“Since it’s Lady Eliza’s birthday, that might be too attention-grabbing,” I said carefully. Voltiana could be swayed by her muse, as she called it, and forget reality.
“Maybe burgundy for me?” Eliza lifted one of the silk pieces. “Or royal purple.” She showed them to Maria. “Which do you think?”
Maria blinked, then picked up a piece of silk that was bright peacock blue. “This one’s nice,” she said, utterly lost. Eliza clucked her tongue.
“It’s lovely, but not my coloring.” She held up the purple and beamed. “Yes. This one.”
“Oh my lady, you should be in light colors. You are young as the springtime,” Voltiana trilled, jabbing me with another pin. I bit my tongue.
Eliza had made up her mind. “Royal purple. I want it to make an impression. You never know who’ll be in attendance.” She smiled knowingly. “George will probably have several young men as candidates.”
I flinched, and this time it had nothing to do with Voltiana’s pins. Blackwood hadn’t told his sister he was still writing to Aubrey Foxglove? If he didn’t have a talk with her soon, I would.
After the fitting, we were climbing into Blackwood’s carriage when I gasped and struck my forehead. “Maria, we need herbs from the market, don’t we?”
“Aye,” Maria said, sounding incredibly stilted. “How could we have forgotten that? Oh, woe.” She woodenly put her hands on her hips. She was an excellent warrior—an actress, not so much.
“It’s just nearby. Eliza, why don’t you go home to tea?” I closed the carriage door with a decisive click.
“What are you up to?” Eliza asked.
“Not a thing,” I said, giving a smile that I hoped was convincing. Eliza did not appear convinced.
“Be careful, then. Whatever you’re doing.” She frowned, and the carriage rolled out of sight. I felt a twinge of guilt. I’d have been happy to take her along, but I didn’t want to make her lie to Blackwood. Besides, who knew what dangers we might find?
Maria and I hurried down the street, arm in arm. “Keep your hood up and your head down,” she said. “In case any should recognize you.”
London was so different than it had been only a few months before. Barricades of sandbags and gravel were being erected along the streets, precautions that would slow certain Familiars but not do much to stop an Ancient. The air smelled permanently of smoke and sweat.
Before, the faces of the wealthy had been relaxed, while those outside the ward’s protection had a pinched and harried look. There was no real difference now. Wealthy women in brightly ribboned bonnets and poor patchworked beggars each wore the same haunted expression. Though tearing down the ward had been the right thing to do, I couldn’t help but feel ashamed.
More tales of R’hlem’s attacks arrived every day, doubling in savagery. Eighty sorcerers had died in a single night on the outskirts of Sheffield—there were whispers that they’d all been flayed alive. Every death now made me recall R’hlem’s words: I will show you horror. Give me Henrietta Howel.
That’s why we’re here, I reminded myself as we raced across a muddy street. We’re going to make these weapons work. We’re going to show R’hlem what horror truly means.
Finally, we came out onto a broad thoroughfare. Piccadilly was a large circle, avenues feeding it like veins running into a heart. The old un-warded trade hub, Ha’penny Row, had been ruthlessly smashed during Korozoth’s attack. Now all the tradesmen and merchants came here to buy and sell.
I purchased a pair of dubious meat pies, and Maria and I ate quickly while the city roared around us. Hansom cabs and wagons, horse-drawn omnibuses with rusted tin hoods and barouches tore through the roundabouts and roads, narrowly avoiding collisions. I’d never heard such a din in my life, as all around us bodies of rich, poor, and every station in between sweated and pressed and coughed and shoved from one side of the street to another.
While Maria sucked gravy from her fingertips, I led us down Piccadilly toward Bond Street. The arched entrance to Burlington Arcade soon appeared on our right. It was a long, covered walkway with shops on either side. It had been a fashionable destination before the ward fell, where ladies shopped for perfume or candied fruits. Now the elegant stores shared space with panhandlers and oyster sellers.
“Let’s see,” I said, pulling out the flyer and threading my way through the crowd with Maria in my wake. The paper said shop fifty-nine, but when we arrived, all we found was an empty ruin. The windows were broken, the door boarded up. Paint peeled in long, curling strips. No one had entered in years.
I chewed my lip in frustration. Had I deluded myself into thinking that the magicians had risked everything to set up shop in their old home? The chest had malfunctioned, most likely. That, or I’d misunderstood what it had wanted to tell me.
“You’ve got the squinty-eyed look.” Maria jabbed me with her elbow. “Shouldn’t be so quick to give up.”
“What would you suggest we do?”
“Try the blade bit.” Maria tugged a thread from her skirt. She thought there was a glamour here, though I felt no magic. Well, why not? I took Porridge, sliced myself much less deeply this time, and coated the thread in blood. Maria held it as I concentrated, cut, and…
My hands tingled as a gash appeared in the air by the door. Maria clapped her hands in delight.
“I love that blade bit,” she crowed, stepping through the cut. I followed, and behind me the tear sealed itself back up. What had once been a deserted shop was now a long, crooked alleyway. Magicians, it seemed, had a Burlington Arcade all their own, and it thronged with people.
The place made me think of a house that had long been shuttered and abandoned, and whose windows were only just now being thrown open, its hallways swept, the cloths taken off the furniture.
Stalls had been crammed up against one another, faded velvet curtains separating each shop. Tents and tarps were hoisted on poles, newly painted signs advertising wares beside them. Copper pans, glass vials and jars, brass cages that rattled with gaudy-colored creatures lined the walls. There was the sizzle of a cooking pan, the smell of fat and onion wafting toward us.
The men and women who argued with one another were not unlike the people we’d seen outside, haggling over flour or soap. But here, they were discussing gizzards, the tongues of flamingos, shark-tooth powders, and potions for the liver. One woman stumped across the way, her gait lopsided and odd. She’d a glass bottle in place of her lower leg, with the cork used as her foot.
“These are magicians?” Maria sounded both amazed and appalled. “They’re so…so…”
“Odd,” I finished. But my breath caught to see so many of them, ten or twenty, all working together. If the war had never come, if my parents had been alive, I might have spent time in this place. I might have called myself a magician.
We attracted some frowns and attention. Strangers who appeared in the middle of an illegal market would be suspicious. Perhaps we should have thought this through better.
As if to illustrate my point, an arm snaked around me from behind and put a blade to my throat.
“What’ve we here?” a voice whispered.
The voice belonged to a girl. I stilled as Maria pulled out her ax.
“Let her go,” Maria spit. The girl only pressed harder, the blade cutting into my skin. Threatening her was clearly a bad plan.
“There’s no need to fuss,” I said. It was hard to think with a blade to your throat. My eyes darted over the people watching us, eagerly waiting to see what would happen.
My attacker moved the blade slightly, enough to give me an opportunity. Blue fire rippled over my body, and the girl fell.
“Don’t you know it’s rude to lay hands on another magician?” I extended a hand to help her up. “I’m Henrietta Howel.”
Giving my name was a bit of a gamble. We’d attracted a great deal of attention by now, and a crowd was gathering. The girl pushed herself to her feet, dusting off her knees. Absurdly tall, she wore a bright ye
llow gown with a green sash. Her black hair hung loose to her shoulders. Her cheekbones were high, her eyes dark and brilliant as she stared at me in surprise.
“Wait. Howel?” She whistled. “You’re the sorcerers’ chosen girl, ain’t you? Why didn’t you say so?” She clapped a hard hand on my shoulder, and I stifled a cry of pain. “You could’ve asked for the Orb and Owl, you know. Be happy to show you,” she said conversationally.
“Er, yes. We’d like to see it,” I said, sharing a baffled glance with Maria, who finally put her ax away.
“Name’s Alice Chen,” the girl said as she led us down the alleyway. I glanced at the wary faces all around me and tried to catch their whispered words. The crowd dispersed, though I still felt everyone’s gaze.
Turning a corner, we came to a wooden sign hung over a plain brick wall that said THE ORB & OWL. The sign was carved with a tawny owl alighting on a crystal ball.
There was no doorway. Instead, Alice walked us over to a pair of old, hole-ridden boots and kicked one of them.
With a puff of smoke and dust, the hazy image of a slouching, thin-faced man appeared before us. “Password?” His voice sounded like a sigh on the wind.
I’d read of “ghosts” like this in one of the books from Mickelmas’s chest. They weren’t the actual souls of dead people. Rather, these were more like echoes of ownership attached to objects, and they could be made to act as guards or enforcers. Not the most skillful of creatures, but useful in their own way.
“Shut up and let me in,” Alice said cheerfully.
“Correct password.” The ghost disappeared in a puff of smoke, and a door opened in the wall.
“Your people are strange,” Maria whispered. Well, she was right.
We stepped into a public house that appeared perfectly normal, as far as public houses went. The walls were brick, blackened in spots by smoke from the guttering oil lamps. A tarnished mirror behind the mahogany bar reflected the room’s crowd, which wasn’t that spectacular: about ten people all told. Portraits of famous magicians gazed down on us. One of them showed Merlin; another, Strangewayes. In one corner I spotted Darius LaGrande, and in another a man who seemed curiously familiar….When I realized who he was, my throat tightened. I hurried over to look at the portrait more closely. The subject was a handsome young man with dark hair and a round, pleasant face. His smile was warm, open, friendly. The placard at the bottom read WILLIAM HOWEL.
My father had been more renowned in magician circles than I’d ever imagined. His name was carved in Ralph Strangewayes’s house, and now this? Unthinking, I touched the portrait, tracing my fingers over my father’s face.
I wish you could see me now, I thought, reluctantly stepping back. I wish, God, I wish I could talk to you.
Blinking back sudden tears, I took a moment and studied the people in the room to calm myself. Alice had already seated herself at a table and was chatting animatedly with a man. He looked like a normal sort, with light brown hair and a long face, until he coughed up a fish. The silvery creature slid out of his mouth and onto the table. It was alive, flipping and flopping about. With a resigned shake of his head, the man tossed the trout into a bucket by his feet.
I hoped that whatever the spell was didn’t last for very long. I imagined that coughing up fish was uncomfortable.
By the side of the room, a little girl with dark skin and braided hair hugged a doll, one that appeared rather badly singed. A shock of light sizzled in her hair, almost like an electric storm. When she caught me looking, she smiled.
A red hawk with beautiful feathers sat on the back of a chair, cleaning its wings.
Surely someone here could help me with Strangewayes’s weapons. I was about to start introducing myself when a dark-skinned man appeared out of thin air, right by the bar.
“My truest, most pungent companions,” he said, popping onto a stool. “Thank you for meeting me. Our wait is nearing an end, my friends. England will be great once more, with our magic to guide her.” He raised his arms, the purple-orange-red patchwork sleeves of his coat falling around his elbows. He received muted, lukewarm applause.
“Oi, Jenkins,” the fish-cougher said, lifting his drink in welcome.
Only this man was not Jenkins Hargrove. His real name was Howard Mickelmas.
My mentor, after months of utter silence, was sitting in a pub as though everything were perfectly normal. The bartender passed him a frothing mug of ale, which he happily drank.
“You know him, then?” Maria whispered. She must have noticed my look of shock.
“He taught me everything I know,” I muttered, sitting down at a table. I didn’t want him to notice me until I was ready to be noticed.
Despite everything, I was relieved to see him. Though I’d known he survived Korozoth’s attack when he gave me his magical trunk months ago, I hadn’t known what had become of him. But here he was, drinking and laughing and perfectly alive. I smiled a little as I watched him.
Mickelmas reached into his pocket and pulled out a ridiculously feathered purple hat. “Pass it around, my ostriches. A few coins go to pay for the Army of the Burning Rose.”
My smile evaporated. Oh no. No, that could not mean what I thought it did.
“What is it?” Maria asked as I balled my fists. “Do you not like roses?”
“The burning rose is my sigil. My sorcerer sigil.”
“Ah.” She whistled. “I imagine you didn’t give him permission to use it?”
“I am going to kill him.”
“So that’s no.”
Mickelmas passed the hat around, though most people didn’t put anything in it. “Go on. A penny or two for our great army’s advancement,” Mickelmas clucked. Someone passed us the hat. Maria had to send it on fast, to prevent me from setting fire to it. “And might I add how good it is to see everyone?” Mickelmas looked about the room. I ducked my head to keep him from glimpsing my face. “Yes, Alice and Sadie and Gerald and…where’s Alfred?” He frowned.
“You’re sitting on him,” someone called. Mickelmas leaped off the bar stool, which began to rock back and forth on its own.
“Anyone know the counterspell?” He waited, but there was no answer. “Sorry, Alfred. Let’s hope it wears off.” He patted the leather seat and continued. “Our own flower, seeded in sorrow, brought to bloom in adversity, our dear Henrietta Howel is at this moment living in the seat of power. She has been taken to Her Majesty’s most royal bosom and declared the great chosen one. Our success is assured!” he cried. There was some polite scattered applause. The fish man coughed up another trout as Alice nodded at me, expectant. The hat, now lightly jingling with a few coins, returned to Mickelmas, who slipped it back into his pocket.
“Jenkins?” Alice waved her hand. “Now that the burning rose is with us—”
She was trying to introduce me, but Mickelmas jumped onto her speech. “Ah, my dear Henrietta. The brightest pupil I ever taught.” He sighed dramatically, one hand over his heart. “She’s done such sterling work, infiltrating the monarchy at its highest level. Really, if only I could see her dear, sweet face again.” He produced a handkerchief and wiped his eyes. Maria snorted with laughter.
“Here, Jenkins.” Alice pointed to me. “Look who I found.”
Taking that as my cue, I pushed back my hood and stood. When Mickelmas saw me, it was as though he tried swallowing his own face. I walked over to him, feigning sweetness.
“I’m so happy to see you.” I dug my nails into his hand. He gave a small whine at the back of his throat but didn’t falter. What a professional. “I’m so enjoying my time in the Order.”
There were now some murmurs of interest in the room.
“What am I doing after I infiltrate the Order, exactly?” I whispered to Mickelmas, pulling him close. He put an arm around my shoulders and turned me to face the crowd once more.
“Our own burning rose continues our march toward equality, toward liberty, toward the freedom of English magic.” I could feel everyone’s sc
rutiny, even the hawk’s. I’d an idea what they saw: a magician’s girl, born like them but still a stranger. Living with the sorcerers. There was no unkindness here, but there was some mistrust. Well, I couldn’t blame them for that.
“Would you mind if I spoke with you for one moment, master dear?” I asked him.
Mickelmas bared his teeth in what might charitably be called a smile. “Oh, to catch up with my prize student. What a balm to my tired soul. But I must turn to fund-raising, my little flytrap. Your army won’t build itself, you know.”
My army. Of all the ridiculous, insane things.
“Not showing her much of a turnout, are we, Jenkins?” the fish man—Gerald—said with a laugh. Jenkins. That gave me an idea. Mickelmas was so careful about hiding his actual identity that very few knew who he really was. And Howard Mickelmas had a terrible reputation.
“Of course I understand, Mr. Hargrove. Wait. It is still Mr. Hargrove, isn’t it?” I gave him my most innocent eyes. His mouth became small. “Since you’ve so many false names—for your safety, of course—I wanted to make sure I didn’t slip and use the wrong one.”
His wide eyes said he didn’t think I would. My expression told him plainly that he was wrong.
“Oh, one moment with my little flower. Privately.” He squeezed my arm so hard it brought tears to my eyes. “A round for my friends, on me!” he called to the barkeep, and the place exploded in true excitement for the first time. Mickelmas pushed me through the room while a few of the magicians shook hands with me. Mickelmas shoved me out the door and around the corner. Finally free, I rubbed my arm.
“That’s no way to handle a lady,” I snapped.
“I’ve seen you eat a pork pie. There’s nothing ladylike about you.” He crossed his arms. “What do you want?”
Was this a joke? “Why are you using my name to start a bloody revolt?”
“You think becoming a sorcerer was enough? I’m laying the groundwork for you to rise higher than ever, you stupid pudding.” There was a passion in his eyes I hadn’t seen before. When we’d worked together in his tiny flat, he told me he’d fought enough for magicians. Now he wanted to plunge back into the fray?
A Poison Dark and Drowning (Kingdom on Fire, Book Two) Page 13