A Golden Fury

by Samantha Cohoe

  “But you’re not the one who should be ashamed in any of this,” said Dominic. “Your father is. And whatever he seems to you now, he knows that much.”

  I thought of my father’s downcast expression as I had left, and I knew Dominic was right.

  “His shame is no use to me if it doesn’t change his actions,” I said.

  “That’s true,” Dominic said. “But I still think he might change. You’re just the kind of daughter he would want. You’re talented, and strong, and sharp as glass, and I know he sees that. He’s going to regret sending you away. Maybe he does already.”

  I shook my head against the painful hope tightening in my chest. Unwelcome tears pricked my eyes. I scowled them away. Dominic had seen enough of those today. He wouldn’t think I was so strong if I broke down in tears every time he said a kind thing to me.

  “Please, Miss Hope. Just a few days. You need the rest anyway, before you attempt a journey,” he said.

  I cleared my throat thickly, and took a deep drink of my ale.

  A few days wasn’t so long. Dominic knew my father better than I did. Perhaps he would be sorry tomorrow. What harm was there in finding out?

  “A few days,” I agreed. “Just a few days.”

  7

  I spent that night in Dominic’s room. He took the skull out and slept in the parlor. His mother would not arrive home until well after we were both asleep. She worked long hours, he explained. Came home late, left early. Once he was a doctor, he hoped she wouldn’t have to anymore.

  I awoke the next day in darkness, to pounding at the front door. I dressed quickly and opened the door to see my father standing in the glare of noonday. I blinked furiously as my eyes adjusted to the light, trying not to be irritated at Dominic that he had left me to sleep half the day away.

  “What do you want?” I demanded.

  “Thea,” said Vellacott. “May I come in?”

  I peered at him and considered it. He appeared abashed. A small hope nagged at me, planted by Dominic. I felt like a fool to even find it in my heart. But there it was, small but insistent.

  Perhaps he was here to apologize, and more importantly, to take me back in. To make it right. I glanced behind me, into the dismal, dim parlor, then back outside. It was a fine, warm day, of the sort I had assumed England never had.

  “No,” I said. “We can walk.”

  I stepped out and closed the door behind me. My father offered me his arm, and I pretended not to notice. We had turned off Dominic’s street when my father spoke.

  “I want to apologize, Thea,” he said quietly. “For yesterday. For how I handled things.”

  I waited. An apology alone was not enough. He had apologized yesterday, as well, and still kept my papers, still turned me out.

  “I hardly slept last night, thinking about it,” he said. “I’m ashamed of myself.”

  I glanced at him and found that he looked it. My small, unwilling hope grew.

  “I hope you will find it in yourself to accept my apology and come back to the Tackley.” He shook his head in disgust at himself. “I should never have asked you to leave.”

  It was something. He sounded sincere.

  “Will you give me my papers back?” I asked.

  He hesitated a suspiciously long time before answering.

  “Yes, yes, of course,” he said eventually, letting his breath out in a rush. “They’re at the inn.”

  But we weren’t going to the inn. We had reached the alley where Bentivoglio attacked me. My footsteps slowed, and my pulse sped up. Whether consciously or not, our footsteps had been taking us to the laboratory. I stopped and narrowed my eyes at him.

  “Why are you taking me to the laboratory?” I asked quietly.

  Vellacott turned toward me, his eyes wide and innocent.

  “I … I suppose I am. I don’t know.” He shrugged. “I didn’t think about where we were walking.”

  He might have been telling the truth. Perhaps he truly had stayed up all night, suffering over what he had done. If so, the change had certainly been abrupt.

  Or perhaps he had stayed up all night reading my mother’s notes, and failing to crack the code. Perhaps that was what had changed his mind about the wisdom of having me under his roof.

  I looked away from my father, around the alley. There was still a small dark blotch where my head had met the wall. Ahead, I saw the column of smoke from the laboratory fire, still an opaque white.

  “Is Bentivoglio still in the laboratory?” I asked sharply.

  My father pulled a pained expression. “Thea, I know. He attacked you, and I should have defended you from him—”

  Yes, he certainly should have, but that was not my concern at the moment.

  “Is he still working on the White Elixir?” I demanded.

  “Well—yes, he is,” said my father. “He slept well last night, and assured me that he was much more himself this morning. You know, he would never have treated you so roughly if he weren’t under such strain, Thea. Bentivoglio is a fine man, a brilliant mind—”

  But even if I’d had any interest in hearing my father sing the praises of the thief who threw me into a wall and took my papers, I had no time for it now.

  “I told you not to let him,” I hissed, and hurried through the alley to the laboratory.

  I approached slowly, listening for voices. I heard none, so I tried the doorknob. It was locked, of course. I knocked. There was no answer.

  “Thea!”

  My father had caught up with me.

  “Thea, I think it’s better if we don’t disturb the professor now…”

  I ignored him and knocked again. This time, there was a faint groan.

  “Dominic?” I called.

  There was no response, no movement, no more groans. Something was very wrong.

  “Give me the key, Father!” I demanded.

  “Thea, I really don’t think you should disturb—”

  I cried out in frustration and ran to the west side of the outbuilding, where I pulled myself up on the high windowsill. I peered into the room.

  The worktable was on its side. The cabinet doors hung open. Vials and metals lay in pieces on the floor. It looked much as our laboratory in Normandy had after Mother attacked me in it. At first, it seemed to be empty. Then, behind the table, I saw a man’s leg.

  I gasped and pounded on the window. The leg didn’t move, but something else did. A small, dark puddle trickled past the leg and pooled around the table’s edge. It was too dim in the room to see the color, but the liquid was thick and moved too slowly to be water. It could have been quicksilver, perhaps, but I knew it wasn’t.

  My mind whirred. The door was locked from the inside. That meant whoever had done whatever had been done was still inside the laboratory. Perhaps Bentivoglio had lost his mind and taken out his violence on his surroundings and then on himself. But then, where was Dominic? Not at home. He was meant to be here, tending the fire by himself. I peered more closely at the table. There could be two bodies behind it; it was large enough to block them both. I beat against the window pane again and shouted Dominic’s name.

  “Thea?”

  My hand slipped on the ledge. My legs buckled under me, and I landed in an ungraceful tangle. My father came around the corner of the outbuilding. He extended a hand to help me to my feet, but I ignored it.

  “What’s going on?”

  “I warned you,” I said. Usually anger made me articulate, but I was having difficulty catching my breath. I pointed toward the window. “Someone is dead in there.”

  “What?”

  “Or else dying.”

  My father went to the window. He was tall enough to look in without any undignified scrambling. He made a low noise, something between a moan and a sob, and dashed around to unlock the door. I followed, but hesitated on the doorstep.

  They were both inside, Bentivoglio and Dominic, or what was left of them. I gasped and turned away, but not before I saw Bentivoglio’s head smashed
in like overripe fruit. I sagged, clutching the doorframe. My empty stomach roiled. I wanted to run, but my legs scarcely had the strength to keep me upright.

  My father pushed past me and retched into the hedges.

  “Dominic.” I summoned my courage and looked in again.

  Professore Bentivoglio was certainly dead. I tried not to look at the sloppy remains of his skull and forced myself to make my way toward my new friend. Dominic was covered in blood, collapsed at an angle to Bentivoglio’s larger body. I knelt next to him. My hands hovered over him, but I hesitated. His eyes were closed. The thought that he, too, was most likely dead made me freeze, horrified to touch him.

  “Is he alive?” came my father’s hoarse voice from the doorway.

  I stared at his body, my mind disorganized and fuzzy, until at last I saw his chest move. Encouraged, I put my fingers to his throat and let out a slow breath. His heart was beating.

  “He’s alive.”

  Vellacott said nothing, but crossed to the fireplace while I carefully touched Dominic’s head, trying to discern his injuries. There were scratches on his face but no other obvious wounds. His eyes flickered.

  “Dominic,” I said. “Dominic, wake up.”

  He jerked up, almost slamming his head into mine. I sat back.

  “The professor!” he cried. “It was like you said, Thea! He’s gone mad!”

  “I know,” I said. I wished fleetingly that I could get Dominic away from Bentivoglio before he saw it—and then he did.

  His shoulders collapsed and he seized his head, rocking back and forth.

  “Oh no, no, no,” he moaned. “Oh God, no, please no.”

  I reached my hand out toward his shoulder, but he shrugged it off.

  “I’m sorry,” I said. “It wasn’t your fault.”

  “He was so strong,” said Dominic into his hands. “I was only trying to get away.”

  “I know,” I said.

  And I did know. My throat was closing from the memory, from the thought of how easily I could have ended up like this, with my mother’s brains and blood on my hands. I struggled for breath, my shoulders heaving as Dominic sobbed. I was no help, no use at all. I looked up at my father in mute appeal. He looked down at us from across the room. In the dark, I couldn’t make out his expression.

  “What happened, Dominic?” asked my father in a quiet voice.

  “What I told you would happen!” I sat back and glared up at him. “Professore Bentivoglio went mad and attacked him, just like my mother did! Why didn’t you listen to me?”

  “I asked Dominic, Thea.”

  Dominic stopped rocking but didn’t raise his head.

  “I don’t know,” he said. “I don’t know how it happened. But it was like Thea said—he went mad—like an animal—”

  “He went mad,” repeated my father. “And so you killed him?”

  “I didn’t mean to do it!” cried Dominic, lifting his head at last. His face was streaked with blood and tears, and his nose was running. His eyes were wells of misery. I wanted to throw my arms around him and comfort him, but my father clearly did not. He looked at his apprentice with angry appraisal.

  “He was twice your size,” said my father. “And I’m supposed to believe you killed him to defend yourself? No. No, you could only have done this by taking him by surprise.”

  “What? No—sir—why would I?”

  “You were angry with him,” said my father. “After the incident with Thea. Don’t deny it.”

  Dominic’s red eyes widened as he began to understand what I had already concluded. His mouth dropped open, and he shook his head. I stood up and took his arm, pulling him to his feet.

  “Let’s go,” I said quietly. “We have to go.”

  “You may go, Thea, but Dominic may not,” my father said. “Dominic will wait here until the constable arrives. There has been a murder. A great man was killed.”

  “This is your fault,” I hissed at my father. “You could have stopped this if you had listened to me. I warned you, but you didn’t listen—even after Bentivoglio attacked me—”

  “Go home, Thea,” said my father. “You were not a part of this. Go to my rooms at the inn. You can stay with me as long as you need to.”

  Now he offered that. Now, when there was no chance I would take it.

  “I will not leave you to tell lies about Dominic!” I snapped.

  Vellacott took a deliberate step toward us. He looked down at the mess that had been his colleague, then up at Dominic, his face full of revulsion.

  “I am not the liar here,” he said.

  I met his eyes, unable to tell if he really believed the story he was spinning. Could he really believe Dominic had killed Bentivoglio in a quarrel over me, when he had known me for such a short time? It was an absurd idea, and yet it might sound more likely to the law than my story, about an alchemist’s curse that caused violent madness. The despair in Dominic’s eyes showed he was thinking the same thing.

  “Sir—” Dominic’s voice quavered. “I wouldn’t—you must know I wouldn’t—”

  “I am going to get the constable.” Vellacott went to the door, and looked back at us from the step. “I expect you to wait here, Dominic, so that you can explain to them what happened to the professor. His family will demand that at the least.” His voice broke, and he looked down at the dead man with actual tears in his eyes. “Thea—”

  I glared at him, and he inclined his head slightly. “You must do what you think is best. But I strongly suggest you go to the inn. You are overexcited, and making very little sense.”

  My father left, and I went to the fire. The composition was there, gray and curling around the edges. It was just about time to add the red transmuting agent. I couldn’t simply leave it here. I glanced around. Bentivoglio had stolen the vial from my pocket. I only had to consider whether I was willing to go through his clothes to look for it for a moment, before I luckily saw it on the floor. It had not shattered when it had been thrown. I picked it up, tipped the correct number of minims of the liquid into the brazier, and then poured the whole composition into another, larger vial.

  It was possible that this transfer of the substance would destroy it, but I preferred that to leaving it to my father. I put the vials in my pocket.

  Dominic watched me with empty eyes, seeing nothing. I pulled him out of the laboratory into the sunlight, where he looked even more ghastly.

  “He was a lord, you know. In Bologna. From a powerful family. They’ll hang me for this.” His voice was faint, and his eyes were already dull with resignation.

  “They won’t,” I said, though they certainly would. A poor Catholic boy whose only defense for killing a rich man was a mad tale told by a bastard French girl? If Vellacott had not believed us, then no one else would.

  “They will,” I said. “But we won’t let them. We can’t stay here. We have to hurry.”

  I started to run, pulling Dominic after me. His mother’s flat wasn’t far, thankfully. He looked a fright, and drew stares from each of the few townspeople we passed. Once inside, he came back to life. He washed his face and hands in the basin, then went into his room to hastily change from his gory clothes.

  “Bring whatever money you can,” I said. “I have enough for the trip to London, but there won’t be much left after that.”

  Dominic came out of the bedroom in fresh clothes, staring at me.

  “London? What will we do in London?”

  “Hide, for one thing,” I said. “My friend there will help us. Please hurry, Dominic. We have to get away before Vellacott comes back with the constable. This will be the first place they look.”

  He stood there, staring at me. Shock had apparently dulled his mind. I seized his hand and pulled him to the door. He stopped me and yanked his arm away.

  “Why are you doing this, Thea?” he asked. “If you help me run, they will think you helped me kill him. You had nothing to do with this.”

  I stared at him. “Nothing to do w
ith this? Those were my notes he was following! And I am the only one who understands … it could just as easily have been me!”

  Dominic was shaking his head. “I can’t let you do this. I will turn myself in. I will tell them what happened. And you can ask your father to speak for me.”

  “He won’t. You heard him. Don’t be stupid, Dominic. I have nothing to stay for anyway, not after that.” I seized his arm, and this time he went with me.

  We went down backstreets to the coach station, walking as quickly as we could without drawing attention. The next coach to leave for London was mercifully soon, and I bought us both inside passage and nearly forced Dominic into the carriage. An elderly gentleman, already dozing, was the only other passenger. We pulled away.

  I watched Oxford go past with hatred. I had never enjoyed a place less. I resolved not to come back if I could help it, then realized at once that the resolution was unnecessary. I couldn’t come back now that I was fleeing with a fugitive, unless it was under guard, to stand trial.

  8

  I spent the journey trying to get a glimpse of the road behind us, expecting the constabulary to catch up at any moment. But when the first few hours had passed, and it became clear they would not catch us on the road, at least, I turned my anxiety to Dominic.

  He sat next to me. His head leaned back against the boards, his hands clenched at his sides. His eyes were closed, but he wasn’t asleep. His chest was alternately still and heaving. His face was tinged green, and I didn’t think it was from the coach’s movement. The elderly gentleman across from us, on the other hand, snored violently. I placed my hand over Dominic’s tightly curled fist and leaned toward him.

  “Everything will be well,” I whispered.

  Dominic’s head tilted toward me, but he didn’t open his eyes.

  “My mother.” His voice caught. “She’ll think … What will she think?”

  “She’ll know you’re innocent.”

  “I shouldn’t have run. I should have stayed and told them the truth.”

  “They would not have understood.”

  “Then they never will,” he said. “They will catch me sooner or later.”