The Mapmaker's Apprentice (Glass and Steele Book 2)

by C. J. Archer

  "India?" Matt's face suddenly appeared before mine, all deep frown lines and worry in his eyes. "You seem dazed."

  "I'm quite all right."

  Bryce stopped the carriage in front of me and Matt assisted me inside. "You look pale," he said. "I'm taking you straight home."

  "Let's go past Worthey's first."

  "Very well." He called out instructions to Bryce then settled on the seat beside me. He patted my hand. "India, are you sure you're all right?"

  "Yes, of course." I touched my temple. "I felt a little overwhelmed for a moment when Rosemont said that McArdle knows about magic. Do you think that means he's magical himself after all?"

  "It's possible."

  "Goodness. Magicians seem to be popping up all over London. Not only Daniel and his grandfather, but now McArdle."

  "We can't be sure yet if McArdle is a magician, or whether he simply is aware of its existence. But you're right. Mere days ago we knew of only you and Chronos, and the dead Dr. Parsons. Now there's Daniel, his grandfather and possibly McArdle. There's not only medical and time magic, but map and coin magic too."

  "And goodness knows what else. Your Dr. Parsons implied there was so much more, that it existed in everything." I pulled my watch out of my reticule and closed it in my fist, as Matt did with his watch several times a day. It didn't glow like his, but it warmed to my touch.

  I returned it and pulled out the coin. It wasn't as warm as the watch, but I felt its magic tingling my fingers nevertheless. "I wish I knew what to do to manipulate magic and make it useful." I wished I knew how to fix Matt's watch.

  "You'll learn," he said. "We'll find Chronos, and he'll teach you."

  "What about another magician teaching me? Perhaps McArdle or Mr. Gibbons."

  His fingers curled into balls on his knees. "I don't like the idea of more people finding out about you. It's dangerous enough as it is with the guild suspecting."

  "Another magician won't harm me or tattle. Mr. Gibbons doesn't strike me as the type to talk about it at all."

  "I don't think it's wise until we know if we can trust him or not." He eyed me sideways. "Is my warning going to be heeded or flouted?"

  I sighed. "Heeded. For now." Until such time as the situation with Matt's watch became desperate that I must grasp at straws. "Although if you're not willing to trust Mr. Gibbons, what makes you think Chronos will be any more trustworthy?"

  "At least Chronos is a time magician and can certainly help you. We're not sure if Gibbons can. The fewer people who know the better, until we understand the world of magic."

  I knew he was right, but I wasn't going to tell him so. He might use it against me later when I changed my mind.

  Pierre DuPont had not returned to Worthey's factory so we headed to Bucklersbury Street. Turning off industrious Cheapside into the curved street felt like we'd driven into a different world on the brink of transition. It couldn't escape its narrow medieval proportions, but both sides saw new buildings in the process of construction. Some were held up by more scaffold than brick. Inside one of these half-built structures we found a gentleman standing on the edge of a shallow pit in the earthen floor. Two laborers crouched in the pit, carefully scraping soil from the blue, white and red mosaic tiles in the pit floor with trowels.

  The gentleman didn't look up until Matt cleared his throat. "It's very beautiful," Matt said. "You're a lucky fellow to be in charge of this dig." He held out his hand. "Good morning, Mr. Young. I'm Matthew Glass, and this is my assistant, Miss Steele. We were told we'd find you here by Mr. Rosemont."

  Mr. Young gave Matt's hand a quick shake and hardly even glanced at me. "You must be the fellow considering funding our operation."

  "I am." Matt's answer was so swift and confident that no one could have detected the lie.

  Mr. Young smiled and took Matt by the elbow. "Well then, you'll want to see our operation. Allow me to show you."

  "The mosaic is more colorful than I expected," Matt said, allowing Mr. Young to lead him. "What do you think, Miss Steele?"

  I'd been left to trail behind, clearly not important for Mr. Young's purposes. "It's lovely," I said. "How old is it?"

  Matt's inclusion of me caused Mr. Young to change tack. He suddenly became quite interested in gaining my good opinion. "At least fifteen hundred years, but we won't know the exact date until we can analyze it further, and we can't do that until we uncover more. Careful, Dyer," he said to one of the workers. "He can be something of a clod," Young whispered to us. "Just think, you're among the first people to see this floor in over a thousand years."

  "Remarkable," Matt said.

  "The Walbrook stream once flowed near here." Mr. Young pointed to the street outside. "We think it was a key area of Londinium, and as such, this floor could have belonged to a government building, or the villa of an important man—perhaps the governor himself. There's evidence of Roman buildings all along here beneath the current structures." Young's enthusiasm for his work was insatiable, and I found it rather infectious. "Unfortunately, we may never see them. The authorities care little for the ruins. They and the builders are far more interested in progress than history." He sighed. "To think, all of this may be lost if we don't quickly work to save it before the new buildings are erected. We've been given only a short window of time, you see."

  "How will you save the floor?" I asked.

  "By moving it to museums, tile by tile."

  "What a painstaking task."

  "Very. We're working as quickly as we can, but it's still slow. Another two or three workmen would help us immeasurably."

  "And for that, you need funds."

  "We do." Mr. Young jumped down into the pit, about a foot below floor level, and held his hands out to me. "Come down here and experience it for yourself."

  I allowed him to assist me down, and Matt followed. Mr. Young gave us tiles to inspect and even wanted Matt to take up a trowel himself, but Matt politely declined. We asked the sort of questions a potential investor might be interested in, and generally made ourselves agreeable. Yet Matt did not broach the subject of McArdle. I tried to make eye contact with him, but he was deep in conversation with Mr. Young. I even checked my watch, frequently, but my hints went unnoticed.

  It wasn't until Mr. Young asked why we'd decided to invest in archaeology that Matt finally wound up to it. "I have an acquaintance who likes to dabble in treasure hunting. It was his suggestion that I visit Rosemont to learn about the society and any current digs."

  "Treasure hunting?" Mr. Young's brows rose. "How intriguing. What's his name? Perhaps I know him." His keen response was quite different to Mr. Rosemont's.

  "McArdle."

  Mr. Young's lips parted. His whiskers twitched. "I see."

  "You know him?" Matt asked idly.

  Mr. Young waved his hand. "In passing." He told the men in the pit to break for ten minutes. They exchanged frowns, then set down their trowels and climbed out of the pit. Once they were out of earshot, Mr. Young turned to Matt with a smile. "Tell me, where is your friend working now?"

  "McArdle? That's what I hoped to learn here. Rosemont suggested you might know. Have you seen him of late?"

  Mr. Young's smile faded. "Not for some time. He stopped by briefly, took a look around, and left. It would seem my mosaic floor doesn't interest him."

  "Why not?"

  "I suspect he didn't think there'd be anything of value for him here. I still hold out hopes, however. Where there are archaeological structures, there are often small artifacts to be found, some of them valuable."

  "By valuable, do you mean something that helps fill in the gaps of our historical knowledge?" Matt asked.

  Mr. Young stroked his whiskers with his thumb and forefinger. "Come now, Mr. Glass, there's no need to beat around the bush with me. Mr. Rosemont may pretend that we're all in this for the greater good, and perhaps he is, but the rest of us are more pragmatic. While I do enjoy discovering an ancient wall or floor, I get far more excited when a hoard of coi
ns or item of jewelry is unearthed. Since you are acquainted with McArdle, I have a suspicion that you understand me on this point."

  "I understand you very well, Mr. Young. Thank you for your honesty. It seems you, McArdle and I are on the same page."

  "It's a pity neither of us know where he's currently digging. His ability to keep his whereabouts a secret never ceases to amaze me. You're the first one who's boldly come to me and asked if I've seen him."

  Matt's mouth lifted at the corner. His sly smile matched Mr. Young's. "You think he found something interesting and that's why he's hiding?"

  "He does have an uncanny ability to find gold objects, so it wouldn't surprise me."

  Gold! Well well. I kept my features schooled but my heart leapt. If McArdle's interest lay in gold and magic, perhaps he was a magical goldsmith rather than an antiquarian.

  "Perhaps it's gold infused with magic that he connects with." Matt's words dropped like lead weights. He could not have made a more dramatic statement. Mr. Young went quite still, except for the vein throbbing in his throat above his collar. "Perhaps the magic helps him seek out the gold somehow."

  I held my breath and waited to see if Matt's gamble succeeded.

  "I see you and McArdle have even more in common." Mr. Young's condescending tone told me exactly what he thought of Matt's theory.

  "I'm undecided," Matt said. "While McArdle can be quite convincing, I'm yet to see evidence. And you, Mr. Young? What do you believe?"

  "I believe in this." Mr. Young spread his hands out to encompass the mosaic floor around us, the tools and mounds of soil. "I believe in what I can unearth from the ground, whether that be tiles or coins. McArdle's luck in uncovering ancient treasure is simply that—luck. Nothing more. I caution you to read too much into it."

  "I'll take your advice on board," Matt said, once again assuming the role of friendly gentleman. "Thank you for your time, but we must be going."

  "What of your financial backing?" Mr. Young asked as he climbed out of the pit.

  He held his hand out to me but, before I could take it, Matt grasped my waist and lifted me up. I swallowed my yelp of surprise and muttered my thanks instead, albeit so quietly I doubted he heard.

  "Your work here is remarkable," he said, standing beside me. "We have nothing like this back home. It would be a shame to see all this built over and destroyed."

  "Lamentable."

  We said our goodbyes and Matt promised to consider investing in the dig. "Miss Steele will be in touch."

  Oh? So I was to be a proper assistant in this matter? Or was it all part of his act?

  Matt took my hand and helped me pick my way past the equipment and uneven floor to the waiting carriage. I didn't need his help, but thought it best to keep up the ruse until we were safely inside the coach.

  "You're very good," I said, settling my skirts as I sat.

  "At anything in particular or simply everything?"

  I laughed. "No need to be cocky. At acting a part, and changing yourself and your story as the need arises."

  "It's like bluffing in poker," he said with a shrug.

  "That must be why I'm no good at it. I lose at poker every time."

  "You simply need the practice."

  "Or perhaps I'm too honest."

  "That's not such a bad thing." He frowned. "Did you just imply that I'm deceitful?"

  My face flamed. "I, er…"

  He grinned and I wished I had something harder than my reticule to throw at him.

  "You must find all this running around tiring," I said, to detract from my hot face.

  "A little," he conceded. "I wish we had more to show for our efforts."

  "We have much to show. We know Daniel's disappearance is linked to a coin hoard, and to McArdle and the map he made for him."

  He eyed me warmly. So warmly that it did nothing to soothe my flushed face. "Thank you, India."

  "For what?"

  "For being optimistic. You have a way of lifting my mood. And God knows, I can be melancholy these days."

  He had good reason to be. It was remarkable he was able to smile at all with the dark cloud of his ill health hanging over his head. "We will find Chronos," I said. "I'm sure of it. Mirth will lead him to us on Wednesday after we speak to him. I have a good feeling about it."

  "As do I, India. As do I."

  We arrived home to find Miss Glass receiving a gentleman caller alone in the drawing room. Bristow's mouth turned down as he announced it, and I suspected he disliked the idea of a lady, even one of Miss Glass's age, being alone with a man.

  "Who is it, I wonder," Matt said, his lips twitching. "A long-term admirer coming out of the woodwork now that she's free from her brother's clutches?"

  "An American, sir, by the name of Payne. Sheriff Payne."

  Chapter 11

  Matt dropped the hat he'd been in the midst of handing to Bristow and sprinted up the stairs, taking two at a time. I hurried after him, lifting my skirts well above my ankles. I was a fair distance behind, however, and arrived in the drawing room just in time to see Matt facing off against the stranger, his fist scrunched in the man's shirt at his collar. So this was the corrupt lawman who'd followed Matt from America, accused him of terrible crimes across several states, and wanted him locked away—or dead.

  And he was calmly drinking tea and eating cake with Matt's aunt in her home, smiling back at Matt like the cat that got the cream. I didn't blame Matt for wanting to throttle him.

  "Matthew!" Miss Glass's horrified shriek pierced the air, but didn't stop Matt from shouting at the fellow whose shirt suffered in his grip.

  He shook Payne violently. "How dare you come here!"

  Payne simply kept his hands raised. A sickly smile sheltered beneath his moustache and his hazel eyes gleamed with amusement. He was younger than I expected, perhaps in his mid-thirties; he was tall and lean with a narrow face and high forehead. His slicked back hair and tailored striped suit pegged him as a fashionable city gentleman, not a Wild West sheriff, but the suit looked new so perhaps he'd ordered it as soon as he arrived in London.

  "Come now, Glass, this is a free country, isn't it?" Payne drawled in a thick American accent. "Can't a man drink tea with a pretty lady?" He turned his oily smile onto Miss Glass and then me. No woman in her right mind would consider the fellow charming, despite his words. Not even Miss Glass seemed flattered. She looked shocked to her very prim toes.

  Matt shoved him toward the door. "Get out! You're not welcome here."

  "Matthew!" Miss Glass pressed her fingers to her lips.

  I put my arm around her shoulders, and she shrank into me.

  "India," she whispered. "What's he doing? Why is Matthew hurting that fellow?"

  "He's not a good man," I told her. "Matt will see him out and we'll explain."

  Payne smirked. "Got your little wag-tail believing your tall tales too, Glass?"

  Matt's fist punched the smirk off Payne's face.

  Miss Glass screamed and covered her face.

  "Stop, Matt!" I cried. "You're frightening your aunt."

  With a snarl, Matt bundled Payne through the door, half marching him, half pushing. Their retreating footsteps didn't quite hide Payne's low chuckle. He had rattled Matt and he knew it. He relished it, perhaps even thrived on the knowledge. I'd known the man a mere minute, and already I didn't like him.

  "Miss Glass," I said, "are you all right?"

  "I think so." She dabbed at her eyes and patted her hair. "Why did Matthew act like that? That fellow claimed to be a friend of his from America."

  "He's not a friend," was all I said. It wasn't my place to tell her, nor did I think it wise to tell her everything. "If he comes here again, have Bristow throw him out."

  The front door slammed shut, and Matt returned a moment later. He smoothed down the wayward strands of his hair and tugged on his cuffs. "Aunt, that was a man known as Payne. He…doesn't like me." He shot me a warning look.

  I acknowledged it with a slight n
od.

  "I've warned Bristow not to let him in if he turns up again," Matt said. "But I suspect he won't."

  Miss Glass rubbed her arms. "If I'd known he was no good, I wouldn't have taken tea with him. If he's not your friend, Matthew, then he's not mine either." She sounded defiant, but I could still feel her trembles.

  Matt sighed heavily. "It's not your fault, Aunt. I'm sorry I scared you."

  Polly arrived and took her mistress in hand. Matt must have asked her to collect his aunt and see to her comfort in her rooms. It was good of him to think of her welfare even as he was bundling out an intruder.

  "Are you all right?" I asked Matt once Polly and Miss Glass were out of earshot.

  "That ought to be my question," he said, hiking up his trouser legs and taking a seat.

  "I'm made of sterner stuff than your aunt, and it's not me he wants to send to jail."

  He leaned forward, elbows on his knees, and dragged a hand through his hair, messing it up all over again. I half rose before remembering myself and sitting again.

  No, I should get up. Matt was my friend and he needed comforting, propriety be damned.

  I stood by his chair, unsure where to put my hand. While I wanted to touch his head or massage his neck, I settled it on his shoulder where the touch wasn't so intimate. Or so I thought. It turned out not to be a safe place at all.

  He glanced up at me, his eyes smoky. All the anger had disappeared from them, but they were filled with tension and exhaustion. He needed his watch. Hardly aware of my own actions, I undid his jacket button and slipped my hand inside. His body's heat warmed me, his exotic spicy scent filled my nostrils. Being so close to him thrilled me, but my reaction scared me too. I felt so unlike myself. My head clouded with a kind of fog that made it impossible to think clearly, and my heart danced erratically in my chest.

  He stared at me from beneath lowered lashes. His throat moved with his swallow. "India," he whispered, his breath brushing my lips.