The Duchess's own apartments, quite in contrast to the faded splendor of the other rooms, had been recently decorated all in rose and cream, with scenes of rustic lovers, in pretty attitudes either amorous or comical, painted on the walls and ceiling. By the time that Skogsrå arrived she had changed from her traveling dress into a loose negligee of pink satin, and was comfortably seated on a fragile loveseat covered in cream brocade. The ape, Sebastian, perched on the back of the sofa, and a great many letters and scented note-cards lay scattered across the seat and on the Duchess's lap.
She scarcely noticed Skogsrå's arrival, absorbed as she was in that history of Lord Skelbrooke which Euripides Hooke had taken such pains to relate to her. But then, returning to the business at hand, she reread all the pages concerning Sera and Elsie Vorder.
"And so," she told the troll triumphantly, "our young friends may be found in Nova Imbria. And the inestimable Mr. Hooke, of all my spies, picked up the scent and followed them there! I told you, did I not, that he was the cleverest man I know?"
"I had thought the unfortunate Mr. von Eichstatt—possibly, by now, the late Mr. von Eichstatt—merited that distinction," said the Jarl, sitting down, as she indicated, on a fashionably fragile-looking chair. He, too, had taken the time to change his attire, from the uniform which became him so well, to a coat of shimmering silver satin, pearl-grey smallclothes, and a waistcoat of corded silk. In addition, he carried a very pretty fan of painted chickenskin. "And I suppose—but of course, why else did the Gracious Lady go to all the trouble to obtain the monster, Cecile?—I suppose that we, no sooner home, shall embark on our travels once more?"
"Indeed we shall. Or rather," she amended, with a sudden impatient gesture, "not just immediately, but as soon as may be. A crossing at this time of year would be too dangerous. And I have business to attend to first. Arrangements, so many arrangements to be made, before I can travel such a distance."
With which pronouncement, she rose from the sofa and seated herself at an ornamental little writing desk, where she composed a number of letters over the course of the next hour and a half. The Jarl, left with no better occupation than to wave his fan gently to and fro, eventually picked up a book which the Duchess kept by the loveseat and leafed through the pages. It chanced to be a book of poems, in a visionary, alchemical mode, and when he glanced at the inscription on the flyleaf, he received something of a shock.
He looked up to find the Duchess staring at him, with a bitter smile on her lips. "You astound me, sir. Do you find those verses to your taste?"
"Not at all," said Skogsrå, putting the book aside. "They are much too flowery. But I must confess that you have surprised me. I should not have thought you still had a value for Skelbrooke's gift."
"Should you not?" The Duchess continued to smile mechanically. "But I have a warm heart, my dear Skogsrå, and once I bestow my affections, I cannot so easily withdraw them."
Skogsrå cocked an inquiring eyebrow. "Do I understand, then, that you intend to spare Skelbrooke when you ruin the others?"
The Duchess suddenly looked very much older. "No," she said, in a husky voice, "no, I would not spare him. Not if I loved him twice so well. I wonder that you do not realize by now: my motives have nothing to do with loving or hating."
She was just sealing the last of her letters when the butler stalked in to announce a visitor. "He would insist on speaking to the Gracious Lady herself, though he came by the tradesmen's entrance," said the butler, looking down his nose in an imperious way that he had (no easy feat for a dwarf). "And I must say, a more rough and villainous individual—"
"His name, my good Mugwort, his name?" This being provided, she surprised the dwarf by ordering him to escort her unsavory visitor to the morning room downstairs. "I shall meet him there presently. No, Lord Skogsrå, you need not accompany me," she added, as the Jarl made a move to abandon his chair. "I wish to speak to the fellow privately."
She rose slowly, picked up Sebastian, and left the room. Taking the opportunity afforded by her absence, the Jarl limped over to her writing desk to see what he could learn from her correspondence.
The letter she had received from Hooke had been carelessly tossed to one side. Skogsrå picked it up and read all the way through with considerable interest. Of the other letters that she had already opened, most seemed to be social invitations, or else concerned her endless and endlessly tiresome charitable concerns. It never ceased to amaze him that a woman so ruthless and forceful as the Duchess should also labor under a grotesque compulsion to waste her substance on dirty beggars and unwanted children. His interest flagging, he continued to sift half-heartedly through the letters the Duchess had written and sealed, examining the direction on each. Most of the names were unknown to him, but the one he recognized caused him a tiny jolt of surprise: Lady Ursula Vizbeck.
The Jarl folded his hands and stared thoughtfully up at the ceiling. He had believed that Lady Ursula Vizbeck (née Bowker, then Borgmann—for her disgracefully married and expeditiously executed highwayman husband) was feuding with the Duchess.
And the more he thought about it, the more it baffled him. He could not for the life of him begin to guess what part the audacious Lady Ursula could possibly play in the Duchess's schemes.
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
Wherein things Begin to go Awry in Hobb's Church.
Siegfried Herring was a master cabinetmaker. He maintained a shop at the foot of Spyglass Hill, where he and his two 'prentices practiced their craft. In addition to beautiful furniture of walnut, maple, and oak, Mr. Herring also sold brooms and walking sticks, every sort of lathe-turned goods, and (according to the sign out front) "fine Women's hats: Leghorn Horse-hair Beaver and Chip-straw."
He had also, generously, allotted a comfortable cubbyhole to Mr. Jonas, so that the gnome might conduct a little business grinding and polishing lenses. The nearest lensgrinder lived as far distant as Moonstone and had more than enough custom to last him all the year long; he would not mind at all (said the Moonstone spectacle-maker), if Mr. Jonas cared to set himself up in a small way. It deflected questions as to why Jonas and his assistant continued their lengthy visit in Hobb's Church.
Rather more significantly, a large shed was attached at the back of the shop. Very cold and draughty it was during winter, but now that the season of Thaw was upon them, and the Festival of Quickening no more than five weeks away, Jedidiah and the gnome took possession of the shed. There, they began to construct the elaborate mechanism with which they hoped to raise the island temple.
Slowly, the machine began to take form: first a solid frame-work of oak, then a complicated assembly of metallic gears, wheels, pulleys, and weights.
"Do you think, Mr. Jonas, that this enterprise of ours is like to make us men of wealth and position?" Jed asked diffidently, on the day they mounted two great bronze mirrors on the machine.
"If we are successful, this enterprise will bring us treasure of incalculable worth," replied the gnome. "But naturally, it will then be our task to see that everything falls into the proper hands—not to merely sell that treasure for gold, but to put it to the service of science. As for position: that we may well achieve. We shall be, you know, the two greatest authorities on the Panterran civilization alive in the world today, and the prestige of that should be considerable."
"I rather fancied as much," said Jed, with such a sigh of deep-felt discouragement that Mr. Jonas was moved to inquire sympathetically:
"Do you truly believe you must acquire a large fortune before you can persuade Miss Winter to marry you?"
Jedidiah set his jaw stubbornly. "I can't persuade her if I don't ever ask—and I won't ask, not until I have something more to offer her than what I have now."
Mr. Jonas walked across the room, picked up one of the coils of silvered glass that were supposed to conduct the power of the lunar rays from the mirrors to the magnets. "I had no idea," he said dryly, "that Miss Winter's motives were like to prove so mercenary."
Jed flashed the gnome a swift, indignant look. "I think you must know they are nothing of the sort," he said, with a heightened color. "But you don't know the life she led, back in Thornburg. Her father had a great house, bigger and grander than anything you ever saw in Lootie's Bay or Hobb's Church. Elsie never set foot out of the house without Sera and one of the servants to escort her, and she had nothing to do all day long but to pay visits, and go to balls, and tea parties, and picnics, and to the theatre, and . . . Well, mostly she did none of those things because her health was so fragile, but—"
"But there, I believe, you miss the point entirely," said Mr. Jonas. "I have never seen Miss Winter but when she was in excellent health and spirits, and it appears to me that the life she leads now suits her admirably."
Jed smiled with an obvious effort. "It may do for now, but eventually she'll tire of it and want all the things that she had before. And her family, they would never receive me!" He picked up a cloth and began furiously polishing one of the mirrors. "By the Nine Powers, they know my birth and the low company I used to keep, if nobody here does. And how could I possibly divide Elsie from her parents?"
Mr. Jonas began to screw the coil into place. "But it seems to me, my dear Jedidiah, that Elsie and her parents are already divided—by two thousand miles of ocean, which is a formidable barrier, you must admit. Pardon me, I know I have no right to interfere in your affairs, but I am very fond of you, my boy! But Miss Winter does not appear to repine at the loss of her parents. Was she much attached to them?"
Jed shook his head with a sharp motion. "I can't say. It wouldn't be proper for me to ask her. That is . . . Her mother was not a pleasant woman, and her father never cared a rap for anything but his own comfort, but I daresay that Elsie was fond of them. Someday, she may wish to go back, and someday, it may be safe to do so. But she can't go home if she is bound to me, and if I've no fortune to offset my lack of birth and breeding. For me to marry Elsie under the circumstances . . ." Jed gave a savage little laugh, then balled up one hand into a fist and pounded it against a wooden beam. ". . . that would be just the sort of trashy, no-account behavior her parents would expect of a lowborn rascal like me!"
"Your sentiments do you honor," said Mr. Jonas. "Nevertheless—"
What he was about to say was interrupted, as the wooden walls of the shed began to creak and shake, the earth to roll beneath their feet. A shudder ran through the brick wall facing on the shop.
"That's a big quake, the worst since we arrived here," said Jed, breathing heavily, as he held on to the framework of the machine for support.
"The moon is full in two days, and I believe there will also be an eclipse. The natural world is in a state of flux," said Mr. Jonas calmly. His big, broad feet lent him a marvelous stability and proved quite useful at moments like this.
However, they soon learned that the tremor was more localized—was confined to the one building, to be precise.
"Burn and blister those wretched hobgoblins!" exclaimed Mr. Herring, coming out to the shed in his apron to see if all was well. "This entire town is crumbling at the foundations, and it is all their doing! Not only do they continue to tunnel, but I hear they have taken to gnawing on the timbers as well. And their thefts have grown quite out of bounds! A lady of my acquaintance says that she has only to leave a spool of thread, a feather fan, or a lace cap lying about, and it will be missing the next day." Mr. Herring gave a snort of disgust. "One can scarcely keep all one's possessions under lock and key!"
"Have you tried setting traps?" Mr. Jonas inquired. Quite oblivious to the continued creaking of the building, he began to test the system of weights and pulleys that was meant to move the mirrors and keep them in constant alignment with the moon.
"We have," said Mr. Herring, wildly disarranging his precious brown wig, so great was his agitation. "Some of them quite ingenious, but the hobs are so cunning, they almost invariably find a way to take the bait without tripping the mechanism."
"In Marstadtt, we just slaughtered the vermin on sight," Jed offered, with a certain bloodthirsty relish. The sport of hobsticking enjoyed considerable popularity among the young men who lived along the river Lunn. "Of course," he added, a trifle apologetically, "no one minds that, because the hobgoblins there are such nasty, vicious things . . ."
"Yes," said Mr. Herring. "But we hardly ever do catch sight of them here, they are so swift and sly. Nor do they swarm or run mad at the full of the moon, as they sometimes do elsewhere.
"We have tried pouring poison and lowering gunpowder charges down their holes," he added, with another despairing clutch at his wig. "One imagines that does kill some of them, though of course we never see the bodies. But it doesn't kill enough of them, and still the destruction continues!"
***
In the parlor at Mothgreen Academy, the ladies were entertaining. Or rather, Sera was attempting to entertain Mr. Tynsdale, while Elsie practiced on the harpsichord in the next room, and Miss Barebones, Miss Eglantine, and Miss Fitch played three-handed cribbage, using a queer old pack of cards of Yndean origin, and a scrimshaw board with ivory pegs. As they played, the three elderly ladies discussed among themselves the most recent activities of the Academy Ghost.
A small fire burned on the hearth, between the pugnacious brass firedogs, but the room, as always, smelled not of woodsmoke, but of snuff.
Sera sat on the horsehair sofa, feeling unusually fine in a splendid new gown of straw-colored satin with deep ruffles of lace on the sleeves and the corsage. But she also felt flushed and harassed, forced as she was to divert the preacher's attention from all this talk of "Uncle Izrael," by keeping up a constant flow of sensible conversation. Every now and again she glanced through the double doors to the next room, where Elsie doggedly continued to play one sprightly tune after another. But there was no expecting any support from Elsie. She did not like Mr. Tynsdale, was clearly dismayed by his frequent visits, and did not feel in the least equipped to discuss religion under the clergyman's burning regard.
". . . a quaint old book. Did you never read it, sir? Dr. Cornelius advanced a theory that the primitive Church in assigning the origin of the various beasts and all the races of Rational Beings, each to one of the Nine Powers, actually followed the tenets of an older religion, originating in . . ." Sera continued on valiantly, for over an hour. When the tea tray arrived, Elsie abandoned her harpsichord to pour out the tea and pass around biscuits and scones, but she left the discussion to Sera and Mr. Tynsdale.
"Indeed, it is an arresting theory, but if I may say so, Miss Thorn, I wonder at your kinsman exposing a young woman like yourself to such patently heretical theories. And the more so because you are still, after all, of tender years . . ." Mr. Tynsdale continued to keep up his end of the conversation, with a porcelain teacup in one hand and a dish of apple fritters in the other.
Sera gave an indignant gasp and replied with some vehemence. Accepting the cup that Elsie offered her, she balanced both teacup and saucer on an arm of the sofa.
"With all due respect," said Mr. Tynsdale, "it has been my experience that young females—"
Sera, in the act of raising her teacup to her lips, chanced to look down into the bowl of the cup. What she saw there caused her to start violently. The cup slipped out of her fingers and landed in her lap, splashing the straw-colored satin with hot tea, and scattering the wet brown leaves across her skirt. With an effort, she recovered her composure.
"How remarkably clumsy of me," she said, scrubbing desperately at her skirt with Elsie's handkerchief. "I really must learn not to express myself with such heat—it inevitably leads to some utterly graceless act. If you will excuse me, sir, I will go upstairs and make myself presentable."
She was out of the room in an instant, and Elsie followed a moment later. Elsie caught up with her on the stairs. "Sera, you saw something in that teacup. Was it a message from Uncle Izrael? There is no use pretending otherwise, for I saw how you jumped when you looked in the cup. And I do wish that you would con
fide in me. Uncle Izrael has been trying to tell you something, hasn't he?"
Sera continued on up the stairs to the attic, with Elsie right behind her. "I thought, just for a moment, that I saw a word spelled out in the tea leaves, but of course I only imagined it. Why should Mr. Barebones—or anyone—send me a message like 'catacombs'?
"It makes no sense at all," said Sera, pausing for a moment to lean up against the balustrade. Truth to tell, she felt a little weak about the knees. "It must have been my imagination! I am not usually suggestible, as you know, but with all this talk of tea-leaf reading and table tipping! My dearest Elsie, do not tell me that you are beginning to believe in such nonsense?"
"I don't know why I should not," countered Elsie, with an unusual spark of defiance. "Jedidiah says that he believes it. Yes, and he says that you used to believe it, too, when you were younger. You used to see things in teacups and mirrors. At the time, he says, he was the skeptical one, but now that he knows . . . well, the things that he knows, about sidereal spirits and sublunar astral essences, he is convinced you have a natural talent which may actually enable you to speak with spirits.
"And only think, Sera," she added coaxingly, "perhaps Uncle Izrael Barebones has something of vital importance to tell you."
Sera swept her a contemptuous curtsy. She had no idea what "sublunar astral essences" might be, and she doubted that either her cousin or Jed was perfectly clear on the subject. "My dear Elsie, I will tell you that nobody ever learned anything in the least agreeable speaking with spirits. On the contrary! When I was young and believed in such things, I cannot begin to tell you how wretchedly unpleasant it was. That being so, I have nothing at all to say to Uncle Izrael, and I fervently hope that he has nothing to say to me!"
But when she had climbed the stairs and entered her bedchamber, when she had changed her silk gown for a plain one of white cambric, she chanced to notice a ragged old volume which someone had placed on her bed, right in the middle of the patchwork quilt where it was impossible to miss it. Sera glared down at it with angry apprehension. She did not recall seeing the book there two hours past, when she came upstairs to change into the straw-colored gown. And all this time, the girls had been down in the garden, playing quiet games or strolling among the budding fruit trees, under the watchful eyes of Mary Partridge. Then who could possibly . . . ?
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