The Eidolon

  She glanced down at the glove. With a proper leather one, the hand could be hidden. She should feel grateful, yet some part of her wanted to grab her sword and test out the strength of this new hand on Lord Grillett and his blasted, gold armor. Or on the Duke. They were both to blame, after all. She’d always wondered at the need for a woman to do the work of a man, and now she had paid the price to do so. It seemed a little enough blow to her vanity, yet her heart twisted and ached.

  Veronica dragged her new finger along the pillow, tearing a clean rift. She had to merely think of doing so and her hand responded. But the action caused a little jolt of pain up her arm, stopping at her elbow. She felt a muscle in her face twitch.

  Mr. Marcovic noticed. He seized her arm with gentle hands and examined it. “What? What happened?”

  “I’m not sure. I can move it, but…” she didn’t want to continue. She really shouldn’t complain.

  “He worked without ceasing, you know. All night. He saved your life, I’m certain of it.” Mr. Marcovic said. “I would’ve never known the man had so much skill about him, his charade had me completely fooled.”

  Veronica looked away from her hand, down at the sheets. “He’s quite brilliant, always has been. When Grillett appeared on the scene and wanted Dr. Hoch to design war ships, he refused. Grillett built his factories anyway. Dr. Hoch believes the fate of the children to be his fault.”

  Mr. Marcovic muttered in Turkish again. She recognized a few of the words from his prior bitter rant.

  After a moment, Veronica continued, “Of course, it was not entirely an excuse. He talks to himself and forgets things a lot. He’s been disappearing for a while now. When I saw him at the Expo, it’d been nearly six months since our last visit. I’m surprised he came, and even more surprised by his success with this.” She lifted her hand and the pain sharpened, steel on bone. Hopefully it would ease over time. “Where is he now?”

  Mr. Marcovic stood, the distance between them leaving the air feeling cold and empty. “Right now Dr. Hoch is resting in my first-mate’s cabin. Rosseau, you may remember him. He was here last night.”

  She thought back, cringing at the memory of the previous evening. “The fellow with the black mustache? French accent?”

  He nodded and then picked up her top hat, turning it over in her hands. He glanced up and met her gaze, the question in his black eyes making it impossible for her to look away. “My Lady Veronica, Dr. Hoch is not the only master of deceit among us.”

  Panic, sharp and sudden, made her sick. He knew her secret. In the mess of what had happened, she’d nearly forgotten the implications. Who else knew? “You mustn’t tell anyone. You won’t, will you? Please.” She let herself beg, laid herself open and raw for his inspection. She’d come all this way. Survived. She couldn’t lose everything now.

  Mr. Marcovic leaned forward and adjusted her covers where they had fallen away, his eyes unreadable but his voice soft. “Aman Tanrım, of course I won’t tell. I have to admit though, I thought the Eidolon a man, just like the rest of the masses.”

  Veronica relaxed a little. For some reason, she trusted the man. He seemed capable enough of keeping a secret. One had only to wonder at what lay behind the mask he never removed. She smiled and scoffed at his words. “A man could not do what I have done.”

  He laughed, his scarf fluttering high enough that she nearly saw the lower half of his face. She watched it, hoping it might reveal a glimpse of something, anything. Yes, he kept secrets, and now he would keep hers.

  “Indeed,” he said.

  “Did you see me fight?” she asked. The thought made her oddly proud, yet self-conscious at the same time. She’d seen him kill Blackthorne with seemingly little effort. She must seem a child to him, playing at soldier. His opinion mattered to her now, after all that he had done for her.

  He nodded, his scarf lifting, perhaps hiding a smile. “I would not fight you.”

  Veronica couldn’t determine if he spoke seriously. Between them there would be no contest. She was lucky indeed she’d never met the likes of him in the Grave. He’d brought Blackthorne to his knees and then knocked him clean out with one hit.

  “How did you happen to be there in time to save me?”

  “I was at the same gate and followed you. I didn’t realize who you were until I found you in that room in the empty orphanage. No one save Rosseau and I know what passenger we carry aboard this ship.”

  “You can trust him?”

  Mr. Marcovic nodded and turned to leave. “You should rest, my lady Eidolon,” he said, his low voice vibrating through her. She felt her eyelids droop and wondered at the power he had to influence her. Saffron and a crisp, accented voice now made her feel safe. Secure.

  He paused at the door. “Does anyone besides the men I dispatched at the orphanage know who you are?”

  She thought back to Blackthorne’s threats. If they knew you to be a lady, they would be yelling for more than blood. “Matilda knows. Other than that, I don’t believe so.”

  He nodded again. “You’re safe here, then. No one will harm you while you’re under my protection.”

  Protect her? The idea seemed strange. That was Veronica’s job, after all. To protect others. To protect Claire. Suzie. And the other children. She felt a warmth begin to grow in her chest that she was helpless to stop. Warmth in places that had been cold for so long, frosted over by the Duke.

  Before he could turn the knob, she called, “Wait! My father. I must write to him. Matilda can only plead a headache for me for so long before he become suspicious. He must be told I’m with Durad, discussing the wedding.”

  Mr. Marcovic brows’ furrowed. “The wedding? But that is still three months hence. What difference would one night make? Surely you’ve slept the day away before, after your nights as the Eidolon.”

  “Yesterday, at supper, papá ordered me to move the wedding up to Saturday next. He’s worried about the protests, about how London must look to an outsider like Durad.” And about me. How fickle I am. And that I might find a way out of this wedding, which I very well planned to. Now that I have this metal claw attached to my skin, I might not need anything more. The idea created complex thoughts inside her—after all, she liked Durad. But hated that the Duke was forcing her to marry him and leave England and the Eidolon behind.

  “Saturday next? Does he not care about Durad’s opinion on the matter?” Mr. Marcovic turned and crossed the room. The man seemed to have two states—supremely still or supremely restless.

  “Papá always gets his way. He will talk the Queen into it and then there will be no going back. She simply adores him.”

  “But…you cannot go through with it,” he said with what sounded like a frown.

  Veronica crushed her sheets in her good hand. “What do you mean? He’s your Prince, after all. Does he not want to marry me? I thought he didn’t find me too repulsive.” Or perhaps he would, now that she weren’t whole. Of course, none saw her as a desirable woman anyway. Her face was too plain, her figure too strong, and she met most men at their eye level.

  “Of course he doesn’t find you repulsive! He quite likes you, in spite of your ridiculous persona. Durad has always had a talent for looking beneath the surface.” Mr. Marcovic tapped his foot. “I merely thought it might not be what you wanted.”

  His words caused her to miss a breath. Why wouldn’t she want to marry Durad? “Is there something about Durad I don’t know? Is he a rake? A thief?”

  Mr. Marcovic’s voice lowered. “Be careful what you say about my friend.”

  She held up a hand, a little frightened of the way he stalked across the room without a sound. “I meant no offense. I’m simply asking—if he is all you say, why should I not want to marry him?”

  He covered the distance to the bed in a few strides and sat, careful not to jostle her. He planted an arm on either side of her, leaning in until she swore she could hear his heartbeat. In her mind, it thumped in time with hers, strong and quick. Up close, his
eyes were as dark as a moonless sky. She wondered if they’d ever been light.

  When he spoke, his words were sure and confident, flowing through her senses into her heart. “Why not?” he laughed, short and quick. “Because you don’t ever do what you’re told. Because you’ve always wanted more, my lady, and that, that has been your problem. You’ve wondered why you couldn’t fall in line behind Lady Ambrose, like the rest of the witless debutants. You’ve thought your brain wired differently and perhaps even wrong.”

  “I never felt wrong,” she whispered.

  “You took risks that made you wonder at your sanity but still, something compelled you onwards. The feeling of finally being free to be yourself. That is why you put on this costume. That is why marriage to Durad would drive you insane. You not only want more, you need more.

  She felt her mouth gape open. His insight was so utterly correct, tears welled up in her eyes. No other man had seen beyond her moldy dresses and idiotic remarks. Indeed, Veronica thought no male capable of such perceptions. Mr. Marcovic surely harbored darkness of his own—one had only to listen to him speak and watch him fight. Was that why he could summarize her life so perfectly?

  His voice dropped, nearly to a whisper. “I only say this because I see the same fate in the mirror every day.”

  He placed a soft kiss on her forehead. The action propelled a single tear from her eye. “If you’re not the Eidolon, then who are you truly?” he said. It was obvious by his tone he didn’t expect an answer. Mr. Marcovic pressed his forehead to hers, his skin soft and warm yet anything but comforting. Her breath quickened. Her thoughts scrambled and fled and even though she couldn’t see his mouth, she imagined it, both harsh and gentle at the same time. She felt lightheaded. Exposed. Was it the opium he’d given her? She must be exhausted, though her body tingled in response to his nearness. The warmth in her chest spread.

  The only other time she’d felt so emotionally naked was at the masque.

  She couldn’t stop that warmth now, not with a hundred Tesla-rays. And she was not even sure she wanted to.

  In the next moment, Mr. Marcovic was up off the bed, across the room and by the door. “I’ll write to Matilda. Rest, my lady.”

  * * *

  This time, she awoke more gently. The light streamed in the windows, soft and dim, a warning that soon night would fall. The gas lamps hanging from the ceiling swayed, the flame in them barely enough to illuminate the person sitting beside her bed. He wore a leather vest littered with pockets so stuffed, items of a random nature appeared to spill out of them. Spools. Wheels. Nails. His top hat lay on the chair beside him, leaving his thick, white hair sticking out at all angles.

  “My dear,” Dr. Hoch said. “How do you feel?” He lifted her arm and examined her hand.

  Veronica winced. “The tisane helped, but a little of the pain has returned. Could I have some more?”

  He nodded and handed her a cup, already prepared. She drank deeply and relaxed on the bed to wait for the smooth liquid to work its way through her system.

  “Your hand, dear, how is it?” Dr. Hoch couldn’t remain still, his foot tapping the cabin floor, hands fidgeting with his pockets.

  “There’s some pain when I move, but it’s manageable. How on earth did you do such a thing?” She flexed her metal hand, ignoring the now familiar jolt of pain, trying to get used to the motion.

  Most likely forgetting her entire body was sore, he reached over and patted her leg. “You know me, Veronica. I’m always experimenting. I knew grafting metal into flesh to be a possibility but couldn’t stomach the thought of what I would have to do to prove the theorem.” His eyes flashed to and fro, unable to settle.

  She watched his behavior, nervous for what it meant for the operation he’d performed. Though more lucid than at the SteamExpo, he still appeared half-mad. “You just happened to have a spare metal hand lying around?” she asked.

  He smiled, the sad smile she’d seen so many times over the years. For a moment, the light in his eyes reappeared and he stilled. “Has the tisane worked? Do you feel any pain anywhere?”

  It had indeed worked, she realized, spreading relief like a heated blanket. She nodded.

  Dr. Hoch ran his finger along the bone on the top of her arm. “The doctor who operated on you. He placed a thin but very strong metal rod here. I’ve connected your hand to the rod. It should strengthen your grip exceedingly. But it will take time for the bone and muscle to bind with the rod. Luckily, the mad sod remembered to drill holes in the metal, so the bone should graft around it. Eventually, it will heal and you will have no pain. It will take, however, several months at the least. Take the tisane as often as you need it, the contents will not harm you. In fact, they may just speed your recovery.” He patted his vest, produced a pocket watch and handed it to her.

  “Squeeze this. Not too hard, mind you.”

  Veronica gingerly formed her fingers into a fist. The watch popped open, parts flying everywhere.

  “Magnificent,” Dr. Hoch said. He nearly sang the words, so obvious was his glee. The mad glint had returned, making her shiver.

  “What have you done? Why, I’ll hurt everyone I touch!” She lifted the metal monstrosity up and asked herself for the dozenth time whether she would rather have it or nothing at all.

  Dr. Hoch’s eyes, laden with wrinkles, yet sharper than she’d seen them in a while, looked up at her. “That, my dear, is exactly the point.”

  Chapter Twenty-Four

  A new beginning…for both

  Emil nudged open the door, carrying a tray with dinner for two, courtesy of his cook. The delicacies of his country had been carefully chosen—m’jadarrah, a lentil stew slow, a tangy fatoush salad, and, of course, Kompot for dessert. They were all his favorite dishes, their aromas tickling his nose and his mind with happier memories of his youth. It was still awkward to eat around her, since he hadn’t removed his scarf, but she seemed not to mind. She seemed to understand his need for a mask, even without knowing why.

  Her worst days seemed to have passed and she moved easier now. Her face, which had once seemed vacant and plain, now glowed with life and beauty. She didn’t speak shyly with him, and he quite enjoyed their lively debates on the economy and the wars. Most of all, he loved prickling her ire about gender roles. He silently agreed with everything point she made, but it fascinated him to watch her cheeks flame, her eyes spark and her passionate words fill his senses.

  “Hungry, my lady?” he asked as he set the tray on the table. He’d even included a single sprig of peppermint, which grew abundantly in the fields surrounding his home farm.

  “That smells like foreign places I’ve only imagined.” She shifted off the bed and rose. Her white robe outlined a figure strong in every way. Instead of the awkward gait of Lady Veronica, she moved like the Eidolon now, smooth and steady. “Spicy and lovely, that is.”

  The words described her exactly. He helped her into her chair. “These are some of my favorites from home. I will take it personally if you don’t eat every bite.”

  She picked up her spoon and tasted the stew, feigning a look of disdain. “Not enough salt.”

  He smiled and lifted his scarf to sip it himself, careful to keep the lower half of his face concealed. The dish was perfection, and she knew it. He scooted his chair closer to hers and dipped his spoon in her bowl. “Hmmm. I think your tastes run too glamorous. Don’t the English prefer their food plain and simple?”

  She waved a hand in a gesture typical of a member of the Ton, dismissive and arrogant. “But of course. Nothing too out of the ordinary for us. Don’t upset the apple cart. Back straight, chest out, hands folded. Keep the discussion to weather. The neckline of Lady Abbot’s gown. The latest in Lloyds.”

  “What of you, then, Lady Veronica? Surely you’re far too rich a taste for London.”

  Her mouth quirked up slightly. “Me? I’ve made sure I’m too plain, even for our standards.”

  He lifted the mint and rubbed the leaf in his han
d, letting the pieces fall into her glass of water. “It is a lesser known fact, my lady, that what may appear plain may yet have a brightness to be uncovered. Yet not all men care for the smell of a sharp intellect.” He sniffed the mint-laced water, then took a sip and set it in front of her.

  “I’ve never known another type of man.” She seemed to be asking a question.

  Without another word, he let the honesty in his eyes speak for him. She’d heard all the wrong words from men. He wouldn’t add any more.

  * * *

  After dinner, Emil stood and offered his hand to Veronica. “Would you care to take a stroll around the deck, milady? It’s dark enough that my crew shouldn’t be able to tell who my lovely guest is.”

  A half-smile crossed her face and she placed her right hand in his. She rarely used her left—it hung by her side awkward, unwanted.

  “I’d be delighted, dear sir.”

  He picked up one of his scarves and began wrapping it around her hair, neck and the lower half of her face. His fingers brushed her skin several times, causing a pleasant jolt to run through him. She smelled wonderful, like always. Clean, fresh.

  “A good soldier never reveals more than he, or she, should,” he said.

  Veronica cleared her throat. “Right.”

  He reached up and secured his own scarf. “I hardly notice it anymore.”

  “When do you take it off? You bathe, I presume. You don’t smell too terrible.”

  He laughed. “Come. The stars await.” Emil opened the door and exited first, leaving her to follow. He couldn’t treat her with the same manners and respect in front of his crew, lest they suspect. They had too keen of an eye some days.

  Emil and Veronica passed Kasun and a few other crew on the way to the helm. None spoke or called out—they knew better. They were still docked on top of the Imperial, with several other ships nearby. Emil remained here so he could keep a close eye on Durad and Veronica both, though they hadn’t seen each other since Veronica’s kidnapping. Veronica sent word that a footpad had attacked her and that she was recovering at a friends’ home. Her companion, Matilda, had written several times. Durad wanted to send flowers and visit, but Veronica asked not to be disturbed. Emil didn’t mind having the time with her, this suspended reality in between both worlds. His in the dark streets and alleyways of factories districts and hers…in the same