Chains of Silver: a YA Theater Steampunk Novel (Alchemy Empire Book 1)

by Meredith Rose

  “Too much ale, perhaps?” The waiter’s voice was colored with amusement.

  “Yes,” I murmured, eyes not leaving Dietrich, “that’s it. Thank you.”

  “Anytime, miss.”

  I walked toward him, in almost a trance. He met me halfway, and extended his hand. I stared at the black glove, fighting down the lust clawing at my insides, so glad Thea wasn’t near enough to sense it.

  But could he?

  I put my hand in his, and he brought it to his lips in a polite bow. To my utter disgust, my knees felt weak.

  “Good evening, Miss Mellor.” His voice was smooth, cordial. But to my ears, every syllable sounded intimate.

  I had to get control of myself.

  “So…hot,” I muttered. My heart caught—had I just said that out loud?

  Cog. Cog. Cog.

  “I beg your pardon?” He frowned.

  I pulled back my hand. “Hot…in here. It’s—I’m—overly warm.”

  He nodded. “You do look rather flushed. Come—it’s less stuffy at the table.”

  At the table, Delphine glowered at us. Her animosity went a long way toward clearing my head, and I realized again that Delphine was rather like an enema or suppository—damned uncomfortable, but extremely useful in certain situations.

  Dietrich pulled out a chair for me, then seated himself to my left. “Would you like something to drink?”

  I glanced at Delphine’s glass of white wine, then at Dietrich’s drink. His was a smaller glass, half full of milky green liquid. An elaborate slotted spoon and a small bowl of sugar cubes lay on the table next to it.

  I nodded at his glass. “I’d love some absinthe.”

  He smirked. “I’m sure you would, but you know apprentices aren’t allowed to drink it.”

  “Just a sip of yours, then?” Absinthe was controversial, the drink of rebels and creative geniuses. It was legendary for enhancing creativity and bringing a sense of heightened awareness, but some people claimed it caused hallucinations. Any effect was probably highly exaggerated, but the fact that it was off-limits to apprentices gave it a mystical appeal to us. “One little sip.” I gave him my flirtiest smile.

  “Of course—”

  My eyes widened.

  “—after your induction into the Theatrical Guild.”

  “Damn.”

  He chuckled. I ended up ordering a very non-mystical, non-grownup pink lemonade, partly to thumb my nose at Dietrich, and partly because I figured getting tipsy in front of him wouldn’t make me look very mature.

  “I was just explaining to Delphine what I learned from the other presuls.” Dietrich leaned forward, elbows resting on the table, his voice pitched low and cautious.

  Delphine and I huddled closer, too.

  “Each of them,” Dietrich explained, “told me they did sense something strange about their bond with the vicimorphs before they were murdered.”

  “It got fuzzy,” Delphine cut in.

  “What did?” I asked.

  “The mental connection.” Dietrich looked from Delphine to me. “When a vicimorph is connecting to their presul using a silver chain, the mental connection between them is usually as clear as my voice is to you now.”

  I knew this already, but Delphine didn’t know I knew this. It was good of Dietrich to protect my secret. The exact way that presul and vicimorph comagica, partner magic, worked was kept a mystery to those without that magic. Most theater people knew that silver chains were involved, but the details were intentionally left blank.

  I pretended the information was news to me. “I see. And so their connection to the victims was blurred?”

  “Yes.” Dietrich took a sip of the coveted absinthe, casting me a teasing grin. “They described it as a sense of being muffled, or of interference of some sort. And eventually it faded away entirely just before the body dropped from the catwalk.”

  “So what does that mean?” I looked at the two of them, hoping there was more to tell.

  Dietrich toyed with the absinthe spoon. “First, it means that we were right in assuming the murders don’t happen until the victim is on the catwalk. Second, it means that the Peacock does not use magic to commit the murder. If it were magic, the presuls would sense it through their mental connection.”

  I pressed my palms on the table, my excitement rising. “It has to be a drug or poison then, right?”

  He nodded. “That would be the most logical conclusion.”

  “But unless we can figure out which one, I won’t know what it looks like in order to avoid it.” Delphine pinched the bridge of her nose, looking like she was getting a headache.

  “Can’t you just avoid eating or drinking anything beforehand?” I said.

  “It’s not that simple,” Dietrich said. “Some poison can be administered by dusting it on something the victim will touch. Others can be blown into the air and breathed in.”

  “Could there be a poison that is timed to take complete effect once the victim was taken to the catwalk?” I sipped my lemonade, trying to figure out why something about all this seemed so familiar. It was like I’d had this conversation before, even though I knew I hadn’t.

  “Possibly, but I don’t know which one.” Dietrich drank more absinthe. I wondered if he were hoping it would bring him the promised enlightenment.

  “I can do some research,” I offered. “Either at the library, or I can ask a chemist.”

  “That would be very helpful.” Dietrich’s eyes lit with approval. “Delphine offered earlier, but she needs every spare minute to practice.”

  “I’m happy to do it. I love research.”

  He leaned back a bit, looking more relaxed. “Good. I’m glad we made some progress on this.” He gave Delphine a compassionate smile. “We still have a ways to go, but we’ll figure it out. We’re going to keep you safe, all right?”

  She exhaled and nodded. But her smile seemed too bright to be genuine. I could tell she was still scared. I didn’t blame her.

  She pushed her chair back. “If we are pretty much done here, I would like to go socialize. There are some people I wanted to speak with.”

  Ever the gentleman, Dietrich rose when she did. “Of course. But don’t forget—you’re supposed to have some fun as well.”

  She gave him a tight smile.

  He offered me a hand. “Speaking of—Miss Mellor, may I have the pleasure of a dance?”

  I put my hand in his and stood. “I’d be honored.”

  From the corner of my eye, I saw Delphine’s scowl. Could I not catch a break with her? Not even my efforts to save her life made her like me any better.

  Some gratitude.

  As Dietrich and I worked our way back to the dance floor, I tried to picture how he would dance. I couldn’t imagine him letting loose like Raymond and I had done earlier. But if Dietrich asked me to grind with him?

  Why yes. Yes I would.

  But it turned out he had other ideas. Just as we reached the dance floor, the haunting melody of a slow tango floated across the room. It was almost as if he’d planned it that way.

  “Thea let it slip that you know how to street tango.” He folded his arms, his eyes holding a challenge.

  Street tango was so much different than the stiff, formal tango danced in the ballroom. Street tango was sultry and graceful, and almost as scandalous as grinding—in its own way.

  “She and I wanted to learn, but I couldn’t let the dance master hold me so closely. So he taught her, and then she taught me.”

  “So you’ve never danced it with a man before?”

  God, he made that sound positively seductive. I swallowed hard. “No.”

  “Do you think you can, with me?”

  Images bombarded me of exactly what I could do with him. I took a deep breath. Down girl. “I’m willing to try.”

  He took me by the hand and led me to the floor. It wasn’t as crowded as earlier—not as many people knew how to street tango. We didn’t join the circular flow of dancers. Instead,
he led me to an open corner where it would be easy to stop if I started to panic. It was darker there, less likely to attract attention. His consideration warmed me.

  We faced each other, but he didn’t pull me into his embrace. He slid his foot out, and I mirrored him. He paced toward me, and I retreated. For several counts, we danced together like that, not touching, letting me grow used to him as a partner. His eyes locked with mine, and I lost track of everything that wasn’t music and wasn’t him.

  He caught my hand and drew me to him. I had worried I’d feel afraid in his arms, but any fear I had was easily outdone by the sheer enjoyment of the music and the warmth of his body next to mine. He rocked me gently for several beats, my preparation foot trailing in liquid curves on the floor.

  Then, like a bead of water trickling down a cold glass, we were dancing.

  The music was so beautiful, my throat ached. Romantic, and a little sad, it captured my mood from earlier. It seemed that we told the story of love itself—a dance of coming together and moving apart, two people searching for new ways to become one.

  He was an excellent leader, making me feel like I floated across the floor. He even got a little fancy, wrapping me around him like a ribbon, lifting me against his hips and spinning me around. I felt weightless as a leaf.

  Then he held me close again, our legs tangling and brushing against each other, sparking awareness through my body. He didn’t speak, but his body told me this moment was as magical for him as it was for me. He wanted me, but he cherished me, too. The way he held me made me feel beautiful.

  The last note of the song lingered in the air. He held me one more second, and I could feel his breath against my ear.

  Then applause broke out. I pulled away from him and realized that at some point, a spotlight had been turned on us. I didn’t know how long we had been the featured attraction, but the thought threatened to trigger my panic.

  Before it could, Dietrich grabbed my hand and bowed to our unwanted audience. I dipped a quick curtsey, and then he dragged me off the floor.

  “Are you going to be all right?” He spoke low and urgently.

  “I…think so.”

  “I didn’t expect them to do that.”

  “It wasn’t your fault.” I breathed in and out, waiting for the tremors to begin. But they didn’t. “I think I’m fine.”

  He exhaled, sounding relieved. “Good.” Then, “God, Minx. That was amazing.”

  I made some noise of agreement. But before we could say more, Thea and Raymond descended on us.

  Thea squealed and grabbed me in a giant hug. “You were magnificent! You did it, Minx!”

  I laughed and hugged her back. “You are a conniving, sneaky creature. This was your idea, wasn’t it?”

  She gave me an impossibly innocent look. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

  “Uh-hmm.”

  “I didn’t know you could dance like that, Minx,” Raymond said. In his eyes was admiration, but maybe a bit of jealousy, too.

  Thea slapped his arm. “I invited you when we took lessons, and you said no.”

  He looked sheepish. “If you invite me again, I’ll be sure to have a different answer ready.”

  “Good.” Then she grinned at Dietrich. “Maybe you can be his dance master.”

  Dietrich gave a self-conscious wave of his hand. “I’m not so good that I could teach it.”

  Raymond studied me, his gaze flitting from me to Dietrich, a frown on his face. Irritation nipped at me. It was a kiss. One, impulsive kiss. It didn’t give him the right to be upset that I danced with other boys. We were supposed to dance with anyone who asked—it was only polite.

  And besides, didn’t he understand what I’d just accomplished? Didn’t he know what it meant to me?

  No, of course not. How could he? I hadn’t been willing to tell him about my past. He probably guessed at some of it, but until I confided in him, he couldn’t possibly know the significance of all that I’d been able to do this evening.

  Still, his displeasure concerned me. I didn’t know what Raymond and I were to each other yet. But I mentally begged him not to turn out to be one of those jealous beaus who wanted to control everything I did.

  Control.

  The word exploded in my mind. I stared at Raymond, images, pieces of conversation, printed words flashing like lightning through my head.

  …no wounds, no broken bones, no sign of a struggle at all…

  …Dame Bosworth, known for her pre-performance anxiety, seemed unusually calm and relaxed…

  …A story about zombies…unjust control…

  …the presuls said the mental connection felt fuzzy…

  …the Mayans have an actual zombie drug that can control a person’s mind…

  Control a person’s mind.

  I gave a little scream, and rushed at Raymond. I leaped into his arms, wrapping my legs around his waist. Instinctively, he held me, but I could feel him gasping for breath.

  “Brilliant!” I kissed his cheek noisily. “Bloody, bloody brilliant!”

  I dropped to my feet and almost laughed at his shocked expression. He opened his mouth, but no sound came out. I turned to the others, and they also stared at me as if I’d lost my mind.

  “Don’t worry—I’m not crazy. And I’m not having a panic attack.”

  Thea giggled at that.

  I whirled back to Raymond. “But if I’m right, you—” I took him by the shoulders and gave him a fond shake. “You are my hero. You are everybody’s hero!”

  Eyes still wide, his lips curved in a slow grin. “A lady is always right. I’m feeling heroic already.”

  “But I can’t tell you, of course.”

  “Of course.”

  I turned on Dietrich and grabbed his hand. “We have to talk, right now.”

  He managed a quick dip of his head at Thea and Raymond before I dragged him away.

  “You are completely cogged,” he managed as I mowed through the still-crowded club. He only barely missed colliding with a waiter carrying a full tray of drinks. He dodged a short, elderly Guild member and hollered a belated apology to her over his shoulder. But I didn’t slow down. I had no idea where I was going, only that we needed someplace private to talk.

  We made it outside, and I pulled him into an alley. Alleys seemed to be my lot in life recently.

  “Speak, oh crazy one.” He leaned against the wall of the building, catching his breath.

  “I think I know what the Peacock is using. The drug that’s interfering with the mental connection.”

  He became instantly alert. I told him about Raymond’s project and his research about the Mayan zombie drug and the widows who buried themselves alive under the control of it.

  “It fits the evidence,” I explained eagerly. “The victim takes the drug, and then all the Peacock has to do is tell them to go up to the catwalk. He could even order them to put on their own noose and stick the feather in their costume. Then he gives them some other poison and either shoves them off the catwalk after they die, or orders them to drink and then jump. Doesn’t it make sense?”

  Dietrich’s eyes narrowed, blazing. Slowly, he nodded. “It’s definitely the best possibility any of us have come up with so far. What’s this drug called?”

  “I don’t know, but I can ask Raymond.”

  “No, don’t. I have a better idea. Come with me.” He walked back to the street and down the block to where our line of carriages waited.

  “Where are we going?”

  “We’re going to have one of the carriages take us to Lucy Davies—Gwynn’s adopted mother. She knows as much about drugs and herbs as any chemist. She’ll be able to tell us all about this zombie drug.”

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  The ride to Lucy Davies’ house was a quiet one. I was never totally comfortable with the confines of a carriage. Being shut into one full of presul magic—even that of a delicious-looking presul—put me on edge. I think Dietrich sensed it. He sat as far away fr
om me as he could and watched out the window without speaking the entire trip. It was too bad—I had heard from other girls the sort of lovely adventures one could have with a fellow in an enclosed carriage.

  Lucy Davies lived in a tall, narrow row house made of brick in a comfortable, but clearly working-class, neighborhood only a few miles from the Airship Club. When the carriage pulled up in front, Dietrich helped me down. I felt his eyes on me, checking to make sure I wasn’t too unsettled from the ride. I tried to reassure him with a cheerful smile.

  The walk was not well-lit, but the moon was nearly full. We climbed the three steps to the front stoop, and Dietrich rang the bell. A maid answered the door, and soon a friendly-looking woman of about forty appeared in the entry. She had soft, dark blond hair put up in a simple bun, and she wore a leather work apron over a beige muslin gown.

  “Dietrich!” She held out her arms to hug him. She was tall—almost Thea’s height.

  He embraced her tightly. “Good evening, Auntie Lu.”

  She pulled back and surveyed him. “My goodness, you look deliciously sinful.”

  “Lu!” he protested, his face reddening. “You are absolutely not allowed to look at me like that.” Laughter brightened his words.

  She put her hands on her hips, and gave him a wicked little grin. “I’m old enough to have earned the right to look at you any way I want.” Then her face fell. “Unless you really dislike it.”

  He laughed even harder. I’d never seen him so light-hearted. He put his arm around her shoulder and tucked her against him. “No, no. If you’re going to play the cougar, auntie, you have to own it. No wavering.”

  She peeked over at me. “Oh, you brought a guest.” She gave him a calculating stare. “A female guest.”

  “Your powers of observation are sharp as ever, I see.”

  She made a face at him, then held out her hand to me. “I’m Lucy Davies. Welcome.”

  I shook her hand. “Claire Mellor, Mrs. Davies. I’m one of Dietrich’s apprentices at the theater.”

  She wrinkled her nose. “Let’s not stand on formality. I’m unmarried. And any friend of Dietrich may call me Auntie Lu.”

  I grinned. “Then you must call me Minx, as everyone else does.”