Philip walked hunched over, with his hands waving wildly in front of him, until he indeed found a wall. Like the floor, it was cold to the touch, and so it would be foundational. He then walked around the room. He encountered a door first, and naturally found it to be both stout and locked; it would make for a poor prison indeed if it were neither. But finally, just as he was about to finish his circumnavigation, he came upon a quite small window, no bigger than two feet wide, barely 10 inches tall. Not large enough for escape. However, it would be quite easy enough to break. Removing his coat and wrapping it around his hand, Philip successfully smashed the window upon his third try, which allowed a small bit of light into the room, even though it was still quite dark outside in the town. A quick glance at his pocketwatch confirmed it was but a few minutes after two o’clock in the morning.
And in the dim light of the room—which seemed more than bright enough after laboring in darkness for several minutes—Philip could see Elizabeth there upon the floor, not four feet from the bag of hops upon which he had awakened. He rushed over to her and found her breathing normal, her heartbeat steady. She would likely take several more minutes to awaken.
Perhaps, he considered, that would be enough time in which to formulate an escape plan.
It was not.
A few minutes later, just as Elizabeth began murmuring and emerging from her own sleep, the door to the room opened. A French officer, accompanied by two Corps Éternel soldiers, entered with a lantern raised, causing both captives to blink and raise their hands against the light. The officer—certainly no older than Philip, and likely younger—looked around the room and saw the broken window, then smirked. “There is no people outside now,” the man said in quite faulty English. “You not get help there.”
“I do not need the help of others to contend with the likes of you and your unholy creatures,” Philip replied in his best French, which caused the officer to frown deeply. “Now bring us to whomever sent you, and let us be done with it.”
Philip helped Elizabeth to her feet, though she quickly rejected his arm and walked toward the door upon her own power; it was not the first time, of course, for her to insist upon her own ability. Elizabeth was indeed an apt pupil of her stepmother in matters of independence, if not alchemy. For his part, Philip followed close behind, leaving the French officer to scurry ahead in order to actually guide the captives to the appropriate locale.
Said locale was one of the smaller reading rooms within Brasenose College, one which Philip had not visited. Therein, both Berthollet and Cagliostro sat in overstuffed chairs, with a small table between them stacked with a handful of books. They both had a glass of wine in hand, and two empty glasses were placed upon a low table before them. Philip and Elizabeth were led to a couch upon the other side of the table, and the French officer filled their glasses–whilst frowning at the duty, it should be said. Both step-siblings declined with a dismissive wave and a scowl toward the two alchemists.
Berthollet seemed quite amused. “Patriots, then, I take it,” he said in English. “Shan’t drink with the French, even though we have come to liberate England from its enslavement to the rich merchants who had pulled upon the strings of your beloved King George and his unfaithful Parliament.”
Elizabeth smiled wickedly in return. “I am but a simple woman, monsieur, so I cannot speak overmuch on the matter of politics, especially when such a bald-faced misappropriation of all truth and reason, combined with your use of dark alchemy and these perverse abominations you call soldiers, would lead me to reject your wine, let alone your occupation of our land. And I should add,” she said sweetly, “you offer us quite a poor vintage indeed, sir. The ’97 was a terrible year for this particular Bordeaux, which is of itself from a lesser estate.”
Berthollet and Cagliostro traded a look, and the older alchemist burst out laughing, a staccato bark that seemed to shake the very books upon the table. “I told you she was Weatherby’s child, Berthollet! ‘Tis the same arrogance and fervor! Though she does seem to better him in intellect, does she not?”
That was when Philip noticed the label upon the bottle and smiled, for the wine had come from Berthollet’s own estate—a fact Elizabeth had quickly noticed. Her mind was agile and sharp to a degree Philip had never seen in others, not even his own mother. It was a shame Elizabeth had not shown facility with the Great Work, for she would’ve made a most formidable alchemist.
For his part, Berthollet’s humor had evaporated under Elizabeth’s words and insult. “I have never met Lord Weatherby, though he is but a minor thorn in our side, along with Wellesley and those other fools in Scotland,” Berthollet said. “And since you do not wish to engage in civilized conversation, I will simply demand that you tell us of what you heard, and all else regarding your time in Oxford, so we may decide whether you are worth saving or must be condemned as traitors to King George and Emperor Napoleon.”
“Condemn us and be done with it,” Philip said, hoping a confident tone would mask his nerves. “And perhaps furnish us with better drink before we meet Madame Guillotine, if you’d be so kind. For we are highly disinclined to disclose anything, not even upon pain of death or poor wine.”
Cagliostro snorted again in delight. “You make me wish I were fifty years younger, you two. Or perhaps that your father, young man, had not seen fit to strip me of my talent. Either way, it should be a grand thing to be of your age in these times. Of course, you know full well your value to the French, do you not? The children of Lord Weatherby and the dowager Countess St. Germain are fine hostages indeed. Not quite at the level of King George, but certainly valuable nonetheless. That makes it highly unlikely Dr. Berthollet here will execute you forthwith.”
“Though I am sorely tempted,” Berthollet scowled. “Perhaps, then, an admixture of a truth-telling serum may deliver what bonhomie or threat will not.”
Philip assumed Berthollet would resort to such measures, and indeed was surprised he had not done so earlier. “And how is it that you have come to recognize us so readily as these children you speak of?” Philip asked, attempting to sow confusion.
“I know your face, for it’s your father’s more than you know,” Cagliostro said, smiling but with a hint of wistfulness. “And I briefly encountered your mother as well, when she was alongside a very young Thomas Weatherby, oh…what was it, thirty years ago now? On Callisto. So you were quite easy, Philip, the new Count St. Germain. As for the girl here, deductive reasoning, of course, along with her father’s blade, of which I remain familiar as well, having seen its potency on Mars, as well as within the library but an hour or two ago.”
Cagliostro motioned toward the side of his chair, where Weatherby’s sword was now leaning, well within the old puffer’s reach. Given his surprising dexterity within the library, Philip was quite willing to believe Cagliostro might make good use of the blade, even if such a supposition was generous. The blade, he knew, was treated in such a way as to cut through iron with ease, and was made by his mother’s hand.
“So,” Berthollet interrupted, “you will now tell us of your activities here. Or shall I be forced to use the serum upon you? I cannot say how long the side effects will last, or how debilitating they might be.”
Philip was about to answer, but Elizabeth spoke first. “We have given you little reason to do anything to us, and we shan’t confirm, one way or another, our identities to those who keep us captive illegally. We may be in your power, sir, and we cannot stop you from committing cowardly acts such as these. But we shall not be compliant, I assure you!”
Berthollet was about to speak when the door behind Philip opened. By the time he turned around, the two Corps Éternel guards had fallen lifelessly to the ground, and a black-cloaked figure stood in the doorway, pistol drawn and pointed at the French alchemists.
“I really can’t add much more to what the girl said,” the cloaked man stated. “Stand down, messieurs.”
Philip knew that voice, and a quick glance at Elizabeth confirmed it. “What took you s
o long, dear Uncle?” he said.
The man reached up to pull his hood back. “I had no idea you were in such a predicament, Philip,” Andrew Finch said. “I dare say your stepfather and mother will want a word with you on it.”
Before they could proceed further, both Cagliostro and Berthollet produced pistols—from where, only the Lord Himself could say—and were pointing them at Finch and Elizabeth. “So good to see you again, Andrew. I had hoped I might shoot you one day,” Berthollet said, and then fired at Finch from no more than fifteen feet away.
Philip shouted in anguished surprise, vaulting over the back of the sofa toward Finch. Yet the man he considered an uncle remained standing tall, with his weapon outstretched—this time at Cagliostro. “Do you wish to try me as well, Count Cagliostro?” Finch said. “I doubt you’ll have better luck.”
Cagliostro looked stricken, and slowly lowered his weapon. “Oh, you sad fool, what have you done?” he quietly asked Finch.
Finch, however, paid him no heed, focused as he was on Berthollet. “Why are you in Oxford, monsieur? Surely, your master Napoleon has plundered enough knowledge from the Continent to fuel your work, has he not?”
Berthollet slowly put down the pistol. His eyes were wide, and his hand trembled slightly. “Dr. Finch, it is clear now you have the upper hand, but I promise you, just as your young friends here bravely stood up to your questions, you will find Count Cagliostro and myself to be just as unhelpful to you.”
Philip regarded Cagliostro and Berthollet closely. Their demeanors had changed quite abruptly, though he knew not why; there were many alchemical workings that might stop or minimize the impact of a pistol shot. What had they seen? Philip was about to ask when the trampling of footsteps echoed through the hallway outside the room, and movement could be seen outside the windows as well.
The pistol shot. Of course the French would come running.
“We need to go, Uncle,” Philip said. “Now.”
Finch turned to Elizabeth, who nodded in agreement, then darted forward to recover her father’s sword from Cagliostro’s side. “Damn. All right then,” Finch said, then turned to Berthollet. “You’re fortunate I’ve still the vestiges of a gentleman in my character, monsieur, or you’d be dead. Another time, then.”
With that, Finch grabbed the hands of Philip and Elizabeth, placing them atop his left. In his right, he crushed some sort of clay figure and spoke rapid words in the Enochian tongue.
Then the world went black again, and an intense wave of dizziness assaulted Philip’s senses. He tried to open his eyes, but could only see shades of blackness whirling about him, as though he were in motion against an unknowable abyss.
A moment later, he could feel his feet upon the ground again, though he did not quite remember them leaving the ground in the first place. He opened his eyes…and stared, uncomprehending, at a well-lit, ancient castle off in the distance.
Elizabeth recognized it first. “Dear God, Uncle. Is that Edinburgh Castle?”
Finch smiled, though it was forced through great fatigue. It seemed the working had taken its toll on Finch, leaving him pale and sweating. “It is, my dear Elizabeth. And there your parents await you both.”
Elizabeth smiled at this, but a moment later, seemed quite dismayed as something occurred to her. “Uncle! We must go back to Oxford!”
Finch looked over at the young woman with concern and frustration. “Why the hell would we do that?” he panted.
“Philip’s message papers! They are in his room, are they not, Philip? Surely the French will search, and discover their secrets! We cannot let such a means of communication be discovered!”
Philip agreed, but Finch merely smiled again through gritted teeth as he straightened up and tried to shake off whatever malady his working wrought. “Give this old puffer a little credit, will you not? I stopped by Philip’s room first. When I saw the remnants of your invisibility working, I figured you had gone forth to determine what Berthollet was doing. I tried to find the message papers, but was unable to do so. They were hidden in your room, yes?”
“Yes, in a hidden compartment in my desk drawer,” Philip said. “Surely they will tear the room apart. They might well be found.”
“Don’t worry, Philip,” Finch said. “Since I could not find the message papers in a timely manner, I set fire to everything in your room. It’ll be fine.”
Elizabeth smiled, though Philip was taken aback. “There were some personal effects there I had hoped to keep, Uncle.”
Having finally caught his breath, Finch began walking unevenly toward Edinburgh. “It’s war, Philip. These things happen.”
Unimpressed, Philip followed Finch and Elizabeth into the town, which was quite dark given the hour. Nonetheless, they were allowed through the gate and escorted to the Royal Palace itself, whereupon they were taken in, given refreshment and assigned simple but comfortable rooms.
But sleep was difficult to come by, for there were questions swimming through the young alchemist’s head. And not all of them were about the French and their researches.
Thus it was that the valet entered Philip’s room in the morning to find him awake, staring out the window into the castle’s courtyard. The worthy brought tea and bread, as well as a fresh suit of clothes as befitting a Count—self-titled or otherwise. Philip had sometimes thought it ludicrous to have inherited a title that was adopted by his father on a whim and not, in fact, granted by any outside authority. But there were times when being a Count was a worthwhile thing, especially if it meant getting his first cup of real tea in many long months.
Once he had eaten, attended to his morning toilet and changed into his new clothes, Philip allowed his valet to escort him down toward the Great Hall. No doubt he would be called upon to give his testimony as to the French and their activities.
But first, of course, there was a reunion.
Elizabeth had found their parents first, just outside the Hall, and Lord Weatherby looked most satisfied at seeing his daughter again. Indeed, it seemed an errant tear had somehow escaped the Admiral’s weather eye as he alternated between gently scolding his daughter for the risks she had undertaken, and holding her stiflingly close.
Anne rushed to greet Philip upon spotting him, giving him a ferocious hug of surprising strength. He then submitted to an embarrassingly thorough examination, both physical and otherwise, as his mother looked him over head to toe and quizzed him as to his health, eating habits, alcohol intake and his most recent workings. Only when she was satisfied did she then hug him once more, and allow Lord Weatherby to approach.
“I might thank you for keeping my daughter safe, Philip, but from what I’m told, it seems the reverse was the case at times,” Weatherby said with a slight grin.
“We took turns until Uncle Andrew finally arrived,” Philip said, taking Weatherby’s offered hand. “It’s good to see you again, my Lord.”
Weatherby waved his hand. “For the millionth time, there’s no need for formality, Philip. Now, speaking of your dear ‘uncle,’ where did that scoundrel fly to now?”
“And more importantly, how does he fly?” Anne said pointedly. “I want to know exactly how he managed to get from Edinburgh to Oxford and back within a single night, because I had not thought such a thing possible.”
Weatherby looked at his wife in confusion. “Surely, it is but a variant of the Great Work recently discovered, is it not? He is a fine alchemist, Anne. How else might it be done?”
Anne merely scowled and, for a moment, the matronly side of her character showed through her still-youthful face. “I should wish to find out just that, Tom. Because there are but a handful of alchemists approaching his level of skill, and being one of them, I am surprised to be at a loss.”
At this timely juncture, Finch joined their party from a side room, and Weatherby noted once more that his pallor had not improved, though his mood had.
“What are we talking about?” Finch said, eschewing formality as usual.
Anne
gave him a concerned, cross look. “Your workings, in point of fact. I should like to learn more of this method you used in traveling to Oxford and back within but a single evening.”
Finch easily detected the hint of challenge and worry in her voice. “I assure you, my dearest lady, that I shall be publishing forthwith, and would be happy to discuss with you at any time,” he said, attempting to be serious and mostly succeeding.
Before they could speak further, the doors to the Great Hall were opened, and Weatherby’s family was announced and allowed to proceed for their audience with the Prince Regent, who was present along with Castlereagh and, to Weatherby’s surprise, Vellusk once more.
“I had not thought to see you here, Representative Vellusk,” Weatherby said once the formalities were done.
Before the Xan could reply, Prince George spoke up. “We are finalizing the details of our alliance, Lord Weatherby, which I believe will allow us to drive the French from our green England once and for all. But, the worthy Representative found himself curious as to your son and daughter’s experiences in Oxford, so I allowed him to stay.”
Weatherby smiled slightly at this; George needed Vellusk far more than Vellusk needed George—or England, for that matter. Thankfully, Vellusk was a diplomat, both by nature and vocation, and simply took the prince’s words for the bombast they were. “We have been concerned about the French and their activities since the crisis on Xanath’s rings, as you know, Lord Weatherby,” Vellusk sang. “The Emerald Tablet was destroyed, and The Book of the Dead missing. So we are naturally curious to find both Berthollet and Cagliostro together, and working on behalf of France.”
Weatherby turned to Philip. “My Lord Count St. Germain, and my daughter, the Lady Weatherby—would you be so kind as to give a report on your experiences? It seems they are of great interest to many people upon many worlds.”
And so Philip did, with frequent elucidation and interjection from Elizabeth. Of course, their findings could only be summarized to a certain point. The French had an interest in Venus, where they already had both army and naval forces, and that interest likely had to do with some “vault,” which seemed to be a building or artifact of, or at least cared for by, the Venusians—the Va’hak’ri tribe, in particular.
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