“Please, Madame Magdala. We need to know. We have no other child to inherit my title and lands which are entailed to the male line. I would like to keep my businesses away from the next heir. We have not many childbearing years left,” Lord Reginald said.
“And what will happen to your honours and your estate if you die without an heir?” I poured my own coffee, adding rich cream and turbinado sugar. My gaze went to the slight whirlpool I created with the spoon. I had to keep the vortex moving until I determined the right time to peer into the liquid, and sometimes beyond.
“My younger brother’s son will inherit both,” Lord Reginald explained. “His debts will eat up most of the assets overnight. His dissipations and his greedy friends will take the rest. I have worked hard to keep our ancient heritage proud and debt free. My heart breaks at the thought of that young man destroying it.”
“Little Reggie was the delight of our life. A surprise, at our age, a wonderful miracle that we hoped would continue the pride and dignity of our family,” Lady Reedstone sighed. “Alas, he succumbed to the whooping cough just three months ago.”
Most people in their situation wanted me to consult the ghost of the recently departed for comfort and reassurance that he no longer suffered. It was something I had never legitimately done, but faked often enough to the satisfaction of the clients.
“Let us see if the veils of time will thin for me.” I projected my voice so that it echoed a bit and took on a lower timbre. The accent of the Gypsy King father I claimed slid over the top of my neutral tones.
With a deep breath I closed my eyes for concentration. At the same moment I ceased my vigorous stirring of the coffee and removed the spoon from the cup. After a count of ten I opened my eyes and peered deeply into the liquid vortex, expecting to see no more than light brown coffee swirling inside fragile bone china.
Darkness persisted around the edges of my vision. The whirlpool expanded from rim to rim, seemingly growing beyond the cup. But it did not spill. It drew me in, forcing me to look deeper and deeper, to bring my soul forth and pour it into the whorls that distorted time and place, here and there, now and then.
“Not now,” I moaned. I couldn’t afford a genuine vision now. My visions rarely told me what I asked to see, and always came at the most inopportune times.
A sliver of silver pierced the centre of the whirlpool. It drew my focus with sharp intensity. Slowly it lengthened to fit across the entire cup. As it stretched it grew limbs and filled out. A filmy gown floated around the figure. She glided and pirouetted about in an exquisite and symbolic dance. Each step grew faster and more angry. I sensed violence building, ready to explode in catastrophe.
I only had true visions of impending disasters. This one was quite urgent. I needed to return to the Book View Café on Charing Cross Road and the latest newspapers from around the world to discover just where this vengeful sprite danced.
Desperate to end the session with the grieving baron and his lady, I sat back, resting my head, keeping my eyes closed. Still the silver spirit, tinged with green at the edges of her gown and diminutive wings leaped and spun in my mind’s eye.
“There is another child. Born out of the bonds of law and marriage,” I intoned.
Every noble had at least one illegitimate child, usually born before he settled down with a wife. Nearly as often born later when the marriage proved loveless. Not much of a guess there.
Lady Reedstone gasped. She gave her husband “the look.” Outrage, contempt, anger, betrayal, all in one concentrated stare.
Lord Reginald’s silence told me I had struck a truth.
“The boy child can be brought within the law.” They’d expect me to use archaic and symbolic phrasing. “The child can inherit with pride and dignity. The child needs you...” My words dissolved and my head lolled to the side.
My disorientation and exhaustion was expected at every reading regardless of what I did and did not see. Today I did not pretend.
My hosts excused themselves for a turn about the kitchen garden while Simon the butler provided me with ham salad sandwiches, pickled eggs, fruit compote, and a fresh pot of coffee. Somewhat restored, I rested another half hour before summoning the carriage that returned me to the Book View Café. I had a lot of work to do. And much to think about on the hour-long ride.
Dozens of patrons sipped coffee, conversed quietly, and read books at my establishment. I waltzed through the front door, shedding bonnet, lace gloves, and shawl in my wake. Toby, my servant, bodyguard and bruiser collected them before they hit the ground. He, like all my employees were the stray adolescents I had rescued over the years. Now grown to manhood, but still a bit foolish and naïve, he kept unwanted riffraff out and clean floors in.
I noted that my ensemble was newer, more fashionable, and just a bit more colourful, shorter and with a lower neckline and more expensive lace than any woman present.
I plucked a newspaper from a table, disregarding the protest of the customer who had been reading it. “I have a need for this,” I offered by way of explanation.
The bastard daughter of a Gypsy King is expected to be flamboyant and a bit outré.
The vision of the silver dancer in the shadows of the swirling coffee triggered memories in me. Memories of the long ago summer on Lake Geneva when I’d been plain Elise, nursemaid to baby William, the child of the genius poet Percy Bysshe Shelley and his frightened young wife Mary.
No one notices a nursemaid. No one cares if she overhears forbidden plots and dangerous conspiracies. No one cares if she sees patterns of behaviour and draws conclusions. Lord Byron and Master Shelley dreamt of creating the first Promethean so they could become immortal poet kings. The plot was not only illegal but immoral and insane.
The chill in my bones told me that the silver dancer was connected to that plot I’d helped abort. I’d helped Mary Shelley escape with the Promethean prototype before Lord Byron could transfer his own soul into the body of a drowning victim. I did not yet know all of the connections. But I would soon.
I tucked my long legs beneath me while I curled up in the overstuffed chair in the first floor lounge above the main coffee room with the newspaper. The paper belonged to the Book View Café after all. My patroness Ada King, Countess Lovelace, the only legitimate child of the despicable and depraved Lord Byron imported newspapers from all over the world for our clientele along with the extensive library we had compiled.
Lady Lovelace did not know my connection to her father, of course. But I had found her and kept her close. When Lord Byron returned from the dead he would seek her out. She had never truly known her father, seen him rarely. I had, that frigid summer of ‘16 at the chateau on Lake Geneva. I’d know him in either a Promethean construct body or an automata made especially to receive his soul.
Nothing of interest in the London paper. Or the ones from New Deli, Hong Kong, or Stockholm. While I read, my assistant Reva—the true daughter of a Romany tribe—brought me the newly arrived Paris papers. Thanks to the Dirigible traffic, this one was only twenty-four hours old. I skimmed the headlines, catching a paragraph here, a stray word there. Nothing.
I was about to toss the pages on top of the others on the floor when one last sentence caught my attention.
On twenty eight June at eight of the clock, the Ballet du Théâtre de l’Académie Royale de Musique to present Giselle, a new ballet, music composed by Adolphe Adam. Choreography by Jean Corelli and Jules Perrot.
Today was the twenty sixth.
Giselle? Why did I know that name? Why had those two sentences resonated with the image of the silver dancer?
Giselle.
Lady Ada was currently in Paris with her business partner Charles Babbage. She had said before leaving last week something about assisting a new artistic project.
I returned to the ground floor private parlour and pulled a blank brass key from the locked chest inside the safe buried in the floor. Then I took the tool to the central carousel of the Book View Café. The cli
entele had rotated. Several regulars nodded or waved. I responded with like greetings, not allowing any of them to interrupt my mission.
Inside a small circular counter, I fired up the selector. I pulled a lever here, pushed buttons there, following a special Automatic Science language developed by Lady Ada.
One hundred twenty-seven codes in place, I inserted the key into the machine. A hiss of steam, a grinding of engaging gears and blades whirred to notch the key. Conversation ceased for a moment, then rose in volume to be heard above the noise of the engines.
At last I withdrew the intricately scrolled key and balanced it on my palm. It stretched from fingertip to wrist, weighing more than three full cups of coffee.
This part of the ritual complete, I paraded across the room to the middle wall of books, feeling gazes follow my progress.
The exclusive card files for this library fascinated readers and inventors alike. Everyone wanted one of their own. Lady Ada had created only one, for her use and mine in this special library. She occasionally sent her operatives to me with requests when she could not come herself, but only I operated the machine.
I inserted the key into its special hole, turned it all the way around once, listening as it flipped tiny pins setting gears into motion. Then I pushed it deeper into the hole, turned it again. More pins slid aside. A third time around and the chug of interconnections became audible to the entire room. I put all of my weight and strength into pulling down the long brass and wood lever. Steam rose up and spilled from cracks between bookcases and floor boards.
Click, grind, snick. The machine engaged. Bookshelves rotated in opposite directions. They shifted top to bottom, bottom to middle, rotated again, shifted again.
We all watched the majestic dance of books around the room.
A dance less graceful than the one I’d seen in my vision.
Detailed requests of obscure information could take hours. Giselle produced three books of Germanic folklore in a matter of ten minutes. One slender volume, little more than a pamphlet, and two thicker volumes swooshed down the chute and into my outstretched hands. All together they did not weigh as much as the key.
A round of applause erupted around the coffee house. I curtsied with a dramatic flourish of my hand, clutching the books close against my bosom, and then retreated to the lounge once more.
The pamphlet proved to be a sermon written by Herr Doktor Sigmund Voldemort who had died one hundred years ago. He spent twenty pages exhorting young men to woo women only when their hearts beat with true love, respect, and commitment. Otherwise they would fall victim to the woodland spirits called the Wili, singular Wilis, maidens who had died of a broken heart and lingered in ghostly form needing to seek vengeance on all men, especially those who dallied. Their fate was to force the men to join the Wili in heathenish and profane dancing until dawn, or until the men died, whichever came first. He cited the name Giselle as an example as though his audience should know her name.
Two sentences about the Wili, and one particular Wilis. The rest of the pamphlet centered on the sin of dalliance.
I set it aside and turned to the fatter volumes. The first compiled multiple bits of folklore in a long and meandering prose tale listing the dangers within the deep dark forest. Everything from Hansel and Gretel to Giselle and Myrta, Queen of the Wili. I found a few more details. A Wilis, the text reported, appeared lovely and ethereal, drifting through the forest with no more substance than mist, supported by small fluttering wings, wearing flimsy ball gowns of misty green.
A woodcut showing Myrta dancing among the trees with a corsage of wildflowers made me pause. Moonlight and death bleached her skin to the colour and texture of white silk. She looked very like the silver shadow dancer I’d seen in my cup. Similar not the same. I couldn’t put my finger on the exact difference. Yet.
When I reached for the third volume the setting sun sent a shaft of brilliant gold beneath the cloud cover to pierce the gloom of the lounge. Sunset in June comes late in the northern climes. I’d spent more than half a day in this quest. My stomach growled and the grit of thirst closed my throat. I reached for the bell to summon refreshment. The book, open to the woodcut, shifted in my lap so that the light fell directly on Myrta’s face.
Dead she might be, but her lust for vengeance animated her face.
The silver dancer had no emotions, no passion, no lust for life, only flawless balletic technique.
Hastily I scribbled a note and dashed down to the main room of the coffee shop. “Reva, are you still here?” I called to the deserted room.
“Aye, mum,” she said meekly, poking her dark head out of the kitchen. I heard the rattle of dishes in water. She and the scullery girl normally cleaned up after a long day, preparing for an even longer night, if I entertained as usual.
“Reva, I need to send this note to Lord Reginald Reedstone. You may all go home as soon as you finish your chores. There will be no salon tonight.”
“I’ll take it, mum.” Curiosity burned in her deep, dark-roast coloured eyes.
“Find one of the soulless ones,” I said, not willing to risk her to the street dangers at night.
We’d been through many adventures together since I rescued her from the necromancer trying to steal her soul. I didn’t allow the man to live long enough to find out what he needed her soul for.
“For this I need absolute discretion. My enemies could wrest the truth from you. A soulless child will know nothing, so it can reveal nothing.”
“Yes, mum. One of the street urchins then.” She shuddered. “I hate them children.”
“I know, dear Reva. You could have been one of them.” I gathered her into a tight hug. “I think I need to add something to my note to Lord Reginald while you fetch the red-haired child we used last time. He’s quick and nimble and has a bit of intelligence if no will of his own. He might be re-growing a soul.” Some theorists held that a child was born soulless and acquired one gradually through exposure to humans and life and art. Some never grew one or did so late—which explained those who could torture others or murder.
No one said any of this within hearing of the Church.
“You’d best give ‘im the instructions.” Reva slunk out the front door, disappointment curving her back. She thought I didn’t trust her enough to do this errand for me.
I loved her too much to take a chance on losing her. The street urchins were already lost.
“You will take this hackney carriage to the home of Lord Reginald Reedstone at the address on the envelope,” I instructed the boy when Reva herded him into the café a few moments later.
He nodded in understanding. His soulless eyes stared straight ahead, totally lacking personality or self will. He looked forty in the body of a ten year old. Last week he’d looked his age. Soon, too soon, he’d either attract a stray soul and stop this rapid aging, or he’d shrivel up and turn to ash.
Too many children and young adults—innocents—wandered the streets of London, existing moment to moment without hope. Reva could have been one of them.
“The hackney will wait for you. You will deliver this note to Lord Reginald and wait for a reply. You may not return without a reply. Do you understand, child?”
“Yes, mum.”
I placed the folded and sealed stationary in his semi-clean hands. The fact that this child bothered to wash his hands upon occasion gave me hope that a stray soul courted him, looking to inhabit his body. Perhaps not his original soul, but a soul.
“When you return I shall give you supper.”
“Yes, mum.”
Two hours at least before I could expect an answer. “Reva, is it too late for the last post to Paris?”
“Yes, mum. The sun is setting.” She didn’t bother looking at the pendulum clock beside the card files. Three years she’d been with me and she still organized her day by the sun and the stars. Her skills at reading the sky had helped us find a road and a village when we escaped the ancient moated manor house where the Necromance
r had taken her for his experiments. He’d lured Reva there with a promise of marriage.
The same scenario for the creation of a Wilis. I returned to the card files in search of more information about Myrta, Queen of the Wili. My other letter could wait. Perhaps Lady Ada did not need to know of my impending arrival in Paris.
I found nothing more about the Wili. Two hours wasted when I could have searched out more information on the composer and choreographers and why they had chosen this story for their ballet.
Or had their sponsors chosen for them? Charles Babbage and Lady Ada came to mind.
Did the artists have any idea of the dangers they played with?
Eventually the boy returned with a note written on even more elegant stationary than my own. Lord Reginald’s handwriting sprawled untidily across the page with many flamboyant loops and whorls around the capital letters.
“Madame Magdala, you need not waive your fee for your services in return for transportation across The Channel. I have no dirigible flying at the time you requested. However, I can place you in the cargo basket of a Pegasus that flies at dawn.” Then he gave me directions to his aereo field.
At the very bottom of the page he printed quite precisely in tiny letters, “As to the other matter you address. I will take it under serious consideration. We will discuss possibilities upon your return from Paris. We will meet much opposition in the Lords.”
I heaved a sigh. Prudent. Rational. Thankfully a few men such as he sat in the Lords.
“It’s time, mum,” Reva said quietly the next morning half an hour before dawn. We sat in a hackney carriage at the edge of Reedstone’s aereo field. I wore a conservative travel costume in black bombazine. The skirt was spilt to make clambering about on the back of the mechanical Pegasus a proper and modest experience. My plain black bonnet with only a tiny and proper veil had no flowers, silk or real. I’d tied it tightly beneath my chin. I further secured it with three hat pins topped with jet beads that pierced my coiffure.
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