Headstones dating back over six hundred years sank beneath statues blackened with age, wooden crosses splintered and tipping. Barely visible was a mound of new earth with a name carved into a hazel branch. “Charlie Fretts, 1877-1888,” it read.
“I would just like to see it,” she said.
“It’s just a house.”
“Come on.”
Without waiting for an answer, she turned and set off down the path. The imprints of boots were still visible and drying like mortar in the mud.
“I’m sorry this has happened,” said Christien as he reluctantly followed. “But going there will only fuel your fears, not cool them.”
“But how could a thing like that happen, Christien?” she asked. “You should have seen his face.”
“Superficial wounds, Ivy,” he said. “He likely fell out of a tree and scratched it on the holly. Look at this. It’s worse than thistle in this forest.”
“They looked like claw marks,” she countered. “Some were very deep.”
“But if they were so very deep, how could they heal in two nights?”
“Your brother did something at the church. That’s what Rupert said.”
“Rupert is not a medical doctor.”
“Your brother knew that Davis was heading into Seventh.”
“My brother knew because we were once boys too, Ivy.”
She said nothing more for some time. The forest was dark and damp, and there was no trace of birdsong this deep in. She was beginning to grow winded hiking over the uneven terrain and looked at down her city boots, the hem of her skirt swishing and snagging on the branches. She wondered what the breeches would feel like on her legs.
And then she saw it, the place that almost killed her brother. Tall, dark, and all but hidden by the ivy that worked to consume it, the Seventh House of de Lacey was made of stone. There were black sashes over the windows and rusted locks over the doors. It was empty and run-down, but there was no blood, there were no axes, no cobwebs or spiders or anything remotely sinister.
It was just a house.
Christien moved around to stand beside her, and his face was neutral, skin like fine porcelain. A lock of dark hair fell across his forehead. It looked out of place.
“Bastien used to always say this was where the bad things went.”
“Here? To Seventh?”
“Yes. Father used to scare us all the time with tales of Seventh. Entire families murdered in this house, he would say, since before the de Laceys staked the claim back in the Iron Conqueror’s time. Sometimes Father would bring him here when he was being bad, which was quite often. I’m not surprised he’s made up an entire mythology around this place.”
She couldn’t tear her eyes away. It was just an abandoned house.
“After our parents died, Bastien spent years at Lonsdale. Years, Ivy. Even Frankow couldn’t take the voices away, despite all his treatments. He still can’t bear to be in the same room as me. Says the cadavers are too much for him.”
“But Rupert—”
“Rupert indulges him. He protects him, shelters him, and treats him like a child. Which, I suppose, he is.”
There was only a faint breeze drying the leaves that remained on the trees, preparing everything for winter. It would be cold soon. They both continued to stare at the house a long while before Christien spoke again.
“Bond insists we learn the new theories for our psychology course. He says it will be instrumental in understanding the criminal mind. Naturally, because of Bastien, it has a special interest for me. The monographs of Drs. Freud, Bleuler, and Schneider have opened my eyes to my brother’s illness.”
The ivy was covering two sides of the house, already turning red with the first touches of frost. She remembered it had been an evening of ice and frost.
“He has a condition that’s being called ‘schizophrenia.’ It’s from the Greek, meaning ‘to split the mind.’ He sees things no one else sees. He hears things no one else hears. Frankow is a pioneer in such conditions and has pharmacological compounds available to help dull the symptoms but Bastien refuses to take anything. It’s a terrible syndrome, and I am certain there is no cure.”
She sighed.
“So there is nothing ‘fantastical’ left in the world . . .”
“Not in my world.” He sighed. “There can’t be. There are only facts and evidence and unexplained science.”
The large spectacles, the blood on his cheek, the words in Latin.
“Are you disappointed?”
“I’m sorry, Christien. I’m afraid I don’t know what to believe anymore.”
“No, Ivy. I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have sent you here. To be honest, I didn’t expect Bastien to be here at all. He rarely is.”
He took her hand in his, gave it a squeeze. She looked down. Long elegant fingers, neatly trimmed and polished nails, no blood or bruising. There was a brass ring on his little finger. She had never seen it there before.
He smiled a thin smile. “Can we go back now? I hate this place.”
“Wait—” She paused, glanced up at the sky above the house. “Can you hear that?”
“Oh Ivy, please . . .”
“No, Christien, it’s like a heartbeat. Listen . . .”
The trees began to move and moan and soon, a sound very much like the beating of a heart, growing louder and stronger by the moment. Not a thud, thud, thud; rather, a thwup thwup thwup. That and the rustle of the dry leaves in the trees. Thwup thwup thwup went her heart, and the rustling trees were beginning to sound like the humming of a very large engine, and she thought it nothing at all like the howling and roaring of that rainy night.
A huge dark shadow fell across them, and they both looked up as the vast underbelly of an airship came into view over the Seventh House of Lasingstoke.
WITH THE STEAMCAR running on full throttle, they managed to beat the airship back to Lasingstoke Hall and watched from the courtyard as the massive vessel slowed in mid-air, preparing to dock. There were four others in the sky high above Lasingstoke, a regular armada. The hum and thwup of propellers was almost deafening, and servants she had never seen before came flooding out of the Hall to attend to it. The name “HMAS Royal Carolina” was painted in gilt across her bow.
She was a grand airship with a large cylindrical balloon of black and gold canvas, brass scalloped fins, and copper rudders, with rings of aluminium and girders of polished steel. Beneath it, the cabin was as ornate as a royal frigate, her hull painted a gleaming white, with ebony and gold fittings. The bowsprit figurehead was a woman of solid gold, and on her stern, gold and silver mer-people frolicked in ivory waves.
She was flying the colours of the House Saxe-Cobourg and Gotha.
Ivy clutched Christien’s arm.
“The Prince of Wales?”
He turned to her, and she thought she had never seen him smile so.
“This is a surprise.” He looked back, shaded his eyes against the flying debris for a better look. “I wonder if Eddy’s here too?”
The gondola hovered scarcely ten feet from the ground, and she could see faces in the saloon of the cabin. The crew were shouting orders, cables were dropped, and servants rushed to catch them. From the cabin, uniformed men dropped to the ground to do the same, and suddenly Ivy understood the reason for the black iron posts in the courtyard. They were securing the airship to the ground, much in the same way a ship was secured to a dock. Ivy shook her head. It was truly too fantastical for her.
More shouting now, and she could see Rupert’s tall form appear from one of the court’s many doorways, hands on hips, as a metallic stair unfurled from the deck like a sea-faring gangplank. A bosun’s whistle blew all to attention.
First, several men in naval dress, goggled still as the propellers lifted debris into the air, but soon a stout figure in breeches, riding boots, and town coat stepped onto the stair. Albert Edward, Prince of Wales, kept one hand on his top hat to keep it on his head. His other hand was gloved and tucke
d across his belly, and she knew it was the mechanical one, hidden in the sleeve. He was bearded and she thought he rather looked like a bear. A fine, intelligent, decorated bear.
Directly behind him followed another man, much younger, perhaps the same age as Christien, and once again, she knew him. Albert Victor Christian Edward, Duke of Clarence and Avon, eldest son of the Prince of Wales and grandson to Victoria. Scandal followed at his heels like flies after a butcher’s cart. He was taller than his father and slimmer, and his dress was much finer, with a pale grey waistcoat, red silk cravat, and yellow carnation in his lapel. But the likeness was undeniable, down to the upturned moustache, and he followed stiffly down the stair. His disinterested gaze swept over everything.
The Prince of Wales and Duke of Clarence stood, goggles toffed, awaiting a formal greeting. Both Rupert and Christien began moving across the square to oblige. Ivy stayed near the archway, watching them exchange greetings, handshakes, claps on the shoulder as men were wont to do. But suddenly, Christien was waving her over and before she knew it, she was standing before the heir apparent to the English throne and his son.
She curtsied, keeping her eyes low.
“And this is Ivy Savage, Your Royal Highness,” said Christien. “My fiancée.”
“Enchanted.” The bear man thrust out his gloved hand and she was obliged to take it. It felt odd, stiff, and the fingers closed about hers with a series of clicks. “A bit of a wild thing, isn’t she? ‘Savage,’ you say? Common Welshie name, wot? Are you a child of the Red Dragon, girl?”
“Yes, Your Highness.” She felt her cheeks redden. “I grew up in Swansea, sir.”
“She knows Williams,” said Christien. “From the same town, in fact.”
“Ah, Jack! Capital fellow!” Edward guffawed. “Y Ddraig Goch ddyry gychwyn, and all that, wot, little Cymry!”
“Indeed, sir,” she grinned. His pronunciation was atrocious but he was fluent, she had to admit.
“You don’t have the lilt, girl.”
“No, sir. My father moved to London many years ago.”
“Splendid, splendid. Good catch, I’d say. A Prince of Wales must love the Welsh! And I do, girl! I most certainly do! Eddy, say hello to the little Cymry.”
Ivy swallowed as Albert Victor stepped forward, took her hand in a formal, if unremarkable, grip.
“Enchanted,” he said, and she could feel his disinterested eyes sweep over her figure. And, Ivy thought, over Christien’s as well.
“Eddy has made captain,” the Prince of Wales bellowed, obviously proud of his son. “He will be commanding the new Royal Corps of Airships in the New Year.”
Albert Victor released her hand, and as he did, a ring brushed against her finger. It was small and brass and remarkably similar to Christien’s, but before she could think too much on it, the Prince of Wales turned to Rupert.
“And where is that damned nephew of yours? Our mother is not amused, you know. Not amused at all.”
Rupert inclined his head as if thinking. “Laury is . . . laid up at the moment. Hunting accident. He’s been bedridden for days now. Was he expecting you?”
“Hunting accident, you say? Blast it all, no one can sit a horse like Laury.”
“Took a fence badly and landed in a patch of thorns. But he’ll live, Bertie. Never fear.”
Ivy threw a glance at Christien. He patted her hand and said nothing.
“But can he walk, man? Can he walk? We’ve come to fetch him off to Balmoral for the week. Club business, old man. Club business.”
“He can walk.” Rupert smiled. “I shall fetch him presently. But Bertie, we were about to sit for lunch. Cookie’s prepared a ham. Would you and the Duke care to share our table? It would be honour upon Lasingstoke if you did.”
“Ham, you say? Can’t remember the last time I had a good ham. We shall accept your invitation, old man.” The Prince dropped a meaty hand on Christien’s shoulder. “And we can chat with the Club’s newest member over port, wot? It’s about time we got another de Lacey on the roll.”
Ivy’s heart thudded in her chest, and she noticed the flash of Rupert’s eyes.
“Club?” she asked, certain her voice was no more than a squeak. “What Club is that, sir?”
“Why, the Ghost Club of course! Now, I say, where is that ham?”
Chapter 17
Of Clockwork Arms, Bloody Faces,
and a Dead Man on the Books
COOKIE HAD OUTDONE herself with the ham, and they had even indulged in wine with lunch. After all, it wasn’t every day that the Prince of Wales and the Duke of Clarence came to call.
They sat now in a small drawing room, drinking port and smoking. There were Persian carpets, crushed velvet sofas, a large marble fireplace, and, in the centre of it all, a piano, the size of which she had never seen rivalled. But she could appreciate none of it, and she sat like a stone as once again, the Ghost Club cast its shadow over the Hall.
Edward had removed his town coat and the mechanical arm was visible for all to see. It was as remarkable as Frankow’s legs, she thought, a mass of intertwining cables and shafts, belts and pulleys. The hand was holding the cigarette and every time he moved, gears whirred softly. She marvelled at how a Czech psychiatrist had been able to duplicate the remarkable engineering of God.
Albert Victor, the Duke of Clarence, sat stiffly as if balancing his head on his rather long neck. He was absentmindedly fiddling with the ring on his little finger, and she wondered if it was significant to the Ghost Club. She had also noticed his eyes, for the most part dull and disinterested, would occasionally dart to the piano, and she wondered if he played.
He sat next to his father, poised and unmoving, while Edward held forth on the merits and perils of the House of Lords. Rupert sat opposite and had not taken his eyes off his nephew the entire afternoon. For his part, Christien had refused to look at him and had seemed preoccupied with the etchings in the port crystal. It had been, in Ivy’s estimation, a most uncomfortable meal.
“Williams has great plans for our Remy, he has!” boomed the Prince. “Both in the Club and in the Obstetrics Room, wot! That man’s a master player! Beats me fair regular at whist! Ah ha, ah ha!”
“Remy never mentioned he’d joined the Club,” said Rupert, and he took a long drag on his cigarette. “Why was that, Remy?”
“It was rather a spontaneous thing,” said Christien.
“Tosh!” said the Prince. “Williams has been after him for years. The Club is not the same without a de Lacey on the books!”
“If I remember correctly,” said Rupert. “You still have a de Lacey on the books.”
“Quite right, old man, quite right,” said the Prince. “A member is never removed. It would be bad form.”
“Which de Lacey, sir?” Ivy sat forward. “Sebastien has insisted that he is not a member. Is it you, Mr. St. John?”
The Scourge of Lasingstoke raised a brow, blew a thin stream of smoke through his lips.
“We’ve tried, dash it all,” boomed the Prince. “But Sinjin won’t join! Far too stodgy for religion or politics! In fact, I can’t remember the last time he set foot in London or Cambridge! Ah ha, ah ha!”
Ivy glanced between them as Edward puffed happily on his cigarette.
“No, no. I was referring to Renaud, child. Renaud de Lacey, the sixth Lord of Lasingstoke.”
There was silence in the drawing room
“Forgive me, sir, but . . .” She glanced from face to face. “But isn’t he dead?”
“A mere inconvenience. No reason to be removed from the books, wot?” The Prince tapped his elbow and yet another cigarette slid out from the copper shaft. “It is the Ghost Club we’re talking about, after all.”
Rupert slid his eyes over to her, rolling the smoke around in his mouth before exhaling. She swallowed and looked away.
“You can’t blame ’em,” Edward continued. “It’s what Mummie wants. And when Mummie wants a de Lacey, Mummie gets a de Lacey. No one says no to Mummie! Isn�
��t that right, Eddy?”
Albert Victor smiled wanly. “That is what you keep saying, Father.”
The bear man leaned forward and slapped his son’s knee. “Such a card you are, my boy. Such a card! A regular ace of clubs!”
Ivy took a deep breath as she thought about “Mummie.” There were more rumours floating around about Victoria than all the other royals combined. It was said that, over the years, she’d had three mechanical hearts implanted and wore them out so quickly that she had already commissioned a fourth. That she kept her dead husband’s head in a bedroom wardrobe to speak with when she grew lonely. That she’d had her uterus surgically removed to prevent any more unwanted pregnancies and that she had donated it to Dr. Williams’s Obstetrics Foundation for preservation, complete with royal foetus if she ever felt the urge.
Suddenly, with all this talk of the Ghost Club, Ivy found the rumours a little easier to believe.
“And Mummie wants her de Lacey now,” said Edward, and he raised the cigarette with clicking fingers. “That’s why we’re here, to fetch that elusive Sebastien! Where the deuce is that boy? You sent that little ginger girl to fetch him hours ago!”
And suddenly, there were dogs everywhere, skittering and wagging and laughing in the way only dogs can laugh. The room had grown strangely cold, however, and she wasn’t surprised to see the Mad Lord standing in the doorway.
“Forgive my tardiness, Your Highness,” he said. “I was praying in the chapel and I heard someone call.”
She gasped and covered her mouth.
“By God, Laury,” boomed Edward, and he rose to grip Sebastien’s hand in his mechanical one. “That was some hell of a fall!”
Sebastien’s face, neck, and hands were—like Davis’s for two nights running—littered with cuts. Long ones, short ones, some shallow, some deep. They were beginning to close up and scab over but it was difficult to look at him without feeling the need to look away.
“I fear you make too much of my skills, Bertie. A man unhorsed has wounded his pride more than his body. Welcome to Lasingstoke.” He turned and bowed to the Duke of Clarence. “And hello to you too, Eddy.”
Cold Stone and Ivy Page 16