Rise of the Arcane Fire Page 6

  Quit your fuss. At least he’s not dead and buried. It wasn’t as if I had forgotten that Lucinda’s husband had been murdered. I lived in Simon’s shop and studied his writings every single day.

  Granted, it had been a bit of a shock to discover it had been her own father, Lord Strompton, who had committed the murders, in an insane attempt to prevent anyone from discovering or unlocking Rathford’s time machine. At least that’s what I believed motivated him. It all seemed so insane to me.

  But truthfully, if having your father murder your husband was the threshold for allowable personal misery, I wouldn’t ever be able to express my own sorrow.

  My stomach twisted, and I put down the sandwich. If anything ever did happen to Will, I would beg for someone to gut me with a hot knife. It would be far less painful. Still, nothing could change the fact that I had been wholly abandoned and it felt miserable.

  “If Will ever really loved me, he wouldn’t have left,” I muttered into my tea.

  “Margaret Anne Whitlock, you stop this at once,” Lucinda demanded. She snapped a serviette with a sharp crack, then laid it daintily over the frothy green skirt of her afternoon dress. “Will is trying to make something of himself. I, for one, support him. As should you, if you care for him at all.”

  I gaped at her in shock. “I thought you would side with me in this matter.”

  “I do.” She placed a hand on my knee. “Which is why I’m here. You have the chance to do something great, something I have only ever dreamed of. I’ll not have you throw that away for a broken heart. You’re made of far greater mettle than that.”

  I tucked my head in chagrin and sipped my tea. My heart warmed at her faith in me in spite of my ill mood. It was only then that I fully became aware of her dress.

  A rare blue-tinted green, or perhaps it was a green-tinted blue, the shade nearly matched her eyes, and complemented her honey-colored hair. “You’re not in mourning for your father.”

  She scowled. “I refuse to mourn Simon’s murderer.”

  Well, that would hardly go over well, considering the only people who knew of Lucinda’s father’s murderous tendencies were me, Oliver, Lucinda, and Will. The rest of society would be in a dither over her blatant affront to the dearly departed earl. “I can’t blame you, but isn’t your mother livid?”

  Lucinda rolled her eyes. “She’s half in the grave with it, but I don’t care. I just wish there were some way I could avoid her barbed insults at every single tea.”

  “There’s room here if you’d like to return,” I offered. It would be grand to live with my friend, and I wouldn’t feel so alone. I only felt a modicum of guilt at my selfish intentions, if I felt any at all.

  Lucinda gave me one of her warmest smiles. “I’d love to, but I really should go. Oh, that reminds me.” She produced a neatly addressed envelope.

  “What’s this?” I took it and broke the wax seal. Lucinda didn’t answer. Instead she allowed me to read the elegant and very precise script.

  It was an announcement for an Amusementist wake for the late Earl of Strompton.

  I met her gaze as she arched a brow at me. “Your father’s funeral?” I asked.

  Lucinda looked far too serious. “More like a summons to battle. Be warned.”

  I glanced back down at the neat handwriting. “It can’t possibly be worse than battling a sea monster.”

  “Trust me, it will be.” Lucinda sipped her tea, then placed the cup back on the tray.

  She stood and pulled me to standing as well.

  “Chin up.” She held me out by both shoulders and gave me a regal nod. “You’re going to be fine.”

  I certainly wished for that to be true. While her visit had done much to lift my spirits, it couldn’t take away the aching sadness completely. I feared nothing ever would. Lucinda kissed me on the cheek, then breezed into the kitchen, where she spoke with Mrs. Brindle.

  I knew they were talking about me, and I didn’t want to hear it, so I retreated back into the workshop to straighten it up. One of the open journals caught my attention. It held a list of names, members of the Order. I had a habit of ignoring most of Simon’s random scribblings in margins, as he’d had a tendency to draw whimsical things, I suppose to amuse himself.

  This time they drew me in—at least one image did. It was a spiral, like the ram’s horn, exactly like the mark on the bomb. Beside it a name had been hastily blacked out.

  That was unusual. The rest of the page looked like a list of personal marks, with symbols followed by names, yet this was the only name that had been struck from the record. Holding the page up to the light, I tried to see what had been written before it had been blacked out, but it had been too thoroughly erased.

  Deciding to leave it for a moment when I could delve into it deeper, I retreated from the workshop, closing the shelf that hid the secret door. A tin soldier fell over.

  I picked him up and turned him over in my hand.

  He was handsomely painted, a Highland fighter with a red kilt. I wondered if Will felt half as terrible as I did.

  Lucinda approached my left. She plucked the little soldier from my hand and put him back on the shelf. “I’ll see you soon.” She tucked her gloved knuckle under my chin and tipped it up. “Until then.”

  I waved her out the door.

  I had a new mystery to ponder.

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  I honestly couldn’t fathom how quickly time could pass, until I felt I needed more of it and it simply wasn’t there. While the constant ache of Will’s absence filled me every day, I had too much to do to allow myself to steep in such thoughts. Instead I invested myself in my studies with greater vigor, hoping that the knowledge Simon Pricket had left in his journals was enough to keep me from making a fool of myself at the Academy.

  The summons to appear at the monastery arrived one morning in a plain envelope sealed with bloodred wax. That evening, as I stood in an alley behind the mews, I felt as if someone had released a bucketful of mice down the back of my deep red afternoon dress. I tugged on the tight sleeves of my fitted black jacket. The dressmaker had accused me of having a frightful sense of fashion, but I had insisted that the dress be practical. The last thing I needed was yards of fabric hanging over my hands and wrists. The skirts were bad enough.

  Fighting the urge to fidget, I waited as Bob adjusted the harness on his old gray gelding. Then he helped me up into the cart. “Good luck tonight.” The old man smiled as if he was proud of me. For the first time in weeks, I felt I could breathe. Bob gave me a nod. “I’ll be there for you when it’s over. Don’t be too late, or Mother will worry.”

  I smiled at him as he snapped the reins, and then the old cart clattered down the streets of Mayfair under the fading sun. It took a frightfully long time to cross London, and Bob’s gelding wasn’t a sprightly horse, to say the least. I looked around to pass the time.

  Old London in the light of day didn’t seem as bad as it had when I had first made this journey. Even the scent of the Thames wasn’t quite so overpowering. I listened to the call of the birds on the docks. The streets were crowded, full of the hustle and bustle of London.

  A deep and unmistakable sense of foreboding overcame me, and I touched Bob on the arm. “Is that cab following us?” I whispered. It seemed to have been behind us an unnatural amount of time.

  He stole a look over his shoulder and frowned. “I wouldn’t worry about it, miss.”

  “Need I remind you that someone wants me dead?” I risked another quick glance, but from that distance the driver looked like a heap of dark clothing behind an equally dark horse. I strained to see if a clockwork mask covered his face, but it was no use.

  “We’ll see if he follows on the next corner.” Bob urged the poor old horse faster as we turned down some of the narrow lanes. The evening sun grew darker and the shadows of the buildings loomed, while the clatter of the cart wheels rang in my ears.

  I kept looking behind me, but the cab was gone.

  Taking a
deep breath, I tried to calm the worst of my fears. As soon as I reached the Academy, I’d be safe.

  Finally we arrived at the old monastery. In the light the building seemed less ominous than the last time I had visited, but to my surprise Bob drove right past it. He turned down a narrow alley that ended at a large brick wall about twenty feet in front of us. Facing the dead end caused a sudden flash of panic. I felt trapped, and I looked back over my shoulder, expecting to see the man with the clockwork mask standing behind me with his pistol.

  But there was nothing.

  I was being a ninny.

  “Why would you drive us here?” I asked him.

  He winked at me. “It’s not just inventors who are sworn members of the Order. We servants have a Guild of our own.”

  Using an old cane, Bob tapped a hanging lamp to his left. A voice emerged from it.

  “Is it market day?” It sounded squeaky, like a rabbit speaking into a tin cup.

  “Oi, carry the fat cabbage back to the house,” Bob replied. I tried not to giggle nervously at the ridiculous password as the phantom mice seemed to run up and down my back. I should have realized certain servants would have had to be sworn to secrecy as well.

  Suddenly what had been the solid brick street split before us, dropping down and sliding beneath the piles of old crates on either side of the narrow alley with surprisingly little noise. Beneath the false street a long ramp descended, leading to the underground carriage bay I had seen before.

  Thank God Bob’s old gelding was nearly as old as Mrs. Brindle and half-blind. The sweet old horse plodded down the ramp as if nothing unusual had just happened. When we reached the bottom of the ramp leading up to the courtyard, Bob helped me down and then tipped his hat before driving off.

  In the dim light of the carriage bay, I took one deep breath, then headed up the ramp to the courtyard to meet my fate as an apprentice.

  About ten boys stood in small groups laughing and taunting one another. Some were older, nearing nineteen years or so, and some looked closer to my age, not much more than sixteen.

  All the conversation stopped as I walked forward from the carriage bay. Frankly, having conversations cease as soon as I entered was becoming quite tiresome. I searched the boys for any familiar face. In the far corner of the courtyard, near the aviary where Will had proposed to me, an older boy with dark skin and a strange cloth turban knotted at the top of his head stood in the shadows, watching.

  I averted my eyes, not wishing to stare, and recognized someone at once. His name was Noah, and his father had often brought him into my family’s shop. My father used to instruct me to entertain him as the adults talked. He was as lanky as ever, with long arms and wide hands. He had tamed his thick curling hair with a balm and stood proudly and stiffly. As the twisting feeling in my center tightened, I hurried to Noah’s side.

  “Hello, Noah,” I greeted.

  “You know the girl?” one of his friends exclaimed with a gleeful look on his face, as if he’d just won a round of cards. He laughed then, and I felt my face flush hot. Noah glared at me.

  “Quiet, Jorgen.” Noah didn’t look at me, nor did it seem he would address me at all. “We knew each other as children.”

  I steeled myself, determined to find a place in one of the circles so I wouldn’t have to hide in the shadows like the boy in the turban.

  The towheaded boy named Jorgen held his sides as he laughed, and Noah grabbed me by the arm. He forced me a step back, then said in a furious tone, “See here, Meg. I promised my father I’d try to help protect your reputation, but we are not friends. Understand? I’m not going to help you, and I’m not going to let you hold me back.”

  Stunned, I retreated toward the ramp, not knowing where to turn, or where to take shelter. Noah was supposed to be a friend. I had become like a strange creature in a menagerie as the boys turned furtive glances at me. It felt as if every word they spoke was about me. I just wanted to wither away, to become something insignificant.

  I found myself in a corner by the entrance to the monastery, watching the boys and imagining the worst as more and more of them strode confidently up the ramp from the hidden carriage drive.

  I had never felt so alone in all my life.

  “Don’t worry about them,” someone said near my left. I gasped and turned to see a boy with a round face. He unfortunately seemed the type who would always hold on to a vestige of youth. He had soft-looking brown hair near in shade to mine that fell over his brow in a careless way. “We’re not here for them.”

  “That’s true,” I said, thankful that I had someone to talk with. My heart still hadn’t settled. I wasn’t sure if it ever would. “I don’t believe we’ve met. I’m Meg Whitlock.”

  He smiled shyly. “I think we all know who you are. I’m Peter.”

  “It’s a pleasure to meet you, Peter.” Some of the strain I had felt began to ease, though I wondered why Peter had separated himself out from the rest of the groups as well. At least he was polite.

  Just then a large pack of young men ascended the ramp, laughing and joking with one another. The crowd parted, and a tall and handsome young man with a smart red waistcoat and a neat black coat adjusted his lapels and beamed at the group. He had golden-blond hair and the air of a boy who felt he had no limits and expected attention as a matter of course.

  I frowned as I watched the others in the courtyard. Like a magnet he attracted them. They couldn’t help but turn and pay attention as he walked past. In his wake a small group followed like altar boys at the hem of the bishop. I couldn’t figure what he could have done to deserve such adulation, and I found myself quite vexed, though I didn’t know precisely why.

  “Who is he?” I asked, not really intending the question to be answered. I wasn’t sure why I cared, other than something about the way he only grinned out of one side of his mouth bothered me. That, and he looked familiar.

  “You mean you don’t know?” Peter looked appalled. “How can you be female and not know?”

  “Should I be insulted?” I turned to Peter, and his shyness overcame him.

  “That’s David.” Peter let out what sounded like a sigh.

  Perfect, as if David’s type needed a fatter head. Of course he was named David, the glorious young king of the Bible, chosen by God himself. How fitting. I gave Peter a wary glance, suspicious there was more to this story. “David who?”

  “David Archibald Harrington, Earl of Strompton.”

  Oh, dear Lord. He was Lucinda’s brother.

  He looked just like his father. No wonder I didn’t like him. I seemed to be in the minority. Even Noah followed in his wake, though the Earl of Strompton didn’t seem to notice him.

  Unfortunately, he did notice me.

  His pale eyes met mine, and I felt trapped for a moment as he carefully considered me. Then he came forward.

  I tried to appear interested in something else, anything, as he approached. Peter looked as if he were trying to become part of the wall. David sauntered up to us as though he were cock of the walk.

  “Miss Whitlock,” the young earl greeted me. “I’ve heard so much about you.”

  If there was one phrase I wished never to hear again, that was it. “I’m sorry I can’t say the same. You are?” I tried for my sweetest smile as Peter raised a fist to his mouth and coughed.

  To David’s credit he replied, “David Harrington.” He eyed me warily. “I’m hurt my sister Lucinda hasn’t mentioned me.”

  I gave a casual shrug, doing my best to mask my sudden nervousness. “I’m afraid the subject never presented itself.”

  We had now gathered a large crowd. Indeed, now that our meeting time approached, the entire class of apprentices seemed to be huddled around David and me.

  The crowd made me uneasy, and I feared I was doing myself no favors by needling the one boy in the group who had some semblance of power among the others.

  A large and bulky boy with thick black hair and close-set eyes let out a low laugh that sou
nded more like a warning. “So this is the illustrious Miss Whitlock.” His lip curled as he looked me up and down as though I were some broodmare at market. “I don’t see what the fuss is about.”

  My heart pounded harder. While David might have irritated me out of principle, this boy scared me.

  “She has a certain potential,” David countered with that half-mouth grin that I supposed he felt was rakish or charming. I glanced around, but there was no escape. They literally had me with my back to a wall.

  “Leave her alone,” Peter said, moving closer beside me. I felt grateful for him. I hardly knew him, but he was the only boy so far who had extended me any sort of courtesy.

  The dark-haired boy laughed. “Are you her nanny, Peter?” A low rumble of chuckles answered from the crowd. “At least her reputation is safe with you, eh?”

  More laughter broke out, and Peter flushed.

  “Sam.” David crossed his arms.

  “What? What can a girl possibly learn? Nothing.” He laughed again, though it reminded me of a dog growling. My anger tightened my throat, and I fought to regain the power to speak. He sneered at me again. “Unless she wants to learn how to please her future husband. In that case, I’m sure we’d all be glad to tutor her.”

  The laughter frightened me now. I searched for a way to regain my sense of self as all the boys around me stared at me like a pack of dogs.

  “Samuel, enough,” David said, but he didn’t bother to look at me. “You’ll invite trouble from the headmaster.”

  “Honestly!” Samuel shouted to the crowd. “I bet the only pi she knows is in the kitchen!”

  I took a step forward with my head held high. Righteous fury burned through me, and I did my best to imitate the daunting presence of the queen herself. In a sweet voice I said, “You’re right, I do keep pies in the kitchen.” The laughter died down as everyone looked to me. “Exactly three and one, four, one, five, nine, two, six, five, three, two, four, nine, seven, one . . .” His eyes widened, and I knew I had him. “Four, eight, five, one, three, seven, nine, two, four, two . . .”

  The laughter now turned in my favor as the crowd of boys began making taunting sounds toward the brute and whistling their encouragement. I must confess, I had only memorized the first eight digits of pi, thanks to Simon’s writings. After that I was just making things up. Apparently I was quite convincing. “Shall I go on?”