With the basket still four feet from the roof, Claire leaped over the side and landed in a crouch, the rifle still in one hand, then gathered up her skirts with the other and ran. Overhead, lightning leaped out of the sky, thunder cracked with a ground-shaking concussion, and the heavens opened up and wept.
*
“Maggie—Maggie—oh, please don’t be dead! Please, Maggie!” Blinded by tears, Lizzie crouched next to her cousin’s body, terrified to turn her over, yet desperate to know if that beloved heart still beat, if the life she valued more than any other was housed yet in this dreadfully still form.
Around her, thunder crashed and lightning lit up the rooftop as she gently pulled on Maggie’s shoulder and rolled her to her back. Her right arm flopped to the ground, as inanimate as clay. Every lesson Lizzie had ever learned in anatomy and biology clean fled her brain in her panic. Pulse? How did one check a pulse? How—
“Is she alive?” A feminine voice. A rush of wet skirts. The scent of roses and cinnamon. Who—? “Lizzie, you must pull yourself together,” the Lady said in a rush, already pulling Maggie’s jacket aside, her hands frantic on her chest, her ribs, her shoulders. “Is she alive?”
Lizzie’s mind seemed to snap back into operation as though a switch had been thrown. “Lady, de Maupassant—!”
“—is dead. I shot him. Dear heaven, Lizzie, is Maggie—what on earth …?”
For there was no blood. There should be blood—Maggie’s wet blouse should be running with it. The only blood she could see welled from a cut on her forehead where she had struck the wall in her forward momentum.
And then Lizzie’s frantic hands encountered something hard under Maggie’s waist. Hard and rectangular and utterly out of place. Not a corset. Then what? She yanked the batiste out of Maggie’s waistband, raised it up, and stared.
“Lizzie, what in heaven’s name is that?”
Lizzie’s mouth hung open, and it was only with difficulty that she got it shut and working again. She drew the objects—for there were two, one in front and one in back—out from under Maggie’s clothes. “They—they are mnemosomniographic plates. Dream plates. But why …?” The glass of the one in her right hand was cracked all the way across from the force of Maggie’s landing upon it. The one in back bore a dent as big as a robin’s egg in the brass backing, and the glass plate had been shattered altogether. Glass tinkled under Maggie’s body as they lowered her gently to the slate.
“Lizzie?” came a whisper, faintly under the sound of the wind and driving rain. “Lizzie, are you alive?”
She dropped the plates and gathered Maggie into her arms, hot tears welling in her eyes and running down her icy cheeks. “Mags! You’re alive! Tell me where it hurts, darling—are you hurt?”
“My back—something awful.”
“And no wonder,” the Lady said softly, gathering them both into her arms, her own face awash with rain and tears of joy. “Maggie, dearest, did you really use those plates as armor?”
“I couldn’t think of anything else.” Maggie’s voice strengthened with every word. “They were lying on the dream table so I just snatched them up in case he was armed.” Her eyes widened and she tried to sit up. “Is he—Lady, watch out—”
“He’s dead, Mags.” Lizzie helped her sit up. “The Lady got here just in time.”
“You got my message, then,” Maggie breathed. “The postmistress was dreadfully annoyed—she was just closing up to go to the fireworks and she—” With a gasp, she exclaimed, “The princes!”
“Safe,” the Lady said. “For some strange reason, the missile veered away from the ship at the last moment, and plunged into the river. They will have a bathing-pool there now, I daresay. It was quite the spectacular excavation.”
Lizzie might have laughed in sheer relief if her blood hadn’t still been thundering through her veins in the aftermath of terror. “I wrapped it in a corset bone,” she said, “while de Maupassant wasn’t looking. From my antigravity corset. It was repenthium—that useless element with the bad reputation.”
The Lady’s and Maggie’s eyes both widened in such comical astonishment that this time, Lizzie did laugh. She laughed and laughed, until finally she began to cry. But it was a good kind of crying. Sometimes life was such a wonderful gift that laughter was simply not adequate for the occasion. And like laughter, tears could be shared with those you loved.
“Lizzie,” Maggie said softly through her own tears, “the plates—they were the ones of your mother. I was in a hurry and—oh, Lizzie, if they were the only images of her that you had, I am so sorry!”
Lizzie shook her head, and wiped her cheek with the flat of her hand. “Don’t ever be sorry. My mother gave her life to save us all those years ago. Don’t you think it’s wonderful that her memory was the very thing that saved your life tonight?”
“Her memory, and your own resources,” the Lady said tenderly, smoothing Lizzie’s wet hair off her face, and touching Maggie’s cheek as if she were infinitely precious. “I can think of no better legacy a woman could leave the children she loved, can you?”
And as the Lady and Lizzie helped Maggie to her feet, Lizzie had to admit that she could not. Perhaps she would not destroy her mother’s portrait after all. In fact, if the Lady agreed, it would fit rather nicely over the mantel in the drawing room at Wilton Crescent.
24
Epilogue
The Evening Standard
July 23, 1894
TREASON RESULTS IN SHOCKING DEATH
In an act of treason that has shocked the nation and shaken the Empire to its core, it has been discovered that industrialist and financier Charles Seacombe, born Charles de Maupassant before he changed his name to evade capture and questioning for the murder of his wife, has made an attempt on the lives of Their Royal Highnesses the Prince of Wales and Prince George of Wales.
The motivation behind this dreadful act has its roots in the tide of republicanism that has swept the colleges and streets of England. Far from being a harmless belief to be argued over in lecture halls and public houses, this sedition has culminated in action upon the part of de Maupassant and persons unknown. These miscreants attempted to launch what is believed to be a bomb at the Princess Alexandra, His Highness’s personal airship, as it bore him and the newly wed Prince George to his country estate and thence to Balmoral in Scotland for the grouse season.
The bomb, this newspaper may report with unbounded relief, was successfully diverted, and in the course of a summer storm which passed over the neighborhood at the same time, de Maupassant alias Seacombe, on the roof of his house, was struck by lightning and instantly killed.
Lady Claire Trevelyan, lately inducted into the Royal Society of Engineers and resident of Belgravia, while travelling to visit friends along the same route as the royal party, was witness to the entire shocking scene. “It was my observation that heaven itself intervened to save the heir to the throne,” she said in an interview together with Lady Davina Dunsmuir, close confidante and representative of Her Majesty, from the Prince’s summer estate. “God may not be an Englishman, but I venture to say that our beloved country must have a special place in His heart.”
Private funeral services are being held for Charles de Maupassant alias Seacombe at an undisclosed location in order to avoid the risk of public demonstrations.
*
Two weeks later
“I see that you are not wearing black.” Lizzie sat up on the blanket spread on the broadmead in the shade of Athena’s deceptively shabby fuselage, and gazed at Evan and Claude.
“I see that you are not, either,” Claude observed, all traces of his usual insouciance and humor gone. The Sorbonne set, alarmed at the prospect of actual notoriety, had fled back to Paris, leaving him alone to face the consequences of his father’s actions. Alone, that is, except for his half-sister and cousin, who had returned to the castle to help him clear out.
Evan was watching the workmen down the river, who were busy digging out the crater caus
ed by the missile and turning it into a bathing-pool, as the Lady had predicted. Lizzie had suggested it to Claude herself, though none of them would have the pleasure of swimming in it. Colliford Castle was to be sold, and as far as any of them were concerned, the sooner the better.
“I find it very difficult to put on mourning for the man whose only object since I met him was to take my life.” Claude winced, and Lizzie touched his arm. “I am sorry, Claude. I know you loved him.”
“I feel a perfect fool,” he said bitterly. “How could I not have known the kind of man he was?”
On the other side of the picnic basket, the Lady finished slicing the first of the Colliford orchard’s peaches, and handed half to Claude and half to Maggie. “Do not blame yourself, Claude. You are not alone in this—I was once engaged to a man who had an entire country fooled. The important thing to remember is that he did love you, and you loved the father in him, though the man was flawed.”
Claude nodded, his gaze cast down, and took a reluctant bite of the peach.
“Lady Claire is right,” Evan said. “I’m in the same boat as you, old chap—on the leakier end, at that. After all, you did not attempt to force opium elixir down your sister’s throat against her will.” He sighed, his shoulders drooping under his seersucker jacket.
“Evan Douglas, if you do not stop moping about that, I shall drag you over to the river and drop you in,” Lizzie said. “And you know I can do it.”
Evan gave a rueful smile and touched the back of his head, where the goose-egg had long since subsided. “I do indeed. But I hope I made up for it in some small degree by seeing your mother’s portrait safely aboard Athena just now. When do you plan to lift?”
“Soon,” the Lady said. “After lunch.” She gazed about, taking in the castle sleeping in the sun, the gardens, the river. The sweet smell of cut grass and the roses dozing in the moat wafted to them on the summer breeze. “Such a shame. This was a home, once. But I suppose now the new owners will be obliged to deal with the thrill-seekers who come to the gates to stare.”
“I am half tempted to change my name,” Claude said miserably. “But I suppose I must think of my grandparents and my responsibilities to the Seacombe shipping enterprise. They will be depending on me now.”
“If you are to remain a Seacombe, then perhaps I should become one,” Lizzie said. “You are my half-brother, and I certainly do not want to carry de Maupassant and all the horror associated with it for the rest of my life. Is that not so, Maggie?” The Mopsies, in great decisions and small, stuck together.
“No, it is not,” Maggie said.
The Lady straightened in surprise, and Lizzie felt a shock, rather as though someone in the river had dashed water on her.
“I don’t know what name I am entitled to, nor anything about the Seacombes except what I’ve been told,” Maggie said, a little defiantly. “I am half tempted to choose a name for myself. One of the Lady’s family names, perhaps. Maggie Carrick has rather a nice ring to it, don’t you think?”
The Lady’s gaze warmed. “I do indeed—though you must think carefully on such an important decision. During a trip to Penzance, perhaps?”
“Capital idea,” Claude said, showing the first signs of animation all afternoon. “I must go in any case to see the grands—been putting it off far too long. We shall beard the Seacombe lions together.”
“Together—but not alone,” the Lady said firmly. “With the Dunsmuirs at Balmoral for the shooting, Tigg is free until they decide to return. If you are going down to Penzance after Emilie’s wedding, then I should feel easier if he went with you.”
Lizzie’s heart gave a bound, and to hide it, she touched Maggie’s fingers and redirected the subject, hoping no one would notice the color in her cheeks. “Whatever name we choose, Mags, it’s up to us to bring honor to it at least, if we cannot make it memorable.”
Evan gave a bark of laughter, and the Lady smiled. “My dearest girls, if anyone can make a name—or anything else, for that matter—memorable, it is you. Now, if someone does not cut that orange chiffon cake and give me a slice, I shall expire of sheer longing.”
Lizzie squeezed Maggie’s hand and amid the laughter, reached for the silver knife. In a world that was full of discovery, of friends and enemies, and of bewildering change, it was reassuring to know that there were some things one could always count on.
THE END
Excerpt
While you’re waiting for book six in the Magnificent Devices series, I hope you will enjoy the following excerpt from Immortal Faith, a paranormal YA novel.
Summary
In the small, Old Order Mennonite community of Mitternacht, Iowa, the people pray that God will deliver them from evil. They should have been more specific.
Sophia Brucker is on the threshold of womanhood, standing in the door between her religion’s way of life and the possibilities of the world outside. She is also torn between two young men: David Fischer, whom she has known since childhood, and Gabriel Langford, the new arrival. In a community that only grows when people are born into it, a convert—young, single, and male—is the most exciting thing that has happened in years.
When Sophia’s uncle is found dead in the barn with his throat slashed and bitten, the community grieves—except Sophia, who has been abused by him for years. And when the local mean girl is killed the same way, Sophia hardly dares to voice what she suspects: that only the worst among them are being weeded out. Under the elders’ approving eyes, it seems Gabriel is dedicated to worshipping God. But his methods may not stand up to too close a scrutiny . . . and Sophia is getting very close indeed . . .
Immortal Faith: A novel of vampires and unholy love
by Shelley Adina
Copyright 2011. All rights reserved.
Chapter 1
The baby chick, hatched just yesterday and half the size of my palm, peeped as I stroked its downy yellow back with one finger. The two halves of its tiny beak crossed at the tips, which was why it had been peeping. It couldn’t pick up the feed and it was hungry.
Mamm would be out any moment, but I couldn’t help myself—I had to do something for it, even if all I had to offer was the warmth of my hands. I knew it had to be culled; if it managed to grow up and have chicks of its own, it would pass on the defect. On an Old Order Mennonite farm, even a tiny scrap of life such as this still had to do its best and pull its weight, and my mother had no tolerance for things that didn’t pull their weight.
Unless we were speaking of my youngest brother, Jonah.
Sometimes you didn’t know until a creature was half grown that it would need to be culled. When one of the young roosters decided it was going to challenge Dat for the rule of the farmyard, and attacked his leg in a fury of male aggression, Dat simply pulled it off his boot and ended that discussion with a quick twist. “I’ll not have that bird passing on his bad seed,” was all he’d said, and we had chicken and dumplings for dinner that night.
Jonah and Caleb laughed and called me softheaded as well as softhearted because I couldn’t bring myself to do some of the things that were necessary on a working farm. And while I knew God had a purpose for every animal and human here—even Jonah—and we all had to fill our places . . . I gazed down at the defenseless fluffball in my hand. We were taught to strive after perfection, but couldn’t there be a little room for mercy, too?
But questioning was a sure path to a bad spirit, which led to discontent and pride. Father, forgive me for my resentful thoughts.
“Sophia, are you out here?”
“Ja, Mamm.”
The sunlight streaming in the barn door darkened briefly, throwing my mother’s body into silhouette and shining through her kapp to show the smooth braided bun beneath it. “You’re not mooning over those chicks, are you? You know we can’t keep the ones that aren’t up to standard.”
“I know.”
“You’ll have to learn to do this some day.” Her tone softened as she joined me at the pen where the b
roody hens lived until the chicks were big enough to go out into the barn. “When you’re married and have a fine farm of your own, you’ll be overrun with rickety, good-for-nothing birds if you don’t cull the bad ones.”
No one I knew kept chickens as pets, but in the rare moments that I sat down on the back steps and one would jump into my lap, I would swear that, like my baby sister, they wanted to be cuddled. I wished I could keep this one as a pet.
“She’s not bad,” I said softly. The chick had settled in my palm, and I covered it with my other hand. “It isn’t her fault she’s not perfect.”
“And would you have a yard full of cross-beaks that can’t eat their food? That grow up spindly and thin and won’t fill the stomachs of your family?”
“No.” I sighed. We had this same conversation every spring, and every spring I hated it just as much. The part about getting married and having my own farm hadn’t come up before, though. I wondered what had brought that on.
“Sophia.” Mamm held out her hand. Gently, I put the chick into it and turned away. With no sound but a sudden rustle of the dark blue cotton of her sleeves, it was over. “Are there any more?”
“The one with the yellow spot on its head can’t walk. There, by the Wyandotte mama.” Another rustle of movement. “I’ll bury them, Mamm.”
“Don’t be long bringing in the eggs. I want to speak to you.”
After I’d done my sad duty, I comforted myself watching the rest of the chicks tumble over each other, nip food away from their companions, and collapse in happy abandon for a nap under their mamas’ wings, which kept them warm on this sullen day in the hind part of April. The chicks could not know what had happened to the others, and their innocence was a joy in itself. But how fair was it that they’d only escaped because they met a standard they didn’t even know existed?
Magnificent Devices [5] A Lady of Resources Page 21