“That’s better.” Belle brightened so swiftly the dizzying shift mirrored the goddess. “Tea?”
Ibrahim shook his head. “Women. You are enigmas.”
“No, we’re just always waiting for men to say the proper thing. Now and then you do. And upon such occasions, we rejoice.” She slid a warm cup in a delicate saucer across the bar.
“What’s all this racket before noon?” George called. His freckled face lit with happiness as he came into view upon the stairs. “Ho-ho, Ibrahim, my friend. You’re back! Love it or hate it, the Grand Work can’t keep us apart, even when we’re done with it!” He bounded down the last few steps, pumped Ibrahim’s hand with a hard, jovial shake, and gave him a strong pat on the back for good measure.
Belle pulled out a notebook and launched into particulars before Ibrahim could ask. “Beatrice spoke of a general route—convents, safe places for two women traveling without male company, ending inland at a Catholic convent in York. Can’t be too many of those, so that narrows things down nicely.” She scrawled names and locations.
“Did you … know I would come when you wrote?” Ibrahim was agog.
“I prayed desperately you would. I’ve never seen such hollow sadness on so regal a face.”
“She was so visibly affected?” Ibrahim asked, trying to sound nonchalant.
Belle sighed, irritated. “Neither of you is capable of showing it when you’re in the same room, but she’s been heartbroken! Thorny and defensive…” Belle grinned. “If there’s one thing I know, it’s love in all its many colors. She’s deeply in love.”
George grinned goofily, as if this conversation were the best sport ever. Ibrahim pursed his lips, though his already careening sensibilities reeled anew. He tried to maintain his usual reserve; it would not do to come undone.
“The English think they invented civilization,” Ibrahim muttered, “and the French think they invented love.”
Belle and George laughed heartily and kissed each other.
Ibrahim cleared his throat again. He had long wondered that any human being could stand the idea of caring for someone so deeply, of needing someone, of wanting someone.
Apart from James Tipton, he had been an independent, solitary person with few meaningful connections—until the Grand Work. Now, a life alone would not satisfy. Not once one had the experience of being so peculiarly tied to other human souls. To such a soul as Beatrice Smith.
“My dear friend, has that golden skin of yours paled?” George laughed and then sobered, scowling, though his bright eyes still twinkled playfully. “I’m sorry. We should not be so sporting with you. This is a serious matter. The two of you.” He crafted an exaggerated frown. “Such serious people—”
“The two of us nothing. I returned because I’m compelled to assist her work,” Ibrahim barked. Defensive. Terrified. Goodness. They were suited.
“And so you shall,” Belle said, producing a leather pocketbook full of bank notes from under the bar. “Take this. Use it for travel. Buy Beatrice something lovely. Give it to orphans.” She tore her annotated paper from the notebook, placed it atop the pocketbook and said, “Here are the places she cited. Now, go on with you.”
Ibrahim nodded. “Thank you both. I shall see you anon. Together we all shall celebrate the culmination of the Grand Work. Whatever our parts in it may be.”
* * *
Once Ibrahim had gone, Belle waxed rhapsodic. “What will their reunion be like—reserved or tender? Will they greet each other with civility or passion?”
George leaned upon the bar, grinning. “Passion? They don’t know the meaning of the word.”
“Oh, don’t underestimate the stoic,” Belle giggled. “Behind closed doors their kisses are often the most torrid!”
Clearing fallen window box petals from the street in front of the café, she was still imagining the possibilities when she saw an unlikely couple turn down the street. Recognizing them instantly, she hid behind the door. It had been many months since their paths had first crossed with any of the new Guard.
The lean, flaxen-haired youth with sharp features, was dressed finely to the point of gaudiness, while the olive-skinned, dark-haired girl beside him wore more sensible garb. One English, one French. How familiar. Belle wondered if it was a common pattern; the coupling of Memory, Artist, and disparate cultures.
The Artist’s beauty outshone Memory’s wealth; her youth was belied only by the two jarring shocks of white hair framing her face.
Memory looked around. Believing that he and the Artist were in no danger of being discovered, he closed the distance between them. His sharp features twisted into something devilish, rakish, and surprisingly attractive.
“At last, a moment away from our tedious lot,” he exclaimed. “I now gaze upon the only thing that makes this bloody Work bearable.”
“Why, Lord Withersby, you flatter me.” The Artist giggled, her olive skin flushed. Belle decided to come out from behind the door to hear better, continuing to work with her broom while she eavesdropped.
“Flattery isn’t always untrue. Come now, Josie—may I call you that?”
“Lord Withersby, you’ve been calling me Josie for months.”
“Ah, so I’ve no manners. But, Josie, you’re a balm to my misery. The six of us are to be joined for eternity, and I’d open my veins if not for you. Ruled by that brooding, insufferable Rychman? No title, no ancestral lands, yet he acts as if the heavens themselves opened to appoint him Leader.”
“But, Elijah, the heavens did exactly that.”
“Don’t you play Rebecca and take his part! He doesn’t have to be so haughty. I daresay he rubs it in, knowing I’d have twice his status were we not subject to this paranormal meddling!”
“His fine estate aside, a man’s worth should be determined by his actions. By what he does.” Josephine paused and raised an eyebrow as Elijah loosened his cuffs and waistcoat. “Or doesn’t.”
Josephine suddenly noticed Belle, and she and the Memory turned toward the door of the café. The Memory tipped his top hat.
“Good afternoon, mademoiselle, don’t mind us, we’re simply discussing the more tedious details of our Grand Work—we’re spectral police, you see, keeping ghouls at bay by rites and rituals, with inexplicable fire, with music and all manner of incredible trickery.” He smiled, believing he could reveal whatever he wished before wiping himself and his companion from her mind. Lifting his hand, his pale eyes sparkling with preternatural light, he tried to do just that.
Belle grinned, playing along, and allowed her eyes to glaze. Not that she could have retorted if she wanted; the goddess’s protective spell yet held.
The Memory turned back to the Artist, his expression triumphant, but she stared up at the sign above her head. “La Belle et La Bête…”
The Memory began down the lane, his fine boots clipping against the stones. The Artist lingered.
Pretending to come back to herself, Belle resumed sweeping, then “noticed” the young woman in the street.
“Bonjour,” she said. The other French girl lit up, and they exchanged a few pleasantries in their native language.
The Memory stopped and turned back, folding his arms. Josephine raised an eyebrow. “Since when is Lord Withersby so keen to return to his fellows? I thought you were taking me for refreshment.”
“I had a place in mind,” he replied.
When Josephine didn’t move, Belle spoke in French. “Sometimes you don’t know what you’re looking for until you find it.” She gestured down the stairs to the open door.
“Here, Lord Withersby,” Josephine called. “Here.”
When she entered, Lord Withersby, shrugging, traipsed after her. Cordial introductions were made as Belle seated them. Josephine looked about appreciatively at the work on the walls, products of George’s brush.
“My resident artist,” Belle said with a wink.
“Exquisite. Reminds me of someone.” Josephine’s dark eyes looked into her hazel ones.
“I’m quite taken with it,” Josephine breathed, lifting the stemware and swirling the deep red contents, breathing in the bouquet.
Abruptly Belle realized that this was a more fated encounter than she had at first suspected.
“Business is slow, you know. It’s a bit out of the way,” she said.
Elijah and Josephine replied in chorus, “I like that about the place.”
“Pardon me,” Belle said. “I shouldn’t be so forward, but I sense you’re a lovely young couple, well intentioned—”
Josephine blushed. “Oh, well, we’re not a—”
“So I’ll get to the point,” Belle continued. “My partner and I have been planning to leave London for the coast. We’re looking for someone to take over the café. Do think about it.”
Either they were there because of Prophecy or they weren’t. She left the pair with the bottle of wine, and cups of tea for good measure, and moved up the stairs, allowing them time with their thoughts. On the landing she found George, who’d been eavesdropping, too.
“Are we leaving?” he whispered. “Already?”
Belle shrugged. “We’re on to Grimsby soon, and I think they should have the place. I may have lost my power, but I certainly haven’t lost my instincts.”
George poked his head around the balustrade to stare at the couple and shook his head.
“Poor sots,” he whispered, turning back to her. “We had it easy, Belle, I see now. Those poor fools inherited the hard work for the rest of their bloody lives.” He turned and went back up to his room.
Unable to resist, Belle continued to spy on the newcomers. She hardly knew them, but she loved this new couple like kin. They were kin. Sad that they couldn’t know it.
The Memory was leaning over the table excitedly. “Let me buy this place for you, Josie. It’s much better than that sordid flat of yours, and it will give us a safe place to occupy ourselves. I can’t stand sitting about that school. I was meant for leisure, not labor! In the name of dear Saint George and whatever French saint you choose, grant me this safe harbor instead of that echoing institution. A Withersby simply doesn’t know how to exist without a fine glass of wine. Come now, Josie—”
Josephine’s laughter filled the room and Belle’s heart. Elijah leaned close to her, trading his constant jokes for an earnest plea.
“Let me do something for you, Josie. Don’t let the Withersby fortune languish without ever having done something decent. Perhaps you won’t allow me to express my thoughts for you in any other way but material goods, but…”
In a tone heavy with anticipation, Josephine said, “Why? In what other ways would express your thoughts?”
The Memory leaned forward, reaching out a long-fingered hand and cupping the Artist’s cheek. He kissed her, gently, tentatively. Belle felt that this moment had been brewing from the Grand Work’s commission. She’d wanted George in the same way, from the very first.
The kiss deepened before Josephine broke away with a gasp. “We mustn’t tell a soul about this!” she murmured. “Our stations, our work, it could never be—”
“What, caring for you must be as secret as the rest of my blasted fate?” The Memory scoffed. “Well, I couldn’t tell my family, of course—”
Josephine gave him a sharp look. “I don’t mean your family. I mean our motley circle. Poor Rebecca only has eyes for Alexi, Alexi only for himself and his work. Michael loves Rebecca, and Jane … Well, Jane baffles me. But we cannot be the lone pair—”
“The envy of all.” Elijah chuckled.
“We mustn’t drive such a wedge between us,” Josephine said. “But you, Lord Withersby,” she said, leaning close, “come from a class that is expert at keeping secrets.”
“Just as you, my dear, are French. And I’ll never let you forget it.”
“Won’t the others suspect, you buying me this place?”
Elijah shrugged. “I’ll make Alexi pay half, like we did for Jane.” He lifted his glass and said, “To La Belle et La Bête, our new home away from home!”
Belle went back downstairs, rounding the corner in time to see Elijah sweep Josephine into his arms and spin her about the floor.
“We’ll take it!” he cried.
CHAPTER
THIRTY-ONE
In truth, Beatrice wanted to be found. She wanted to feel she was joined with others in purpose, wanted to know her friends were interested in her safety. To her surprise, she missed the random, unannounced appearances of the goddess in all her mystery. She missed their maddening interplay.
Desired or not, however, no one was coming to find her, she knew, no herald or guardian angel. Life had moved on. Once Iris Parker gave birth and passed on, so would Beatrice, and her time doing the Grand Work would be entirely forgotten.
For the thousandth time, she debated rushing back to London, finding Alexi Rychman, and telling him exactly what would come to pass. But she knew that nothing was set in stone, that all the planning in the world couldn’t make events take place as desired. And her tongue was yet shackled by the goddess’s lingering magic.
What of her heart? Had she fallen in love of her own volition, or had that too been an act of magic? Leaders and seconds often did become lovers, she remembered. But she felt Ibrahim’s loss more keenly now that her powers were gone and he was a world away.
She took some comfort from her task as she and Iris made their way, moving every few weeks, convent by convent, to York. Prophecy was progressing as well as it might. Beatrice was itching to leave their current place, afraid the concentration of ghosts, which grew with each passing day, would attract the wrong kind of attention.
“Good morning, Beatrice,” Iris chirped as they took their tea and warm breakfast oats. “Are we relocating today?”
“If not today, tomorrow. We’ve grown weary of the ghosts of these walls, have we not? I daresay you’re the spirit world’s most popular mother.”
“I wonder why that’s so,” Iris mused, then smiled. “No. I know why. It’s because of my child, my Percy. Isn’t that an endearing nickname for Persephone? I know it’s a boy’s name, but it will be special and unique, like her. My child will be a child of peace and love. She will be the sort of girl who sets souls at ease. That’s why the spirits flock here.”
“I believe you are correct,” Beatrice replied. “Are you feeling well?”
“Oh, heavy and stiff, with pains here and there,” Iris said cheerfully, adjusting her position against the headboard of her narrow bed. “She’s healthy. I’d know if she wasn’t. I’m sure the pain comes from being raised from the dead to bear her,” Iris added, with a surprising matter-of-factness. “And I know, Beatrice, that my time is short.”
Beatrice opened her mouth to protest, but Iris continued joyfully.
“No, it’s all right, I was saved for this purpose. I’m utterly at peace, Beatrice Smith, so don’t you cry over me. You may cry for yourself, certainly, for I see your heart is heavy. You may tell me your troubles if you’ve a mind.”
Beatrice fought back astonishment at the other woman’s perception. “No, you keep your lovely mind and heart focused on that baby. Give her your all energy, and fill her with love. She’ll need all the love afforded her. It’s a dark world into which she’ll be born.”
“She’ll fill it with light,” Iris promised.
“That she will. But she’ll need your strength. She will likely be odd. Fragile.”
“The meek shall inherit the earth.”
“So they shall,” Beatrice murmured. Privately, she wondered about the haunted. The dead, and those with hearts like her own. What would they inherit?
She kissed Iris on the forehead; she had grown genuinely fond of her in the weeks they’d spent together. Then she exited the room, envying such faith, trust, and joy.
* * *
That afternoon, once Beatrice had helped braid Iris’s hair and assisted
her aching body into a flowing white shift, just as Beatrice was considering whether or not to set off or wait another day, there was a surprise as a sister came to their door. “There’s a gentleman here to see you, Miss Smith. We aren’t supposed to let men in, but he was so insistent, saying he’s sought you for some time now, all down the English coast. He’s just out in the hall, but, miss, he’s a foreigner!”
Beatrice’s heart convulsed in her chest, and she pushed past the girl almost without a word. At the last moment she said, “Thank you, Novice Clarence, I’ll see him.”
In the hall, she found Ibrahim in a fine long suit coat and waistcoat, a look he’d donned at times during their work in London, shifting fluidly between the diverse worlds to which he’d grown accustomed. Though she cared not a whit what he wore, she had to admit to herself that he looked unbearably dashing. Especially since he carried a large stack of books and magazines. Traveling with a library.
She made herself scowl, though she knew her eyes must glow. He had come for her!
“You may leave us, Novice Clarence. Mr. Wasil-Tipton is a colleague, and we’ve business matters.” The novice bobbed her head and vanished.
Beatrice folded her arms and opened her mouth to speak, but Ibrahim set the reading materials on a nearby ledge and strode forward a few paces, forestalling her.
“I assume you received my letter. I maintain that I must keep my distance so that I will not endanger you, but I am here to help. It was wrong of me to abandon you with work to be done.” He stopped, still some feet away, and smiled at her. “Powers or no, the power of the word remains. And I promise to be careful with it.”
So, yet fearing he’d be the death of her, he was all business. Still, it was very good to see him.
She found herself replying with her customary curt and detached tone, the one that betrayed nothing of her heart. “I welcome your assistance. The haunting becomes unmanageable at times, and we must keep moving else the dead overrun the towns in which we stay. But come and meet her. By the end of the month we shall move west, into York, and await the final days there.”
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