The Crimson Shard

by Teresa Flavin

  “You must help Jeremiah Starling after his house is destroyed,” Sunni called over her shoulder, and Blaise added, “Please buy his paintings, or something, so he can rebuild it. None of this is his fault!”

  By the time Henry and Martingale leaped from the carriage, shouting for them to wait, Sunni and Blaise had already melted into the nearest dark lane.

  Sunni and Blaise moved steadily eastward toward Phoenix Square. Blaise’s homing instinct, and his memory of escape with Fleet and Sleek, said this was the right way. They evaded link-boys wandering about with their glims, offering to show the way for a few pence. They spoke to no one and kept their three-cornered hats low over their faces, ready to lash out at anyone who attempted to divert their attention with a view to snatching their goods.

  “We didn’t say proper good-byes back at the carriage,” murmured Sunni. “I feel bad about that.”

  “It doesn’t matter,” said Blaise, even though it did matter to him, too.

  The sound of high yelping voices and low growling ones floated over the rooftops from somewhere. Sunni and Blaise skirted the edge of the buildings and peered around the next corner.

  A motley assortment of men half marched, half staggered along the street, some bearing flaming rushes that had been dipped in fat to make them burn. One or two rabble-rousers called for everyone to go and speak to the king about the problem of their stolen eleven days. Others followed, some smashing windows and others brandishing knives in their teeth, like pirates. Several turned into the lane where Sunni and Blaise were and reeled straight into them.

  Just as one of the drunks was about to connect his fist to Blaise’s chin, Sunni yanked her friend away. They had to run clear across the main road, dodging men waving their torches before them like scythes, and urchins who followed at their heels, taunting them. Several men lurched as if to give chase but wobbled to a halt, shouting a stream of abuse at them, as if Sunni and Blaise were responsible for midnight coming and stealing time.

  The pair did not stop running till they were four or five streets away, and when they finally stopped, Blaise panted, “Look over there!”

  Phoenix Square was within view. Other houses in the street leading into the square half hid it, but Blaise knew this was the right place. A shudder of trepidation ran through him.

  “Are you ready?” he asked, and took her hand in his.

  “Yes.”

  They set off with the unsettling knowledge that they had walked this same way only a few days before, but in the twenty-first century. The square was mostly in gloom, the elm trees planted in its center garden looming like dark giants. Each entrance was lit with a twinkling lantern hung over the top of the door, and Blaise no longer had to guess which one they wanted. He had been here before, with only a map on a paper napkin to guide him.

  “Wait,” Sunni breathed. “Maybe we should go in the back way.” She pointed at the candles burning in the front windows of number 36, including the workshop. “People are up.”

  They hastened back to the mouth of Phoenix Square and hunted for the alley Fleet and Sleek had taken them through. It was there, like a black tunnel.

  When they reached the courtyard door, Blaise felt around under his cloak and fished something out.

  “Fleet’s skeleton key,” he whispered, and fumbled to fit it into the lock. The door swung open with a high squeak.

  To their relief, Throgmorton’s study window was dark, so they moved past freely and Blaise went at the back door lock. Once inside the dim ground-floor hall, they undid their cloaks and threw them into a corner.

  They tiptoed up the stairs, carrying their damp shoes and praying that no boards would groan under their feet. They climbed from murkiness to the dim light of the second-floor landing. A single guiding candle flickered, but no one seemed to be about. The front and back rooms were empty, though well lit. Had they managed to get there before Throgmorton?

  Sunni and Blaise moved up to the third floor, where more candles burned in wall sconces. Livia’s door was slightly ajar, and a candelabrum glowed, but there was no sound.

  One more floor. Blaise could hardly breathe as they inched their way up the last set of stairs. The Academy boys’ bedroom door was opened slightly, but it was dark within. The workshop blazed with light, and there was the sound of movement inside, but no voices.

  Blaise caught a ghostlike shape out of the corner of his left eye. Toby peeped from the boys’ sleeping room, his face as white as his nightshirt and his eyes wide at the sight of the returning pair.

  Sunni quickly held a finger to her lips, and Toby nodded, while at the same time gesturing wildly for them not to go into the workshop. Blaise gestured back at him to wait there, that it was all okay, and moved to the workshop door with Sunni.

  There were so many lanterns and candles alight, every nook and cranny was illuminated. At the center of the room, Throgmorton loomed over a table in his black overcoat and gold-embroidered waistcoat, folding a painting up in a cloth.

  Blaise’s heart sank. They had no choice but to confront their enemy, even if it was the last thing they did.

  Livia was examining wrapped paintings leaning against the wall. Her satisfied smile seemed almost painted on, Blaise thought.

  “Do not forget anything, miss. Shall I also give you the shirt off my back?” Jeremiah leaned against a wall, a dusting of snuff grouts covering his front like dead gnats.

  “I should not want that putrid thing,” Livia said, the smile unwavering.

  The painter lurched toward Throgmorton. “You leave me with nothing, sir!”

  “On the contrary,” said Throgmorton, one arm out to hold him off. “I leave you with your home. That is ample payment for your services. And I am taking the stolen artworks away so that you will not be caught with them.”

  “How thoughtful. I am sure they will bring a pretty penny in whichever place you sell them,” Jeremiah said with a sneer. “And the boys? What of them? You brought them here, and now you drop them.”

  “It is not my choice. Our travels must end, and destiny says tonight is our last journey through the door,” Throgmorton said. “The Academy is yours. Do with it what you will.”

  Jeremiah gave an angry laugh. “With what funds? It costs money to feed and house the boys.”

  “You will have to find money yourself from now on.” Throgmorton frowned as he finished wrapping the painting of the musketeer. He glanced at Livia. “Soon, my dear.”

  “I cannot wait, Father,” said Livia, smoothing her curls.

  Blaise peered at her, trying to see what he had found so irresistible only a few days earlier. His heart was beating hard, but not because of Livia. She no longer raised as much as one butterfly in his stomach.

  Sunni took hold of Blaise’s forearm and squeezed hard. He nodded and she waved her arm to Toby. The boys appeared, one by one, and pressed up behind them. Sunni and Blaise put their damp shoes on and slid into the workshop with the boys in tow.

  “Throgmorton’s not telling you everything, Mr. Starling,” Blaise announced, trembling with nervous energy. “They’re running off, like rats, because they know this house is about to be destroyed!”

  “Liars!” Throgmorton snarled. “You are the rats — trying to save your own skins. But it’s too late.”

  “Blaise, Sunniva!” Jeremiah exclaimed, his eyes out on stalks. “What is this news?”

  “Throgmorton told us himself. This house will be destroyed on September 14, 1752, and that’s today!” shouted Sunni. “It’s just past midnight!”

  “What will you and the boys do then, Mr. Starling?” Blaise darted through the tables and easels, closer to Throgmorton. “He’s lying when he says you can continue with the Academy!”

  Livia rushed to her father’s side and shrieked with indignation. “My father is not a liar!” Her eyes could have cut through stone.

  “Yes, he is,” Sunni yelled. “And so are you, Livia! Your name isn’t Throgmorton at all. Why does your father have to hide who he re
ally is?”

  “By heaven,” Jeremiah shouted at Throgmorton. “Who are you, man?”

  “He’s the greedy slimeball who chased Fausto Corvo out of Venice in 1582 because he wouldn’t sell him three of his special paintings. He got so angry, he hired spies to dig out Corvo’s secrets. When Corvo got wind of it and ran, this creep put a bounty on his head!” Blaise shook as he looked their enemy straight in the eye. “Your name’s not Throgmorton. It’s Soranzo!”

  “What?” Jeremiah moved forward, and the boys spread out behind him.

  Blaise pointed at Soranzo. “He lured Sunni and me here to force us to give him information about Fausto Corvo.”

  “Fausto Corvo!” Jeremiah gasped. “But he vanished two centuries ago.”

  “Soranzo’s still hunting for him and his three paintings,” said Blaise.

  Jeremiah’s brow furrowed. “But Corvo must be dead.”

  “I think not. And I shall find his lost paintings, even if he is dead. At long last, their powerful secrets will belong to me,” growled Soranzo. “Thanks to Sunni and Blaise’s discovery, I have the magic word, chiaroscuro, and I shall pass through the labyrinth at Blackhope Tower myself.” He gave Blaise a hard look. “It may be closed in your century, but in my time, it is still open!”

  “Blackhope Tower?” Jeremiah repeated. “Your time?”

  “Soranzo and Livia belong in the past, Mr. Starling,” said Sunni. “Not here in the eighteenth century.”

  “Someone with the initials M.B. painted a portrait of Livia in 1583,” Blaise said. “Maffeo Bellini maybe?”

  Livia’s face fell. “Where did you see that thing?”

  “It doesn’t matter,” muttered Sunni.

  “The name Soranzo was painted into the silver hand mirror,” Blaise said.

  “That portrait was the last thing Bellini ever made.” Soranzo narrowed his eyes. “He made a mockery of my daughter’s beauty. I saw to it that he never painted again.”

  “Not even to make you a door that could come alive and be opened?” Sunni demanded. “Someone in 1583 had to know enough magic to do that. How would you have gotten here otherwise?”

  “Maffeo’s sorcery skills were a poor substitute for Corvo’s, but he managed to materialize a simple painted door before his career ended so abruptly. It sufficed for my aim of crossing time.”

  “You walked through a door in Venice and arrived in this house.”

  “No,” said Soranzo. “Not in Venice. Here, in this place.”

  “You were in London in 1583?”

  “My spies said Corvo escaped to Britain, so I came here with Livia to take charge of the hunt. I brought the best artisans from Venice and built a magnificent house on this land — a house with a painted door!”

  “On my land, beneath our very feet?” Jeremiah’s eyes grew round.

  “My land, Starling. I owned it before your father was even born.”

  “What became of this grand house of yours?”

  “In 1666 the Great Fire burned it to the ground,” said Soranzo, clenching his fist. “And years later, your father built his house on its ashes. Then, Starling, you painted a door in the workshop and a miracle happened. I could pass through my own painted door into yours — and into the future.”

  “I am no magician!” Jeremiah exclaimed, appalled. “How could my painted door be possessed in such a way?”

  “The sorcery passes like a ghost into any painted door on this land.” Soranzo guided his daughter away from their interrogators.

  “Go ahead, Soranzo! Go back and try finding Corvo in 1583!” Blaise shouted. “You can get in through the labyrinth, but you won’t get out alive. There are plenty of skeletons in Blackhope Tower to prove it!”

  “I shall not become a skeleton.” Soranzo waved him away. “But you soon will.”

  Blaise pushed past the worktables and propelled himself at them, but Soranzo turned and shoved him to the ground.

  Livia hissed, “You stupid boy. For that is all you are — a boy.”

  “Miss, you know nothing! Toby, all of you, fall in!” Jeremiah shouted as he leaped in and began grappling with Soranzo. The boys joined the fray, shouting and jumping on their enemy.

  Sunni squeezed her gown between the tables and hurried around them to the painted door, but it was as flat and inert as ever. “Take us home, Soranzo! You can’t leave us here!”

  Livia came straight for her, one arm raised, her sleeve dripping with lace. She swept over a candle, knocking it sideways onto a drawing. Blaise could have sworn she’d done it on purpose. He heaved away from the melee and caught the girl’s arm. She cried out in such pain that he nearly let go, he but managed to hold her back from Sunni.

  “I owe you nothing. You will never get out!” Soranzo let out a huge belly roar and rose like a colossus, white wig ripped away, revealing his close-cropped hair. His iceberg eyes were fixed on Blaise.

  With a stinging kick, Soranzo lunged and took Blaise’s legs out from under him. Blaise fell to the ground, groaning and holding his head. Sunni ran to him, trying to help him and beat out the burning paper at the same time.

  “Fire!” she screamed, hauling Blaise to his feet.

  “Boys, beat it back!” Jeremiah bawled as he took a running punch at Soranzo and brought him down. “Take the original works and run to safety! Let the copies burn!”

  “Yes,” Blaise shouted. “Or else he’ll take them and sell them in the twenty-first century!”

  “Do you think I am a fool? They would be unmasked immediately,” Soranzo gasped. “I have far better centuries to take them to!”

  Livia leaped upon Jeremiah, clawing his face as she tried to tear him away from her father. In a frenzy, the Academy boys ripped the wrappings off the paintings leaning against the wall, arguing over which were the copies. When Toby took charge and handed them those he thought were originals, they bolted from the workshop, armed with paintings and drawings, while he threw the copies into the fire.

  “Toby!” Jeremiah bellowed in pain, from somewhere on the floor. “Leave now!”

  “Yes, boy, go into the streets with the other beggars!” Soranzo rolled on top of Jeremiah. Livia got to her feet, triumphant.

  “Better than being sold to the anatomists like Will!” Sunni shouted, as she and Blaise tried to smother the flames with filthy work shirts. “The other boys didn’t go to the country, did they, Soranzo? They went to the anatomists!”

  Toby’s face twisted in pain at hearing this. He wrapped several paintings together in a large cloth and dragged it along the floor, shielding it from the fire’s sparks with his back. With one last look at the workshop, he vanished down the stairs.

  Soranzo dealt Jeremiah a heavy blow, lumbered to his feet, and steered Livia toward the painted door. Blaise crawled over to Jeremiah, who had gotten to his knees and was gazing around in horror. The fire had started to consume his books and stuffed animal specimens.

  “This is your destiny,” sneered Livia, her hair loose and tangled. She leaned back against her father’s shoulder, and he took her hand in his.

  Soranzo undid his cravat and yanked his shirt open at the neck. With one swift movement, he pulled out a vial of red liquid suspended on a silver chain. It dangled there, shining. Then he reached into his waistcoat and slid out the stone shard with its curved tip.

  “My precious firestone,” he said, holding it up. “It was carved centuries ago by a wild Norseman and ‘found’ its way into my possession. This blade has spilled the blood of many animals — and men.” He whispered something in Italian to his daughter, and she nodded. Her face crumpled, and to everyone’s horror, Soranzo sliced the shard across her palm.

  A streak of crimson bubbled up, and he gently scraped the shard over it, gathering the blood.

  “You cut your own daughter,” Jeremiah croaked. “You are the Devil!” He began pushing unsteadily toward the pair.

  Soranzo pointed the bloodied shard at him. “This can slice your throat, Starling. Stay back.”

&n
bsp; Jeremiah froze as Soranzo released Livia. She licked her bleeding palm and laughed.

  Soranzo drew the shard across his own palm and collected his blood on its tip. He opened the vial and dipped the shard in, mixing and stirring. When he withdrew it, the shard gleamed crimson.

  “Red elixir,” said Blaise, his eyes wide.

  “You know far more than you ought, but it does not matter anymore,” said Soranzo. “This is the last of the elixir, and now our blood has activated it. A great pity that Peregrin died while making more for me.”

  “You knew Peregrin?” Blaise’s mouth hung open.

  Soranzo smiled and drew Livia to the painted door. The fire threw great shadows behind them as he drew a looping number nine on the door with the wet tip of the crimson shard.

  Livia opened the door and stepped through it without a backward glance.

  Sunni knew it was now or never. She moved to Blaise’s side and whispered, “Steal the shard. I’ll distract him.”

  He nodded once.

  “Why did you draw a nine?” Sunni called, her voice shaking as she moved closer to the painted door.

  “My number-name is nine.” Soranzo wrapped the crimson shard loosely in a white handkerchief and put it in his pocket.

  “So my number-name is seven!” Blaise said, inching along after Sunni.

  Soranzo laughed out loud and patted his pocket as he turned to follow Livia. “Little good it will do you without the elixir.”

  Before he stepped over the threshold, Sunni launched herself at Soranzo and threw her arms around him in a desperate embrace. “You must take us with you! Please!”

  She clung on, knocking Soranzo slightly off balance, and locked eyes with Blaise. He moved in close and wrapped one arm around them, while the other hand felt for Soranzo’s coat pocket.

  “Get off! I am finished with you!” Soranzo pushed Sunni so hard, she fell to the ground and Blaise jumped away.

  Before she could gather her wits, Soranzo had disappeared through the open door. It shut and began to return to its flat, painted form.