by A. W. Exley
“Oh darling, it was never your fault.” Nan moved sofas, stretched an arm around Cara and then pulled her into a warm embrace. “When your mother died, something inside your father broke. You were such a gorgeous and precocious child, Gideon and I hoped you would fix him.”
Moisture welled up in her eyes and threatened to spill down her cheeks.
“We thought you would remind Lucas of her and give him something to live for, but his soul withered without Bella.”
Cara shook her head. “He never loved me, he gave me away, Nan. I thought he might not have been my father, which was why he let Clayton have me.” How could a parent give away a child? Had she been so horrid?
Tears rolled down her face as Nan rocked her. “You reminded him too much of her and all he lost. We should have removed you earlier and I can never make that up to you. It destroyed Gideon that he could not save you. He was too sick, we had to hold him down to stop him trying to travel to London and kill Clayton himself. I lost him and you that week.”
She never attended her grandfather’s funeral, confined to her bed for long weeks while her injuries healed. Another death to add to her tally. The sobs could no longer be contained. “I killed my mother and my grandfather. You must hate me.” Tears rolled and blurred her vision.
Nan held her tight. “You give me purpose. You are not to blame for God taking those we love too early.”
The parlour door opened and Nate strode in, pulled by Cara’s distress. He sat on the sofa and took her from Nan. Drawing her into his arms, he let her grief soak his shirt.
Nan let her cry out the pain for several minutes before she spoke again. Her words were not directed at Cara, but at the ghosts still clinging to their world. “Lucas became obsessed with getting your mother back.”
The words filtered through Cara’s brain. “Back? But she was dead!”
“He studied languages and ancient cultures at Oxford. When he left the Foreign Service and took up his position as a scholar, he sprouted a particular interest in mysterious artifacts. He believed there was a way to return Bella to him. For three years, he kept her body in the basement of your house before we managed to remove our poor child and inter her in the family crypt.”
Cara curled into Nate, needing the anchor of his touch. “Three years, three years,” she muttered, the time period significant but facts slow to trickle to her mind past the newly opened wound. She pulled her thoughts out of the mire. “His diaries, I only have them starting 1844, but he was always scribbling. He must have earlier ones, hidden somewhere.”
Nan rose and crossed to her davenport standing by the window. She pressed the centre of a carved flower and released a hidden catch. The side panel popped open and she withdrew a bundle of diaries. “I have them from 1839, the year before you were born, through to 1844. He tucked the completed books in with Bella.”
Curiosity fought the pain and won. She wiped her eyes with the back of her hand. “Did Bella keep a diary?” One last strand of hope to know her mother.
Nan shook her head. “That child was too busy living to write about it.” She handed over the slender volumes to Nate.
Cara stared at the notebooks. Within, the history of her parents beckoned, and perhaps clues about the Curator that might help in their forthcoming meeting. She reached out a hand to touch the bundle.
“He became involved in something dark, Cara. His obsession with reviving your mother turned into something twisted, which consumed what little remained of his soul. Please be careful; I’ll not lose you down the same path.” Nan stroked her hair away from her forehead, before pressing a kiss to her skin.
“I’ll stay with you,” Nate said, passing her the diaries.
“No, I need to take this journey alone.” She laid her hand over his. “But coffee would be appreciated, it’s going to be a long night.”
All afternoon and long into the night, Cara read her father’s diaries. She learned that tired of the constant overseas travel and separation from his beloved Isabella, Lord Devon resigned his diplomatic post and took up a position with the British Museum in London. His diaries narrated the passion of a new life when her parents moved into the Soho house and every day contained a multitude of blessings.
Next came the hope and joy on learning Bella was expecting after six years of marriage and then the fear that gnawed at him after they lost three previous children to miscarriages and the risks to Bella’s health. Her father wrote with awe about how he laid his hands on his wife’s stomach and felt the child press into his hand for the first time. Their hope soared that this child would live to make their world complete.
His work at the museum diverted his mind and worries. There he came into contact with a wealthy benefactor who sought his assistance in translating old texts. The Curator took Lucas under his wing. That work turned his scholarly interests in the ancient world into a different pursuit.
20 December 1840 and Lucas wrote of Bella’s water breaking and their excitement to finally meet their child. Cara knew this part of the story. Her mother never emerged from the birthing room. Nothing but blank pages followed that entry. Ink-smeared blotches where her father’s tears fell, words unable to describe his grief. He simply wrote the date. Page after page of damp, distorted dates. Tears streamed down her cheeks and dried. She picked up the next book and flicked through. When the words started again, they showed the man’s broken heart had deteriorated into darkness. He transformed into the cold void Cara knew.
Without Bella, he first lost his light, then his world, and ultimately his way.
Leicester, Friday 7th February, 1862
The morning sunlight crept into the room and illuminated the bed. Woken by the increasing light, Nate stirred next to her. Cara watched as he opened his eyes and fixated on the weight holding him immobile. The furry ginger shape reclined on his chest. Passing over the cat, he reached out a hand and brushed a shadow under her eyes. “You’ve read all night.”
She took hold of his hand and gave him a faint smile. “I snuck in but you were fast asleep so I carried on. Your snoring would have kept me awake anyway.”
He gave a sleepy half frown. “I do not snore.”
“Do so. Even the cat thinks so.” She stroked the tom asleep on Nate’s chest.
The cat had his back to Nate and faced his feet. The feline managed to simultaneously deny Nate’s existence while sucking up the warmth from his body.
“Damn cat. I thought I was being long-lined off the Aurora with the pressure on my chest.” He pushed the animal to one side to sit up. He drew her hand to him and nibbled her fingertips. “Do you want to talk about it?”
“No,” the word rasped from her throat. “It’s too hard. He spilled his love for her over hundreds of pages and thousands of words, but never had a single one for me.” A sob swelled in her chest and she closed her eyes against rising tears. The pain was so raw, like she lost them both all over again.
Nate pulled her into his arms. “You are loved,” he whispered against her hair. “Never doubt that for a moment.” Between them no more words were necessary. His love enveloped her and became the sword that speared the demons clawing at her mind.
Her world steadied on its axis and she drew a deep breath. She could retell the relevant parts, where it intersected with the Curator. The rest needed to be shut away, the pain needed to mellow and dull before she could face the full story. Nan was right, far too much to bear to see the man Lucas was, not the monster he became.
“During his work at the museum, my father encountered stories and legends about artifacts. After Bella died, one story consumed him. The legend centred on a phoenix feather.”
The cat glared at Nate and tried to climb back on his chest, hampered by the fact this particular mountain was now sitting up. Nate kept pushing the cat down but the determined feline kept marching back up the bed. Cara picked him up and deposited him by her side before the two males came to blows.
“Legends said if you placed the phoenix feather in t
he hands of a deceased person and then cremated the body with dragon’s breath they would be reborn from the ashes. He wanted to bring her back, that’s why he kept her body. There was a way to give her back her life. He just needed to find the feather and a dragon.”
Nate blew out a soft whistle. “He sought two mythical creatures. Only a handful of people know that dragons are real, and even less know where to find a living one. As for a phoenix, I suspect they are rarer still.”
The ghost of a smile touched her lips. “Notice neither of us has said there’s no such thing as a phoenix.”
She annoyed the cat and rolled onto her stomach and propped her hands under her chin. “The Curator used my father to translate old texts and to acquire various artifacts. In return, he promised to tell him where to find the feather and a dragon. The diaries ramble after a certain point, but it seems they had a falling out in 1844 and Father left his employ. Lucas was desperate to bring Bella back but came to believe the Curator was toying with him and withholding the information. He suspected the Curator wanted something more from him, something he could not give. I wonder what?”
“We may find out. He has answered my message and said we may call on him this evening.”
London, Saturday 8th February, 1862
he snow piled up on the ground, froze over and still more snow fell. People whispered that God would withhold spring after the unnatural events of October and the queen’s heavy mourning for Albert. They spoke that sinners would be picked off by divine fire as your name appeared on his list. The churches were packed to capacity with people eager to confess and the Enforcers faced a similar line of petty criminals looking to go straight before they burned. Mutterings on street corners turned to louder voices wondering what England had done to warrant His wrath. Was it connected to their queen and the unholy storm she unleashed last year? Was God sending a message that she was not their true queen?
The newspapers ran headlines about haemophilia and how Leopold’s illness was proof something was not right in the House of Hanover. Politicians met in secret and more dispatches appeared in the red box in Nate’s study.
The mechanical horses’ studded shoes rang out when they hit the cobbles through the dense covering sludge as they pulled the carriage over Blackfriar’s Bridge. Cara looked out the window over the Thames, now turned into another highway. The ice grew thicker each day and people could skate on the river. Some braved the cold to dance like winter sprites over the frozen tableau. Lights reflected from overhead airships, lit the scene and charged the air with magic. The other side of the bridge was marred by an open pit, another access site for the underground train line; men and machines laboured to dig under the Thames and connect the ring route.
They hit Southwark, trotted down Upper Ground Street and halted outside what appeared to be a two-storey industrial estate. Shunned by its closest neighbours, the building stood alone. A private jetty brought the Thames into the backyard, although now it gave the owner a private skating rink rather than boat access.
Cara stared up at the brooding visage. With no ground level windows, only the faintest light flickered in arrow slits high in the structure. “It looks like an abandoned factory. Did he employ the same architect your family hired?”
“Wench,” Nate breathed hotly in her ear. “You’ll understand the exterior when you see the interior.” Taking her hand, he tucked her fingers into the crook of his elbow and they walked up the path. Someone had swept the snow to the sides and their way lay clear to the imposing iron door.
A young butler opened the door as they approached. “The master is expecting you,” he said in a monotone. A grey flush to his skin combined with his tone gave him all the life and personality of a deactivated automaton.
Cara wondered if he were real or artificial. She veered toward him, thinking a quick poke would tell her man or metal but Nate kept tight hold of her arm and pulled her back on track.
She stepped into the entranceway; it was stark, beautiful, and cold like the grave. Tones of grey on grey, from the slate on the floor to the washed silk hung on the walls over exposed stone. A cathedral ceiling soared over their heads. Enormous arched timbers formed the doorways to other rooms off the main hall. She wanted to run back down the path, stare at the exterior and then come back inside again.
“It’s a castle,” she said.
“Yes.” Nate took her fur-trimmed cloak and handed it to the butler.
“Disguised as factory.” Her brain kicked into action. Why not just build a castle? Why disguise a castle as something mundane and pedestrian? Only one answer leapt at her, the owner wanted a castle but not any attention.
There was no modern electric lighting here. The chandelier above their heads held aloft at least a hundred candles. Even their tiny flames faded from soft yellow to a dull and dirty white as they were consumed by the monochromatic colour scheme. Goosebumps rose over her arms and she rubbed to dispel them.
“He could do with the heating ducts you and Jackson devised,” she said.
A hum buzzed over her skin and raised the hairs on her arms and neck. More than the cold, it was her body’s reaction to an artifact. A big one, something house-sized. She glanced at Nate.
He slipped his arm around her waist. “We’re not here to discuss plumbing, remember? Keep your wits about you.”
“This way.” The butler gestured for them to follow. He strode across the floor and pushed open a double set of high-gloss black doors and then indicated for them to enter. He remained bowed, as though his battery pack ran empty.
Cara desperately wanted to touch him as she passed but she missed her opportunity with Nate controlling her direction, and she didn’t want to make a scene by pulling loose to investigate the domestics.
Within the next room, expensive Persian rugs softened polished marble floors. The same tones of grey dominated, from the palest of white to near black. The interior reeked of simplicity and money and yet a chill took up residence in Cara’s bones and refused to budge. It reminded her of when Nate was long-lined off the Aurora. The Atlantic Ocean nearly claimed him and the same iciness nibbled at her limbs.
An enormous fireplace, the height of a man and at least six foot wide, contained a blaze that she swore flickered blue and threw no heat. The flames mesmerised her as they danced from pale yellow to white to sudden flares of blue and green. The spirals of cool colours brought to mind the little male dragon she left in Siberia.
The warmth and life sapped from her body with the onslaught from the pervading damp. She fought an urge to raise a hand to check if the red drained from her hair. She tightened her grip on Nate’s hand. Ever since her blood mingled with Nate’s in the centre of Nefertiti’s Heart, her survival instinct sprang a whole new facet. The entire house stank of a dark object sucking light, heat and life to itself.
A man rose from the high-backed chair by the fire. He wore a smoking jacket of pale grey velvet over black pants. “Ah, Nathaniel, it has been many years since we last met.” His voice carried a heavy, unfamiliar accent.
He needs Brick and Amy to inject some colour into this place.
Cara’s immediate impression was of vast age. Deep lines marred his face; his hair was aged pure white, and the paper-thin skin with pulsing blue veins lay close to the surface. He looked like he stood on the wrong side of one hundred.
As he neared, her vision danced and blurred. She shook her head. It was as though she saw two versions of the man inhabiting the same space. The other version younger, standing erect and strong with black hair and a firm jawline. He moved with an easy grace and his tone held strength. The young man flickered and dissolved into the features of the ancient resident.
“How old were you when I tried to hire your services?” He stopped a mere step in front of them.
Nate stiffened, his fingers hard at her waist. “I was twenty years old. I trust you found what you sought?”
“Yes, eventually.” He moved closer and extended his hand to Cara. The old version
dominated and she glimpsed only the odd flash of the younger version underneath. “Lady Lyons.”
She gave a sigh of relief that for once she followed convention and wore gloves. The little voice in the back of her head told her not to let him touch her bare skin. Cream satin covered her from fingertip to elbow and as his cool fingers gripped hers, ice water washed over her body and tightened around her heart. The squeeze drifted away when he removed his hand and she breathed free.
“Come, have a seat, so we may talk. I so seldom receive visitors these days.” His lips pulled in a smile but it went no further on his face.
Cara perched on the edge of a sofa covered in grey brocade and bearing a pattern reminiscent of roses several months after a funeral. She took the spot closest to the phantom fire. Nate put himself between Cara and the Curator, his entire body tense and coiled.
The butler appeared with a silver tray holding drinks. He stooped close to his master first, before approaching Cara. She fought the urge to yell ‘boo’ and see if he reacted. Instead, she took the heavy glass of red wine, the swirl of fragrant liquid the only spot of colour in the room.
“I saw you in Goslett Yard, at the bookstore.” She remembered the cold presence that drifted over her that day and now she swam in it.
“Yes, I do on occasion venture out to see Malachi.” He held his glass but did not drink. “Such treasures to be found in his store.”
The Curator’s gaze fixed on Cara’s frame and she wasn’t sure if his comment referred to the books or something else.
“This is no social visit,” Nate said, his tone short.
A reptilian hiss came from the older man. “No one wants to converse any more. Very well, what do you want from me?”
Cara took a sip of wine. Rich cherries and smoky wood rushed over her taste buds. She savoured the burst of flavour in a place so devoid of any character. “I need to know who has Nero’s Fiddle.”