Molly accepted the letter of invitation from him gratefully.
“Ozias will see that you have dinner before you leave.”
“How did you prepare all this?”
“How? Why, I am Charles Walsh, one of the wealthiest colonial businessmen in London,” he replied tongue-in-cheek.
Molly was surprised at herself when she giggled like a child. “But of course.”
“I have my ways, Miss.” He discovered in his mind’s absence his hands had found her waist and embarrassedly withdrew them with a concealing smile.
Molly blushed crimson as Tom left for the kitchen. He isn’t avoiding me, she thought happily, he’s just being shy. Molly bit her lip and smiled as she walked about the room, her hands clasped together behind her back, toying with the magic ring still on her finger. An incredible fragrance drifted through the first floor of the house from the kitchen, filling the dining room. The scent was mouthwatering, and Molly realized she felt an animalistic hunger, having been nearly starved while out at sea. She was certain her nose detected bacon, fried eggs and toast, ham and muffins.
Tom finished his breakfast first and excused himself to get ready to leave for the day. Molly’s gaze lingered on the window by the dining table. Light snow was falling, and the sun was just barely scratching its way through the clouds. About half an hour later, Tom returned, dressed in a heavy grey cape, its collar turned up to protect his ears from the weather. Molly gawked once more at his new appearance.
With his left arm he held the large chest with the heavy chain and lock under the cape, and with his right hand he placed a wool hat on his head. Tom told Molly goodbye for the day. “I expect we’ll see each other again this evening after the performance. I hope you enjoy it.”
“Have a good day, Mr. Walsh,” she said, her voice cracking.
“And you, Miss Bishop.” He tipped his hat and stepped out into the snowy street, making his way up town to the silversmith’s. Ozias, waving, shut the door behind Thomas and gathered the empty plates on the table.
Outside it continued to snow. Tom trudged through the biting cold, his locked chest of valuables tucked beneath his large winter coat. Huffing a plume of steam, he wrenched open the large door into the silversmith’s forge up the street.
After taking a winter coat from a hook on the back of her door and putting it on, Molly followed the observatory staircase toward the roof of Tom’s house. Something in one of the candles on a wall caught her eye. Inspecting it, she noticed that where a wick should have been there was a red gem—a ruby—sunken into the tip of the candle. In fact, the candle itself was not made of wax but, rather, some kind of glass. Deciding it best not to fool with anything valuable in Thomas’s house, she continued to climb the stairs. As her hand passed the candle, mounted close to a railing, a little flame burst to life from the ruby in the glass candle. Molly tried to blow it out to no avail. Licking her fingertips, she then reached to snuff it by hand, but the flame died before she ever touched it. How odd, she thought. Is this a type of magical artifact my father would make? Waving her hand over the candle, she played with the device for several minutes, then, letting the other candles alone and keeping her hands close to her, Molly continued up the stairs.
The city rooftops spouted identical columns of chimney smoke. Looking down from the canopy of the observatory, Molly thought the brick structures formed a dark grey jungle. Below were rivers of white, and above were tree trunks of black. Molly’s hair collected snow as it fell steadily downward through an open skylight in the glass dome surrounding her. Shivering, she noticed how many people walked the city streets below her—schools of coats in a wintry stream. After a bit, the snow fell harder still, and Molly retreated downstairs, but not before shutting the skylight and wiping the collecting snow from the lens of a large telescope positioned in the center of the room. She hung up her coat to dry and started a fire in the fireplace—it worked just as the candles in the observatory stair—and her room became comfortably warm in a matter of minutes. She caught sight of the wardrobe in the corner and decided to see exactly what Thomas had purchased for her.
The wardrobe was lined with beautiful silk gowns, dress coats, cotton dresses and various other garments. She closed the wardrobe shut, her spirits high. Deciding she was in need of a way to pass the time, she went into the bedroom that featured a library, started its fireplace with a flourish of her wrist (thoroughly amused with herself and searched for a book that might capture her interest. Eyeing the shelves slowly, her attention was suddenly drawn to a particular book, Magical Practices of Southwest Asia. She took the book to her room, set herself comfortably in front of the fire and allowed her imagination to carry her away. As Molly continued to read, the warm glow of the room set a soft, dreamy atmosphere. Nothing like something magic to pass time during an adventure, she thought, laughing to herself. Tom seemed to have plenty of books on the subject, after all. London, and all this magic business, might just grow on me, she thought.
Tom shut the large door of the silversmith’s behind him, denying the bitter cold entry into the hot forge. He removed his coat quickly, having already broken out into a sweat. Tom approached a tall, weighty, ox of a man, Fenn, who leaned over a massive anvil, pounding tirelessly away at a carriage wheel. By the look of it, it was for someone important.
“Afternoon, Fenn.”
Fenn shuffled around slowly, laying down his hammer (larger than Tom’s head) and responded loudly. “Ah! Hello, Mr. Walsh!”
“It’s been quite some time, yeah?” Tom chuckled as he shook Fenn’s gorilla hand, or rather, Fenn’s hand shook him.
“True, it has, Walsh! Travel abroad much, did you?”
“Extensively. Fenn, I meant to ask you today, would you happen to have the item I ordered two years ago after I returned from Hatteras?”
Fenn paused in thought. “Ah, if I remember correctly … Oh yes! You wanted that—”
Thomas nodded quickly, hushing Fenn.
“It’s fortunate that I expected you to return. I stored it in the back of the shop till I’d see you again.” He led Tom to the storage rooms. “What a feat it was, Walsh, making such an item. I’d never thought to attempt it before. I remember warnin’ you how expensive it would be, but,” he laughed loudly “I could tell you meant to have it nonetheless!”
“And I do,” Tom replied with a friendly gesture. “I’ve brought the full sum you asked for.” Tom took the locked chest from under his cape and placed it on a table with a heavy crash. “Worth every pound,” said Tom enthusiastically, seeing Fenn glance at the chest.
“Well, one would expect it. I had to have this item sent off to a specialist.” He looked around as though there might be others lurking in the corners of his shop. “I’m no scholar of magic you know, Walsh,” he whispered.
“It’s quite all right, as long as it serves its purpose.”
“Yes, but do you realize how difficult it was to hide it? I lost my nerve every time the authorities strolled by the shop, even if they didn’t seem interested in my shop at all.”
“And I apologize for placing that burden upon you,” Tom replied sincerely.
“Nah, don’t make no fuss about it, Walsh.” Fenn handed Tom the inconspicuously wrapped item.
“Oof! It’s quite heavier than I expected.” Tom unwrapped the package, smiling contently at the prize. It shone as cleanly as the day it was forged. He unlocked the chest on the table, revealing a small fortune in gems and golden Spanish coins. He never paid for anything in silver, a lesson he had learned a long time ago. His palms were scarred for every time he’d forgotten the lesson. “A pleasure to do business with you, sir.”
“As always, Walsh! As always!” Fenn replied with much volume.
“Good day, Fenn.” With the exchange complete, Tom departed.
Tom’s maid returned just as the large grandfather clock in the dining room rang out four o’clock. She entered the house and searched the downstairs rooms for the female guest Tom had told her ab
out. “Miss Bishop?” she called from the foot of the stairs.
Molly looked up from the pages of her book. She spied the clock on top of the fireplace mantle reading four o’clock and stood quickly. When she arrived at the top of the main staircase, Molly leaned to look down at the maid in the foyer below. The older woman, startled, hurried to Molly, carrying a large package in both arms.
“How do you do, Miss?” she asked with a curtsy. “We must get you dressed!” She turned to call downstairs. “Ozias! Dinner, please!”
“Forgive me. I must have forgotten the time,” Molly explained timidly.
“Yes, of course,” she replied. “No worries, dear. Would you like to see what Mr. Walsh has purchased you?”
Molly eyed the woman curiously, finding something familiar in her appearance. She shook the thought away. “Yes, of course.”
The maid led her to her room without asking which one she had chosen. “Oh, I’m anxious to see your reaction, dear.” Once inside, the maid pulled an extravagant dress from its package and laid it neatly across Molly’s bed. “It was quite an ordeal to carry such a delicate thing safely in such horrid weather. Let’s get you dressed, then.”
Molly’s face brightened. “It’s beautiful.” The dress was long and flowing, golden in color. It came low around the neck, where many fluffed layers of silver fabric swept down from the collarbone and across the neckline. Silver stitching created a weave of graceful vines that cascaded down the front of the dress all the way to the ankles. The neckline started below the shoulders, meant to show off the skin and delicate figure beneath.
The maid was smiling, revealing her small pearly teeth. Perhaps two or three decades Molly’s senior, the woman spoke with a slight French accent that occasionally interrupted her otherwise clear English. She was a pretty woman despite her age. Her fair skin was disrupted by wrinkles only around her eyes. Her straight, light brown hair was tied and obscured under her maid’s cap. Friendliness and a tendency to overinteract with things—including Molly and her dress—marked her nature. “I’m pleased you like it,” she said.
“Thank you. I don’t believe I got your name?”
“Oh! Excuse my manners. I am Charlotte.”
Molly knew she’d sensed déjà vu. “I wonder, Charlotte, if you happen to know a man by the name of Samuel Bishop?” she asked.
“Oh! Why, I almost married him many years ago, before things between us went sour. How do you know Mr. Bishop?”
Molly closed her eyes suddenly, her memories flooding back to her. “You don’t remember me, do you Charlotte? You were often a guest in the home of my uncle when I was a girl.”
Charlotte looked puzzled. “You don’t mean … What is your name, dear?”
“My name is Molly. Samuel Bishop was my uncle.”
“Molly? Oh, my! Where have you been, dear?” She suddenly sat on the bed by the dress. “Please forgive me for sitting—”
“It’s been too long, Charlotte.”
“Considerably long! You’re all grown! And so beautiful a woman! I did not recognize you at all!” Charlotte’s expression was one of shock. “You know, though, that your uncle is … well, after his head maid, the one you called Aunt, passed away, he decided to live here in the city. He sold his country home to a wealthy horse breeder. I assumed you were aware of all this, wherever you might be.”
“My uncle is living in London? Will you take me to him?” Molly asked.
Charlotte wrung her hands, and her eyes told Molly there was trouble. “Something happened to him just recently.”
“What happened?” Molly asked impatiently.
“Only recently, your uncle moved here permanently, and he quickly went into business with a merchant who owned several shops here in London, including a jeweler and a gunsmith, both of which were robbed.”
“Robbed?” she repeated. Tom and Ozias’s earlier conversation came to mind. “Oh, no!”
“Dear?”
Panic-stricken, Molly grabbed the maid’s hand. “Charlotte, what of my uncle? Is he all right?”
“Dear, he …” She hesitated. “Your uncle was pronounced dead and missing as of Tuesday night.”
Molly stood suddenly, shaking her head back and forth in denial, her breathing shallow. “Both dead and missing? How can that be?”
“Signs were that he could not have lived through the ordeal, but his body was missing,” Charlotte replied.
Molly’s eyes filled with tears. Returning to London had meant a great deal to her, but with her uncle now gone her memories of the city seemed to die with him. He was the only real family she had ever known.
“Oh, dear, I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to upset you,” Charlotte apologized, trying to comfort Molly. Only when Charlotte tried to hold her still did Molly realize she was trembling.
“Please, dear,” Charlotte said, “let’s just get you some dinner and then into your dress. You’ll feel better.” She took Molly by the arm and walked with her downstairs to the dining room, calling for Ozias.
Ozias immediately put dinner on the dining table. Molly sat silently, sipping Pinot Noir and eating some roast beef. As soon as she had eaten all she could manage in her present mood, the two women went back upstairs so that Charlotte could help Molly into her dress. The older woman had managed to settle some of Molly’s tears, though the girl still expressed a downcast, forlorn disposition. An opera didn’t appeal to Molly’s current mood. Not much of anything did. Silently, she blamed herself for what had happened to Samuel. If she hadn’t run off, would he have still sold his home and come to London?
Charlotte began with Molly’s hair, starting with one long braid and wrapping it into a tidy French twist that rested centered on the back of her head. Molly forced a smile for Charlotte’s sake, but her attention wandered off to the window, the condition of the weather matching perfectly the way she felt—cold and dismal.
Tom waded sluggishly through the driving snow, making his way toward the harbor. Dusk was darker than it should have been, the sky still obscured and seemingly saddened by thick winter clouds. The streetlights cast hazy, spherical glows on every corner, the crowd thinning as quickly as daylight. Tom was forced to squint through the biting chill, fighting the relentless cold more and more. Blasted weather, he thought to himself with a scowl. The package grew heavy and burdensome in his arms.
The docks were dark, so Tom paused to rest. There were no lights glowing in the customs office’s high windows. Odd, thought Tom. Exhausted, he crouched in the snow, slowly being blinded by the furious weather.
“You look beautiful, dear!” exclaimed Charlotte.
Molly looked into the mirror, hardly recognizing herself. Her red lips contrasted with her complexion, its usual olive tone now pale. The blush in her cheeks hid the puffiness her watery eyes had created. The gown had been chosen well, for it brought out her glowing eyes and bright features, however dim they were now.
“Thank you, Charlotte.”
Ozias was off in the kitchen again while Charlotte prepared for Molly’s departure. Molly sat on a sofa in the sitting room.
“Dear? Your coach has arrived.”
“Hm?” Looking up to see Charlotte smiling at her, Molly stood and walked to the door, where Charlotte placed a heavy fur coat over the girl’s shoulders.
“The weather’s not very agreeable tonight, so mind your surroundings,” Charlotte offered kindly. Molly nodded as she walked out to the coach waiting at the street, then turned to look through the window to see Charlotte waving to her. Molly began to shiver as she entered the empty carriage, the warmth of her coat just barely enough to sustain her through the freezing wind. She wrapped the coat tightly around her as the carriage took off with a jerk.
Shadows gathered beyond the last lamp post leading to the docks. The wind ceased to blow, and long, inky shadows ran down the nearby edifices and pooled in the drifts. A flutter of wings stopped Thomas in his tracks, and heavy, black coats appeared all around him swaying menacingly in the dark. One shadow
chuckled. Tom’s expression quickly devolved to one of instinctive hatred. A voice shouted at him.
“Thomas Crowe? Oh yes, it is, I see! We were informed you would be here, but you’re earlier than we expected. I have to ask you, Thomas, are you anxious to meet your end? Do you grow tired of living, or did you not believe he would know you were following him?”
“Who?” Tom demanded to know. The shadows stirred, laughing and mumbling. Tom tucked a hand into his cape, feeling for the wrapped package, untying the string silently. He kept still, squinting intently at his aggressors, waiting.
“Why, your brother Harlan, of course! Thomas, you don’t know how eager we were to find you. I assure you we can do much worse than the Royal Navy.” The shadow scoffed as he spoke the name. “After all, His Majesty’s officers are still too human to hope to catch a man like you.” An evil, white smile spread across the spectre’s face, his cheeks glowing pale white, eyes stained pink, veiny and engorged. Tom began to fidget.
“I wholeheartedly despise your kind, Thomas. Uncivilized pests! It’s no mystery why Parliament is conspiring against the northern clans. Harlan was wise to join our cause. We’re the only reason left in a confused and troubled mortal world.”
The shadows raised their arms to chest level. Tom heard hammerlocks clicking and the laughter of the shades. London harbor erupted with thunder, the port office buildings reflecting the bright muzzle flash of guns. Deep snowdrifts and the walls of the offices could not adequately muffle the cacophony of the assault. While most of the city remained oblivious to the commotion, everyone in the district around wondered at the noise. Yet there near the docks, people were loathe to investigate such noises. When the street was silent once more, Tom’s cape lay riddled with holes in the snow.
The Lore Series (Box Set): All 3 Books In One Volume Page 10