Prince of Hearts (Elders and Welders Chronicles)

by Margaret Foxe

  She sifted through the other letters, her confusion growing. Some letters were addressed to him, from various friends and in various languages. She saw one from Mr. Edison, another from the composer Verdi, who the Professor admired. She snorted inwardly. Of course he would know the most famous men alive, and keep their letters as his trophies.

  But then she caught her breath when she saw two from her uncle. One was dated around the time of his death, but another was dated much earlier, before Aline’s birth, and addressed to a man she’d never heard of, not the Professor. Shaken from the revelation that Sasha had known her uncle all along and never told her, she tucked both letters into her pocket to read at a later time, and returned to her search. She felt no compunction at all with her small act of thievery. What other secrets was he keeping?

  All of the remaining correspondence were of varying antiquity, and always addressed to different men. Some were so old the paper was yellow and brittle to the touch, the ink barely legible.

  The oldest letters, towards the bottom, were still written on animal skin, and carefully wrapped in oilcloth. These were the type of old documents historians would kill for. Why the Professor would collect such a motley assortment of letters addressed to dead men was beyond her ken, since he’d taken pains to blot out his own past.

  Unable to restrain her curiosity, she carefully unfolded the oilcloth covering the bottom-most document, revealing a single page of what looked like medieval Cyrillic. The page looked as if it had been well-used, folded and refolded hundreds of times, hardly in pristine condition. The letter’s recipient must have read its contents again and again, and when she translated them – very roughly, as she’d never taken to Russian, much less medieval Russian – she understood why.

  Dearest Husband, it read, I have prayed to Our Father, and He has at last granted our dearest wish. In my heart I know we shall have a son before the summer thaw. I pray daily that you do your duty as our great Tsar’s beloved son. I beseech you temper your tongue, and tempt not his anger, so that you may come back to me, and our child. Your obedient wife, Yelena.

  Now Aline started to feel some compunction. Reading this intimate exchange felt like she was trespassing where she shouldn’t, even though both writer and recipient were long dead. She wondered if this could be written by one of Sasha’s ancestors, which was the only thing that made sense. This letter had been precious to someone, and perhaps even the Professor found worth in that. But it offered little insight into Sasha’s secrets.

  She quickly rewrapped the page and replaced all of the letters in the secret drawer. Then she took up the gas lamp and went to the locked door. She opened it with the key and stepped inside, the lamp casting the room in ominous layers of shadows.

  She half expected a monster to jump out and devour her, but there was nothing in this room but old, dusty antiques. Ancient books, old atlases, a hundred forgotten objects piled on shelves, and unframed paintings stacked against the walls – the detritus of many past lives.

  She was drawn to the painting hanging on the far wall, the only painting the Professor had bothered to display. It was difficult to make out in the glow of the gas lamp, so she wandered closer.

  After what she’d witnessed tonight at the warehouse, she’d thought she’d grown numb, but the painting disturbed her the more she studied it. It depicted the aftermath of a violent struggle in some distant, exotic past, the murder weapon, a long bloody scepter, thrown into the foreground atop a sea of opulent Eastern rugs. A young man in golden robes lay dying, blood running down his face from the blow to his head, clutched in the arms of an older man with a horror-struck expression.

  A shiver coursed down her spine. Even the Professor’s art was a crime scene.

  “It is called Ivan the Terrible and His Son,” a deep, familiar voice said behind her. Her heart in her throat, she spun to face the Professor.

  She’d not heard him come in at all, but then again, he was a magician. He switched on an overhead electrical light she’d not noticed, and bright light flooded the room. But dark shadows remained in the hollows beneath his eyes, as if he were desperately, bone-achingly weary. He looked like a fallen angel, but Aline fought down any lingering vestiges of empathy. She’d never fall for his tricks again. All she wanted from him were answers.

  She glared at the two uncharacteristically docile hellhounds hovering at his side. A fat lot of good they’d been at guarding her.

  “November 16th, 1581.” There was an atypical wariness in Romanov’s voice.

  “What?” she asked, not following his words. She’d expected him to demand why she was in his secret room, but he was acting as if he didn’t care she was there. As if he were a bit nervous around her, in fact, when she hadn’t thought he possessed a nervous bone in his body.

  He gestured towards the painting behind her. “The name of the painting. Ivan the Terrible and His Son, November 16th, 1581,” he repeated. “I bought it from a Russian artist several years ago. Before I came to England.”

  Aline bit her tongue to keep herself from interrupting. He was talking about his past for the first time she’d known him, and though it had little to do with what she truly wished to know, she decided to see where this led. For once in five years, he was not teasing her, or ordering her around – or seducing her. Clearly, the events of the evening had taken their toll on him, and he hadn’t the fight left for anything but plain speaking. She wasn’t about to let this opportunity pass her by.

  He approached her tentatively, stopping at her side, searching her face. Then he focused on the painting and began to speak.

  “The Tsar had just beaten his son’s pregnant wife for wearing the wrong color dress. She miscarried, and later died. The Tsar’s son confronted his father in the throne room, and his father struck him in the head, killing him.” He pointed at the scepter in the foreground, an odd, haunted look on his face. “He used the same staff to beat his daughter-in-law.”

  “What a horrible story. Yet the tsar is embracing his dying son. He looks so sad.”

  Something dark passed over the Professor’s expression. “When his son was fifteen, the Tsar took his son to the city of Novgorod with his army. He made him watch every day for five weeks while he and his army sacked the city, and tortured and raped ten thousand men, women and children. They even killed the dogs. And in the evening, the Tsar would take his son into the cathedral to pray, because he truly believed he was guided by God.” He paused, considering something, his hand going out to pet Ikaterina, as if to comfort her … or himself. “Maybe he was sad when he killed his son, in his own way. He was insane, after all.”

  Aline didn’t know what to make of the Professor’s speech, or why he seemed so upset by ancient history. She raised her hand to push up her spectacles, and the handkerchief tied around her cut finger slipped off to the floor. Her wound started to bleed even more, dripping onto her skirts. She was inured to her condition, but after the gruesome scene she’d witnessed tonight, seeing her blood staining her gown left her a little light-headed.

  When the Professor noticed her problem, all the color in his face drained away too. Before she could prevent it, he’d seized her hand. She hated the way her heart jumped at the contact.

  “You are wounded!” he breathed. “What happened?”

  “Nothing. I nicked myself earlier.”

  He pulled a fresh handkerchief from his lapel pocket and pressed it to her finger. “This is more than a nick.”

  When he would not give her back her hand, she glared at him until at last, with a frown, he released her – reluctantly. She clutched the handkerchief to her wound.

  “You mustn’t go about in public bleeding everywhere, Finch,” he said in a hard, furious voice.

  “I didn’t plan to, Professor,” she retorted. “I cannot control my condition.”

  He was silent for a long time, as if trying to rein in his fraying temper, fisting his hands so hard she could see the whites of his knuckles, his breath coming in gusts, his e
yes closed. She didn’t know why her cut should upset him that much.

  “You have a blood disorder,” he said, as if this were a revelation of biblical proportions. “That is why you remain unenhanced.” When at last his eyes opened, he looked at her accusingly. As if she’d done something wrong by being born.

  She raised her chin in defiance. “Of course. You would know this if you paid attention to anything I say!” she seethed.

  “You said you had an allergy.”

  She paused, surprised he indeed remembered what she’d told him some five years ago. “Well, yes, I have an allergy. To sharp objects.” When her flippancy seemed to enrage him even further, she shrugged. “The doctors could never explain my condition.” Reluctantly, she tugged down the edge of her high-collared gown to show him the scars on the right side of her throat. “When the Welders tried to fit me with a Necklace as an infant, I nearly bled to death.”

  He moved as if to touch her throat, but she released her collar and backed away, out of his reach, sending him a quelling look. He was developing an unsettling habit of touching her at every opportunity. And she was developing an unsettling habit of letting him.

  “That is why you’re always buttoned up to your neck,” he murmured, something softening in his eyes.

  She refused to answer, having had enough of this uncomfortable conversation. She was supposed to be interrogating him, not the other way around. “Why didn’t you tell me sooner?” she demanded.

  “What?” he asked vaguely, still staring at her throat, as if he could see through the lace collar.

  She put her hands on her hips and drew herself up. “Why didn’t you tell me that there was a psychopath killing women who look like me? That that was the reason you were having me watched?”

  “I didn’t want you to know,” he bit out. “Ever.”

  She snorted. “Well, that’s just idiotic. Don’t you think this is information I need to know, so that I can be prepared in case I encounter this madman?”

  “I’d hoped it wouldn’t be necessary.”

  “Do I look like I am made out of porcelain?”

  He looked incredulous. “Yes,” he growled, gesturing at her bandaged finger.

  She paused, nonplussed, and hid her hand behind her back. “Well, I’m not! I may bleed more than usual. And I admit I’ve a weak stomach, and when I saw the woman tonight I couldn’t help my reaction…”

  “Don’t apologize, ever, for your humanity,” he said, so savagely that she flinched. “And I know how strong you are – on the inside. You are the most obstinate female I have ever met. But no one should have to witness what you did tonight. Or to know that such evil exists.”

  Now she was the angry one. Of all the patronizing, condescending …“Well, that is very noble of you, to want to protect my delicate sensibilities, but I assure you, it is not necessary. In fact, it is dangerous. How could you let me walk around in blithe ignorance?” she cried.

  His eyes widened at her anger. “What’s the good of your knowing? There is nothing you could do to defend yourself.”

  She scoffed at this. “I know a thing or two about self-defense,” she said.

  “You wouldn’t stand a chance against this killer, even if you were a man of Fyodor’s size,” he muttered.

  “I still have a right to know. But I suspect there is more to it than that. This isn’t some killer who targets random blonde women with spectacles. That … poem … next to that woman was written in Cyrillic. Whoever is doing this is connected to you and all the secrets you keep, isn’t he?”

  “Yes,” he admitted, as if to do so pained him enormously.

  “And you didn’t wish me to know, because you don’t want to share your secrets with me. Isn’t that true?”

  “Yes!” he bit out. “Damn you.”

  Oh, it hurt to hear him admit it. “You would rather that I am kept in ignorance about a threat to my life, because you value your secrets more?” she whispered.

  “That’s not it at all. You don’t need to know them. I will protect you, Finch,” was all he could say.

  And he called her obstinate! “Yes, I suspect you will try. Well, you have achieved your goal for the evening. You have frightened me into moving into your townhouse for the time being, as I have no wish to be murdered. I will gladly remain under your protection, propriety be damned. At least until my wedding.”

  Her last statement certainly raised his hackles. “You’re not going anywhere until we catch this villain. Certainly not Egypt,” he practically sneered.

  “I hardly think this killer is going to travel all the way to Egypt to kill me. I’ll doubtless be safer there than I am here.”

  “You won’t. You aren’t safe anywhere,” he said, tugging at his hair in exasperation. “This madman has spent … years tormenting me, long, long before I came to England. He knows everything about me. I’d thought it was over. It had been so long since this madman had killed I had hoped …” He shrugged. “But then the body in Genoa surfaced. He has never targeted someone I care … employ. That part is new.”

  Something tickled her memory. “Genoa? Is that where you went after you left me in France? How odd.”

  “Odd?”

  “Charlie and I were speculating on where you might have gone in the dirigible. He suggested Genoa. Do you know it is a hub for pirates?”

  He gave her an incredulous look. “Really, milaya. You’re talking about pirates right now?”

  She scowled at him. “I wish you wouldn’t call me that. I’m not your sweet. But why were you gone for so long without a word this past month? You never explained that. Were you following a lead?”

  His expression grew stony. “I was in jail.”

  “What?” she cried. “Why were you in jail?”

  “As I’ve said, the killer has done his best to implicate me. Someone thought I committed the murder in Genoa, so I was locked up. Until the next murder in Scotland. As I could not have possibly been two places at once, I was released.”

  “Scotland!”

  “The Outer Hebrides. Not exactly on the map. One of the killer’s more obscure references. Which means he’d think nothing of traveling to Egypt. And I hardly think your bone-hunter capable of protecting you.”

  She felt as if she’d been punched in the gut. She sucked in a pained breath. The Professor saw her reaction, and his eyes widened. He stepped closer and stopped just short of touching her on the shoulder.

  “What is it? What’s wrong?”

  She met his worried eyes. “I lived in the Outer Hebrides for the first twelve years of my life. My parents took me to live there because it was far enough away from the Fog that I could survive. Where in the Outer Hebrides was the body found?”

  “Grimsay.”

  She could feel the blood draining from her face. “That was where we stayed. But how could he know that? Who is this … this monster?”

  “If I knew the answer to that, I would have torn out this bastard’s heart by now,” he snapped.

  She drew back, alarmed by the black fury in his eyes. She believed he might actually do exactly as he threatened. Dear God, she thought to herself. She’d worked for him for five years, but she was more convinced than ever she’d never come close to knowing him. Not even a little.

  He seemed to realize he’d frightened her, for his expression fell, and his shoulders slumped, as if he carried the weight of the world on them. Then he retreated from her, as if he regretted ever revealing even this small crumb of his true self to her. She could feel his withdrawal inwards, a veil descending over his unnatural eyes, shutting her out.

  Suddenly she too was exhausted, tired of fighting him and his secrets. Perhaps he was right to keep them, if the terrifying rage she’d seen in him tonight was the result of revealing them. She wasn’t sure she wanted to know who he truly was.

  “There is a darkness inside of you,” she said, shaking her head. “I’ve always known that. And I’ve always known your secrets must be dangerous. I write fict
ion, but I am not a moon-eyed idiot. So I forgive you for thinking you are protecting me by keeping your secrets. Even though you should have told me. This man knows everything about me. And though you say you can protect me, I wonder. I wonder if I don’t need some protection from you.”

  He clenched his jaw as if he’d received a blow. “Aline…”

  “Don’t call me that,” she snapped. Hearing him say her first name was perhaps more painful than anything else she’d endured this evening. “But what I can’t forgive you for is attempting to seduce me instead of telling me the truth. I can’t forgive you for allowing me to make such a cake of myself, thinking you actually … desired me. When it was all just a ploy to manipulate me.”

  He said nothing to deny her accusations or assuage her anguish. He just stared at her in stony silence, expression once again carefully controlled.

  She nodded, determined to keep her expression equally controlled, though it was difficult. She’d known hours ago how false his attentions had been, but having him silently acknowledge it was still crushing. It was as if he’d ripped the scab off a barely-healed wound. And she had always been a bleeder. Thank goodness, she thought, that it was only her pride he’d wounded, and not her heart.

  She wasn’t that foolish. She wasn’t. But it hurt. It hurt more than it should.

  “I don’t know why I ever thought you could feel …” she began, unable to stop herself. “Sometimes I don’t think you even have a heart.”

  Something that resembled pain, but couldn’t possibly be, flickered over his guarded eyes, but whatever it was, it was quickly suppressed. He was silent for so long, watching her with that blank mask, that she grew restless.

  Then he surprised her by letting out a short, mirthless laugh. “You are more right than you know, milaya. I lost my heart long ago. It was ripped out the night I watched my father murder my wife and child.”

  What? “Professor …”