Waltz of the Crows

by L Rollins

  She didn’t answer right away, so he added. “What do you need it for?”

  She chewed on her bottom lip for a moment. Was she debating how long a rope she needed or if she could trust him to know what it was for? The thought only made him want to know more.

  He stopped before a wall where at least a half a dozen different ropes hung, all tidily wrapped and stored. “As you can see, you have your pick, but each job needs a different length and width.”

  “I know.” Her tone was hesitant. So she was debating how much to tell him.

  He leaned in close. She smelled like spiced apples. It made him hungry, but not for food.

  “You can trust me, you know,” he whispered low.

  She remained motionless for a breath, then turned and gave him a confident smile, one eyebrow raised higher than the other. “Can I trust you not to mock me for a dreadfully dumb thing I may have done?”

  He didn’t want to pull away, but he had to, or risk being lumped in the category of a rake. “That depends. If it’s only a bit of a dumb thing, I might be able to control myself. But if it’s truly dreadful, all guarantees are off.”

  “Perhaps I’ll see if your sister could help me.” She made to leave the shed.

  Lud, no. He took hold of her arm. He wasn’t about to let an opportunity to help someone slip by him. “I’ll be good. I promise.”

  He was rewarded with a smile. Gads, but she looked beautiful when she smiled like that. One part tease, one part genuine gratitude.

  “I dropped some important papers into the well. I’m needing to rescue them.”

  What the devil? “You’re planning on diving into a well?”

  The tease was gone, and this time she looked up at him with no less than dogged determination. “They are very important papers.”

  Samuel pulled the longest rope he owned off the shed wall. “They must be.”

  A couple of times, while walking together toward the well, Nurse Bartel offered to attempt the rescue alone. She more than once said she didn’t want to put him out.

  As if he’d let her do this without help. As a child, Amelia’s cat had fallen in the well and drowned. Amelia herself had tried to get the cat alone, and it was a miracle they hadn’t lost her, too. No—wells were dangerous things to climb down into. He wouldn’t allow anyone to do so alone.

  Standing to one side of the well, Samuel began tying the rope around his own waist. “You know there’s a chance your papers are little more than fish food at this point, right?”

  Nurse Bartel gave a quick glance over either shoulder. Interesting—was she not wanting to be seen alone with him? Or simply not wanting to be seen all together?

  “They were in a box,” she said, eyes resting on the castle for a moment before turning fully to him. “I’m hoping if we work quick enough, at least some of them might be saved.” She took hold of the rope, close to where he was tying it. “I can go down. They’re my papers, after all.”

  “I’ve spent the past decade of my life diving into water.” He took the rope from her and looped it through the pulley hanging from the well roof. “My sister thinks I can’t even throw dirt around, but I promise you I can do this.”

  “She what?” Nurse Bartel laughed softly.

  “Long story. Now hold the rope around you like this.” He showed her how to loop it around her waist to better leverage his weight.

  The grit in her expression was charming, but her stance was all wrong.

  “Stand with your legs farther apart and put one foot against the stone wall.”

  “Sorry,” she said, following his instructions. “I haven’t ever rescued something from a well.” She caught on quickly, though.

  Samuel straddled the stone well wall. “Ready?”

  She nodded.

  He pushed himself off and dangled above the deep, open drop. “Let me down a bit at a time.”

  She nodded again, but this time he guessed she wasn’t speaking because she was using all her energy to keep him up.

  Slowly he dropped, a few inches at a time, down the hole. He kept a hand out, against the stone wall, so as to make sure he didn’t crash against it.

  “You’re doing great. Keep going at that pace,” he called up. The well was far colder than up above. He’d told Nurse Bartel that he’d spent the past decade diving—but it was completely different than this. Before, he’d always dove in a submarine. And he didn’t usually work with rope. He had been at the helm. Those were the good ‘ol days. Doing something he loved, that he was good at.

  His feet hit water. “Just a little more,” he shouted. His voice bounced around the walls encircling him. The sound amplified and pressed against his ears. Ugh—yes, a submarine was certainly a better way to dive.

  Water soaked him up to his mid-thigh. “Stop there.”

  Keeping one hand on the rope, he searched the frigid water for a package like the one Nurse Bartel had described on their way there. What exactly had she been keeping inside the package that made it so valuable?

  Icy drops splashed up onto his shirt, and his legs were starting to go numb from the cold.

  His fingers brushed against something hard. He reached out again, but the package floated behind him where he couldn’t quite reach.

  Twisting around, he pulled hard on the rope so that he could reach out with his other hand.

  With a whizz, he dropped fully into the water. The coldness stung and froze the breath in Samuel’s chest.

  The rope went taut again immediately. “Are you all right?” Nurse Bartel called.

  Samuel forced his lungs to expand and take in air again. “Quite all right.” Submarines were indubitably preferable to this. He reached out and wrapped an arm around the package. “I’ve got it. Pull me up.”

  Going back up took much longer than going down. Luckily, though small in stature, Nurse Bartel was one determined woman. Inch by inch, she persisted until he reached the top of the well wall and pulled himself over the edge.

  He toppled over the wall and rolled onto the castle grass. “You’d make a good seawoman.” His teeth clacked against each other as he spoke. “You should consider it if nursing grows tiresome.”

  She dropped to the ground beside him. “I’m so sorry I dropped you. Now you’re all wet. And freezing.”

  “Don’t worry about it. It was my own fault. I didn’t warn you I was going to pull on the rope.” He held the package out. “I believe this is yours?” Gads, it was cold out here when one was soaking wet. Early summer or not, late evening was a wretched time to take a frosty plunge.

  “I should have thought to have a blanket on hand,” Nurse Bartel said, taking the package and ripping off the lose binding around it.

  She threw the lid off and pulled out a stack of what appeared to be letters, shuffling through them fast.

  “Are they too damaged?” he asked, rising to one elbow.

  Her tight expression eased. “No. The bottom couple are illegible. But the box stayed floating long enough to save the rest of them.” She reached forward suddenly, and rested her hand against his chest. “Truly, this means a lot to me. Thank you.”

  He wrapped his hand around hers, feeling far less frozen now. “My pleasure.”

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  THOUGH ALL THE were riddled with water spots, only two were unreadable.

  Moreover, after reading the first half dozen, Leila could easily infer what the rest of them said.

  They were love letters. Each and every one of them. Letters written by Madame Mauve Uppertick, but never sent. Without an exception, Claude was the intended recipient.

  Well, probably not ‘intended’ per se. Judging by the way Madame Uppertick had been storing these beneath her underclothing, and after seeing the way she’d gone to great—though ineffective—lengths to destroy them, Leila doubted she truly wanted Claude to read any of them.

  You are my stars, my lavender-scented air, my hope for a bright future.

  Claude—your very name gives me chills when
ever I cross it. I think of you, and blush. My every waking moment is filled with thoughts of my next visit and of your welcoming arms . . .

  What utter drivel. Did the woman really think this way? Leila stifled a yawn as she pushed aside one letter and opened the next.

  Talking her way out of being late to work last night had proved far more difficult than she’d first imagined. She was fairly sure Martha intended to sack her later today, at least several of her fellow nurses had alluded to as much.

  But she couldn’t leave now. Victor needed her. London needed her. Gears above, all of Conques needed her.

  With her gone, who would be digging into—she held up the next letter and grimaced—this glorious mush.

  Natalie muttered something in her sleep and rolled over. Leila stilled. It had been murder pretending to sleep after their exhausting, all-night shift had ended. Leila herself had very nearly fallen asleep while waiting for Natalie to do so.

  But she couldn’t sleep right now. These letters weren’t the condemning proof she’d been hoping for, but they were something. At least, she desperately prayed they were something.

  Poor Rowley. She loved that he’d been so willing to help, even not knowing the significance of what he’d done. Without requiring her to beg him, without even having to stoop to simpering and flirting as she’d seen so many women do to get what they needed, he’d simply said yes. She’d needed help, and he’d been willing to give it.

  Victor had told her more than once, when it came to spy work, the job was always too big for one person and allies were invaluable. Rowley would make a good ally; he was smart, strong, and always willing to pitch in and do his part.

  She tapped an unopened letter against her lip. Perhaps he’d even make a good spy. Someone as friendly and likable as him could easily gain access to all sorts of people and places.

  But that was another thought for another day. The life of a spy was not for everyone; he may not like such work at all.

  Leila opened the letter, skimming over the flowery fluff that so resembled the previous ones. She paused though, two-thirds of the way down, and re-read:

  You spurned me, yet again, last night. It leads me to wonder if, perhaps, my love, you need a different form of persuasion. You claim Conques is your current love and that you cannot be distracted from caring for those here.

  But, my dearest, do you not see that they mean nothing compared to you and I? Must you lose one love to see what a tragedy it would be to lose my love?

  Leila lowered the letter to the small desk. Was that a threat? Could the simpering, spoiled Madame Uppertick truly have it within herself to carry out something so horrible as the waltzing flu?

  She carefully opened the next one. It had been a difficult shift, even though most of her patients were remaining steady. She’d wanted to rush back to her room and tear through these letters. However, one benefit of waiting was the letters were dry now and far less likely to disintegrate when being opened.

  This one opened with the same florid phrases the others had, but it turned spiteful quickly.

  Your people are sick—how long until you realize our love could heal them?

  Another phrase, further down:

  The more you ignore me, the more the waltzing flu dances from one corner of your sick little town to another. Ignore me and they die.

  Leila folded the letter after finishing it, a weight pressing against her chest. This could be it—the proof Victor had suffered for and the evidence London needed. She didn’t know how Madame Uppertick was inflicting the disease, but this was an undeniable step toward a solution.

  A knock wrapped at their door. “Funeral service to start in an hour,” said an overly cheerful voice.

  Leila quickly, though carefully, shoved all the letters back under her mattress. She’d write London the first moment she could.

  Natalie blinked her eyes open. “Another funeral today?”

  “Apparently so,” Leila replied. But it would be one of the last if she could stop it.

  ***

  The long, heavy gongs of the organ refused to stop ringing in Leila’s ears as she walked down the shallow steps of the Abbey Church of Saint Foy at the close of the funeral.

  Four more burials today. Four more souls no longer suffering. Four more people who didn’t deserve to die.

  Natalie looped her arm through Leila’s. “Why would you ever spend so much on such a lovely coat and never wear it?” She pointed at the coat draped between Leila’s arms.

  She looked down at the vibrant blue article. Who cared about a coat when four people were dead? “It was warm in the abbey.”

  “Well, if I owned something so flattering and eye-catching, I certainly wouldn’t waste it.”

  Leila didn’t respond. Last night’s supper was all that was left in her stomach since she hadn’t had time for breakfast before the service. What little was left wasn’t sitting well.

  “Don’t let it get you down.” Natalie’s voice softened. “We do all we can. The rest is in God’s hands.”

  God and whoever was perpetrating this madness—very possibly Madame Uppertick. Leila let out a frustrated breath. Sitting still in the pews had reminded her that she’d gotten very little sleep the previous night. She still had a few hours before her shift started yet again; she had to lie down if she had any hope of making it.

  But first, she needed to be sure she would even have a shift that night.

  “Thank you.” She patted Natalie’s hand where it rested against her arm. Though Natalie could be silly and overly obsessed with men, she was a kind soul. “Do you know where I might find Mar—I mean Madame Harmon.”

  If the other nurses were right, Martha might be planning on terminating her work before sunset. After all she’d learned about Madame Uppertick, she couldn’t walk away now. It was her responsibility to keep herself in a position where she could learn more.

  “She usually stops by the graveyard after the funeral,” Natalie said, turning to leave. “Good luck.”

  Leila rounded the side of the large abbey. Off to her right was the road toward Rowley’s small home. It was a beautiful place. He had a right to be proud of it. She hoped he’d warmed up sufficiently from his tumble into the well.

  Martha Hamon stood beside two small gravestones, her normally rigid posture slumped.

  “Madame Hamon?” Leila said.

  The woman didn’t respond, but slowly stood up straight once more. Leila stepped up closer and read the headstones. Simple and unadorned, they held little more than names:

  Charles Hamon

  Born May 23,1830

  Died Dec 27, 1872

  The second was equally as simple:

  Little Henri Hamon

  Born Jan 12,1872

  Died Jan 15, 1872

  Leila felt her heart break as she pieced together all the sorrow those few dates contained. Martha’s baby had only been three days old when he died. She had given birth and buried a baby less than a month after burying her husband.

  She looked up at Martha. What a harrowing time of life. Leila herself had never lost anyone particularly close. How did one lose two of the most important people in the world, in such a short time span, and continue on?

  Martha scowled. “Come to beg?”

  If that’s what it took. Leila had to keep this job. She motioned toward the headstones. “I’m sorry for your loss.”

  “You are young, Leila. You cannot possibly imagine what I’ve endured.” She picked up her skirt in both hands and stalked toward the abbey. “You will find that trying to butter me up with fake sympathy will get you nothing.”

  Leila had meant the condolence sincerely, but apparently Martha couldn’t imagine someone actually caring if she was hurting or not.

  Better jump straight to the point. “Madame, I wanted to apologize for my tardiness last night.”

  “You should,” Martha said without looking back.

  “It was unprofessional and wrong. I am sincerely sorry.” Exactl
y how did one apologize to the housekeeper? Leila had heard her mother apologize to the housekeeper over not giving enough notice that company was coming to stay or over leaving an unusually large mess of ribbons and bows to be cleaned up.

  But that was completely different. Her mother could have fired the housekeeper on a whim.

  “I am sincere,” Leila caught up to Martha and faced her full on. “I need this job and I promise you can depend on me.”

  “No, I can’t depend on you.” Martha tried to push past, but Leila was not about to allow a housekeeper to end her career as a spy.

  “Please, Madame.”

  Martha’s scowl deepened. “You, Leila, are an arrogant, self-righteous, narrow-minded prissy. Showing up late for work is wholly unacceptable.”

  “I know—”

  “Do not interrupt me.”

  Leila clamped her mouth shut.

  “I have a good mind to throw you out. Walking around like you own the place. Always believing you know best for all.” She gripped her hands tight in front of her and pushed her shoulders back yet further. “However, I am having an inordinate time finding nurses who are willing to come to Conques at all. The castle is only filling up faster, not clearing out. And so. . .” she paused, seemingly reluctant to let the words out. “You may stay.”

  Relief flooded through Leila. Oh gracious, she’d be allowed to stay. She could continue to investigate Madame Uppertick and keep an eye on Victor.

  “But know this.” Martha’s tone turned hard again. “You are only staying because I am desperate. Be late one more time and I will opt for no nurse over an undependable one.”

  CHAPTER THIRTEEN

  “THANK YOU AGAIN, Samuel.” Madame Hamon spoke in her usual clipped tones. “That will be all for today.”

  He gave her a polite bow and she turned and left. Samuel ran a hand over his brow, wiping away the sweat there. Well, another day full of nothingness and uselessness.