Emma stiffened her back and bade her knees sternly not to buckle. It was a relief that she was not a murderer after all, by accident or otherwise. Nevertheless, this was a difficulty. It might, when he regained consciousness, be something rather worse.
As if in response to her thoughts, Sister Infirmarer met the abbess’ enquiring gaze and shook her head. “It’s not good,” she said. “The body is healthy, if bruised, but the skull was not so fortunate. The opticon detects severe cranial trauma. If he wakes, he may have no power to move or speak.”
“Can you be certain of that?” Emma asked. She spoke out of turn, but she could not help herself. It was vital that she know.
“Nothing is certain in this world,” Sister Infirmarer said, “but I do believe that the damage is significant. It would be most merciful if he failed to wake at all.”
“I am not a good Christian,” said Emma. “I do wish that he would wake and know what penalty he pays for his sins.”
“Do you indeed?” said the abbess. Her tone was odd. “Do you sincerely wish for such a thing?”
“I am not a good Christian,” Emma repeated. “Yes, I do wish it.”
Sister Infirmarer’s breath hissed. “Reverend Mother! You can’t be suggesting—”
“Most probably I should not be,” the abbess said. “And yet, as we know well, the Lord’s ways are often mysterious.”
“He is not consecrated,” the infirmarer said.
“No,” said Mother Agatha, “but the vessel is.”
“That calls for a far more subtle grasp of theology and canon law than I can begin to claim,” said the infirmarer.
“As to that,” the abbess said, “what we do here is not approved in Rome: that we all know well. So too do we know that God approves it, and He stands above any earthly priest or prelate. He brought us together one by one, each with such gifts and arts and skills as few in this world may claim; He gave us friends and allies with great resources and greater devotion to His glory. Now He gives us this, that may serve us in the manner of a priest—if only to assure the Holy See that we are appropriately confessed and shepherded.”
“Yet,” said the infirmarer in a long breath, “to go to those lengths...”
“Have we any other choice?” the abbess asked. “We can send to Rome, but I doubt sincerely that we will be blessed again with a pastor who cares so much for his wine and so little for his flock that he takes no notice of any irregularity.”
“It is a pity,” the infirmarer had to concede, “that the good God chose to take him when he was away from here, so suddenly that there was no time to claim either the body or the soul. Still—”
“The good God gave us this,” the abbess said: “a great and terrible sinner, but how many truly good men have you known among the priests of Rome? It’s not the soul that makes the priest. The ritual itself is pure no matter how foul the one who performs it, if only his body has been ordained by a duly consecrated bishop—as this one has, thanks be to the good God and to my cousin the archbishop, who is addled and nearly blind. Who knows? Our faith is a faith of redemption. What greater sacrifice is there for any man, and what greater atonement, than to be given up to the perpetual service of God?”
Emma heard their colloquy in profound astonishment. It was logical, in its way, if one were completely convinced of the rightness of one’s faith. It was justice of a kind that would have gladdened the heart of the most bloodthirsty prophet of the Old Testament. It was mercy, one could suppose, if mercy was to remove the soul from a body that had broken irretrievably, and place it in the heart of an automaton. If the entire goal of one’s life was to survive at any cost, would this cost be reckoned too high?
Sister Infirmarer spread her hands in surrender. “If that is God’s will, then I’ll not stand in the way.”
“We’ll know when the rite begins,” said the abbess. “His soul may be nonexistent, or so feeble or so malformed that the vessel will reject it. God will decide. If He favours us, we have a priest. If not, we’re in no worse state than we were before.”
This vessel had the appearance of a slender man of medium height, with a refined and scholarly face and long elegant hands. It bore no resemblance whatever to the broad-shouldered, devilishly handsome body that lay in front of it. In Emma’s estimation, it was an improvement.
She dreaded even now that the nuns’ God would work a miracle, and Fraser would wake, sit up, and curse them all roundly. But he lay as still as before, save for a sequence of aimless movements that, Sister Infirmarer had said, were common in victims of his particular trauma. She had bound the wrists to the sides of the bier to hold them still, lest he flail when the knife began to cut.
Emma held her breath until the heart beat within the luminous chalice. Then at last the body lay unmoving, truly and inarguably dead.
The light of this heart was not nearly so bright as that of the nun which she had seen before. The good Sister’s had been washed in white light. This was darker, closer to crimson, yet there was light enough in it, of such a quality, that after a long and careful inspection, both the abbess and the surgeon nodded. “It will do,” Mother Agatha said.
The procedure to incorporate the heart into the vessel seemed much longer than before. The surgeon moved so slowly and with such patient deliberation that Emma was ready to cry aloud when at last the receptacle was sealed and the vessel’s ensoulment complete.
She drew a sharp breath as the head lifted and the eyes opened. They wandered about in manifest confusion. When they fell upon her, they lit with recognition. The waxen lips moved; the throat swelled. Emma braced for a curse or a burst of wickedness. Instead she heard a voice as pure as any in the choir, tuned to a deeper register, like the low notes of an organ. The words it sang were Latin, of which she knew enough to recognize the verse:
Judex ergo cum sedebit,
quidquid latet apparebit:
nil inultum remanebit.
Oh, that was irony indeed, for that of all souls to sing of the Judge at the final Judgement, when all that is hidden shall be revealed, and no wrong shall remain unavenged. Emma was not foolish enough to hear it, however, as repentance. Those eyes of glass and tinted stone were burning with rage.
The wondrous voice died into silence. The long hands lifted; the automaton stared at them. It must hear the turning of gears within the body of metal and wax and leather tanned as supple as flesh; it must wake to the realisation of what it had become. That realisation burst out of it in a great and melodious cry, a long melisma of pure anguish.
The surgeon frowned. She reached toward the back of the vessel and pressed a key. The vessel froze in place, its mouth still open, empty of song. She played upon the keys for some little time, pausing once to replace a card scattered with tiny openings like a lacework of gold, before she stood back at last with an air of satisfaction. “That should serve us better,” she said.
She pressed the first key once more. The vessel woke again to life, but its movements were much constrained. It glided toward the altar of the chapel, bowed and began to murmur in Latin. Emma had seen many a priest do exactly the same, but not with such a glance as this one cast at her, of pure, trapped desperation.
Mother Agatha confirmed Emma’s suspicions. “The automaton has been bound to perform in all ways as a priest should do: to say Mass, to hear confessions, to preside over the divine offices. There will be no further displays of indecorum. Sister Theodosia has been most careful on that account.”
Mother Agatha was a kind and Christian woman, but she was, Emma reflected, quite merciless. Emma, who was neither kind nor Christian, could almost spare a moment’s pity for that rake and sinner trapped now forever in the life of a Roman priest. He could perform no action, speak no word, sing no song, but what would be most strictly permitted to the vessel in which he was confined.
If there was a Hell, George Fraser was in it—for the greater glory and the service of God.
Emma was not to be so trapped. Mother Agatha had po
ndered while she dealt with the matter of Fraser’s translation; when that was done, she looked Emma in the face, long and steady, and then said, “I fear for your safety if I let you out upon the world, but you are truly not meant for this life. You may go, with my blessing and with such gifts and comfort as I or my sisters can give. We will pray for you; we will beseech God to keep you safe.”
“If you pray on my behalf,” said Emma, “I’m certain that God will listen. You have my thanks and my vow: I will not betray your secret.”
“I do believe that,” said Mother Agatha.
Emma left the Abbey of Perpetual Adoration just past noon on a bright day of early summer, so warm and so golden-splendid that the storm of the day before seemed but a wild and dreadful dream. She had her story polished and ready, of how she had been caught in the storm, bravely and nobly rescued by Mr. George Fraser, and cared for by him until, tragically, while striving to keep her from falling from a precipice in the dark, he had fallen himself, lost forever in a deep and impenetrable crevasse. She would weep; she would faint becomingly. She would make certain that no one discovered where in truth she had been.
She strode lightly down the steep track, head high, contemplating her rescue and her reunion with her employer, and thereafter a meeting in Paris with those who might offer her a far more stimulating existence than she had dared to hope for. “Lady Ada Lovelace,” she said to the pellucid Alpine air, “I present you with your newest and most eclectically talented agent.”
She laughed, a bit of youthful lightness that she would never have permitted herself where others could see, and skipped a step or two. It was a beautiful day, and Miss Emma Rigby looked ahead to a marvellous life.
Far behind her, within the walls of stone and steel and glass, a supernally sweet voice cried to Heaven:
Kyrie eleison!
Lord have mercy, indeed, thought Mother Agatha. For no one on this earth would grant him such a gift.
Judith Tarr is an acclaimed author of historical novels and historical fantasy. Her novel of Alexander the Great, Lord of the Two Lands, was a World Fantasy Award nominee, and she most recently published a prequel to the story of Alexander, Bring Down the Sun (Tor). She also writes as Caitlin Brennan (The Mountain’s Call and the forthcoming House of the Star) and Kathleen Bryan (The Serpent and the Rose). This is her first foray into the Age of Steam, but she has had a long love affair with the fiction, fashions, and foibles of the period.
Shadow Dancer
… by Irene Radford
“...B. will not relent. He will not concede the complete madness of the man Fletcher. He comes and tells me Lord Melbourne himself is approving experiments to demonstrate that the living soul may be transferred into an inanimate housing of sufficient complexity.
I am afraid that I must acknowledge that until B has satisfied his obsession, he will have no rest, neither will he permit me any. All he sees are the faces of his dead. And I, to my torment, all I see is the deceptively fair face of mine.
I am not wrong. I cannot be wrong. The soul is resident in and rooted in the human body. Upon death, it is gone from this world. It is God’s alone and He cannot permit our corrupted fingers to pick it over like housewives pawing cheap linens at the market stall. These children said to be without souls are victims of gin and malnourishment and fevers left untreated.
At the same time, I cannot deny that something real happened that awful summer of ’16. I am equally certain that something continues forward. Mrs. F goes about the lecture circuit asserting she’s killed “The Promethean” of Mary Godwin’s creation. She is wrong, or she is lying. The woman who would create such a being would not permit it to be so casually and neatly disposed of.
I can say nothing of this to B. So, I must be resolved in this new and much un-wanted task. Hand-in-hand we shall descend into the world of rumor and dread and here I take the part of Orpheus to his Eurydice.
I pray I do not look back too soon and trap us both in the darkness.
—from the private journal of Ada Lovelace
“Who may I say is calling?” the black-clad butler demanded. He tried looking down his long nose at me, but he underestimated my height and his gaze affixed instead to my décolletage. Pink tinged his cheeks. A human servant. How delightfully old fashioned.
I did not approve of the new mode of employing soulless automata or Promethean constructs—creatures pieced together from multiple corpses and shocked back into animation.
The butler’s eyes remained lowered, as if studying the intricate pattern of the deep fichu of white Buckinghamshire point ground lace—the hexagonal background made it a point ground lace—that disguised just how low my crimson gown draped. The lace alone probably cost two months of his salary.
“You may inform Lord Reginald and Rebecca Lady Reedstone that Madame Magdala has answered their summons.” I brushed past him before he could block my path to the interior of this tidy manor. I admired the clean mortar in the brickwork in a style dating from the time of the James the First. Situated ten miles north of London the owner had privacy and quiet while being close enough to his investments in the city to keep track of them. A modest home for a man who wielded tremendous power and wealth in the dirigible industry.
I sniffed delicately. The scent of desiccated roses and lilies atop the staleness of a long-closed house told me much. I could delay a few moments for more observation. I paused before the stippled mirror embedded in the hall tree. No, not stippled, dusty. Needing a better look, I untied my deep-brimmed bonnet and veil that matched my gown perfectly and thrust them into the butler’s hands. Then I smoothed my blonde coiffure, letting my gaze flit about while facing the mirror. What I thought were traces of cobweb turned out to be black threads caught in the frame.
The mirror gave me reflected glimpses of the parlour. A well executed family portrait in oils jumped to my attention. It showed Lord Reginald and his wife nearing their fifties, judging by the age lines around their eyes and the traces of grey in their hair. Between them sat a small boy child of about five. Black crepe draped the painting.
Now I knew why the fifth Baron of Reedstone had sent his private carriage for me, and agreed to my rather exorbitant fee.
“You may show me to your master and mistress,” I commanded the butler.
He sniffed in disdain as he proceeded me up the broad staircase that curved around the west wall of the majestic hall.
We processed up the staircase at a ponderous rate, thick Turkey carpet absorbing every nuance of sound from my sturdy boots. The butler took an awkward step toward the wall. The riser squeaked beneath his weight. His next step jogged toward the railing. Another squeak.
“If the sound of the carriage on the gravel drive and my ringing of the bell did not alert Lord Reginald and Lady Reedstone to my arrival, your game of musical stairs are insufficient,” I reminded him.
“We have our rituals. You have yours.”
“Agreed.”
“Automata find the squeak most irritating,” he unbent enough to explain. “Sometimes the monsters are hard to detect. The stairs reveal them every time and out they go.”
“I understand.” I hid a small smile. I had a whistle built into the steam engine that powered the card files of my research library at the Book View Café for much the same purpose. Also Promethean constructs found the bright gas lights scattered around the cafe most uncomfortable.
I had little prejudice against the unnatural servants. But I liked knowing who I dealt with, in case certain of my dead enemies had managed to transfer their souls into an immortal body or complex machine.
The butler announced me to his master and mistress in a small but cosy parlour overlooking the walled kitchen garden at the back of the house. A coal fire in the corner hearth spread too much warmth on this damp early summer morning. Rainy days brought welcome relief from baking temperatures but retained some warmth, unlike the summer of ‘16 during which summer did not come at all. We went from winter to autumn again to winter.<
br />
I blame the weather for the horrors that began that cold and rainy year.
“Lord Reginald, Lady Reedstone.” I curtsied the proper depth, not bowing my head, a little deeper than I would for an acquaintance of equal status, not as deep as I would for a duke or earl. These people had titles. I had dignity and a reputation.
I used that little impertinence to scan the room and my hosts in one quick glance. More somber black in their clothing. Heavy swaths of sombre cloth draped the bowed form of a hair wreath, lovely flowers made from locks cut from the recently deceased. Once round and hearty, both the lord and his lady looked drawn, reduced in health, energy, and size.
“Madame Magdala, please sit.” Lady Reedstone gestured toward a wing back chair adjacent to and matching her own. Lord Reginald perched upon a lyre back straight chair across from her.
“Will you take tea?” the lady asked. Her be-ringed hand fluttered around the pot on a tray table before her.
“I prefer coffee if you have it. But tea will do.” I settled my skirts and petticoats around me, feeling like a brightly plumed bird in this shadowed house.
The butler appeared at my elbow, placing a silver pot on the tray. The fragrance of freshly brewed coffee wafted pleasantly upward. “I was informed of your preference when I inquired about your reputability,” he murmured.
“Thank you, Simon,” Lord Reginald dismissed him.
When the door clicked shut, Lady Reedstone rounded on me. “We need to know...”
“You wish to know if you will bear another child to replace the one who has died,” I completed for her.
She reared back, gasping in astonishment, hand over her heart. The pulse below her ear beat visibly, rapidly.
“You asked for a Seeress,” I said on a light shrug, as if discerning people’s secrets was a special talent rather than keen observation and awareness of patterns. “I would not be worth my fees if I didn’t know why you asked me here.”
Shadow Conspiracy Page 29