A small teapot sat atop a warmer, the slow bubble of boiling water soothing to my ears.
Over at the aethergraph machine on the wall, he pulled out the drawer containing the heavy typing module and began composing a message. He muttered to himself as he pecked at the keys.
If I was wanted as a criminal, what were my chances of Moira even meeting me, much less contacting Lizzie? The small flame under the stand mesmerized me and I wrapped my cold hands around the teapot, relishing the heat.
Hunger, deep and heavy, rolled through me and I gasped, toppling the tea. Boiling water spilled over the table landing on my legs. I jumped instinctively, pushing back the chair as I stood.
“Oh, you’re scorched!” Matheson cried, running over with a towel. “Are you OK? Are you burned?”
I stared at my wet hands and gnawing fear spread through me. Though red, there was no blistering of any kind. I had not been burned. I had not felt anything.
30
Moira’s answering aether missive was both short and hopeful. She agreed to meet in Mid-City, during the evening siesta. Artisans, craftsmen, and commuter workers favored taking their evening meal in the bustling center and I hoped to go unnoticed in the crowd. She did not say if she was bringing Lizzie or simply meeting me herself, but an answer back was more than I’d hoped for. I’d expected a flat out denial or silence.
Outside his store in the courtyard, Matheson fussed with the canvas covering of his flatbed wagon arranging it to best hide my form amid the crates of random items from his trade shop.
“I do a pick up once a week,” he whispered through labored breaths. “It’s not usually for a few days, but we’ll have to make do. I’ll time my first stop at the other end of town. Now, that is normally my last stop and I’m hoping no one will take note. These barter trips are quite popular…” He muttered, the stress in his voice evident as he hooked the edges of the cover to the nails lining the slats of wood along the sides of the wagon. The canvas pulled taut, it made a makeshift canopy above my head. Peeking through the gap, I caught sight of a form at the window. The pink lace curtain fluttered shut on the beauty shop.
I lay on my back, my gaze resting on the collection of cracked doll heads, scratched music boxes, and old clothes as I deliberately slowed my racing heart. Matheson had only a few items of clothing in his shop. One was a commuter worker dress and since I’d last been seen at the station in one, I chose the only other ensemble that fit.
The dress, Mr. Matheson informed me, formerly belonged to a seamstress who made her fortune outfitting Outer City’s more notorious citizens, had a certain artistic flair. Her husband had been a famous clock-maker in Europe during The Great Calamity and her love for him was evident in her work. Running a hand along the cream-colored fur that lined the collar and lapel of the cinched black waistcoat, I was grateful for the warmth of the long sleeves. They ended at the wrist in lace cuffs buttoned with clock-gears.
A length of dark ribbon held the coat closed, and I fiddled with the bow. Deep black overskirts were ruched center front and draped out from underneath the waistline of the bodice. The pale gray underskirt, a soft silk that fluttered when I walked, fell to the tops of my calf length boots. Large, grandfather clock hands made into barrettes held a French knot at my crown, and I adjusted the pointed edge from my sore scalp.
Fine enough to let me pass for a newly wealthy artisan class, yet lacking in the jewels and precious metal threading of the upper class, I hoped my disguise would hold. My fingers found the pocket watch winding knobs used to fasten the front of the jacket, and I twisted them absently as the cool evening air seeped into my wool tights through a slit in the canvas overhead.
“Are you ready?” Matheson’s voice came from the seat. The creak of his weight on the bench at the head of the wagon set my nerves on edge. His horse snorted and jangled in the harness.
“Yes,” I rasped and steadied myself as he snapped the reigns, clicking his tongue.
We jarred to a steady pace, the rattle and clank of countless castaway items jostling in their crates made hearing anything else virtually impossible. I was left to my own worries. For what seemed like an hour I lay there wrapped in angst. What of Ashton? Did Moira get him help? Perhaps she also had news of my father. I dared not hope and pushed the thought aside.
Concentrating on the sway of the carriage, I worked out what I would say to Lizzie should she be there. I needed to convince her to help me get to Collodin and not just take off with the journal. How would I get her to trust a man she’d never met? She’d trusted my father enough to arrange a meeting with him. I remember from that first conversation with Ashton aboard the Stygian. So perhaps there was hope. Secure in a suede pouch tucked into my bodice, the small book looked as battered as I felt inside.
The clop-clop of the horse slowed and we stopped. I listened to the sounds of passing wagons and steam carriages outside. Peeking out through a hole, I caught a shower of sparks near a filament street lamp. The damp air promised rain.
A Security Force wagon pulled next to us.
I bit my lip against the moan threatening to escape.
A soldier leaned out, barking at Matheson to let them get into the lane ahead of him.
His answer, steady and friendly, offered assent, and I waited with bated breath.
They pulled ahead and I relaxed, unfurling my aching fingers. Holding my palm in front of my face I balled my fist to release the joints. The tips of my fingers to the second digit had a pale blue tint evident even in the dim light underneath the covering.
We made a sharp turn and I tumbled onto my side, struggling to right myself. I caught a glimpse of my reflection in a cracked mirror tucked into a bin next to me. My skin looked ghostly against my black hair and the faint shadows at my temples reminded me of my father’s haggard look the last time I’d seen him.
But it was my eyes that sent a sizzle of panic down my spine. A dark ring encircled the pale blue of my irises. I stared, rubbed my lids and looked again, my chest tightening with dread. The discoloration seeped toward my pupil in thin lines and I remembered that Tremblers’ eyes were completely black. Minute tremors started in the muscles of my legs, the quivering spread in a glacial wave across my middle, gripping my heart with icy fingers. I held my jaw with fists underneath my chin, fighting the tremors with everything that I had.
No, please. Give me strength to fight this. Just a little bit longer…
My mind filled with fog. Whispers and tortured moans rose in volume threatening to split my head like a dropped melon. Flashes of lunging, mangled mouths and jagged teeth sent me into a cold sweat, and I shook my head trying to rid it of the gruesome images. And the hunger started again in the pit of my stomach. The desperate, gnawing need I could not comprehend. A deep groan tore from my throat. Gasping for breath, frantic to get away, my arms lashed out, and I clawed at the canvas with stiff hands.
The wagon jolted, the horse whinnying as we picked up speed. Angry words shouted from other drivers and the grinding of steam carriage breaks sounded from outside the wagon.
“Whoa!” Matheson shouted at his horse, the fear in his voice snapping me back. “What is it, Bess?”
Teeth gritted, I wrapped my arms around my chest, panting back the torrent of panic gripping me. A puff of cold breath hovered just in front of my eyes and I whimpered.
“Easy, there.” Matheson pulled back the edge of the canvas and peered down at me from his seat. “We’re almost there, but something is spooking Bess.”
“I can walk from here,” I croaked, keeping my gaze from him. Had he seen my eyes before? “Really, you’ve done so much.”
“Are you certain?” Matheson looked away at a noise just outside my view, his brows furrowing. “Perhaps you are right. Let me tie her off and get you out of there.”
He replaced the cover and I craned my neck, searching the bins. I found the basket filled with pince-nez and monocles in the corner of the wagon and pulled it to me. Digging through the broken and bent o
fferings, I found a set of tinted spectacles. Hexagonal brass frames held dark lenses. I donned them just as Matheson unhooked the first grommet.
“We are in the receiving bay behind the museum.” He released the rest of the canvas and offered me his hand, helping me out of the wagon. “The temperature has dropped. There is storm warning from what I can gather, so take care out in the open.”
“Is the solarium closed?” I dusted off my skirts, surveying the expanse of unfinished space behind the museum. Still cracked and uneven from the quakes, the rear of the buildings rarely got renovations. “How long did we take to get here?” I asked, pulling on the black leather gloves he offered, glad for the excuse to hide my hands from prying eyes.
“Just over an hour, I believe. There were a few random searches of carriages, but mercifully, we did not get pulled aside. The stars must be aligned in your favor…” He did a double take at my glasses.
“What?” I pushed them up with my index finger.
He did not comment. Instead, he handed me his pocket watch, attaching the fob to the metal links at my waist. “The solarium will be closed in thirty minutes. Get inside and find a place to hide until after they lock up. Moira will meet you by the clementine tree at a quarter past the hour.”
“Clementine,” I repeated, remembering the drink Ashton bought me in Outer City. Had that been so long ago? My heart ached for him. Was he still at the safe house? Did he hate me for what I had done to him? Turning, I forced a smile. “Thank you, Mr. Matheson, for everything.”
“You are a brave one, Miss Blackburn,” he whispered as a food vendor wheeled his cart down the street beyond. “You have lost so much to help others.”
I did not know what to say to him. How did I reveal that despite all my best efforts I’d managed to do the exact opposite of what I’d intended? I did not set out to do anything for anyone but myself and my father. I did not deserve thanks at all.
“I am just a girl trying to help the ones I love,” I whispered. I glanced down at the watch in my palm and noted the etching on the lid. A fist held a lit torch, the fire forming the letter D in furling flames. It was the symbol of Defiance.
“That is the heart of every rebellion,” Matheson uttered. “The drive to forge a better future for those we hold most dear. Isn’t that really what we all want? To make things right?”
I nodded, saddened that so noble a premise could incite so violent an outcome. “Yes.” I thought of my father and aunt and remembered the wretched Tremblers in the steam works. “That is what I want.”
“Well, let’s make sure you can.” He pointed to the loading doors with his thin fingers. His crisp shirt was stained at the armpits probably with nervous sweat. “The museum connects with the solarium wing via the glass walkway above. That is when you’re most exposed should anyone look up.”
I followed his gesture and noted the Tesla Dome’s purple light glowing over the building tops. Now more evident in the late hour, the grid, once a source of security, now felt like a cage to me.
Matheson tapped the watch in my hand. “Remember, a quarter past the hour. Now go. I will create an opening for you to slip in unnoticed.”
“You have been a port in a storm,” I said, touching his arm. “Thank you.”
“Yes, well…Godspeed.” He cleared his throat and shooed me away from the wagon, pulling on the brass bell at the loading ramp and calling for the cargo men. Gesturing toward the crates piled high near the stairs, he cleared his throat. “Delivery!”
I hid behind the large boxes, peeking out at him.
Two men emerged from the dark of the open loading bay. Their brown overalls and white work shirts told of a long day hefting deliveries and their gruff tone was laced with impatience. “What is this now? I have no order coming in…”
Matheson argued, pivoting to put the men’s backs to me and motioning with his bushy brows for me to go.
I cast one last grateful look at him and slipped into the museum’s loading door. The discussion faded as I stole further into the shadowed warehouse. Shelf after shelf of artifacts all labeled with large, dangling tags lined the floor. Only a few of the overhead filament lights still blazed, and every so often a surge sent sparks sprinkling from the high ceiling.
Fifty yards down a darkened row, a sliver of light cut through the inky black. I lifted my skirts and ran toward it. I found myself in a hallway and strolled purposefully past a cleaning man toward the large double doors leading into the main part of the museum. Near to closing, the attendants normally shut off extraneous lamps in an attempt to herd the patrons toward the front entrance. The dark patches of floor unnerved me and my gaze darted to shadowed corners, certain a gnarled hand might reach out and grab me at any second.
The image of my own azure skin flashed in my mind and a laugh tore from my lips as I crossed the threshold. It struck me as humorous that if there was anything to be frightened of here, it was me. Surprised at my own morbid thoughts, I stifled a smile and nodded to the passing couples and nannies with children who turned at my entrance to the floor.
A man tipped his hat at me, garnering an annoyed glance from his companion as they strolled by.
Hand at my middle, I slowed my breathing, deliberately walking with a measured pace along the display of ancient stone carvings.
I bided my time strolling along the exhibits, taking in the passage of time through the display of spears and urns, jewelry and sculpture. The Great Calamity destroyed many major museums and universities, leaving us with precious little in the way of history.
Locked as we were in our own country through natural barrier or political ousting, we did not have access to the European or African digs any longer and our museums showed signs of the new concentration on our own national treasures.
Unearthed during the rebuild, many of Benjamin Franklin’s inventions and the works of Edison took center stage in our buildings. Still, as I passed a small showing of Early Man excavations, something caught my eye and I stepped back, squinting.
There, near the molded figure of a mother earth goddess, a small, polished stone glimmered in the lamp light. My heart raced when I realized the letter T was carved into the surface. My gaze snapped to the children wandering the area, throat aching with worry.
Tommy, Moira’s brother was here. That meant she was here as well.
I popped the pocket watch open; the time was well before a quarter after.
A soft tone sounded throughout the antiquities section signaling the closing of the museum.
I looked around, frantic for a hiding place. Following behind the exiting crowd, I stopped at an antique cabinet set against the wall. The tall doors stood ajar, and I debated if I should try to slip inside.
A hand clamped onto my shoulder. Whipping around, I found myself face to face with a snarling Lord Rothfair. I gasped as his eyes bored into me.
“Blackburn’s Daughter,” he hissed. “Meeting someone?”
31
I struggled in his grasp, but he held fast, his gaze darting to the exiting patrons. “Quietly, Charlotte,” he soothed. “You don’t want anyone here to get hurt.” He jerked his head to the side.
Behind him, four Union Soldiers walked the perimeter of the exhibit floor. One of them pulled back his cloak revealing a dagger in his hand as he passed a group of four children with their guardian. A slip of light traced the blade as he leveled it, still concealed, at the throat of a passing girl.
I stilled, heaving as I gritted my teeth. “Let them go.” Holding my hands in surrender, I forced calm into my voice. “I won’t run, just don’t hurt anyone.”
“So the stories prove true. The outlaw has a weakness for the droves,” Rothfair said. He motioned, and the soldier lowered the blade and held the door open to the oblivious adult escorting the children.
She smiled at him as they passed.
Others cast wary glances our way as they left the room. Couples huddled to whisper, a schoolmarm clutched her umbrella nervously as she sidled past t
he soldiers, even the attendant shuffled from the room, closing the door behind him.
When the last had fled, I yanked my arm from his grasp. “What are you doing here?”
“Your father made it a point to get on my bad side,” he snapped. “I am here to correct that.”
“What?”
He turned to the soldiers. “Search the premises for Ashton Wells. He’s bound to be here.” To me he said, “Pennsylvania, Charlotte. The information your father gave you, where is it?”
“H-How do you know about the journal?” I stammered as I watched the soldiers leave.
“A journal,” Rothfair raised his brows. “All this time for a book?”
The journal was news to him? What else did Rothfair not know? “You’re behind my father’s attack?”
“I grow weary of this innocent act you so expertly peddled to my dimwitted son. Give me the journal, Charlotte!”
“How did you find me?” Yet even as I said it, I remembered the shop lady watching behind her pink curtains.
“The amount of silver on your head makes it hard to trust in the loyalty of your neighbors, doesn’t it?”
“But…but…” I couldn’t form words, so shocked was I at his involvement.
He pushed me against the glass of the display.
My reflected face, terrified, stared back at me. The blue at my temples flared bright and I startled, the pieces finally falling into place. I remembered now. My father’s temples were the same color that night. I thought the pale discoloring was fatigue or bruises at the time. And he’d worn gloves inside as he packed, was he covering the blue on his hands? I thought back. The electro-rail ticket he’d dropped was from Pennsylvania.
The events of the past weeks were suddenly clear.
Rothfair’s cryptic conversation with me at the ball, his son’s sudden and inexplicable interest in me, and he’d known my father was in residence the night of the ball because his wife, Lady Rothfair, received the missive from my father. All of it hit me like a physical blow and I shoved back, thrusting Rothfair from me with a furious scream.
The Tremblers Page 24