no masks but were dressed as Turkish pashas, country shepherdesses, or other extravagant characters. Others were covered head to toe like he was, wearing similar Venetian masks that startled him every time he caught sight of one. I look just as creepy as they do. He let out a breath and tried to rel
ax behind his camouflage.
Three floors of small candlelit rooms, like boxes in a theater, overlooked the round hall. Henry led them to the second floor, and they snaked along a corridor until they came to a particular box whose table was spread with a supper of sliced ham, bread and butter, and a pot of tea.
The lone man seated in the box turned his nightmarish masked face toward them. Blaise shrank back against the wall, disconcerted.
“I am sorry, this box is occupied,” said the masked man, adjusting his giant red papier-mâché nose.
Henry ignored him and swept inside. “Good evening, Trevelyan. Your voice gives you away. Where are the others?”
Trevelyan got up and bowed. “Ah, good evening, Featherstone. The streets are a pretty tangle of carriages and revelers intent upon ale and mischief, so I am not surprised they are delayed.” He stared at the two sets of ladies’ shoes on the newcomers’ feet, but said nothing. “I ordered supper in the hope you would all arrive soon. I see we have unusual company this evening.”
They settled themselves, and Amelia began pouring tea and handing around platters of meat.
“Yes, the Club must welcome ladies for tonight only.” Henry lowered his voice. “Throgmorton has put a price on our visitors’ heads. Villains broke in during the night and nearly took one of them, but did not succeed.”
“Good heavens,” Trevelyan murmured. Wheatley flexed his hands on the table and mumbled something.
Henry went on. “Our visitors will travel incognito tonight and find refuge elsewhere until a way is found to return them home.”
“Yes, yes, I see.”
“Since we met yesterday, Wheatley has begun concocting an elixir that may transform matter and ether. He believes it could open up the fabric of time.”
Trevelyan turned his large nose toward Wheatley’s beak. “Extraordinary work, sir! If it succeeds, it will bring you the recognition you well deserve.” He paused. “Have you deduced anything concerning the mark of nine that Throgmorton scrawls on the door?”
“I cannot think of everything at once,” Wheatley muttered. “The elixir itself has occupied every moment of my time. One must first possess the substance before one can make a mark with it.”
“How long will your work take?”
Too long, Blaise thought. The warmth of his costume and the din of the orchestra were making his heartbeat quicken and his head throb.
“Where is Catterwall?” Henry peered down at the crowd on the Rotunda floor. “He is meant to be seeking out magical signs and ciphers.”
“Perhaps Beelzebub has made away with him,” Trevelyan scoffed.
“I shall be very annoyed if he has.”
“Well,” said the poet, “I myself have been pondering signs and symbols since yesterday. England’s greatest poets and playwrights played with numbers. Words were made into numbers and numbers made into words using ancient Greek and Hebrew numerology. It is said that Mr. Shakespeare’s and Mr. Marlowe’s plays were rife with secret codes.”
“To what end?” asked Henry.
“’Twas the so-called art of mystical writing,” Trevelyan whispered, “meant to rouse hidden powers.”
Like the powers of the painted door? Blaise knew he was not supposed to speak, but he could not help whispering, “How did they make their codes?”
Trevelyan hunched over the table, and the others bent closer. “The simplest way is this: assign a number to each letter of the alphabet. Therefore, A is 1, B is 2, C is 3 — and so on,” he said. “Using this method, the letters in TREVELYAN add up to 122. We add 1+2+2 and get 5. Therefore, 5 is my numerical name-symbol. Though I doubt it shall open any magical doors.”
“Maybe it would if you used the red elixir,” said Sunni in a small voice.
“Do you think Throgmorton has to write his personal number every time he goes through?” he whispered to Sunni. “Like a password. Maybe we’d have to do that, too.”
“Since Throgmorton isn’t a nine, he must use another name,” she replied under her breath.
In his head, Blaise began transforming the name THROGMORTON into a number. It added up to ten. But the other name painted onto the silver mirror in Livia’s portrait was a nine. His own name, Doran, was a seven.
Wheatley stuffed a piece of bread into his mouth. “The nine must awaken the inert, and once it is active, it may be transmuted. But for this, one will need the elixir.”
Blaise watched his thin lips move under the monumental beak. He knew this guy was helping them, but it didn’t mean he had to like him or enjoy being around him.
“Explain, sir,” said Trevelyan. “That is all Greek to me.”
“I think he means that the painted door has magic embedded in it,” said Blaise. “When Throgmorton draws a nine on it with his elixir, he makes the door materialize and open.”
“Why could you not just say so, Wheatley? Inertia and transmutation, indeed.” Trevelyan’s outlandish red nose bobbed up and down, and Blaise had to look away. He watched the swirling cloaks and masked faces below on the Rotunda floor and imagined elbowing his way through them to get to the fresh air outside.
Henry slapped the table. “By heaven, where are the others? I am especially surprised at Martingale.”
“If he does not hurry, he will miss this once-in-a-lifetime occasion,” said Trevelyan with a slight sneer. “And he will welcome in midnight by fending off ignorant oafs in the street.”
“I do hope not,” said Amelia, alarmed.
“Not all Englishmen are celebrating tonight’s event. Some feel cheated and they will be cross. Especially after they have had a drink,” Trevelyan said, spreading butter on bread.
“But why should they feel cheated?” asked Amelia.
“They do not understand why the calendar must be altered and believe that Parliament is stealing time from them,” said Wheatley.
Blaise shifted on his seat, wanting to ask what on earth they were talking about, but it was Sunni who said, “Calendar? Stealing time?”
Everyone looked at her.
“Of course, you would know nothing of this,” Henry said. “It is September second today. The calendar will change at midnight.”
“How?”
“At midnight, England will change to the Gregorian calendar, like other countries,” Amelia explained. “Parliament has decreed it, and the king ordered Ranelagh Gardens to open for this public celebration.”
“We have been told this new calendar must be synchronized with heaven’s planetary cycles, so we must drop eleven days this month,” added Henry. “At midnight, we shall jump past them, as if they never existed.”
“Just like that? Eleven days will disappear?” Sunni asked, bewildered.
“Yes, just like that.”
“No one told us anything in the Academy,” Blaise said in a hushed voice.
“I suppose not,” said Trevelyan, chewing. “No use in child-slaves concerning themselves with the calendar.”
“Quite,” said Henry.
“If I’d stayed there much longer, I wouldn’t have known which day it was anymore, anyway,” Blaise muttered.
Henry lowered his voice again. “You shall not be obliged to go back there, Blaise, unless it is to leave this century. Trevelyan, our visitors need protection in a safe house. I had expected Martingale or Catterwall would take them tonight, but neither is here and time is flying. May I rely upon you instead?”
The poet dropped his shoulders. “I cannot risk it. My children . . . It would be too much.”
Wheatley leaned forward. “I shall take them.”
Blaise could almost smell the stink of the man’s house, and a wave of disgust rose in him.
Henry hesitated. “Thank you, Wheatley, but no. As I said before, you are far too occupied for guests.”
“I shall take them,” Wheatley insisted.
Amelia twisted her body toward her brother as if entreating him to refuse, but she could say nothing aloud. Through the holes in his mask, Blaise made eye contact wi
th Sunni. He could see his worries reflected in her eyes, too.
“If you are certain,” Henry murmured awkwardly. “Only for tonight. Tomorrow, they must go to Martingale. I will send him a message as soon as I am able.”
Wheatley nodded and pushed away his plate. “I have no interest in remaining here. My work calls me.” He nodded to Sunni and Blaise. “If you have eaten enough, we will go.”
“I wish to leave, too, Brother,” said Amelia, her mouth drooping under her white mask.
Trevelyan stuffed a hunk of ham into his mouth and stood up. “Then there is no point in my waiting here alone.”
Blaise followed the others out of the box, moving like a robot and imagining how foul the beds at Wheatley’s house would be. An aching tiredness came over him as he anticipated being shuffled from safe house to safe house, waiting for the elusive elixir to be ready.
On the ground floor, they joined the swarm of unwashed and perfumed revelers. Henry forged ahead with Amelia in tow. Being taller than most people, Blaise could keep them in sight, but chattering herds of people held him back, and he could only watch helplessly as the pair moved farther away. Sunni was right beside him, bracing against bodies bumping into her. He presumed Wheatley and Trevelyan were behind them, but he didn’t bother to look back.
The multitude swirled around them, and Blaise’s heart hammered. He thrust his hand out from under his cloak and whispered to Sunni, “Hold on.”
He was straining forward, about to pull Sunni around a knot of stationary people, when there was a commotion ahead. Over several wigs, he could see a scruffy masked stranger pulling Amelia deeper into the masses, while another grappled with Henry to the shrieks of nearby ladies.
Blaise yanked Sunni close and hissed, “Someone’s jumped Henry and Amelia. Come on!”
His manners disappeared, and he pushed people aside to get forward. The leather satchel slung across his chest made an excellent battering ram. Sunni used her elbows when she had to and even kicked a few ankles to get people moving. They scythed through the mob toward Henry, whose mask now hung around his neck and revealed his livid, shouting face.
The Crimson Shard Page 17