by Viola Carr
She punched her thighs, stifling a scream. She’d said such cruel things. And now Marcellus was dead.
If only Lizzie would taunt her now. If you hadn’t cracked your crystal at him for a little white lie, he’d still be here now. That’ll teach you, ha ha!
But Lizzie was gone. Not a word. Not even an echo of gloating laughter.
Her heart wept, bereft. Along New Bond Street, the bells at St. George’s chimed. Nearly eleven o’clock. Soon la Bête would attack. And she was alone. No police, no soldiers, no Enforcers to help her. She didn’t even have a weapon.
She’d just have to improvise.
AN ORGANIZED HYPOCRISY
THE NEWLY MINTED PALACE OF WESTMINSTER GLITTERED like a fairy-tale castle, Gothic turrets gleaming in golden sun. Eliza struggled through the packed crowd in New Palace Yard, heedless of jabbing elbows and boots raking her shins.
The air was murky with breath and sweat. Some people cheered. Others muttered darkly, hands straying to pockets and satchels. Banners and placards waved, groups of protesters shouting. DOWN WITH THE TORIES! RADICALS UNITE! and FIGHT HUNGER, NOT WAR faced off opposite KILL THE FRENCH! and SORCERERS MUST DIE! Was Mr. Todd amongst them, stalking her? It made no odds. If he caught her, she was dead, but she’d no time to hide.
The huge clock face known as Big Ben towered sixty yards into the heaven-blue sky. Its ornate hands inched towards eleven. Only a few minutes to go.
At last, bruised but triumphant, Eliza reached the front row. Wooden trestles held back the surging crowd, and the hard edge squashed her uncomfortably. The platform where Beaconsfield would speak had steps leading up like a scaffold. The rails were tricked out in blue Tory colors, alongside the gilded royal arms of the lion and the unicorn. Already, party dignitaries and Palace toadies waited to bask in reflected glory.
Enforcers surrounded the scaffold, armed with buzzing electric weapons. She smiled grimly. Much good they’d be. Once the aether started to disintegrate, the machines would malfunction, electrical components failing catastrophically.
At three minutes to eleven, a trumpet blast announced the entrance of royalty. A dozen of the king’s household guards, red-trimmed blue tunics shining, marched up the steps to cheers mixed with hoots of derision. “God bless King Edward!” “Sorcerer’s stooge!” “Down with the Regent!” “Long live the king!”
And up he skipped. Young King Edward the murderer, perfectly dressed, chains of office gleaming. But his eyes rolled, his smile slack. Probably drugged to keep him quiet. Alongside him walked Princess Victoria, cool and collected in gorgeous state finery.
On the other side, the Philosopher. Unbound, not shackled in flame. But evidently under duress, by the livid scowl he stabbed into all who dared glance his way.
At least Lord Beaconsfield’s flattery had achieved this much, probably in the hope that Newton could still control the Enforcers when and if anything went wrong. The metal machines would still obey his commands. That was what they were programmed to do.
But as she watched the Regent fume and fidget, her heart sank. Those compressed lips, the fury in his eyes. Magic. The silencing spell she’d seen in the future. Sir Isaac wouldn’t be saying anything any time soon. And the pair of Life Guards flanking him weren’t soldiers. Their uniforms fitted poorly, their bearing unmilitary—but they watched him with fiery intensity, never once blinking or looking away.
Lord Beaconsfield followed the royal party onto the stage, his lazy dark eyes sweeping the scene with deliberate ennui. He waved languidly at the crowd. Some still cheered. Others screamed abuse and curses.
The crowd swayed in, almost sweeping Eliza off her feet. The noise was tremendous, stomach-churning. She barely heard the clock tower chiming the Westminster Quarters, heralding the approaching hour.
Someone behind lurched forwards, crushing her against the barrier. Her ribs squashed, a bright spurt of pain. Panic rattled her wits. She couldn’t breathe. She’d suffocate.
Like a worm she wriggled, edging downwards in the sea of bodies, until she squirted out onto the paving, staring up past the barrier at Beaconsfield’s legs, via the hulking form of a gigantic Enforcer.
ONE . . . TWO . . . Big Ben’s colossal chimes vibrated the ground.
Bertie gaped and giggled. Victoria smiled coldly. The Regent scowled. Lord Beaconsfield glanced around, uneasy.
THREE . . . FOUR . . .
A swift scarlet-hooded figure leapt onto the back of the stage. Almost hidden by the rows of dignitaries. In the figure’s hand flashed sharpened steel.
“Assassin!” screamed Eliza, but her words were torn away by the sweltering noise. Now the scarlet figure was hidden in a forest of politicians and aristocrats, quickly working towards the front.
Her blood chilled. As if she didn’t have enough problems. The government of England stood on this dais. Peers, law lords, privy councilors, the Prime Minister, the Regent himself. Everyone.
FIVE . . . SIX . . .
She yelled again, but no one heard. No one could see.
At a run, she dived for the stage, dodging the Enforcer’s massive legs, and hauled herself onto the platform. Who was the fiend’s target? She’d no time to pick and choose. “Assassin! Get down!”
The Enforcer swiped for her and missed. She wriggled up and ran past Lord Beaconsfield, shoving aside the stunned Life Guards. Surprised by a woman. No time to draw swords. More fools they.
SEVEN . . .
Like a dark-hooded mirage, the scarlet figure loomed behind King Edward, hefting that shining blade.
“Save the king!” Eliza sprinted straight for Bertie. Saving a transcendental monster who deserved to die. No time for irony now.
The drooling boy just laughed. Disorientated in the crushing noise, Victoria whirled in the wrong direction, hamstrung by her crowd of bodyguards.
But not so the Regent. His sharp eyes flashed to the assassin in an instant—and without delay he dived for the unresponsive boy.
EIGHT . . . NINE . . .
The assassin’s knife flashed down. The Regent slammed into Bertie, knocking him sideways, and the blade sliced deep into the Regent’s throat.
Blood spurted, a crimson fountain. The Regent fell, clutching the jagged wound, the knife still sticking out like a grotesque ornament.
Victoria yelled. At her side, an angry shimmer thickened, and the aether squealed and tore apart—and a man appeared. Dressed in black, with a withered hand.
La Belle et la Bête.
TEN . . .
The princess grinned, ghastly. La Bête’s smile twisted. And pop! They both vanished.
Finally, the Life Guards jumped into action. Eliza fought, her arms suddenly pinned to her sides. Lord Beaconsfield, displaying unforeseen alacrity, had already hurled the assassin to the ground, and that scarlet hood slipped down.
Dark gaze glinting with hatred, lips curled into a snarl, mahogany curls spilling free. “Get off me, God rot your eyes!”
Eliza’s vision reeled, an evil magic mirror that showed malicious lies. The explosion at Finch’s. Time travel experiments. Paradox.
Not Lizzie’s apparition. The real thing.
ELEVEN . . . The clock’s last chime faded into the howling din.
And with an ear-piercing shriek, the sky shattered.
Boom! Jagged blue lightning erupted at altitude, raining black ash over New Palace Yard. The sky crazed like punched glass, and shredded. Ragged holes tore and gaped, howling caverns of emptiness, rumbling with hell-dark thunder.
And from those caverns drove skyships. Dozens of black-sailed monstrosities the size of frigates, spewing stinking red fire. Crewed by identical pairs of figures, a woman in fine brocade and a grinning cloaked monster. Every crew was la Belle et la Bête.
The sorcerer spoke into an ugly metal device that poured out his hideous voice at murderous, unspeakable volume. “We are your masters,” he trumpeted, the awful music of judgment day. “Surrender.”
Eliza stared at the burning sky in horror. Liz
zie had wriggled free of the guards, and punched Lord Beaconsfield in the face, whooping. “Take that, you evil old lizard!”
Lizzie, in the flesh. Separated. Unbelievable. Unthinkable.
Two of me!
But no time to consider the consequences now.
On the deck of each awful skyship, the distant princess was winding the crank on an evil-looking metal machine. The atmosphere shuddered and shrieked, a dreadful stink of sulfur and spoiled flesh. Wind rose, thumping, agonizing pressure sucking at Eliza’s eardrums as she fought to the bleeding Regent’s side. As if her brains were being beaten like eggs and slowly drained away.
Mind control machines. Invisible mind-reading waves. How she’d laughed at Finch’s tinfoil hat. She wasn’t laughing now.
The crowd surged, overflowing onto the stage. People scrambled to avoid being crushed. Bodies tumbled and sagged. Lightning split the sky. The skyships’ terrible cannon boomed, raining caustic fire.
Enforcers drew their pistols, firing at anything and everything—and the dazzling coils in their weapons exploded. Brass limbs and rib cages blew in all directions. Some were rooted to the spot, crackling voltage juddering their frames. Their brains sizzled, hotwiring, and their metal skulls liquefied and flowed like mercury.
On the dais, swords slashed, Life Guards attacking anything that moved. Lizzie had Bertie on the ground, kicking him ferociously. He flopped, his face a mess of blood and broken teeth. “Die, you bastard,” grunted Lizzie with each kick. “Die!”
And in the middle of it all, Princess Victoria reappeared—some version of her, at least—raising her arms to the fire-hailing sky and screaming in exultation.
The whine of her awful machinery tore Eliza’s ears, but still she fought to reach the Regent, clambering over bodies. People were howling, vomiting, clutching their ears, flopping like grounded fish. Some already dead. Some just sitting, dull grins on their faces and ears cocked, as if listening to some disembodied voice.
In a puddle of blood, the Regent lay, already weakening. Blood drenched his shirt, his colorless hair. His eyes burned, but not with fear of death. Just impotent rage.
Desperate, Eliza clutched for something, anything to staunch the wound. Her fingers closed around cloth—someone’s shawl?—and hastily she scrunched it up and pressed it over the leaking gash. Blood flowered, drenching the soft fabric scarlet.
A blue silk scarf.
Her head whipped around—and Seymour Locke’s eyes met hers. Young, unscarred, backing away from the dying Regent with an expression of horror. “Oh, fuck it,” he whispered.
Before she could speak, he was swept away into the crowd.
Stunned, she turned back to the Regent . . . but his rainy eyes glazed, lifeless. A world of knowledge, gone. Just another corpse on a field of death.
Crrrrackkk! An almighty groan of rending earth. Dully, she glanced up. A chasm had opened, fire leaping from its jagged rim. With a rumble like hellfire, the majestic clock tower juddered, and started to fall.
Chunks of glass and stonework rained. People screamed and ran.
The silent black-robed men hauled Eliza to her feet. Lizzie laughed as she leapt from the dais, darting left and right to evade capture. “Come at me, you fart-stinking dogs!”
Victoria laughed, hair blown back by hellish wind. “You’re a traitor to the revolution, Dr. Jekyll,” she yelled. “It’s treatment for you. Take her to Dr. Savage.”
Wildly, Eliza fought, but to no avail. “Listen to me,” she screamed, “we can still stop this—uugh!” Her throat squeezed shut, invisible pincers from a torture chamber. Flaming shackles seared her wrists. Her lips jammed tight, sealed with invisible glue. A spell of silence.
She struggled to reach out, a drowning woman grasping for the surface. Lizzie! she wanted to yell, Lizzie, help me!
But Lizzie just grinned, and skipped free, and let the sorcerers drag Eliza away.
A hood smothered Eliza’s head, and unseen hands swept her along. For hours, it seemed, she stumbled amidst screams and the sounds of chaos. Machinery groaned and whirred. Weapons sizzled, fire roaring, heat searing her skin. Warm copper-stinking wetness sloshed around her ankles as she tripped up over a curb into some kind of vehicle, with metal benches and an engine that smelled of brimstone.
The vehicle jerked upwards. A rush of blood to her head, and she swooned into dizzy darkness.
Minutes later—hours? days?—she awoke.
All was dark. The hood was gone, the shackles too. Distant wailing, ragged screams, electricity’s crackle and hiss, a man’s unhinged laughter. Somewhere, a voice sang roughly, ruined by solitude and screaming. “Ring-a-ring o’ roses . . . a pocket full o’ posies . . .”
Eliza stumbled up, bare feet slapping the cold floor. Her hair fell over her chest. Her dress was gone, replaced by a threadbare linen shift. She coughed, her throat raw but functional again. She shivered, rubbing chilled arms as her eyes adjusted.
Reddish light slanted through a high barred window, illuminating her tiny cell. Gray padded walls, smeared with filth and bloodied scratch marks.
The asylum.
“Atishoo,” sang that broken voice. “Atishoo. We all . . . fall . . . DOWN.”
She screamed, beating against the padded door. “It’s me! I’m Eliza Jekyll! You can’t keep me here!”
Only the keening wind answered. She yelled until her throat bled, clawing her nails raw on the canvas. “I’m not insane! Let me out. Lizzie, help me!”
But Lizzie was gone. Exhausted, Eliza huddled on the floor, and sobbed herself to sleep.
ILLUSTRATIONS OF MADNESS
A METALLIC RATTLE JERKED HER AWAKE.
Wheels squeaked in the corridor, footsteps shuffling. “Hurry, man!” a voice husked. “Time is of the essence!”
How long had she slept? Maybe hours. Maybe days. Time had stretched, a dark blur. Sometimes, food was stuffed through the door slot. Sometimes not. Outside, the sky boiled, torn by jagged lightning. Always stormy, this ugly future. Always nighttime.
She scrambled up and peered through the observation slot, straining her eye muscles to the limit. The dim corridor was a blur. Her spectacles were gone, as was everything she’d had on her person. Nothing hard or sharp remained. Not even a hair pin.
The grating wheels halted outside her door. She glimpsed a trolley, pushed by dark-sleeved arms. On it, a dusty brass machine, festooned with dials and coiled wires, and a pair of rusted electrodes, coated with dried blood. Alongside this sat an evil-looking leather funnel.
Her blood chilled, icy echoes of the torture Mr. Fairfax had inflicted on Malachi Todd. Electroshock. Nerves screaming, muscles cramping, liquid forced down her throat until she choked and begged. Surely, this was worse than any Royal Society interrogation. Lizzie had left her here to die.
“This is the one.” The husky voice, owner out of sight. “Open the door. Master’s orders, so be quick about it.”
A lock squeaked, bolts thudding back.
Swiftly, Eliza flattened her back to the wall beside the door. Slam the door into his face. Go for his throat. Shove that horrid trolley into his guts and run for her life . . .
The heavy door groaned open. In came the trolley, squeek! squeek!, pushed by a skeletal fellow with rotted teeth. Dr. Savage, the king’s alienist. Following him, a figure in hooded black robes.
Her interrogator. Or her torturer.
Eliza launched at the trolley, slamming it into Savage’s chest and pinning him to the wall. Cracck! Ribs broke like sticks. Triumphant, Eliza whirled for freedom—and collided with the black-robed sorcerer. Unthinking, she clawed for his eyes, his hood falling . . .
Untidy white hair sprang out, jammed beneath a crinkled tinfoil hat. “I say,” whispered Marcellus Finch fiercely, “no need for that.” He slammed his elbow back into Savage’s skinny throat. Savage gasped, face purpling, his larynx surely crushed. Finch beamed. “Ha-ha! A rescue, say what?”
Eliza’s brain rattled, lost. Finch was dead. Gone. “But .
. .”
“Old Starling’s advanced waves, you know. Experiment went haywire, boom! Two timelines in the one space. Two Finches! Stunned! Alternate realities, duplicates, paradoxes, so on and so forth. Quite the multi-dimensional disturbance. I’m so proud.”
“Two Finches,” she repeated, dazed. “Only I didn’t get two Elizas, did I? I got one me, and one Lizzie.”
“You don’t say? Transcendental identity, that’s the ticket.” Finch peered short-sightedly, his pince-nez missing. “The aether doesn’t like it when we play silly simultaneity games. You and Lizzie, me and, well, me, eh? Other Finch dead, poor lamb. Blasted off his hinges, so to speak. Here’s hoping I got the brains, eh?” He frowned. “Or is it me who’s dead and he who survived? Perhaps I’m not the real Finch after all. Gadzooks, what a drama!”
Eliza wanted to laugh with joy. Overcome, she grabbed him and smacked a kiss on his lips. “You’re real enough for me.”
A pleased flush. “Enough of that,” he mumbled. “Germs, you know. The creeping johnnies, up your arm before you’ve time to lick your fingers. Time’s running out, say what?” He waved a second crumpled foil cone. “Chop-chop, don’t have all day.”
She eyed it dubiously. “You’re joking.”
“Mind control machines, dear girl! Thoughts sucked out, free will dissolved, people shambling about like living corpses. This foil is the only way we’ll make it through these corridors alive.”
He molded the foil around her head, grabbed still-dying Savage’s hat and jammed it on top. “There. Never liked you anyway, Savage, with your handcuffs and thrashings and electrodes up the whatsit. Where d’you get such vile notions, that’s what I’d like to know. These newfangled ‘psychologist’ chaps would have a field day.” He pulled his hood over his eyes and stiffened, funereal. “Now come along, before they realize I’m not the Grand Pooh-Bah Warlock of the Fleet after all. Act captured, can’t you? Manacles of fire, all that?”
Swiftly, she pulled a ragged blanket from Savage’s trolley—by now he was quite dead, his purple face fixed in rot-toothed surprise—and wrapped it around her. Rifling Savage’s pockets, she unearthed an electric stinger, and tested its charge. Zzzap! Still good.