Shadow Conspiracy

by Phyllis Irene

  “If you feel afraid, or uncertain of anything, or anyone, you may close the Book View Café and lock yourself in your room, Reva.” I hugged the girl and kissed her affectionately. “Toby can defend the doors. He has weapons, both mundane and spiritual.”

  “We’ll be fine, mum. You just go to Paris and do what you have to do.”

  “If anything at all seems odd to you...”

  “I know. I’m to take Toby to Countess Lovelace’s home and stay there. Now go, Mum. They won’t hold the Pegasus for you. It flies when it wants to fly and that’s toward the sun just as it rises.” She hugged me back and urged me out of the shelter of the carriage.

  I draped over my arm my thick woollen cloak, oiled against dampness and clasped my satchel firmly. The weight slowed me only a little as I walked warily toward the long windowless building. Taller than the Book View Café’s three stories and an attic by that much, it stretched a half mile or more into the distance. Overlapping slates covered the rounded roof. Inside I heard the roar of flame and saw flickers of light around the edges of the doors that filled one end of the building. The smooth grass field beneath my feet trembled with suppressed power.

  Six times I had flown in dirigibles. Six times I’d approached the giant balloon and enclosed gondola with trepidation. This seventh time, as I faced a new form of transportation my hands trembled and my heart beat so loudly in my ears I almost did not hear the other noise. The special noise of a metallic hoof pawing the ground; the sound of a giant winged beast braying with impatience.

  The Pegasus sensed the dawn and needed to fly, to soar higher than the clouds to come closer and closer to the sun.

  While I hesitated, the great doors slid open. Golden radiance near blinded me.

  And then the great mechanical beast bounded out of its shelter, hooves pounding the packed ground of the flying field, flicking up bits of dirt and grass. The vibrations reached my feet and tingled through my limbs with excitement. Golden plates shaped into feathers overlapped across wings that fluttered like the real thing. It pranced forward, rearing its great horse head and shaking it’s mane of fine wires. In every detail it resembled an awesome white stallion with golden wings. The details hid the internal steam engine that powered it and the complex automatic gears and pistons that gave it life. I knew that only Lady Ada or one of her apprentices could have created the elaborate codex, golden cards punched with the language of the automatic sciences, that guided this awesome creature.

  The Pegasus spotted me and paused in its impatient quest.

  “You are magnificent,” I whispered.

  The pointed ear rotated and flicked. It heard me and minced over to me.

  “Master Pegasus, will you consent to give me a lift across the Channel to Paris?” With all complex automata, one needed to approach them with caution and respect until you understood them.

  It nodded its head and let loose a whistling whinny, the steam heart of it escaping. It finished this display with its head lowered to look me in the eye. Its thick neck bowed nearly double to come down to my level. The top of my bonnet barely reached its undercarriage. Few men are taller than me.

  We took each other’s measure. I saw intelligence in those eyes. And understanding.

  Did those qualities come from the complex codex that governed its actions? Or had a soul taken up residence inside the construct?

  I did not believe that a soul could grow inside a machine. I did not want to believe that. I suspected rather that a ghost, a lost or stolen soul might seek a machine to complete its life span.

  “And wouldn’t you be meeting Belapharon,” a man said with more than a bit of Irish audacity in his accent. He strolled out of the long building. Slender with the lean strength of a jockey, dark like a Welsh coal miner, the top of his head came to my nose. He wore the standard flyer’s uniform of buff jodhpurs and coffee colored leather jacket. A soft fleece-lined helmet with the earflaps tied up on top in the same leather and a pair of goggles perched above the brim sat back on his well-shaped head. His tall boots gleamed with fresh polish. He walked silently, unlike the thunder of the Pegasus’ hooves.

  “Yes,” I said, watching the man’s jaunty walk. He carried himself with the self assurance required for his dangerous job. “Lord Reedstone promised me a place in the basket as far as Paris.”

  “You’d be Madame Magdala, then. M’Lord sent me a message, didn’t he now.”

  “And you would be?” Curse it, I sounded as if I’d kissed the Blarney Stone on my way here. But then my ability to mimic accent and phrasing had allowed me to move up from nursemaid to a celebrated, and sometimes feared, Doyen.

  “And wouldn’t M’Lord Reedstone be calling me Jimmy, Jimmy O’Brian.”

  “That may be what Lord Reedstone calls you, but who are you?”

  He flashed me a cheeky grin. “Me mam Christened me James Padriac Xavier O’Shannasy.”

  “If I remember correctly, and I do, one branch of the O’Shannasy clan was outlawed five years ago for rebellion against the crown.”

  “Me father’s uncle’s cousin’s nephews.” He grinned again, nearly breaking through my natural suspicions. I liked this young man. Lord Reedstone trusted him. Therefore, I could.

  “Still safer to lose the O’Shannasy branch of your family tree.”

  Just then Belapharon reared up, pawing the air and stretching its wings at the first glimmer of light streaking across the cloudy horizon, turning them into a majestic swath of red and gold. The sky looked no more brilliant or awesome than the gems and gold embedded in those wondrous wings reflecting back the primal light of creation.

  “Time, mistress. He’ll wait no longer.”

  “Very well. How do I climb aboard?”

  “Dinna fash yourself.” Jimmy reached up, stretching high to insert a tiny golden key in a notch on Belapharon’s chest that looked like a tiny bit of tarnish on his metallic fur. He turned the key three times. “Just have to reset the codex to governance mode. Don’t worry old boy, I’ll let you fly independent. You make better time that way, don’t you.” He patted the metal hide as if soothing a living animal.

  In that moment I knew that a soul had come to the beast. I resented him, as magnificent as he was. He had a soul and the urchin who ran errands for me didn’t.

  The mechanical Pegasus shook his head defiantly, once. I saw a flash in his eyes, almost a red glow. Then he succumbed to docility, awkwardly bending his front legs until he kneeled low. His hind legs followed suit. The beast’s belly scraped the ground. His back remained a formidable distance above me.

  Now I could see the elaborate contraption on his back. It consisted of a wicker box, much like those suspended from hot air balloons. Triads of plaited straps in red, yellow, blue, and white ran from the box beneath Belapharon’s belly and around his shoulders, fastening with elaborate buckles and knots. Their configuration neatly bypassed his now folded wings, leaving them free.

  I did not see how I could delicately, or even indelicately climb into the box.

  Jimmy grabbed my cloak and satchel from my hand, took a running leap, placed his left foot on the beast’s thigh and ricocheted up to grab a shoulder strap with his right hand. Then another foot on the back and a vault into the box. He turned and grinned at me again.

  “I’ll not duplicate that manoeuvre. I won’t even try.”

  “No need, Mistress.” He bent down and dropped a rope and slat ladder over the side. The bottom rung landed a scant twelve inches above my feet.

  I climbed quickly as a sailor had taught me many years ago. Rope ladders are not rigid and tend to twist. I understood why Jimmy O’Brian took the more adventuresome route overland, so to speak.

  Jimmy opened a little gate in the wicker box as I hauled myself up level with Belapharon’s back.

  “And didn’t you do well for a lady,” he chuckled.

  I straightened my bonnet and my dignity.

  “Normally I just strap myself on, when I carry letters that need to get to Paris in
a hurry,” Jimmy said, counting boxes strewn about the interior of the basket and setting aside a black shoulder satchel bearing a red royal seal. “But seein’ as how we got a passenger, Lord Reginald decided to send these packages.” He stacked them into a rough bench and secured them tightly with crossed plaits in the same pattern that bound the basket to the beast. Then he bowed grandly, indicating I should sit.

  I sat, grateful to find my bonnet well within the shelter of the basket. I paid a lot for the black Chantilly lace veil that adorned the beaver felt. The lace makers of Chantilly were all making white lace this decade. Finding the real thing in black had me reusing bits and pieces of older garments.

  Jimmy climbed out once more and fiddled with the golden key in a different key hole. Then he bounded back into the basket and crouched on his knees, handling reins threaded through ports in the basket.

  The seemingly solid surface beneath me surged and flexed. My stomach lurched. I clung tightly to two straps within the basket.

  Belapharon’s back rippled with each thrust of his powerful wings and running stride of his long legs. We tilted slightly side to side.

  This was not at all the smooth and silent lift of a dirigible. I had embarked on an adventure.

  Another adventure.

  “Best wrap up in the cloak now, mum,” Jimmy said over his shoulder moments later. “Get’s cold up here, it does. There be blankets in the box to your left as well.”

  I obeyed.

  I kept track of time by the increasing light above and the streaks of sunlight creeping through the wicker weave. We rose and rose, becoming a part of the clouds. The flowing mist reminded me of the Wili drifting through the forest in search of vengeance. Then we were above them. I chanced a peek through a tiny opening. My stomach rebelled at the sight of a vast expanse of water visible in the breaks between clouds.

  I leaned my head back and breathed shallowly, swallowing down my breakfast that threatened to come up.

  “And t’isn’t it a grand view,” Jimmy chuckled. “Amazing it ‘tis to think we are five thousand feet above the Channel.”

  “Five thousand?” I replied weakly, trying desperately not to think what it would feel like to fall out of this precarious basket and to...to land.

  “Not to worry. I felt the same the first time I flew bareback. But now? Now ‘tis glorious, ‘tis awesome, ‘tis like looking in the face of God.”

  “If you say so.” I kept my eyes firmly shut and endured the shift and twist of the beast beneath my feet. It seemed like he took larger movements when I couldn’t see. But that was better than seeing how high we flew. Another few feet up and I was sure we’d enter heaven. One can only do that when one dies with their soul intact.

  The sun moved ever higher. Despite shining directly on my face, it did little to warm me. The air five thousand feet above the waves of the English Channel felt more suited to December than mid June.

  And all the while I saw in the back of my mind a silver dancer growing stronger and more fluid with each repetition of the haunting music. I hadn’t much time.

  Hours passed slowly. Too slowly. And yet we travelled far faster than a steam boat or even a dirigible.

  Jimmy dug tongue sandwiches on fine white bread and bottled ginger beer out of one of the many baskets fastened around our conveyance about an hour before the sun’s zenith. I ate squeamishly. The rocking motion had become almost routine, yet my stomach resisted accepting it. The ginger beer helped. A cup of hot tea would have helped more. My teeth chattered and my frigid fingers had trouble clutching the bottle.

  Jimmy packed the remnants of our rustic meal back into the basket and fastened it tight. “Don’t want it flying about when we land.” He grinned again. His Celtic audacity and good cheer began to wear on me.

  “Won’t be long now, Mistress.”

  I risked peeking out and saw green pastures, brown roads, and bleached white or grey stone buildings. The structures increased in number, grew closer together.

  The air grew warmer.

  “That be Paris,” Jimmy said.

  “Finally.”

  “Finally would you be sayin’. We made record time. The wind was at our heels. Sometimes we have to land at Calais and refuel.”

  Just then the Pegasus tilted downward. It loosed a bellow of steam as the wings folded back. At the last second I dug my heels into the woven wicker and grabbed the strap to keep from plunging forward. My stomach revolted again at the sudden shift in direction.

  I tried closing my eyes but the loss of directional information disrupted my equilibrium more.

  Watching the land rush toward us at an alarming rate, I resorted to the time-honoured solution. “Our Father who art in heaven, hollowed be thy name...”

  Jimmy just chuckled. Annoying young man.

  The Pegasus brought us down smoothly enough. A thud, another lurch, the thump of metal hooves hitting the solid turf, then a gradual slowing. He came to a halt graceful as any prize stallion, before a station building.

  “You stay low in the basket until I deal with the diplomatic pouch.” He shrugged the straps of the black satchel with the royal seal around his shoulders. “No need to trouble the authorities with your presence. It’ll just delay things and alert people you don’t necessarily want to know you’re coming,” Jimmy said quietly as he prepared to depart.

  “How did you know I need to move quietly and quickly?”

  “Figured. You ain’t the only one Lord Reedstone ‘as sent about the world coming from the Book View Café.”

  “I should have known Countess Lovelace had connections.”

  “Aye, Mistress. Now you stay put until Belapharon settles in his stall in the hanger over there. He’ll be gentle in helping you down. I promise.” He leaped over the edge of the basket without bothering with the gate.

  Seconds later the Pegasus turned and walked with a smooth and elegant gait away from the station. Inside the hanger he ambled directly to a stall, backed in and sank onto a thick wool blanket spread on a slightly raised wooden platform.

  I used the ladder, much easier going down than up, and jumped clear. “Thank you, Belapharon. I appreciate the swift flight.” I patted his nose and slipped out with my small satchel

  Warm air caressed my skin, smelling of fresh flowers, newly mown grass, and the ever-present coal fires required for the dirigibles and other machinery that made modern life convenient. Half a day’s travel and I’d crossed into another climate. I shed my oiled woollen cloak and draped it over my arm so that it concealed the satchel.

  I heard wheels turning and hooves pounding the main carriage way to and from the station on the other side of a tall fence. Directly behind the hanger, out of sight from the station, two fence boards gaped conveniently. I shoved myself between them, being careful not to scrape or tear the sturdy fabric of my gown. A moment to straighten my costume, breathe deeply, and centre my attention on my task, then I hailed a passing cab with a real horse, not a mechanical beast as had become the rage in London, and gave the driver directions to La Théatre de l’Académie Royale de Musique in the heart of Paris.

  I needed to find a silver shadow dancer before the first performance of Giselle. Perhaps before the dress rehearsal.

  The carriage wheels took on the cadence of the lively polka I knew must come from the first act of the ballet. (My visions give me more information than I realize at first glance.) The driver hummed a different tune in the same rhythm.

  In my mind I saw the silver dancer leaping high, arm in arm with her prince, matching his jump precisely in height. Their feet synchronized in complex patterns.

  A tiny bit of a smile tugged at the corner of her mouth when he presented her with a posy.

  I jerked awake, realizing I’d nodded off dreaming my worst fears.

  “How much longer,” I yelled at the driver, sticking my head out the carriage window. The rush of thickening traffic near drowned my words. The drivers of Paris made London look calm and orderly—too much hurry, not enoug
h progress, taking terrible chances speeding past an intersection with equally hurried cross traffic.

  “Two minutes, Madame,” the driver replied with perfect pronunciation and accent. The French did not have eccentric swings of language from neighbourhood to neighbourhood as we did in London. How was a person supposed to detect class, education, and residence if not by the way another spoke?

  The Théatre came into view as predicted a few moments later, a massive Baroque structure with whitewashed columns, porches, false balconies, and a profusion of steps upward.

  The cabbie brought his horse to a halt at the front of the building.

  “The doors will be locked at this hour, Madame,” he said and spat a wad of chewing tobacco out.

  I winced at the unsanitary crudity. “Take me to the back entrance. My business is with the director.”

  “Oui, Madame.” He clucked to his horse and we jerked forward once more. At the end of the block, he turned left then left again pausing at the opening into a narrow alley. The vehicle could go no further.

  The drab, windowless stonework on either side had not been whitewashed or cleaned in decades. Smoke and filth grimed the mortar. Trash collected in the gutters. A stark contrast to the inviting front of the theatre; a severe reminder that those who entered by the narrow and heavy door did not pay admission like those at the front.

  I paid the cabbie with a few sous. At the Book View Café I accepted all forms of coinage, thus providing me with emergency currency for trips like this one.

  A trilling of flute notes drew me inward. I paused to listen for further clues. The musician played exercises designed to limber his fingers. I hoped that meant the orchestra had not yet begun to play for the rehearsal. Today was twenty-seven June. The ballet would premiere tomorrow according to the notice in the newspaper.

  If my dream held true, even now I might not be in time.

  I tried the back door, a narrow and warped plank badly in need of painting and new hinges. It resisted pressure inward or outward. The knob did not turn. I banged furiously on the wood.