The Ingenious Mechanical Devices 1-3

The Earl of Brass

The Gentleman Devil

The Earl and the Artificer

Kara Jorgensen

Fox Collie Publishing

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, places, events and incidents are either the products of the author’s imagination or used in a fictitious manner. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental.

All rights reserved. This book or any portion thereof may not be reproduced or used in any manner whatsoever without the express written permission of the publisher except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.

Copyright © 2016 by Kara Jorgensen

Cover Design © 2016 Lou Harper

First Edition, 2016

The Earl of Brass:

Book One of the Ingenious Mechanical Devices

To Dr. Mary Lindroth, who saw me in my invisibility and taught me to write fearlessly.

ACT ONE:

“The man who can dominate a London dinner-table can dominate the world.”

-Oscar Wilde

Chapter One:

The Death of the HMS Albert

The more I’m among English society, the more I hate them, Eilian Sorrell thought, staring out the starboard observation deck of the HMS Albert as it lumbered over the English countryside. Even with his back to the lords and ladies tittering in the dining room, he could hear them discussing balls, marriages, and affairs of the crown, all of which he cared little about. As the eldest son of the Earl of Dorset, the other denizens of the dirigible clamored for his opinion whether he had one or not, but he had the suspicion that many of the women wanted to see their daughters married-off to a man of good fortune and reputation. Eilian didn’t hate them for this. He hated that inheriting the earldom was the only accomplishment that would ever matter to them or his parents. Somehow he had hoped that by 1890 it would not be frowned upon for a member of the gentry to have ambitions outside of politics.

Raising his grey eyes to the glass, he caught his reflection staring back at him. His wayward brown hair had laid down in defeat when he donned his tailcoat to have dinner in the respectable dining room. How could he be so unhappy at only six-and-twenty? Maybe it was because he knew he would never be what they wanted. His father would never be proud that his son was in Italy reconstructing the mechanics of an Etruscan temple’s automated doors from minute fragments of tarnished metal and decayed wood. He had published books the gentry had never read on places and people they had never heard of, and to them, he would only be the ninth Earl of Dorset and nothing more.

Eilian sighed as he stared into the vast greenness of the countryside, which he had long shunned to venture to the East. In the stormy, waning light of the autumnal afternoon, the rolling hills of grass only punctuated by the occasional hamlet or lone great house made him yearn for his own home in Greenwich. There was something beyond the brass and mahogany halls of the first class dirigible, something real and more important than finery and dinner parties. The airship tossed and shivered. Thunder rumbled through its metal frame and up Eilian’s legs, breaking his reverie. He grasped the brass railing as the dirigible momentarily pitched forward. A flash of lightning erupted near the window, setting an ancient oak alight below as a dozen more bolts flooded his vision.

“This is your captain speaking. Please vacate the common areas and return to your rooms as we head into the storm.” The tinny voice echoed through the entire ship, traveling down the brass tubes lining the walls and invading every cabin with his plummy, droning voice. “An announcement will follow when it’s safe to return. Thank you.”

“Lord Sorrell!” the prime minister’s brother called behind him.

Eilian ignored him and darted down the coffered hall, hoping to reach his cabin before he could be coerced into spending another evening playing poker in a haze of cigar smoke. He couldn’t stand another night with half a dozen old imperialists with whom he had nothing in common apart from his country of birth.

Slamming the door behind him, he turned and ran his leg straight into the brass-barred edge of his trunk. With the motion of the flailing ship, it had slid from its niche near the window and come to rest only a few feet behind the door. He kicked it aside and sank onto his bed, letting his bruised shin rest on the wing-backed armchair just beyond it. The room was too small for the amount of hulking furniture in it even if it was of the finest quality London could offer. It’s all sacrificed for appearances, he thought as he tossed his dinner jacket carelessly onto the back of the chair and lay down. When he heard Patrick would be forced to ride in steerage beside crates and share a bathroom with a hundred other servants, he sent his butler home ahead of him by train with his souvenirs from India. If his oldest friend was going to ride with luggage and boxes, it would be in a private car on the Orient Express.

As Eilian Sorrell closed his eyes and the drone of the great engines lulled him into slumber, the bright colors and scents of India and Constantinople he had grown accustomed to over the past few months drifted back. The brilliant pops of orange and yellow in a sari or the cool, spicy bite of ginger root from a vegetable curry drowned out the sour taste of England the HMS Albert had left on his soul.

***

With a lurch, Eilian awoke just in time to see his trunk rapidly approaching the end of his nose. He tumbled over his luggage and into the paneled wall, landing in the narrow space between them as the trunk slid back into his chest. Grabbing the armchair, he hoisted himself to his feet only to be hit with a wave of nausea. The world felt as if it had been turned on its side. He forced his door open and staggered into the hall, swallowing down the bile rising up his throat. His gold pocket watch slipped from his vest and hung at an angle as he hobbled toward the observation deck, but when he reached for the rail, the ship rolled to the right as if shot from a sling, slamming him into the unforgiving wood. Screams erupted from behind closed doors. The heavy furniture slid, trapping men and women under them as they were thrown from their beds. As the aristocrats began to filter from their rooms, he scrambled to his feet in stunned silence, rubbing the sore arm he knew would soon contain a bruise to match the one on his leg. His eyes trailed to the world just beyond the mullioned glass of the ship. Only a few hundred yards below, lightning cracks illuminated the miniature people standing in the village streets, gazing up at the lumbering giant. He could nearly make out their features in the glow of the streetlamps. How could they be so low if they weren’t landing?

The captain’s stridulant voice rang out, calling for order, but Lord Sorrell didn’t hear him as he noticed the people below shifting slightly. They tilted, and as they did, his feet began to slide across the Turkish carpet of the observation deck. His stomach somersaulted when he grasped the rail, hoping it would pass. The moment his other hand reached the brass railing, the airship plunged forward as it yanked everything toward its bow. Eilian’s hands slipped down the bar, but the sinews of his arms and legs held firm. Passengers screeched as they fell to the floor and tumbled into the legs of chairs and great skeins of drapery and carpet. The reminders of home entrapped them and smothered them beneath their silk and Berber folds. The pops of glass globes from the gas lamps reverberated through the dirigible as the bow shot back up and teetered unsteadily. Eilian froze with his trembling hands clutching the rail. His breaths came rapidly as he strained to stand up, his body weak from the shock of holding on during the deathly plummets. For a moment, there was silence as the others waited for something to happen. The chilled night air whistled in through the glass of the observation deck, which had been shattered by a dining chair impaled in the brass mullion.

At the port observation deck, the cries of men and women rose to a shrill din. A man called for the captain after a child had been jettisoned overboard. As the dirigible continued its dull tour, Eilian caught a glimpse of her shattered body leaking blood into the capillaries of the cobbles below. Something is very wrong, Lord Sorrell thought, calculating the distance below to be only three hundred yards. Taking a calming breath, his mouth was filled with the sulphorous odor of methane as it wafted from the globe-less gas lamps. If they were to go down, they would surely incinerate when the fire of the engines met the hydrogen of the gasbag and the methane in the gondola. A wine bottle lazily rolled past Eilian’s feet toward the nose of the ship. The HMS Albert had begun its final dive.

The field and the hard cobbles were rapidly approaching as Eilian ran toward the aft of the ship. Maybe if he could make it to the farthest point in the gondola, he would have a chance. When he reached the hallway, pushing past men and woman in motley brocade and black dinner jackets as they began to slide past him, his feet slipped from the polished floor. The world erupted around him in a maelstrom of cacophonous voices and groaning wood and metal as they struck flesh and earth. Fire flooded the ship, and Eilian collided with the boards.

***

Eilian’s eyes fluttered open as he lifted his head from the raft of paneling that lay beneath his bruised and swelling cheek. The fractured wood scraped his knees and palms as he hoisted onto his trembling knees and stared into the hall, lying on its side. Flames burned through the remaining walls as he stepped over doorways and bodies lying broken, crushed beneath pieces of beds or impaled by the broken ribs of the dying airship. The drone of men’s voices wisped across the wind, but as Eilian followed them, they were drowned in the crackling fires and moans of the ship. The smoke burned his eyes and prickled his throat while he waited in the abyss for a means of escape. His back and legs ached with each movement, but he pressed on as pieces of elephantine canvas fluttered down, incinerating before they ever reached the ground.

Staring back at him between spilled trunks and lumps of fabric was the prime minister’s brother. His dull eyes were fixed on him with his mouth poised to scream, but his body lay splayed like an abandoned doll with his neck contorted at an impossible angle. Flames licked at his temples, biting his hair and nibbling away at his flesh. Eilian had seen funeral pyres in India, but nothing had prepared him for the demented dead, forever in agony once their suffering had ended. Wrenching his eyes away, he stepped over a woman and her child as they held each other. The disembodied voices crept over the wind, putting him back on the path to safety. When he listened again, the ribs of the dying ship groaned in pain and sagged under their load.

He threw his arm up to stop the impact, but the beam knocked him down, pinning him beneath its red-hot iron. Eilian Sorrell screamed as the metal seared through his clothes and into his flesh until he was certain his heart would stop from the pain. Like a wounded animal, he thrashed and writhed until he worked his legs and torso free, but his right arm remained lodged and continued to burn. Kicking off the beam, he hoped to free his numb limb, but on the third attempt, the sole of his shoe melted onto the metal. Finally, he twisted and pulled, hoping sheer force would free it, and with the sickening release of suction and the smell of burnt meat, his arm dislodged.

Eilian averted his gaze, hoping what he saw was a hallucination, and heedlessly rushed toward the voices on the wind. His heart pounded as the moon peeked between the naked ribs of the dirigible. Flames leapt and popped beside him. Sweat poured down his back and chest, stinging his open wounds. The searcher’s lights pierced the gnawed openings in the outer hull as he burst into the cool night air. His knees gave way, and he collapsed into the dewy grass. Pain flared from his right side, squeezing the cries from his throat. As voices called out around him and tried to lift him onto the stretcher, they hesitated at his right side. Suddenly, the pain subsided, and the world went black.

Chapter Two:

Ether Dreams

Painful fever dreams coursed through Eilian's mind as he lay unconscious. The muggy jungle rose around him, engulfing him in mist and shadow as he stumbled through the dense undergrowth. The tatters of his clothing clung to his chest and restricted his limbs until he could scarcely hobble over the fanned buttress roots of a mangrove tree. Eilian leaned back against the tree panting. Where was he? His skin burned with the salt of his sweat, but as he closed his eyes against the oppressive heat, something bit into his arm with a sharp prick. He stared down at his hand in horror as a horde of ants and jewel-backed beetles marched up his forearm, tearing and chewing at his flesh. The archaeologist tried to shake them off, but the insects continued their torturous feast. Beneath their teeth, his arm was eroded until all that was left were the raw, bloodied sinews and ivory bones, which peeked from between the bands of glistening flesh. His breath quickened as he desperately wiped his arm against the trees and ferns to knock the carnivorous bugs away. He stumbled back but tried to grasp the nearest branch. The leaves slipped through his fingers, and Lord Sorrell plummeted from the jungle cliff.

His body collided with the polished, algid surface of the rocks, but as his eyes met the searing sun, the rainforest dissolved into darkness. The plaster-walled room chilled his skin, teasing each hair and goose-bump to attention. Four alien figures eclipsed the sun as they stared down at him and manipulated his body. Against his will, his aching frame was raised and bound in long loops of linen. From the edge of his vision, he saw the creatures’ webbed masks and misshapen grey bodies. Eilian moaned as one of them lifted his arm, sending waves of unbearable pain and nausea coursing through every cell. Hearing his cry, the largest of the beasts held his head in his massive paw and wrenched his jaw open. Lord Sorrell fought against his grip but was easily overpowered as the man poured something hot down his throat. To keep from drowning, he swallowed the bitter brew until the creature left him to return to spinning his web around his torso and breast. They must be mummifying me, he concluded as his mind lapsed back into ether dreams.

The impermeable nothingness entrapped Eilian Sorrell, keeping his body and mind suspended in a quiet only rarely punctuated by a voice so distant he could barely discern its owner. A woman was weeping somewhere deep in the abyss. His mother cried that her child didn't deserve this, but when he tried to reach her, he only floated further into the shadows. Time slipped from hours to days and back to minutes in the silence. A much deeper yet familiar grumbling voice echoed through his mind. He lamented for his poor boy. A bolt of panic nearly broke through the cavern. Could the dead hear? Maybe he was eavesdropping on his own funeral. The voices died away again, and as quickly as the glimpses of consciousness returned, they were torn asunder in the vacuum of his mind.

***

Multiple men were calling out around him, all nonsensical and foreign, except Patrick’s gentle voice, which sounded further away. Eilian drowsily opened his eyes, using all his strength to keep them open as he scanned the people around him. All of them were touching his face, pulling at his eyelids, and grabbing at his wrists.

“Lord Sorrell, open your eyes. Please cooperate, Lord Sorrell!”

Eilian defiantly rolled his head away from their prying fingers and let his eyes flutter open again. He was in his bedroom surrounded by old, rather ugly men, grimacing and gaping down at him like Renaissance grotesques.

“Leeb me a-own!”

The words were articulated correctly in his head but came out muddled. Eilian tried to fight against the bandage entrapping his jaw, but his skull felt twice as heavy as it normally did and pulsated rhythmically. He struggled to move his body. His right side was numb yet tingled with a prickling pain while his left side ached unbearably. As he succumbed to fatigue, he closed his eyes and allowed the doctors to continually touch and prod him. One of them ripped his blankets away, sending a rush of cold air across his bare skin, making his bandages flutter. The physician listened to his heart and lungs before carelessly throwing the covers back over him. He sighed softly as the intoxicating warmth sucked him into slumber.

***

Nearly a day later, the familiar glimpses of life returned. Eilian strained to open his eyes, but through the afternoon sun filtering in between the gaps in the drapes, he could make out the trappings of his bedroom. Tapestries of knights and dogs hunting and traversing fields of mythological beasts and embroidered forests hung on every wall. The clock on the mantle ticked beneath the solemn face of Athena. Peeking between the green curtains of the four-poster bed, he was pleased to find the room empty. Maybe it was all a dream, he thought until he realized he still ached as if he had been hit by a steam engine. Carefully, he attempted to lift his head, but his neck didn’t feel strong enough to pull it off the pillow. He turned toward the mirror near the far wall and could make out Patrick pacing in the sitting room right outside his door.

“Pat,” he called hoarsely, scarcely audible even to himself.

As if waiting to be summoned, the young yet white-haired butler rushed in followed by two doctors. “Sir, how are you feeling?” Patrick asked but was quickly knocked to the side by the most corpulent doctor.

The fat one took up over half of the bedside as he pulled off the covers and began to listen with his stethoscope. Eilian wondered how the doctor was able to hold it since his sausage fingers were barely able to grasp the nickel funnel. A second physician with a wig fit for a barrister checked his pulse before pushing past the fat one to examine his eyes. To get them to leave him alone sooner, he allowed them to subject him to every test they could concoct until they were finally satisfied that he was alert.

“Butler, bring him some tea and food,” bellowed the roundest doctor after he had finished poking and prodding him.

Of course, Fatty wants me to eat the moment I’m conscious, he thought as they finally replaced his covers and backed away. “I’m not hungry.”

“Lord Sorrell, you need your rest and plenty of nourishment after the ordeal you have been through,” the barrister began pompously, counting off the events on his fingers. “The crash, the fire, the surgeries—”

“Wha—what surgeries?” Eilian stammered, suddenly feeling very alert.

Patrick paused with his hand poised on the door. Somehow he knew this moment would not go well. He looked back at his master’s eyes and found them wide and full of the terror one only sees in a child.

“We amputated your right arm.”

“You did what?” he yelled hoarsely as he struggled to sit upright.

“We excised it.”

“Wait, wait, I don’t understand.”

“We cut it off.”

“I know what excise and amputate mean, you dolt! Why would you do this?”

Eilian grabbed the edge of the sheets and pulled them away to reveal a heavily bandaged and bloodied stump where his right arm had been. He hadn’t realized it was gone. In his mind, the fingers were still wriggling. He tried to lift it, but the movement sent sharp pains through his chest and what remained of his arm. The breath caught in his throat as Eilian ran his fingers over the end of his shortened limb. It was true. It was gone. His eyes watered as he stared at it before turning back to the group of men at his feet.

“Why did you do this?” he choked with tears burning his lids. “Was— was there no other way?”

“There was simply no other choice. You simply must accept that it had to be done,” the doctor replied in the same arrogant manner as before. “You have much more convalescence ahead of you.”

The anger steadily rose up his throat, threatening to venomously spew out. Each physician was staring down at him, making him feel less than human. How dare they speak so offhandedly about his altered state. The flippant yet portentous manner in which they had dealt with him was enough to make him strike them if he had the strength.

“Get out!” Eilian roared. “All of you, get out!”

“Lord Sorrell, you have no right to be ill tempered with us,” reprimanded the corpulent doctor.

“I am still master of this house, and I have every right to be ill tempered!” He pointed at each of them with his left hand. “All of you, out!”

They both separately turned to protest, but the fire in his eyes and the authority he exuded even in his deteriorated state deterred them. As the barrister stormed out with a slam of the bedroom door, Patrick watched the strength seeped from Eilian’s body as he gradually sunk into the pillows. The butler hesitated at the door. The doctors he had brought to care for his boss were leaving while he was still on the verge of death, and worse yet his master had been the one to dismiss them. Lord Sorrell held his head in his hand and fought back the tears collecting behind his eyes.

“Sir,” Patrick began uncomfortably, “do you want me to escort them out or would you like them out of the room temporarily?”

“Show them out. Tell them they will be paid later.”

Patrick nodded and disappeared into the hall.

Eilian raised his left arm and stared at his wrapped, swollen hand. Every muscle ached as he reached up and touched his face. The skin was puffy near a few cuts that were stitched closed, but it was wholly unburned. As he inched toward his chin, the sting of healing blisters became more pronounced. What state was he in? His neck and jaw were bandaged as was his chest and torso on the right side. He reached below the sheets and ran his hand over the gauze around his thigh. He tapped his big toes against each other. Both feet are here, so both of my legs are intact.

“Hello,” he said to himself, testing his speech. “How are you? The quick brown fox jumps over the lazy dog.”

Apart from being slightly weak, he could pronounce every syllable even with the tight wrappings encumbering his jaw. He then promptly ran his tongue over his teeth. Thank goodness they are all there. Despite hating that he would eventually inherit a title, he didn’t want to look like a common beggar or be forced to wear dentures. As he reached up to touch his teeth, his heart sank. His fingers would never reach. The nub hung suspended in midair. Eilian knew his hand and forearm were missing, but he could feel his fingers clenching and relaxing. Did his body not realize it was gone?

“Sir, are you all right?” Patrick asked from the threshold as he watched Lord Sorrell stare longingly at his missing limb.

“I can still feel it.” His eyes were rapidly filling with tears. “Why did they do this, Pat? Was there no other way?”

Patrick weightlessly sat on the edge of Eilian’s bed. “I knew this would be very hard on you, and I wanted to be the one to tell you. Despite the tactlessness of the men you sent away, they are some of the best surgeons and doctors in England.”

“So even the best were powerless to save it?”

He nodded. “When I heard about the airship crash, I got to the hospital as fast as I could. The doctor unwrapped your arm to ask me what you would want done. It was blackened below the elbow and burnt to the bone. You could,” he paused and swallowed hard, “see it when they lifted up the skin. That’s why I hired the other doctors in London and had you brought back here for treatment. They decided that removing it was the best option, the only option.”

His eyes grew wide. “But what about…”

The butler raised his hand, and Eilian fell silent. “If you were allowed to keep it, you would have gotten gangrene and died. You don’t seem to grasp the gravity of your condition. You may care most about your arm, but there are other injuries that are much more pressing.”

Eilian’s chest tightened as Patrick continued, “You have severe burns from your neck to your thigh on your right side, you were in a coma for five days for seemingly no reason, and you have dozens of cuts and bruises. Who knows if you have any infections or if you will be able to move or walk normally again?”

Tears flooded Eilian’s eyes. His ribs squeezed until breathing was nearly impossible. His heart pounded as the words reverberated through his mind. He rubbed his shortened arm as he fought against the intense stinging in his eyes. Patrick was looking at him with the soft, concerned eyes of a friend, but he couldn’t bear to meet his gaze. As his roving fingers trailed to the curve of his arm, his resistance finally broke down. The stifled sobs shook his back, sending sharp pains through his ribs and spine. All hope drained from his body as he poured out his soul and strength to his friend. What if everything that could go wrong did?

Patrick watched helplessly as Eilian finally broke into ragged, hiccupped sobs that sounded as painful as they were heart-wrenching. Never had he meant to make him cry. He had let his own built-up emotions and stress get the best of him and had taken it out on his friend. Even when Eilian had been gravely ill with various tropical diseases, he had never lost his underlying fire, but for the first time in years, the young adventurer and writer looked frail and broken. The butler stared at his companion and tentatively reached out to gently squeeze his shoulder, faltering as he did not know what to do without overstepping his bounds.

“I’m so sorry,” Patrick whispered. “I didn’t mean to upset you.”

Through quavering breaths, he cried, “It wasn’t you. I want to go back to sleep and have all of this be a nightmare. I’m only six-and-twenty. I could die or be maimed for life. How will I write or travel or do anything anymore? My life is ruined, ruined, and it wasn’t even my fault.”

“Sir, you were a victim of chance, but you’ll make it. I know you will. You’ll learn how to do everything, just in a different way. If you still can’t write, you can dictate everything to me, and I’ll write it down,” the butler answered with a smile, hoping one would appear on his master’s face.

He sniffed and sighed, wiping away tears with the back of his hand. “Thank you, Patrick, you’re a good friend.”

“This is the last thing I ever wanted to have happen to you, but somehow I know you’ll be all right in the end.”

Patrick reached into the pocket of his jacket and carefully wiped Eilian’s eyes and bruised cheeks with his handkerchief. Eilian slowly inhaled and exhaled, allowing his body to relax and his mind to quiet. As his muddled thoughts began to clear, his stomach growled, breaking the silence and his concentration.

“Why don’t I make you one of your favorite dishes? It’ll take a while, so you can take a nap and rest until dinner.”

As much as he didn’t want to admit it, crying and yelling had exhausted him. By the clock above the hearth, he could tell he had only been awake for a little over two and a half hours, yet he was already ready for a nap. Eilian inched lower in bed as the butler covered him with blankets until he was safely cocooned within their gentle pressure and warmth.

Patrick once again stood on the threshold, watching his battered friend sleep, but for the first time in nearly a week, he knew he could leave the room and not worry he would never wake again.

Chapter Three:

Doctors and Dragon Breath

Patrick Sinclair gingerly carried the silver tray of food up the polished stairs, careful not to spill anything onto the new rugs that had been acquired on their trip and laid out before the airship had crossed the English Channel. He lightly rapped on the bedroom door before opening it. Within the folds of the massive mahogany bed, Eilian stirred slightly as the floorboards creaked under the butler’s familiar, light tread. He blinked away the crust from his eyes and slowly pulled himself into a sitting position. The short rest had chased away the lethargy and seemed to dull the ache in his temples. As Lord Sorrell stretched out his back and shoulders just as he did every time he awoke, Patrick’s eyes widened and trailed up to his missing forearm.

“Oh,” he muttered calmly as he spotted the red blotch spreading across the bottom of his bandaged stump, “that’s not good. I guess I popped a stitch or two in my sleep.”

“Sir, I really think you need to be under a doctor’s care, at least until your burns begin to heal. The others didn’t teach me how to properly tend to your wounds before you sent them away.”

“Get James then,” Eilian replied with a sigh. “I at least want someone I know and trust.”

“Are you sure you don’t want me to fetch someone closer? It’ll take me over an hour to go to London and back at this hour.”

“I want James Hawthorne. If you go, I know he will come.”

Patrick frowned, unsure if he could spare an hour away from him. “Would you be all right if I left you alone that long?”

“It’s not bleeding very much, but I will probably get worse if you don’t go.”

He sighed as the corners of his dusty-blue eyes sank behind his spectacles. “Promise me you’ll stay in bed and eat. No trying to get up yet and nothing strenuous.”

“I will stay still, I promise.”

The butler hesitantly left the room, turning back to take one more look at Eilian’s battered face before heading downstairs to get his coat. Eilian sat very still, listening to his friend’s steps echo through the empty halls. The coat closet door opened and closed, the footfalls stopped, the front door squealed, and then softly clicked shut. For the first time in three weeks, he was finally alone. He sighed contently as he turned his attention to the food piled on the silver tray.

A steaming mug of Turkish coffee sat beside a plate piled nearly two inches high with Tandoori chicken and rice. The fiery, red meat smelled of chili and turmeric, and as he inhaled the spicy aroma, a smile spread across his purpled cheeks. With his aching wrist, he carefully slid the plate from the tray on the nightstand to his lap. Grabbing the utensils, he was poised to dig in when he realized he had two pieces of cutlery but only one hand. Eilian clumsily held the fork and tried to peel the tender meat from the bone, but after several minutes, he had made little progress. He put the fork aside and attempted the same technique with the knife but to no avail. A sigh escaped his lips. How could he grow so tired trying to feed himself?

Eilian’s eyes trailed back to the glinting surface of the knife. His eyes narrowed on their target as he raised the knife above his head like a hunter about to strike. He carefully listened to the rhythm of his breathing, waiting for the perfect moment. Then, between breaths, he slammed his weapon down. The knife hit the china with a sharp clank and sent half the chicken skidding across his bed and onto the parquet floor with a trail of rice following behind on the sheets.

“Well, that was less than ideal,” he murmured as he scooped the rice back onto his plate and stared longingly at the chicken lying beyond his reach on the rug. Eilian tossed the knife back onto the tray and picked up the remaining chicken from his plate and the coverlet. It was spicier than he remembered, but he didn’t care. He was starving. Greedily gobbling his meal, he downed the Turkish coffee to squelch the burning in the back of his throat. Before they left India, he had instructed Patrick to purchase an exorbitant amount of spices, vegetables, and dried fruit to bring back to Greenwich, so his cook could replicate the new dishes he had grown to love. Thank God my first meal back was not English food. Eilian gulped down the frothy drink, finished his remaining rice, and checked the clock on the mantle. He had at least fifteen minutes before Patrick and Dr. Hawthorne arrived. The large piece of chicken on the floor would undeniably arouse questions, so he strained to place his plate and glass back on the tray and inched nearer to the edge of the bed, swallowing down the pain in his back.

Eilian rested on his side and stretched his arm as far as it could reach, but his fingertips barely brushed the edge of the chicken and only made it dance farther away. He continued to propel himself closer until his fingers nearly wrapped around the bare bone of the chicken thigh. With one final push, his fingers closed around it, but he lost his balance and slid off the bed with a thud. Eilian lay on the floor stunned. Landing on his left arm, he couldn’t quite figure out how to sit up. If he moved onto his right side, he would undoubtedly injure himself further. As he eased onto his back, lightning pains shot from his jaw to his leg, and the breath hitched in his throat. Rice clung to his face and bandages, leaving saffron stains from the Tandoori seasoning. With one leg, he untangled his feet from the covers and scooted back until he was finally freed.

Never had the bed looked so high. Eilian’s first instinct was to call out to Patrick for help, but the words died in his throat. He was alone. What if he couldn’t walk? He threw the chicken onto the plate and grabbed onto the top of the nightstand. The muscles of his back and shoulder ached under the strain of supporting his weight as he slowly shifted to his knees and then onto his shaking legs. The muscles quivered in the back of his thighs, pushing against the confines of his bandages. He took a step forward, too afraid to let go of the nightstand, as his knees threatened to buckle. Going from post to post, Eilian hobbled closer to the mirror until he could make out his reflection. A half-wrapped mummy with swollen cheeks and sunken grey eyes stared back at him. His raw umber hair was disheveled as usual and stuck out from the gauze encircling the top and right side of his face.

Eilian stared at his arm, running his eyes from his shoulder to the abrupt, bloodied end of his elbow. He teetered on the edge of tears again. They stung and reddened his eyes, but he pushed them back. I can walk. His hand finally left the mahogany post. After a momentary tremor, his legs held. Those pompous bastards are wrong. My convalescence will be short, he thought proudly as he shuffled back to the bed. He reeled in the covers and watched the fire flicker and flutter toward the chimney before dying in the hearth. The room darkened in the waning light, but Eilian sat in the shadows and ate his meal. If he turned on the gas lamps, it would undoubtedly raise questions.

***

Dr. Hawthorne sat in the passenger seat of the steam carriage, gripping the door as Patrick Sinclair haphazardly steered through London’s busy streets, nearly clipping several other steamers and pedestrians along the way. He was certain by the time he made it to Greenwich, he would have a few more grey hairs interspersed with the chestnut ones at his temples. All he had been told was that Eilian was in need of a doctor. I wonder what disease he brought back this time, he mused as he listened half-heartedly to the butler continue to ramble on. Despite chattering nonstop since he picked him up from Wimpole Street, he hadn’t told him what actually happened. James Hawthorne and Eilian Sorrell had been friends ever since they were in boarding school together and had remained close ever since. After returning from several trips all over the empire with parasites and illnesses, Dr. Hawthorne had become the one to help him through each bout of vomiting and fever. Now, he had come to expect a call from the harried butler whenever Eilian arrived back on English soil. As the steamer pulled in front of the Gothic great house, Patrick sprung from the driver’s seat to open the doctor’s door. Hawthorne lugged his heavy Gladstone bag out of the backseat and strolled inside past the butler. Man-sized wooden crates stamped with fragile in half a dozen languages still littered the foyer and what he could see of the parlor.

“So, Eilian,” Dr. Hawthorne called upstairs as he headed up the stairs towards his bedroom, “what is it this time? Yellow fever? Malaria? Elephantiasis?” He reached the top step and continued down the wood-paneled hall with the butler trailing behind. “You know Eliza wasn’t very happy when I had to leave in the middle of dinner, but she told me to tell you that she sends her best—”

The words trailed off as Hawthorne turned the corner and laid eyes upon Eilian Sorrell. He had expected to see him with his head in a bucket, not sitting in bed under the mahogany and green canopy bed purpled and bandaged. For a second, all professional etiquette escaped the doctor as he froze at the threshold. His dark eyes ran from his bruised face to his bound chest until they finally reached his right arm. He resisted the urge to clean his glasses to make certain he wasn’t seeing things.

“You know very well you can only get malaria once,” Eilian finally replied as he gazed up at his dumbfounded friend. “They are burns this time.”

With a shake of his head, the daze was broken. “How? What happened to you?” Hawthorne’s mind raced to the articles and the growing list of fatalities he had seen all over the papers that week. “Were you in that airship crash?”

Eilian nodded as he motioned for Patrick to turn on the gas lamps with a twist of his hand.

“You already look as if you have been taken care of. Why did you call me? I’m a coroner now, not a surgeon.”

“Who better to stave off death than one who is so well acquainted with it?” He raised his arm to show the growing bloodstain. “Truthfully, my stitches snapped. I trust you, you know I do, and I would like you to take a look at what the others have done.”

The doctor washed his hands in the adjoining bathroom and moved to his friend’s side but froze as his eyes came to rest on his torso. “Are those maggots?” he asked, his voice sharpening with a tinge of panic.

Stuck to his bandages were white flecks. “Oh, it’s rice actually. It was from my dinner.”

He opened his mouth to speak but decided against it. “I won’t even ask. Sinclair, when were his bandages changed last?”

“Last night,” Patrick began. “The doctors were dismissed this afternoon and weren’t able to properly show me how to change them.”

James Hawthorne nodded, rolling up his sleeves. He pulled a small pair of scissors from his bag along with half a dozen rolls of gauze and a squat, glass jar filled with opaque gunk. He carefully clipped the end of the bandage and began to unroll what remained of Eilian’s right arm. The top of his arm near the shoulder was an inflamed red and full of sovereign-sized deflated blisters, but closer to what remained of his elbow, the skin disappeared and what was left was nearer to the consistency of raw meat.

Eilian tried not to look as his arm was laid bare, but the moment he had seen it inside the dying dirigible flooded back. The corporeal devastation and the unforgettable smell of seared flesh had been no hallucination. All the patches of brown and black had been removed by the previous doctors to reveal the inner workings of his limb, except for the bone which was covered over with a patch of only mildly burnt skin. He finally averted his eyes as James passed the needle through the relocated skin that had been torn away and leaked blood. After a moment of cringing and bracing for the pain, he realized he could not feel the needle or thread sliding through the flesh.

“Will the feeling ever return at the end?”

“It may,” the doctor replied, never glancing up from his work. “Burns are odd and so are nerves. You never quite know what they are going to do. Thus far, your previous doctors did a very thorough job with the debridement, and the skin patch looks like it may survive. You are going to be scarred from this, especially on your arm and chest where the burns are very deep.”

Hawthorne rubbed the slimy ointment down the length of the gauze and began the laborious process of rewrapping. As he turned to work on Eilian’s torso, he frowned. At least four rolls of gauze had been twisted around him in every direction as if he had been attacked by a colony of tipsy spiders. When he finished untangling the mess, he could make out an odd shaped mark on his ribs amongst the deflated blisters and peeling skin. It was glossy and perfectly round with a skinny, twisted line following it. Small yelps and seething grimaces escaped Eilian’s lips as the ointment was applied directly to the wounds.

“How is Eliza?” Eilian choked out through clenched teeth as he gripped the edge of the covers in his fist and curled his toes.

“As beautiful as always.” James smiled. “She’s talking me into a holiday in Egypt to visit the Great Pyramids again and Hatshepsut’s mortuary temple.”

“You should go. She will love it, and so will you. Egypt is beautiful.”

His mind drifted back to the Hawthornes’ wedding. Everyone seemed so surprised when Eliza married, but Eilian never was. James was liberal-minded and had been raised with four older, strong-willed sisters. He always thought of Eliza as independent and free spirited, but above all else, she was the most intelligent person he knew. She was knowledgeable on nearly any subject but was shunned by the other doctors’ wives for it.

“Doesn’t Eliza get bored at home all day?”

Hawthorne pulled Eilian forward to wrap the gauze around his back. “At home, yes, but she isn’t there all the time. She likes to accompany me when I lecture at the university. She has access to the library if she uses my name, and she also helps me with autopsies and gathers whatever I need from the shops.” He sighed. “Honestly, it’s really all below her talents unfortunately. These holidays we go on help to break up the monotony for her and hopefully will bolster her spirits.”

He clumsily dropped Eilian back into a sitting position. “I hope you know, James, you handle your patients like corpses.”

The doctor grinned and made quick work of changing the dressings on Eilian’s leg and his other stitches. He then looked down his throat, checking for inhalation burns but instead was hit with what he could only imagine was the dragon breath created by red pepper and curry. Considering what he had gone through, the archaeologist appeared to be in surprisingly good spirits.

“You’re in rather good shape, but I have to wonder how you damaged your arm so severely. Do you remember what happened?”

He sighed. The whole incident came only in bursts of color and sensation. There was smoke and the call of voices in the distance before— “I was trying to get out, but I became disoriented. I remember a loud groan, and suddenly one of the support beams was on top of me.”

James shook his head, wiping the blood and petroleum from his hands with a scrap of gauze. “I am so sorry about all this, Eilian.”

“At least I’m not throwing up,” he laughed softly, his ribs aching with each chuckle. “So how long will I be stuck in bed?”

Hawthorne washed his hands in the bathroom but called over his shoulder, “As soon as you are strong enough, you can move around.”

Patrick’s eyes bulged in their sockets as he pictured Lord Sorrell attempting to conquer the stairs the moment the doctor left. “Are you positive he should be mobile in this state?”

“The thing is, burns tend to web together if one is stationary for too long. I tried to wrap everything separately to prevent that, but getting up as soon as possible will probably be best.”

Color flushed Eilian’s eyes and cheeks. “That’s wonderful!”

“Don’t look too excited. You are not to attempt the stairs until you can walk on your own, and I want you to use Sinclair for support until you are strong enough. Until you’re at least three-quarters of the way healed, there will be no jumping, running, fighting, climbing, or heavy-lifting. You will never heal if you continually open your wounds from overexertion. Sinclair is to send for me if you are not following my orders, and then, I will sentence you to bed rest.”

“The other doctors suggested I give him a bland diet until he was recovered,” Patrick blurted as he wrung his hands.

James rolled his eyes and shook his head. “Pure quackery. He can have whatever he wants. Give him bland food, and he will die of melancholy.” Despite the bruising, his friend still looked himself, cheerful and bright-eyed. “You will have to wait until the swelling goes down, but I know a wonderful prosthesis maker in the city. I will give you the address when I return tomorrow to change your dressings.”

Chapter Four:

The Craftsman’s Requiem

The craftsman sat at his work bench, staring blankly at his latest project. A prosthetic arm of porcelain and metal laid in pieces before him. Pain radiated through his ribs as a dull, itching ache, but he resisted the persistent urge to cough to keep from alerting his younger sister. He drew in a deep breath. In the past, he had been able to create a detailed, highly functional prosthesis in less than a fortnight, but recently, it had taken him at least a month or more for even the simplest creation now that he barely worked more than a few hours each day. He looked out at his kingdom of wood-shavings and dust. On the other side of the room, his sister’s automatons laid in boxes or in pieces ready to be assembled. She was always working, but he only had one project left. The artisan had slept all night and nearly half the day, yet he could feel his eyelids drooping. As he drew in a crackling breath, a string of forceful coughs escaped his lips. In the palm of his hand was a splatter of gooey, carmine blood. It happened so often now that it barely bothered him to see his own blood and torn tissue. The boards in the hall creaked, so he quickly wiped away the blood with his handkerchief, stuffed it in his pocket, and grabbed his screwdriver.

“George, I brought you some lunch,” Hadley called cheerfully behind him as she came in with his lunch tray.

Her older brother’s blue eyes and red hair matched her own but had dulled as his consumption progressed. She laid a bowl of soup and a sandwich on the table and peeked over his shoulder at the numerous pieces of an unfinished arm and hand. Lovingly wrapping her arms around his neck, she stood on tiptoe until her cheek was resting on the top of his head. He held onto her arms and smiled. The icy chill of his palms made the hairs on her arms stand on end.

“How’s the arm coming along?”

“Good, I’m just taking a moment to visualize how it will turn out.”

Her eyes ran over the perfectly molded fingers affixed to a thin sheet of brass. “It already looks amazing. I hope I can be as good as you one day.”

“You already are,” he replied warmly. “Your automatons are more beautiful than anything I could dream up.”

She kissed his cheek. “No, you are the best. Always have been, always will be.”

George smiled weakly to himself. He wondered how long that would truly be. “Want to play a little game with me?” When she grinned, he continued, “Can you tell me anything about the person this prosthesis is being made for?”

Hadley gingerly picked up the plate of fingers and measured them against her own. They were longer and thicker without bulk or the nodules of arthritis. “Whoever this is for is taller than me, probably between five foot eight and five foot eleven. The fingers are not overly delicate but not gnarled like someone who has been working since they were young.”

Placing them down, she moved on to the beginnings of a forearm, which was still in pieces. She stacked the pieces into their future shape. “The arm is fairly muscular, so unless this was done for vanity, the owner works or is an athlete. Though it could be a burly woman, my guess is the owner is male.”

“Very good so far,” George replied with a nod. “How old do you think he is?”

Lying on a distant table near a stack of automata molds was a poured plaster cast of the left arm George had been using as a reference for the proportions of its twin. It had been taken from its owner’s remaining limb and beside it was the cast of a gnarled and scarred stump of a right arm. The left was shapely and strong but far from bulky. Hadley ran her fingers over his hand, which was smooth with only a few veins and nearly no damage from time. “Maybe mid- to late-twenties.”

“You astound me. You have read those Dupin stories too often, and now, you have a true eye for observation.”

As his sister blushed proudly, he grinned, revealing a sticky coating of blood over his teeth. The color rapidly drained from her face as she watched George’s thin chest heave with each thick, labored breath. Hadley’s heart sunk, beating off rhythm as she took in her brother’s cheerful face. Even on the best of days, his eyes were sunken and framed by greying skin. The bones jutted from his face and hands despite regular meals, eroding away the handsome man he had once been. The disease was gnawing at him from the inside out, consuming his fragile billows breath by labored breath. She was about to move back to the stool beside him when a wet breath hitched in his throat, sending out a series of forceful coughs that yanked at his ribs and stomach. Hadley patted his back to loosen the blood and winced as he gripped his breast and struggled against the spasms. The desperation with which his body screamed and gasped for air put her stomach in knots. With each measured breath, his ribs loosened, and finally he wiped the blood from his pale lips.

“I will get you cleaned up,” she whispered before hurrying to fetch a basin from the kitchen.

His gaunt features and hands were spattered with flecks of blood. He loosely clutched his now ruined handkerchief, but his sister pulled it from his grasp. Dipping a fresh cloth into the basin, she rinsed and rubbed each of his chilled, boney fingers and palms clean before wiping his mouth as gently as she would a child. Her older brother smiled softly as she kissed his freckled cheeks again and hugged him close, lingering to inhale his familiar scent of wood-shavings with a hint of metal.

Hadley sat on her stool and pushed the tray of food closer to him. “Why don’t you put the arm away for a bit and have something to eat? You need to keep up your strength.”

He shook his head. “I have wasted enough time working on the prosthesis for Lord Sorrell. After I finish the hand, I will eat.”

“Give it to me. I will work on it for you.”

Without waiting for George’s consent, she slid the half-built arm in front of her and replaced it with the tray. As he finally dipped into his soup, she screwed the remaining bent fingers to the brass plate and moved on to the thumb. Looking down at the prosthesis, she realized she had made more progress in five minutes than he had made in three days. Hadley slowed her pace. She loved him too much to take his pride and joy away from him. He needed work like this now more than ever to keep his mind off things. No matter how sick he was, she was amazed by her brother’s craftsmanship. The prosthesis was beautiful with its five perfect replica fingers and a smooth palm complete with lines, but it had become something upon which her brother’s life was being measured. More than anything, she wanted it out of the house.

Hadley leisurely shined and assembled the little pieces until she heard the tray slide against the work bench. “I can’t eat anymore.”

His sister frowned as she inventoried what was left on the plate, but he had done his best. Before stepping out, she hugged him again as was her custom and carried the nearly full tray back to the kitchen. As she dumped the remaining contents into the rubbish bin, she felt Adam’s eyes burning into her back. From the corner of her eye, she could see his dark red hair and bright blue vest as he sat at the table. Hadley resisted the urge to whip around and demand what he was staring at, so she kept scrubbing the dish and plate.

“Why haven’t you finished the viscount’s arm yet?” he asked a little more nicely than she expected.

“Because George is working on it.”

“But he won’t finish it.”

“What do you mean? He finishes everything.”

“Hadley,” she dropped the dish cloth upon hearing her name, “you know what I mean. You know he made his will last week. He left everything to us. Why pretend when even he knows?”

She finally whirled around, her red braid smacking her back as she met her twin’s light-eyed gaze. “How dare you wish your own brother into the grave!” she replied in a harsh whisper. “He has had relapses before, and he has pulled through every time.”

Adam rubbed his henna temples and drew in a deep breath. “George has never been this sick before. He looks like death already! I just want you to brace yourself for what may happen to him. You have to believe that I don’t say this to hurt you.”

“But I don’t believe you. You have always been jealous of his genius, his success, his ability to be liked by everyone. Now, you rejoice in your own brother’s illness for your own sick pleasure!” She dropped her voice. “I will have no part in your sick fantasies, Adam.”

As Hadley turned to leave, her twin caught her arm. Staring into her tearing, blue eyes, he pleaded, “I say all this because I love you. I don’t want you to fall to pieces when I’m proven right for once. I know you love him, but I just want you to be realistic. I’m not wishing ill on him. I love him too, but I saw you working on the arm—”

“That blasted arm again! Why are you fixated on this project? Let George work on it, and it will get done!”

“But it won’t, and Lord Sorrell is a paying customer who deserves a new limb in a timely manner.”

“It’s all he has left!” she seethed through clenched teeth as she defiantly wrenched her arm out of his hand. “Can you not allow him the one pleasure he has left?”

“You aren’t doing him any favors by carrying on like this, Hadley.”

“How would you know? You do not spend any time with him or worry about him. All you do is count his money.” When his eyes finally left hers, she continued, “Do you know how many nights I lie awake listening for a cough, so I know he is alive? Every night I stay up listening for that sound of life, so I know it will be a good day. Do you ever? No, I didn’t think you did.”

She fled the room with tears burning her eyes. George’s bedroom door slammed as she prepared to fix his bed for his afternoon nap. Adam sat back in the well-worn kitchen chair and closed his eyes as a feeble cough crackled from the workroom. Was he really as horrible a brother as she made him out to be? Even if he didn’t hug him or make his bed, he loved George like a second father. His sister was his best friend, but no matter what he did, it was never the right thing for her. All he wanted was for everything to be all right.

***

Hadley Fenice sat in bed leaning against the wall with her head pressed to the plaster that separated her from her older brother. One more cough, and she could go to sleep. She tugged the blankets closer against the chill of the dying fire. Her hair haloed around her head and shoulders as she held her knees and let her back nestle within the corner. The long hours of silence had taken their toll on her, and slowly her hands slackened before sliding off her legs as she drifted to sleep.

She awoke with a start. The sun was peeking through her curtains and across the rug to the closed door. Already she was late, but maybe Adam had made breakfast and let her sleep in. Throwing on her dressing gown, she knocked on George’s door. When no answer came from within, she silenced the squeaking hinge and crept next to his bedside. He didn’t stir, so she rubbed his shoulder over the blanket, speaking cheerfully of breakfast and the day ahead. As she touched his face, a bolt of panic lanced through her. Hadley felt his cheek and forehead with both sides of her hand, but they remained unmistakably cold. Pulling back the covers, she unbuttoned his night-shirt. His ribs poked out like knuckles in a glove two sizes too small, but when she put her ear to his chest, she could no longer hear the feeble sucking of his lungs that had so many times been a comfort in the silence.

His sister sat on the edge of the bed and carefully buttoned up his pajamas and smoothed his red hair from his forehead. In this pitiable state, he resembled a puppet with exaggerated features and ill-fitting clothing. Every trace of his beauty had wasted away, yet to her, they were just more subtle. He looked as if he would awake at any moment, but she knew it would never happen again. Hadley gently picked up his thin, calloused hand and held it between hers. Those hands had built a business and taught her how to make some of the most sought after toys in England, and it would be the last time she ever got to hold them tenderly as she had since she was a child. All she wanted to do was make him proud. Bending down, she kissed his hands, his hollowed cheeks, and finally his forehead before backing out of the room and shutting the door.

Adam turned the corner and immediately saw his sister’s ashen face and reddening eyes. “Hadley?”

“You were right,” was all she could choke out before running to the workroom. Locking the door behind her, Hadley sat on the floor amongst his books and blueprints. The pain finally hit her as she cried until only sound came out. Tears pooled on her collar or slipped into her mouth in salty trails. She wiped her cheeks with her sleeve. It finally hit her that her teacher, her brother and guardian was gone. There were only two he had left unfinished, and she was one of them.

***

Hadley sat with the little, wooden box in her lap, a coffin for his final project. It had only been a day since he was buried beside their parents, but she longed to rid the house of the other project that had outlived its creator. She had finished it within two hours and had it polished and ready to be delivered with instructions in half an hour. The steamer carriage rolled through the steep Greenwich hills, taking more time than she had wanted or anticipated. Staring out the window, she kept her eyes locked on the Gothic great house as it grew closer. In her grief, she had turned her anger upon the Viscount Sorrell, cursing the man for ever entering their shop. She told herself that if George hadn’t been working on the arm, he could have conserved his strength and recovered once more. He had been working too hard. The moment the steamer stopped in front of the house, she clambered out and stormed up to the door before the cabby could help her out.

Upon ringing the bell, a young man with a genial smile and one arm opened the door. A wide smile crossed his lips and his grey eyes brightened as they locked on the box. Before he could speak, she shoved the crate into his hand, curtly added, “Your bill will come by post,” and stomped back to the cab with her heels clicking on the pavement. The moment her body hit the seat, she collapsed. When the steamer began its trek back to London, she covered her face with her gloved hands as her body was racked with sobs.

Chapter Five:

Two Letters

Eilian stood bewildered as the young woman shoved the box with the Fenice Brothers’ coat of arms into his chest. Though she had been rude and stormed off without even showing him how to use his new prosthesis or confirming that it fit, he pitied her. She was dressed in a crepe dress of mourning black with a matching silk hat and lace gloves. Contrary to her bereaved air was her henna hair which, as she walked back to her carriage, he noticed was woven into a tight French braid. As the woman rode off without explanation, he stared down at the little chest with the insignia of a shield crossed by an arm and a leg burnt into its lid.

The little box of hope had appeared without warning after months of waiting, and as he reverently laid it on the table in the foyer, he thought about the future brightly for the first time since he awoke after the crash. He lovingly ran his hand over the lid, imagining how the object within must look. Eilian searched for anything he could use to pry it open when Patrick drifted down the hall toward him.

“Sir, you didn’t have to answer the door. I was in the servants’ hall, but I was on my way to get it,” the butler began apologetically but was cut short.

“Forget the door, Pat. Fetch the crowbar, my new arm just arrived,” Eilian replied, beaming ear to ear.

With a hop, Patrick ran off to find the crowbar amid the pile of crates that still littered the drawing room. Very gently, he slipped the teeth of the bar under the lid, and with a yawning crack, it popped off and dropped onto the rug. Eilian’s eyes widened as he stared down at the porcelain and brass doppelganger of his missing arm. He brushed away the scraps of hay that cushioned the limb, his fingertips grazing the cool porcelain. It had every crease and vein his left arm had but perfectly mirrored and painted to match almost exactly. The nail beds had been fitted with thin slices of sand-etched glass that reflected the light like real nails and even had a white stripe at the end. He turned it over in his hand, increasingly amazed with each new detail he uncovered. It stopped at the elbow and formed an L with a leather bracer and straps to anchor it to the remainder of his arm.

“Sir, would you like me to help you put it on?”

Eilian nodded and sprinted up the stairs ahead of his butler in pure, child-like excitement. By the time Patrick Sinclair had made it up to the bedroom with the crate cradled in his arms, the floor was littered with his jacket and waistcoat, and his master was already unbuttoning his shirt with only one hand and was working to wriggle out of it. The butler smiled to himself. It was nice to see his friend independent again. He had relearned how to dress himself and walk without a crutch or cane. Now, he was even learning to write proficiently with his left hand. To most people, it would have seemed a speedy and smooth recovery, but it had not been without its ups and downs. Many nights were spent comforting the young adventurer after a setback sent him into a torrent of tears, but after six months, he had finally built up the strength and confidence to once again master nearly all that he had lost. Despite the progress in his rehabilitation, each night Patrick would coat every inch of Lord Sorrell’s burns in a petroleum jelly and herb mixture before wrapping him tightly in strips of cotton. He never grumbled about this tedious, invasive task as it allowed him to see his master’s true progress without being influenced by his blithe disposition. Eilian had smiled through fevers until they were so high he couldn’t stand anymore and ignored wounds until they bled through his clothing, so Patrick could never trust his reassurances of good health without proof.

Eilian’s shirt finally dropped off, revealing the thick, arboreal terrain of his chest and arm. The dark pink scars climbed up his torso and neck like flattened, blooming vines, fading below the surface as they reached his jaw and sternum. The mildly misshapen stump now resembled a long, leather pouch patched at the bottom with a piece of pink cloth. Even with his scars and amputations, he appeared healthy. His Mediterranean tan had faded since the accident, but the Greco-Roman muscles that arose from helping to carry statues and crates still remained.

The butler ran his eyes from the instructions to the cephalopodic jumble of leather belts tangled within the crate but found they looked nothing like the diagram. Unhooking all the straps, Patrick gingerly slid the holster over the end of the stump, and while Eilian held it in place, he deciphered the smeared sketch that had been folded before the ink dried. A lattice of leather resembling a Grecian sandal traveled up to his armpit and then branched off into a long loop that ran across his chest to his left shoulder and back. Coming off midway down the rear strap was a shorter one that bisected his ribs and reconnected with the belt on his back to aid in supporting the weight of the prosthesis. With the first two hooked, Patrick finally fastened the small band that held the lattice vertical at his shoulder and stepped away.

“This must be how women feel,” Eilian laughed, “all this pushing and pulling and pinching for vanity.” He smiled as he looked himself over in the mirror. The ceramic arm was his, interlaced with his body by leather tendons. “What do you think of it?”

“It’s incredibly life-like, sir. Marvelously done.”

He nodded, biting his lip as an aching cramp travelled down to the porcelain palm. The pain radiated and pulsed as if the invisible hand was irrevocably contorted into a claw. What began as a dull throb escalated to a sharp burning sensation, growing white-hot as it encompassed his entire arm up to the shoulder. Eilian turned from Patrick as if looking out the window but shut his eyes and tried to steady his breathing. The pain washed over him, only ebbing slightly with each exhalation. It was impossible to feel it, but at least once a week he would awake in the middle of the night to a searing pain in a muscle that no longer existed. In the hours before dawn, he would try to coax it into relaxing before Patrick would come to get him dressed for the day ahead. Somehow he had hoped that when he put on the prosthesis, his mind would see the open hand and the pains would stop.

“Patrick, did anything come by post today?” Eilian stammered, distracting himself as best he could with the knights marching to battle on his walls.

“Yes, Lord Sorrell, two letters. I’ll get them for you.”

The moment Patrick was out of earshot, Eilian massaged his upper arm through the straps and released a tremulous groan. The pain was excruciating, but he abruptly threw on his shirt, tugging it over the immovable limb. Out of sight, out of mind, he thought as he began to button the shirt with one hand, working around the cumbersome new arm as the fingers caught on his cuff. Patrick softly padded in behind him. The only sound of his presence was the tearing of envelopes with the letter opener. Eilian drew the letter from the proffered envelope and instantly recognized his mother’s fussy handwriting. He cringed as he realized the date. It was the season, and it stood to reason that his mother, knowing he wasn’t going on an expedition any time soon, would invite him to a party.

To my dearest Eilian,

I know not if you are up to it yet, but your father and I are throwing a small dinner party on the twenty-seventh. It would bring me the greatest pleasure if you could come to London and stay with us in the days leading up to and after the party. I am fully aware that your doctors have prescribed rest and solitude during your recovery, but as your mother, I know by now you will be in desperate need of cheering up and this party is just the thing to remedy that. I do hope you are feeling up to coming to town.

Love always,

Your mother

With a sigh, Eilian handed the note to Patrick, who skimmed it before staring up at his master in disbelief. “You lied to your mother?”

He looked down at his feet with a pang of guilt. “I know I shouldn’t have told her that, but I didn’t want visitors while I was relearning everything. I didn’t want them to discourage me or slow me down because they thought it best for me. Don’t you see why I did not want to be babied or bullied by them? My father would have me lose all will to live, and my mother would have me spoon fed by you for the rest of my life. I couldn’t bear to be stunted like some bonsai, deformed by their good intentions.”

“I understand, sir.” Patrick placed the invitation on the dresser and offered up the next letter, which was much thicker and was smeared and creased at the corners. “Would you like me to write a response to Lady Dorset?”

Eilian nodded, taking the next wad of paper. “Tell her I will be there and to expect me around the twenty-sixth.”

As the butler settled into the portable writing table in the corner of the room, Eilian laid the pages in his lap. This letter was so unlike his mother’s. It lacked all pretention. There was no lace or ribbon work around the edges, no fancy script in artful arabesques, just a coating of sandy grit from some far away land, smudged by fingers that had touched the same earth and dust the ancients had touched. At first, he had enjoyed receiving letters from his friend Sir Joshua Peregrine as they were a window to the world he had left behind when he lost his arm, but now they had become a reminder that people were moving on with their lives while he could only live vicariously through their words to pretend things were back to normal.

Eilian had gone on expeditions with Sir Joshua for several years. Both were sons of wealthy noblemen, though Sir Joshua seemed to relish his title much more than the future earl. Eilian’s father had bought the Falcon Shipping Company from the late baronet Sir Samuel Peregrine as a way to provide for his favorite and younger son Dylan, who would not be able to inherit his title and most of his fortune. Sir Joshua had been sent to the Middle and Far East by Harland Sorrell as a liaison for the company, but in allowing Eilian to travel with him so often, his father was able to keep an eye on his eldest son. For some reason, it felt nice to know his father at least cared that much about him.

As of late, Eilian was beginning to find the letters that recounted each shard of pottery and dig-related mishap as a tedious, morose reminder of defeat, but he responded to each with polite and artfully crafted feigned interest. He was about to toss it aside, to deal with when he was in a better mood, until he saw the last sentence.

“Sir Joshua has invited me to join his expedition into the Negev Desert next September. He says I can join as a jack-of-all-trades like I usually do or as a historian and linguist, depending on what I feel up to.” His grey eyes once again ran over the words, confirming they were truly there before turning to the paling butler at the desk. “Pat, do you think I can do it? Am I ready for this? I have only just begun to ride my bicycle again.”

“Sir, it really isn’t my place to give an opinion,” he replied as he glanced up from the stationery but continued to write the response letter to the Countess of Dorset without pause.

Patrick’s continual, stubborn adherence to the rules of servitude never failed to frustrate him. “As my friend, it’s your place to help me come to a decision by giving me your honest opinion.”

He sighed softly. “In all my years with you, sir, I have never seen you give in to others or illness. I think if you decided you should like to go, you would be just as capable as any other time you have worked with Sir Joshua Peregrine.”

Eilian Sorrell smiled despite himself. He would have loved to go out on an expedition again, but was he ready? Was he up for the task, or would he not be up to par due to his arm? He thought about the native men, who were hired to do the manual labor, and wondered if they would feel differently about him because of it. Several of them had lost finger tips and parts of toes over the years, so they probably wouldn’t care. I have nearly six months to get back to normal, he thought as he picked up the stack of paper and headed down to his library. Can I do it in time?

At the base of his stairs, tucked behind pocket doors, was his library. It was his favorite room in the house because it was a place he could proudly display some of the objects he had acquired during his travels. The room was dominated by a massive green marble hearth and ten foot high mahogany bookcases on opposite walls that touched the elaborately coffered ceiling. Over the fireplace hung a gleaming guntō from Japan mounted on a wooden sword rack above a talwar with a carved sheath. Hanging opposite the swords, between two heavily curtained windows, was a delicate, dark blue kimono decorated with golden carps swimming through rolling waves. Unlike most wealthy, young gentlemen, the library was not merely a show of wealth but was a functioning storehouse of knowledge. The books’ bindings were lovingly cracked and their pages were littered with little scraps of paper from years of research. Most were not the gilded-bound classics but books on history, art, linguistics, and every reference a mechano-archaeologist could ever need to lay a hand on in a pinch. The inlaid, rosewood desk was stained with ink and lacked varnish where Eilian frequently rested his arms while he worked.

As Eilian entered the library and ran his hand over the glass case of artifacts near the fireplace, he studied his porcelain arm in the reflection. Within his favorite chamber, it appeared so artificial and alien, jutting stiffly from his side in constant salute. He didn’t need it or miss it here. Eilian leaned back in the armchair near the hearth and slipped his hand beneath his shirt, loosening each buckle until the brace slid down his arm. The prosthesis dropped daintily beside him. With one more yank, the straps dislodged and formed a puddle beside him. Finally free from his leather confines, he went to his desk, loaded his Hansen Writing Ball, and began to peck out a reply to Sir Joshua Peregrine. His fingers deftly flew over the keys until he spelled out, Yes, I would like to join you and your men in the Negev Desert, and I will work in any capacity where I will prove useful. Eilian glanced up at the vain prosthesis lounging in the armchair and realized that while he had been eagerly awaiting its arrival for several months, it took less than an hour to realize it held no place in his world.

Chapter Six:

The Anglo-Zulu War Market

That day it had taken Hadley an uncharacteristically long time to decide what to wear and how to do her hair. It was her first client consultation, and she was determined to be seen as capable. Before his death, George had always been the one to visit clients while she had only helped to create and assemble the finished products. In the morning, she awoke early and chose a dark blue walking-dress with a flattened bustle and a top that resembled a man’s suit jacket. To complete the mildly masculine ensemble, she added a matching silk tie and top hat. As she took the long steam-coach ride out of London and into the country, she reread the letter from her potential customer. All she could surmise was that Sir William Harbuckle had been a high ranking officer in the Anglo-Zulu War and had lost his left leg in Africa. From what she knew of the war, she assumed it had been removed due to gangrene after becoming infected.

Her mind filtered through the information she had on how injuries were treated in field hospitals and surmised that his leg would probably not end neatly at the knee or hip as an army doctor would amputate at the easiest point, which could make fitting a prosthesis more difficult. Then again, it could give her more flesh to anchor it to. No matter what, she would make something that worked. Sitting back with her eyes closed, she hoped the plaster she packed into her carpet bag was enough. She had so much to remember: the steps needed to make a cast, the script she had written about their prostheses, and all the dos and don’ts from the etiquette book she had perused the previous night. If everything went well, maybe she could keep the Fenice Brothers alive.

The steamer stopped at a large, Tudor-style home atop a hill that overlooked a picturesque old abbey village surrounded by rolling hills of green dotted with wild flowers. The driver helped her out before she walked purposefully but gracefully to the front door, clutching her carpet bag of supplies. With one pull of the bell, the butler appeared, solemnly towering over her.

“Welcome to Courtington House, madam. Lady Harbuckle is expecting you,” the butler said flatly as he led Hadley into the parlor and took her calling card on a small, silver serving tray before disappearing down the hall.

Standing in the parlor, she scoped out the objects in the room, hoping to discern something more about her potential patrons. She had not been in many manor houses herself, but their customers had to be wealthy enough to afford a prosthesis that was not only aesthetically pleasing but functional. What Hadley saw in the Harbuckle’s parlor was merely simulated wealth. The room was littered with so many pieces of furniture, trinkets, and swathes of draped fabric that it was hard to move around without bumping into or catching an elbow on something. Wealthy people don’t need to display all they own in one room, she thought between silent rehearsals of her speech on prosthetic lower limbs as she stood before the hearth. The clicking of heels marching down the hall awoke Hadley from her musings. Lady Harbuckle was only a few years older than Miss Fenice, yet she had prematurely aged into a matronly crone by being married off to a much older man. Her face was bloated and swollen, especially compared to her pinched, corseted waist that ballooned into a broad, bustled bottom.

“From your letter, I wasn’t expecting you until at least next week,” Lady Harbuckle greeted sourly as she scrutinized Hadley, running over her face but lingered on her torso as if she was a cow up for auction. “Please take a seat, Miss…?”

“Fenice.”

She offhandedly waved her thick wrist as the women sat across from each other. “Let us discuss the terms of your employment. What subjects do you intend to teach Billy and Juliet? They are six and nine respectively.”

“I beg your pardon, Lady Harbuckle, but I do believe there has been a misunderstanding. I’m not a governess,” Hadley respectfully interjected, shaking her head.

Lady Harbuckle squinted her bead-like eyes. “If you aren’t the governess, then what business do you have here?”

“I’m a representative of Fenice Brothers Prosthetics. Lord Harbuckle expressed an interest in having us create a new limb for him, and in the last letter he sent us,” she explained as she fished through her carpet bag for the letter, “he agreed on this date for a consultation.”

“But you are not a brother.”

“I’m well aware of my sex, Lady Harbuckle, but I’m a Fenice all the same. Is Lord Harbuckle at home or shall I come back at another time?”

The lady of the house pursed her lips until they nearly disappeared before snapping her fingers for the butler. “Jacobs, fetch Lord Harbuckle.”

After several minutes of incredibly uncomfortable silence, a heavy-set man efficiently hobbled in using a thick, wooden cane that matched his peg leg. Hadley sprung to her feet and greeted Lord Harbuckle with a curtsey, but no introduction was made. He eyed her suspiciously before sitting near his wife, a safe distance from the woman with the tenacious blue eyes.

***

The front door flew open, sending a rush of cold air across Adam’s desk. His papers fluttered and the latest order for porcelain dolls nearly floated into the fireplace. He looked up just in time to see a red and blue blur stomp past his office door and toss a carpet bag onto the bench in the hall. With a slam, she locked herself into the workshop. Adam flinched, not only at the sound but at the thought of how angry his sister must have been to be able to make it to the workshop without ranting about what happened. From his experience, silence was the scariest sound. He waited near the door until he heard her moving around on the other side. As he inched open the door, he watched as two cowboy automatons walked ten miniature paces before spinning around and shooting at each other. The moment the gunslingers snapped back into position, Hadley pushed the button again, sending the cowboys into a slightly different routine where the damsel they were dueling over shoots one of the men. This diorama of a town from the American West, complete with cowboys and chorus girls, was a prototype of the automatons she created and sold to wealthy patrons for their children or merely for a source of party entertainment. Hadley’s eyes stayed fixed on the toy guns that never fired but still knocked over the opponent as she replayed the staged scene over and over.

“Something wrong, Had?” Adam asked, ready to dodge in case a tool came flying at his head.

“We didn’t get the sale,” she grumbled into her palms as she rested her chin on her hands, “and I’m pretty sure the Harbuckles are going right to our competitors.”

He shrugged, he didn’t like the Harbuckles anyway. “There will be new customers. Your automatons and toys are bringing in enough money that you can wait for prosthesis orders. I received three big orders from different toy stores, and if we get them filled, we will easily have enough money to live off even if we don’t get any new orders for three months.”

She finally took her eyes off the automatons and let them rest on the handsome dandy in the doorway. “I’m so tired of making toys for spoiled, rich brats. Young ones and old ones. I like making prosthetic limbs. I like making something that actually improves someone’s life. These toys are beautiful, but they don’t help anyone. You can say they bring a smile to a child’s face, but for how long? A leg or arm will improve their lives forever, but a toy is only meaningful until they get another one.”

“So what drove them away? I guess it wasn’t the price if they are going to our competitors.”

Hadley sighed, tinkering with the damsel’s dress and hair before she continued. “The whole consultation started out on the wrong foot. Lady Harbuckle thought I was the governess she was interviewing, and God help that governess because I wasn’t even offered a cup of tea or a morsel of food after traveling over two hours for nothing.” She waved her hand dismissively. “Anyway, I think they I assumed I was the wife of the craftsman, so when I said I needed to take measurements and possibly make a plaster cast, they both got this horror-stricken look. Then, he asked if I could send the craftsman to do it instead. Of course, I had to tell them that I was the craftsman. Well that was the straw that broke the camel’s back. After that, I was told that they would be calling on Lester McDonald to make the prosthesis. Then, they promptly turned me out of doors and sent me on my merry way. Now those rude people are going to tell all their rich friends not to buy prostheses from us. We have probably lost the entire Zulu War market!”

Adam chuckled despite the dirty look from his sister, his pencil mustache wiggling in time. “They may have money, but they have no sway over the upper class. Most of our clients would not even invite those horrid people to a party. If they had any class, they would have let you finish the consultation without the casting or made their servants do it for you, and if they still felt it improper, you would have received a letter cancelling the project. They wouldn’t have made such an awful fuss like that. You know, you could have had me come with you.”

“You can’t even make a cast, and you would have complained all day about having plaster under your nails.”

He stared down at his pristine fingers before glancing at his sister’s chapped and cracked cuticles. “Why not bring on a male apprentice?”

“I don’t think many fathers want their sons training under a woman.”

“The poor are not exactly picky.”

“I can’t take advantage like that. I will think about finding a helper though, at least for these situations.” She pushed back her stool and elbowed past her twin. “Give me a moment to change my clothes, and I will start working on the new orders.”

Adam gently squeezed his sister’s shoulder as she left the room and mounted the steps to her bedroom. She slipped out of the outfit she had so painstakingly selected to ensure society saw her as she saw herself: moral, chic, and professional. Somehow in her dust-stained trousers she felt more like herself. Without any skirts to encumber her, she trotted down to the office to grab the invoices before locking herself back in the workshop. She stared down at the order slips. Most were automata for children ordered by their titled parents from all over England and even an order from a rich American, but mixed in were toy store orders for fairly simple, porcelain ball-jointed dolls. Despite the intricate artistry of the automata and the sum they fetched, she much preferred the simple toys that nearly every family could afford.

As she readied the kiln and quietly filled the molds, she wondered why she was allowed to design toys but not prostheses. The toy company was her own brand, Hadley’s Hobbies and Novelties, but no one seemed to care that a woman painted and dressed dolls. She loaded the first round of casts into the kiln before drifting into thought. She wasn’t even allowed to act as if it was her own company. At deals with stores or in arranging large orders, Adam had to pretend it was his to get them to even consider working with her. It all belonged to her, yet it was never truly hers. With a sigh, Hadley finally became resigned to the idea that one day she would be passed from her brother’s care to a husband who may not be as liberal, never letting her have a chance at true independence. It would all be his then. Anything she had would be stripped from her: her property, her name, her identity. It would all be his.

No wonder I can make toys, I’m just a child to them. I’m a pretty child who whiles away the hours sewing and painting, and who knows children better than those whose sole purpose is to make children and raise them. The thought of dashing all the molds to the floor came into her mind but instantly disappeared as she thought of George. He had taught her how to make molds and sculpt as well as craft the complex mechanisms that made her toys so desirable. She couldn’t bring herself to destroy something they had worked so hard on over something she knew she could not change.

As she dipped her muddy hands into the wash basin, she suddenly snapped out of her daze. Staring back at her from the water was a younger George. There were his dark blue eyes and freckled cheeks. She scrutinized the face and realized it was merely her own, covered in powder from the molds. With her hair pulled back and dulled by dust, her features appeared less delicate, and when she tightened her jaw, it looked square like George’s did when he was healthy. Abandoning the basin, she rushed to the sheet of glass that lay amongst her supplies. Standing over it, she locked eyes with the figure staring back at her with serious brows.

We can do this, he seemed to say as Hadley ran her eyes over his face and clothes. Looking around her work room at the needles, fabric, and boning laying on the table that used to be his workstation, she realized she had all she needed to build what society wanted.

Chapter Seven:

An Awkward Family Reunion

The cherry-red steamer popped and chugged its way down the cobblestone street, startling the horses stationed at the edge of the park and nearly clipping passersby as it went. With a final death-rattle, the carriage stopped before a red and white bricked home across from Grosvenor Square. Patrick Sinclair hopped out of the driver’s seat and began to pull his master’s trunk from the back seat when the front door opened and Millicent Sorrell burst forth as quickly as her skirts and mutton sleeves would allow.

“Oh, my boy, I am so happy to see—” Eilian’s mother stood before the steamer with open arms, looking back and forth for her eldest son. “Sinclair, where is Eilian?”

Patrick craned his neck down the street. “Here he is now, Lady Dorset. He was taking a ride through the park.”

“Taking a ride?”

Rounding the corner of the Grosvenor Square lawn was the future Earl of Dorset on a bicycle. His open tweed Norfolk jacket fluttered as he leisurely rode down the pavement toward the house. As he spotted his mother’s rapidly widening green eyes, he rang the trilling brass bell on the handlebars and smiled at her maternal apprehension. Eilian had been happy to find that no one in the park seemed to notice that the right sleeve of his jacket had been pinned beneath his armpit, never reaching the handle, yet the moment he was within eye-shot, his mother’s eyes locked onto his tweed stump. He smoothly dismounted, resting his bicycle against the steamer before wrapping his arm around her.

“Mother, you look beautiful as always,” he said with a wide grin.

He stared down into his mother’s face, which mirrored his own but with slightly upturned features. Since he had seen her several months before, it seemed to him that she had a few more creases around her eyes and white strands in her once brown hair. Unlike his mother and brother who were both petite and delicate, he shared his father’s burly physique and grey eyes. His love of the outdoors and lands outside of England on the other hand were still a mystery to his family.

“You are too kind, but you are the one who looks so well again.” She stepped back to take him in, nimbly avoiding his deformity as her eyes ran discriminately from his wool cap down to his Wellington boots. “But, dear, what are you wearing? Do young people go hunting on bicycles now? Leave the bicycle to Sinclair and come inside before someone sees you.”

As she guided him through the door and into the foyer, he recognized the same floral tapestries and classical paintings that had hung on the walls since his childhood. Despite his love for the city, the house was a constant reminder of seasons filled with perpetual balls and parties. Every piece of furniture recalled hours spent hiding from the young ladies his mother would force him to dance with in hopes of tying the two families together. At the same time, his fondest memories were of food plentifully piled high and sitting in the drawing room talking with gentlemen who had journeyed to the far corners of the earth. As an adolescent, he gluttonously devoured their tales of savages, exotic creatures, and ancient wonders. Did his father realize that his after-dinner discussions were what inspired him to abandon his duties to the earldom and travel as a common man?

“Once you get settled in your old room, dear, you should change for dinner. It will be served at six.” Lady Dorset began to walk down the hall when she turned. “Oh, Eilian dear, can you wear your prosthetic arm? Your father and I would like to see it.”

Eilian smiled stiffly. “Of course. Mother, will Dylan be at dinner as well?”

“Yes, and Constance. Dylan was so pleased to hear that you were coming home. I didn’t realize he had not seen you since before your accident.”

As he mounted the steps, following the carpet runner to his old room, a grin crept across his face. It had been years since his brother had actually looked forward to seeing him. Maybe he realized what it would be like if I was gone. While outsiders regarded their relationship as sibling rivalry, Eilian knew there was no reason for animosity when they both knew who the winner was. It wasn’t Dylan’s fault that their father loved him best and wished he had been the first born. Eilian had chosen to stray from the path of peerage and had lost what little paternal favor he had to begin with while Dylan remained dutifully obedient. He tried very hard not to resent his younger brother, but when he began to receive criticism from both men, he decided being thousands of miles away and happy was far better than being home and miserable. In his room, which had been converted into a guest room after his move to Greenwich, was Patrick already neatly folding and hanging his clothing.

“Tails tonight, Lord Sorrell?” Patrick asked without taking his eyes off his task.

“I guess my family will expect us all to dress for dinner. I hope that jacket still fits, I haven’t wore it in months.”

“Will you be wearing your arm tonight, sir?”

He sighed softly. “I wasn’t planning to until tomorrow’s soiree, but my mother requested that I wear it. It’s such a bother. I’m always afraid of knocking things off the table if it should swing wildly.”

“Sir, maybe you could think of it as practicing for the party.”

“Quite right. Well, let’s get this over with, Pat.”

***

By the time dinner was ready, Patrick had transformed Eilian into a proper English dinner guest, at least visually. The moment he entered the dining room, all eyes fell upon him as he apologized for his tardiness and scooted into his seat, far from the dark-haired patriarch at the head of the table. Staring at him from across the centerpiece were Dylan and his young wife, Constance. To Eilian, the couple could have been twins separated at birth. Both had fair complexions, petite frames, and a nature fixated on the proper way of doing things. The pair had been married for over a year and a half. As the youngest daughter of five belonging to a well-to-do baron, Constance Sorrell had been cared for by the most pretentious governesses, educated at the finest finishing school, danced at the most exclusive balls, and still couldn’t carry a conversation of substance, but lucky for her, conversations of substance were never meant to be spoken at the dinner table.

Constance and his mother prattled on about the finery needed for the next day’s events as the food was efficiently doled out by the servants. Eilian raised his gaze to admire the vase of fruit and flowers at the center of the table, but when he met his father’s dark eyes, both men stared down at their plates. When the entrees came and it was time for them to portion out their own food, Millicent Sorrell’s eyes locked onto her eldest son.

“Dear, what are we going to do with you during dinner tomorrow?” she questioned with a sigh and a shake of her head as he struggled to stab a piece of meat with any semblance of grace.

“What do you mean?”

Dylan piped up, “She means that you cannot eat like those savages you are always working with.”

She flashed her youngest son a warning glare before continuing delicately, “What I mean is, we need to find a way to work around your condition to keep the guests from feeling uncomfortable. We can’t serve the party à la russe, there are not enough people, and we can’t have the servants portion out food like a hotel. The guests will think we don’t have enough food for them to have seconds, and we don’t want that. Service à la française is simply the only choice. Maybe Sinclair can make you a plate and cut your meat ahead of time.”

Despite the nagging feeling that he should have turned down this invitation, he replied as gently and as confidently as possible, “Mother, I can manage for myself. I can serve myself, but for the sake of you and your guests’ sensibilities, I will allow one of the servants to take my plate and cut my meat after everything has been offered. I wouldn’t want to embarrass you in front of your company.”

Before his mother could acquiesce, his father’s thundering voice rolled down the table, “If you hadn’t been off gallivanting all over the empire, you wouldn’t need someone to cut your food for you.”

“Father, it could have happened to anyone. People take airship rides to see the English countryside. It— it was a freak accident,” he responded meekly as he stabbed at his food with no intention of eating it now that his stomach was in knots.

“Luckily, Eilian’s travelling days are over, Father. Now, he can devote his time to proper pursuits, like tending to the tenants on our land.”

“Good point, Dylan. Maybe this is a blessing in disguise for you, Son. Now, you can get your head on straight and do what you were born to do.”

Eilian’s jaw clenched and his teeth ground against each other. His ribcage tightened against his lungs as he suppressed the urge to bolt from the room. Staring at his father’s bearded, bisontine head as he loomed over his plate like a barbarian chieftain in a dinner jacket, he blurted out, “I’m going to the Negev Desert in autumn with Sir Joshua, and you can’t stop me.”

Harland Sorrell’s iron eyes bulged. “I forbid it!”

“You cannot forbid me to do anything. It is already settled.”

“I will disin—”

“Harland! Eilian! I will not have discord in my house the day before our party!” his mother seethed. “We will discuss this at an appropriate time!”

Eilian knew the appropriate time would never come, but he didn’t want to hear what his father had to say. He already knew. Forget archaeology, forget who you are, be who I want you to be. It had been the same for twenty years. With the tip of his fork, he pushed the pieces of beef around his plate as the table lapsed into the clanking of silverware against china. As if nothing had occurred, Constance Sorrell gingerly placed her fork down, which hadn’t left her hand or mouth during the entire squabble, daintily wiped her mouth, and turned toward the head of the table with a bat of her filigree lashes.

“Lady Dorset, who is coming to the party tomorrow? I had planned to ask when we first arrived, but you seemed so dreadfully busy with the menu this morning.”

“It will be a small affair, not a party by any standard, just an intimate dinner. I invited the Earl of Bedford and his wife as well as their two daughters. I also invited the Viscount of Lisle, but he is dreadfully ill. His daughter, Lady Virtiline, will be coming with her brother Cecil instead.”

“Have I met the Earl of Bedford?” Constance asked Dylan in her nasally little voice.

“No, I don’t believe so. His daughter Maxine favored Eilian when we attended the same balls. She would always place herself near him, hoping he would ask her to dance, but he always ignored her. I think it only made her like him more.”

“Eilian, I’m having you accompany her into the dining room tomorrow. You two should have a lot to talk to about. She recently returned from India. I believe, her uncle has some diplomatic post there. Do you remember Lady Virtiline, dear?”

He thought for a moment. He clearly remembered Maxine as having large, blue eyes and sericeous, chestnut hair, but he only remembered her because he made it a habit of ignoring her. “I don’t think so. Should I?”

She sighed. “I didn’t think you would. She was always hiding in the library at parties. Her mother would have to pry the books from her fingers and drag her back out to socialize. Oh, what a scene she could have caused, to be found in the library alone or if a young gentleman had been in there. Her mother was lucky that girl did not cause a scandal. I was only planning on inviting Cecil, as I thought he would be a good match for Lord Bedford’s youngest daughter, but when the viscount wrote back, he said Virtiline and Cecil would be coming. I thought it was quite impertinent for him to include her when she was not on the invitation. Maybe he thought she would be a good match for you, dear. Maybe she is. You both are quite bookish.”

“Mother, while I appreciate that you would like to see me settled and have a family to pass the earldom down to, I would prefer it if I was allowed to find a wife on my own without having to put on airs just to impress her.”

“If Mother let you find someone on your own, you would probably bring home a maharaja’s daughter like Sir Joshua’s father.”

“At this point, I wouldn’t care whom he brought home as long as he stayed home,” his father retorted as they retired to the drawing room.

Eilian positioned himself near the fire, letting his mind drift in its mesmeric light. An all too familiar pain burned as it travelled down his arm, growing exponentially warmer as he attempted to focus on Constance’s detailed account of her and Dylan’s trip to Bath. The pain swelled and bloomed in his elbow before rising up again like bolts of lightning. Every time I wear this arm, my nerves act up, he thought as she chattered on about the unsightly Roman ruins that should have been torn down to make room for more teashops and millineries. He stared at his feet, swallowing down the pain as beads of perspiration dampened his forehead and back. Grabbing his amputated arm, he squeezed the muscle, but the pain refused to relinquish its hold.

“Dylan, have you told your brother how well he looks?” Millicent Sorrell asked as one of the plain-faced servants handed her a teacup and saucer.

He turned to Eilian blankly, but his light eyes widened upon seeing his brother nearly doubled over. “You— Are you all right?”

Upon seeing her son’s clenched features and bowed head, his mother rushed over to his side, but he raised his hand to stop her from touching him. “Dear, what is the matter? Should we call Dr. Hawthorne?”

He shook his head and slowly straightened to his full height with a sharp intake of breath. “It’s a side effect of the amputation. My nerves act up, especially when I wear this thing.” He gestured to the prosthetic arm. “It will pass, but, Mother, must I wear it tomorrow? I would be so much more comfortable without it.”

“I know you don’t like it, but I still insist that you wear it. It’s so life-like and you spent so much on it that it would be a shame not to wear it, and I fear without it, our guests may be troubled by… your condition. I didn’t even notice you had it on during dinner. It made you look like your old self.” She smiled warmly and lightly patted his shoulder. “Maybe you should turn in early tonight, dear. Rest is always good for nerves.”

Eilian stared into his mother’s soft features before turning to the others, but none of them could see the hurt permeating every fiber of his body. To them, they were simply doing what was best for everyone whether it harmed him or not. Under his breath, he bid them good night and hurried off to his room where he would finally be left alone.

***

Patrick discreetly slipped from the servants’ hall and traced his way through the familiar hallways until he reached Eilian’s room. The footman who had served the Sorrells tea and after-dinner refreshments had told him that his master had gone to bed. Because the bell in his room was never pulled, he had no idea his boss had ever left the drawing room. Eilian Sorrell was rather self-sufficient, but usually at night, he at least had him hang up his clothing. He lightly knocked before opening the door in case he was asleep. His jacket, vest, and shirt were slung over the chair in the corner, but Eilian was sitting on his bed, staring out the window with his prosthesis half-dangling from what remained of his arm.

“Sir, do you need any help getting dressed for bed? You didn’t ring for me.” As he watched his master’s body stiffly twitch and then relax, he knew something was amiss. “Sir, are you all right?”

He turned to his butler with smoke and ember eyes as he wiped the heel of his hand across his cheek. “My mother thinks I’m repulsive now. She acts like my arm is some sort of sideshow spectacle.”

“I’m sure she didn’t mean it that way.”

“She said her guests would be disturbed if I dared to not wear this stupid arm. Does she think I want to be this way? That I like it?”

“I think, like all mothers, she only wants to protect you.” Patrick gathered up the clothing strewn around the room, giving Eilian a chance to pull himself together. “She doesn’t want others to speak ill of you, and she probably believes your prosthesis will provide enough normalcy to keep them quiet. I’m sure it’s hard for her to see you hurt and know there’s nothing she can do to fix it.”

“So making me miserable and trying to find me a wife is her way of fixing me?”

The butler loosened the upper strap that still encumbered his friend’s arm and soundlessly placed the prosthesis on the dresser. “As misguided as her attempts are, your mother only wants you to be happy. Shall I put your dressings on before you go to bed?”

With a sniff and a sigh, the young man nodded and raised the stump to allow the butler to carry out their nightly ritual. Across his shoulder and on the gnarled flesh of his arm were sore, chafed stripes from the tight straps of the artificial arm. As Patrick applied the petroleum jelly to the old burns, he could make out the glaringly fresh scars normalcy was leaving on his master.

Chapter Eight:

Unfinished Projects

The wooden stool squeaked as Hadley strained to reach the last volume on the top shelf of George’s workshop bookcase. Thus far most of the books had been old ledgers dating back to when their father had run the business. She had decided to go through all of them to make sure that while George was sick and after he passed, all the prostheses had been completed and paid for. Hadley returned to Adam’s desk and flipped to the last written page. Eilian Sorrell, the Viscount Sorrell, prosthetic right forearm was the first and only entry in the ledger. Her heart sank knowing he hadn’t lived long enough to see the project to completion, but she resolutely crossed out the name as the bill had been paid months ago. As she picked the book up to return it back to the shelf, the tome leapt from her hands, landing splayed on the floor and sending scraps of parchment down the hall. Thinking they were receipts, she quickly scooped them into a pile without even a glance until she reached the last one. An arm that terminated at the elbow but was mechanized was drawn in her brother’s familiar hand.

As she studied the schematic more closely, her quiet nostalgia turned to keen interest. Hadley’s mind raced as she rapidly laid all the slips of paper on Adam’s desk, trying to see the connections between her brother’s scattered ideas. He had made calculations, notes on anatomy, results from his experiments with various metals, and a list of problems he had not yet worked out. It was something she had always thought was out of reach, something they would never be able to create, but there it was in nearly full fruition with only a few dots left to connect. Why did he not tell me about this? As she reached the last unread scrap, she realized he had hit a dead-end. His handwriting shifted from strong to spidery and light with droplets of ink blotted throughout. It was clear to her that he had given up on the project when his consumption had worsened. A pang of grief bloomed in her chest as she understood that he may have known he would never complete the project, which was why he abandoned it without mentioning it to anyone. With one last look at the list of obstacles, she gathered up the bits of paper, stuffed them into her carpet bag, and ran out to the street to hail a steamer. She knew exactly who could help her.

“To Wimpole Street, please!” she called as she climbed aboard before the driver could help her up. The moment the steamer reached the top of the cobblestone street, she paid the driver and darted out onto the pavement. Wimpole Street was busy as usual, crawling with patients visiting physicians’ offices and doctors as they made their way back to their practices after having lunch at clubs or restaurants. Hadley hopped into the street to avoid being detained by a particularly feeble old woman being led by her daughter. It still amazed her how quickly the adoption of the steamer in place of horses helped to sanitize London’s streets. From a distance, she recognized number thirty-six with its Doric columns and severe black door. At the porch, her brisk progress came to a halt as she reached for the doorknocker but recoiled upon grasping a brass mandible. The grim little skull grinned back at her as she firmly gripped him by the teeth and banged on the door with his gonial angles. Eliza Hawthorne hesitantly opened the door, peering around the side to see if it was another lost patient, but was pleasantly surprised to see her younger cousin standing at her door.

“Your new doorknocker is quite ghastly, Cousin Eliza.”

“I know. I was growing tired of having to explain to people that they were at the wrong house. Now, the skull gives them pause, and they check the house number again before going next door. James may be a doctor, but his patients do not come to the door anymore.”

“Well, he’s a perfect addition to your house then, quite fitting for the Coroner to the Queen,” she replied with a smile as she followed Eliza into the conservatory and settled in at the iron table.

“Don’t even mention that woman,” Eliza groaned as she stepped into the kitchen to fetch the whining tea kettle from the stove. “We had to cancel our holiday in Egypt because of her. My poor husband can’t take a holiday, and I can’t even use the medical license I earned. You would think she would use her position to help the rest of us women, but she’s just like the rest of them.” With a deflating sigh, she smoothed back her dark orange hair and cleared her throat. “What a horrible host I’m being. I really must have more people over. I’m becoming terribly out of practice. So what brings you by for a visit? Adam told me you were swamped with toy orders.”

“I was. I only finished the last one yesterday, but I came because I found this.”

Hadley meticulously laid out the scraps of paper into a semi-cohesive train of thought before revealing George’s drawing. She watched Eliza’s light green eyes run over each line, her focus sharpening with every revelation of his design. Suddenly, she covered her mouth, stifling a gasp. It was the reaction Hadley had been waiting for.

“George did it,” she cried. “I can’t believe he figured it out.”

Hadley reached for the list of problems. “So it all makes sense to you then?”

“Yes, an electric arm with this design is looking increasingly plausible. Porcelain would greatly reduce friction in the joint, and it doesn’t react poorly with the body like some materials do. I don’t know much about titanium though.”

“I think George picked it for the forearm because, according to his notes,” she picked up the scribbles on his experiments and continued, “it doesn’t corrode when in contact with body fluids and it’s incredibly strong yet very light. His drawing shows the titanium tube as hollow to allow wires to run through it to the hand’s mechanisms and to keep it extra light. What do you think about using gold wires conducting nerve impulses?”

Eliza Hawthorne thought for a moment. “I think it’s a wise choice. It has the best ability to conduct electricity while still not being rejected by the body like copper or silver would. You would need a lot of tiny wires and pins in the radial nerve to gather enough electricity to flip the switch that closes the hand. Explain the circuit to me. As you know, you’re the one who deals with mechanisms. I can only really help with the biological aspects.”

“The circuit is powered by a battery that would be placed on the side of the prosthesis.” Hadley traced the loop of electricity with the tip of her finger. “The wires would be copper and would travel from the switch where the gold wires from the nerves would control the fingers closing. The copper wires would then continue to the motor, which powers the closing mechanism. All of the copper portion would be contained within the titanium bone to prevent it from reacting with the body fluids. The gold conduits would be threaded into the porcelain through small channels and into the tube.”

The older woman laughed softly between sips of tea. “This is brilliant, Hadley, absolutely brilliant. You need to do this. You could show everyone we can make great strides that need to be taken seriously. Adam told me what happened at the Harbuckles’ house, and that would never happen again if you could prove yourself with something like this.”

A smile spread across Hadley’s flushing lips. Oh, how wonderful it would be to be taken seriously without question. “There are a few problems though. This is just a prosthetic forearm. I don’t know how to make it stable. His drawings and notes indicate that he wanted to utilize the remaining muscles and tendons left in the upper arm to anchor the prosthesis and allow some muscle control, but he never figured out how to anchor them to the actual materials.”

“I will be right back. I have an idea.”

Eliza disappeared up the stairs to her husband’s study before returning with Gray’s Anatomy tucked under her arm. She thumbed through the book, stopping on the anatomy of the arm, before tracing the muscles from their origin to their insertion points. With a frown, she flipped to a picture of the leg musculature. A smile crossed her lips as she looked back at the arm diagram again. It could work.

“I think I have a solution for you. The ends of the muscles, in my opinion, cannot be bound to the materials being used to create the prosthesis, but if you were able to get the Achilles’ tendons from a fresh corpse, you could use them to create a capsule around the elbow joint and form an anchoring point for the muscles to attach to. Tendons don’t really need a strong blood supply to survive, so they would be the perfect material to use. Natural yet strong.”

“How am I supposed to get tendons from a corpse? I’m not a resurrectionist.”

She drew closer to her cousin’s ear and whispered, “Surely James could arrange a donor once you have a client. These things need to be fresh.”

“While it’s ingenious, it’s still quite a grisly thought. Waiting for a man to drop dead only to pick him over for scrap parts sounds so— so crooked.”

Eliza chuckled. “James is accustomed to searching through scraps, and it’s not like the dead man is going to need it. Hadley, I think the tendons will aid in supporting the prosthesis, but the muscles that remain in the upper arm may have atrophied over time from a lack of use. Do you have any idea as to how we could counteract this?”

“That was one of George’s concerns as well. The weight of the titanium bone could be an issue because we don’t want it to pull the tendons and muscles out, but if I built some sort of external brace around the joint, I could install springs and thick rubber bands to aid in supporting the arm. I think the brace would be beneficial since the prosthesis is designed to be able to carry the weight of an object, which may not be insubstantial.” She gingerly picked up the drawing again, smiling at her brother’s ghostly writing. As she read the tiny notations and pictured him explaining to her each detail and nuance of his design, she could hear his voice again. “I wish I had his talent, Eliza. George taught me everything, and I just wish I could be as good as he was.”

Eliza patted her cousin’s hand as she watched the corners of her blue eyes sink with melancholy. “You are, and one day you will be even better. You’re still young and have years of learning ahead of you. If I found this, it would have taken me hours if not days to decipher what all these calculations and cryptic little scribbles meant, yet you instantly knew what he intended to make. You know what they say, the student surpasses the master, and you had a very good master to learn from, my dear.”

The tainted London rain dripped down the glass of the conservatory, casting a green tint over the medicinal plants blossoming in their balmy terrariums, unaware of the sickening vapors and hazards that lay only a pane of glass away. Hadley looked around the house in the gloom. James Hawthorne’s cabinets of medical curiosities in the parlor suddenly resembled fodder for tawdry Whitechapel sideshows. The progression of skulls from conception to old age that lined the mantle reminded her of relics from the Italian catacombs she had heard so much about when Eliza had visited them years ago with her father. A house that was ordinarily so full of life had contracted the pallor of death the moment the city had grown cold. As a shudder swept through her, Eliza flipped on the gas-lamps, and the funereal trappings melted away.

“I have one problem,” Hadley began gravely. “To begin this project, I need someone who is willing to submit themselves to experimentation. I cannot have the titanium bone or elbow joint cast without knowing the client’s size. I have been rejected once recently for a normal prosthesis. How am I supposed to find someone willing to buy something so radical from me? I mean, they have to go through surgery. I don’t even know if I would be willing to do something like that, and I am the one who is making it.”

“I think I know someone who may be willing to be your test subject.”

“Really? They are missing their forearm?”

She nodded as she drew a pad of paper and a pencil from the sideboard and scribbled down a name and address. “He was one of your brother’s clients. He is in London and will probably call on us tomorrow or the next day. I will see if he is willing, and if he is, I will send him to you.”

Hadley Fenice stared down at the name in disbelief. Out of all the people her brother worked with, why was his name always the one to appear?

Chapter Nine:

The Dinner Party Debacle

Thus far, Eilian Sorrell had been pleasantly surprised by how his mother’s dinner party was turning out. The conversation at dinner had revolved around what parties and which balls each group would be attending, and it appeared as if his father and brother intended to be on their best behavior as no one had even mentioned Eilian except for his mother and Maxine. Since he had seen her last several years before, her features had grown finer, and she suddenly didn’t seem like the clingy girl who stalked him at every party. Her manners were impeccable, even better than Constance’s. Her voice was well manicured to sound level and thoughtful, and when paired with her beautifully coiffed hair and exotic, cat-like eyes, she was a sight that no man in the room could take his eyes off. When dinner was served, he gladly proffered his left arm to her as they walked into the dining room with the others, and he hadn’t noticed her staring at his prosthesis or scrutinizing him as Virtiline did from across the table.

As graceful and stylish as Maxine was, Virtiline was equally high-strung and frumpy. Her eyes were magnified by her thick spectacles to the point that she reminded him of a pop-eyed goldfish with frizzy blonde hair that seemed to grow bigger as the evening went on. From the moment she had entered his parents’ house, she had fluctuated between staring at his arm and completely averting her gaze as if he was the scene of some dreadful yet intoxicatingly curious steamer accident. Eilian had heard from his mother that she had been raised by a neurotic great-aunt because her father was often ill or away on business, and it showed in the way she fussed at every little thing. When the vegetables were brought around the table, she went on a tangent about her digestion, and when the other young ladies discussed the latest dance they were all eager to learn for the next big ball, she complained about how learning new things affected her nerves so adversely. Of all the young women he had met, he had never met one who acted so dreadfully old as Virtiline.

On the other hand, her brother Cecil was as highly polished as any young, eager aristocrat, and to his mother’s delight, he seemed to bond well with Maxine’s little sister Martha, who watched him out of the corner of her eye and beamed each time he spoke to her. Both were only a few seasons out and were eager to be paired-off or to at least have a suitor for the season. Halfway through dinner, Eilian confirmed that the Earl of Bedford and his wife were carbon-copies of his parents. He watched them discuss current events and politics, and of course, they were always of the same conservative opinion.

After the course-laden dinner was finished, Millicent Sorrell led the party into the parlor for some coffee and tea. As Eilian stood up, his prosthesis slipped down, chafing the raw skin on the inside of his arm. The previous night he had noticed that his scarred skin was being bruised and rubbed red by the leather bracings of the prosthesis and hoped it would dissipate by the time the party began, but when Patrick had tried to affix the arm that afternoon, the limb had swelled so much that he had to buckle the straps one hole looser than normal. Eilian tried to walk behind the others as if nothing was wrong, but with each stride, the arm swung rhythmically, smacking him in the chest. As the sounds of the piano playing and Constance’s shrill singing filled the hall, he sidestepped the doorway and attempted to tug up the belt, but the arm didn’t seem to become any more stable. If only Patrick was around, he thought, knowing his butler was probably below in the servants’ hall eating his dinner or upstairs tending to his clothes. Unfortunately, he would be missed if he slipped away. Using his other hand, he carefully tucked the prosthetic arm closer to his body and headed into the parlor, hoping no one would see that one arm was longer than the other. He quietly settled beside Maxine, who smiled at his approach and moved her skirts to allow him to sit near her.

“I heard you went to India recently. Did you enjoy your trip?” he asked politely with what he hoped was an amiable grin that would mask his anxiety.

“It was… interesting,” she replied slowly, looking down at her coffee. “I found it dreadfully hot and frightfully dull. My uncle was always busy, and none of the servants could speak a word of English. I sat inside trying not to burn my skin or catch anything from all the insects. Mother told me you love India, but honestly, I don’t know how you can.”

He searched her face, hoping for some hint of sarcasm or jest but found nothing. The glow that attracted him to her was rapidly waning. “You just need a proper guide. If you do not have anyone who knows the culture, then you will never get past the British part of India. Did you see the Taj Mahal or any of the temples?”

“No, but I really did not care to. After going to the market, I really did not see any point as I didn’t enjoy myself. The streets are entirely too crowded, and the whole time I was there I didn’t see a single steamer or airship. I would have much preferred to see the country from above than on the ground with all the dirty natives.”

Eilian cringed at that word. “It really isn’t that bad. Obviously, the people live much differently than we do, but we cannot discount their way of life.”

“It is our duty as Englishmen to lead these people to a better life,” the Earl of Bedford added with a nod to his daughter. “Our queen is their empress, and with her rule, they will move toward a more civilized way of life.”

His father chuckled. “Lord Bedford, you are wasting your time. There is no way to get through to him. He sympathizes with the savages no matter where he is. Did you tell them where you are running off to next?”

“The— the Negev Desert in— in Palestine,” he stammered, feeling his face flush as the men stared at him.

Maxine’s face suddenly brightened. “Do you have a diplomatic post there?”

Before he could open his mouth to speak, Harland Sorrell replied, “He is going there to dig in the dirt with Sir Joshua Peregrine to find some petty trinkets.”

“Father, I’m going there to dig for artifacts. Before the British Empire came in, they lived for thousands of years without outside interference. They made technological advancements long before our culture had even thought of them. While we were in the dark ages, they were flourishing.”

“Obviously, they didn’t run their civilization very well, or they would be the ones colonizing us and we would be wearing pajamas all day.”

The two older men laughed together as Eilian looked on in stricken horror. Somehow he never expected so much blatant racism in his mother’s house, yet at the same time, he wasn’t particularly surprised.

“Do you really think it is fair that we pillage their land for the things we need while giving them nothing in return? The colonies aren’t even allowed to have steamers or dirigibles of their own by the queen’s decree. How do we expect them to modernize and be like us if we don’t give them the tools needed to flourish? It’s obvious that the government doesn’t want them to reach our status. They only want them to be endless depositories England can take from whenever she needs to.”

“Who would want them to? The queen and parliament would have to be out of their minds to give them the means to possibly overthrow us. If they had airships or steamers, they could make them into weapons and rise up against the empire,” Lord Bedford replied matter-of-factly between sips of coffee.

“Some species are just more advanced than others, Son. As an advanced species, it is the duty of an Englishman to instruct the lesser peoples on how to effectively live respectable lives.”

“But, Father, who are we to judge them as lesser? Civilizations wax and wane. It’s a natural cycle, and one day the sun will set on the British Empire.”

“The sun never sets on the British Empire,” his father snapped.

With a start, Eilian realized all eyes were on him. He shifted under their gazes, causing the arm to swing slightly. “I just think people deserve to have their customs and way of life respected rather than having them forcibly Anglicized.”

“Oh, it sounds dreadful to go overseas,” Virtiline piped up, her hands trembling nervously, splashing little droplets of coffee onto the saucer. “You have to get accustomed to the new food, new air, different water, and all those new people breathing all around you. I don’t think my constitution could handle it.”

“Well, I don’t think my constitution can handle all this talk of politics and anti-British sentiment,” Maxine chided as she got up and stood beside Dylan at the piano where her sister and Constance still played blissfully unaware.

Eilian sighed softly. He had never meant for it to go this far, but he couldn’t help himself. On his travels, he had seen too much cruelty and unfounded prejudice. He loved the variety of people he met, learning about their cultures and religions, and seeing what their ancient ancestors could teach him through the artifacts he found beneath the earth. A grin crossed his face as he revisited the dig sites he loved and the tents he stayed in under the stars. Even the scorpion that had terrified him when it wandered into his cot now brought a smile to his face.

“Lord Sorrell,” Lord Bedford called, “you say the Empire offers nothing to its colonies, but does it not give them protection and prestige? Without the queen’s influence, they are nothing and are constantly feuding amongst their many rulers. Could they function without our intervention?”

“Before we came rolling into their lands with weapons and money, they were getting along just fine with their numerous rulers and occasional infighting. We bribed their rulers to be passive. Who do they need protection from except those who would seek to make them subjects of their empires? We aren’t protecting them, we are hoarding them for their resources and making sure they are never economically strong enough to rise against us and break away.”

“Why should we have them colonize us by giving them an equal share?”

“Don’t you see? They don’t want to colonize us. Imperialism is a very western concept. We always want more, but they never felt the need to take over all of Asia. Have you ever been to India or the East, Lord Bedford?”

“No, but I don’t need to travel to understand what is going on. I read the papers every day.”

“Do you read British papers exclusively?”

“Of course, what else is worth reading?” he chuckled, giving Lord Dorset a knowing look.

“If you read the papers from India, you would get a different perspective on how it’s to be a colonial subject. You can pick them up in the foreign districts all over the city. To believe only what you read from politicians is lunacy. ”

“What you call lunacy, I call loyalty to the crown.”

As Eilian opened his mouth to speak, he saw his mother’s eyes travel from Lady Bedford to his face, giving him the signal to stand down and drop the argument, but his father’s laughter and the mischievous glint in his eye gave him the impression of a setup. He had meant to humiliate him in front of everyone

“I think I shall go to bed. I suddenly do not feel myself.”

Without waiting for a reply, he stood and marched toward the door, making certain not to make eye contact with his father. He couldn’t bear to be pulled back into the unwinnable argument again. His mind ran through the statements he had made but found nothing that would make Maxine disapprove of him and cause him to be deemed disloyal. As Eilian stepped toward the threshold, the leather strap on his arm unfurled. With a crash, the prosthesis hit the floor, skidding toward the middle of the room. A shriek erupted from Virtiline’s lips as she fell backwards onto the couch, spilling coffee down her dress and onto the cream upholstery. He froze as twenty eyes locked on him in disapproval and shock. Mutely snatching the porcelain arm off the rug, Eilian backed out the room with his right sleeve of his dinner jacket swinging with each harried step.

Chapter Ten:

To Quote Miss Austen

Eilian slowed his bicycle as he passed the glossy, black door of thirty-six Wimpole Street, wobbling slightly as he peddled backwards. He sat back for a minute merely staring at the house before he finally rested his velocipede against the rail and trotted up the stone steps. A perfect touch, he mused as a smile crept across his cheeks. Enthusiastically banging the jaw of the doorknocker, he watched through the gap in the heavily curtained windows as Eliza Hawthorne appeared at the end of the hall. At first, the doctor looked put-out at having to answer the door, but upon registering who was there, her face brightened.

“Eilian, what a pleasant surprise. Please, come in.” She glanced over his shoulder. “Do bring your bicycle inside, or one of Mrs. Mercer’s dreadful children will ride off with it. Those little urchins commandeered a vacant steamer last week. Oh, where are my manners? Let me help you.”

“I can get it myself,” he reassured as he easily hefted it with his left arm, using what remained of his right to support the bicycle’s frame as he half dragged it up to the door.

He carefully carried it into the foyer and rested it against the steps but made certain the dirty wheels and greased gears did not touch the floral wall paper. As he followed Mrs. Hawthorne into the parlor, he inhaled the musty perfume of the cabinets of curiosities, noting their astringent undertone. It came not only from the preserved specimens but from the vapors rising through the floorboards from James’s laboratory. While the Hawthornes’ collection was much more macabre than his, he used their parlor as a model for his study. Eilian loved how every time he came to call on them, he was greeted by some new object that caught his eye within the shelves or curio cabinets. This time it was a tall jar that contained a human brain and spinal cord bobbing within its formaldehyde bath. There were little nodules of flesh protruding from the nervous tissue, and even though Eilian noticed the abnormality, he knew there was little hope he would ever understand the explanation of the disease if he asked for one. Eliza smiled to herself as she watched her friend’s eyes scan the shelves as he did each time he stopped by. What the adventurer didn’t know was when she knew he was in town, she made sure to have something new out in the open for him to discover.

“Are you here to visit James or both of us, Eilian?” she called as she stepped into the kitchen to check if the tea kettle she had put on the stove earlier for herself was ready. “He should be up fairly soon. He has been in the cellar all morning conducting an experiment.”

“I came to visit both of you.” He grinned warmly as he finally took his seat near the hearth. “I couldn’t come to town without calling on my friends. I would like to apologize for the rather short notice, Eliza.”

“I don’t mind at all. I would have been surprised if you had not stopped by while you were in town. I hope I didn’t look too bothered when I answered the door, but your knock was the tenth today. Our neighbor had new cards printed, and the house number says thirty-six instead of thirty-eight Wimpole Street. This little mistake would not be so bad except he has a rather large practice and is too thrifty to get them reprinted. Now, I’m forced to redirect all his patients.”

“That explains your delightful new doorknocker.”

“Yes, it gives them pause, and usually, they check the plaque on the house and go next door.” Eliza loaded the tray with little cakes and snacks as the kettle finally let out a screeching whistle. “I was at the tea house the other day and overheard Mrs. Sorrell talking about how Lady Dorset was hosting a dinner party. Did you enjoy yourself?”

She continued gathering cups and spoons until she realized he never answered. Eliza repeated her question slightly louder but was once again met with only silence. Poking her head out of the kitchen, she noticed how Eilian’s distrait, grey eyes stared at the cloaked window while his mouth was drawn bitterly straight. It was unlike him to be so somber. As she came in with the tea, she intentionally allowed the empty cups to clink together on the tray. Lord Sorrell snapped to attention and smiled at her as if nothing was amiss.

“How was the party?”

The corner of his mouth stiffly curled. “Fine. The food was good.”

“Who was there?” Eliza asked as she poured her guest some Earl Grey.

“My parents, Dylan and Constance, the Earl of Bedford along with his wife and two daughters, and the Lord Lisle’s daughter and son.”

“Which daughter was Lady Dorset trying to marry you off to?”

Eilian stopped gnawing at the cake and shook his head. “You know my mother too well. The earl’s eldest daughter Maxine was her prime choice.”

“Well, you know ‘it is a truth universally acknowledged, that a single man in possession of a good fortune, must be in want of a wife,’” she quoted between measured sips of tea.

“I would hate to disappoint Miss Austen and my mother, but I’m not in want of a wife. What I’m in want of is a ticket out of England.”

An inaudible sigh seeped from the adventurer’s lungs, sagging his sturdy chest and shoulders. With downcast eyes, he swirled what little liquid remained in his teacup and stared at it, hoping the solution would materialize in the soggy tea leaves. He chewed on his lip. Eliza was someone he could trust with his life, but what happened was embarrassing in so many ways. Eilian looked down as her thin hand curled around his, squeezing it reassuringly. His face was uncharacteristically strained as he met her green-eyed gaze, which finally worked the words free from his mouth.

“It went horribly. The whole visit was a disaster. Maxine and I were getting on quite well until our fathers decided to bring up the politics of the colonies. Of course I tried to stand up for the native populations, but they twisted it to make me look like some sort of traitor to the crown. I’m glad to have seen her for the vain woman she really is, but it only got worse. To completely solidify her disgust, my own body turned against me at the most inopportune time. My prosthesis fell off as I left the argument. I didn’t think I could look any worse until I was reduced to not only an apostate but a leprous pariah. Upon seeing my dismembered arm, the viscount’s daughter fainted, which then caused a new uproar. All I could do was grab my prosthesis and run upstairs with my tail between my legs.”

“Oh, Eilian, I’m so sorry.”

“When did I become this, Eliza? It’s as if all they notice is that I’m missing an arm. Is that such an unforgivable flaw?” he searched, his voice loosened with emotion.

He gave little resistance when she pulled the teacup from his grip and placed it on the side table before clasping his hand between hers again. “Do you not realize how lucky you are to even be attending a party? You have cheated death and recovered better and faster than any of us could have anticipated. If they can’t appreciate you without your arm, then they serve no purpose in your life.”

“I know.” Eilian sniffed, pulling himself together. “I will be able to escape them in a few months. Sir Joshua has invited me to go to an excavation with him in the Negev Desert.”

“That is wonderful. The fresh air and freedom will do you good. If you have something fun to look forward to, why are you still so troubled?”

“Deep down, I just worry they are right. What if I go to Palestine and am completely useless? I don’t want to be a nuisance. I want to be as useful as I was before.”

Eliza Hawthorne lightly tapped her spoon against her saucer as she toyed with whether or not to mention Hadley’s project and how much to mention about the craftswoman. How could she get to the heart of the matter without giving her cousin away? The earl-to-be was open-minded, but from her own experience, she knew that a woman’s open-mindedness often exceeded that of her male counterparts.

“The other day, my craftsman friend, the one you bought your prosthetic arm from, stopped by. While sitting in the very chair you are in, he told me about this revolutionary prosthesis he only recently developed. I think it could solve some of your problems,” she began slowly, carefully monitoring how much she said.

He sighed. “I’m not sure. My old prosthesis is what got me into this mess.”

“This one is very different. It’s not a cosmetic prosthesis but a functional one. It will be custom made for you and secured to your body, so you won’t have to worry about it suddenly popping off like the old one. The best thing about it is, it uses electricity to open and close the hand as if it’s still part of your body. You will probably be able to pick things up and even carry them if they are light enough. It may even appease your family since it actually resembles a normal hand.”

Before Eilian could reply, the cellar door whined opened, and even without seeing him, it was clear James Hawthorne had finally surfaced from his lab. Preceding his willowy form was the pungent odor of Thames water and putrefied flesh. The doctor was only in his shirtsleeves, but it was covered by an apron that was spattered with fishy, black gunk with the consistency of congealed blood. He pulled off his gloves and washed his hands at the sink. Without turning, he stuffed a large chunk of bread into his mouth and readied the kettle for another round of tea. Eliza Hawthorne cleared her throat, causing her husband to finally face them as he guiltily swallowed the snack whole.

“Eilian,” he smiled, “I had no idea you were here. I would shake your hand, but I don’t think I should, considering what I have been handling downstairs. Did you tell him about how the new arm Had—” he stuttered as Eliza shot him a sharp look over the armchair’s back, “happens to be for a missing forearm?”

The young archaeologist shook his head in disbelief. “It’s as if this was made for me. May I have your friend’s address? I would love to pay him a visit before I leave town today.”

“Oh, that’s impossible. When we spoke, he said he would be going out to the country to give a consultation today and would not be back until nightfall, but I can stop in tomorrow to make you an appointment for the following day.”

His signature grin of genuine delight spread across his face. “Would you? That would be splendid. I’m planning on heading back to my house tonight, so send him there sometime in the afternoon. If that time doesn’t work for him, tell him to send me a date when he can come.”

“I’m fairly certain he will be free then.”

For the first time in days, joy fluttered through his chest, stretching his features back into their open state and making the scarce amount of light defiantly breaking through the velvet curtains seem so much brighter. He poured each of them another cup of tea and heartily snacked on the Hawthornes’ spread, allowing the warmth of happiness to soak into every part of his being.

He cleared his throat, stifling his own mirth. “So how is that toy-maker cousin of yours?”

Chapter Eleven:

Harold and the New Corset

The sewing machine whirled as Hadley passed her makeshift corset under the needle for what felt like the hundredth time. The pattern had come from her mother’s trunk in the attic, but she hoped her design would eliminate the pinched waist and merely flatten her entire form. For two days she had ripped out the boning dozens of times, repositioning it until it finally nipped her curves in at the right point. Mid-stitch she took her foot off the peddle. She could have sworn she heard something, but assuming it was Adam, she went back to work with her head down. The window in the alleyway rattled, but Hadley didn’t notice until finally a waving, gloved hand bounced up and down in the high window. Donning her dressing gown, she unlocked the work room’s side door as Eliza Hawthorne strolled in. Her cousin pulled off her gloves with a flourish, but her eyes widened as they roamed over Hadley’s choice of outfit.

“Do you always sew in your union suit?” she asked with a laugh as she brushed the dust from her skirts and carefully lowered herself onto the chair at Hadley’s old work bench.

“I’m working on a corset, and I had to keep trying it on to make sure it was working properly. After a while, just staying in my unmentionables was easier than disrobing every fifteen minutes.” She hung her silk robe back on the coat rack and handed the corset to Eliza. “Help me get this thing on. I’m going to dislocate my shoulder if I do it by myself again.”

With one hand, Hadley held the corset tight to her chest as she used the other to tuck the sides up to her armpits. Mrs. Hawthorne had never seen a corset of such design. Rather than having hooks and eyes in the front and lacing all down the back, the entire corset was one solid piece of material with tight lacing at the top third of her back and snaps running down below. She clicked the bottom portion in place before pulling the laces as tight as she possibly could without knocking the younger woman off balance.

“What is this for anyway?” Eliza asked, stepping back from her cousin’s form. “It has flattened you like a board.”

Hadley’s face flushed with delight. “Finally! You can’t imagine how frustrating I find sewing with a machine. Automata clothes are so much easier to do by hand.” She made her way over to the mirror and tested bending over and squatting down. The girdle held, and the padded cotton fabric allowed her to flex more than her normal corset. “You remember how horrible the Harbuckles were when they found out I was a woman? Well, I decided to bend to society a little. If they don’t want a female doing a man’s job, then they will get a man. Close your eyes for a minute.”

With a slight roll of her eyes, she turned around to face the other wall. “I can’t imagine this is going to work, Had. Your features are too feminine.”

“You may call me Harold,” she answered in a husky voice.

When Eliza turned, she was greeted by a thin boy with a gaunt face and clothes that were too large for his frame. Gone were Hadley’s freckles and long, henna hair, which had disappeared beneath a layer of ceramic dust and a newsboy cap. The only thing that was blatantly her own were her blue eyes, which, despite the coating on her cheeks, still shone with her familiar bright determination.

“I’m impressed. You may want to pick a less burly voice as you’re much too skinny for it, but otherwise, you look the part. I spoke to Lord Sorrell yesterday. At a dinner party the other day, he had a particularly bad experience with his old prosthesis, but when I suggested the Fenice Brothers could make him a better fitting, more functional one, he nearly drove down here that afternoon. You better finish your corset today because he would like it very much if you could go to his estate tomorrow to have a consultation with him. He is pressed for time and would like it before he leaves for a trip in a few months.”

She stifled the urge to smile prematurely. “You told him about the surgical aspect?”

“No, I thought I would leave that to you. You are a lot more persuasive than I am, and I know I would just go into the gory details and make the blood drain from his face. He would like you there sometime in the afternoon. Even though I didn’t tell him everything, I’m fairly confident he will agree to it. He seems rather desperate, and that really is not like him.”

***

Hadley paused before the mirror by the front door. She had taken great pains to look as boyish as possible, even applying extra powder to her eyebrows to make them appear fuller and rounder. After confirming she was aesthetically ready to set out, she transferred the contents of her carpet bag into one of George’s old satchels. As she reached the last few items in her bag, her hand brushed against the cold steel of her derringer pocket pistol. She had bought it around the time of Jack the Ripper’s killing spree for protection, and even though she never ventured into those neighborhoods, a young woman could never be too careful. Staring down at it, she thought about leaving it home in the bag, but instead, she opened her shirt and stuffed it between her flattened breasts for safe-keeping. When Hadley stepped out into the street, she paused, expecting someone to notice her or call her out for being a fraud, but no one noticed. The passersby of London’s streets continued on.

***

As the hired steamer rattled through the Greenwich greenery, Hadley pored over George’s notes once again. She couldn’t afford to miss anything when she delivered her speech about the experimental arm. Over the hill appeared a small, Gothic manor house built of weather-beaten stone and framed with Cathedral-like spires and mullioned windows. Immediately she recognized the house, but she could recall very little of the inhabitants or what she had done during her original visit. Taking a deep breath as she walked to the front door, she once more prepared for her consultation. It was imperative that she not use her own name during the introductions and deepen her voice. Within moments of ringing the bell, a young-faced but white-haired butler with a pair of pince-nez glasses nestled on his narrow nose opened the door. He never asked her for her card or spoke to her mechanically as many other servants had, but instead, with an air of casual civility, he led her into the parlor to allow her to start setting up.

Laying the drop cloth on the nearest table, she carefully placed her jars of Vaseline and plaster of Paris on it to keep them from staining the viscount’s furniture. Hadley reached into the bottom of the satchel, but as she drew out her notebook, the scraps containing George’s notes fluttered from its binding. With a sigh, she bent down to grab the parchment. One piece landed under the side-table, but as she strained to reach it, she heard the sickening pop of twelve snaps blowing open across her back. She clutched her arms around her middle, but the back of the corset tented under her shirt, making it appear as if she had sprouted wings.

“Lord Sorrell will be down momentarily. Is there anything you require?” the butler asked as he stepped back into the parlor.

Hadley straightened up, keeping her back toward the wall and her hand around the two edges of the fabric. “May I use your lavatory?”

“Of course, sir.”

As he led her through the corridors, she kept her back against the wall. After the butler had disappeared back down the hall, Hadley ducked inside the bathroom and whipped off her vest and shirt. The tightly laced top was all that kept the corset over her breasts as the back shamelessly flapped apart to reveal her pale, freckled flesh. Spinning around, she tried to catch both edges and pull them back together, but the moment she closed the first snap, the doorknob squealed behind her. Without thinking, she reached into her corset and pointed the stubby-nosed gun at the startled young man standing in the doorway. He was wiping a wet napkin against a curry stain on his shirt when he finally brought his eyes to the stranger in his bathroom.

“Whoa!” he cried, raising up his arms in defense and dropping the cloth.

“You saw nothing, you petty servant,” she growled, clicking back the hammer of the derringer while still clutching her girdle with her free hand. “If you tell Lord Sorrell what you saw, I swear I will make your life a living hell.”

“I think there has been a mistake.”

No explanation was necessary as her eyes trailed to his right arm, which terminated at the elbow. The inventor stared at him mouth agape as the tiny gun nearly fell out of her hand. “I am so sorry,” she stammered as she tried to grab her shirt without letting go of the corset. “Please don’t call the authorities. I will leave.”

As she moved toward the door, Eilian Sorrell stepped in front of her with his arms crossed. “If I’m not mistaken, you are the craftsman who is supposed to be fitting me for a new arm?”

Hadley nodded quickly, knocking loose her cap and spilling her henna braid down her back. For a moment, she lingered with her head bowed. That was it. She botched it again, ruined George’s business for probably the final time.

“Well, then you had better get dressed. Patrick will help you, but don’t bother with the pretenses this time.”

The viscount disappeared into the hall only to be replaced by the white-haired butler. He quickly snapped the back of her corset closed before leaving her to finish getting dressed by herself. A nauseating wave of relief and disappoint passed over her as she stared down at her gun. I could have killed him, she thought before stuffing it into her pocket. When she came back into the parlor, her drop cloth had been laid out and a wooden chair stood in the middle of it.

“I hope you don’t mind me setting up for you. I wanted to show you that I really do intend for you to stay and do the consultation.” He grasped the top button of his shirt. “Shall I?”

She swallowed hard. “Sir, if you’re doing this to be polite, please don’t pretend to go through with it just for civility’s sake. I will leave.”

“If I say it, I mean it. I don’t put on airs. While I don’t particularly like having a gun drawn on me, I do understand that I startled you, which caused you to act in self-defense.”

“But— but I’m a woman. Does that not bother you?”

“Not particularly,” Lord Sorrell replied as he unbuttoned his shirt with one hand and sat down. “I have been told to be something I’m not my whole life, so I’m not one to force others into molds they don’t belong. Are you doing measurements or the cast first?”

“Measurements.”

Hadley quickly collected herself, ignoring the viscount’s bare chest as she methodically measured his left arm from his fingers to his shoulder before taking the circumference every few inches. Moving to his other side, she eyed the rough, sinewy texture of his shortened arm but hesitated to touch it. The dark pink scars engulfed the entire stump and climbed across his chest to his septum until they gradually disappeared on his neck. Hacked off limbs from battle wounds or due to infections were commonplace, but burns were a rarity, especially when few were able to survive without debilitating results. She drew the measuring tape around it, feeling how oddly pliable his marred skin was. Touching the bottom of the stump, she confirmed his elbow had been neatly disarticulated. As Eilian Sorrell quietly cooperated with her shifting his arm and plastering him up to the shoulder, Hadley studied his face and recognized the unmistakable look of defeat in his grey eyes. The craftswoman never would have realized that the vivacious young adventurer her cousin and James Hawthorne always spoke about was the same somber gentleman she saw before her.

“What made you want to get a more functional prosthesis, sir?” she asked as she stepped back from the hardening plaster with chalky, white hands.

“I had bought a vanity prosthesis from your brother, but since I was sized for it, I think my arm has changed shape. I was at a dinner party last week and had a mishap where it fell off quite suddenly. It was also chafing my arm when I wore it for any length of time.”

“I’m very sorry about that. How often do you wear it?”

He sighed softly. “I thought I would wear it often, but it’s so uncomfortable that I have only worn it a handful of times. I do it more for my family than for me.”

Hadley stepped back until they were looking each other in the eye. “I hope you do not think I’m overstepping my bounds by saying this, but if you’re doing this to please them, it’s not worth it. I make these for people who need something to function in place of the limb they have lost, but if you are getting on fine without it, then you don’t need one.”

Nodding, he hesitantly replied, “There is another issue that is more pressing. Since I had the amputation, I have had hideous pains running from my shoulder down to where my palm would have been, and it has gotten progressively worse. I thought if I had a prosthesis I could flex, it would stop.”

“Most of the claw prostheses I create don’t open and close in a natural fashion. They are all controlled by external springs and levers.” As she cut the plaster, his features darkened dispiritedly. She couldn’t stand to see him that way. “There— there is an experimental prosthesis you may be interested in. It’s rather radical as it involves surgery to insert an artificial bone into your arm and place gold rods into your nerves, but if it works, you will be able to open and close the hand as well as raise and lower your forearm. If it does not work, we will probably have to go back in and remove it.”

His eyes instantly brightened. “If you are willing, I would be happy to try it. I really have nothing to lose. The only thing is, I’m planning a trip in a few months, and I would need to be at least fairly healed by then.”

“I can have the apparatus done within a fortnight. There is one small complication, Lord Sorrell. You will need to stay in London once the piece is ready because Dr. Hawthorne will need to procure a specific item needed to anchor the arm, and the day he finds it will have to be the day of the surgery. Unfortunately, the date of the operation would be completely unpredictable, and you would have to be ready at a moment’s notice.”

Eilian knew he could lose the rest of his arm to infections if he agreed. Even if the surgery was a success, the prosthesis still might not function. He risked infection and disappointment, but he would be under the care of a doctor he trusted with his life.

“I will do it, Miss Fenice. Please send a messenger when you finish the arm, and I will be in London by nightfall.”

Chapter Twelve:

Ingenious Mechanical Devices

Patrick Sinclair loaded the silver tray with Turkish coffee, vegetable curry, and bread before heading down the long hall that led to his master’s study. For the past few hours, Lord Sorrell had been pecking at the keys of his writing ball in hopes of finally finishing the book he had gathered material for on the fateful trip that nearly ended his life. The butler smiled. It was comforting to see his boss so content and productive again. Since the red-haired woman had paid him a visit, the spark that had dimmed while they were in London had reignited, but the same news which brought Eilian so much hope brought Patrick only dread and distress. For the past week, Patrick had waited with bated breath each day for the post to come to see if his master needed to be rushed off to London to be operated on. The butler fretted over the statistics he read in newspapers about how many patients still died in hospitals after surgery from infections or had to have the limb later removed from gangrene. He could not bear to think of his master losing the rest of his arm or dying over an experimental procedure when he was getting along quite well without his arm. Despite his reservations, he refused to undermine his friend’s decision. Patrick noiselessly opened the door of the study, careful not to break Lord Sorrell’s concentration, and placed the tray on the edge of the desk. Reaching for the coffee, the young adventurer glanced up at him with a smile and thanked him before going back to transcribing the chapter on Etruscan temple designs.

As Patrick headed back toward the servants’ hall, the chiming doorbell sounded in the foyer. Opening the door, a faceless messenger presented him an envelope and disappeared back down the driveway in a hired steamer. It was the note he had been dreading for over a week with his master’s name written in efficient yet feminine handwriting across the front. He hesitated outside the study, wishing he could stuff it into the nearest crevice or toss it in the fire to keep him from having to give it to him. There was no way around it. Lord Sorrell deserved to be happy even if it scared him. When he finally came in, Eilian barely glanced up from his plate as he scooped up the remaining curry with a slice of bread.

“Who was at the door, Pat?” he asked between bites. When he didn’t get an answer, Eilian looked up to see an envelope only a few inches from his nose. As he dropped his crust of bread and grasped the note, he caught his friend’s upturned white brows and downcast eyes. “Patrick, there is no need to worry about me so much. James would not agree to do anything that could possibly kill me. You know how modern he is. He’s not some butcher, who walks around with a smock of blood and an unwashed saw, so what about it is bothering you so much?”

“I just have not gotten over the first time you were in a precarious state, sir.”

“Well, I guess I never have to worry about whether or not you care about my well-being,” he replied with a grin as he eagerly, but with some difficulty, ripped open the envelope. His grey eyes intently scanned the note, lingering on the sender’s name and then on the particulars. “Please get my things together, Pat. Miss Fenice says my new arm is ready. We will be staying with Eliza and James while we wait for him to procure what he needs to perform the surgery.”

“I took the liberty of packing your trunk yesterday. Shall I inform your mother that you’ll be in London?”

“No!” Eilian cried before he cleared his throat and reread the address on the front of the letter. “No, one person worrying about me is enough, Pat.”

***

The echoing thumping on the front door continued as Hadley burst from her work room. Running down the hall, she lurched forward, tripping over an unseen box of clockwork parts in her haste to reach the door.

“I will be right there!” she called when she was halfway to the front door.

Standing behind the door, Hadley steadied her huffing breaths. As she caught her reflection in the mirror, she brushed the sawdust and grey powder from her smock and trousers. The inventor opened the door expecting to see Adam without his key or Eliza, but instead, she found herself looking up into the handsomely blithe yet damp face of Eilian Sorrell.

“Viscount— I mean, Lord Sorrell, please come in. Let me take your umbrella.”

“I have it.” He pressed the handle of the dripping umbrella into his chest before inching his hand toward the mechanism that closed its canopy. Twirling the collapsed umbrella into the stand, he began, “By the by, Miss Fenice, there is no need to worry about titles. Please call me Eilian or Mr. Sorrell. My father is the earl, viscount, and lord, not me.”

She nodded. Her cheeks pinkened at the prospect of using his Christian name. As she lead him into the parlor, she was acutely aware of how disheveled she must have looked. Her reflection had been one of working untidiness with sweat-matted hair surrounding her forehead and streaks of mud across her face and hands.

“What brings you here, Lor— Mr. Sorrell? If you came to see the prosthesis, I already brought it to Eliza for sterilization this morning.”

“I know.” He smiled softly, hoping to put her at ease. “I saw it when I arrived today and was quite impressed with the craftsmanship. Your cousin said I had just missed you.”

Hadley tried to once again squelch the burning in her freckled cheeks, but the heat rose to the surface.

“I hope I’m not imposing, but I was wondering if I could possibly see your studio. Eliza and James told me you create not only prosthetic limbs but automata that are sold all over England in toy shops. I would have sent you a letter asking when I could stop by, but I was afraid you would not receive it before the operation.”

Meeting his smoky grey eyes, she expected to see suspicion or mockery as she would have seen in a man who desired to view her shop to inspect her work, but his strong features were open and earnest. “Of course you may. It’s rather small and a little messy though.”

He beamed as he stood up to follow her. “I wouldn’t trust an inventor who didn’t have a messy studio.”

Entering the cluttered space at the end of the hall, his eyes ran over every surface, taking in each doll part and mechanism with keen interest. The nobleman walked over to the workbench where she had laid out the Wild West diorama she had yet to ship. He squatted beside it, eyes wide with wonder as he observed every minute detail. The cowboys with their rugged hide and denim costumes and the saloon girl in her tiny corset and feathered headdress filled him with child-like awe. Silently coming behind the viscount, Hadley pressed the lever that shifted the scene into action, sending the men into their ten pace march to begin their duel to the death. She couldn’t help but smile as his face lit up with the kind of pleasure so rarely seen even on the faces of the jaded, rich children she usually built automata for. When the scene had finished and he was about to stand up, she flipped the switch again to send the automata into their second version of the scene.

“This is amazing, absolutely amazing, Miss Fenice! How did you learn to make something so delightfully complex?”

“My father was a pioneer in the field of prosthetics, but to supplement his income, he made and fixed watches. My older brother, George, decided to learn about the more complex mechanisms found in large clocks, and from there, he began to make his own automatons. He taught me, and I helped him with the artistic side of the business.”

Eilian’s gaze travelled over the miniature faces peeking out from every shelf and nook of the workroom. “Could I possibly see one of the mechanisms?”

“I’m not sure if I have anything lying around that I could show you.” Hadley smiled to herself. Lord Sorrell would probably have no idea what he was looking at even if she was able to easily remove the decorative outer workings. She searched the boxes nearby for half-made pieces but came up empty handed, so instead, she placed her portfolio of blueprints on the empty desk before him and flipped to a familiar layout. “This is the schematic for the western town.”

Just as Adam had always done, she expected him to glance at it and hand it back to her, but Eilian pored over the drawings. His eyes darted from the paper to the diorama as he traced his finger through the mechanisms. With each discovery, he made an exclamation of comprehension before going back to the beginning of the mechanism to more fully grasp the design.

“It was quite ingenious to hide the larger mechanisms within the saloon in order to keep the base fairly flat. I noticed you didn’t have to wind anything in order to start the scene, and I was going to ask how, but,” he paused as he found the spot on the blueprint he was looking for, “this spring rewinds the mechanism at the end. One day I wonder if you would be willing to help me replicate one of Al-Jazari’s creations.”

She furrowed her carmine brows. How could a nobleman know as much as she did about mechanics? “Who?”

“He was a Turkish inventor from the Middle Ages who created all sorts of complex automata. He wrote a book called the Book of Knowledge of Ingenious Mechanical Devices which I think you may find interesting. Al-Jazari was more focused on hydraulics than steam or self-propulsion, but his automatons, like yours, were not only beautiful but functional. He made devices that would serve tea or wash people’s hands, but one of his most spectacular pieces was a band that floated around in a boat and played music during parties.”

“I never realized they made automatons that long ago. I went to France once with my father and saw a few a collector owned. They were only a hundred years old, but from the way everyone marveled at them, I assumed they were the first or at least the first successful ones.” Tidying the clothes of the automatons, Hadley smiled. “Would you like to tell me more about the history of automatons over a cup of tea?"

“I would love to.” Eilian followed her into the kitchen and sat at the well-worn wooden table, watching her as she filled a kettle with water and placed it on the stove with the same efficient flare he had only glimpsed in his earlier meeting with her. “I’m surprised you wanted to hear more. Usually when I want to go into the history of something, the other person finds an excuse to leave or change the subject. Patrick listens, but he is my butler. Maybe he is just being polite.”

Hadley whipped around, startled by his voice behind her. She hadn’t expected Lord Sorrell to follow her into an area that was typically unseen by visitors. “Would you prefer to sit in the parlor, Mr. Sorrell?”

“Truth be told, I would much prefer to take my tea at a table. With this,” he explained, holding up his tweed-clad stump, “I have a hard time holding a saucer and cup, and without a table, I need to try to balance it on my knees.”

As Hadley glanced over her shoulder between gathering the sugar bowl and the pitcher for the cream, the inventor was surprised to find that the viscount didn’t look out of place in her modest kitchen. While his clothes were of a fine quality and impeccably pressed and tailored, his demure yet sprightly nature put her at ease. The kettle whistled, and she carefully poured the water into each bone china cup over the egg-shaped tea infusers.

“Mr. Sorrell, how do you know so much about automatons?” she asked curiously as she placed the cup before him. How could a member of the gentry have any interest in artisan crafts apart from collecting them?

“I have been studying mechano-archaeology for several years now. When I was in Greece, I found complex mechanisms inside temples that would be set into motion by a worshipper stepping into the sanctuary. As I began to sketch the gears, I realized how similar the mechanisms were to our modern automata. My research has shown that they were actually quite common in the ancient world as spectacle pieces. Even in their mythology, Hephaestus was portrayed as an artificer since he created Talos and Pandora. It really is quite fascinating once you get into it, especially in the field.”

“It sounds like it is. You work in the field of…?”

His body shook with silent laughter as he tried to sip his tea. “The dirt, Miss Fenice. I work in the dirt, digging up artifacts. Try not to look so surprised. You know, not all noblemen wile away their lives at clubs or hunting on safari. I would rather be digging in the earth until the end of time than set foot in a club or the House of Lords.”

“Is that why you need the prosthesis so soon? You are going away to return to digging in the earth?”

“Yes, I’m going to an archaeology dig in the Negev Desert in autumn.” At the chime of the grandfather clock, he broke from the young woman’s freckled features. “I hate to leave so suddenly, but I promised Eliza I would have dinner with them tonight.”

Hadley walked him back to the front door, feeling slightly lonelier than she had before he arrived. “Thank you for stopping by, Mr. Sorrell. I would like it very much if you would tell me more about automatons one day. That is, if you are willing.”

A grin crept across his face. “It would be an honor. I enjoyed it as well, and thank you for showing me your studio. You are quite a talented woman, Miss Fenice.”

Once he had situated the umbrella under his arm, he proffered his hand. As she grasped it, he bowed slightly and lightly brought her pale hand to his lips, letting them linger a second more than necessary. Hadley stood dumbfounded and red-cheeked in the doorway as he slipped back into the dewy London streets and disappeared into the throngs of grey-clad Londoners. Adam watched his sister stare dumbly with her hand on the doorknob as he walked up the steps. Pushing past her, he placed his silk top hat on the coat rack. Finally she shut the door and drifted back inside, but her eyes were far away.

“Was that the viscount I just saw leaving?” Adam asked distractedly as he repeatedly tried to hang his heavy coat on the hook.

“No, it was Eilian Sorrell.”

Chapter Thirteen:

Plucking the Achilles Tendon

Dr. Hawthorne wandered down the long corridor of the London Hospital. The boards creaked beneath his feet as the disembodied moans of the patients drifted across the still night air from adjacent rooms. All the other doctors had gone home for the night, leaving the nurses, porters, and medical students to deal with the hundreds of patients. James stayed away from the hospital during the day because he had the sinking suspicion that he was not wanted there. Being Coroner to the Queen came with an air of funereal authority that caused most of the doctors and the patients who were in the know to avoid him as if he was some harbinger of death. For the past three days, he had searched the halls and beds for the proper corpse that could provide him with what he needed. He detested being a vulture circling the dying, waiting for a scrap of carrion, but for his friend, he would scavenge for weeks if necessary. The only place he refused to look was in the psychiatric ward. Despite all his training, he still couldn’t erase from his memory the time he had to collect a body from Bedlam. The shrieks and moaning babbles of the patients still haunted his sleep.

“Dr. Hawthorne,” a voice peeped sheepishly behind him.

The doctor turned on heel to find one of the young medical students wringing his hands. Zachary Andrews was a meek boy with a nervous disposition and mediocre marks, but he was one of the only students willing to approach him once he knew what Dr. Hawthorne’s profession was. “Yes, Mr. Andrews?”

“I— I believe I have a patient who fits your requirements.” He pulled a scrap of paper from his pocket with shaking hands. “No infections, legs intact, age thirty years, dying of intracranial hemorrhage due to an accident involving two steamers.”

“Did he pass the blood exam?”

“Yes, I think so, sir. It was the first time I had ever done it though.”

“When do you estimate he will pass?”

The youth swallowed hard. “Within the hour.”

“Send one of the messenger boys to my house and tell Mrs. Hawthorne that I will be home soon.”

Andrews nodded and scurried out, his footsteps not leaving a trace in the silent ward. James Hawthorne walked down the hall to the bay of beds where the dying man lay. Instantly, he recognized the man by his bandaged head and bloodied face. His breaths came in rough, shallow gasps in his advanced comatose state, but upon checking his liver and heart, he otherwise appeared to be in good health. Reaching into his jacket, the doctor drew out a small vial of blood and a scalpel. A half-formed scab peeked out from beneath a bandage on the unconscious man’s cheek, and with a slight flick of the scalpel, it once again began to bleed. He placed the vial beneath the wound, allowing the blood drip into the other sample until there was enough for the test. Capping the vial, he swirled the blood together. When no clot formed, he sat beside the cot, waiting for the inevitable end to come. As the doctor’s eyes shut and his mind drifted to dreams of Egypt, the clanking of the metal cot rocking and the man’s body snapping and contorting against itself roused him. With one final tremor, the doctor became the vulture.

***

The tension between Eilian and Patrick grew in the silence of the parlor as Eliza opened the door for a young boy. They locked eyes as a wave of anxiety passed from butler to master. Eilian’s hand trembled, sending a few dancing drops of tea onto his trousers, but with a measured breath, he suppressed his anxiety. Mrs. Hawthorne smiled as she rejoined the two men, but upon seeing the fear in the archaeologist’s eyes, she drew closer and squeezed his shoulder.

“Tonight is the night you get your new arm, Eilian. James found what he needs and will be home within the hour. I know you’re scared, but you are in good hands.”

“Are we meeting him at the hospital?”

She hesitated. “No, we have everything we need here, and there is less of a chance of infection when there are less ill people around.” Eliza disappeared into the hall pantry and returned with a bar of green soap and a pile of towels. “Go upstairs and bathe with this. When you are done, put on your night-clothes and come down to the cellar.”

Leaving Patrick downstairs, Eilian gathered his clothes from his room and started the water in the tub. As he perched on the edge of the bath, he sniffed the absinthe-green soap. The astringent, medicinal odor burnt his nose and nearly brought tears to his eyes. He sat in the claw-foot tub, running the bar over his rippling scars, trying not to think about the procedure. The statistics and horrific stories from the paper that had riled up Patrick floated into his mind, but he chased them away. Instead he thought of what the Ein Akev Spring would look like when he got to see it in a few months. Sir Joshua had described it as a canyon with a pool of dark turquoise water where precious rainwater collected. Bright green moss and vines cascaded down from the top like a waterfall and hung over a tunnel that led beneath the rocks. His heart raced with panic at the gravity of what he was to undergo, but he steadied it by pretending he was bathing in the spring’s cool waters after a long day of digging.

When Lord Sorrell finally emerged from the lavatory, he darted down the steps, feeling shamefully underdressed as he headed into the kitchen and down the dim, wooden tunnel of stairs that led to the Hawthornes’ basement laboratory. He knew it was there, but he had never been down there before. The amount of equipment and professional quality materials the queen had supplied James with was astounding. Half of the hospitals in England weren’t as well equipped. The room stunk of antiseptic like the soap, but every surface was spotlessly clean and gleamed in the bright electric light hanging over the marble and metal table. The breath hitched in his throat as Eilian realized what the marble table with the drain was normally used for. On the counter next to tools and piles of gauze stood his new prosthesis sitting on a tray and alongside it was a small jar with an object that resembled a bloody, beige snake.

“Are you ready, Eilian?” James asked as he motioned for him to lie on the table. “It’s all right if you are not, no one is. At least when you wake up, things will be better.”

Before Lord Sorrell could reply, the mask was placed over his mouth. The ether seeped into his lungs and saturated his tissues, sending his mind drifting into blackness.

***

Familiar glimpses of consciousness broke through the disorienting stillness little-by-little as flutters of vision and blurbs of speech broke through the void, and fire crackled in a hearth somewhere nearby. Finally, with some prompting from James, who stood only inches away and repeated his name sternly, he opened his eyes and was able to keep them open. His right arm burned and ached like it had months ago. The muscles felt fatigued as if he had been lifting crates all day, and his shoulder was racked with lightning pains at the slightest movement. Eilian looked down at the bandaged stump. It was tucked into a sling and peeking out the other end was a metal hand. He stared at the hand, picturing it closing as he would with his left arm, but nothing happened. The prosthesis wasn’t working. His chest heaved as panic set in, and he fought back the sobs threatening to spew out. Had it all been in vain?

“It didn’t work,” he cried as a wave of acerbic bile clawed up his throat. “Oh, God, it didn’t work. I— I need a bucket.”

Eliza whipped the wash basin from the corner of the room and placed it in his lap just as he retched. She sat close to him and rubbed his back as he let his emotions take over despite himself. Sobbing between bouts of vomit, Eilian cradled his mutilated arm. In his vulnerable state, there was no way to stop what poured out. The doctor and the butler froze in their stations as the future earl gave in. Mrs. Hawthorne was speaking, but he couldn’t hear her.

“The battery isn’t in,” she repeated when he finally grew quiet. “We can’t put it back in until your nerves acclimate to the needles, otherwise the hand will twitch uncontrollably for days. Eilian, it worked. We tested it but couldn’t leave the power source in.”

“Really?” he peeped as he tried to suppress the vomit long enough to speak.

“Yes, the prosthesis works, and in a couple of weeks, once you are more fully healed, you can start learning to use it. Hadley still needs to install the external apparatus, but your stitches must come out first obviously.”

“Good, good.” He swallowed hard before retching painfully into the bowl. His ashen face and neck glistened with cold sweat. “Why am I throwing up so much, James?”

“A combination of ether and morphine for the pain is causing that. Sorry, Eilian, but chloroform is too dangerous to use in my opinion, so you have to deal with the nausea for a little while longer.”

Drawing closer, the doctor listened to Lord Sorrell’s heart again, then his lungs before finally checking where the bandage met the metal rod. Staring down at the realistically articulated fingers attached to a curved palm that mirrored his left but in molded metal, Eilian couldn’t help but smile. Unlike the other prosthesis, which was beautiful but far from fitting in with his life, the new arm was a part of him now. No matter how out of place it looked, he already knew it fit into his world far better than brass and porcelain ever could. When he finally glanced up, he noticed the dark circles ringing the physician couple’s eyes as they hovered near. He wished that when he had awoken the first time after the crash, he had seen their loving faces, full of concern and comfort instead of those heartless, self-serving surgeons. As James stepped to the side, Eilian spotted Patrick sitting on a wooden chair, watching him.

“If I’m all right, except for the vomiting, you both should go to bed. Patrick will gladly act as my nurse and summon you if anything should happen. You have been up half the night and God knows how long this morning,” Eilian said as he watched the sun peer over the tops of the houses in the distance through the window.

With a single glance, the Hawthornes nodded and agreed to leave for a few hours to recuperate from the stressful night. Eliza checked his vitals and bandages one more time while James gave him a new vessel to deposit his sputum in before heading down the hall to sleep. Once they disappeared down the stairs to the lower floor, silence fell over the room. Knowing everything would be fine, he closed his eyes, hoping the nausea would pass, and fell back asleep. After a few hours of dreamless sleep, the archaeologist opened his eyes only to meet Patrick’s piercing, powder blue gaze.

“Come on, I know you are itching to come over,” Eilian chuckled weakly as he patted the mattress. The butler sat beside him on the bed and eyed the prosthesis with keen interest. “So, Pat, what do you make of it?”

“It isn’t as pretty as the other one, but I think it suits you.” He smiled as he met his master’s eyes. “You look well, sir.”

“Do you feel better about it now?”

“Yes, I have felt increasingly better since we carried you back upstairs. I’m looking forward to helping you again when you receive the rest of your prosthesis, like I did when you were recovering before. Now that I see what all this fuss was for, I think it was worth it too. I’ll still worry until you’re fully healed though. Mrs. Hawthorne told me about the sanitization techniques they use to calm me down. She also described how your new arm will work, and it sounds quite ingenious.”

He studied the fingers again. “It is, isn’t it? What did you think of Miss Fenice when she came for the consultation?”

The butler thought for a moment. “Humble, but quite scary. I don’t know how to feel about someone who pulls a gun on my… friend.”

With a smile, he continued, “Would you do me a favor, Pat, and write Miss Fenice a thank you letter? I would like to thank her for building this marvelous prosthesis and tell her that, according to Eliza, it’s in working order. Also, it should be mentioned that whenever she needs to stop by to inspect the arm or to install the rest of it, she is more than welcome to call on us at any time without warning.”

Patrick nodded and quickly scribbled out a note at the portable writing desk to be dispensed at the first post. He kept picturing the woman with the henna hair and pale cheeks. Her red brows and lashes were embroidered onto her linen skin. Miss Fenice’s face was graced with feminine angles, yet it was strong. Those dark blue eyes had not left his mind since he landed at the end of her gun. Eilian waited until his butler was engrossed in writing before he decided whether to say what was on his mind. Maybe it was the ether clouding his judgment. No, he was certain it was not, even if the others would assume it was.

“When you are done, I need you to write a second letter to her, one that will be delivered at least some days later.”

Without glancing up, Patrick asked offhandedly, “What would you like me to write in the letter to the lady, sir?”

Lord Sorrell drew in a deep breath and released it gradually as a wave of pain passed through his arm but rapidly died out with the aid of the morphine. “I would like to make her a proposal.”

The pen scratched into the parchment as he looked up in disbelief at his master.

Chapter Fourteen:

Death Warmed Over

Mounting the steps to the uppermost floor of her cousin’s house, Hadley Fenice’s stomach knotted and flipped though she wasn’t quite sure what exactly was bothering her. Her mind played out the day’s activities to pinpoint what could have caused such a gnawing in her stomach. She had eaten a hearty breakfast and then walked to the market. Nothing there was out of the ordinary. In the afternoon, she had baked a Bramley apple crumble, which was out of the ordinary but not so taxing as to unsettle her stomach. She had nervously checked the oven every ten minutes to ensure that it hadn’t burnt, but it still didn’t explain the tension.

Was it fear that crept up her esophagus and down her arm, manifesting as a curious tremor that made the crumbs dance off the dessert’s surface? Hadley told herself that it wasn’t, but being at her cousin’s house reminded her too much of visiting George at the sanatorium. In the months since his death, she had enjoyed the luxury of a life free from the weighted worry of sickness and death, but now, she was forced to confront it again. It had been her idea to visit Lord Sorrell after his surgery. It seemed the proper thing to do since her invention was what caused him to go under the knife. At the top of the steps, she checked her reflection in the mirror, restlessly tidying her hair and blue walking-dress. The frock was the same one she wore to the Harbuckles’, but this time she hoped it would see a better outcome. The door to the guest bedroom stood open, and as she stepped inside with a measured smile, ready to present the viscount with her little cake, her heart plummeted to her stomach with a thump that rattled her hand.

Eilian Sorrell was thoroughly unconscious when she reached his bedside. His shoulders were propped up with several pillows while his head listed limply to the side. Hadley drew in a tremulous breath as she compared her memory of his face from only a few days before when he visited her studio to the death mask he was wearing now. His eyes were daubed with sooty circles as if he had gotten in a fight while his ashen skin glistened with perspiration. Beneath the quilt, his chest heaved, occasionally pushing little sighs of air from between his lips. She remembered how he gave the impression of being tall, even powerful, but today he had been reduced to a bird with a broken wing. Every muscle that was visible, including his exposed chest, which peeked out from beneath the blankets, appeared gaunter and more drawn than she remembered. Hadley was about to back out when she jerked back in alarm at the firm hand that came to rest on her shoulder. Her cousin smiled at her before peering past her into the guest room.

“He looks good, doesn’t he?”

“Does he?” Hadley replied, taking another look to ensure he had not suddenly perked up when she wasn’t looking. “He looks frightfully pale to me.”

“Everyone looks that way after surgery. You don’t have to stand in the doorway like that, you are allowed in.”

She stared at the sleeping man in the bed again and swallowed hard. “I— I don’t want to intrude while he is sleeping. I will just leave him the cake and come back later.”

Eliza Hawthorne gently pressed her younger cousin’s arm as she led her inside. “Nonsense, stay a little.” She whispered, “He doesn’t bite. His butler left to get some supplies and set up the house for when he returns home, and trust me, he will enjoy the company when he’s awake.”

Keeping her eyes locked on Eilian’s sleeping form, Hadley lowered herself into the chair that stood directly beside his bed. “Does he really look good?”

She nodded as she pulled his blankets a little higher and checked his temperature with a press of her hand to his forehead and cheek. “He looks much better actually. He was positively green when he first woke up. Because the surgery was so sudden, he did not get to fast beforehand, so he was sick for a while after. Apart from that, the operation went incredibly well. There were not any complications or hemorrhages, and so far he has not even presented with a fever. The prosthesis went in quite easily, Hadley. You did a very good job with it, and it worked immediately when we attached the battery.”

Hadley smiled stiffly as she averted her gaze from Lord Sorrell’s lax face. “It was George’s creation, not mine.”

“Yes, but you perfected it and brought it to fruition. You should be proud of yourself. George may have conceptualized it, but you must give yourself credit for finishing it.”

“I’m surprised his family is not still here,” she ruminated, ignoring her cousin’s comment as she watched the nobleman’s chest rise and fall. “I would stay at my son’s bedside no matter how minor the procedure was.”

“They haven’t come,” Eliza whispered as she removed the disintegrating apple crumble from Hadley’s lap and placed it on the dresser.

A gasp inadvertently escaped her lips, but she clasped her hand over her mouth as the sleeping man stirred slightly. “Why? Are they really on such bad terms as to snub him like that? I got an inkling from the consultation that he and his parents did not get along.”

“I’m not certain that he told them about the surgery or the new prosthesis. He asked us not to send for them unless something went wrong.”

“Why do you think he would not tell them?”

She shrugged. “You would have to ask him, but their relationship is complicated to say the least. I think he simply didn’t want them to try to talk him out of it or criticize him for it.”

“He’s an adult and a perfect gentleman at that, so what is there to—”

Their conversation dropped as the coverlet rustled with the archaeologist’s waking movements. The young woman sat very still as he tossed and grumbled incoherently before finally opening his eyes. His grey gaze traveled from Hadley to Eliza and back again as he blinked away the grogginess.

“Miss Fenice, what are you doing here? For a moment, I thought I was seeing double,” he said with a smiled.

For the first time since she arrived at the house on Wimpole Street, the knot in her stomach uncoiled. His voice was much stronger than she anticipated, and now, Eilian’s condition was no longer hearsay. As sleep left his body, she realized he was not death warmed over but simply very fatigued from the previous night’s excitement.

“I came to see how you were doing, and I baked you an apple crumble.”

“Thank you, that was very kind of you. You just get more and more impressive, Miss Fenice. Inventor, toy-maker, and baker.”

She shook her head. “I’m definitely not a baker. I am more of a cake-burner, but I tried my best with yours. You still may want to eat it with caution.”

He chuckled softly as he attempted to raise himself up in the bed but failed to gain traction. “I’m sure it’s not as bad as all that. It smells good from over here.”

Seeing the young man struggle, Eliza and Hadley wrapped their arms around his chest and carefully hoisted him higher on the pillows.

“Thank you, ladies, that is much better. I have grown so accustomed to working with one and a half arms that being down to only one has become quite a hindrance.” Eilian’s eyes darted over Hadley’s blue walking-suit, lingering on the silk tie at her throat and the top hat at her side. “You look very smart today, Miss Fenice.”

“Oh, thank you, it’s one of my favorites,” Hadley replied, running her hand over the vest-like top of the masculine gown. As she returned to her seat, Eliza slipped into the hall. “How are you feeling?”

“Tired, but I feel quite well considering. My arm hurts, but James has been pumping me so full of medication that I’m surprised I can sit up straight. I guess I won’t be riding my bicycle any time soon.”

“You can ride without both arms?”

“It’s easier than one would imagine. I started out riding around my estate on the gravel paths, so in case I lost my balance and fell off, no one would be there to laugh at me. Now, I have become confident enough that I ride around Grosvenor Square or Hyde Park when I’m in London. Until I am fully healed, I’m going to miss the feeling that comes with being able to speed past others, seeing everything as just a blur.” His grey eyes wandered off as if he was pedaling through the park in his mind when, with a shake of his head, he returned to the guest room. “It’s a great way to clear one’s mind. Do you own a bicycle, Miss Fenice?”

Hadley shook her head as she fiddled with a loose string on her mismatched carpet bag. “I have thought about getting one, but I haven’t yet purchased one. A bicycle would probably be very useful for when I run errands. In the long run, I am sure it is a lot cheaper than paying for a steamer cab every few days. The thing is, I don’t know how to ride one.”

“It really isn’t too difficult to teach yourself. Learning how to balance is the worst part, but once you have it, everything else comes easily. You should get a bicycle with a large basket you can carry your supplies in and that massive bag of yours.”

“I don’t think there is a basket large enough for it,” she laughed. “Enough about bicycles, are you looking forward to using your new prosthesis, Mr. Sorrell?”

“Very much so.” The carefree smile slowly dissolved as he stared down at the metal arm and tugged the cotton sling over it with his other hand. “I guess I’m still worried.”

“About what?” Her cheeks burned as she noticed the toned, bare flesh of his breast.

He sighed softly. “I worry that as good as this is it will not fix anything.”

“You will regain a lot of the function your hand had before you lost it. Hopefully, your pain will lessen as well once the arm is connected to the circuit. If that is what you are worried about, Mr. Sorrell, I’m sure you will only gain from this procedure.”

“I know you and James have integrated this prosthesis with my body perfectly, so that is not what I’m worried about. I worry that I won’t be fixed,” Eilian replied with downcast eyes.

Hadley saw the same pained, defeated look on his face that had appeared during their consultation. “Do you like who you are?”

“Yes.”

“Then what is there to fix?”

Eilian met her steady, blue-eyed gaze. She did not scrutinize him but only struggled to see the flaws which, to others, were so glaring. Could she not see that he was an irresponsible, overly emotional, ignoble nobleman who only brought disappointment to his family? Surgery could return the function of his arm, but it could not make him into what they wanted him to be. There were no drugs or treatments for the wanderlust that drove him to the far reaches of the earth. Maybe it was the medicine that made him feel so melancholy all of a sudden, but when he looked up with moistened eyes, she smiled softly and reached across the bed to hold his hand.

“Take it from an inventor, there is nothing about you that needs fixing.”

The top step squeaked as Patrick Sinclair walked toward the guest room, but upon seeing Miss Fenice speaking intimately with his master, he unobtrusively stood off to the side of the threshold out of sight. Spotting the butler’s white head in the hall, Hadley smiled again as she let her hand linger in his warm grasp before finally letting go. Eilian couldn’t be sure if it was the morphine or her touch, but a strange warmth spread from his stomach and abruptly waned as she withdrew.

“I should get going now. I hope your recovery is swift, Mr. Sorrell. In a week or so, I will send you a letter asking for a time when I can stop by to size the outer prosthesis.”

“I guess my note hasn’t been delivered yet. You needn’t bother with the letter. You can stop by whenever it’s convenient for you. Dr. Hawthorne has advised me not to go into London or crowded places until my stitches are removed, so I will be at home exclusively until then.” A pleasant grin crept across his countenance as she reached the door. “I will be looking forward to your visit, Miss Fenice.”

“As will I, Mr. Sorrell.”

Chapter Fifteen:

A Velocipede from the Viscount

“Uh…uh…uchoo!” was all she could utter when Patrick Sinclair opened the Gothic ledge-and-brace door, nimbly avoiding her sputum by stepping behind its ancient planks.

“Good afternoon, Miss Fenice. May I take your coat?”

In the short time it took for the craftswoman to blow her nose, a puddle of rain formed around the soles of her leather boots. Hadley peeled off her wool coat, which had gained five pounds of water weight from the walk up the driveway and was beginning to smell of wet dog. Grasping it by the collar, the butler stared at the cloak before turning to the puddle below it. He led her into the parlor and draped her coat on the fireplace screen, hoping it would dry without needing to be wrung out. As Patrick left to fetch Lord Sorrell, she shuddered and rubbed her clammy arms in front of the hearth. Adam’s hand-me-downs clung to her form, chilling her to the bone despite the house’s warmth. With a trembling hand, she removed the oversized cap that hid her braided and pinned hair and laid it beside her coat to dry.

This was the same parlor she had been in during their first consultation, when she was certain the business would soon be gone like her brother. She had been so anxious that she barely registered her surroundings or remembered what she had seen apart from Lord Sorrell’s face at the end of her gun. As Hadley looked around the room, she felt as if the furniture belonged to another man. The ceiling was framed with sturdy beams of timber to form an intricately coffered lattice that matched the dark stain of the floor boards. One wall was dominated by expansive mullioned windows with the heavy curtains drawn back to reveal the drab May afternoon. Sallow, pattering rain beat and slid against the wavy glass, transforming the hills and city beyond into impressionistic blurs of green and grey. The manor stood alone, an anachronistic fortress of medieval nobility in a world of imperial frivolity. Everything that was part of the house itself reminded her of its inhabitant, but the furniture, while of good quality and taste, did not fit the room. While the fire thawed her hands, Hadley tried to figure out what bothered her so much about the room. Then, it dawned on her, it lacked any personal touches or hints of Eilian’s personality. Neither the walls nor the surfaces of the side tables and mantle contained any portraits or trinkets from his travels. The parlor was merely a set, perfectly emulating what would be found in an upper class parlor of any respectable residence.

“Miss Fenice,” the archaeologist cried, breaking her train of thought, “you’re positively drenched!” He reached for the bell-rope but instead turned and yelled down the hall, “Pat, grab a blanket with the tea! Would you like a change of clothes? You can use some of mine.”

“Th— thank you, sir, but I— I’m all right. A blanket or towel will be more than sufficient,” she answered through shivers.

With his arm in a tight sling across his chest, he rummaged through the decorative chest under the window. He was missing his jacket and tie, but somehow this state of under-dress suited him. “What happened?”

“The steamer I hired broke down half a mile from here. Rather than wait for the driver to fix it, I decided to walk. Unfortunately, the rain grew heavier as I grew closer.”

As the butler came in with a tea tray and a crocheted blanket slung over his arm, Eilian Sorrell led her to the armchair near the fire and retrieved the blanket from Patrick’s arm. With one hand, he tried to shake it open and drape it around her but only succeeded in dropping it onto her lap. With a smile, Hadley wrapped the mantle around her shoulders like a shawl before digging through her satchel for the molded and stitched piece of leather that formed the anchor piece of his outer prosthesis.

“How is your arm, Mr. Sorrell?” she asked as he sat on the sofa and poured her a cup of tea, doctoring it the way she liked it with cream.

“It still hurts quite a bit, but I’m no longer taking anything for the pain. Next week, the stitches will be removed if all goes well,” he replied with a grin as he sat back, leaving the saucer behind as he drank. “So what brings you here today, Miss Fenice?”

“I brought part of the prosthesis for you to try on. I made it a little large to accommodate a stocking, but I want to make sure it isn’t too loose. Are you up to trying it on? If it’s too painful, I can come back after your stitches are removed. Before I finish the other pieces, I want to make sure it fits or if I need to resize it.”

“As long as the sutures aren’t disturbed, I should be fine.”

Once they finished their tea, the inventor perched beside Eilian and slowly rolled up his sleeve. She was pleasantly surprised to find that his arm was only swollen near the point at which the titanium rod emerged from his flesh while his upper arm appeared naturally shapely like its twin. Gingerly drawing his elbow from the sling but leaving the metal portion still resting in its cotton hammock, she cautiously began to slide the leather bracer on. The hide refused to budge at all. The opening was so tight she couldn’t even get it onto his arm unless she used force. Without alerting the viscount to the issue, she stretched and cracked the stiff fabric behind her back, but upon trying it again, his arm was still far from fitting into the couter. Hadley had some choice words for her mistake but instead expressed her frustration with a growling huff.

“Mr. Sorrell, is your arm still swollen?”

The young man glanced at his limb and shook his head. It had to be swollen, there was no other explanation. Hadley dug through her bag to find her notebook and measuring tape. After taking the dimensions of the interior of the bracer, she confirmed it was the correct size, so the leather hadn’t shrunk. The craftswoman then looped the tape around his upper arm and sighed. She had been foolish not to realize his arm muscles would shift after the surgery, causing his arm to drastically change in size compared to how it was before the implantation of the prosthesis. According to her measurements, it now nearly matched his intact limb.

“I’m so sorry, sir, but somehow I didn’t take into account the structural changes your arm would undergo after the operation. I won’t be able to do anything until your stitches come out. Recasting the remainder of your arm is probably the only way for me to make a brace that will fit correctly,” she explained with a calm authority that she hoped masked her embarrassment over making such an obvious error.

“Well, mistakes happen. At least you caught it before it was finished. I will send you a note when James removes my stitches, so you can let me know when you have time in your schedule to do the casting.” Eilian’s eyes trailed out to the grey landscape beyond the mullioned windows as the rain and gusty wind pelted the windows. Miss Fenice had already fixed his sleeve and was beginning to pack up when he worked up the nerve to ask, “Would you like to stay for dinner? The weather is rather ghastly at the moment, and it would be a shame to drive all the way back to town and arrive after dinner.”

Hadley opened her mouth mutely several times as if the words wouldn’t come. “I— I wouldn’t want to impose on your staff.”

“It really is no imposition. They always make more food than I can eat.” He looked at her with pleading eyes and a wide grin, and her resolve began to crumble. “Please, Miss Fenice? I so rarely entertain guests. Would you indulge me?”

***

Hadley Fenice quietly closed the door behind her, looking over her shoulder just in time to see the bright red steamer chug away, disappearing and reappearing between the light of the streetlamps. As she dropped her satchel onto the coat rack and kicked off her boots, Adam barely looked up from his book in the parlor. Leaning against the doorway, she watched him continually avert his gaze with a wry grin as if she wasn’t there.

“Aren’t you going to ask where I have been all evening?” she asked flatly, mildly irritated by her twin’s lax approach to chaperoning.

“Nope, I know where you were. Either the viscount invited you to stay for a bite or,” he paused to sniff the air, “you went to a place that serves curry, but I know you don’t like to eat alone. The viscount’s payment arrived while you were in Greenwich. I left it in the workroom.”

“Why is it in there? If it’s paid in full, why is it not in your office?”

Adam finally glanced up from The Woman in White. “I thought you ought to see it.”

Curiosity drew her toward the messy studio, but apprehension slowed her pace as she finally reached the wooden door, unsure of what could be on the other side. What could Lord Sorrell have possibly sent that could have been of such interest to Adam? He always complained about his coworkers’ scratchy handwriting. Was he so vain that he left the letter for her to gawk at his wrong-handed script? Maybe the viscount used flowery stationary, or maybe he included a notice of dismissal along with his payment. As she turned the doorknob, she held her breath and hoped the viscount had a penchant for poesy patterns on his letterhead.

Hadley stood stunned in the doorway as her eyes ran over a gleaming, black bicycle. Not only did the velocipede have a bell to warn passersby she was coming, but it sported two roomy, wire baskets tethered to either end along with an oil lantern just below the handlebars. She reverently trailed her hand over the steel frame and up onto the leather seat. As she climbed onto the bicycle, she beamed despite the acute discomfort in her coccyx from the hard seat. He remembered, she glowed against her better judgment. Lord Sorrell was a nice man, a generous man, but she could not insinuate anything more. The studio was rather cramped, but using the side of the workbench for support, she peddled unsteadily toward the door. It was too dark to take it out for a proper ride, but she promised herself she would do it first thing in the morning. Standing up, she noticed two envelopes were sitting in the front basket. One was written in the butler’s flawless hand while the other was in Eilian’s spidery script. Just as she guessed, the first was the payment for the prosthesis. As Hadley unfolded the second brief letter, she smiled at his child-like script. He had even taken the time to write the note out himself.

Dear Miss Fenice,

Without fail, I’m continually impressed and astonished by your abilities and tenacity. From the time you first entered my home, I have been trying to figure out how to be a better patron to you and the Fenice Brothers. I hope you will accept this gift, which I believe will, from what you told me, reduce costs and make running errands easier for you. Even though you don’t know how to ride a bicycle, I have no doubt you will pick it up without incident, but if you are having difficulties, I can teach you.

Until our next appointment,

Your humble patron,

Eilian Sorrell

Scooping up the letters with a grin, she emerged to find Adam watching for her reaction as she crossed the hall to his office. She let the happiness fall from her face and adopted her usual serious air. Once situated at his desk, Hadley indifferently dropped the bill onto Adam’s ledger and picked up the pen to write a reply to the earl-to-be.

***

Sitting at his well-worn desk, Eilian Sorrell checked his pocket watch. Miss Fenice was probably home by now. The corners of his mouth curved contently as he imagined her reaction upon seeing the bicycle. He had waited for her to arrive in Greenwich before having Patrick send one of the servants to deliver it to her studio to ensure it would be a surprise. It had taken days to find a bicycle that would meet her needs. Patrick had not been able to find a velocipede in London that came with large enough baskets, and one had to be ordered from the manufacturer directly to ensure they would accommodate her tools and materials.

Sighing softly, he turned a small envelope over in his hand thoughtfully. It was the same one he dictated after his surgery, the one he planned to give to her tonight but decided against it. Even though the appointment had not gone as planned, he and Hadley Fenice had an oddly pleasant time together. Over a sweet potato and peanut stew with rice, they finally had the chance to continue the discussion on automatons and archaeology they had begun almost two weeks earlier. Despite being slightly under the weather, Hadley was in good spirits and even told him about some automaton projects she wanted to create in the future. Each word about her future made him want to know more and do more to be a part of her life. All through dinner, the letter had been in the pocket of his waistcoat, but he kept it to himself. Eilian knew how he felt, but they hadn’t known each other long enough for the ever practical Miss Fenice to consider spending so much time with him. With one final, fond look at the missive, he placed it in his desk drawer. There was always next time.

Chapter Sixteen:

A Surprise Proposal

For a month, Eilian carried his arm in a sling, not even taking it completely off to sleep or bathe. A few weeks prior, the gnarled stitches that adhered his skin to the titanium bone were removed, but he had yet to receive the part of his prosthesis that would make it functional. He looked forward to using it, but ever since the procedure, his arm had ached continuously as the withered muscles were drawn back into their original shape. While he wished he could have ridden his bicycle or traveled, the pain didn’t allow him to do much. Lounging on the sofa before the library hearth with a book on automatons, he smiled. The only perk of being so uncomfortable was that Hadley Fenice stopped by at least once a week to take measurements or check on his healing wounds. With each meeting, he convinced her to stay a little longer with a conversation on mechanisms and ancient history or a tray of foreign cuisine he would dare her to try even though he knew it would take very little persuading for her to taste it. Eilian glanced over the back of the sofa as Patrick knocked before opening the door.

“Miss Fenice is here to see you, sir. Shall I bring her here, or would you prefer to meet with her in the parlor?”

“Bring her here please.”

Hadley appeared through the door in a black and white striped walking-suit and black lace gloves. Her intricately braided and bundled carmine hair popped in the absence of color. The dress was impeccably tailored to hug her corseted form, and while it wasn’t in the latest style, it flattered her more than mutton-sleeves ever could. In rebellion of her fashionable outfit was her clunky, well-loved carpetbag hanging dutifully on her arm. As she entered the study, her light eyes ran over the kimono and the curious objects housed within the cases on the far wall before sweeping over the towering bookcases. Finally her gaze came to rest on Eilian Sorrell standing before the fireplace watching her.

“What brings you to my home today, Miss Fenice?” he asked with a grin as he offered her a seat and took the one opposite her.

“Well, I have finally finished your prosthesis, and hopefully it will fit correctly this time. I don’t know what I was thinking before.” She rummaged through her bag, pulling out several long springs, a swathe of suede, and an elbow of brass and leather that ended in a strap. “I should have known when you had the operation, it would completely change the shape of your arm and the old measurements would have been obsolete. I’m so sorry it has taken so long, but I had to remold the entire thing. I hope I didn’t inconvenience you too much.”

“Not at all. I probably wouldn’t have been doing much anyway except sitting around reading or typing, and I don’t need my other hand for that. At least while I have been waiting, my arm has been given the chance to heal more. The muscles are still stretching.”

Hadley stood up and perched beside him to untie the sling that held his new arm. “Good, maybe waiting wasn’t such a bad thing after all. Now, I won’t have to worry about your stuffing coming out.”

The craftswoman supported his metal hand as she gingerly removed the cloth sling. He feared that upon the sling’s removal, his new forearm would be too heavy and would fall straight out from under his elbow, but it held as she unbuttoned his vest and shirt with her free hand. Eilian’s pulse quickened at the brush of her hand against his flesh and at the thought of having a woman so close and so unafraid to touch, and even undress, him. Each time she entered his home without a chaperon or ventured behind closed doors to take measurements, he feared what deceitfully scandalous things people would say about her when all she did was her job and nothing more. She never mentioned it. Either she had learned to ignore their barbs or after learning she did men’s work, there was nothing left to gossip about.

As she leaned back, Eilian looked down at the intersection where titanium met flesh for the first time since the stitches had been removed. It still startled him to see a piece of metal jutting out of the fleshy stump, but to know it ended in a hand that would soon come to life was one of the most beautiful things he had experienced since he came back to England. Hadley drew a long toe-less cotton sock from her bag and worked it over the titanium hand and bone before rolling it up the length of his arm. She then wrapped a piece of suede around the elbow joint for added protection and grabbed the leather and brass apparatus from her chair.

“I almost did not recognize you when you came in,” he remarked as she placed the L-shaped leather piece against his elbow before tightening the laces section by section like a corset. When she looked up at him with furrowed brows, he continued, “I have never seen you dressed so femininely before.”

“Oh.” Miss Fenice glanced down at her outfit as if she just realized what she was wearing. “I usually wear dresses when I’m going out. Men’s clothing is just more practical when I’m working since I don’t mind getting it dirty. I must admit that wearing this makes me feel self-conscious. In recent years, I have grown oddly accustomed to trousers.”

“While trousers probably suit your needs better, you look incredibly beautiful today.”

Her cheeks burned as she smiled. “Thank you, Mr. Sorrell, you are too kind. The dress is old and probably out of fashion, but it’s comfortable to work in, at least when I’m not moving too much.”

Once the brace was secured, she hooked the strap over his shoulder and began to attach the tight springs to the small rings that flared from the wrist of the hand. Threading them through a set of titanium rings and two of brass, she hooked them onto the top of the brace. A set of springs ran up the front of the arm while a second bundle ran down the back in place of the muscles that had been lost to the HMS Albert. The craftswoman fed the battery pack through a hole in the leather before securing it with a snap.

“I brought extra stockings for you since they should be changed daily.” Hadley probed the springs to make sure they were properly secured. As she finally moved away from his side, she explained, “I can always adjust the tension in the springs, but I want you to try to raise and lower your arm.”

Eilian Sorrell tensed his muscles and tentatively pulled his artificial arm up until the cold, hollow fingers brushed his cheek. With a relieved grin, he brought his arm back down until the porcelain fluidly rolled across the trochlea of his humerus. When he looked up, Hadley was smiling at him, holding a battery. Holding his breath, he closed his eyes as she slid the battery into place. This was the moment of truth. Finally he stared down at the clenched hand and commanded it to open. The stiff mechanisms squealed as the fingers bloomed digit-by-digit until they straightened. He held it for a few seconds before his fingers retracted back to their clenched position. With near giddy delight, the Lord Sorrell searched the room for something to pick up before spotting an empty teacup sitting on his desk. Hadley watched from the sofa as he slowly reached out, carefully maneuvering his outstretched fingers until they wrapped around the delicate handle. That charming, child-like exuberance she loved flushed every feature of his face as he picked the cup off the desk, lifted it to his lips, and set it back. Tears of joy snuck from the corners of his eyes as he turned toward the glass cases and stared down at his reflection. His titanium bone had morphed into a real arm, complete with spring muscles that transitioned into brass and leather as it joined with his flesh. He ran his hand over the cap at the back of his elbow, his fingers slipping over the brass plate that protected the delicate joint against impacts.

An elated sob escaped his lips as he settled beside her. “I do not know how to thank you, Miss Fenice. Thank you so much for all you have done.” He smiled, wiping his eyes. “You can’t know how happy I am. What do you think I should I do with my old prosthesis now? I don’t think I’m going to need it.”

“I— I was wondering if maybe I could keep your old prosthesis. It was the last thing George made before he died, but I’m not expecting you to give it to me, I would like to buy it from you.”

He met her pained, blue eyes as they lingered on his arm. “You need not pay for it. I would never charge you for something that is precious to you. I was hoping to donate it to someone who needed it, but I will have Patrick give it to you before you leave today. Would you be willing to stay for lunch? There is something I would like to discuss with you.”

“Of course, what is it?”

Eilian shook his head. “It can wait until lunch.”

As he tried to slip his arm back into his sleeve, the hand caught on the seam, but before he could tug it loose, Hadley freed it. She automatically buttoned up his shirt and vest, just as she had done so many times for George when he was too ill to dress himself. Eilian Sorrell watched Miss Fenice’s eyes glaze as if she had slipped back into another moment in time as she helped him redress. Smothering the throb in his stomach, he thanked her and rang the bell-rope in the corner to signal to Patrick that they were ready for lunch. Even though she knew the way, Eilian ignored his aching muscles and led Hadley arm-in-arm to the dining room. Before Patrick could intervene, Lord Sorrell pulled out her chair and carefully pushed her in, using both arms for the first time in over six months. A grin passed across the butler’s face as Eilian waved to him using his new arm. Even if he couldn’t articulate the wrist, it was still refreshing to be able to gesture with a hand he could always feel but now could finally see. A few minutes after sitting at the head of the long, empty table, Patrick carried out two plates, each with a neatly folded pastry dusted with confectioner sugar. Through the folds of the dough rose the warm aroma of chicken, ginger, and almonds.

With a satisfying crunch, Hadley cut her fork through the crisp pastry. “What exotic dish are we having today?”

“It’s called pastilla au poulet,” he replied as he brought a forkful to his mouth.

She made an exaggerated gasp and playfully scoffed, “Only French today? When I stay to lunch with the Viscount Sorrell, I expect Indian or Japanese food at the least, something that would shock the sensibilities of the masses.”

“Actually, Miss Adventurous, it’s Moroccan, and it’s delicious.”

Eilian watched her from the corner of his eye as she blissfully ate, but when Patrick came in to refresh the teapot, he motioned for him to fetch the letter he left in the hall for Miss Fenice. The butler discreetly slid the envelope under his master’s plate, but as Lord Sorrell turned it over in his hand with a pensive frown, Hadley couldn’t help but notice that it had her name on it.

“What did you want to discuss, Mr. Sorrell?” she asked with hesitant curiosity. Her mind raced through the numerous outcomes of what could be in the letter, all of which ended in disaster.

He opened his mouth to begin but instead handed her the letter. “Here, before I say anything, read this. It has all the particulars.”

With trembling hands, she opened the envelope and unfolded the letter within. Unable to believe the words written in the butler’s hand, she went back and reread it several times. Suddenly, she let the paper drop and stared into his grey eyes with furrowed brows. “Are you serious?”

“Yes, I have been thinking about for quite a while. Actually, I dictated that letter right after my surgery. Will you go?”

“What would I do in Palestine at the dig? I know nothing about archaeology, and don’t the women just stay back in the nearest city and shop?”

He bit his lip as the pain radiated up his arm but waned as he watched the mechanism open and shut. “My plan was that you could go disguised as a man. You could be my artist since I can no longer sketch with my right hand, or you could pose as my apprentice. I thought it would be a good experience since you have never been out of Europe. By being a man, you would be able to explore and travel on your own. The ticket would be paid for, so there is no need to worry about the cost. I know it’s an imposition, but it is about three months away, which would be plenty of time to get your affairs in order if you agree to go.”

Hadley reread the details again. They would leave by airship on the twentieth of August and arrive in Palestine in early September. The freedom to explore and have total anonymity were concepts she never thought possible, and they would always be impossible in London, a place with over five million people where everyone seemed to know each other if not by name then by reputation. Being free for the first time would be daunting, to step into a man’s shoes for maybe months, to step into an imaginary life. She knew prostheses, she knew dolls, but she never knew true freedom. What would people say if they knew? Who had ever heard of a woman dressed as a man, sharing a tent with other men unsupervised?

“I— I would need to discuss this with Adam,” she stammered, swallowing hard.

Eilian’s heart sank. “That’s fine. I wasn’t expecting an answer today. I know you need to secure your business first.”

“That isn’t it. I—” What did it matter if Adam approved? Adam was her twin brother, not her handler, and even if he disapproved, it wasn’t his business. “How long will we be there?”

“As long as you want to stay.”

Hadley considered the possibilities. It was probably a once in a lifetime opportunity for someone like her, and there was no way she could ever plan this on her own. She couldn’t afford to go around the world, and deep down she knew she wasn’t brave enough to go to a place she had never been before by herself. Each time she visited Lord Sorrell, she asked about his travels, and with each story, she felt her heart yearn more and more to see something beyond the familiar binds of European society. He was trustworthy and had never acted inappropriately no matter how compromising the position.

“You know what,” she began as Eilian’s eyes widened with hope, “I would love to go.”

“What about Adam?”

“He will manage. Maybe while I’m away, he will find someone.”

The archaeologist’s body relaxed with a sigh. “Do you need any money to buy a new wardrobe or a trunk for the trip?”

“With two brothers, I have plenty of hand-me-downs to work with, but if I’m to be ready by August, I really should fix that corset.” With a cheeky grin, she knit her eyebrows, squared her jaw, and said in a hearty voice, “Call me Harold.”

Chapter Seventeen:

A Woman in Dandy’s Clothing

Three months flew by for Hadley Fenice, especially since most of her time was spent filling orders in advance and tailoring every scrap of spare men’s clothing she could find. Her brother had given her last season’s outfits even if they were too garish for her taste. She furiously built up their inventory of dolls and automata scenes to ensure that during her trip, Adam would be able to fill almost any order that came in. As she painted the figures within a ballroom scene, she found herself giving one of the men grey eyes and wayward brown hair and his partner blue eyes and dark red hair. Lord Sorrell was never far from her mind. When she wasn’t coated in dust in her studio, she was outside of London, dining with Eilian Sorrell, poring over the books in his study, or walking arm-in-arm through the gardens surrounding his house. To help alleviate Adam’s anxiety about his sister going off with the young nobleman, Eilian invited him over for dinner several times and even allowed him to hunt deer on his property. Finally, he stopped mentioning possible impropriety and only worried about her disguise not fooling the other men at the camp.

It was too late to change her plans of going in trousers as it was the day of their journey and at any moment, Mr. Sorrell’s steamer carriage would be pulling up to carry her to the airship hangar. Adam had already left to go to his job in the financial district, but he had awoken early to have breakfast with her and wish her well on her trip. Hadley checked the house one more time. Her workshop was in perfect order for the first time in years, and her inventory list was left out in the open for her brother to easily find and an extra copy had been left on his desk just in case. The new trunk she had bought for the trip was sitting in the hall, ready for when the viscount arrived. Hadley glanced down at George’s old pocket watch before tucking it back into her blue, velvet waistcoat, but as she looked back up, she was once again startled by her reflection.

Staring back at her was a strangely beautiful young man with cropped henna hair neatly coiffed and held in place with a scant amount of pomade. Despite the long red lashes framing her eyes, they only added a certain allure to her boyish form, one that didn’t differ much from her twin brother. Now, we really are twins. It had been painful to see her long braid decapitated and coiled on the bathroom floor after only two snips, and now it would take months for her to be able to braid her hair again and return to the woman she once was. The most shocking part of the process was seeing how dramatically she seemed to transform into a man once she cut her hair and donned the tailored suit. After months of tinkering, her corset finally flattened her curves and held without blowing open even with the most strenuous amount of movement. The improved design consisted of a tight wrap to bind her breasts while a looser cotton piece encircled her torso, tying down her side. From the front window, she caught a glimpse of the bright red steamer turn the corner, so she grabbed the handle of her trunk and dragged it onto the landing.

***

Eilian watched from the back of the cab as Patrick drove past Baker Street’s storefronts and tube station until they reached Miss Fenice’s lodgings. As they passed the brick facades, he searched for her in her work clothes and newsboy hat but saw only a fop in an azure waistcoat studying his nails. Once the carriage came to a stop, Lord Sorrell darted out to ring her doorbell when he realized the man he took for a dandy was not only toting a large locker but had the same coloring as Hadley but without Adam’s pencil mustache and height. A smirk spread across the effeminate man’s face as he watched the adventurer’s eyes run over him in disbelief. Her clothes had been tailored to give her the illusion of added height, and the motley, flamboyant fabrics not only distracted the eye from any feminine shapes hidden beneath them but made her less than masculine air somewhat excusable.

“What do you think?” Hadley asked as she donned her top hat with a flourish. Her voice was lower and had a hard edge that had been absent the last time he saw her only days earlier.

He couldn’t help but laugh at the thought of the intelligent craftswoman being transformed into a vain popinjay. “I think you make an incredible fop, Miss Fenice.”

“Good, the more feminine I’m allowed to be, the better I will blend. Is it convincing though?” she asked as she gave Patrick a hand loading the laden trunk into the steamer.

“I actually didn’t recognize you when we pulled up.” As they climbed into the carriage, his eyes trailed to the flat spot on the back of her head. “You cut your hair!”

“Well, I couldn’t have a two foot long braid fall out of my hat again, could I? I will admit I was sad to see it go. Is Patrick looking forward to the trip?”

“He isn’t happy to see us go, especially since he likes to keep an eye on me, but he seems content to stay behind in England for a while.”

Hadley peered over the front seat at the butler as he drove toward the distant landing field where half a dozen tiny, silver balloons hovered in the distance. “Won’t you be lonely in that house all by yourself?”

“A little, Miss Fenice, but it will give me and the rest of the staff time to catch up on the housework. In my absence, I’m leaving you in charge of Lord Sorrell’s well-being.”

She grinned. “Those are some big shoes to fill, but I’m honored that you would trust me with your master’s life.”

“Miss Fenice, what am I to call you while we are away?” Eilian asked as his eyes roamed over her close-fitting jacket and lustrously polished shoes.

“I decided on Henry Fox, artist, dandy, and lover of all things beautiful. Hopefully this persona will give me a little leeway in case I slip-up. Harold just sounded too masculine, and I couldn’t imagine calling myself Hadley while dressed as a man.”

***

The Queen Victoria Landing Fields stood several miles outside London on an expansive swath of flat grasslands. The sight was peppered with steel and glass cathedrals that housed the colossal airships beneath their vaults and between their sprawling decorative buttresses. Hadley gaped up at the towering structures, feeling for the first time in her life incredibly insignificant. Patrick and a uniformed porter loaded the trunks onto a brass cart and filled out the paperwork to ensure they would arrive in their proper rooms. As the baggage was rolled away, the butler stared at Eilian and Hadley with doleful eyes.

“Take care of yourselves,” he advised as he squeezed Eilian’s shoulder and blinked away the moisture behind his glasses, “and have a good time, write often.”

“Come here. Do not look so sad, Pat. We won’t be gone forever.”

Eilian embraced his friend before releasing him to allow him to shake Hadley’s hand, but she, too, hugged the sentimental butler. Patrick sealed his feelings away with a feeble smile before heading over to the spectators’ area where he could wave good-bye to his companions with the rest of the families. As they moved forward in the queue, Hadley’s eyes traveled up to the closed wood and metal barn doors that stretched to the top of the cathedral. Each panel had been decorated with braided and trailing vines and lotus flowers. Without steam-powered engines, it would have taken over a dozen men to push open the massive doors. The line of well-dressed travelers rapidly shuffled into the hanger as a uniformed man efficiently checked tickets before allowing them inside.

Hadley held her breath as the porter in a modified bellhop’s uniform glanced down at the tickets and back up at the two finely dressed gentlemen. “Welcome to the Victoria Landing Fields. Please enjoy your trip to the Near East, Lord Sorrell, and enjoy your stay, Mr. Fox,” the man greeted without taking a second glance at Hadley’s disguise.

The terminal buzzed with activity as guests and brass carts pushed by porters hurried past, creating a din in the tile and tin room. The HMS Ramses hung suspended near the massive doors, tethered to the floor by thick, metal cords. As the cargo was loaded onto the airship, the crowd divided into a patchwork of brightly colored dresses and dull, heron-grey suits. The ladies clumped together into small groups as they ambled over to the tea room while their male companions, now free of their charges, fled to the smoking room’s bar to avoid being dragged into the gabbling gossip of their wives and daughters.

“Tea or spirits?” Eilian asked as he watched Hadley’s eyes run between the two very different rooms.

She stared at the brilliantly lit tea room with its full-length stained glass windows of pastel flowers and the painted iron garden tables before returning to the cavernous room beside it whose crushed-velvet furnishings were barely visible through the haze of tobacco smoke. Her first instinct was to have tea since she rarely even drank wine or sherry, but as she looked at the faces sitting at the tiny tables, she realized that there wasn’t a single man there who wasn’t surrounded by women. Henry Fox wouldn’t drink tea with the Viscount Sorrell.

“Spirits, I guess,” she sighed as she headed into the fog. Her lungs seized in revulsion as the pungent odor of cigars and Turkish tobacco. Even though there were only about forty gentlemen in the room, their raucous laughter and alcohol-induced carousing reverberated off the intricately tiled walls to create a gay atmosphere that could only be heard within the confines of the velvet-lined room. She followed close behind Eilian as he ordered her a glass of red wine and whiskey for himself. For the first time since they arrived, she was aware of his metal hand as he gingerly wrapped his fingers around the glass and handed it to her, careful not to break the delicate stem. With his dark jacket and black leather gloves, the artificial hand blended discreetly enough that outsiders wouldn’t notice it.

Swirling her drink idly, she leaned against the bar. “You know, you have never told me how you lost your arm.”

Eilian laughed nervously as he took a long swig from his glass with wide eyes. “This probably isn’t the best time to tell that story.”

“Why? Was it gangrene after a campfire accident?” What could it possibly be? His resistance only made her want to know more. “I had breakfast hours ago, so I’m not going to be sickened by it. Tell me, I can handle it.”

“I don’t doubt your stomach. I—” He sighed. “Do you remember how I told you I once took an airship back home?”

She nodded as she sipped the cloying wine.

“Well, I have never experienced one properly landing.” He watched with a satisfied grin as her eyes bugged at the moment she understood his meaning. “Come on, let’s finish up and get out of here before our clothes start to reek of tobacco.”

He downed his whiskey and ordered another, throwing it down in two gulps. Rather than waste Eilian’s money, she finished her wine but soon regretted it when her head swam. Out of habit, she reached to take his arm, but she instantly caught herself and pretended to swat the lint from his coat. Stepping into the clean air of the lobby, she stared at the mammoth dirigible towering over them, looming like a silver whale that appeared to breathe and bob as the unseen porters moved within.

“Eilian, are we sharing a room or do we have separate suites?” she asked apprehensively, unsure of what the answer would mean.

“Separate, but we share a lavatory. After my first trip, I am much more willing to pay for a decently sized room even if it means sharing,” he explained with a sincere smile. “You should have seen it. I think you have more room on a sleeping car of the Orient Express than you do in one of those cabins.”

Hadley’s head snapped back to the airship as two sets of wooden and brass steps were lowered from the cabin hanging from the mighty HMS Ramses. Descending the stairs was a stately porter in a crisp blue uniform. Once he reached the ground and secured the steps with a resounding click, he blew a piercing gold whistle to signal to the passengers to begin boarding. Eilian grinned as he and Hadley mounted the steps, rushing up to the promenade in order to get a prime spot from which they could wave to Patrick. Within moments, the other passengers filtered in, going either to their own cabins to unwind or rushing to the windows to wave to those they were leaving behind. After the lobby and leisure rooms had emptied, the stairs were pulled in, the bottom level of the gondola was sealed off, and the massive doors creaked open against the autumnal breeze. Hadley stumbled with the dirigible’s uncertain bobbing, but Eilian caught her as the airship was led out of the terminal by a team of men. The adventurers grasped the brass railing as the ship glided over the cheering crowd. Eilian and Hadley locked eyes with Patrick who stood by himself, waving up at them with anxiety barely hidden under feigned excitement. Sooner than she anticipated, they were too high to make out those below. The rest of the guests began to filter away from the windows to find other activities to occupy their time until dinner, but as she finally turned from the massive pane, her eyes met those of a small pack of young women. Their faces flushed as they giggled and looked her over with avid interest.

“Why are they staring at me?” she whispered in Eilian’s ear before checking her reflection in the glass. “Is my disguise that unbelievable?”

Lord Sorrell suppressed his amusement as he watched the silly girls out of the corner of his eye. “Quite the contrary, Mr. Fox. They are giving you the eye.”

ACT TWO:

“To plunder, to slaughter, to steal, these things they misname empire; and where they make a wilderness, they call it peace.”

-Tacitus

Chapter Eighteen:

The Archaeologist and the Hunter

“I know you were upset with that woman at your mother’s party, but you must admit it is dreadfully hot here,” Hadley groaned as she wiped her forehead with her already salt-encrusted handkerchief. After only half an hour of riding through the desert on a mule, she had abandoned her jacket and vest for fear of passing out from heat exhaustion.

“You’re lucky we didn’t come a month or two earlier. Sir Joshua wrote that even the workers who are native to the region were fainting from the heat,” Eilian called from his steed as they followed their guide through the arid landscape.

Since their departure from the airship in Jerusalem, they had taken an incredibly long steamer ride down the bumpy dirt road to the up-and-coming town of Beersheba, which stood in the middle of the desert with only a few sturdy buildings and real roads. Within moments of arriving in town, Yousef, one of the laborers from Sir Joshua’s dig, approached the travel-worn Englishmen with mules to guide them through the craterous desert. She had been told by Eilian, who conversed with the man in Arabic for several minutes, that they would arrive at the camp within an hour. After travelling for over an hour, Hadley wondered if the powdery beige and blue lunar landscape would ever end. For miles all she could see was the crumbly desert sand peppered with scraggly, low bushes and the occasional thorny acacia tree or ibex. As they crested the hill, her eyes fell on a sea of tents fluttering in the sweltering breeze beside a large, square hole carved into the earth. With a sigh of relief, her body sagged, bumping all the way down the gorge.

When the mules reached the bottom of the hill, every turbaned worker snapped to attention and two Englishmen came forward, though the shorter one shouted to the men to keep working. As Hadley realized everyone else was dressed in khaki or white, she suddenly felt very conspicuous in her bold-printed green vest and dark jacket. She hopped off the animal, donning her vest and jacket to hide anything that may have shifted under her corset during the long and bumpy journey before the men reached them.

“Lord Sorrell!” the dark-haired man called as he approached them with open arms and a wide grin that showed off his bright, white teeth. As he grew closer, Hadley stopped working to free her luggage and realized he must have been Sir Joshua Peregrine. He had been the one to yell at the workers upon their arrival, but the archaeologist’s identity was confirmed by his silken, jet hair and sun-kissed skin, which had darkened to a rich brown after months in the desert sun, and strong English cheekbones. Despite being over forty, Sir Joshua appeared youthful in his white seersucker suit with only a few lines around his eyes and strands of grey in his thick hair to give away his true age. “Eilian, it’s delightful to see you again.”

Sir Joshua reached for Eilian’s hand to shake it, forgetting his injury, but with a quick motion, he switched hands and clasped his left instead. “How is the dig going, Joshua?”

“Good, good. Is this the artist friend you wrote about?” he asked as he glanced over Eilian’s shoulder only to find an overdressed gentleman with red cheeks and sweat-flattened hair struggling with a trunk on the back of the braying mule. The man was short but well-proportioned with delicate features that contrasted with the rugged nobleman.

“Oh, yes.” He motioned for him to come over. “This is Mr. Henry Fox.”

“It’s a pleasure to meet you, Sir Joshua,” Henry greeted with a smile as he shook Joshua’s hand firmly as he had practiced on the dirigible. “Eilian has told me only good things about you.”

The moment Henry returned to dislodging his trunk from the side of the mule, Sir Joshua, muttered under his breath, “Did you take out an ad for an artist? He doesn’t exactly seem like the outdoorsy type you are usually friends with.”

“Unhook the belt, Henry,” Eilian called to his companion before turning back to Joshua Peregrine. “Actually, I met him at the British Museum. He was sketching the building’s façade, and I was impressed. I asked him if he had a portfolio because I had a possible job for him. Henry has never been overseas, so he jumped at the chance to go with. Do not be too hard on him.”

“I will try not to, but he is a different story,” Sir Joshua replied as he nodded toward the massive black-bearded man who hung a few yards behind, picking through a box of relics with paw-like hands.

“Who is he?”

The baronet rolled his dark green eyes. “Edmund Barrister, a new major shareholder of our export business. He decided that he needed to come poking around to see how his money was being spent. Mr. Barrister is a dung-fly with a bull’s temperament if you ask me. Supposedly, he made a fortune exporting ivory along with precious stones and metal from Africa, and from what I have heard, he’s a big game hunter. He even personally killed some of the elephants for their tusks. Now, all he does is terrorize my workers, criticize my leadership, and ask me when I am going to find something of value. He acts as if this whole excavation is pointless unless we make a fortune off it. Here, let me introduce you two before he becomes cross again.”

Sir Joshua called for a few of the men to take the steamer trunks to Eilian and Henry’s tent, freeing the artist from his cumbersome task. Henry instinctively stood close to Lord Sorrell as the hulking man approached. His towering frame and ursine torso made even Eilian Sorrell appear petite. The manner in which the poacher arrogantly strutted across the site as if everyone and everything was beneath him put him on guard. His light eyes were emphasized by thick, overhanging brows and weather-beaten skin. When Mr. Barrister reached Sir Joshua’s side, Henry could feel the man’s amber gaze slicing through his form, sizing him up so wholly that he took a particularly deep breath to ensure his derringer was still safely perched between his bound breasts. If Eilian was as fearful as he was, he didn’t let on as he stood with his knees slightly bent and his hands tucked casually into his pockets.

“Mr. Barrister, this is Mr. Henry Fox, our new draftsman. Mr. Fox, this is Mr. Edmund Barrister, one of my investors.”

“It’s a pleasure to make your—” he stammered through clenched teeth as his hand was crushed in his enormous grip, “acquaintance.”

When Edmund finally released him, Henry glared at him, realizing by the subtle smirk and narrowing of his cat eyes that it had been done on purpose.

“And this is Lord Sorrell.”

“I hope you know, Lord Sorrell, your titles are useless out here, outside of the civilized world,” he remarked in a low, growling voice as he ran a paw over his dense but well manicured beard.

Without missing a beat, Eilian smiled and replied with his prosthetic hand proffered, “Lucky for me, I much prefer to be called Eilian.”

The hunter sneered at the metal hand in undisguised disgust. “Is this some sort of joke?”

“I wouldn’t refer to my prosthesis as a joke, but if you would prefer not to shake my hand, then I see no reason for you to do so, Mr. Barrister.” Eilian met Edmund’s eyes, holding his gaze until the massive man muttered something about going out to kill an ibex for dinner and lumbered back to the camp. “Have the workers found anything of interest, Joshua?”

As Sir Joshua opened his mouth, Barrister hollered over his shoulder, “Nothing of value, only a bunch of broken pots and rubbish.”

“What kind?” Eilian deliberately asked while facing the archaeologist and giving the other man his back.

“Amphorae and bowls for the most part.” He lowered his voice. “We also found some Roman coins, but they have apparently gone missing.”

“Who do you think did it?” Henry yawned, the day’s excitement washing over him as a wave of lassitude.

“I have my suspicions. My men may be poor, but they would not steal from me. Eilian, I was hoping you and Henry could inventory everything and make some quick sketches as proof in case anything else should go missing.”

He nodded. “Henry and I will get right on it. I just want to introduce him to the men first and get our trunks unpacked.”

“Don’t be silly. I wasn’t expecting you to start today,” Sir Joshua chuckled as he checked his pocket watch. “The men are due for a break anyway. Why not introduce Henry now, and then we can have a little tea before you turn in for a rest? I know you have had a very long day. Look at poor Henry. He cannot keep his eyes open.”

“Sorry, the heat makes me drowsy,” he replied, mopping his forehead again with his now crunchy silk handkerchief. “That and travel. Sadly, my constitution isn’t accustomed to either one.”

“Within a week, my boy, you will be as accustomed to it as one of the men, I assure you.”

Henry’s polished black boots dulled with each step as he kicked up chalky flakes of stone while following Eilian to the pit. As they drew closer, the occasional keffiyeh bobbed above the lip along with the gleaming edge of a pickax before it dipped back down with a thump. Eilian easily hopped down into the excavation and was greeted by the group of men. A small cheer erupted from the eight workers as they dropped their shovels and picks and called out his name, each embracing him in turn. Henry lowered his body into the pit. His thin legs flailed as he struggled to reach the bottom unassisted. He wiped his dusty hands on his smeared trousers and watched with a smile as Eilian and the men conversed in Arabic so rapidly that what little he had learned on the dirigible was absolutely useless. The cheers of glee soon dissolved into solemn sympathy as they gestured toward his metal hand. With a grin, the explorer rolled his sleeve up to the shoulder and explained to them his entire ordeal. Their soft, dark eyes lingered on the springs and metal of the prosthesis devoid of disgust or apprehension. Their faces lit up as Eilian demonstrated how the mechanism opened and closed without any levers or switches. After a few minutes of conversing about their families and wives, Eilian raised his eyes to see Henry standing near the wall, slightly sandy but smiling patiently with his head cocked to the side.

“This is my friend, Henry Fox,” he explained in Arabic as he motioned for him to come over. “He doesn’t know much Arabic, so please be patient with him and correct his pronunciation if necessary. He told me he won’t be offended.”

The group nodded, and once Mr. Fox was at his side, Eilian continued in English, “Henry, this is Fadil and his brother Jamil, you can tell because they have the same chin. The tall one is Nasir, the short man beside him is Said, and the young one is Ibraheem. The two men with the lovely beards are Daud and Yousef, who you met earlier, and finally, the man with the cleft lip is Mohammed.”

Hesitantly and with measured cadence, the artist greeted respectfully, “Is salām ‘alaykum, fursa sa’ida.”

“Not bad,” Nasir responded in English with a nod. “Pronunciation needs work.”

Henry laughed along with the men. “Shukrān, Nasir.”

Ibraheem spouted something in Arabic that he couldn’t understand, the boy’s juvenile voice cracking with a high note.

“What did he say?”

“He says he likes the color of your hair. Let’s go find Sir Joshua. We have kept the men from their break long enough.”

Using his good arm for leverage, Eilian effortlessly climbed out of the hole, but when he looked back, Henry was still trying to claw his way out until finally one of the men pushed him up by the boot. The unexpected aid made him to land face-first into the dust, but he scrambled to his feet and brushed himself off. From across the camp, Edmund Barrister watched as Eilian Sorrell attentively wiped Henry’s smudged face with the side of his sleeve before leading him to Sir Joshua’s tent with his mechanical arm draped around his shoulders. When they turned, he silently crept behind them, noting how the artist leaned into the viscount slightly with a smile as the taller man opened the flap of the tent for him. The hunter lingered outside the tent until he was certain they had settled in before throwing open the door with thick, knit brows and artificial outrage.

“The men are on break again! Do you pay them to drink tea?” he badgered as Joshua poured coffee from a French press into several porcelain cups.

“As I explained to you last week, keeping your workers happy and well-fed makes them not only more loyal but more productive. Treating them like prisoners doing hard labor doesn’t make them work any harder.” After pouring another cup for Mr. Barrister, Sir Joshua sat in his desk chair and allowed a playful grin to spread across his lips. “Eilian, a little birdie told me that you have a lady friend.”

“Who— who told you?” he stammered, feeling Henry stiffen with alarm beside him.

“I ran into Lord Newcastle when I was in Jerusalem last month, and he told me your mother sent him a letter saying how happy she was to hear that you have taken an interest in a woman living in London. Of course she was worried about scandal since she has no idea who the woman is or if she is properly supervised, but her desire for grandchildren seems to outweigh her apprehension.”

“If you happen to run into my uncle again, you can assure him that the woman is not only virtuous but brilliant and nothing improper is going on between us.” He shook his head. “I never expected my uncle to be such a gossip. How did my mother find out? I have not spoken to her in weeks.”

Sir Joshua took a long sip of the viscous coffee. “You know how upper class society is better than any of us. They don’t do anything, so they have to talk about what others do. Who knows, maybe they pay the steamer cabbies for information.”

With his heart pounding in his ears, Henry choked down his momentary panic and quickly asked in his best tenor impersonation, “Who is Lord Newcastle?”

“My uncle. According to my parents, he was the bad influence that made me desert my duties to the earldom,” Eilian replied with a grin.

Chapter Nineteen:

A Visit from George

“I’m so proud of you,” George whispered without the wheezing echo of his damaged lungs. A wide grin stretched across his countenance as he looked down at her. His freckled cheeks were no longer sunken with disease, and his light eyes shone brightly with vigor rather than fever. She stared up into his face, one that had been so altered from the last time they spoke, but now it had been restored to its original, handsome form. As a tear crept down her cheek, a calloused thumb carefully wiped it away. His deceptively strong hands drew her to his chest and held her close. Over the years of sickness, she had forgotten how much strength the illness had stripped from him. Hadley’s face burned with tears of joy and sadness as she listened to the steady beat of his heart and the rhythmic ebb and flow of air from his lungs with her head pressed to his lean but healthy body.

“I have missed you so much,” she sobbed into his crisp white shirt and vest. “Why did you leave me alone for so long?”

His long fingers ran through her cropped hair as she inhaled his familiar scent of wood-shavings with an underlying hint of metal from his tools. “Because you have been doing fine on your own. That’s what I came here to tell you, you’re making the right decision. You needn’t doubt yourself.”

She met his blue eyes, which crinkled at the corners as he grinned, and studied his face. His auburn hair was coiffed just as it always was before he was ill, and his cheeks and lips were full and flushed with color. With a final smile, she buried her head into his chest and closed her eyes as the linen wicked the dampness that seeped between her lashes.

“Hadley.”

“George?” she peeped as she opened her eyes to find her face pressed into the covers and Eilian Sorrell perched on the edge of her cot.

“Sorry, it’s only me,” he replied softly while rubbing her shoulder. “It’s time to get up.”

Hadley lingered with her head on the pillow, blinking away the pain that followed the disbelief that it had all been a dream. When she first opened her eyes, she was so certain he would still be there, healthy and whole again. She held her breath as the tears threatened to flow, but then she saw his smiling face in her mind’s eye. It was the first time since he died that she had dreamt of him. More importantly, it was the first time she remembered him so vividly. Her daydreams never did him justice and he always appeared dusty as if he was hidden behind a veil, but in this dream, he was as solid as Eilian. More importantly, he was all right.

A shiver passed through her body as she rose to choose a clean ensemble from her trunk and scooted behind the portable screen Patrick had packed for her. The surprisingly nippy desert air and the fear that someone would see her in a compromised state hurried her into clean clothes. With a sigh, she finally raised her eyes only to meet Eilian’s as he stared at her reflection in his shaving kit’s mirror. His grey gaze softened as he frowned. Even if she didn’t say anything, he had seen the tears and heard her cries. Flashing a small smile, she tended to his prosthesis as he shaved with his other hand. After a fortnight on the airship together, Eilian and Hadley had developed a clothing codependence. She affixed the components of his prosthesis while he tied her cravat and put the finishing touches on her outfits.

***

As they walked from their tent to the campfire, Henry couldn’t help but notice the eager exhilaration that permeated every muscle of Eilian’s body, lightening his step and bringing a child-like gleam to his eyes. They passed the turbaned men huddled around the fire, speaking in hushed tones while a pockmarked pot sizzled and sputtered between them, and were about to settle in among them when a bronzed hand jutted out from between the flaps of the main tent and waved for them to enter. Sir Joshua quickly ushered them inside, ranting about sending the wrong message, but Henry barely heard him as his eyes stung from the smoke of the coal-fueled grill in the center of the room. Poking at four slabs of meat like an epicurean Vulcan was Edmund Barrister, who only muttered a grunt of acknowledgement as they took a seat on top of the nobleman’s steamer trunk.

“Did you get a good night’s sleep?” Sir Joshua asked Henry as he placed a kettle directly onto the reddened coals and handed them tin cutlery and plates.

“Better than I expected,” he smiled stiffly, trying to make his jaw appear wide. “I meant to ask yesterday, but what are you actually digging for?”

The artist watched the Anglo-Indian’s hands as he poured each of them a cup of tea. His fingers were beginning to gnarl with arthritis, but his nails were pristine and the skin was less calloused than his own.

“I’m looking for a Roman town that was involved in trade between the East and West. What I would really like to do is show that the empires were much more connected than historians believe.”

As Henry opened his mouth to reply, a hunk of oryx meat was plopped onto his plate and then onto Eilian’s, which nearly fell out of his prosthetic hand from the sudden weight.

“I haven’t found the bullet yet, so you may want to chew carefully. You wouldn’t want to break your pretty teeth,” Mr. Barrister sneered with his eyes locked onto Henry’s.

The two adventurers eyed the meat suspiciously as Henry ripped into both portions with his dull knife, dissecting the steaks to ensure that any bits of buckshot would be found before they bit down. Throughout their lackluster meal, Eilian felt his gaze continually trailing to the flap of the tent. He wished he could be dining among the men as he usually did, joking and telling stories in Arabic, rather than listening to Sir Joshua and Mr. Barrister bicker about who would go to Beersheba to pick up the supplies and mail. When Eilian and Henry finished their breakfast and slipped out, the two men were still yelling over each other.

“Are they always going to go on like this?” Henry whispered when they were finally out of earshot but could still hear the hunter’s baritone voice thundering in the distance.

“I hope not. Let’s just get our job done, so we can go exploring on our own before dark. Grab your art supplies and meet me in the supply tent.”

He nodded and watched Eilian as he walked away, trying to mimic his relaxed gait as he passed the campfire again. Henry quickly retrieved his papers and box of pencils from his trunk before walking back through the aisle between the rows of tents, lifting the canvas flaps until finally he spotted Eilian’s jacketless back as he hefted and shifted small crates. At his feet were two wooden chests the size of hat boxes labeled with artifacts in English, Hebrew, and Arabic, which rattled slightly as his knee bumped against them. The archaeologist sighed and stood back with his hands on his hips before going back to the massive pile of crates filled with canned food and tools.

“Well, this appears to be it,” Eilian explained as he gestured toward the petite packages.

“That is it? Two boxes?”

“So it seems, but the boxes are quite heavy. They are probably loaded with fragments.”

Lord Sorrell carried the artifacts over to a makeshift table and motioned for Henry to take a seat while he perched on a crate nearby. The artist leaned in close as Eilian removed the lid, expecting to see the glitter of metal or beads, but his blue eyes were greeted only with the dingy murk of pottery. The archaeologist pulled out a clay shard and examined it closely, explaining to Henry the subtle ways to tell it apart from Greek or Egyptian pottery and what it possibly contained in ancient times. In his ledger, Eilian scribbled down the notable features of the fragments along with their materials and possible origin before handing it off to his companion to sketch. For several hours, they fell into a peaceful rhythm of productivity that was only punctuated by the occasional scrape of pencil to paper. As he finished the last shard in the box and passed it to Henry, a smile crossed the dandy’s lips.

“I have been meaning to ask, how are you and Patrick connected? You are so in-tune with each other that you seem more like family than servant and master.”

Eilian’s pencil stopped as his face brightened. “He’s like my brother. He actually has worked for my family since he was a youngster, and he has been there for as long as I can remember. If I recall correctly, his father was my father’s butler, but as a boy, Patrick was a footman until I was old enough to have my own valet. The incident that really brought us together occurred when I was eight. My mother told me not to play near the duck-pond behind our house because it was winter, and it never froze all the way through. I was a child, and of course all I wanted to do was go ice-skating, so I did it anyway. Luckily, I didn’t fall into the pond, but the ice broke near the edge, drenching me from head-to-toe. Instead of letting me walk through the house and get caught, Patrick snuck me up to my room through the servants’ passages. He lightly chastised me the whole way, but he got me redressed and presentable in time for dinner without my mother ever—”

The adventurer’s voice trailed off as a bellow rumbled across the camp followed by a chorus of upset voices replying in frantic Arabic. A moment later, a howl of pain sent the artist and archaeologist running toward the excavation. As they entered the clearing, they found Mr. Barrister gesticulating threateningly as he screamed at a cowering Yousef, who clutched his eyes. Placing their bodies between the Arab and the barbarian, the other men had gathered around him and protected him from the Englishman’s shaking fists. They were speaking so rapidly in fragmented English that Eilian could hardly understand them, but it was clear from their abandoned prayer rugs left behind them pointing southeast toward Mecca that something bad had happened. The men parted as Eilian Sorrell approached, allowing him to draw Yousef from the crowd. The Arab’s face and beard were coated in a layer of sandy grit along with his eyes, which burned and watered. With his real arm, Eilian used his sleeve to clean the man’s face as best he could before ushering him off to Henry, who took him to their washbasin to flush his eyes. Lord Sorrell looked from the familiar prayer rug, which was coated in a spattering of sand, to the matching dirt stain on the toe of Edmund’s boot

“What’s going on here?” he yelled sternly over the quarrelling, knowing full well what probably happened.

“We had just started to pray when he came and demanded we stop and go back to work,” Fadil began in Arabic. “Yousef refused and continued his prayers, and despite our protestations, that man kicked sand in his face.”

“What is the liar saying about me?” Edmund demanded as he loomed over the smaller man again.

“I don’t know, Mr. Barrister. What are you saying?” Eilian’s chest tightened when he thought of what had transpired before they arrived. As the blood pumped faster through his body, his hand trembled and his mind clouded until he was seething with anger. “You would punish a devout man for praying?”

“They just prayed a few hours ago! They are supposed to be working, not sitting around all damn day!”

“They pray five times a day, and if you would like to continue to stay at this site, Mr. Barrister, you will need to understand that we allow them to practice their customs freely. Whether you agree with them or not is irrelevant. Joshua left you to manage the dig, not the beliefs of his men. They would have returned to work in a few minutes, and you have wasted more time haranguing them than they would have praying!” Eilian started to raise his hand to gesture but let it fall to his side. “If you have a problem with the men, take it up with Joshua when he returns, but I have seniority here and a larger stake in his company than you. Do you understand, Mr. Barrister?”

He narrowed his eyes. “I will be speaking to Joshua when he returns, you can count on it,” he spat before storming off between the tents.

The earl-to-be sighed, deflating as he felt the men’s dark eyes on him. “All right, prayers, then work, men. Get it done before he becomes unpleasant again.” Eilian looked up to see Henry smiling proudly at him, but as he caught up to him, he steered him back to their tent. “Had,” he whispered, “we have a problem.”

“Are you all right?”

He shook his head as he held up his prosthetic hand, which stood frozen open. “I keep trying to get it to work, but it won’t budge. What if I broke it?”

“We will fix it. I brought my tools and extra parts.”

Henry left him sitting on his cot as he rummaged through his trunk until he found his little toolbox of prostheses supplies, complete with extra batteries and springs, hidden in a biscuit tin. Pulling the battery from the outer prosthesis, he replaced it with another, but it still refused to move. The artist put the old one back in before untying the leather bracer and unhooking the springs. As he removed the flexor coils, grains of the Negev’s sand trickled out of the mechanisms and pooled on the coverlet.

“Here’s the culprit!”

For over an hour, Henry used one of his smallest brushes to carefully sweep away the minute flecks of rock and glass from the wires and conduits within the prosthesis. When the inner workings were no longer gritty, he reattached the newly cleansed pieces. With a thought, Eilian’s fingers stretched and coiled freely once again.

“Thank God,” he murmured softly as his friend began rummaging through his trunk of clothing.

“Eilian, are you attached to this union suit?”

“No, why?”

With a snap, the inventor ripped the sleeve from the undergarment and shimmied it over the prosthesis before sealing the mechanisms off with a black, leather glove. “There, that should keep it out. We may need to sacrifice the other sleeve if this one gets too dirty.”

He smiled to himself. “I think I’m willing to make that sacrifice. Would you like to take a walk to the spring with me? I know it’s early, but we having nothing left to do until Joshua returns and Mr. Barrister probably will not try anything for the rest of the day. A dip in the water may help you get accustomed to the heat.”

“I would like that very much, my lord.”

Chapter Twenty:

A Knight and his Squire

The noise that awoke Hadley Fenice was like nothing she had ever experienced. It was a sound that traveled through the bedrock itself, climbing up the metal legs of her cot until it rattled her sleeping form. Within seconds, she was completely alert, but the noise had stopped and all that was left was the tinkling of debris raining down on their tent. Her wide eyes met Eilian’s as they leapt out of their beds and began getting dressed. She dove behind her screen, quickly tightened her corset, and threw on her shirt and trousers, letting her vest hang loose. By the time she came out, Eilian was already dressed and struggling to put on his outer prosthesis. As she wordlessly slid up the cotton sleeve, fastened the corset-like binding, and attached the springs to allow his arm to flex, he buttoned her vest and neatly tied her silk cravat with one hand. They cautiously poked their heads out of the tent but saw nothing out of the ordinary except for a new crater several hundred yards away from the first excavation.

“What’s going on?” Eilian called out as they approached Sir Joshua, who stood over the new hole shouting directions to the men.

He whipped around with a start. “Did I wake you? My apologies. After a month, you think I would remember that you are here.”

Henry stared into the pit and watched as the men scooped out what appeared to be the remains of a tree stump. A piece of shattered clay was shoveled into a bucket and dumped into a heap. “You used dynamite to remove a tree?”

“It was a very stubborn stump. Plus, Ibraheem has been dying to blow something up.”

“What about the artifacts?”

“We have not found anything in days. Actually, I was meaning to talk to you two about this. Would you be willing to take a walk and see if you can spot any potential sites? I think we have exhausted this one.”

***

Hadley smiled as they walked through the desert plateaus, watching Eilian from the corner of her eye. London didn’t do him justice. The city overwhelmed him, drowning him in its drab colors and sulfurous grime, but in the desert, even beside the towering rocks, he glowed with an unendingly hopeful light she envied. Glancing over her shoulder to confirm the camp was far behind them, she reached out and squeezed his hand.

A wide smile spread across his face as he brought her hand to his lips. “So, Had, are you enjoying yourself?”

“Yes, but I expected an archaeology dig to be more… eventful.”

“They usually are,” he replied as he scanned the desert floor for the shadows of a foundation or a cracked column but saw only the moon-grey ground as a rock tumbled in the wake of his step. “If we were in Egypt, it would be buzzing with activity, but Sir Joshua has had bad luck this time. What do you make of him and his men?”

“Everyone has been very nice to me,” she explained as she let her voice slip back to its feminine tone, “especially the men. They have been helping me with my Arabic, and in return, I have been doing their portraits. I’m not sure how I feel about Sir Joshua. I do like him, but sometimes I feel as if he is searching for something that doesn’t exist. It’s as if he expects to find El Dorado or Atlantis in the middle of the desert.”

“You have to understand that he has worked with some very successful men. It’s hard to work with Heinrich Schliemann and Wilhelm Dörpfeld, and then go off on your own and not find anything significant. It may seem like an odd choice to come to the Negev,” he motioned toward the vast cliffs and empty plains, “but the Israelites have lived here as well as the Romans, Christians, and Muslims, so there is a good chance of stumbling across something of importance.”

She paused in the shadow of a canyon. The warm breeze lapped against her cheek and tousled her hair. Eilian took a long swig from the canteen and passed it to her, but as she brought it to her lips, something fluttered through the wind. Because of its tan hide, it was difficult to discern against the sand, but as it dipped and swooped, she could make out blurs of blue and red on its underside. As the object came to rest on the sabulous floor, she sprinted out to grab it before the wind came and swept it away again. The piece of parchment slapped against the sole of her boot as she caught the corner. Turning it over in her hand, she revealed a painted scene of knights riding into battle. By the time Eilian reached her side, Hadley was already moving toward another floating piece of parchment that had wedged itself under a rock.

“What is it?” he called as he peered over her shoulder at the two columns of neat calligraphy covering the second page.

“It looks like pages from a medieval book. Where are they coming from?”

Eilian watched as another page glided across the plain. His grey eyes traced back its path until they came to rest on a shadowed depression in the rocks. They ambled over to the mouth of the cave, gathering pages as they went until they found a thick, overturned tome lying only a few yards in. Hadley gaped in wonder as she beheld the cave’s interior. The walls were lined with rock shelves filled to the brim with books of all sizes and ages. As she ran her hand across their spines, the intricately carved leather bindings jutted against his palm like knuckles. The room was perfumed with the intoxicatingly musty smell of old parchment and cracking leather, which Eilian had always tried to emulate in his own library. She studied the titles on the shelves. The books were in different languages and ranged from encyclopedias to religious texts and even to works of fiction including La Divina Commedia and The Canterbury Tales. In this sacred glimpse of civilization in the wild, the adventurers could barely speak, and with glances and gestures, they exchanged their awe.

A pebble skidded across the floor as a sharp gasp shattered the silence. Eilian and Hadley looked to each other, and realizing that neither of them had spoken, their eyes moved to the back of the cave. Peering at them through the darkness was a willowy, young girl whose face was painted in a deathly pallor, but her enormous periwinkle eyes glowed as she stared at them in alarm. As Hadley opened her mouth, the girl bolted toward the bowels of the cave, her footsteps echoing through the tunnel.

“Wait! Come back, little girl!” she called as motherly as she could muster through rough breaths as she ran after her. From her thin features, she feared the girl had been lost for some time. “Are you lost?”

“Had, wait!” He tried to grab her arm, but she ran faster than he could as he clumsily avoided the rocky outcroppings jutting up around the well-worn path. “We need a torch!”

Finally, the girl’s ragged breathing grew louder as Hadley eyed her again at the end of a long, narrow tunnel. She tried to call for her again, explaining that they just wanted to help, but the child continued to run like a deer in a hunt. The tunnels grew darker and tighter until her elbows trailed along the edges of the wall, but still she followed the little girl. As she rounded a blind corner, her forehead collided with the unforgiving surface of a stalactite. Eilian cautiously rounded the corner, noting how the footfalls fell away, leaving only echoes and disconcerting silence. His eyes instantly fell on Hadley’s fallen form as she lay in a heap under a low-hanging outcropping. Crawling under it, he rolled her onto her back and gently patted her cheek. A swollen wound over her right brow leaked blood, clotting into her hair and across her eyes.

“Hadley,” he called sternly, remembering James yelling only inches from his face when he woke him after his surgery. “Wake up. We need to get back to camp! Hadley!”

The light patter of feet stirred him, and when he looked up, his gaze met six pairs of light eyes staring down at him as much in fear as in concern. Instinctively, he pulled her supine form closer, cradling her bruised head defensively as the group approached.

***

Hadley’s eyes flickered open. Her head pounded rhythmically as she grew accustomed to the soft, bluish glow of the room. With a start, she realized she wasn’t sleeping in her tent but was lying on a cot in a stone-walled room. As she flew up in bed, her head swam, but Eilian’s gentle touch on her shoulder steadied her, keeping her from smacking the back of her head into the wall behind her. She tried to think how she got there, but her thoughts were fuzzy and muddled. Reaching up with a trembling hand, she touched her forehead. It had swollen into a small egg, but the gash she had received when she foolishly ran into the cavern was neatly sewn shut with silk-like thread.

“Where are we?” she muttered, rubbing away a little dried blood that was still left in the corner of her eye.

“I’m not exactly sure, but I think it’s an infirmary. Where we are, I have no idea.”

She looked around the room and saw that every wall had been tiled with glimmering mosaics of fields and forests like Renaissance murals, and turning her head up, she observed that even the ceiling had been tiled to resemble a starry sky. Scattered throughout the room were several empty cots with only one at the far end of the chamber occupied by a wizened man beneath a pile of brightly woven blankets with what appeared to be his wife dutifully at his side. Hadley stared down at the colorful linen that lay on her lap. It was adorned with an infinite number of tiny arabesques that were so small she could scarcely see where one began and another ended.

“What happened?”

“You were chasing the child in the cave, and you ran headfirst into a stalactite and passed out. The girl must have realized you were hurt because she called for help, and a group of them appeared. They pantomimed for me to follow them, so they could patch up your head. You have only been knocked out for a few minutes. They left after they stitched your wound, but from what I understood, they will be back shortly to speak to us.”

“Are— are we prisoners?” she asked after a moment’s hesitation.

He took a deep breath and sighed. “I don’t know.”

Eilian’s head whipped around as the flap hanging across the wide doorway parted, and three men, four women, and the child entered the infirmary. All eight people were deathly pale with oversized eyes, which ranged from mint green to lilac, but all had milky white hair bound in intricate knots and loops. While each outfit was made of what appeared to be the same silken material, their decoration ranged from plain to highly ornate patterns. Both men and women wore a similar tight, long-sleeved undershirt and hosier under a draped tunic and bloomer-like trousers. The group drew near Hadley’s bedside and began conversing in a melodic language that neither Hadley nor Eilian could place.

The oldest man of about sixty had a long beard that had been intricately braided and shaved to form tight curls and clutched a hefty manuscript and stylus. Speaking to him was the doctor who treated Hadley earlier. She had kind lilac eyes and a sweet voice even though they couldn’t understand what she was saying. To her right stood a tall figure who Eilian had originally mistaken for a man. Her hair was plaited with multicolored ribbons and was so long that it swept the floor as she sauntered in. Beside the male teacher were two women with dirt under their nails and smeared across their cheeks. On their backs were large baskets, one contained what appeared to be kiwis while the other was laden with finger-length crystals. Off to the side, barely noticeable, was a petite woman who bore a striking resemblance to the little girl. She opened a large ledger, looked at Hadley in the bed, and marked it down. Finally, a portly man wearing an apron seemed to call the group into order, and the scholar approached Eilian. He spoke slowly and clearly, but the melodic, consonant-laden language was like nothing they had ever heard.

“My name is Eilian Sorrell, this is Hadley Fenice. We are from England, and we mean no harm,” he replied when the man finished speaking. He then repeated the entire statement in Arabic and added while pointing to Hadley’s forehead, “Thank you for fixing her head.”

The group stared at him and then back at each other before murmuring back and forth. The scholar beckoned for the little girl, gave her an order, and with a smile, she dashed out of the room. After a few minutes of uncomfortable silence, an ancient, bald man with a face as wrinkled as a pug shuffled in carrying a book with a deteriorating leather spine and a crystal on a string hanging from its binding. He smiled as he placed the point of the crystal to his temple. Its inner surface lit up with a point of white light as the tiny black veins within seemed to reach toward his skull.

The old man cleared his throat before pointing to Eilian and reciting, “A knyght ther was, and that a worthy man, that fro the tyme that he first bigan to riden out, he loved chivalrie, trouthe and honour, fredom and curteisie.” He turned to Hadley and continued, “With hym ther was his sone, a yong squier, a lovyere and a lusty bacheler, with lokkes crulle as they were leyd in presse. Of twenty yeer of age he was, I gesse.”

How hard did I hit my head? she wondered as she rubbed her temples. “Eilian, I think their English only goes as far as Chaucer.”

The man’s crinkled face brightened. “Chaucer, yis.”

“We know English but not that English,” Lord Sorrell replied timidly.

The group once again gathered together. The scholar posed a solution, but the imposing woman with the motley braids shook her head insistently, glancing at the adventurers from time to time. After fifteen minutes of heated discussion, the teacher won, and the artist barred her arms across her breast with a derisive sigh. The elderly man who had brought the book pulled a long, scratched crystal from around his neck and handed it to the other man. Eilian’s heart pounded as the man drew closer, clutching the spiked rock. He clenched his eyes shut as the stranger placed it against his temple. As the point touched his flesh, a prickle of electricity arced from the stone and dispersed through his tissues like a bolt of lightning. His body shuddered when the feeling finally dissipated.

“Better?” the man asked as he stepped back.

Chapter Twenty-One:

Exploring Billawra

“Much,” Eilian muttered in disbelief as he stared up at the man’s intricately beaded and braided beard. “Am I speaking your language or are you speaking English?”

“You are speaking Billawrati, but if you’re willing, you could create a crystal to teach us English.”

Eilian looked back at Hadley and found her blue eyes wide and filled with terror as she watched him speak in tongues. Out of his lips came the language of her rescuers with its melodious cadence and drawn out endings that formed arabesques of sound. It reminded her of the Arabic tunes the men sang as they worked, but it also made her think of when she saw Aida and how mysterious the Italian opera sounded when she couldn’t understand the words. The sounds dipped and jumped, but the harshness of the multitude of consonants was softened by the language’s lack of breaks, making it waft through her ears like a song.

She grabbed his sleeve. “Tell them that I’m sorry for chasing the little girl. Thank them for stitching my head too.”

“Would it be possible to teach her Billawrati too? She wants to thank you for your kindness and hospitality.”

Hadley sat perfectly still, her knuckles white as she clenched the blanket between her thin fingers, while the crystal was placed against her pterion. She opened her mouth to speak and couldn’t believe it when the words came out fluidly in a language that only a moment before was completely unintelligible.

“Thank you, for stitching my wound,” she began hesitantly, clasping her hand to her mouth, unsure if the words would keep coming automatically. She turned to the child. “I’m so sorry for chasing you, little one. I thought you were lost.”

The girl of only seven or eight sheepishly scooted behind her mother, peering out at the foreigners with one large eye.

The woman with the ledger laughed softly as she patted her daughter’s head. “We heard a noise that rattled the entire cavern this morning, and I was going to the surface to see what caused it. Mae decided to follow me, but she got ahead of me. Somehow, I don’t think she will be running ahead of me anymore.”

“That scared us too. One of the men in our group blew up a tree with dynamite.”

Silence fell over the group as they looked to each other.

Hadley thought for a second and replied, “Fireworks?”

The group nodded in recognition.

“Why are you in the desert? We thought the nearest settlement was nearly an hour away,” the tallest man asked as he scrutinized their faces and strange clothing.

“We’re archaeologists. We dig up ancient artifacts to study them and learn about civilizations that no longer exist. We were digging on the other side of the plateau, but we did not find anything. We walked this way to see if we could locate any Roman or Byzantine sites nearby.”

“Teak, do we still have those topographical maps in the library?” The feeble gentleman with the tome nodded happily. “Good. If you would like to see them, you can follow me, and I will show you where you can find some Roman settlements.”

Eilian’s eyes lit up at the unexpected courtesy. “Really? Thank you so much, mister…?”

The scholar chuckled as he shook his head. “Pardon our manners, but your arrival has surprised us all. We haven’t had a visitor in nearly two hundred years. The seven of us make up the elected tribunal that governs the city. My name is Neuk, I am the head researcher.” He gestured to the women with the baskets. “This is Eta, the head farmer, and Skean, the head gatherer. You already know Mae and her mother, Paten, our inventory-keeper. You have also met our head physician, Muna.” He moved toward a stout man with a bald head and an apron. “This is Auk, our head craftsman, and finally, this is—”

“My name is Uta,” the tall woman stated with her arms tightly folded across her chest and her light eyes narrowed on his. “I’m the head artist, and you are?”

“My name is Eilian Sorrell. I’m an archaeologist and writer. This is Hadley Fenice. She creates machines, like this,” he explained, holding up his prosthetic arm.

Neuk and Auk drew closer, hesitantly touching the metal and following its mechanisms with their eyes as one would read a schematic. Eilian quickly reiterated what had transpired a year earlier, explaining that his limb had to be removed as it was beyond repair. The men readily asked Hadley about the design of the joint as well as the power source that allowed the hand to open and close. The two men asked question after question, delving not only into its rather elaborate design but into how the materials that were not native to their land were used. Hadley Fenice was in her glory as she explained all the intricacies that went into making it work properly, including Eilian’s surgery and how the spare body parts were used to create an internal harness for the elbow joint.

Both men and women alike seemed interested in what she did with Neuk and Muna jotting down notes, and her sex was never called into question. They were surprised by the piece itself and not that a woman created it. Hadley smiled bitterly to herself. If only the people of England could see her as an inventor rather than a woman who didn’t know her place. A woman who is able to achieve what a man has not is merely a threat to the very fabric of society. She is to be promptly chastised and ostracized until she stays home, shut away like a nun until she is carried off to the grave and beatified with only a memento mori left as a relic to remember her saintly virtue by. Is two hundred years underground all it would take for women to be seen as equals? she mused as she listened to Eilian tell them about airships and steamers. If it is, let London fall into the pits of Hell while we’re gone.

Withdrawing from Eilian’s side, Neuk cleared his throat. “I’m sure you both would like to get back to the surface and continue working, so I will take you to the library to get that map.”

“Why don’t you show them around while they’re here?” Paten piped up as the basket bearing Eta and Skean left without a word. “They’re going to be busy once they go back to their jobs. From what I’ve read about past visits, usually no one comes back here.”

Uta scoffed as she loosened and re-braided a long swath of hair. “We should just send them on their way and have someone bring them the map. What if they won’t leave? We don’t want them knowing where everything is.”

Neuk furrowed his brow at the Amazon. “Uta, we will be hospitable to our guests. These people haven’t done anything to cause us to be so defensive toward them.” He turned back to them with softened, colorless eyes. “If you two would follow me, I would be honored to show you around our city.”

Eilian and Hadley looked to each other as Neuk lifted up the curtain of fabric for them to enter into the city. There was no other choice than to follow the strange people. They stared up in awe, mouths agape, as they gazed up at the vast cavern the city was carved into. The entirety of Billawra sat atop a league-long corkscrew that funneled down into the rock until it hit a large lake at its center, which flowed with canals of turquoise water. Half a mile above the lake was the plateau’s roof. Covering the ceiling was a luminescent fungus that created an eternal twilight in the ray-less cave. Rather than using smoking lamps, the streets were lined with tall, stone poles covered in a fibrous, mossy net that glowed a vibrant blue. As they followed the scholar through the paved streets, Eilian couldn’t help but notice the grout between the tiles glowed dimly just like the lake at the bottom of the pit. Every surface had been buffed smooth and plum unlike the roof of the cavern, which retained its numerous stalactites and natural roughness. The levels of the spiraled city were connected by sets of steps hewn into the rock at every quarter turn, and the buildings were born from the rock with only their great, stone facades jutting out. Their fronts were an eclectic mix of architectural styles ranging from classical Greek and Roman to highly decorative Indian designs and even to the lacy High Gothic.

From where they stood near the center of the helix, Neuk described how the fish and crustaceans that were eaten daily were raised and caught in the water below. The conditions of the lake were controlled precisely to keep the creatures in their optimum environment, and if the temperature or water changed even slightly, they would stop laying eggs until the error was corrected. Near the lake was a large amphitheatre carved in such a way as to have optimal acoustics that carried the hauntingly clear instruments and voices throughout the city. As they stood near the edge and listened closely in the near silence, they could make out the occasional echoing drip of water or the fall of a hammer in the distance, but the thin, ariose melody from below carried crisply through the air, spiraling up to the ceiling where it crashed into the stalactites and died away.

“Why is it so quiet?” Eilian whispered as they passed the Gothic-spired hall where the tribunal met weekly.

“Everyone is engrossed in their work. When your job is your passion, it’s very easy to fall silent as you become focused.”

“No one is forced to do a certain job or inherit a career from their parents?”

“No, the members of the tribunal are the only ones who are forced to take on a certain role. Every few years we cast our votes to determine the ones who are the best scholar, craftsman, artist, physician, farmer, gatherer, and inventory-keeper. We picked our jobs solely on what makes us happy.”

“Money doesn’t influence their interests?”

Neuk hesitated, turning the alien word over in his mind as they mounted the steps. It was a hollow concept. “We don’t use money. We haven’t had any outside groups to trade with in centuries, which makes mercantilism pointless. Money, from what I have read, only causes division in the name of measurable prosperity. We live communally, and everyone contributes to the well-being of the city and each other. We measure our prosperity by how happy and productive everyone is.”

For a moment, Eilian fell silent. The idea that money held no value in their world brought all other thoughts to a halt. The rest of the world would be in chaos without it, yet these strange beings lived in absolute peace. How would his brother and father react to having all they worked for hold no value beneath the surface?

“What about picking up garbage or cleaning the lake for the fish? You know, the unpleasant jobs no one wants.”

A humorous grin played across the older gentleman’s thin lips. “I’m sure in your country you know people who are obsessed with cleaning. We allow them to embrace those tendencies since they are beneficial to the city.”

“What do the artists contribute?” Hadley asked as she watched a group of colorfully dressed young men apply minute mosaic tiles to a wall. Looking around the streets, she noticed most of the walls had been decorated with shining tiles or lustrous murals. Even the organic street lights appeared to have been molded by hands into arabesques and humanoid shapes.

“Artists bring us beauty and entertainment. They put the finishing touches on the city and make our lives more enjoyable. Without their minds, our city would not run nearly as well as it does. They are able to see things differently than our inventory-keepers or our farmers and are able to solve problems and disputes creatively. I assume your society doesn’t reward artists for their efforts?”

Hadley shook her head. “Not really, not unless the art can be sold or someone pays them to create something. Most writers or artists have another job. Actors and dancers are the only ones who get paid, and they are looked down upon for it.”

“Passion makes them disreputable? What an odd world you live in.”

They climbed higher up the corkscrew, passing houses and a school where the children learned the history and customs of their people, a brief history of those on the outside, and more importantly what they were passionate about. Situated a ring above the center was a vast dining hall with hollowed, stone rafters that soared as high as a cathedral’s ceiling. It mirrored a church’s cruciform shape with two kitchens large enough to handle the entire population located in its transepts. The room’s artfully coffered ceilings and walls were dusted with luminescent pigment to create dramatic shadows and highlights, and the grout of the floor contained the same luminous diatoms between the tiles as the road that encircled the city. As Neuk and the Englishmen reached the final spiral, the path branched into six worn and muddied paths that sporadically broke off the ring.

“I would like to show you where we harvest the crystals and other minerals we need, but I think it would be too dangerous for people inexperienced with cave climbing. I’ll take you to our orchard instead.”

Tracing the long, twisting tunnel of mosaic tile, they reached two massive stone doors entrapped in the rock. Neuk pulled a small lever on the wall, and the doors hesitantly creaked open, invading the cold, damp air of the cavern with a balmy, tropical fog. The air rolled past as they followed him inside, the doors softly shutting behind them. The room was lush with great trees and bushes, all flowering with fruit and vegetables. Everywhere they turned, their eyes caught pops of vivid reds and oranges against the brown and green vegetation. Eilian stared up at the ceiling in awe. Tiny shafts of sunlight burned his now unaccustomed eyes as they flooded down from slits in the side and top of the plateau. They started out narrow, but with the aid of mirrors within the tunnels, the sun radiated out, mimicking that of countries near the equator. Men and women carrying baskets bustled about, easily scaling the trees or using long poles to knock the fruit from their canopies. Others carried oversized swabs that they dabbed from plant to plant to help them cross-pollinate and ensure they would bear fruit. Eilian and Hadley looked at each other in disbelief.

“How do you keep it so warm here?” he asked as his clothing stuck to his chest while the heavily veiled workers seemed completely unaware of the stifling humidity.

“We keep the doors closed to trap the steam inside, but the moist air is sent up here by the boilers that heat our ovens and power the kilns.”

As Neuk spoke to a worker to retrieve some fruit for his guests, Eilian drew his lips near his companion’s ear, chilling her even in the heat of the arboretum. “I think we should build a greenhouse together just like this when we get back home,” he whispered as he wrapped his mechanical arm around her shoulder.

Letting her eyes drop, she embraced the flutter at his touch with a rebellious smile. “Yes, that would be a marvelous project.”

***

As they spiraled back down toward the library, neither Eilian nor Hadley could fathom the world they had seen. Hadley sighed. She could not wait to get back to camp to write down and draw all she had seen, but she knew she could never do her senses justice. The library’s entrance was modest compared to the great Gothic façade of the tribunal hall, but past the basilical front was a grand rotunda filled with shelves laden with scrolls and tablets. Littered around them were tables with bright fungal lanterns for the scholars to use. Branching off from the octagonal hall were barrel-vaulted arms that each contained two floors lined with shelves for tomes, books, and folios. Hadley smiled to herself as she heard Eilian gasp aloud. Suddenly his library and all the libraries in England weren’t nearly as impressive. Lord Sorrell suppressed the urge to run through the halls and explore each self. Neuk motioned for them to follow him as he efficiently searched a pile of scrolls under a shelf marked, Roman. Drawing out a long vellum scroll, he checked its contents and handed it to Hadley since holding it required two steady arms.

“You can borrow this and make some notes, but do I have your word that you will return it tomorrow?” the scholar asked sternly as his gaze traveled from one face to the other.

“Yes, sir,” Eilian grinned.

“Very good. I’ll show you back to the surface. Tomorrow, I hope you will bring the rest of your people to the cave entrance around sunset. We will hold a feast, and we hope that you and your companions will tell us more about your country and what has gone on in the world since we last had visitors.”

Chapter Twenty-Two:

Apprehension and Avarice

Eilian beamed ear to ear. In the waning light as dusk quietly descended over the desert, he could barely make out the fluttering tents of the camp. “I’m still not certain if I didn’t hit my head as well. I keep waiting to wake up in the cave and find that this was all a dream. If I had not seen it with my own eyes, I wouldn’t have believed it existed.”

“We can’t be dreaming. They say you cannot feel pain in dreams, and my head is still pounding. Somehow, this,” she paused to touch the already flattening wound, “was well worth it.” Hadley stopped midstride as her mind traveled to the people hidden within the plateau. “Do you really think we should tell Sir Joshua and Mr. Barrister about them?”

“Of course we should. Joshua will be thrilled. What reason do we have to not tell them?”

“I just—” She sighed. “They are just— I can’t put my finger on it, but I worry about Mr. Barrister. He already tried to break my hand and teeth. Imagine what he would do to them.”

He flashed a broad smile. “Don’t worry about Mr. Barrister. Joshua and I will take care of him.”

Through the flaps of his tent and the smoking campfire, Joshua Peregrine locked onto the two sandy figures as they made their way to the edge of the excavation trench. He bolted past the men as they ate their dinner, barreling toward the rogue archaeologists.

“Where have you two been all day?” he demanded reproachfully. “I sent the men out to look for you. We thought you had fallen in a pit or something! Your mother would kill me if any harm came to you on my watch.” When Henry came around to Eilian’s side, Joshua’s eyes fell on the stitched wound before moving to the yard-long scroll. “What is that?”

“It’s a map of all the Roman sites in the Negev Desert,” Henry explained as he handed it to him, “but we have to bring it back tomorrow.”

“Bring it back? My boy, you have been out in the sun too long. Whoever gave this to you must be pulling your leg. If they had this, they surely would have dug up anything of value already.”

Eilian shook his head. “You won’t believe where we got this from. We found people living in the caverns under the plateaus. The city is massive, and every surface glows and is decorated beautifully with tiles and murals. I can’t even describe it to you adequately without you seeing it. The people taught us their language, and what they used to teach us is amazing, absolutely amazing,” Eilian rambled. His mind was filled to the brim with things to mention, but the sights and textures of Billawra were already seeping from his memory.

Sir Joshua raised a thick, black brow incredulously. “Let’s go into my tent, so you tell me about this city, slowly and rationally.”

***

Henry watched in the cramped tent as Eilian animatedly recounted every detail he could remember and some his companion had even forgotten. He loved seeing Eilian’s face light up with excitement, but as he looked at Sir Joshua and Mr. Barrister, he noticed their countenances had darkened with skepticism. The Anglo-Indian had marveled at the map’s detail and even jotted down the location of some Roman sites, but when Eilian attempted to use it as evidence for their tale, Sir Joshua still held that the map was a forgery.

“These people live in peace because they are self-sufficient and don’t rely on outsiders to support their economy. There is no need for war or empires down there as there is no competition for resources. It seems there are no classes or difference between men and women. Everyone lives on an equal playing field, and they flourish under it. I wish England could have even a semblance of what these people have,” Eilian sighed as he finally slid into the folding chair beside Henry.

Edmund scoffed as he meticulously cleaned the barrel of his rifle. “It sounds like these people have no sense. Money drives the world, money drives progress. These people are stuck in antiquity. What they need is to get with the times like the other savages and at least pretend not to be backwards.”

Eilian shook his head. “You have been in business too long to even fathom what a world without money would be like, Mr. Barrister. When you see it, you will understand how much better it is. We are all invited to come to a feast tomorrow, so we can tell them about our world. They have been in isolation for two hundred years, and it seems they are eager for information. I hope you both will be willing to go and at least see how these people live.”

Edmund and Joshua’s eyes met for a moment before the nobleman answered, “We will go. I’m eager to see this discovery with my own eyes. It sounds too good to be true.”

As Hadley followed Eilian back to their tent, she couldn’t help but wonder if telling the men about Billawra was the right thing to do. Something gnawed at her gut as she helped Eilian take apart his arm for the night with tremulous hands, but she couldn’t figure out what about the other men made her so reluctant to let them into the Billawrati’s world. From the moment she arrived at the camp, Edmund Barrister had put her on edge, and her woman’s intuition, as her cousin called it, screamed to her that he was dangerous. Maybe it was because he was holding that gun, she told herself as she mechanically changed behind the screen and climbed into her cot. No, the realization hit her as she stared up at the tent’s canvas ceiling, unable to sleep, he has eyes like a predator. Hadley remembered seeing the tiger at the London Zoo with her brothers and feeling her pulse quicken as the massive Bengal cat roared and pounced at the visitors with only iron bars between them and his massive jaws. Despite all her clothing and padding, she knew he could smell her fear and sense the moment, as he locked his dull, yellow eyes on her, when her adrenaline stirred. To Edmund, she was prey, and it didn’t matter if she was a man or a woman because in his eyes she was the weakest one in the desert. If anything went awry, she knew she needed to be on her guard because he would go after her first.

***

The clouds above the Negev were dyed pink and blue as the four men made their way, scroll in hand, over the darkening hills and valleys toward the cave of books. Edmund walked with his arms folded across his ursine chest and a deep scowl etched into his countenance as Eilian politely knocked on the wall of the cave to signal their arrival. His thick nose crinkled as he sniffed the mildew-ridden air of the cave and indifferently kicked a fallen tome out of his way with a loud thunk as it ricocheted off the cave walls and skittered down the tunnel. Through the dim light of the cave, an orb loomed in the distance. It bobbed and swayed, growing larger until the fungal lantern was near enough to reveal Neuk’s tall, willowy form. In his other hand was the book the hunter had carelessly kicked, and as he placed it on the shelf, he turned with a smile to Eilian and Hadley.

“Welcome. I see you have brought your companions,” Neuk greeted them with a nod as he looked past Eilian and studied the two strange men gawking at him.

“Yes, this is Sir Joshua Peregrine, and this is Edmund Barrister,” Eilian replied in Billawrati as he gestured with his prosthetic hand toward each man respectively. He glanced over his shoulder and noticed how taken aback his friend appeared while Edmund feigned disinterest by staring at the spines of the books. “It’s an honor to be invited back to your beautiful city, Neuk.”

“It’s our pleasure. We are eagerly awaiting news of what has come to pass for the last two centuries. Ah, I see you have brought back the scroll, splendid. Please tell your companions to mind their heads as we descend. We wouldn’t want them to end up in the infirmary.”

Hadley moved closer and whispered into Neuk’s ear, “Could you please refer to me as Henry? That’s what they know me as.”

The scholar furrowed his brow in confusion but after a moment nodded and motioned for them to follow him down the corridor. Eilian and Hadley easily kept up with Neuk as he bent and slid through the narrow openings in the rock while the other Englishmen lagged behind. Edmund grumbled obscenities under his breath as his bulky frame scraped against the rocks and barely squeezed through the fang-like stalactites. Despite Neuk being several decades older than Sir Joshua, the Anglo-Indian was reminded of the stiffness of arthritis in his knees and back as he lowered himself onto the lower ledge. His knees popped in protest, and he wondered how the old man could still manage to slide and twist through the caves with snake-like agility. As Edmund roughly dislodged his shoulder from a crevice in the rocks, he watched as Henry gratefully took Eilian’s arm as the nobleman easily swung the boyish dandy down to the lower stones. The rough rocks soon gave way to a series of polished steps and finally a tiled path. After another quarter of a mile, the tunnel opened into the hall Eilian recognized as the one that led to the orchards and mines. At first, his companions seemed to be more agitated by the difficult descent than in awe, but as they were led around the curving path, their eyes widened in shock.

Sir Joshua’s heart pounded in his ears as he looked at the buildings all around him, grasping to fathom how vast the city was. His eyes didn’t know whether to study the houses or the mosaics first because his gaze was constantly pulled to the dull, blue glow which seemed to emanate from every surface. How had he missed this? A find so massive had been right under his nose the entire time, and he didn’t even know it. Edmund snorted at the gaudy houses and the floral decorations soiling every surface. The air stunk of fish, and when he moved closer to the luminous columns, he realized to his disgust that they were made of fungus. Of course the savages would use things that live off excrement as decorations, he thought as he once again skulked behind the nobleman and his popinjay. Joshua had talked him into going on this wild goose chase by reminding him that the natives might have something of value stored away, but thus far all he had seen were fungi and rocks.

The hulking man stiffened as they entered the banquet hall. Hundreds of eerily pale eyes fell upon them. He found their hideously white and nearly translucent skin repulsive, but what disturbed him most was how civilized they were. They were sitting at tables with cutlery and plates like a European, but they wore bizarre clothing and lacked all pigment except in their saucer-like eyes. The Billawrati all looked the same to him, causing them to blur into disorienting doppelgangers of each other. The hunter swept his head back and forth as they were ushered up to the head table, and as Edmund took in each person, he realized the creatures weren’t hiding anything of value, they were wearing it. Wrapped tightly around their bodies and draped over them in lavish patterns and colors were long bolts of silk that radiated a pale light. What wealthy lady wouldn’t empty her husband’s purse for a glowing, silk gown? He smirked as the calculations added up to a sum rivaling that of his ivory transactions. Men only needed so many billiard balls or decorative guns, but high society women would always be in need of new dresses.

Chapter Twenty-Three:

Ill-Mannered Guests

From the long table at the front of the hall, Eilian looked out at the crowd of ivory faces as the Englishmen and the Billawrati regarded the other with curiosity. He estimated there were about seven hundred people living in the city, and everyone, young and old alike, had come to the banquet. The stone tables ran the length of the room with four arranged lengthwise and a much smaller one sat at the front like an altar. Each table had been laid out with motley platters filled with what the archaeologist assumed were chutneys, bread, fish, crustaceans, along with fresh fruit and vegetables. His mouth watered as his grey eyes travelled across the plates on their table. After weeks of eating out of jars and cans with the occasional goat or deer, the succulent fish and vibrant fruit was more than he could have wished for. When away from home, he missed Patrick’s cooking more than he missed his own father.

Eilian sat beside Neuk while Hadley was on his left next to Uta, who appeared as equally aloof as she did during their first visit. Sitting farther down the table between Auk and Skean were Sir Joshua and Mr. Barrister. Once the room grew quiet, Neuk stood and addressed the congregation. Barely raising his strong voice, the chamber amplified the sound and allowed it to easily travel the entire length of the space without becoming muddled in the subsequent echo.

“People of Billawra, today is a special day in our history. For the first time in two centuries, we have been graced with the presence of those from the surface. While they are here, we will treat them as our own, and with an exchange of cultures, we will learn from them and continue our path toward happiness and knowledge. I would like you to welcome Eilian, Henry, Edmund, and Joshua to our fair city. My greatest hope is that these intrepid travelers will share with us all that the world has learned and teach us the ways of their people. Before we amass two hundred years of missing history, let us enjoy our feast and entertainment.”

Cheers of assent erupted from the crowd as Neuk sat back on the carved bench that seemingly grew out of the floor. As the scholar turned to Eilian, he found the archaeologist translating his welcome speech to the other men. He reached into his cloak and drew out the old, scratched crystal, gently pulling its antique chain over his naked head. Inside the off-white quartz were dark, dendritic veins with flared fingers that reached out toward the apex. Neuk drew closer to the massive man and his bronzed companion, handing the smaller man the gem while pantomiming for him to put it against his temple. Eilian explained it to them in their language, but when the tanned man put the tip to his temple, the scholar could tell it would not work. Neuk could see the hesitation and disbelief in his eyes as he awkwardly held the point to his head as if it was a gun. After a moment, he shrugged and handed it to the bulky brute, who turned it over in his hands, looked through its core, and moved to put it in his pocket. Before the scholar could react, Eilian stuck out his hand to retrieve it. His metal fingers closed around it as he handed it back to Neuk with downcast eyes.

“I would like to apologize for them,” he muttered, his cheeks reddening from their rudeness.

“It’s quite all right,” he replied with a sigh as he slipped the pendant back on. “Not everyone can accept knowledge this way. You need a very open mind.”

Uta leaned closer to Hadley and whispered into her ear, “It really isn’t.” The red-haired woman looked at her as if she didn’t understand, so she continued, “It’s a grievous breach of manners. To not take knowledge that is freely given to them not only shows arrogance but ignorance on their part. If they weren’t guests, they would be severely chastised for it.”

“Truth be told, I’m glad they did not learn your language. I like being able to speak freely without worrying about them overhearing.”

“Does this have something to do with your suddenly gruff voice?” Uta asked off-handedly as she passed her a plate of blue shrimp.

She nodded as she happily filled her plate. “They don’t know I am a woman. Back in England, women and men are not equals. Women stay home all day and clean or take care of the children. Most of the time, they are not allowed to have jobs or go anywhere by themselves.”

“Why?”

Hadley paused as she thought of the Harbuckles again. “I honestly don’t know. It’s in the Bible, I guess. They don’t think women are as capable as men, and that is how it has been for… forever. I pretend to be a man because I want to be able to do things and experience things for myself.”

“If your friend knows you are a woman and doesn’t mind, then why not tell the others? Prove yourself by doing as much as them, and then you can show them that women are just as competent. All they need to do is look next to them to see women like that.”

“Those two will never believe it. They like women being helpless and want to keep them in servitude. For each shred of evidence we have, they will find a way to dispute it,” Hadley sighed but ended up smiling as she watched Eilian discuss history with Neuk between voracious bites of fruit and fish.

Uta looked past Eilian and shook her head. “Ugh, look at them! They have no manners.”

Hadley frowned as she watched Sir Joshua dissect his food like it was laced with poison while Edmund just sat with his arms folded, not even touching his plate. She opened her mouth to chastise Joshua and remind him that it was the same prawn they would find in England only a different color when music erupted from the rear of the hall. While she couldn’t see the instruments because one of the long tables obscured her view, she could hear drums and something between a flute and a clarinet. Upon listening closer, she realized what she had first thought was a violin was actually several people singing. For the first time, a wide, bright grin spread across Uta’s face, dissolving her hard exterior.

A troop of nine dancers silently strutted into the open space between the pairs of tables with long, confident strides. Both the men and women wore only their skin-tight under-silks, but covering the black and white striped fabric were necklaces and earrings of luminous shells. The woman who stood in the front wore several strings of shells that wrapped around her legs and arms like tiny pearls. She was petite compared to Uta, but her body was powerful. Her taut muscles rippled beneath the tight fabric. As the music picked up, they began their dance, starting slowly and gracefully with outstretched arms and legs. The fair young woman’s face was painted with passion and longing as she leapt and spun to the music, moving in time with her fellow dancers but possessing a mysterious charisma the others lacked. She pulled them in with her fluid movements and expressive blue eyes.

It was unlike any dance Hadley had ever seen in England. The dancers she had seen in operas or ballets were stiff and mechanical by nature with clenched muscles and at times blank faces, but with unbridled emotion, the dance connected to her on a level she had never experienced before. She longed to reach out to them and be pulled into their dance until she heard male voices. Glancing over, she found that Eilian was as enraptured as she was, but Sir Joshua and Edmund were brazenly talking to each other. Hadley could barely hear them over the music, but her eyes widened with disgust as she suddenly understood they were discussing the lead dancer’s body. When she turned back to Uta, Hadley saw that she, too, was glaring at them menacingly. Finally, the music reached a crescendo, and the dancers dramatically dropped to the floor.

As the crowd applauded, the dancers helped each other up, panting and wiping the perspiration from their brows. The lead dancer pranced over gleefully and embraced Uta. The Amazon kissed her dancer’s flushed lips and hugged her close again before moving down to allow her to sit on the bench beside her.

“You danced beautifully,” Hadley complimented with a smile as she looked past Uta to the shorter woman.

“Thank you,” she panted as she loaded her plate with a colorful chutney while Uta added a portion of fish. “My name is Kae. Uta told me yesterday that your name is Hadley. Your hair is an even lovelier shade of red than Uta said.”

“Thank you. Are you two sisters?”

The women laughed softly. “No, Uta’s my wife.”

Hadley paused for a moment, she had never heard of such a thing. “Women can marry other women?”

“Of course, and men can marry other men.”

As the craftswoman listened to the others speaking around her, she faded back into her own thoughts. England was nothing like this. In London, others had mentioned women who loved other women, but it was said with a vulgar phrase as if their feelings were something repulsive. Uta and Kae’s kiss didn’t seem any less chaste than one between a man and a woman. Men who loved men lived on the fringes of society and were taken to trial if caught, but she never understood why it mattered to the police if biblical morality was enforced behind closed doors when murderers and rapists were on the loose. Her eyes ran from each table, taking in the happy, animated faces. No one was destitute, no one’s mind was left to rot on the vine, and no one was told that love was impossible. While it depressed her to know that she had to go home to a place where no one would ever be appreciated for who they really were, it gave her hope that one day it would be possible. A voice down the table broke through her thoughts.

“Eilian, could you ask them if they would show us how they make their fabric?” Sir Joshua asked slowly as he pushed his food around on his plate and eyed the black and white silk draped around Kae.

***

After dinner was over and the other Billawrati had gone back to their homes, Neuk and Uta guided the archaeologists through the helical caverns to a room guarded by a stone door with a carved relief of what looked like a butterfly. The two lanky chaperones pushed back a thick net before allowing the Englishmen into the muggy, steamy room. Slouching mulberry trees lined the walls, like the orchard they had visited before, but out of the corner of her eye, Hadley spotted a white blur flying toward her head. She stifled a shriek as the massive moth buzzed her head before disappearing into the copse. Eilian laughed under his breath as Hadley glared at him from the corner of her eye with an abashed smile. As Lord Sorrell stared at the moths fluttering through the canopy and the long, albino larva inching up the oversized trunks, he realized they must have been some sort of mutant silkworm. They were identical to the ones he had seen in Asia, but the mature moths were nearly the size of his head.

“How do they get so big?” Eilian asked as he ducked to avoid another renegade insect.

“Our people have selectively bred them for centuries. With the artificial warmth, they breed all year long, so we have enough thread for our weavers to make fabric consistently. I would show you where the weavers loom the fabric, but everyone has returned home for the night. You should return to your camp as well before it is too dark to see.”

As they were led back to the door, Eilian watched Sir Joshua slip something white into his pocket when Neuk’s back was turned. Lord Sorrell followed close behind the scholar, trying to pretend that he hadn’t seen anything to keep from having to shame his friend in front of the tribunal members. On the long, winding walk back to the surface, he couldn’t help but dwell on how poorly they behaved and how they embarrassed him at dinner. He had watched Joshua be pulled into Edmund’s antics, copying him instead of acting like a gentleman and giving the Billawrati the respect they deserved. They don’t respect these people. They didn’t even want to get to know them at all, he thought sullenly as his excitement finally dissolved into emptiness. Edmund and Joshua were indifferent to all he loved and marveled. It hurt to know that he had come all the way to Palestine to do something he enjoyed with someone he thought was his friend only to find out that he was not the person he seemed.

Neuk meandered through the tunnels until the cool night air began to stream through the shaft, gently ruffling his hair and tunic. Using a match and a makeshift torch of wood and cloth he had left behind when they arrived, Sir Joshua prepared to lead them back to their camp when Eilian and Hadley were pulled aside by Neuk’s spidery grasp. The older man knit his brows and glanced back at the other men at the mouth of the cave.

“I wanted to let you know that you two are welcome to come back whenever you would like, but we would prefer it if your friends didn’t come without you. We have reason not to trust them after the way they have acted, and until they can exhibit self-control, they can’t be permitted into Billawra unsupervised.”

Eilian nodded. As much as he hated to admit it, he wholeheartedly agreed. “I understand and respect your decision. I will tell them when we get back to camp. Take care of yourself, Neuk, and thank you once again for your hospitality.”

Chapter Twenty-Four:

Understanding Women

The men were all asleep by the time they arrived back at camp, and although it was very late, Eilian could not yet go to sleep. He lingered at the flap of his tent, watching as the lamp illuminated Sir Joshua’s tent, silhouetting his form as he busied himself at his desk. By the loud snoring, he could tell Edmund was already asleep.

“I will be right back. I need to speak to Joshua,” he whispered to Hadley as she began to disrobe behind her screen.

Hadley nodded as she slipped her pajamas and robe on, but she wished he would have stayed until she was asleep. His presence during this daily period of vulnerability always gave her some semblance of protection from the others, who might intrude and discover her secret at any moment. Without looking back, Eilian slipped out and knocked on the support pole before entering the neighboring tent. Joshua glanced up from his desk with wide eyes as he quickly slipped something into his coat.

Eilian crossed his arms while the other man fidgeted and tried not to appear startled by his sudden appearance. “Is that the cocoon you pilfered? Did Mr. Barrister tell you to take it?”

He pulled out the large wad of silk and fiddled with it on his desk. “If you knew, then why did you ask?”

“Because I wanted you to know that I knew what you did. Now, I want to know why.”

“I needed something to prove that Billawra exists. This may be enough to convince people that they exist.” Joshua smiled to himself as he turned the fuzzy shell over in his hands. “This could be my big break, Eilian. This is the kind of discovery that puts your name in the history books. Just imagine what the officials will say when they go down into those caves and see what has been under the Negev for centuries, and the best part is no one noticed but us.” His voice rose with excitement as his eyes trailed off to some unseen panel of officials. “The first thing they will say is that I’m lying, but no one will be able to call me a fraud when they see all those buildings down there. There is no way I could have dressed all those people up or forced them to build those structures. We could lead tours from Jerusalem to their city. We will make a fortune off journeys to the Lost City of Billawra.” When he saw Eilian’s brows still knit in disapproval, he continued, “Of course we would give them a share of the profit to boost their economy and pay them for their troubles.”

“Joshua, they don’t want an economy like that. These people want to live in peace and prosperity without our interference. Do you know what a boat-load of foreigners traipsing in and out of their city would do to them? They are people, Joshua, not a sideshow,” he hissed, keeping his voice low as not to rouse the brute across the aisle from his slumber. “They aren’t pyramids, they aren’t ruins, they are people.”

He shoved away from his desk and glared up at him. “Why do you care so much about these creatures, Eilian? You know that your name would go down in history as well.”

“I don’t want my name tied to ruining a people whose society I admire.”

“Admire?” Sir Joshua scoffed. “Eilian, they are natives who live underground like moles and are too good to associate with the outside world. Look at how immodestly they dress in those tight clothes. Natives in Africa wear more. Some of them are even in unnatural relationships. They have no morals, and on top of it all, they are practically Marxists. I fail to see what you find so redeeming about them.”

“How can you judge them after being there for only two hours?” Eilian yelled but quickly lowered his voice again. “Those people are, for the most part, happy with their lives. They can do any job they want, and no one’s life is wasted. There are no classes to hold them back, no restraints on their potential.”

“You do realize that if you lived there, you would be the same as everyone else?”

“In the eight years you have known me, have I ever expressed that I would refuse to be anything but upper class? Have I ever said that I wanted my father’s title?”

“If your father didn’t have money, would you be here right now?” He locked his green eyes onto Eilian’s, holding them until finally the young man faltered. “No, you would be some working class drudge like everyone else, and being an archaeologist wouldn’t even occur to you. If you weren’t upper class, you most certainly couldn’t afford that,” he retorted, pointing to the clenched titanium hand, “so don’t act like you are an advocate for the poor.”

Eilian took a deep breath, desperately trying to squelch his anger. “I never said I was, but I think everyone deserves a chance to prove themselves, regardless of class or sex. Did you notice the women have jobs too? If you had actually tried, you could have spoken to them, and I know you would have seen how good it is for them to do something for themselves and actually use their minds.”

“I pity those poor creatures, forced to work like slaves without even getting paid. Do you honestly think women want to work?”

“Some do. I know a very brilliant woman who would love to work like her brother does. She is intelligent and talented, but in London, her gifts are wasted. In a society like this, she could flourish.”

“You obviously know nothing about women. Women want to stay home and live a life of leisure while we work to provide that for them. That is the natural order of things. Their minds aren’t made for taxing work, and I’m sure those women down there would give up their employment in a heartbeat if some man offered to pay their way. Personally, I have never met a woman who wanted to work.”

“The woman I’m courting would give anything to be allowed to work and prove herself.”

Sir Joshua scoffed and turned back to the papers on his desk. “She probably just said that to make you think that she was not after your money.”

He opened his mouth to say something, but the sharp pain radiating down his arm stifled his rage. “I wish I had never told you about the Billawrati.” Snatching the cocoon from Joshua’s hand, he flung it to the other side of the room where it hit the canvas and slid to the dust. “Neuk wanted me to tell you they don’t want you or Edmund to come back without me or Henry supervising you.”

“Honestly, Eilian, I couldn’t give a damn what the Bill-whatevers have to say about me.” Joshua smiled bitterly between jotting down notes. “When is your return flight to England?”

“The ticket is good until the end of the year.”

“You may want to use it sooner than later.”

Lord Sorrell stepped back toward the tent’s flap but snapped, “I’m glad that I told you about the Billawrati because now I have seen who the true Sir Joshua Peregrine is. Do not think you or your goon will be able to scare me off. I will not let you ruin these people.”

Without waiting for a reply, he stormed back to the larger tent. As he entered, Hadley’s sympathetic gaze peered up at him from the covers of her cot as she sat with her hands folded. His anger was spent, but the fatigue of battle sent bolts of lightning down his titanium arm and caught his breath.

“I’m so sorry, Eilian. I heard the whole thing. Are you all right?”

With a sigh, he ran a trembling hand through his hair before dropping onto the bed beside her. “I don’t know. He made me so mad that my arm started to act up again.”

Her eyes sagged as she reached out and gently tugged his Norfolk jacket off his back and over his arms. “Your nerves haven’t acted up since we were on the dirigible.” She sighed as she hesitated upon seeing him in his shirt sleeves, which clung to the muscles and scars of his breast even in the cool midnight air. “Don’t let him get to you. Joshua is just hoping he can make you back off, so he can get his way. You’re doing the right thing by standing up for these people.”

Eilian stood up to change behind the screen, but when he looked back into her bright blue eyes, he couldn’t help but feel a little better. Never had he thought he would ever find someone who would not only be his friend but wholly command his respect. The more he knew about her, the more he admired her intelligence and boldness, which, in a woman, only made her more attractive in his eyes. The archaeologist loved seeing her at night when she finally was able to let her guard down just enough to transform back into the woman he remembered spending time with in his library during his recovery. Even with her cropped hair and men’s wear, she was a striking figure, especially because her red hair contrasted so heavily with the desert’s dusty complexion.

As he came around the partition, he began untying the outer corset of his prosthesis but left the sleeve and springs to Hadley. Eilian perched on her cot and laid his prosthetic arm across her lap. Holding the warm, mottled flesh of his shoulder, she gingerly rolled the stocking down to reveal the inner workings of his arm. Something about their nightly ritual made the blood flush Hadley’s cheeks and breasts more than when he stood behind the screen between frocks. The most vulnerable part of his being was exposed with each piece of leather that was neatly untied or spring that was freed from its eye. She gazed down at the union of man and metal and traced the circumference of the bone with the tip of her ring finger. The breath hitched in his throat as the light tickle was crushed beneath the cramping in his unseen fingers. Taking the jar of petroleum from the nightstand between their beds, she massaged the ointment into every inch of scarred skin. When his muscles tightened and his inhalations sharpened, she pushed harder, kneading him until all thoughts of Joshua Peregrine and Billawra melted away.

“I hope you know I genuinely like you. I’m not sticking around to improve my station. My business has brought in plenty of money,” she whispered as she rested her head on his shoulder and placed her hand in the palm of his prosthesis.

“I know that, Had. He was only saying that to goad me into leaving. If he knew you, he would never say such horrid things.” He paused, unsure if he should say what popped into his mind or just let her go to bed. “How much do you like me?”

“I like you very much. You are very kind and obviously generous. Not many people would pay for a stranger’s trip to Palestine.”

“You aren’t a stranger to me.” Eilian stroked her hand, before taking it wholly in his left. “Would— would you ever be willing to spend a lot of time with me?”

Hadley chuckled. “I thought I already was.”

“I mean permanently,” he murmured finally looking into her eyes.

“Do you really mean that?” She searched his face for some hint of dishonesty or mockery but found only his usual sincerity. “Why me? You could have any high society woman you want.”

He shook his head. “I don’t want a noblewoman. I want someone who will get her hands dirty when necessary and travel with me. I want someone who is an equal, who will listen to me and see the flaws in my plans and be willing to telling me so. Someone who uses her head for more than displaying hats, someone who likes me for who I am and not what I am.”

The young woman sat beside him stunned, feeling her heartbeat echo through his flesh before pulsing back through her own. Her eyes burned. How could he ask the impossible? “Will you still feel this way when we get back to England and see all those people your parents are friends with? What would your mother and father say about this? They won’t approve of someone like me. Women like me aren’t the wives of earls.”

“You know I don’t care about what they have to say about us.” Eilian’s cloudy eyes widened as he wordlessly pleaded with her and held her hand tighter. “From the day I came to your workshop, I have worried that you would one day be married off to some tyrant who would squash your dreams and make you give up everything under the guise of love or motherhood. I promise I will never keep you from your work, and I will never stake any claim on your money or property. If need be, I will draw up contracts.” His face fell and his eyes stung when he thought of her hypothetical future. He knew better than anyone what it is like to have others desire you to give up everything you love to be the person they expect. “I can’t stand the thought of someone making you miserable for the rest of your life. Hadley, if I make you miserable, please tell me, and I will never mention any of this again.”

“Eilian,” she comforted as she cupped the faint scar that trailed up to the end of his jaw and turned his face to meet her gaze, “you have never made me miserable. I don’t want you to make a mistake. Your intentions are very noble, but is it really what you want? If you are trying to protect me, I want you to know that I can hold my own against pressure from other men. The bottom line is, I know what my feelings are, but I have to know if you are being practical or if you really love me.”

“I really love you.”

Chapter Twenty-Five:

The Memory Chamber

Eilian drew in a deep, calming breath as he stared up at the ebony ceiling of the memory chamber. For the first time since Hadley bumped her head, he was uncomfortable in Billawra. The absence of all ornamentation and glowing diatoms or fungus between the tiles made the room feel more like a tomb rather than one of the most paramount rooms in their society. The memory chamber stood in the furthest corner of the library, far from the echoing bustle of the city’s central spire. The archaeologist reclined in the only piece of furniture in the room, which was an oversized, overstuffed, black chair that kept his body in a relaxed position while holding his head stiffly straight within a series of thin, iron rings. With a pang of panic, he wished he had asked Hadley to accompany him. Somehow she always knew the right thing to say to calm his nerves. Straining to see out of the corner of his eye, he watched Neuk move through the near darkness beside him as he fiddled with something below the arm of the chair. As he was about to look away, a copper rod sprang up. The scholar directed its empty arm until it pointed toward the younger man’s skull.

Neuk affixed an unblemished crystal within the metal arm’s grasp. “We’re nearly ready.”

“How does this work, Neuk?”

“Memory conveyance is a very simple process and is completely painless.” He smiled up at him, noting how Eilian’s hand quivered almost undetectably against the armrest. “All you need to do is think about speaking English, and I’ll do the rest. The crystal will be directed toward the parts of your brain that are active when you speak and understand English, and as electricity courses through the crystal, the information will be imprinted inside.”

Eilian dislodged his head from the apparatus and looked for a power source. “You have electricity down here? There are parts of London that don’t even have electricity yet. How is it generated?”

The older man chuckled as he turned a knob near the arm, causing a low hum to emanate from under the chair. “Nature provides it for us. There’s a vein in the tunnels where we extract copper from to form wires, and the wires are attached to the apparatus the crystal sits in. Below this room are turbines propelled by the river under the city, so as the blades spin, they create electricity by rubbing against the copper wires.”

“Fascinating,” was all he could mutter as he settled back into the wire cage. “In England, they act like it would be impossible to power the entire city without coal or massive machines, yet you do it so effortlessly.”

“Nature always provides us with what we need. We don’t use it for illumination because we have our moss lamps, but it powers a few of our important machines. Now, close your eyes and recite something in English within your mind.”

As Eilian shut his eyes and recalled all that he wanted to tell Hadley about the city’s hidden secrets, Neuk positioned the point of the crystal an inch above the young man’s ear and gave the conveyer’s lever a tap with his foot. The electricity raced up the copper wires and through the crystal until it leapt from the tip and was drawn toward his neurons. For an instant, it was as if all the words he thought were gibberish, but as quickly as the feeling came, it disappeared. The scholar prompted him to continue, but this time, he pictured himself talking to Hadley after his surgery. The crystal was repositioned near his temple. When the spark penetrated the layers of matter beneath his skull, Eilian could no longer get the words out. With a wave of relief, the familiar phrases came flooding back as he was commanded to sit up. He ran his fingers through his wayward hair, combing away the static, as Neuk handed him the crystal, which now contained delicate dendritic vines at its base.

His eyes traced each line back to its origin. “This is incredible. Do you use these crystals for anything besides storing knowledge?”

“Yes,” Neuk replied as he stopped dismantling the armature, “a lot of people, when they become elderly, leave messages behind for their families. They also turn the crystals into jewelry, so they can keep their loved ones with them always.”

Eilian sat with his hands in his lap, staring at the ceiling as a smile crept across his face. “Would it be possible for me to make one of those?”

Even through the darkness, his brilliantly white teeth flashed in a wide grin beneath his beaded beard. “I would be honored to assist you.”

***

Hadley smiled to herself as the figures on her page finally seemed to come to life. Without her pastels, the drawings looked like so many other pastoral sketches, but once the forms and landscape were bathed in the cool, blue glow, they transformed into ethereal, otherworldly creatures living in a realm so unlike her own. Billawra was nothing like England, yet she was happier there than she had ever been in London or the Negev. She closed her eyes contently as the steam-warmed water lapped against her bare feet. The crunch of boot-soles on the sandy banks swished through the cavern behind her, but she kept her eyes shut and allowed him to think she didn’t hear his stealthy approach. Suddenly there was a handsome chin on her shoulder and soft, umber hair tickling her cheek. Eilian grinned as he stared down at her work. He was impressed by how she so wholly captured the spirit of the Billawrati but was mildly envious as she had yet to draw his likeness.

“How did it go?” she asked between breaths as she blew the excess powder from her paper.

“It was easier than I expected. Did you know they have the ability to create electricity from running water?”

The craftswoman laughed softly. “Somehow, I’m not surprised.” She glanced up into his grey eyes before putting her sketchbook to the side and clasping the hand that lightly encircled her waist, smearing blue pigment across his skin. “I found something I think you should see.”

Hadley silently led him across the damp sand to a slivered opening in the rock, barely wide enough to admit an adult’s form, and climbed inside. After a few strides, the narrow hall expanded into a grand staircase inlaid with tiny tiles of polished jade and mercury glass. As they ascended, the thundering cacophony of running water grew louder as the jade tiles dissolved into mirrors. A stifled gasp escaped her companion’s lips as he stepped toward the waterfall that cascaded over the ledge at the end of the stairs, polishing the rock for all eternity. The waterfall was the same river that snaked through the entire city not only powering mechanisms and machines but nourishing life great and small before terminating in the epitome of majesty. His surprised expression reflected back from all angles

“It’s beautiful,” he muttered in awe.

“Uta showed it to me yesterday. She said it helps to oxygenate the fish pool and stir the water enough to keep them healthy. Did you know she was not sure if she wanted to become an artist or a fish-keeper when she was younger? Now, she just makes fish the subject of her artwork.”

“You have been spending a lot of time with her.”

Hadley sighed contently as she and Eilian settled into the corner of the ledge with the heels of their feet dangling off the edge of the cliff-face. From their vantage point on the apex’s mantle, they could see the whole of Billawra as it spiraled away from them up toward the surface. People passed above them on their way to work or on an errand, completely unaware of the reverence they imparted on her life by simply existing. Eilian’s shoulder gently pressed against her spine as she leaned back and drew out her notebook from her jacket’s breast pocket, lovingly running her thumb over its leather cover.

“Despite her brusque exterior, she has been exceedingly helpful these past two weeks. I know I couldn’t have gathered nearly as much information without her acting as my liaison.” She smiled at the journal. “I find it strange how when Adam gave me this book, I thought it would be filled with mundane things, like what we ate or what we excavated, but now, it’s filled with information that has completely changed my understanding of life.

“I never understood why someone would want to be or even enjoy being a farmer. Now, as I talk to these people who have motives with no influence from wealth or poverty, I see it all in a new light. I never thought the smell of an orchard or following the generations of the same plant could be satisfying or even beautiful. They choose their professions because they are fascinated by them no matter how much they learn or how long they toil to achieve their goals. It seems pride in their work and in themselves is what keeps them going no matter how hard it is, and it ultimately leads them to a happiness that few back home will ever come to know. No one I have talked to regrets their choice, and if they found it wasn’t what they expected, they always have the option to change their minds.”

“You’re right. Their lives aren’t set in stone. They don’t need to spend years trying to elevate themselves or scrub away a stained reputation.” Eilian’s smoky eyes darkened. “I envy that they always have hope that things will get better. I wish we could stay here forever. If we did, you could make as many automatons as you could ever want to create and I could do research on ancient inventors and write all the books I always intended to publish. We could finally be happy.”

“What about poor Patrick? He would be worried sick if you suddenly disappeared, and he would be left destitute without a reference and would never be able to get another job. It would be selfish to stay. Besides, I wouldn’t be able to leave Adam behind all alone either. There is too much back in London for us to disappear simply to make ourselves happy. Maybe it would be too hard for us to change our ways so wholly. We will always think in terms of money and commerce.” Seeing the sadness creeping back into his strong features, she lightly stroked his cheek and made him meet her gaze. “Eilian, when I look out past the waterfall, I don’t feel regret or disappointment about what I will find when we come home. I’m hopeful for the future. Hopeful that one day people in England and all over the world will be able to see the value in each other rather than in things or status.”

Lord Sorrell wrapped his arms around her waist. “Then, let us be an example for those in London.”

Hadley allowed herself to be drawn closer until she was sitting on his lap. She put her journal to the side as his heather eyes pulled every fiber of her being toward him. Under the waterfall’s dewy spray, Eilian’s flesh burned through her dandy’s clothing as their bodies touched for the first time. Their breathing slowed as their lips met and their eyes dilated behind hooded lids. Chills swept over her body as his fingers roved up her neck and into her hair. The scintillating skimming of his hands brought Hadley’s lips back to his as he surfaced for one tremulous gulp of air.

His body gave into her fervent kisses as he leaned back against the damp wall. Shuddering at her touch, Eilian pressed his drumming heart to hers as her blue stained fingers cupped his face. Her artful fingers traced the curling scars of his neck until they came to rest on the marmoreal outcroppings of his collar bones. Their bodies breathed in rhythm, feeding off the other’s soul until Hadley’s lungs contracted in protest. Drawing back, she laid her cheek against his forehead. She sat back against his knees and smiled when she noticed the streaks and curls of blue pastel littering his cheeks. With the edge of her sleeve, she wiped away the evidence of their affection until they were nothing more than Lord Sorrell and Henry Fox, but as she reached his neck, Eilian wrapped his arms around her and embraced her once more.

Chapter Twenty-Six:

The Enigma of Adam

“I hate Sir Joshua and Mr. Barrister more than they could possibly fathom,” Hadley Fenice spat as she slapped the dyed silk out of the green water and onto the damp, stone floor.

“Easy, easy! Don’t take it out on the fabric. It’s for Kae’s new costume!” Uta pulled it from the Englishwoman’s hands and gingerly wrung it out before inspecting the fabric for tears. “You know I don’t like them either, but what did they do to rile you up?”

She grunted querulously and took to scraping the green dye off the palms of her hands. “They have been absolutely horrid to Eilian since he told them Neuk did not want them to come here anymore, but this week they have been simply intolerable. Being rude to me is one thing because I don’t particularly like either of them, but Eilian still thinks of Sir Joshua as his friend even though the man treats him like utter rubbish.”

“What are they doing to him?” she asked as she submerged the swath of fabric back into the dye, accidentally dunking one of her thick braids in the process.

“Every time we are about to leave camp, Joshua starts making fun of your culture, calling the Billawrati all sorts of names and just making a fuss because he knows it upsets Eilian, but when we get back, it is even worse. At night, Eilian would spend time with the men who work for Sir Joshua, but now, he has forbidden them from speaking to us by threatening to fire them if they disobey. They are all so afraid that they ignore us like we are dead, but I can see it in their faces that they don’t want to treat Eilian so poorly.”

Uta pulled the long lock of hair from the bowl, frowning at its lime tint. “Why make fun of us? I can’t imagine what that would accomplish.”

“It makes Eilian upset because he appreciates your way of life. What really makes me angry is what happened last night. When we got back, the men had been sent to their tent for the night while Joshua and Edmund were still sitting at the campfire. Eilian had not done anything except say good-night to them, and Joshua suddenly started to tear into him. He called him useless, an invalid, and told him that if his father was not rich, he never would have let him work with him even before he lost his arm. I don’t understand how they can be so cruel. Getting thrown out of Billawra was their fault anyway, not Eilian’s or my doing.”

Hadley stood beside the six foot tall woman as she helped her wring out the excess dye and hang the cloth from a hemp clothesline to dry, waiting for the reply she knew would never come. It was one of the things she found refreshing about Uta. She didn’t reply with empty platitudes, and Hadley preferred silence to the expected phrases. Uta ambled over to the pile of notes on her stone workbench and inspected her sketches again, looking from picture to fabric to confirm that the dye left behind the perfect shade of pigment. Once she was satisfied with her work, she retrieved a pouch of multicolored clay beads painted in the seven vibrant hues of the rainbow and a spool of silk string. The valkyrian woman handed Hadley a fishbone needle and a length of twine before somewhat patiently teaching Hadley how to create a miniature flower. The craftswoman mimicked her instructor’s motions but ended up with only an ugly bead-covered knot.

She laughed for the first time that day, her minor failure finally breaking her foul mood. “I have never been good at the needle arts.”

“I can see that,” Uta chuckled. “So what did Eilian do?”

“Do?”

The artist laid her fourth tiny wild flower to the side as Hadley finished her first. “You know, how did he react to what Joshua said? Did he yell or strike him?”

A crestfallen sigh escaped her lips. “That’s the saddest part. Eilian just stood there silently and took it. He didn’t even say anything in his defense. He just let Joshua degrade him until he ran out of things to say. I have been trying to figure out why he never fights back, but I think he is still insecure about his missing arm and believes him. When I first met him, he told me he worried how others perceived him or if he would be able be normal again.”

Hadley’s voice cracked against her will as she continued, “Last night, Eilian came into the tent breathing very stiffly. I thought he was finally going to retaliate, but it turned out his arm was hurting worse than ever. The pain only seems to come when he is really upset, and it took over two hours of rubbing and talking to get the pain to abate enough for him to sleep. Eilian is the last person who deserves to be treated that way, especially by lowlifes like them.”

When Uta finally looked up from her work, she was startled to find the Englishwoman wiping her reddening eyes with the heel of her hand. She averted her gaze and tried to listen to the crystalline aria that rang through the still air in the distance, but all she could hear was Hadley’s sniffling and shuffling as she dislodged her handkerchief from inside her tailored jacket. Uta hesitated, unsure if she should comfort her since Kae was the only person she had ever actually touched. Finally, she stiffly patted the other woman’s shoulder and went back to crafting her beaded flowers.

“Why is what’s-his-name being so rude all of a sudden?” Uta asked, changing the subject in hopes of keeping her companion’s tears from getting out of hand. “He wasn’t as bad as Barrister when they were at the banquet.”

Hadley shrugged. “I guess Sir Joshua is feeling insecure too. After nearly a year in the desert, he still hasn’t found anything noteworthy. Maybe he thought discovering where Billawra was would be the break he has been looking for, but now that he has been barred from coming here, that dream has fallen apart. Since we are still welcome, he’s taking his anger out on us.”

“He’s taking it out on you as well?”

“No, not as much,” she stammered, tidying her hair and dabbing at her eyes. “Mr. Barrister has made me his object of derision. He likes to call me things like ‘dandy’ or ‘popinjay,’ but it doesn’t really bother me.”

“I don’t know what those words mean.”

Hadley thought for a moment, searching for the right explanation. “It’s like calling someone a feminine man.”

Uta’s body rocked with laughter as she pulled down a dried piece of silk and draped it over a wire model of Kae’s form. “You had better work on that silly voice you use before he figures you out.”

“It’s not exactly like that. He’s trying to insinuate that I am a man who loves other men.” When Uta’s mint-green eyes showed no flicker of significance, she added, “He’s being derogatory. In England, liking your own sex is a bad thing. You aren’t allowed to do that, and you could be severely punished for it.”

She raised a white brow. “How?”

“Well, you probably would not get in trouble because you are a woman, but in the past, men have been executed for sodomy… even if it’s mutual.”

Uta shook her head as she pinned the cloth into the shape of a tunic. “Your country sounds horribly intolerant. From what you say, there are rules for even the pettiest things and punishments for things that harm no one. I understand rules for safety or learning or trade and animals because those things impact the whole society, but why make rules about what you wear, what your house has in it, or who you love? Those things are your business, and if what you are doing isn’t hurting anyone else, then why should the government have anything to say about how you live your life?”

“I don’t agree with the way they do things and don’t like it, but I can’t do anything about it,” she replied half-heartedly as Uta motioned for her to hand her the deformed flowers she made while they were speaking.

“You can do something about it. You can be yourself. Why don’t you not wear your corset and instead wear your trousers? That would be a start, and maybe others would follow your example.”

Hadley sighed as the artist began to create a meadow of wild flowers on the hem of her wife’s costume. “It doesn’t work that way, Uta. If I did that, they would call me all sorts of rude names behind my back and ostracize me. I can bear their criticism by myself, but I won’t let gossipmongers ruin Eilian or my brother’s reputations as well. It isn’t worth doing if my actions hurt them.”

With a grunt, Uta gave up and turned her full attention to stitching the side seams of the chemise with silk thread. Hadley’s mind wandered as she stared off into space, listening to the faint zip of the needle passing through the fabric with each stitch. She closed her eyes as the song from the amphitheater below grew louder. The complimentary voices of a contralto and a tenor intermingled, blurring genders and stories as their words collided. The tenor sung about following his instincts and dancing from his soul, but the song soon turned to his fear of never performing as well as those who formally trained. In reply, his companion lamented her years of researching dances, knowing them all by heart and song but never taking a step herself. The contralto’s sweet, melancholy aria reminded her of Eilian, who, even as she mused, was up in the library researching ancient engineering. Ever since the men had taken to treating them poorly, he had shut himself away in an unused nook from the time they arrived until sunset.

Picturing Eilian buried up to his elbows in books made her wonder what Adam was doing. When she and Eilian were together laughing and smiling, her life back home seemed to melt away, but as the emotions swirled and cracked through her façade, she began to worry about him. She checked off her usual clients and the items they purchased each month in her mind for the hundredth time and hoped she had left enough stock for him to fill everyone’s orders. The profits along with his paycheck should have been enough to live on even if he was unable to fill more specific orders, but she still worried it wasn’t enough. What continually gnawed at her was the image of him sitting at home all by himself for months. Hadley pretended to study Uta’s sketches as she ruminated on her brother’s character.

He was her twin and in some ways so similar to her yet different enough to balance her temperament. Adam was much more mellow than she was, and while his innate nonchalance was often maddening, he could alleviate her fears when she was fretting about the business. His tidy ledgers kept her messy studio running smoothly and never allowed her to fall into financial chaos. Besides sharing the same hair and eye color, they always shared common interests, especially as children. Their father had tried to convince Adam to read the books he and George loved, like Robinson Crusoe, Le Morte d’Arthur, or Homer’s epics, but he preferred their mother’s shelf of Austen’s novels and Shakespeare’s plays. As they grew up, they would trade books and threaten to spoil the ending of Jane Eyre or Cleopatra if the other didn’t do what they said.

While she was busy building as many automatons as she could in the months leading up to her trip, Adam was devouring anything he could get his hands on by his new favorite author, Oscar Wilde. When he had thrust the magazines with his short stories or essays into her hands to read, she left them for her meager allotment of free time before bed despite his eager protestations that she drop what she was doing to read them immediately. Hadley couldn’t deny that Mr. Wilde was an excellent writer, but she preferred Poe in beauty and horror. She inadvertently told her brother so while she was busy working, which resulted in not only the most guilt-inducing grimace but the sudden cessation of all attempts to make her read his work again. They weren’t on speaking terms for the rest of the weekend.

“What are you thinking about?” Uta questioned, finally breaking her reverie.

“My brother. I feel guilty that I left him home alone while I came here.”

“He doesn’t have a companion?”

“No,” she replied with a sigh. “I have always wondered why a hardworking, handsome man like him doesn’t have women lining up to be courted by him.”

“Maybe he’s too involved in his work,” Uta mumbled with a handful of pins hanging from the corner of her mouth, “or is too shy.”

She shook her head. “He is anything but shy, and he has plenty of leisure time in the evenings. Last year, there was a young lady down the street, a milliner’s daughter I believe, who was always placing herself in his path. I thought for sure they would be compatible for each other, but one day I saw them talking heatedly on our steps. After a moment, she stormed off, and they never spoke again. Now, they seem to avoid each other. I want him to find a wife because when I get married and move out, I do not want him to be alone for the rest of his life.”

“Maybe he doesn’t like women,” Uta replied indifferently as she finished sewing.

“Surely he would tell me if he was a—”

“If it is as taboo in your society as it seems, he may be afraid of how you will react. Would you tell anyone if you could die or be imprisoned for it?”

The saliva dried in her mouth as the thought reverberated in her mind. “What should I do?”

She let out a throaty chuckle. “Do? There is nothing to do. I didn’t choose to love Kae, just as you didn’t choose to love Eilian. Your brother has no control over whom he is attracted to.”

Hadley opened her mouth to speak, but Uta’s gaze traveled to the doorway that led out to the rest of the studios and galleries. As she turned to see who it was, the curtain was drawn to reveal Eilian Sorrell in his khakis waiting for her with tender eyes. Bidding Uta good-night, she went to his side, ready to return to camp before nightfall and face the scolding from the men that was sure to follow.

Chapter Twenty-Seven:

Thieves Among Us

The trek back to the tents had become a bitter journey through the third ring of Dante’s seventh circle as they marched through the cooling desert sands. They slowed their pace on the way back, knowing there would be no warm welcome waiting for them. Hadley tried to strike up a conversation about what they did in Billawra to keep Eilian’s spirit up, but as they passed the new dig site, which more closely resembled a sinkhole than an excavation, she could see the silent signs of despair creep into his features. His eyes lost their glow and his features fell into somber reverie. Before they were in view of the row of tents, she squeezed his arm reassuringly, causing a forlorn grin to stretch across his features. As they crested the hill, Sir Joshua rose from his seat at the campfire and came toward them.

“Eilian, Henry, we saved you some meat,” he called, gesturing toward the empty seats.

Henry eyed the baron suspiciously, but Eilian seemed relieved, even thrilled, to be included once again. When Eilian took the invitation without hesitation, Henry hesitantly followed him. Sniffing the meat discreetly, he poked it with the bent-tined fork for bullets but still worried it was tainted or laced with poison. Why else would Joshua suddenly be so affable?

“I want to apologize for my atrocious behavior. I’m afraid my lack of finds and shortage of funds got the better of me. Would be willing to give me another chance and teach me about the Billawrati? That is, if you can accept my apology, Eilian.”

For the first time in weeks, his features brightened as he beamed with delight. The weight that had caused him to question his trip and occupation vanished. “Of course I do. Henry, would you get our notebooks, please?”

The artist nodded, but as he headed toward their shared tent on the other side of the site, he had the nagging feeling that something was amiss. A person doesn’t simply change overnight without a reason, especially one as calculated as Joshua Peregrine. Taking the books from their desk and drawers, Henry turned to see Edmund Barrister staring at him from the open flap of his tent across the aisle. His heart froze as the hunter’s eyes shined in the darkness, boring through his green vest and boyish façade as he held his gaze like a trapped antelope. At the sound of Eilian’s voice, he darted back toward the fire without looking back. As Henry handed over the sketch pads and watched Sir Joshua pore over his notes and drawings, he couldn’t help but feel that something was definitely not right.

***

Hadley Fenice snapped straight up in bed, gathering her blanket close as she listened for the noises that had awoken her from a sound sleep. She thought there had been movement outside and the resonating clang of metal striking metal, but as she focused in the disquieting darkness, she heard the palpitating swish of gravel being disturbed under the tread of boots. A heavy breath to her left broke her concentration, but as she spun to face the intruder, she realized it was only Eilian sleeping. Sliding her feet into her slippers, she soundlessly padded toward the door. An ibex baaed in the distance, and the fear ebbed slightly. As Hadley was about to climb back into bed, a metal bucket crashed and bounced near the wall of the tent her bed rested against. Instinctively hopping back, she landed on Eilian, who awoke bewildered only to find the woman sitting on his chest.

“What is going—”

She clasped her hand over his mouth as wood splintered outside, dragging down the wall of her side of the tent. “Something is outside. Are there any lynxes in the Negev?”

“No, the only predators here are vultures, snakes, and people. It is probably a bunch of goats wandering through looking for food.” He strained to see what was outside, but the silhouette was hidden by the predawn darkness. “Sleep on my cot. It butts up against the cliff, and I will take yours.”

Hadley grabbed his arm as he stood up. “No,” her eyes widened as she whispered, “what if there are bandits outside? I don’t want you near the wall either.” It sounded farfetched, but with her mind still half in nightmares, anything was plausible. She moved the table and lamp that stood between the two beds and pulled her cot against his. “This is safer, but I will take you up on your offer anyway.”

He scooted onto her bed as she climbed over him and faced the wall with the blanket tucked over her head. Even with her eyes closed, she could feel his form looming beside her, sheltering her with his body from whatever was outside their tent. She laid there for what felt like hours trying to sleep, but the little noises outside kept catching her attention. Plastering the quilt to her ears, she clenched her eyes shut, but her mind was too on edge to allow her to sleep. Rolling over, Hadley found Eilian already fast asleep beside her with his prosthesis tucked under his head. Inching closer, she rested her head against his outstretched arm, letting the rhythmic flow of his pulse lull her.

***

Eilian opened his eyes as the sun beat through the canvas of the tent and pleasantly warmed his body. He glanced over at Hadley’s peaceful, slumbering face as she rested on his left arm and smiled. With his prosthesis, he grabbed his pocket watch off the table, but upon seeing the time, he nearly fell out of bed. Why did no one wake us? he thought as he gradually pulled his arm out from under her head without disturbing her. Forgetting the screen, he threw on his clothes and began assembling his external prosthesis as he headed for the door of the tent. Darting out, he expected to be chastised by Mr. Barrister or Sir Joshua, but the campsite was silent. Lord Sorrell ran from tent to tent, looking for the other men but found no one. All the equipment had been left just as it was the day before as was Joshua’s tent, which still contained his desk and trunk. As he stared at the fluttering tents and empty camp, the vast stillness of the desert overwhelmed him. The only things around were the tiny goats in the distance and the rolling, rocky hills gleaming with a blinding white light in the midmorning sun.

“Hadley! Hadley, wake up!” he called as he shook her shoulder. When she finally looked at him and confusion faded into understanding, he continued, “Everyone is gone. Everything is still here, but the men are nowhere to be found. They aren’t at the other dig either.”

Hadley flew out of bed, changing behind her screen, but as she darted for the flap of the tent, Eilian’s desk caught her eye. An ink pot had been pushed to the side and papers were scattered across it and on the floor. She quickly inventoried what had been on it for the last few months. Upon realizing what was missing, she dug through the drawers. Eilian watched his companion as she ran over to their trunks and whipped out their clothing until finally she haphazardly stuffed everything back in and caught her breath.

“Our notebooks are gone! All of our sketches and notes about the Billawrati are gone! I had two on the desk and a few in the drawer, and now they’re gone,” she cried as she rushed over to the night-table but found it was empty as well.

As Eilian easily pulled open the previously locked drawer of his desk, he uttered, “So are our airship tickets.”

“Are you telling me we are stranded? Do you think thieves could have come and killed the others?”

“They wouldn’t spare only us. No, the thieves were among us the whole time. Those greedy bastards. How could I have been such a bloody fool?” he spat as he slammed his fist into the desk. “I can’t believe they would do this to us!” Eilian drew in a deep breath and pushed the anger down. “Let’s just pack up our trunks. If we start walking now, we can make it to Beersheba by evening and get to Jerusalem in a few days. I’m sure Uncle Malcolm will help us get back to London.”

As Hadley threw her remaining clothes and effects into the trunk, she paused at the unmistakable crunch of shoes on gravel. Climbing to their feet, the two adventurers peeked out the tent opening and watched as a tall figure cloaked from crown to toe in a black, silk shroud walked between the rows of tents. Touching her chest, she reassured herself that her derringer was still there as the creature turned toward them and shuffled in their direction.

“May I help you?” Eilian asked as the column of black pushed into their tent.

It threw off its hood to reveal long, white hair and a colorless face. “Neuk requests your appearance in Billawra. Now,” the messenger commanded before pulling his cloak back over his face and disappearing into the sunlight.

Eilian and Hadley threw the last of their belongings into the trunk and headed out into the desert behind the man. Lord Sorrell couldn’t imagine what they had done to get such a curt invitation, but as they reached the cave, he realized why. All the books were gone. The shelves were empty except for the occasional fragment of parchment flapping in the dry breeze. After a month of traveling through the tunnels, they were able to navigate the many twists and obstacles of the cavern to reach the end within a few minutes. As they came to the fork between the orchard and the mine, they were greeted by the entire tribunal. Every ivory countenance was stony and severe, except Uta, whose eyes were ringed in red and stained with tears. Her body curled inward, far from the arrogant confidence she exuded normally, as she leaned against Neuk for support.

“What’s going on?” Eilian asked meekly, feeling like a child in trouble with his parents.

“We told you they were not allowed down without your supervision,” Neuk scolded, but his tone softened as he beheld the confusion in the foreigners’ eyes.

“We had no idea they came here. We only awoke an hour ago and found the camp deserted,” Hadley explained. “What did they do?”

“They raided our cache of fabric, stole over a dozen silkworms, and emptied the cave library in the middle of the night,” Paten began as she read from her ledger. “We awoke to find these things disturbed, but more importantly—”

“Kae is missing!” Uta drew closer as her body shook with sobs. “I have looked from top to bottom and haven’t been able to find her. She likes to get up to practice early in the morning, but she never returned. They took her,” she wept, seething with anger. “I know your friends took her. I know we couldn’t trust them! Tell me where she is!”

Eilian’s head reeled. How could they do this? “We didn’t see her at the camp, but that does not mean she isn’t there. Uta, we will get her back to you. They couldn’t have gotten far. They have to stop at Beersheba to refuel before going on to Jerusalem. We will chase after them and get her back for you. Hopefully, we can return your goods as well.”

Neuk wrapped his arm around Uta, pulling her closer until her forehead rested against his shoulder. “We don’t care about the goods. We care about Kae. Get her back.”

As Hadley scrambled out of the cave system, she recounted the morning’s events. The crashing and banging that awoke her must have been Joshua making his getaway. If she had gone outside, maybe she could have stopped them. On the other hand, she could have been kidnapped as well. Was there anywhere I missed? Lord Sorrell thought about his quick inspection of the tents. He had only glanced into the supply tent as it was so filled with crates and equipment that Joshua or his men couldn’t hide inside, and he had skipped Edmund’s tent out of habit as he always feared being shot if he intruded unexpectedly. There was still a chance the dancer was there.

When they neared the camp, they split up as Eilian headed for Edmund’s tent while Hadley investigated the store of supplies at the opposite end near the pits. Edmund’s room was roughly the length of a steamer like Sir Joshua’s, but instead of a desk, it only contained a bed and a small camp table on top of a tiger-skin rug. The massive head snarled at him even in death. The guns that had hung dutifully in the rack were gone along with his trunk. Eilian checked under the bed and on the table but found nothing to suggest if he had left alone or with his cohort. He tiptoed out of Edmund’s space and went into Joshua’s chamber, tearing through anything that could give a hint as to what happened.

***

Glancing over her shoulder toward the hills, Hadley sprinted from tent to tent. She ripped back the flaps of the men’s flimsy hovels as she made her way to the massive, canvas storehouse. Several collapsed in her wake, but she didn’t care. She had trusted them, but they were just as bad as the others. As Hadley stomped into the supply tent, her shin collided with the corner of a crate. A stack of shovels fell over, clattering to the ground as she froze.

“Everything all right, Had?” Eilian shouted from down the aisle.

“Yes, I only tripped.”

She shimmied between the stacks of boxes and the canvas wall as she walked the perimeter, hoping to find a new crate or the dancer tied up at the back like in a dime novel. Nothing appeared to have been touched except the extra wooden panels, which were missing. With a sigh, Hadley ran her eyes over the packages again one by one until they came to rest on a peculiar box. In their haste, they had nailed the unfinished side of the wood on the outside and left the stamped portion hidden. Clattering over the other crates, she shoved the cumbersome box of canned food off the chest below with her feet. Using one of the fallen shovels, she wedged the edge under the lid and pushed with all her strength. The coffin-sized crate groaned under the strain until, with a final death rattle, the top crashed to the ground.

Lying in a heap of hay was Kae. Her eyes were shut and her lips lax. The woman was even whiter than she had been underground, but across her cheek and eye was an inky bruise. Her hands were bound, and a piece of fabric was wrapped around her mouth as a gag. Hadley held her breath as she reached into the box and grasped Kae’s wrist. Under her opalescent nails were clumps of clotted blood, but her pulse palpated past the Englishwoman’s fingertips. She raised the dancer’s body out of the crate as she freed her limbs and lips but laid her back down when the pale woman began to stir.

“Eilian, I found her!” she called as his shadow passed the door. “She’s alive but out cold.”

“Thank heavens. Should we wait until she wakes up to bring her back?”

Hadley stopped fanning the woman’s face as she looked from Kae to the coffin. “Eilian, they are going to come back to get her.”

Chapter Twenty-Eight:

The Parrot and the Tiger

Eilian ran through the camp, gathering dark clothing or cloth to protect Kae’s delicate, colorless skin from blistering in the desert sun. Once she was completely shrouded, they lowered her body onto a collapsed tent. As they grabbed either end of the makeshift stretcher, the clattering of hooves and wheels echoed through the still desert air. Hadley poked her head out and spotted a hairy, hulking figure charging down the hill on horseback with a carted-mule at his side.

“Edmund’s coming! What should we do?”

“I will go out and meet him. You stay here and try to move her to our tent while I stall.”

“Be careful,” she whispered as her companion slipped out the side of the tent to make it appear as if he had come from Joshua’s instead.

Eilian took a deep breath, suppressing the urge to run as the massive man barreled toward him. A twinge of anger crossed the hunter’s face before disappearing behind a mask of nonchalance as he tied the animals to the post near the edge of the campsite. Lord Sorrell swallowed hard as Edmund stood in front of him expectantly with his hands on his hips, flaring his broad chest.

“Edmund, what’s going on? When I got up, everyone was gone. What’s the meaning of this? Where did Joshua go?”

He furrowed his black brows and pushed past the pestering nobleman. “Joshua took the men up to Beersheba to buy some more supplies and ship the artifacts back to England. I have only come back because he forgot a box. We would have woken you, but you two were sleeping so soundly.”

The tent Hadley and Kae were in fluttered as Edmund drew near, and Eilian blurted, “Why did you take the girl?”

Mr. Barrister paused mid-stride and swung around, towering over him. “What did you say?”

“Why did you take Kae? You already stole our notebooks, the silkworms, and their books. Why did you need to take her too? You need to let her go.” His conviction rose over the fear that knotted in his stomach. “She’s a person, not an artifact. You can’t just take her out of her world and away from her family. Kae isn’t some animal at the zoo, she is a person. She has a wife down there who cares about her.”

A wicked smile spread across his face, narrowing and enlivening his eyes, as Eilian tensed upon seeing Hadley drag Kae across the aisle to their tent behind Edmund’s back. “Of course, I should have expected you to sympathize with the toms in the unnatural relationship.”

He stared up with his brows knit in confusion. “I don’t know what you are talking about. I care because she’s a human being who deserves to be treated as such.”

“Lord Sorrell,” he began condescendingly with his arms crossed, “I hope you don’t think that I don’t know about your twisted tendencies. I know you’re having an affair with the boy. You noblemen think you can get away with anything. I have seen all along how you look at each other, and just this morning when I was rifling through your desk, I found you two sleeping quite intimately together. In some countries, like this one, that is punishable by death, and you don’t want your little popinjay to die, do you?”

Eilian’s body locked at the implication.

“I didn’t think so, but if you decide to not pursue this matter any further, I will keep my knowledge of this little tryst a secret.”

Before the Lord Sorrell could utter a word, Edmund turned his attention to Eilian’s tent as something crashed off the desk inside. As he rushed in, an inhuman howl of pain erupted from his mouth as he stumbled back. A pen jutted from his thigh, but with gritted teeth, he ripped it out and threw it to the side before charging at Hadley’s trembling form. She tried to duck out of the way, but his massive paw struck the side of her face, knocking her into the corner of the table. Edmund pushed Hadley’s limp body off Kae’s as he threw her up onto his shoulder like a bag. Before he could stand, Eilian shoved him from behind, causing him to stagger and drop her back to the floor. He gave the hunter one solid kick in the back before retreating from the tent.

The predator was on his heels as he ran toward the open area of the camp away from the two women. Within seconds, Mr. Barrister’s hand closed around Lord Sorrell’s shoulder and pulled him to the ground. They tumbled, and Eilian threw his arms in front of his face as the larger man pummeled him. The force of the punches reverberated through the metal of his prosthesis, but when he got the opportunity, he swung at his opponent with his left arm. Eilian finally landed a blow squarely on Edmund’s nose, causing him to let up his assault for a moment. Edmund covered his face as his eyes watered, feeling the nobleman hit him several times in the chest. Suddenly the punches slowed as Lord Sorrell seemed lost in a daze and stared toward the tents. Taking advantage of his inattention, the hunter slammed his fist into the side of Eilian’s face, instantly purpling his eye.

***

Hadley blinked, seeing stars as she picked herself off the unforgiving, dusty ground with trembling legs. Her head pulsed rhythmically as she used the desk as a crutch and climbed over Kae without tripping on her splayed limbs. Somehow she still couldn’t believe he hit her. She had expected the pen’s metal tip to at least give him some pause, but he had retaliated so fast she didn’t even have time to react. The thudding impact of fists hitting flesh roused her from her haze, and she clambered out of the tent as quickly as her wobbly legs would carry her. In the middle of the row of half-collapsed tents, Eilian and Edmund rolled through the sand in a ball of flailing arms and khaki. Her chest tightened with panic and rage as she watched the massive man land blow after blow on Eilian’s face and ribs as the younger man struggled to wriggle out from under him. When Eilian tried to escape, the man with tiger eyes grabbed his neck and began to squeeze. Her companion gasped and writhed but couldn’t peel his fingers away. With unsteady hands, she reached into her corset and pulled out her derringer. The heat from her own body radiated from her gun as she walked behind Edmund and clicked the hammer back.

“Get off of him,” she growled, “or I will shoot.”

He roughly released Eilian’s throat and stood up, revealing Eilian’s bloodied lips and nose. His eyes roamed from the snub-nosed gun to the trembling boy’s knit brows and snarled pink lips. “A garter gun? You’re going to shoot me with a garter gun?”

“You heard me. I said, I will shoot. Leave now, and no one will get hurt.”

“You’re even less of a man than I thought,” he yelled as he lunged to grab her arm.

“That’s because I’m not one!” Hadley roared as she emptied two rounds into his chest, the deafening retorts echoing through the canyons.

Edmund stared at her in disbelief as his hand traveled to his chest, touching the blood as it seeped through his jacket and trickled between his fingers. He lurched forward as she stepped out of reach. Muscle by muscle his body lost control until he staggered and collapsed at her feet. She couldn’t breathe. She had killed a man. As Eilian crawled onto his knees and spat a mouthful of blood onto the sand, she pushed the terrifying reality from her mind and helped him to his feet. Lord Sorrell stared into her eyes as his chest heaved with each ragged breath. Blood was smeared from his hair to his chin, and beneath it, the skin of his cheek was already swelling and turning a mottled violet. Hadley wiped the blood and grit from his face with her handkerchief and held the cloth beneath his gushing nose. With probing fingers, she checked for breaks around his eyes and nose but found only bruises that made him wince and pull away. Before she could speak, he clasped her to his chest and held her close, his trembling breaths rustling her bangs.

“I’m so glad you are all right. I was so afraid he had hurt you,” he whispered as he held her head to his cheek before kissing it. “He could have killed us both.”

When she finally met his gaze, her eyes were filled with tears. “What am I going to do? I— I killed a man. I’m going to go to prison. I know I will.”

Eilian rubbed her back and held her tightly as her body shook with silent sobs. “No, you killed him in self-defense. You did it to save my life and Kae’s life. There is no reason you would go to prison, but we will figure out what to do after we get Kae back to Billawra.”

Hadley averted her eyes from the fallen man as Eilian steered her down the row of canvas tents. As they slipped into their chamber, Kae’s wide, blue eyes and bruised face met theirs. “Where am I? Where’s Uta?” she asked tremulously as she sat on Hadley’s cot.

“You’re in our campsite, but we’re going to bring you back to Billawra,” Eilian explained as he knelt beside her. “Kae, is there another way to get in and out of the city from the surface?”

She nodded slowly. “We have three caves.”

Pain radiated through his cheeks as he paused to run his tongue across his teeth to confirm they were intact. “When we bring you back, I need you to tell the others to stay far away from the entrance. We have to seal it to keep the others from returning and coming after your people. Hadley, can you walk her back to the cave? I will meet you there.”

Hadley quickly wrapped the dancer in her dressing gown and a sheet before leading her through the campsite. Taking a long swig from his canteen, Eilian spit the red residue onto the sand. He looked up in his shaving mirror and frowned. His face was as bruised as it was after the airship crash with purple welts already rising on his cheeks and around his eyes. With a sigh, he stared at his bruising neck. If he closed his eyes, he could still feel Edmund’s hands squeezing the air from his throat. At every movement, his ribs ached, and as he ran his fingers across them, he felt a sharp dip in the bone near his back. Rotating his arm, he found that his prosthesis had come out of the fight unscathed with only a pea-sized dent in its palm.

After checking his body one more time for injuries, he ambled down to the supply tent to see how he could dispose of Mr. Barrister. Eilian dug through the crates until finally he came to the box labeled with dangerous in twelve languages. He drew out several sticks of dynamite and a long wick before going out to untie the tethered mule. Staring down at Edmund’s deflated and leaking body, he confirmed with a nudge of his boot that the man was dead. The hole in his chest was barely visible, yet something smaller than a button had been enough to bring down the big game hunter. Using his good arm and what little remained of his strength, Lord Sorrell hefted the carcass onto the cart despite his ribs screaming for him to stop. A pool of blood remained on the sand, but with a few kicks, the last bits of carnage disappeared beneath the desert. With a sigh, he followed beside the mule as it wound its way down the hills until it reached the cavern where Uta and Kae stood in each other’s arms.

“Thank you,” she smiled as she held her wife’s head close to her heart and twisted her fingers through her curled, ivory hair.

“Uta, tell everyone to stay away from the entrance. The only way we can keep Joshua and his men from returning is to close this cave.”

“I understand. Take care of yourselves. Hadley, when you get home, talk to your brother.”

“I will.”

With a final farewell, Uta and Kae disappeared into the darkness of the cave. Eilian backed the cart up to the cavern and dragged Edmund’s body through the sand. The dull thump echoed through the tunnel as he pulled him away from the entrance and into the depths of the plateau. Lord Sorrell strategically placed the sticks of dynamite, connecting them with the wick before running it out of the tunnel.

“Will this really work?” Hadley asked as the fuse sparked to life at Eilian’s match.

“I should hope so, but now is the time to run, not question,” Eilian replied as he pushed her away from the cave.

He gave the mule a sharp kick, sending it back toward camp as he and Hadley sprinted behind a rocky outcropping. The ground quaked as the dynamite exploded, folding in the mouth of the cave and concealing Edmund Barrister’s shattered body between its stony teeth. In one resounding blow, the entrance to their utopia was sealed to them.

Once again they were outsiders, irrevocably exiled from their brief glimpse of happiness. The balance had been upset, but the Billawrati were safe. With one final look, Eilian confirmed the body could not be seen and the entrance could not be traversed. All that was left to do was go back to camp and get ready to leave.

ACT THREE:

“London, that great cesspool into which all the loungers and idlers of the empire are irresistibly drained.”

-Sir Arthur Conan Doyle

Chapter Twenty-Nine:

The Earl of Newcastle

During the ride to Beersheba, neither Eilian nor Hadley spoke of what had transpired at the camp. Eilian knew she was afraid, but every time she looked at him, her expression was one of pained sympathy rather than fear. He wondered if she felt worse about killing Edmund Barrister or letting him get in so many blows before she intervened. Half an hour earlier, he had run out of comforting things to say, but he was certain once they reached Jerusalem, she could abandon Henry Fox and return to the innocent identity of Hadley Fenice. Luckily, the little known artist would make a convenient scapegoat if questioned. Now, the problem was how could he travel with a young woman without raising questions or tarnishing her reputation? As they reached the cobbled roads of Beersheba, he scanned the streets for any sign of Sir Joshua or his men, but a lone cerulean steamer being filled at a well caught his eye. Shaking a bucket and arguing animatedly with a man from the village, was a tall gentleman wearing a neatly pressed safari jacket with driving goggles hanging around his neck. Hadley did a double-take. The man had Eilian’s face only with extra creases around his eyes and strong features that had naturally softened with age.

“Uncle Malcolm?” Eilian called as he dismounted and approached the Englishman, who promptly dropped the argument to embrace his favorite nephew.

“Eilian, I haven’t seen you in ages!” His viridian eyes ran over the younger man’s damaged features, lingering for a moment on his prosthesis before darting away. “What happened to your face? You’re far too old to be getting into brawls.” He looked over his nephew’s shoulder only to see a short, red-headed dandy staring at him with wide eyes. “Hello, I’m Malcolm Holland, the Earl of Newcastle and liaison for British affairs in Palestine,” he stated plainly as he proffered his hand, “and you are?”

She shook the doppelganger’s hand mechanically and curtsied despite her trousers. “Hadley Fenice, sir. It’s a pleasure to make your acquaintance.”

Lord Newcastle raised his eyebrows, but Eilian cut him off before he could speak. “Uncle Malcolm, what are you doing here? We were actually on our way to Jerusalem to see you.”

He sighed as he clasped Eilian’s shoulder. “I was coming to you because your mother sent me a letter that she wanted delivered as soon as possible.”

His uncle’s features sagged under the weight of the message that lay within the petite envelope. For once his mother’s correspondence lacked all pretention. There was no filigree or fancy calligraphy gracing its exterior. Drawing out the page, Eilian read the plain script, which quavered slightly and was sloppier than he had ever seen it. As the words sank in, the searing heat of tears flooded his eyes and flushed his face. He swallowed hard, feeling the soft press of Hadley’s hand against his arm in response to his sudden pallor. When he finally looked up with wet eyes, she met his gaze with her little mouth downcast and her eyes dewy as if she already knew what was written inside.

“She wants you home immediately, Eilian,” his uncle added gently as he watched the young man’s hand tremble as he stuffed the letter into his pocket. “I hope you can give her that courtesy. I know you two were not on the greatest of terms.”

“Would— would you come home with us, Uncle Malcolm?”

“Of course I will. I was planning to accompany you and have already given my office notice of my departure. I’m sure my sister would appreciate my help during this time until she gets everything straightened out. We will leave by airship from Jerusalem in two days. Let me take care of business at the inn, and we will be on our way.”

Eilian nodded as his uncle drifted back toward the meager, mudbrick tavern at the end of the road. Covering his eyes, he let his body fall against the stone wall as a sob crept up his throat with several more behind it. Hadley rested her head against his chest, not caring who saw as he held her close and hid his face in her hair.

“I— I never got to say I was sorry,” he whimpered as she carefully wiped the moisture from his purpled cheeks. “I fought with him the last time I saw him and never got to apologize. I hadn’t seen him since March, and I was too mad to even tell him I left. There’s so much I didn’t get to say.”

“I’m sure he knew you loved him, Eilian.”

It was the first time he couldn’t stop the tears in public. He knew people passed and saw two men in a tight embrace, but he needed her now and damn whatever the others thought. Hadley cradled his head against her neck, rubbing his back until finally all the sorrow had drained from his body and what was left was only the uncertainty of what he would find when he returned to England. The one thought that refused to leave his mind was that he was no longer Eilian Sorrell, the Viscount Sorrell. He was the Earl of Dorset. In one day, he had lost his father, his name, and his identity. By taking slow, measured breaths, he finally conquered his emotions and pulled himself together. As he stood sniffling and red-eyed, Malcolm Holland emerged from the inn as if on cue.

“The man who runs the stable over there said he will look after the donkey. Secure your trunks to the back of my steamer with the rope from the cart, and we will head off to Jerusalem.”

Eilian grasped the battered trunk’s handles, but as he raised it up, his ribs wailed from the sudden exertion. Before it could clatter from his grasp, the craftswoman grabbed the end and angled it into the tight space in the boot of the cab. Malcolm scrutinized his nephew’s companion as the dandy took over the job of hoisting and tying the luggage onto his steamer. He still couldn’t make up his mind about the person’s gender. The redhead’s voice and name were quite feminine, but his trousers and cropped hair spoke to the contrary. He was rather short and lithe, even scrawny as far as men go, but he had an underlying power that came not only from the fiery red of his hair but the strength in his eyes and actions. Lord Newcastle settled on believing him to be simply a dandy or a masher but was too much of a gentleman to ask which. Why would a woman don trousers and lug baggage around if there were two able bodied men available?

The Earl of Newcastle placed his funneled steamer-bucket in the passenger seat beside him and gestured for the others to climb in the back. With a flourish, Lord Newcastle donned his driving goggles and heedlessly barreled through Beersheba’s streets. A rush of exhilaration swept over him as he narrowly avoided carts and creatures until finally he reached the open roads of the desert where he could kick up as much sand and dust as he wanted. Driving was one duty he considered a luxury, and unlike many of his expatriate friends from the embassy, he refused to hand the wheel over to his servants.

“Eilian, how did you end up with black eyes?”

He listened for an answer but only heard the whipping of the wind against his ears and the slosh of sand as it parted in his path. After another long moment of silence, he glanced over his shoulder and found his nephew and his companion sound asleep. The redheaded man’s head rested against Eilian’s chest while he held him near with his titanium arm.

***

When Hadley awoke, Eilian was nudging her out of the car as a group of servants came bustling out of the fortified, brick house like ants. Unlike the footmen and maids Hadley had remembered from the great houses of London, Lord Newcastle’s staff was not dressed in ornate livery but in perfectly clean, black thawbs and sandals. On their heads, the men wore matching keffiyehs while the women’s hair was neatly tucked away under hijābs. With one call in Arabic from the master of the house, Eilian, Hadley, and their wardrobes were whisked through the marble and wood-trimmed foyer and up to their separate rooms. Through the jostling and her half-conscious state, she found she was disappointed to be in a near replica of an English manor. Somehow she had expected Eilian’s uncle to have more exotic taste, especially while living in a city so rich in history and so far away from the English status quo, yet despite their resemblance, Lord Newcastle wasn’t like his nephew at all. After being led up a set of stairs and down a hall lined with paintings of desert landscapes, she lost sight of Eilian and was escorted into one of the guest bedrooms that was as equally sumptuous and English as the rest of the house. Two male servants trailed behind and gently laid her dirty trunk in the corner as a dainty maid, no more than sixteen, explained to her in perfect English that her name was Amina and she would draw her a bath and take her clothing down to be laundered.

As the byzantine-eyed girl returned with bucket after bucket of hot water, the craftswoman rummaged through her steamer, hoping to find anything that was not soiled with arid grit. The bottom of the chest was coated in sand, but rolled within a union suit, she found a white linen shirt and a pair of white and blue striped trousers. With a light dusting, they came relatively clean. Amina smiled and bowed out, leaving Hadley alone with only the perfumed water and porcelain tub. She stared hungrily at the steaming water. A real bath was a little piece of home she had missed immensely during her time in the desert. Without hesitation, she peeled off her brother’s hand-me-downs and corset, shedding Henry Fox as she was submerged in the deep bath.

The lavender-scented water stripped away the sand, sweat, and blood of the desert, leaving her vulnerable yet relieved to be rid of all reminders of what happened. After two months of stealthily bathing in the spring at night with Eilian on guard and using the Billawrati’s bathhouse, she had forgotten how relaxing a bath could be. Lying back until her neck met the cold bone of the cistern, she sighed. In this moment of pure calm, what had happened only hours ago came flooding into her mind. Edmund Barrister was dead by her hand, by her gun. The shining derringer was tucked into her corset where it lay only feet away. Someone would miss him. Someone would come to the Negev searching for him. Even if they never found his body, there would be inquiries. Her name would be in the papers and so would Eilian’s. First his father died, now his name would be dragged through the mud. She couldn’t bear it.

There had been one more fatal mistake. Seeing her companion’s face on the other man had shocked her so completely that she blurted out her real name in her natural voice. Hadley covered her face and slid below the water as she contemplated her options. Changing her name now would only arouse suspicion and complicate matters for both of them, and as she surfaced, she decided once and for all that Henry Fox had died in the desert.

Hadley shivered as a chill fell over the water. She climbed out to don Adam’s old clothes and her girdle, but this time, she purposely neglected the pomade and coiffed hair. Throwing open the door to her room, she was about to drop onto the four-poster bed to sleep away her anxiety when the door opened and Amina slipped inside. With a dart of her hand, her derringer slid safely under her pillow and out of the maid’s sight.

“The master of the house requests your presence in the study,” she stated respectfully though her almond eyes sharpened gravely and her erect posture exuded more authority than even the proudest English butler. “It’s down the stairs and at the end of the hall on the left.”

A wave of nausea rolled from her stomach up to her mouth as she sprinted down the wooden steps toward the door at the end of the hall. Outside the pocket door, she caught her breath and took a moment to collect herself, smoothing her hair and jacket, before coming face to face with one of Eilian’s nearest relatives for the first time. Hadley drew the door aside, expecting to see Eilian and his uncle sitting among traditional English furnishings when she was greeted by the penetrating green-eyed gaze of Malcolm Holland as he sat in his temple-like study. The room was littered with gaudy Egyptian-revival furniture with fluted lotus columns standing in each corner.

“Sit,” he commanded, pointing to a pair of chairs enameled with lapis lazuli and gilded with gold leaf in front of his desk.

The sphinx heads supporting each armrest stared up at her with cold painted eyes as she closed the door without turning her back to him. Swallowing hard, she sat erect at the edge of the chair. They sat in complete silence as he appeared to look at something on his desk with his hands folded, but she knew he was studying her, judging her reactions. Hadley jumped when his gaze finally fell upon her freckled face, locking onto her eyes and holding them until she was certain he had bored through her sockets and into her mind where he could glimpse her secrets.

“Now, you will tell me who you are and what happened in the desert.”

Chapter Thirty:

His Father’s Past

Malcolm Holland, as Hadley soon learned, was not an exact copy of Eilian as she first surmised. He had a frightful intensity, which she had never experienced in her companion. They shared the same familial features: the straight nose, the dark, expressive brows, the triangular jaw, and the same earthy brown hair, though Lord Newcastle’s was streaked with wisps of grey at his temples and was neatly combed and parted on the side. Light creases branched out from the corners of his eyes and near his mouth. Apart from slight imperfections, his body still retained its athletic build and gave the impression that, despite being nearly fifty, he was well preserved. As he drummed his fingers on the gilded table impatiently, Hadley studied his right hand. Eilian’s had been missing ever since she met him, and she wondered if it would have looked the same.

“Well?” the earl prodded, touching his jade and gold ring self-consciously when he noticed her staring at his hand.

She drew in a long breath, knowing he would sense any lies she told. “My name is Hadley Fenice. I’m the co-owner of Fenice Brothers Prosthetics and Hadley’s Hobbies and Novelties. For the past two months, I was disguised as a man, so I could work with Lord Sorrell at the excavation. I didn’t come as a woman because I wanted to be treated equally and see how it really was rather than being handled with kid gloves. I met Lord Sorrell eight months ago through my cousin, who sent him to me after his accident to create a prosthetic arm for him. I’m the one who constructed the prosthesis he has now, and during the time before and after his surgery, we became friends. He asked me to accompany him here.”

He nodded, reading her face as she spoke, but when she finished, he seemed satisfied. “Please explain to me, Miss Fenice, how my nephew ended up with blackened eyes and broken ribs.”

Hadley opened her mouth but closed it at the thought of the Billawrati. They had saved them from one group of Englishmen, and she couldn’t betray them to another. “We awoke today to find the camp empty and our belongings gone. I thought we had been robbed until Sir Joshua Peregrine’s associate came riding back.”

“Who?”

“Edmund Barrister. I don’t know much about him, except that he was a big game hunter and shareholder in the shipping company that finances Joshua’s expeditions.”

“I recognize the name. He has had several run-ins in the region for illegal antiquity dealing. Go on.”

“Lord Sorrell and I demanded to know what was going on and where our dirigible tickets were. When he realized he was caught, he struck me. I was knocked unconscious, but when I woke up—” Her blue eyes burned when the scene played in her mind. “I stumbled out of the tent and found them fighting. Mr. Barrister had Eilian by the throat and would not let go. I— I thought he was going to kill him.” She covered her face as her shoulders rocked with sobs. “I shot him! I told him to get off, but he wouldn’t listen. I didn’t know what else to do, and Eilian was going to die if I didn’t do something!”

She wasn’t sure when Lord Newcastle moved into the chair beside her, but there he sat with a handkerchief at the ready and kind eyes. “There, there, you’re both safe now.”

“I killed him. Lord Sorrell hid his body in a cave and used some of the leftover explosives to collapse it. Please, don’t turn us in to the constabulary, Lord Newcastle!”

“My child, I will do nothing of the sort. It’s quite obvious you care a great deal for each other. You killed a man to save my nephew, and he hid the body to protect you. I can ensure that no one comes looking for Mr. Barrister, and when you get to England, this will all be behind you.”

Hadley shook her head as she blew her nose. “Not quite. Joshua Peregrine has our airship tickets. He and our notebooks are probably halfway to London by now.”

“The airship to London leaves only once a fortnight.”

“That’s even worse! I don’t want Eilian on the same ship as him! I’m sure he will suspect something when Mr. Barrister doesn’t show up.”

Lord Newcastle stroked his well-trimmed sideburns as his eyes fixed on a framed piece of papyrus on the other side of the room. “Will he be shipping any crates?”

“Yes, sir.”

He hopped up from the chair, startling her to her feet as she followed him to the pocket door. “I think I may have a way to keep him from taking that dirigible home. Tell Eilian I will be back in a few hours.”

Lord Newcastle purposefully strode past her and toward the front door, leaving her abandoned in his empty library. Feeling uncomfortable being alone in his mock Egyptian tomb, she quickly shut the door and headed for Eilian’s chamber. After a moment of shuffling within, she was greeted by his bloodshot grey eyes and split lip. With a pained smile, he let her in. Seating herself at the window, she admired Jerusalem’s white walls and multicolored roofs as they blazed in the mid-afternoon sun. Eilian stiffly lowered himself onto the edge of the bed, looking cleaner but much sorer and more fatigued than he had been in months.

“How are you feeling?”

He chuckled softly, grimacing against his will. “Dreadful, but happy to see you. I wanted to talk to you without my uncle around.”

“If you are worried about Sir Joshua, I spoke to Lord Newcastle, and he just left to deal with him.”

“That’s not it.” The archaeologist moved to the bench beside her and took her hands in his. So much had changed in a day. “I know I have broached this subject several times but have never said it directly. I love you more than I ever thought I could love someone, Hadley. I’m happiest when your face is the first and last thing I see each day.” He paused for a moment and watched as his prosthesis gently close around her hand. “I know you value your freedom, and I want you to know I will never stop you because your intelligence and ambition are why I was drawn to you. What I’m trying to ask is, will you accompany me back to England as my future wife?”

She grinned as she pressed her lips to his bruised cheek, stroking the scant amount of prickly stubble on the other side. When she hugged him, she felt the depression in his ribs and realized how close she had come to losing him that day. Her eyes burned as she answered, “I would love to.”

Eilian lightly held her face in his hands, taking in her beaming yet tearful features. “This is cause for celebration. Let’s see if we can get some tea and cakes at least.”

“I’m going to write to Adam and tell him the news. If I mail it tonight, the bullet ship should get it to London a day or two before we arrive. Are you going to write to your mother?”

“No, I think she would rather hear the news in person.”

***

When the Earl of Newcastle returned to his lodgings with his head held high and a satisfied swing in his step, he didn’t expect to find his nephew and Miss Fenice chatting intimately at his dining table. As he entered the room, both greeted him warmly, and he was shocked to find that the two forlorn faces he had left only hours earlier had been replaced by cheerful, if not exuberant, countenances.

“You would not think there was a death in the family from the way you two look.”

Eilian leapt to his feet as Hadley returned to writing her letter with her head down. “I am sorry, uncle, but we have a definite reason for being happy. I have proposed to Miss Fenice, and she has accepted.”

A wide grin reminiscent of the one Eilian was wearing crossed his stern features. “That is wonderful news. I am so happy for you both. I come bearing not nearly as joyous news, but I have gotten Sir Joshua Peregrine removed from the airship.”

“How?” Lord Sorrell blurted in shock.

“I may not be an Ottoman, but I do have some sway over affairs concerning the crown. I went to the docking field and confirmed he had crates there already. Well, somehow his papers,” he fished inside his jacket for a moment before tossing a handful of dusty, crumpled pages onto the table, “had gone missing. I made a fuss over the lack of documentation, suspicious packaging, possible contraband, black market artifacts, and suddenly the officials yanked his cargo from the roster and put in an order that he is to be detained when he tries to board. He will no doubt miss his flight.”

“I— I don’t know what to say.”

He waved his gloved hand dismissively. “Why have a diplomatic post if you can’t throw your weight around every now and again? When you’re finished with your letter, I would like a word with you in my study, Miss Fenice.”

The craftswoman froze, cringing before quickly concluding her letter and hurrying off to the Egyptian room with the same trepidation she experienced during their first meeting. As she walked in, he motioned for her to close the door behind her.

“I regret to inform you, Miss Fenice, that you will be travelling as a man on the dirigible ride back to London. It’s infinitely easier to travel as three men than as an unmarried woman with two bachelors, which will undoubtedly raise questions.”

“I don’t mind, really. After months, four more days will not make a difference.”

He nodded, tenting his fingers as his eyes flickered with curiosity. “You obviously realize that isn’t the only reason I called you in here. When I heard from my sister that Eilian bought a prosthesis after his accident, I was told it fell off at a dinner party. Am I to assume that is not the same prosthetic arm he has now?”

“That’s correct, sir.”

“Does his Lady Dorset know about it?”

“No, I don’t think so, sir.” She stared down at her feet. “I don’t believe she knows about the surgery to install it either. Lady Dorset isn’t going to be very happy with us, is she?”

“My sister will be furious that he didn’t subject her to news that would only have made her worry herself into the vapors, but all mothers are like that. She will probably have some choice words for him when he arrives for not only neglecting to tell her about the prosthesis but for not telling her he left for Palestine or about you. As his fiancée, I want to warn you, the first few days back may be difficult for him.”

“But why did he not tell her about his life these past few months?”

The nobleman sighed. “You must understand, the reason he never tells his parents these things is he fears they won’t approve. I know what that is like first hand. My sister learned browbeating and nitpicking from our mother. If he is able to finally stand up to his mother, she will probably not try to control him anymore. Maybe then he will be more forthcoming about what is going on in his life. His brother always takes his parents’ side, so you and I need to support Eilian to keep him from being completely berated. Are you willing to do this with me?”

“Of course, I would do anything for him to have a better relationship with his family. Both of my parents are deceased, so I know how fleeting that relationship can be.” She watched as he leaned back in his throne-like, gilded chair as if waiting for her to go on. “I hope I don’t sound too forward, but what was Eilian’s father like? I never met him, and Eilian never spoke about him except in the vaguest of terms.”

The earl opened his mouth to speak but hesitated as he searched for the right words. “I can’t deny that Harland Sorrell was a difficult man to deal with, prone to losing his temper and being stubborn, but Eilian doesn’t realize how his father was raised. Harland’s father was a notoriously violent man, who beat his wife and children at the slightest indiscretion. Eilian’s father never raised a hand to Lady Dorset or the boys even if they needed it. As you can see, Dylan is spoiled and Eilian is wayward. While he broke from the violence, he could not escape his temperament and the hate it instilled in those who received it. I once asked him why he let Eilian carry on and cry when he should be taught to mask his emotions like a proper man, and he told me he refused to be like his father and give his sons only anger as a way to vent their frustration. I think he also wanted to know how his children felt about him. He wanted to know if they hated or loved him. Lord Dorset may have seemed like a tyrant, but you have to understand he had so poor of an example to learn how to be a father from.”

“Does Eilian know all of this?”

“I don’t think so, but I am not going to tell him now. It would only make him feel worse about the state in which he left their relationship.” He chuckled lowly as he straightened the papers on his desk. “He probably doesn’t know about the poetry either.”

A small smile played across her lips. “Poetry?”

“When Harland was courting my sister, he wrote her all sorts of silly love poems. When she would go out with my mother, I would peek at her cache of letters and sit for hours laughing at the poor sod. Oh, how he loved her. It was far from Shakespeare, but it showed how highly he regarded her. He would compare her to a muse or a goddess, and my sister thought he was the most romantic creature. I couldn’t believe someone saw my sister that way, especially since I found her to be shallow and whiney. Every time I saw him in town, I couldn’t help but laugh when I pictured this burly man hunched over his desk, struggling to write such delicate couplets. It was comical. I liked him though, despite his difficult disposition. If I didn’t, I would have chased him away as I did her other suitors, but there was always something endearing about how much he loved her. Maybe that is why he and Eilian never got along. They were simply too passionate about different things.”

Chapter Thirty-One:

A Confirmed Bachelor

Ever since Patrick Sinclair had picked up them up from the Queen Victoria Landing Fields, a contented smile had been etched into his features. Hadley couldn’t be sure if it was because Eilian was back within eyeshot or because he had gotten word of their impending nuptials. As the steamer chugged past London’s familiar storefronts, her mood waned with disappointment. Secretly she had hoped the grime would have melted away in her absence, taking with it the sneering society ladies and the skinny children caked in soot. London remained unchanged. The brakes squealed as they stopped with a jolt at the brick exterior of her home, which thankfully was just as she had left it. Eilian caught her hand as Patrick came around to open her door.

“I’m going to call on you in a day or two once I smooth things over with my mother. I want to wait before bringing you into the fray, though she is less likely to kill me if there are witnesses,” he explained with raised eyebrows and a cockeyed grin. “I will send word shortly. I know she will want to meet you.”

Hadley Fenice was surprised by the pang of sadness that bloomed within her breast at the thought of leaving his side. After several months of constant companionship, she felt oddly alone as Patrick lugged her trunk up the steps to her door. As she yanked her luggage inside and watched the steamer disappear into the misty gloom, the clunk of hurried boots clattered down the hall toward the foyer. Adam rounded the corner and caught her in his arms, crushing her to his breast before holding her far enough away to take a good look at her.

“Your freckles connected!” he exclaimed, noting her desert tan. As always, her brother was dressed impeccably in shades purple and black. “How was your trip? I hope your letters were infrequent because you were enjoying yourself.”

“I’m so sorry I didn’t write more. It got quite hectic at the camp. Did you get my last letter?”

“Yes, and I’m so happy for you and Lord Sorrell.”

She stared into his blue eyes before moving to his henna brows but saw no hint of surprise or disapproval. “I don’t know about you, but the news hasn’t yet sunk in.”

“Well,” Adam began as a wry smile crept from beneath his pencil mustache, “I have known for some time he was going to propose.”

Hadley shoved him in the chest. “When? How? How could you not tell me?”

“If I told you his intentions, you would have stopped seeing him. There was no way I could let you do that, especially when Lord Sorrell is a good catch and actually cares about you. Not many men would tolerate you.”

His sister fell silent as her anger dissipated. “When did he tell you?”

“He asked my permission for your hand when we went hunting.”

All she could do was sputter in shock. “That— that was four months ago! I didn’t even think about him in that way then.”

“That doesn’t mean he didn’t feel that way about you. I asked him if he knew what he was getting into since you have a temper and a habit of throwing things when you are mad.”

Her cheeks instantly reddened as she covered her face and followed him into the kitchen where dinner was already laid out. “Oh, please tell me you didn’t actually say that!”

“I did, and much more,” Adam replied as he began to carve the chicken, gesticulating dangerously with the knife as he spoke. “Lord Sorrell had to know what he was in for, especially when you act so polite and rational in front of company. I warned him while your mouth looks like Cupid’s bow, what comes out of it stings like an arrow. Then, he told me he knew you had a temper because you pulled a gun on him the first time you met.” When he saw the horrified look on his twin sister’s face, he couldn’t help but laugh. “Sadly, I wasn’t particularly shocked. What shocked me was he came back.”

Once the chicken was carved and the vegetables were passed around the table, Adam settled down, filling his mouth with food instead of heaping embarrassment upon his hapless sister. Thus far, she had been pleasantly surprised to find that her brother was happy to have her home, and looking around the house, she was stunned to find that it was actually cleaner than when she left. She had always assumed Adam was the untidy one. He prattled on about the comings and goings at his office, the financial crisis he helped to avert when he caught an error one of the other accountants had overlooked.

“You came home just in time. The last order cleared out most of the stock, but I guess all that will be coming to an end soon, won’t it?”

“Just because I’m getting married does not mean either of my businesses will suffer! I may bring on an apprentice, but I’m not stopping,” she snapped but caught herself. “Sorry, Adam. I’m already anticipating hearing that from everyone else, and I know most people won’t drop the subject like you will.”

Adam simply gave his sister a sympathetic nod and went back to his dinner and tea. Hadley studied his face as she turned a thought over in her mind while wringing her napkin beneath the table. She could picture Uta with her long, white, woven hair and the ossified pins sticking out of her mouth as she said it to her. Maybe he doesn’t like women. The last thing she said to her was to talk to him, and this moment of peace was as good as any, otherwise she would never have the audacity to bring it up. Her brother always was a man of infinite patience, and she hoped he would endure her impudence once more. Swallowing hard, she pushed the bits of carrot around her plate as she watched him.

“Do you still fancy Matilda?”

Adam inhaled his tea at the question, choking and wiping the moisture from his mustache. “Where did that come from? I haven’t spoken to Miss Meriwether in over a year! Anyway, she is engaged now.”

“I was just wondering what happened. I mean, when I get married, won’t you be lonely here all by yourself?”

“Matilda and I wanted different things, and I like being a bachelor, Hadley, you know that. I’m in no hurry to be in a relationship.”

Hadley drew in a deep breath as she struggled to ask what she lacked the words for. “Adam, are you— are you in a Greek relationship?”

He looked up from his plate and stared into her eyes with his blue gaze more intense than she had ever seen it. The reply shot from his lips with the hard edge of suspicion, “What are you talking about?”

“Do you— do you like men?” From across the table, she could sense his discomfort and the stiffness that suddenly seemed to permeate every cell of his body. “If you do, that is fine. I never thought I would understand it, but I do now. No one can help who they love, and even though we have had our differences in the past, I want you to know I love you no matter what you feel,” she blurted as she reached out and put her hand over his. “You are my brother, and I don’t want any secrets between us. I want you to be happy.”

For a long moment, Adam glared at her, ignoring the sorrowful sag of her sympathetic eyes and her lax mouth as she waited for his answer. After twenty-four years of hiding and denial, he never expected this moment to come. He drew in a tight breath, but his ribs and the muscles of his back fought against it. The outrage that rose from within rejected all means of smothering the fire. Finally, he tore his eyes away and sat back, whipping his hand out from under his sister’s warm grasp.

“How long have you known?”

“Not long, and you?”

“Nineteen years,” he uttered in almost a whisper, trailing off into thought. Suddenly, he turned back to her, his eyes aflame. “You can’t tell a soul.”

“Surely, you do not think Eilian would think ill—”

“I said, no one!” Adam slammed his hands on the table and leapt from his seat, looming over his doppelganger as his voice reached a roar she did not know could come from him. “You may not tell Lord Sorrell any of this!”

“But why? He does not seem fazed by it,” she replied meekly.

“You don’t understand anything, Hadley. Women handle things differently from men. When a woman hears something she doesn’t like, she will cry and grieve or shout, but she will eventually be resigned to what transpires. Men… men aren’t like that. When men hear something they don’t like and don’t trust, they react not with tears but with violence. Even a man who appears enlightened still has that side. He can’t shed his nature, Hadley. I have kept up this charade too long to have you ruin it.”

As he turned toward the door, she called for him. “Do you have so little faith in men even though you love them?”

“I have seen what they are capable of, what I am capable of.” Her brother’s chest heaved once again as the thought climbed up the straining cords of his neck. “I had to break Matilda Meriwether’s heart because of all this. Do you know what it is like to tell someone you will never marry them because you love another? To degrade yourself for someone else’s well-being. She thinks I’m a lout. They all do. Either I play the lout or I come clean as a sodomite. Which do you think brings us all the least pain?” A tremulous sigh escaped his lips. “If you expose me, Hadley, you will have no family left to your name.”

Before she could speak, he stormed through the halls and up the stairs, his boots ringing on the polished wood. Hadley flinched as his door slammed shut above her head, leaving her alone in the silence with only the chicken carcass for company. Never before had she realized how utterly alike they were until the tables were turned and she was on the receiving end of the Fenice temper. Squeezing her eyes tightly shut, she tucked her hair behind her ears as the tears burned her lids. What had she done?

Chapter Thirty-Two:

Prodigal Children

“I have raised the most thoughtless, prodigal, irresponsible children!” Millicent Sorrell seethed as her boys stood before her in the parlor of her Grosvenor Square home.

Even after two decades, little about the scene had changed. Eilian and Dylan stood with their hands folded behind their backs in guilt-ridden silence, absorbing the verbal blows their mother dealt from the comfort of the sofa. They winced in unison as her voice reached an ear-piercing screech. As her rant descended into listing the grave physical effects attributed to their absences, they exchanged knowing looks. Their mother’s martyrdom was nothing new to them. Eilian glanced at his brother, who was, as always, impeccably pressed and dressed in a pristine suit of mourning black. His dark blonde hair was neatly combed and pomaded to a lustrous sheen. The archaeologist had caught a glimpse of his own poor excuse for a reflection when he first entered the house. Even after four days on the express dirigible, his face was still tinted with green and red bruises, and the high collar of his shirt and cravat barely covered the finger prints left on the delicate flesh of his neck. He had come directly from the landing fields to Grosvenor Square and felt incredibly conspicuous in his Norfolk jacket while his mother wore widow weeds so elaborate and littered with symbolism that Queen Victoria would have been envious.

“Do you know who was here to comfort me after your father passed on? The servants! Strangers! Lord and Lady Bedford and even their daughters were at my side while my sons were off gallivanting all over creation.”

A sniveling string of sobs broken up by shrill keening emanated from the hall, reminding Eilian of the stories of Irish banshees he had heard as a child. He couldn’t help but roll his eyes as Constance deliberately strode past the open door, dabbing her eyes with her cambric handkerchief and wailing slightly louder. Despite it only being her father-in-law who died, a man she cared less about than her lady’s maid, she had several full mourning dresses and veils made for the occasion. The Countess of Dorset clenched her jaw and rubbed her forehead in frustration as Dylan’s wife blubbered past the parlor again.

“Dylan, tell your wife her grieving widow act is not appreciated. I’m not stupid. I know she had no attachment to your father. The only reason she’s crying is because she had to cut her trip to Paris short.”

“Mother,” Dylan began with patronizing sweetness, “she has never had a death in her family. She does not know the appropriate level of grief she should display.”

“Second mourning and as much grief as she actually feels! And you,” she added, pointing an accusatory finger at Eilian, “your brother at least had the decency to tell me when he was leaving the country. I even had to send your uncle to fetch you. You’re lucky he was nearby. Where is Malcolm?”

“He went to the Foreign Office to pick up something.”

Millicent Sorrell drew in a deep breath, her dull, crepe dress crinkling as she exhaled loudly. “Of course he did. He can never just come home, can he?” Her eyes locked onto her eldest son’s face. “What happened to your eye?”

“I broke up a fight and was hit in the process,” he replied stiffly, thankful he didn’t have to speak very often as his ribs sparked with pain at each inhalation.

“Savages,” Dylan chided.

“Of the English persuasion.”

Lady Dorset smiled slightly as Eilian crossed his arms, revealing that both limbs terminated in hands but narrowed her eyes at the dark grey color of his right hand. “You are wearing your prosthesis again. It looks different.”

“I bought a new one after the party incident.”

“Well, let’s see it.”

He slowly pulled off his jacket, half from the ache in his ribs that greatly limited the range of motion in his arm and half from the fear of how she was going to react. Turning away from his mother, he unbuttoned and rolled up his sleeve nearly up to his shoulder to reveal the entirety of the prosthesis and its support brace. Dylan smirked as he followed behind his brother, eager to see their mother’s reaction to such a sight. Her eyes ran over the arm, but her smile faded as she reached his elbow.

“What have you done to yourself?” she cried as she stared at the point where flesh met metal beneath the cotton sleeve. “Is— is it attached?”

“Yes, and it is a vast improvement over the other one.”

“But the other was so natural.” Lady Dorset watched in horror as he flexed the hand, making the joints squeal to life. “This is a— a monstrosity!”

“Mother, that’s a bit of an exaggeration. You should be happy. Look, I can pick things up now.”

As he reached for her teacup on the side table, she clasped her hand over it. “Your father would be horrified by how you have mutilated yourself! What will other people think? You don’t see other people walking around with rods and springs sticking out of their arms.”

“Honestly, I couldn’t care less about what others think of me,” he yelled, surprising even himself. “What would you have me do, Mother? Would you like me to have a surgeon cut open my arm and remove it for the sake of your delicate sensibilities?”

“You had surgery without telling me!”

Dylan smiled and stifled his laughter as his mother fell back, feigning the vapors. He couldn’t have envisioned his brother’s homecoming any better. He never had to lift a finger to make Eilian look bad. As blissful thoughts of disinheritance danced through his head, he was jolted forward with a sharp smack to the back of his shoulder. Whipping around to scold the clumsy servant who hit him, Dylan met his uncle’s cold glare. Malcolm Holland was the only man who struck a twinge of fear into his heart. He could never put his finger on why, but the man was intimidating. After years without seeing him, he forgot how much he resembled Eilian, but he knew his uncle disliked him more strongly than his brother ever did. Lord Newcastle saw the boys for who they really were and let Dylan know with gestures and barbs that he was onto him.

“Did you know about this?” Lady Dorset demanded as Malcolm stood beside Eilian, who was busy clumsily fixing his sleeve with trembling fingers.

“Yes, he showed me on the dirigible. I don’t know about you, but I think it’s a marvel of modern technology. He was lucky enough to be the first to receive a moveable limb like this, and I must praise the craftsman for the ingenious design. Eilian, have you told your mother the wonderful news?”

With his uncle at his side, the anxiety that knotted his chest finally loosened, but it still didn’t feel like the best time to say anything about Hadley. “No, I haven’t been given the opportunity yet. Mother, I asked a young lady in town if she would marry me, and she accepted.”

“You’re engaged!” Dylan sputtered.

“To whom?”

“Neither of you know her, but she is the same woman you mentioned in your letter to Uncle Malcolm a few months ago, Mother.”

Lady Dorset drummed her fingers on the side table like an angry cat. “Have you met her family?”

“She lives with her brother, and her parents are both deceased. You can be assured she and her brother are both well-bred, upstanding people.”

“I can attest to the woman’s character. Miss Fenice is a charming, intelligent young woman, and I believe her demeanor is well suited to your son’s,” Malcolm added as his sister sat in choleric silence. “Sister, I may be wrong, but I believe the proper thing would be to invite Miss Fenice over for dinner to get better acquainted.”

“Leave her address with Barlow, and I will send her an invitation to dinner on Thursday. Is she at least British?”

“Yes, Mother,” Eilian answered, suppressing a nervous chuckle at her annoyance.

As she opened her mouth to continue her cross-examination, Lord Newcastle put his hand on Eilian’s prosthetic arm. “May I borrow your son for a while? I would like to discuss settling the estate and what he needs to know about his new responsibilities.”

The Countess of Dorset dismissed them with a wave of her hand, but as Eilian followed his uncle down the hall toward the study, Malcolm Holland stopped a few feet from Constance. As they approached, the deceptively pretty blonde tearlessly sniveled a little louder.

“Constance, is it? Obviously, no one thinks we are important enough to be introduced. I’m Lord Newcastle, your uncle-in-law.” He brought her hand to his lips. “How old are you, child?”

Her cheeks pinkened. “Twenty, my lord.”

Malcolm dropped his voice as he patted her gloved hand. “Let me give you a piece of advice, my dear. This act you are putting on is only making you look like the child you are. You are married now. It’s to time to leave the nursery games behind.”

Constance Sorrell’s face paled at the slight as she turned up her nose and crossed her arms. She would speak to her husband about this. By the time the elder earl returned from shutting the door on her prying ears, he turned to find Eilian struggling to get his jacket over his arm. Shaking his head in dismay, he easily freed the metal limb.

“Thank you for coming to my aid. I thought Mother would scream until nightfall.”

“Try not to give her so much ammunition next time. As you are aware, I stopped by the Foreign Office and found these waiting for me.” He withdrew a handful of telegraphs from his breast pocket and laid them on the mahogany desk. “I asked my secretary to keep an eye on Sir Joshua and report back to me. Apparently, he sent numerous telegraphs to London, including several to the British Museum. A man matching his description also bought a ticket for an express dirigible to Alexandria the night after we left. The messages stopped by the time the airship would have departed.”

“What does that mean exactly? What could he possibly be doing with the British Museum?”

The older man stroked his sideburns as he stared into the empty hearth deep in thought, calculating how many days it would take to reach England from Egypt. “What he wants with the museum, I haven’t the foggiest. All I know is Sir Joshua is on his way home, and in a few days you may be forced to confront him.”

Chapter Thirty-Three:

A Caustic Little Voice

Hadley Fenice waited at the window with a sigh as the red steamer broke through the London gloom and chugged down the road. During the three days she had been home, she had not been able to be happy. Despite the smile she incised into her features when she told Eliza and James the news, she was miserable. How could she enjoy her engagement if she was forced to stay quiet about her brother’s anger? She couldn’t tell anyone Adam was avoiding her by leaving at dawn and coming home at midnight without having to explain what transpired, and if asked, she was afraid she would crack. For the past seventy-two hours, she only knew he was around by the opening and slamming of doors. Adam was becoming more of a poltergeist than a brother.

In her hours of solitude, she fashioned the braid she had hacked off before she left into a postiche to pin to the back of her hair to disguise her cropped locks. At least making wigs for automatons came in handy for something, she thought when Eliza came over to help press and set her hair into an elaborate coiffure in an attempt to better hide its lack of length. She had only seen Eilian once when he came to warn her about his mother’s invitation, and when asked what she should wear, he suggested the black and white dress he remembered from when she presented his finished prosthesis. Now, here she sat by the window waiting in a hairdo she hated and in an out of style dress she loved. All she could do was wring her hands and rehearse what she had read in her etiquette books.

When his steamer finally turned the corner, she straightened herself out, smoothing the fabric of her dress and touching her bun to make sure it was still firmly attached. Hadley paused behind the door as the bell rang, giving herself a moment to work up a smile. Eilian’s face lit up as he took in her monochromatic dress and bright hair. She was more beautiful than he remembered, and it only made him miss seeing her every day.

“You look breathtaking, Hadley,” he breathed as he kissed her cheek, noticing how she squeezed her eyes shut as he drew near. “What is the matter?”

She sighed. “I had a fight with Adam and am feeling out of sorts.”

“Did he change his mind about the engagement?” Eilian asked as he escorted her into the steamer.

“No, no, it was only a silly spat between siblings.”

His serious expression melted back into guileless glee. “I have your ring, but I don’t want to give it to you until after dinner. I want my family to get to know you and not make conversation about your engagement ring.”

“May I see it?”

“Not yet, I want it to be a surprise, but I think you will like it.”

Hadley peered out the window at the grand brick and stone houses of Grosvenor Square. Even in the waning light, she could make out their massive facades and elaborately coffered doors as they glared at her from behind iron fences. Never did she think she would ever enter one of those houses without carrying a measuring tape and plaster. Thoughts of Adam gnawed at her mind as she followed Eilian up to the door, and she couldn’t help but feel apprehension creep through her veins again and into her trembling hands. She was so far outside her station. The balding, aloof butler opened the door to reveal the checkered marble floor and massive curved staircase trailing up into the upper floors. She marveled at each gilded and carved surface as they were escorted into the parlor. Every eye was on her as she stepped toward Lady Dorset, who sat near the hearth.

“Mother, this is Miss Fenice. Miss Fenice, this is my mother, Lady Dorset,” Eilian began as Hadley curtsied as smoothly and as gracefully as possible.

“How do you do, Miss Fenice,” the formidable widow replied with a probing eye that sought to find fault in the young redhead.

For a moment, Hadley simply examined the stately woman’s face in return, picking out the pieces that reminded her so much of Eilian and Lord Newcastle. “It is an honor to make your acquaintance, Lady Dorset.”

Eilian then introduced her to his brother and Constance, the latter of the two glared at her suspiciously while the former barely seemed to notice her. Lord Newcastle gave her a genteel bow and mouthed for her not to worry as dinner was announced. The table was laid with a crisp tablecloth of white damask and a low vase filled to overflowing with baby’s breath, roses, and lilies despite it being November. Eilian easily pulled out her chair for her and pushed her in as the others took their seats. Hadley felt sheltered sitting between Eilian and his uncle with Lady Dorset seated at her eldest son’s left hand, but throughout the meal, she felt Constance’s eyes piercing her form. As the footman carried the platters of raw oysters and tureens of soup, Hadley looked up to find the young woman watching her to see if she chose the correct piece of silverware from the array at her plate. By the time the fish course was served, the knot in her breast was loosening as Lord Newcastle led the conversation with humorous anecdotes from his tenure in Palestine.

When the plates were taken away only to be replaced with a fillet of beef, Lady Dorset turned her attention to the young woman with henna hair. “Miss Fenice, I have been wondering, how did you and Lord Sorrell meet?”

Hadley froze, trying to find the right words as to not give herself away. “We met when he came in to make a purchase from the business my brother and I own.”

“And what type of business is it?”

“We inherited my late father’s prosthesis business. We also make toys, specifically dolls and automata dioramas.”

“Have you been successful? I have heard the toy business is highly competitive.”

Millicent Sorrell was genuinely interested, or it appeared so as the stoic woman’s face did not give much away, but Hadley was fairly certain she knew where this conversation was going. Money and dowries.

“Quite successful, Lady Dorset. I never thought I would get married,” Hadley replied as she pushed a mushroom around the edge of her plate, “so with a bit of frugality, I was able to amass a little over ten thousand pounds for when my brother took a wife. I didn’t want to be a burden if he was to ever marry.”

Lady Dorset’s eyes widened, yet she nodded as if pleased. “That is quite a sizeable sum. That is more than your father gave you, is it not, Constance?”

The younger woman prickled, her lips clenching until they were white and barely visible. Hadley returned to her meal, hoping the conversation would drop and she would be safe at least until dessert. As the Sorrells grew silent, Hadley coughed from the tightness in her chest that began to impair her breathing. If Dylan’s wife didn’t hate her before, she definitely did now. Constance’s judgmental eye remained on her, running over her as Edmund Barrister had done in the desert. Edmund Barrister. The blood leaking across his chest passed before her eyes but was quickly pushed away. She couldn’t think about that now. The main courses were soon swept away only to be replaced with plates of cakes, fruits, nuts, and cheese.

“Miss Fenice,” the Countess of Dorset began from the end of the table as she helped herself to some pudding, “do you keep the books for your brother? To be able to keep the household accounts is a very useful skill for a woman to have on a large estate.”

Eilian’s eyes locked onto her. Fear permeated his grey irises as he waited for her answer.

“Actually, my brother keeps the books since he is an accountant by trade.” She hesitated. “When my older brother George died, I took over creating the prostheses and automatons. I created the one Lord Sorrell has now and helped to build the one he wore previously.”

“You talked my son into having that done to him?” she asked, though her sharp tone made it sound more like an accusation.

She put her hand on her fiancé’s arm as he opened his mouth. “While I came up with the idea and presented it to him, I didn’t hold any sway over his decision. Lord Sorrell was looking for an alternative to his cosmetic prosthesis, and my electric model fit his criteria.”

“You speak very eloquently for a woman who works with her hands.” The countess didn’t bother to glance up from her plate anymore as she spoke. “Did you have a governess as a child?”

“My mother was a governess before she married my father, and she taught us. After her death, my uncle took our education into his hands. He is a professor at Oxford.” Hadley paused to look around the table. The scornful eyes of Dylan and Constance told her they did not approve of her extensive yet informal education. “I have always believed we are all given gifts, whether it’s music, painting, or mathematics, and to squander those gifts simply because they don’t align with one’s sex is a sin. I have absolutely no aptitude for playing the piano or singing, but I understand gears and mechanisms and how to make them beautiful. I would rather be looked down upon for being useful,” she locked eyes with Constance, “than put on a pedestal for knowing nothing of value.”

Hadley’s hands trembled as she cut into her dessert. She knew each one of them was judging her, counting the ways she was unworthy of the young nobleman’s affections. Eliza would have been proud of her, but at times like this, she wondered what her mother or even Adam would have to say about her situation. Tonight there would be no one to confide in when she got home. The party was about to adjourn to the drawing room for tea and coffee when Lady Dorset did not take her brother’s arm.

“Would you escort Miss Fenice, Malcolm? I would like to speak to my son privately.”

Malcolm slowly walked her into the drawing room, noting how rigid the craftswoman had gone, her pulse pounding when their arms touched. “It will be all right, my dear,” he whispered reassuringly. “If you’re willing to be left alone for a few minutes, I will go in and try to smooth things over.”

She nodded, and once she was deposited safely on the sofa with a cup of tea in her unsteady hands, her last ally disappeared down the hall. The china clinked as she struggled to stop the shaking, but with each phrase she caught through the walls, her heart leapt in fear. Lady Dorset’s voice never rose above a stern tone, but Eilian’s outraged replies burst through the plaster. The rustle of the cushion beside her finally brought her back to reality. Constance sat next to her in her mauve dress and jet necklace of mourning. Clearing her throat, she tested her caustic little voice.

“They’re at it again,” she sighed wistfully.

“Again?”

The girl turned to her with angelic, blue eyes. “You mean, you don’t know? They have been fighting ever since he returned home. I don’t think their relationship will survive this kind of turmoil. Since the earl’s passing, Lady Dorset’s health hasn’t been the best, and Dylan told me only yesterday how her doctors have prescribed that she should cut anyone out of her life who brings her undue stress. You may be what finally ruins their relationship.” Constance watched with an inward grin as the redhead’s eyes moistened. “I’m sure you’re worth it though. Would you accompany me on the piano, Miss Fenice?”

Hadley blinked rapidly and bit her lip as she placed the tea cup on the side table. “Please excuse me, Mrs. Sorrell, but I need to speak to Lady Dorset.”

Constance waited until Miss Fenice rounded the corner before flashing her husband a coy smile and leisurely finishing her tea. Her job was done. The voices within the library continued to fiercely battle. Those yelling inside were unable to hear the young woman knocking, and after several unsuccessful tries, she finally opened the door without invitation, closing it softly behind her. It took several seconds for Eilian and his mother to even realize she was there. Only after Malcolm moved toward the tearing woman, did they notice her. She drew in a tremulous breath and stood calmly before his mother.

“Lady Dorset, I would like to thank you for your hospitality, but I must go. This is no place for me.” She squeezed away the image of Adam in her mind. “I can’t— I will not be the cause of your family falling apart. I can’t bear it.”

Eilian’s eyes pleaded with her as he reached for her hand. “Hadley?”

“I’m so sorry, Eilian. I release you from our engagement,” she stated with tears rolling down her cheeks, finally unable to hold back the sobs creeping up her throat. “I’m so sorry.”

Hadley fled the room, heading for the front door as quickly as her dress would allow. They would catch up with her if she waited for the butler to fetch her coat, so she burst out in the glacial November air with bare arms and looked for a cab. Before one could be summoned, she heard Eilian’s voice coming from the house and dove into the nearest alleyway. She couldn’t bear to see him, to have him tell her everything would be all right, and to hold her close. Holding her breath, she watched as Lord Newcastle and Eilian ran past the alley, searching for her and calling her name between ragged breaths. When they finally passed, she emerged from the crevice, rubbing her clammy arms as the rain pattered down.

***

For hours she walked around London, staying on the busy streets filled with crowds leaving plays and restaurants as she tried to clear her head. Her favorite dress was soaked down to her corset, and the rain washed away her elaborate coiffure long ago. After an hour, she stopped caring what others thought of her appearance or if she stepped in puddles. Her slippers were already waterlogged and burned her toes with each icy step. As Big Ben tolled eleven, she broke from the throng of theatre-goers and walked toward Wimpole Street. The roads grew darker and less populated the nearer she drew to the hospitals and rows of doctors’ practices. She smiled when her eyes caught the dull glow of lamps within her cousin’s chambers, but sitting in front of the house was a red steamer. A familiar silhouette with wayward hair appeared in the parlor window. He was speaking until suddenly he put his head in his hands, his shoulders rocking. Hadley slowly turned and walked back to Baker Street. There would be no solace for her tonight. She was utterly alone.

Chapter Thirty-Four:

To Wimpole Street

It was half-past noon when Hadley finally wiped the latest round of sticky tears from her cheeks. The pain had come in waves over the past twelve hours for different reasons. She sobbed in bed the night before for breaking his heart and because she had no one to tell what transpired. That look of confusion and desolation refused to leave her mind. She had hurt him more deeply than Sir Joshua or his family ever could, and what made it worse was she did it because she loved him. In the morning, she mourned the life she envisioned ever since he proposed that would never come to pass. For the week they had been engaged, she had pictured them going to Egypt or Greece on their honeymoon, exploring the ruins and seeing the wonders of the world. There would be no more sitting by the fire in his library reading from the same book or discussing automatons over dinner. Now, she cried because she was utterly exhausted. She couldn’t think anymore, couldn’t rationalize what she did, but she could relive every awful detail and see his face as he said her name. Hadley sniffed, wiping at her cheeks as she attempted to assemble a porcelain doll with tremulous hands. The workroom door squealed open, irrevocably breaking her fragile concentration.

“Adam, if you have come to mock me, just leave,” she croaked, not bothering to turn and face the doorway as she didn’t want her brother to see her tear-stained face.

“It isn’t Adam who has come to speak to you.”

At the sound of the polished, stately voice, Hadley sprung to her feet, knocking over her stool as she turned to meet the hard gaze of Millicent Sorrell. “Lady Dorset,” she stammered as she curtsied amongst the mess, “what— what are you doing here?”

Hadley manically pawed at her face and the powder clinging to the front of her dress but knew in this state, she could hardly feign appearing presentable. Surveying the chaos of her kingdom, she noticed every stray wood-shaving and pool of ceramic dust and wondered what Eilian’s mother must think of it. The imperturbable Countess of Dorset wove her way around the tables and tools, nimbly avoiding any shards of metal or wood that may have caught her widow weeds as she headed for the modest wooden chair near the backdoor. Her green eyes fell on the broken bodies of dolls and the mysterious instruments of creation or destruction that lay scattered around the girl, but her face gave away nothing. Even after blinking several times, she still was not certain if Lady Dorset was really sitting in her studio.

“Miss Fenice, I have come to you because my son has taken to not speaking to me after how you were treated last night. I have always sought to make Eilian happy, but I have come to find that I obviously don’t know how to accomplish that. You aren’t the traditional choice for the wife of an earl, not my choice, but you are his choice, and I must accept that.” She drew in a breath and studied the red-haired woman’s face, which had paled with surprise. Apologies were something Lady Dorset was not accustomed to making, and it took her noble mind a little time to formulate what she wanted to say without uttering that servile phrase. “This is difficult for me, but what I’m trying to say is, I would like it if you would reinstate your engagement, as long as I haven’t damaged your feelings toward my son.”

“Nothing anyone could say would damage my feelings toward your son, Lady Dorset,” she beamed.

The countess grew silent. Her widow weeds drowned what youthful vigor she had left, leaving only a drawn, ashen shell of what was once beautiful. “I’m curious to know what I said to upset you so. From the way my brother described you, you didn’t sound like a woman who would be so easily scared off.”

“I knew you wouldn’t approve of me, Lady Dorset, and when I heard you arguing in the library, I was afraid you and Lord Sorrell would become estranged if he married me. He loves you very much and wants you to be proud of him. I didn’t want to be the cause of him losing both his parents.”

“Why would you think we would become estranged? My son and I never agree, but we never stay mad either.”

“It appears that I brought about what I was trying so hard to prevent.”

Lady Dorset nodded. “Did Eilian tell you our relationship was fragile?”

Hadley hesitated, unsure if she should give away her future sister-in-law. “Mrs. Sorrell told me our engagement could destroy your relationship with Eilian, especially with your health being precarious.”

“Constance told you my health was failing?” she asked with a raised patrician brow before scoffing. “I will deal with her when I return.” She glanced at the antique clock near the door as it chimed. “I hate to cut my visit so short, but I must be going now, Miss Fenice.”

“Wait, Lady Dorset,” Hadley called as she followed the countess to the front door. “Do you know if Eilian is still in London?”

“I’m not sure. He took his belongings and left last night.” Her chauffeur stepped forward from the black steamer with an open umbrella. After a step, she paused and turned back to Hadley’s reddened face. “There is one thing I would like you to do for me. As his wife, he will listen to you and turn to you for advice. All I ask is you try to convince him to tend to his duties before gallivanting all over creation. He owes it to his tenants to do so.”

“I think I can do that.”

With a final nod, the Lady Dorset descended the steps and disappeared into the hearse-like steamer. Hadley burst upstairs, switching into a clean dress and washing the tears from her face faster than she thought possible before clambering outside with her carpet bag.

An empty cab clattered across the cobblestones, stopping as she waved her hand and cried, “To thirty-six Wimpole Street, please!”

***

Eilian stared down at the snifter of brandy in his hand. For over an hour he had been holding the glass, swirling the amber liquid rather than drinking it. James Hawthorne had suggested going for a walk to clear his head, and somehow he ended up at the Oriental Club wishing to make his mind as fuzzy as possible. He didn’t frequent clubs very often, but he had been there several times in the past with those from the archaeological community. Most who went there were men who enjoyed traveling to the East and Africa, and he felt more comfortable among their ranks than he did in most other society. The room was clouded in a cigar smoke haze, but in the fog, no one had noticed him in the corner wallowing in self-pity and asked him what happened.

More than anything, he wanted to talk to Hadley, but he feared how she would react. He didn’t know what to say to convince her to stay with him, and while he wanted to run from the club and pour out his heart to her, he knew how a broken engagement could bring a young woman embarrassment she would soon prefer to forget. Finally, he took a sip of brandy. A grimace crinkled his features as he quickly put the drink on the table a safe distance away from him. The residual heat warmed his throat and stomach unpleasantly, making him feel queasy. Obviously brandy and tears do not mix, he thought as he looked up at the painting beside him of men and dogs long dead but still hunting for all eternity. Eilian patted his breast pocket, confirming the little box was still there. He never even got to give it to her, but he couldn’t bear to take it out and abandon all hope of ever putting it on her finger. A sharp pain flashed down his arm but dissipated rapidly as he opened and closed his prosthetic hand.

“Did you get an invitation to the British Museum from Sir Joshua Peregrine?”

Eilian Sorrell’s ears perked at the familiar name mentioned behind him. He peered around the side of the wingback chair and spotted two young men whom he recognized. One was David Hogarth, an up and coming archaeologist who was becoming Eilian’s direct competition now that he was publishing his findings, and the other was Lord Porchester. He only knew the latter by name and reputation, but he was fairly certain the redheaded man almost ran him over once as he crossed the road to his parent’s house. As the nobleman looked up, Eilian pulled his head back, leaving only the tip of his nose and a tuft of wayward hair visible.

“Yes, but I haven’t decided if I should go. Are you going?”

The archaeologist chuckled. “Most certainly. The man claims to have some big discovery, and if he has invited us, that means he’s going to open slots for the expedition and for those who wish to finance it.”

“Why should I go if all he wants is my money?” Lord Porchester scoffed.

“George, think of it this way, if we find anything of importance, your name will go down in history with ours.”

Eilian held his breath, his grey eyes widening as he continued to eavesdrop.

“When is this meeting?”

A pocket watch clicked open. “In about twenty minutes. I should be off. Would you care to share a cab?”

Before Lord Porchester could reply, Eilian darted out of the drawing room and sprinted out to the street, blowing the invitation off the table. He had left Patrick and his steamer back at the Hawthornes’ house, but if he could return to Wimpole Street quickly, he should be able to make it to the museum with a little time to spare. By the time he rounded the corner of the street, his calves were aching and his ribs were throbbing from the sudden exertion, screaming for him to hail a steamer. As his eyes trailed to number thirty-six, the breath hitched in his throat. There she was approaching the door, about to reach for the knocker’s mandible when her eyes fell upon him. A smile flashed across her features as she gathered her skirts and ran through the icy slush. Hadley collided with his chest, knocking the wind out of him and nearly sending them both to the ground. For a moment, he forgot about Sir Joshua and just held her close, inhaling her familiar scent of cinnamon and ceramic dust. When their red-rimmed eyes met, he kissed her, and her body pressed into his, warming him in the bitter November cold better than brandy ever could.

Chapter Thirty-Five:

The Reading Room

He closed his eyes, his lips trembling as they lingered on hers. Frosty clouds of vapor rose between them, cutting a balmy path through the frigid afternoon air. His body wanted to stay with her, to lie on a couch near the fire with her asleep on his chest. Despite his unsteady breaths, he planted several more small kisses on the freckles of her nose and cheeks just to keep the tingles of happiness aflame a moment longer. Resting her ear against his prosthetic hand as it cradled her neck, a small smile played on Hadley lips. Eilian drew her near with his left arm to keep the pressure of her body against his and to confirm she was really there. He had wanted to talk to her and get her back, and there she was waiting for him. Their ribs breathed into one another, interlacing with each labored exhalation.

“Does this mean our engagement is back on?” he asked breathlessly.

“Yes.” Hadley took a step back, watching his chest heave as he finally managed to gain some semblance of control over his lungs. “Are you all right?”

“Cracked ribs don’t make it easy to run all the way from Stafford House in the cold. We need to get to the British Museum. I will explain on the way.” Patrick’s head peeked through the curtains at the sound of their voices, and within seconds, he was at the door as Eilian beckoned to him from below. “Ready the steamer, Pat.”

The butler went to work checking the water tank and lighting the boiler while his master pulled the coat Hadley left at his mother’s home from the back seat. She eagerly traded her shawl for the wool coat, grateful for its additional warmth. The archaeologist impatiently drummed on the hood of the vehicle as his eyes darted between the thermometer and his pocket watch. The moment the engine whistled, Eilian ushered her into the cab and jumped in behind her as it roared to life. Patrick tore down the busy, cobbled streets, honking the cacophonous horn to scare pedestrians out of their path.

“Are you trying to get us killed? What could possibly be at the museum that’s so pressing?” she cried as she slid into Eilian when they rounded a corner on two wheels.

“Sir Joshua is there right now, collecting supporters for a trip back to Billawra. We have to get there and stop him before he tries to civilize them with an army of anthropologists.”

Hadley gasped, sliding forward into the driver’s seat as Patrick slammed on the brake. “What do you propose we do to stop him?”

“Somehow we have to convince them not to believe him. Disproving Billawra’s existence is our best bet I think.” He held her tightly and craned his neck to see over the seat as the steamer slowed to a stop. “Patrick, can you tell what is going on up ahead?”

While he couldn’t see around the other steamers, the butler could make out a plume of dark smoke wafting over their roofs. “It appears someone’s boiler has blown out. Would you like me to try an alternate route, sir?”

“There isn’t time.” The massive Grecian façade of the British Museum appeared around the corner. “We will have to run. Are you coming with me?”

“I wouldn’t miss it,” she smiled, the fire returning to her eyes for the first time since they returned to England.

Hadley grabbed his hand as they broke from the cab and wove their way through the idling steamers, trotting up Great Russell Street as fast her encumbering skirts would allow. Ice splashed onto her dress and through the tiny cracks between the sole and body of her shoes as they passed into the throngs of tourists, scholars, and lingering schoolchildren. When Eilian and Hadley finally found themselves in the shadow of the great Athenian temple, they slowed their pace as they processed between the massive ionic columns and entered the marbled hall. Lord Sorrell looked around for anyone he recognized that might be arriving late to the presentation. He had been to the museum so many times that he had the floor plan committed to memory long ago, but where could Sir Joshua have his lecture? It wouldn’t make sense to hold the talk in the galleries, he thought as Hadley bustled over to a porter stationed near the door, but as he raised his eyes toward the light flooding into the hall, the answer came.

“The Reading Room!” she called, leading him by the prosthesis. “He’s in the Reading Room.”

Guests passed through the terminal of the Grand Hall, making their way from different wings while circling around the great, white drum of the Reading Room. Eilian steadied his breathing while Hadley tidied her dress and hair before opening the door. He couldn’t help but smile at her nervous habit. The librarian opened his mouth to ask for their invitation and tell the woman to leave, but upon recognizing the young archaeologist on her arm, he quietly settled back into replacing the books onto the shelves. In the center of the round room, Sir Joshua Peregrine stood at a lectern with a small ocean of chairs before him filled with gentlemen and scholars. They crept between the bookcases as they made their way over to the audience, unobtrusively taking their seats in the last row. Hadley’s eyes ran over shelf upon shelf of tomes lining the circular wall and up onto the gold and blue coffered ceiling. The room was stunning yet paled in comparison to Billawra’s endless tunnels of books and scrolls. She wondered how Neuk would feel about the library’s limited contents. While Joshua Peregrine had already begun his discussion, it appeared they had not missed much.

Hadley nudged Eilian’s arm as Sir Joshua held up a notebook and sketch pad he had taken from inside the podium. “Look, he has my journals!” she cried in a harsh whisper.

“A civilization sheltered from the outside world for over a thousand years would be a treasure trove for anthropologists, linguists, scientists, and even missionaries. Allow me to read you a few excerpts from the diary of one of my fallen companions. ‘The Billawrati appear to believe in a type of pantheism. They don’t worship any one deity but nature itself. If one equates God to the perfect harmony of nature, then that is the core of their beliefs.’”

Sir Joshua paused, looking up at the riveted audience, but was still completely unaware of Eilian or Hadley sitting among them. “This is what the missionaries will need to work on. ‘Despite having numerous versions of the Bible, the Torah, and the Koran, as well as every major mythology, the Billawrati have created their own religion unlike any of the others. They believe in harmony and keeping the balance of nature. Death is part of a greater cycle where the body is reclaimed by the earth to be used as a source of nutrients for plants and animals while the equivalent of the soul is reused as energy in keeping with Sir Isaac Newton’s laws of conservation.’ Sending in missionaries would be the first step to colonization because converting them to Christianity would make them more receptive to—”

“Colonization?” she murmured into her companion’s ear, ignoring the admonishing looks from the gentlemen around them. “When should we say something? How far are we going to let this go before we stop it?”

“I don’t know, but not yet. If we are patient, we will find an opening. Right now he is in his glory from all the attention. We have to wait until he is off his guard.”

“He does look quite smug.”

Eilian huffed as Lord Porchester turned around to shush the gabby couple. “Of course he does, he thinks he’s having his Schliemann moment.”

The Anglo-Indian casually thumbed through the stolen notebook until he reached the desired location. His brows arched as he began with a clearing of his throat and a flourish of his hand. “For the scientists in the audience, there is a whole host of undiscovered wildlife living under the desert that appears unrelated to those found above ground. Papers, whole books even, could be written about the luminescent fungi and creatures alone. For the evolutionists, I think this passage will be of particular interest. ‘The Billawrati appear to be normal humans in every respect except for their physical appearance. Much like other cave dwelling creatures, they lack all pigmentation except for their eyes, yet their skin is not that of an albino. Their eyes are large to collect the limited light coming from the glowing fungi and diatoms, making them almost owl-like.’ Several drawings within the deceased’s sketchbook,” he continued as he held up a charcoal drawing of Kae, “illustrate the structural differences between these creatures and normal human beings.”

Hadley cringed as Sir Joshua continued to read from the journal Adam had given her, citing each passage as a source of scientific intrigue. She cursed herself for meticulously writing down every shred of information Neuk or Uta was willing to share. Her journals had turned against her, enticing the men to invade her lost utopia and destroy all she loved for queen and country. She remembered how Neuk told them stories about times in their history when balance had been lost and the Billawrati suffered until they were able to correct it. No famine or natural hardship would compare to an invasion of zealous imperialists ready to dissect their society, mutilating it until it resembled their own. Eilian and Hadley sat in stunned silence for nearly an hour as Sir Joshua stressed the lucrative nature of the expedition. He moved from the scientific nature of the trip to the harnessing of Billawrati technology for substantial profit and how they could gain control of waterways like the Thames or Nile in order to manipulate the price of electricity despite its unlimited sources. She covered her eyes as the anger tightened her chest and crawled up her esophagus like bile, but a gentle squeeze of her other hand temporarily abated her temper.

“The plan I propose to you is to follow me to Billawra where we can unlock the secrets of an ancient people together and witness living relics of a time long forgotten. Through science, we can systematically decipher what sets these people apart from us and understand what they have to offer. If you will join my cause, I know we can plan an expedition to rival all others. We will bring back not only new resources and technology that will repay your investments ten-fold, but we will go down in history,” Joshua proclaimed triumphantly as his gaze traveled over the riveted faces of the investors and scientists. “Now, I will open the floor to questions.”

Chapter Thirty-Six:

An Insurrection

Eilian tried to formulate a question to catch Joshua off guard while several gentlemen voiced their concerns about money, but nothing came. The man had an answer for everything. The other adventurers asked how soon they could depart while the scientists questioned if they could publish the papers under their own names without giving Sir Joshua credit. No opening was coming, and the urge to speak grew as Hadley’s eyes bored into his skull, waiting for him to say something.

“You say you are the only one left from the original expedition,” Hogarth began from the front of the assembly. “What happened to the others? Were they attacked by natives?”

Sir Joshua’s face darkened. His eyes exaggeratedly drooped at the corners. “No, they were tragically—”

“Betrayed and left in the desert to rot,” Eilian called from the last row, his voice echoing in the massive chamber.

His head whipped toward the audience, his eyes wide with rage. “Who said that?”

Eilian Sorrell stood up, rising to his full height as every head swiveled over the backs of their chairs. “I did.”

The archaeologist shook his head, a cocky smile playing on his lips. “Lord Sorrell, how nice of you to invite yourself to my little gathering. I am sure you are unhappy with me for not giving you first crack at joining my expedition, but that is no reason to resort to slander.”

“I’m not upset. After all, you knew better than to try to swindle me again, but I thought I should come and warn these nice gentlemen not to give their money to a charlatan.” Eilian chuckled grimly as he stepped into the aisle. “Why tell them we are dead, Joshua? I’m sure you didn’t want them asking about our first trip to Palestine, but your lie was worse than I anticipated.”

“You don’t even know what you are talking about,” Joshua sneered as his eyes trailed back to the podium. “No one is left from the expedition except me.”

“Oh, really? Who do you think had you removed from the airship in Jerusalem after you stole our tickets to make your getaway?”

He glared up at him, grinding his jaw in agitation. “Prove it!” he spat, the words echoing as the men in the audience looked between both archaeologists uncertainly. “Go ahead, Eilian. If you’re going to smear my name, then back it up with proof. It’s you against me.”

“What happened in Palestine, Lord Sorrell?” Hogarth asked, turning his back on Sir Joshua to lock eyes with his contemporary.

“We had been there for several months and found nothing of monetary value. Spurred by his new investor, Edmund Barrister, he turned to theft to escape the humiliation of returning to England empty-handed. He and Mr. Barrister raided my desk in the middle of the night, stealing the airship tickets I bought for myself and my companion as well as the notebooks we kept during our time there. They are the same notebooks he presented to you today. In the end, even his own cohort abandoned him.”

“This is all hearsay. Gentlemen, why are you listening to him? He’s only saying this because that dig did not make his father any money. How do we know this so-called companion even exists?”

“Because I’m right here,” Hadley replied as she popped up from her seat to stand beside Eilian. “I accompanied Lord Sorrell to Palestine.”

“There were no women in the camp! Would you be kind enough to leave before you make fools of yourselves? I have never seen this woman before.”

“That’s because I was dressed as a man.”

A murmur passed through the crowd as Hadley stepped forward, quietly making her way to the front of the assembly with her carpet bag slung dutifully over her arm. Joshua Peregrine seethed as she brushed past him and picked up the books from the podium and flipped to an early entry in the journal.

“I came to Palestine masquerading as Henry Fox to experience life at an archaeological dig as any man would. I am the author of this journal,” she explained as she tapped the cover, “as well as this sketch book. Lord Sorrell knew I was interested in archaeology, so he invited me to accompany him as his guest. I didn’t want to be handled with kid gloves or given a cleaned up version of camp life, and to do that, I became Mr. Fox.” She reached up and pulled the postiche from her hair, letting her short, henna locks fall around her face. “As you can see, my hair has not yet grown back. I know you won’t believe me without additional proof, Sir Joshua, but I will give it to you in due time.”

Eilian smiled proudly as Hadley pulled a piece of paper from her carpet bag and held it beside the open journal. She brought them to an older gentleman in the front row, which Lord Sorrell recognized as one of the museum’s curators.

“Sir, in your opinion, does the handwriting in this book match the letter?”

He placed a pair of pince-nez on his nose before nodding.

“Can you tell them what name is signed at the bottom of the letter?”

“Hadley Fenice.”

“And what name is written in the cover of the journal?”

“Henry Fox,” he murmured, sweat glistening on his high forehead as she then showed the papers to Sir Joshua.

“Allow me, to quote an entry, ‘On the thirtieth of September, Eilian and I were sent on the task of finding a new prospective site to dig as Joshua has found nothing in nearly a month. We came across pieces of a medieval manuscript in the middle of the desert. I chased the pieces until we came to a cave filled with a cache of antique books. A child appeared, and I pursued her through the cave system, thinking she was lost. Upon rounding a blind corner, I collided with the bedrock and awoke to the most miraculous of sights.’” She thumbed a few pages forward. “Ah, here it is. ‘For trying to act in a motherly fashion, I’m now left with a lovely knick in my forehead, half an inch above my left eyebrow.’” She lifted up the swath of red hair draped over her forehead to reveal a small scar, no larger than a pockmark. “Here is the physical proof of our trip to Palestine.”

Sir Joshua crossed his arms as he tried to break her hold on the audience by stepping between his investors and the lectern. “All this proves is you and Lord Sorrell have questionable morals. Despite what these people have to say, an expedition to Billawra will be worth the expense. Your money will come back to you ten-fold, and your name will be in every history book.”

“What proof has he shown that Billawra exists?” Eilian called as he joined his fiancée. “He would have us prove we were with him the first time, yet he offers you no proof of the Billawrati’s existence.”

The archaeologist roughly snatched the books from Hadley’s hands. “Here is the proof. It’s all in here.”

“The only thing these books prove is how good of a writer I am.” She turned back to the rows of gentlemen with soft eyes and an earnest smile. “The reason I wanted to research archaeological excavations is because I wanted to write a book. My moment of inspiration struck when I hit my head in the cave. I had mistakenly chased a young Bedouin who had lost one of her sheep in the cave. In the dream-like state my concussion caused, I pictured a world under the desert plateaus, and the Billawrati were born. The excavation site was so fruitless that I spent most of my time writing and drawing, which is how I filled up my books with ideas for my novel.”

“So they don’t exist?” Hogarth asked with his arms tightly folded across his chest.

“Sir, I think Joshua Peregrine’s ruse has been an insult to your intelligence. How could a society so advanced exist without currency or trade? Electricity coming from water and knowledge stored in gems are devices constructed within my imagination. Sir Joshua has simply taken my plot and twisted it in order to swindle you out of your fortunes. I’m sorry to say that if you follow him to the desert, you will only find a collapsed cave and nothing more.”

A hush fell over the room as gentlemen’s’ eyes darted, silently asking the others in the herd what they should do. David Hogarth, the young archaeologist who had addressed Eilian earlier, was the first to glare at Sir Joshua Peregrine before storming out the doors of the Reading Room. By the time the great door shut, a dozen other men were already grabbing their hats and coats. Joshua’s brown eyes widened, wordlessly pleading with them as they sauntered out without giving the baron a second glance.

“You— you are leaving?” he stammered as he got in front of them but was promptly yet politely pushed aside. “Can’t you see they are lying?”

The moment the archaeologist stepped away from the podium, Hadley shoved the journal and pad into her carpet bag, causing it to balloon like a gluttonous tapestried tick. When the last man slipped from the nobleman’s grasp and out into the Grand Hall, he turned to them, fists balled at his sides and the vein on his neck throbbing. He drew in a tremulous breath and stepped toward Hadley, but Eilian positioned himself between them with his prosthetic arm lightly pushing his fiancée further back.

“It’s over, Joshua,” he whispered.

“How dare you humiliate me! You don’t know what you have done, Eilian. I will never—”

“Never what? Forgive me? Let me live it down? Work for me again? As I’m now the major shareholder and owner of the Falcon Shipping Company, I hereby terminate your contract.” Eilian took Hadley’s hand and resolutely strode toward the door. “Consider yourself blacklisted, Joshua. I will be sending David Hogarth a letter this afternoon offering him your spot as liaison to the East.” He paused at the threshold and looked back at his defeated old friend with a pang of guilt. “I’m sorry it had to end this way, Joshua.”

A smile spread across Hadley’s face as they pushed through the crowds in the marble halls. Adrenaline was still pumping through her veins, making her want to tear through the halls, sing an aria, and play in the snow all at the same time. Eilian laughed softly as he watched Hadley stroll beside him, holding onto his arm with a new swing in her step. She was proud of their actions, but he still wasn’t sure if he had done the right thing. In saving the Billawrati, he had destroyed the reputation of an old friend, and even if that friend did steal from him, he knew it was done in desperation. Despite the anger that hardened his heart and still lingered as a tightness in his chest, a part of him couldn’t forget the good years that preceded the mutiny. Idling near the corner of the British Museum was the cherry steamer with the white-haired butler refilling its water tank.

“Where to, sir?” Patrick asked as he opened the door for the couple.

He looked to Hadley, who still wore a cheeky grin. “Take us home. I think a victory feast is in order.”

***

She contently watched the Greenwich hills roll by as they left London far behind them. “Your mother and uncle still need to meet my family. Do you think they would mind going to my uncle’s house in Oxford for dinner? Eliza’s father has been a surrogate parent to me, so I don’t think he would say no to being our host. The thing is, he can be a little… eccentric, but he has a lovely home that isn’t covered in wood-shavings or dust. He even has a few servants. Do you think Lady Dorset would be willing to travel that far?”

“I think my mother would like that very much. She won’t admit it, but she loves a ride in the country.” Eilian reached up to brush the melting flakes of snow from his jacket when he felt the lump of the ring box in his pocket. “I— I keep forgetting about this part,” he replied nervously as he held it out for her. “It isn’t the prettiest thing, but I— I do hope you like it.”

Hadley looked into his grey eyes with a pang of anxiety creeping through her stomach as she held the little velvet box. She cautiously opened it as if the ring would leap out at her. Sitting amongst the crush blue fabric was a Flanders cut quartz crystal entrapped in a gold setting with a little sapphire at each corner. Eilian took it from the box and placed it on her finger, holding his breath as he waited for her reaction. As she held the ring up in the light, she noticed tiny, black tendrils reaching up from its apex. A bright smile finally crossed his countenance as she raised her hand to her temple.

She relaxed her mind and heard it whisper to her in his warm, sweet voice, I love you, Hadley.

Chapter Thirty-Seven:

Adventures to Come

Hadley Fenice smiled contently as she watched Lady Dorset converse effortlessly with her uncle. Much like his daughter, Elijah Martin knew a little bit about everything, including affairs concerning weddings. The grey-haired professor with frizzled muttonchops and a naked crown was no stranger to speaking with the aristocracy. After all, his comparative anatomy research was one of the most funded projects at Oxford, and over the years, he had made speaking with those who held the purse strings a fine art. She had worried Professor Martin’s extensive collection of specimens and taxidermy creatures would scare the countess away, but Eilian’s mother didn’t seem to notice the octopus above the door of the parlor, who glared down at visitors, or the fox sitting like a dutiful pet near his favorite wingback chair. Lady Dorset had even eyed a few of the more colorful stuffed birds with interest rather than disgust.

Her concern then turned to the size of his flat since they were a party of seven in a house where normally he was the sole inhabitant save for his housekeeper and valet. Despite his dining room being significantly smaller than the one at Grosvenor Square, somehow Lady Dorset, Lord Newcastle, Professor Martin, the Hawthornes, Eilian, and Hadley were all able to fit comfortably around the sturdy oak table without bumping elbows. As she watched Eilian take a portion of chicken and potatoes, her eyes couldn’t help but fall on the eighth chair, which stood empty near the hearth. It had been over a week since she dared to question Adam about his preferences, but his avoidance tactics were becoming the norm for her. She missed him and wanted him back in her life even if he was being unduly churlish. Before he left to go out for the day, she awoke early just to scrawl out an invitation to dinner in Oxford and stick it under his door. All day she foolishly hoped he would be in that seat to support her. Warm fingers squeezing her hand brought her back as Eilian gave her a sympathetic smile.

“I thought I was seeing double,” Elijah Martin began in his gravelly voice as his spectacled eyes ran from Eilian Sorrell to Malcolm Holland. “There is an uncanny likeness, isn’t there, Lady Dorset? At least Hadley will know what her future husband will look like in twenty years.”

“Yes, my son and my brother are remarkably similar and not just in looks,” Millicent Sorrell replied as she turned to both men, who looked up in unison from devouring their dinners. “Professor Martin, I have been meaning to ask, what do you teach at Oxford?”

He took a sip of wine, remembering how his daughter insisted he not get into an argument about evolution’s validity. “I’m an anatomist. I’m currently researching comparative anatomy and, based on Darwin’s theories, determining how species are morphologically similar and dissimilar.”

“Papa, how is your research coming along? Do you have any promising students this year?” Eliza asked from the other end of the table.

“Not nearly as promising as you and James were. Most are sent to Oxford by their parents and have absolutely no interest in anything except carousing and playing sports. I had one very promising young man helping me.” He sighed, his shoulders sagging as he shook his balding head. “He came from Germany to study here, and he was my best assistant. One night he was helping me finish articulating a skeleton for the museum, and the next day, he was gone without a trace, left everything behind too.”

“Do you suspect foul play?” Eilian blurted through a mouthful of food as his mother shot him a look.

“It has crossed my mind, but there was never enough evidence either way. Maybe he was called home to Germany due to a family matter or because he was homesick. It has been months, but he is still on my mind. It’s quite disconcerting to be bantering with a promising young mind over a walrus skeleton one day and reporting him missing to the constabulary the next. I only wish he said something before he left.” He shook his head and turned to his son-in-law. “James, I’m so sorry to hear about your sister and niece.”

“What happened?” Hadley asked as she noticed the doctor’s brows sag.

He swallowed hard, but his voice didn’t waver. “They perished in a fire last month a few miles from here.”

“I’m so sorry. Why did you not tell me?”

“I didn’t want to overshadow the happy occasion.”

The table lapsed back into silence as the additional servants Elijah Martin borrowed from his fellow professors to take the burden off his small staff swept away the empty plates and brought out the desserts. Upon seeing the puddings and cakes being doled out, Eilian finally relaxed. They had made it all the way through dinner without his mother scowling in disapproval. Lady Dorset hadn’t even noticed when Hadley’s uncle slipped and mentioned his only daughter was a doctor. Maybe she is just happy to see me settled, he thought with a smile as the old professor inquired about Grosvenor Square and the happenings of London.

“Do you have an ancestral home in your earldom, Lord— Eilian?” the scientist asked when they retired to the parlor for tea and coffee, hoping to move away from death and intrigue.

The archaeologist looked from his uncle to his mother. He had lived in London and Greenwich his whole life. “Do we? I have never been to Dorset.”

“You have never been to Dorset?” Professor Martin sputtered in disbelief. “You have been everywhere but your earldom?”

“I guess.” His cheeks burned red as he took a seat beside Hadley on the sofa. “I did not know we had a house there.”

“We have a manor there called Brasshurst Hall,” his mother explained to Eliza’s father as Mrs. Green, the housekeeper, carefully poured her a cup of steaming tea. “It has been uninhabited for a number of years. My late husband was never fond of the place, but Eilian may find it more to his liking. I have never been there myself. Harland never wanted to travel by the sea.”

“I don’t know… I like my home.”

“Eilian, we don’t have to move there, but since you are the earl now, it may be prudent to introduce yourself to your tenants and at least see your family’s home,” Hadley replied as she met Lady Dorset’s gaze only to receive an approving nod.

“Miss Fenice has a point, but will you go before or after your wedding?”

Elijah grinned as he cleaned his oblong spectacles with his handkerchief. “Ah, yes, when is the fateful day?”

Eilian and Hadley locked eyes for a moment, hoping the other knew the answer, before turning to James and Eliza, who simply shrugged. “We haven’t really talked about it.”

“What about the honeymoon?”

“We haven’t discussed that either.” Out of the corner of his eye, Eilian caught Eliza mouthing an answer. “Maybe Egypt or someplace historical.”

“Well, you must discuss it soon. Miss Fenice and I must start planning as soon as possible.” His mother’s voice, while still controlled, raised an octave at the thought of planning an extravaganza to rival the wedding of her dearest friends’ children. “We have to arrange dinners and guest lists. I will have to throw a party soon in honor of your engagement. Will I need to hire a dance instructor, Miss Fenice?”

Beads of perspiration rapidly collected under her gown, trickling down the back of her neck and the small of her back as the activities she abhorred hurtled toward her. She had only glanced at the entries in her etiquette books about engagement and wedding procedures, but somehow they hadn’t seemed nearly so complicated. Eliza’s engagement wasn’t like this, Hadley thought as she shifted uncomfortably and looked to Eilian, who was equally pale. Then again, Eliza wasn’t marrying into the aristocracy. Her face blanched at the countess’ gaze, which refused to leave her until she received an answer. Reluctantly, she opened her mouth to stammer a half-hearted reply when the trilling buzz of the doorbell offered a refuge. The housekeeper with her pot of tea moved toward the doorway when Hadley leapt from her seat.

“Mrs. Green, tend to the guests. I will get the door. I insist,” she commanded as she nimbly backed out of the room despite the elderly housekeeper’s befuddled frown.

The moment she was out of sight, she let her head fall back against the damask wallpaper with a sigh as her pulse quickened through the arteries of her temples. As the bell let out another metallic warble, she grudgingly pulled herself away from the calm of the plaster and opened the coffered door. The snow spiraled into the hall in frosty arabesques as she stared up into a pair of matching blue eyes and henna brows. The wind swept over her neck, tousling the curls at her ears before embracing her hands and fluttering the hem of her skirts. She couldn’t help but linger on the features she had known her entire existence yet nearly forgot in the space of a two short weeks. Adam examined her face, unsure of her reaction as her hand rested on the doorknob until finally a broad grin enlivened her features. Hadley pounced on him as he groped behind his back to close the door before the snow coated the rug. The glacial slivers moistened her cheeks and dotted her blue velvet dress as she crushed him close.

“I can’t believe you came.”

“I could not let you face your in-laws all alone,” Adam replied with a smile as she pulled back to take his hat and scarf. “I would have been here sooner, but the steamer cab couldn’t maintain a boil in this weather. Everyone may be staying the night if the snow doesn’t stop soon.”

“Luckily, only Lady Dorset and Lord Newcastle are planning on heading back to London tonight. We are staying, so Uncle Elijah can get to know Eilian better and show him around Oxford.” She caught his hand as he reached for the buttons of his coat. “Does this mean you are speaking to me now?”

“Did you tell Lord Sorrell about me?”

“No.”

“Then, yes, we are speaking.” Adam’s eyes travelled to his feet as he shifted his coat off his shoulders and onto the coat rack. “Did— did you mean what you said that day? That you don’t hate me for it.”

“Of course I meant it,” she whispered. “You’re my brother, my twin, and I love you. I thought telling you that I accepted you would bring us closer, not pull us apart.”

“I know, I know. That was my fault. I was scared because you made me wonder how many others knew. If you could see through me, others probably figured it out, too.”

She dusted the ice from his hair and straightened his tie, which had rumpled during the ride up to Oxford. “Well, no one knows you as well as I do, so I’m pretty sure your secret is safe. Let me introduce you to Eilian’s mother and uncle.”

He flashed a charismatic smile as he entered the parlor at his sister’s side. Lady Dorset seemed pleased by his dapper appearance as he was introduced to the two aristocrats and took a seat by his uncle. She interrogated Adam Fenice as she did the others, but he happily told her about his job and the well-to-do banker he worked for. For the rest of the evening, Adam gave the countess his full attention, listening earnestly to her discourse on the books she recently read and even giving a well thought out opinion on several of the titles, which she didn’t scowl at or ignore. Hadley wondered if she and Eilian were the only ones who found talking to his mother daunting.

“How were the roads, Mr. Fenice?” Malcolm Holland asked as his eyes ran over the narrow space between the drapes on the far wall.

“The snow was just starting to stick when I arrived.”

“Well, we had best be off if we want to make it back to town before it gets too difficult to see.”

As everyone said their good-byes to the lord and lady, the countess pulled Hadley aside. “During your stay here, I hope you and Eilian can iron out some details because as soon as you are settled back in town, I’m going to call upon you to figure some of this wedding business out. You don’t have a mother to help you plan this and I don’t have a daughter whom I can throw a wedding for, so I hope you will allow me to fill that role for you.”

“Of course,” she smiled, though she worried it more closely resembled a grimace, “I would greatly appreciate your help, Lady Dorset.”

With a nod, Eilian’s mother disappeared into the night only to be replaced by Lord Newcastle, who took Hadley’s hand and bowed. “Don’t look too worried, Miss Fenice.” He dropped his voice to just above a whisper, “She may be a bit overbearing, but my sister throws a wonderful party.”

***

In what felt like only minutes, the clock struck twelve, signaling to the party of adventurers and scientists that they should head up to bed. As they climbed the stairs and reached the hall, the group paused. There were only three bedrooms.

“I hope you don’t mind, but I took the liberty of pairing you. The girls will have one room, James will take the cot in my room, so Lord Sorrell and Adam will share the last one. I hope you don’t mind having to share.”

Adam’s face paled as his cheeks burned. “I will take the cot, Uncle Elijah. Lord Sorrell and James are friends, and I’m sure they would rather be roommates.”

Before Eilian could tell him not to worry about it, Adam darted into the master bedroom and brought James’s bag to him. His future brother-in-law gave them a nervous grin before slipping behind closed doors. The Hawthornes embraced quickly in the corridor, giving each other a good-night kiss that was little more than a cool peck without seeming to care about the separation. Eilian stood in the empty hall as Hadley watched the door close behind her cousin. After a moment of quiet to confirm everyone was tucked away, she drew near and let her body be enveloped in his arms. He ran his fingers through her hair, knocking the pins loose with each slow stroke while holding her close with his prosthetic arm. Sighing against him, Hadley listened to the faithful beating of his heart through his jacket and refused to let him go.

“It feels strange to be together at night and not share a tent,” he whispered between planting soft kisses on her brow.

“That’s what I miss most, being so close.”

“Me too, but it won’t be long before we are together every night and every day.” Eilian cupped her chin as he brought her lips to his, lingering to relish the goose bumps prickling on his arms and neck with her touch. “Tomorrow, let’s figure out the date, so we can count down the days until you can live permanently in Greenwich. We can also discuss the plans for a workshop to be built in the back.”

“Converting the old stables will be perfectly adequate,” she replied as she kissed him on the light scars of his jaw and withdrew from his arms. “Good night, Eilian. I love you.”

“I love you too,” he mouthed as he backed into his room.

James was already asleep with his glasses propped on the bedside table, so Eilian silenced the squealing door and tiptoed over to the other side of the bed. Slipping off his jacket, he carefully disarticulated his arm and laid the pieces on the dresser in front of the window. His titanium arm felt heavier without the springs and bracer, but he brought it to his neck anyway and carelessly pulled off his cravat. The room overlooked the Thames, which reflected the moon’s glow into the second floor, accentuating the threads of scar tissue that wove their way up his arm and across his right side until they disappeared beneath his chin. A dull rumble passed over head, blocking the moon’s rays as the dirigible lumbered by. Eilian smiled as he looked down at his new arm. A year ago he never would have thought his life would have turned out the way it did. What would have been if it hadn’t happened? Would he have selfishly gone on with a futureless, lonely life or would their paths have fatefully crossed somewhere else along the way? No, his arm and his old self had to be sacrificed meet someone like her.

“Thank you,” he whispered to the great ship sailing by as he climbed into bed and dreamed of the wonderful adventures to come.

The Gentleman Devil:

Book Two of the Ingenious Mechanical Devices

To Steph,

Who has been my best friend,

my beta reader, my shoulder to whine on,

my biggest fan, and the captain of the ship

through this whole process.

ACT ONE:

“Whatever our souls are made of, his and mine are the same.”

-Emily Brontë

Chapter One:

Forget-Me-Not

When Immanuel Winter begrudgingly set off from the dormitories to the bank of the Thames to sketch and label the native flora for his botany class, he never thought the day would have ended in anything more exciting than sunburn. As the blonde man sat tucked under an oak tree with his sketchbook resting on his narrow thighs and the August sun scorching the side of his face, he listened to the voices on the other side of the copse. On the way to his spot near the river, he passed a large picnic of well-dressed families and their servants. At first he thought the merry group may have been the professors and their wives, but then he noticed the banner welcoming the guests to the 1891 Annual Oxford Spiritualist Society Picnic. The young man’s stomach growled at the thought of it. Oh, how he wished the professors were the ones having a feast. With a sigh, he once again applied himself to sketching a stalk of water mint that peeked from the water’s edge. He smiled as he inspected his handiwork. His mother was fond of flowers, and he hoped in a few months when the term was over to send her a great folio of English botanical prints to go along with her collection of German ones.

“I like your necklace.”

Immanuel looked up to find a young woman staring down at him. Her strigine brown eyes and soft porcelain cheeks gave her an inquisitive expression that made her appear more like a child than the young woman she was. As she tucked a curl behind her ear, he followed the girl’s jet hair across her cheek and down to her shoulder where it drizzled onto her white gown. His hand instinctively reached for the chain hanging around his neck. He had always considered the pendant quite ugly, but his mother insisted he wear it to England to keep him safe. It was a vial no bigger than his finger wrapped in curled gold vines and tarnished silver leaves. Etched into the stopper were the words “Intermisceo cum Cruor.” His mother said to use it if he was ever injured, but from the murk of the liquid within and the vial’s ugly exterior, he always joked that it was probably filled with poison.

“Thank you,” he replied, his German accent gone after over three years on English soil.

Her gaze traveled over him, scrutinizing his face and taking in his deep-set blue eyes, angular cheekbones, and sandy hair before migrating to his sketches. “Are you an artist?”

“No, I’m studying to become a scientist.”

She plucked the sprig of blue and yellow flowers from her hair and held it out to him. “What are these are called?”

“Myosotis scorpiodes, true forget-me-not,” Immanuel replied as he flipped to the page where he drew them earlier and held it up for her to see.

“I like forget-me-not better.” As she went to put the flower back in her hair, it was as if she noticed the fabric parcel in her hand for the first time. “My mother sent this for you. She thought you looked hungry.”

He gratefully took the bag of food she dropped into his lap, unable to suppress his shock at the unwarranted act of kindness. “Thank you. Please, miss, tell your mother thank you for me.”

With a nod and a smile, she turned and strolled back to the picnic, running her hands over the trees and grasses as she went. Immanuel untied the linen bundle to reveal a roast beef and a Welsh rarebit sandwich along with a turnover pastry. He ravenously dug into the spread, savoring the rare meat as it bled down his lips with each bite.

The hair on the back of his head prickled. Looking around the trunk of a tree, he spotted a middle-aged version of the young woman watching him from the picnic nearly a quarter of a mile away. She sat perfectly still beneath her parasol in the midst of the prattle and bustle of the other guests, a statuesque queen in white lace and silk. He mouthed, thank you, and held up the remnant of his meal as she gave him a stately nod. Once the remaining sandwich and pastry had been devoured and the evidence licked from his fingers, he went back to his book and weeds.

***

Immanuel stretched, cracking his neck and long fingers, before readjusting the wool coat canopy he created using the reeds and bushes he was sitting between and his jacket. He looked toward the river as a familiar voice sweetly sang and hummed. The owl-eyed woman’s ivory parasol bobbed as she stooped to add wildflowers and pretty weeds to her bouquet before plopping down onto the lawn. As she sat near the bank only a few yards away and picked stray blades of grass and bugs from her hoard, Immanuel lightly sketched her form. For a few moments, his eyes and hand worked in unison, tracing the curves of her hair where they melded with her cheek and back. With his pencil, he darkened in her hair but frowned when the arabesques muddied into a grey graphite clump. Immanuel glanced up from the paper to study the pattern of the lace on her dress when his eyes met only an empty patch of grass and a pile of flowers. His eyes roved from the thickets on both sides of his den to the group of picnickers, but the woman with the curious expression was nowhere to be found.

With a sigh, he slowly began packing up his supplies to head back to Oxford before dinner. Out of the corner of his eye, he caught something moving. A parasol floated lazily down the river, twirling as it became entangled in the plants at the water’s edge. He abandoned his tools and grasped the ivory handle, but as he brought the umbrella out of the water, the unmistakable flutter of white fabric and dark tresses wafted near the other bank.

“Ach mein Gott!” he gasped as he searched for anyone nearby who could help her but found no one. The words in English suddenly escaped him as his eyes locked onto the young woman’s lifeless form.

Taking a step back, he ran off the edge of the bank and plunged into the brisk water of the Thames. Puffs of silt erupted around him, obscuring his vision, but as the dirt settled, he saw her suspended above him just below the water’s edge. Swimming closer, he found the young woman’s eyes shut and her face a deathly pallor. Tendrils of inky hair and the lace of her gown drifted with the current while her arm still hung above her as if she had reached for the surface before succumbing to the River Isis. Immanuel wrapped his arms around her, but her body refused to budge. With a sharp tug, her foot broke from the roots and reeds, sending out bits of debris and mud. Immanuel’s chest tightened and the urge to open his mouth grew almost too strong to ignore as he kicked toward the surface but was hampered by the weight of her waterlogged petticoat. Closing his eyes, he fiercely writhed toward the warmer waters in one last effort to save them. His lips broke open in a gasp, drawing in not only the Thames’s earthen waters but the thick summer air. Holding her head above the surface, he let the current carry them down to the bank.

Immanuel laid her against the bed of wild flowers before hauling himself onto the grass and dragging her onto the bank. Leaning close, he patted her cold cheek, which had blanched to the color of her dress. Her lax, blue lips refused to move or draw a breath, yet behind her ear was the sprig of forget-me-nots. He touched her face and shook her shoulder begging her to return to consciousness, but her body and face remained still. His heart raced as he touched her neck, feeling his own frantic pulse against her artery. No beats of blood fought against his fingers. Finally Immanuel put his head to her breast, but the familiar tug and pull of life were gone.

“Hilfe! Please!” he cried desperately toward the faceless picnickers as he picked up her listless form, but with the dense brush between them and the chatter, they couldn’t hear him. Tears burned the backs of his eyes as he helplessly held her against his chest, wishing someone would hear his pleas. The right words escaped in a stifled shout, “Someone please help!”

The woman’s head lolled over his arm, and as it rolled, her hair wrapped around the chain of his pendant and nearly pulled it from his neck. The necklace. Carefully laying her down again, he uncorked the vial but hesitated. Could he trust his ancestors or was the potion merely a family hoax? Immanuel looked from the murk to her lifeless features. It couldn’t hurt her now even if it was poison. Then again, if his mother said it could save him, then he had to trust that it would.

He reread the words incised into the top, cruor. He needed blood. The scientist quickly checked her body but found it to be pristine. Rushing over to his art supplies, his wet shoes slid out from under him and sent him to his knees. Immanuel scrambled to his bag for a pen. The moment it was in his hand, he dug the nib as hard as he could into the skin of his palm. With a final twist, the blood hesitantly dripped from the shallow wound. He removed the top, his eyes stinging with the astringent odor of the brew, before letting his blood trickle into the milky liquid. The fluid bubbled as the red droplets spread and with their invasion came the sweet smell of honey. Immanuel carefully supported her head as he poured the fizzling potion between her lax lips. Voices broke through the trees as he called out again for help, waiting and hoping that what his mother told him was true.

Then, he felt it. His pounding heart seized. The chambers froze one after another until his heart, for the first time since the womb, stood waiting for the spark of life. With a final exhalation, all the air seeped from his lungs. Had he forfeited his own life to save hers? Immanuel hung precariously on the verge of darkness as every muscle froze. When the sound of voices ceased, his fleeting thoughts turned to death. At twenty-one, he never thought he would recognize death with such clarity. A shudder passed over him as thousands of minute fibers prickled through his body and skin like a spider’s web. The moment the last thread escaped, his heart jolted back to life and his lungs inflated. He doubled over, catching his breath, and watched the girl’s big eyes fly open in pained confusion. Water gurgled up from her throat as Immanuel patted her back to sooth her ragged coughing sobs. His body shook with spent adrenaline, leaving only empty fear. The scientist stared at the empty vial and then at the woman. There was no plausible explanation for what happened, but at least they were both alive.

“Emmeline! Emmeline!” her mother cried as she clasped her sunhat to her head and sprinted toward the young man cradling her daughter. Only when she drew near did she see the pink of their flesh shining through where the river had reduced their clothing to muddy veils. “What happened?”

“Mama,” the young woman called from Immanuel’s lap as she tried to stand but fell when her shaking legs gave out. Tears mixed with silt streamed down her cheeks. “I fell in.”

As the other Spiritualists reached the river, Immanuel gathered her up as best he could with his quivering arms and handed her to the blonde man standing beside her mother. The gentleman’s honey eyes narrowed as he searched Immanuel’s features before coming to rest on the empty vial at his feet. Emmeline’s mother embraced her weeping child, coaxing her into quiet with consolatory promises of her safety. She closed her eyes as she pressed Emmeline’s damp face to her breast and held her against her heart, feeling the weight of what could have been. Finally, she let her go, and the gentleman carried her daughter back toward the tables on the other side of the trees.

“You saved her?” the woman asked as she worked a handkerchief in her grasp but never brought it to her eyes.

“Yes, ma’am.”

Staring into his eyes, she rested her hand on his damp shoulder. She studied his face to ensure she would always remember the boy who rescued her only child when she could not. “Thank you.”

***

Professor Elijah Martin’s bald pate bobbed from behind his rose bushes as he spotted his favorite student ambling down the road. As the young man grew closer, he realized the German’s hair was plastered to his brow and his shirt was askew and wrinkled as if it had been wrung out.

“Mr. Winter,” he called as Immanuel made his way to the iron fence, “you had better get to the dormitories before you catch your death! Did you get into a spat with one of the Turner boys?”

“No, sir,” Immanuel replied with a smile as he futilely wiped his damp face with the back of his equally wet hand.

“Did you get pushed in by a young lady?” Knowing the answer, the old professor continued playfully, “I know some girls punish young men who get cheeky with them.”

“No, sir.”

“Then how did you end up sopping wet?”

He hesitated, unsure if he should tell his mentor about the potion or his brush with death for fear of being laughed at or thought mad. After all, there was no scientific explanation for it. “The spirit people who are always at the evolution lectures were having a picnic by the Thames. I was doing my sketches for class, and a girl fell in.” He looked down at his drenched clothes but avoided the empty space on his chest where his necklace had previously been. “I helped to pull her out.”

Professor Martin nodded thoughtfully. “You completed your homework and saved a damsel in distress all in the same day. Well, Mr. Winter, you had better get back to the dormitory before it gets dark and more trouble finds you.”

“Good night, professor.”

“Wait, Immanuel.”

The young man quickly backtracked to the front gate upon hearing his name.

“I recently received a shipment of walrus bones for the museum. I expected them to be clean or at least close to it, but instead they sent me an entire walrus carcass. I could really use an extra set of hands for a few weeks, and of course, I would pay you for your help.”

His eyes gleamed to a brighter shade of blue. “I would love to, sir.”

“Good. Meet me tomorrow night after dinner at the natural history museum, and we can get started.”

Chapter Two:

Alchemists and Pinnipeds

The cathedral of knowledge spread out before him. A forest of steel trunks rose toward the heavens, branching into soaring vaults and arcades of striated stone. A lattice of glass covered the ceilings, allowing the sun to illuminate the mysteries and curiosities of nature. Immanuel stood between the wooden reliquaries as Professor Martin closely examined the bones one more time to ensure there wasn’t a single speck of rotting pinniped left on them. Bile rose in his throat as he remembered the smell coming from the chunks of meat in the laboratory. For two weeks, he returned to the dormitories reeking of the foul, metallic odor of decomposition. After bathing and scrubbing his hands half a dozen times, he would lie in bed at night and smell the all too familiar stench of dead walrus wafting from his fingertips. The young scientist would never admit it to his beloved professor, but more than once when he was spilling out the maceration water from the bones, he could not help but be sick into his flower bed. Now that the bones had been stripped clean and sanitized with acetone, they were actually quite beautiful. There was something remarkable about watching a pile of offal transform back into a bow-legged, barrel-chested walrus.

What he still found disconcerting about the whole process was once when he touched the bones, something odd happened. It had occurred when he was carrying them inside after their final drying. Immanuel was quickly bringing them in before a rainstorm undid all his work and didn’t think to put on his gloves since the bones were no longer putrid. As he hefted the skull, a chill passed over him. Before his eyes stood a vast sea peppered with mirror-like patches of ice and a sky that touched the water. The whites and aquamarine blues melded to form one limitless sphere of creation. The wind lashed against his skin, tousling his hair and blowing through his shirt and vest as if they were nothing more than paper. The cold burned his face and arms as he stared into the mute, unending tundra, but when he blinked, the gentle patter of rain hitting his eyelashes and cheeks brought him back to Oxford. He had no idea how long he had been standing there while being in the arctic, but from that day on, he made sure to wear gloves while handling the beast to keep it from happening again.

“Well, Mr. Winter, I believe our friend is ready for some varnish. You start with the head, and I will begin with the tail.”

Immanuel dipped one of the brushes into the lacquer and carefully smeared it across the walrus’ skull.

“You can do it a little more vigorously. You can’t hurt what is already dead.” He watched as his student nodded and picked up his pace. “Now that he is finished, he needs a name.”

A small smile played on Immanuel’s lips. “Otto.”

The professor’s gravelly laughter echoed through the empty museum. “Ah, yes, Mr. Bismarck does bear a striking resemblance to a walrus, doesn’t he?” When Immanuel did not respond, he went on, “Are the other lads treating you any better?”

His student shrugged. “They aren’t mistreating me, sir. They don’t really bother with me. I do not like cricket or going to the pub after lectures. It is as much me as it is them.”

Elijah Martin looked up from the walrus’ tail at Immanuel’s pensive yet pained expression. The young man reminded him of the faces and figures in stained glass windows with each delicate and comely feature carefully delineated by an artful hand. His countenance brightened in the light drifting down from the crystalline roof, giving his hair and eyes an almost metallic sheen, but he had seen the same reaction occur during class as his eyes lit up in comprehension or pride when only he knew the answer. While the professor often met his other students in town, he only caught glimpses of Immanuel Winter on the lawn sketching or tucked away in the library with a massive tome and his hands clasped over his ears despite the silence.

“I am sure you do something enjoyable in your leisure time.” From the only response being the sound of brushstrokes, he assumed that was not the case. “Well, with your small, new-found fortune, you could at least see a play or go into London for the day and take the train back.”

“I have never been to London,” he replied softly as he dabbed the brush into the grooves of a vertebra.

“After three years, you still have not gone?”

“No, sir, I— I worry I will get lost without a proper guide.”

“One day when I go into London to visit my daughter, would you like to accompany me?” Professor Martin asked as he inspected his student’s handiwork. “I will show you the sites and make sure you can get back to Wimpole Street in time for dinner.”

Immanuel stared into his mentor’s pale green eyes, unsure if he could trust his ears. “Do you mean it? Wouldn’t your daughter mind such an imposition?”

He shook his head. “Not at all. She was a medical student herself and is married to a coroner, so you will fit right in amongst us.”

“Thank you, professor.”

Old Professor Martin couldn’t help but smile when his protégé beamed at such a small favor. Three years away from his family must have been hard on him. “Mr. Winter, take it from a man of my years, life is too short to be unhappy or alone for very long. You should go out and do what makes you happy.”

The younger man’s face suddenly darkened as he stopped the brush mid-stroke. “I wish more people felt as you do, sir, especially back home.”

“Is that why you left Germany? Because you were not allowed to do what you wanted?”

Immanuel turned away, hoping to suppress his sigh of desolation before it became audible. He couldn’t bear to tell him the truth. “I needed to leave to find out what really made me happy.”

“And what did you find?”

“Articulating a walrus makes me happy.”

***

Immanuel smiled to himself as he made his way across the lawns and between the medieval buildings, feeling the money from his professor jingle in his pocket. It was bittersweet to finish Otto’s skeleton since he enjoyed spending his afternoons with his mentor, but it would be nice to use the bit of money he earned to have a meal out or buy some new supplies. He wove between the throngs of students and strangers until he reached the massive entrance of the Bodleian Library with its gothic portal and school coats of arms. The warm smell of must and parchment engulfed him as he slipped inside. The cozy, cave-like atmosphere of the Bodleian calmed him on his worst day and had been his refuge since he arrived. The librarian barely looked up from his desk as the lanky, young German signed in and strolled toward a desk among the stacks. He wandered through the shelves searching for those who may be able to help him in his search. It had been weeks since the day at the Thames when the girl fell in and his heart stopped, but he couldn’t help but wonder what his alchemist ancestors created. Every spare moment was spent in the library researching what could have revived her. On a shelf of philosophers stood Magnus, Bacon, and Pseudo-Geber; all were men who sought to wholly understand life but, unlike him, took their studies toward the otherworldly. Immanuel hoped within their spines he would find the curious secret to what had been brewed and bottled in the necklace by his ancestors.

For hours he sat at the desk in solitude and silence with his hands covering his ears and cupping the sides of his face like blinders. Most of what he read made little sense, but as he reached the section on Albertus Magnus, his eyes lit up. Another German had made an elixir of life. He reread the words, but they refused to sink in. The lapis philosophorum had the power to grant life. Immanuel’s eyes passed over the page until they reached the part about how it looked. The immature stone was white but would transform to its most potent form, which was red, with the addition of a reagent. The vial had been a murky milk until it morphed into a sanguine solution upon the addition of his blood. Could his mother’s forbears have left the lapis philosophorum for him as his inheritance?

When Immanuel finally surfaced from the massive volume, his neck was stiff and his hand was cramped beyond cracking. He sat back, clenching his eyes shut, but upon opening them, he suddenly noticed how dark the library had become even with the electric sconces. As he gathered up his belongings, a door opened in the distance, and the lights were extinguished. Immanuel quickly threw on his satchel and grabbed the book by Albertus Magnus to return it to the shelf when their voices rang out in the darkness. He peered around the edge of the bookcase, ready to yell to the librarian that he was still inside when his eyes fell upon three men in the shadows.

“Are you certain he is in here, Higgins?” asked the man in the middle, his voice deep and urbane.

“Very, he is the only one who has not left.” The second intruder’s voice vacillated nervously. “I should know, I have been outside for four bloody hours.”

“Keep it down, or he will hear you. I do not want to have to chase him. Higgins, go toward the back. Thomas, go check the shelves.”

Immanuel carefully padded backwards, keeping an eye on the shrouded men at the other end of the library as he darted toward the Seldon End. His chest tightened as he spun around, hoping to find a place to hide, but all he found was a dead end. He could hide under the tables, but even with the scant amount of light coming in through the windows, he would cast a shadow. Two pairs of feet were rapidly approaching. One of the men called out that the stacks were empty. Immanuel’s heart pounded as his eyes fell on the catwalk above his head. Holding his breath, he inched toward the hall where the men were regrouping and noiselessly climbed the steps on the tips of his toes.

He flattened against the bookcase as the men came in and checked under the desks and near the shelves for any sign of him. What they could want from him, he couldn’t imagine, but he didn’t want to find out. From his hiding place, he watched the figures below move in the waning light. He didn’t recognize them as students or lecturers, and while they weren’t carrying cudgels or guns, it was clear they were hunting for someone. The two who were sent ahead stepped into the lantern light, revealing that they were both at least a dozen years older than he was and better dressed. The man who eagerly sought him under the long desks had a gaunt and haggard countenance with bulging eyes that darted nervously over every surface. The other was a stout man with spectacles, who appeared more fit for servitude or banking than crime.

As their leader emerged from the shadows of the hall, it became clear why they didn’t need to carry weapons. The robust man strode in like a Roman commander. He held his head high and marched past his inferiors. Immanuel swallowed hard as the man put his hands on his hips, causing his ribs to flare and push dangerously against the tailored fabric of his suit and waistcoat. As much as he wanted to monitor the men, he feared that if he looked at them directly, they would feel his gaze and discover him in his darkened corner.

“He isn’t here, sir.”

As the pudgy intruder spoke, Immanuel looked out over the railing toward the arched portal. If he could leap from the second floor and run toward the exit, he might just be able to outrun them, especially since he knew the terrain.

“The German couldn’t have gone far. Thomas, go up there and tell me if you can see him.”

His eyes widened in panic as the fatter man climbed the steps. Immanuel stared up at the inlaid ceiling, taking long, slow breaths to keep from hyperventilating. The fidgety man peered out the window for their prey while their leader lingered under the walkway on the opposite side of the room. The paunchy criminal looked out across the library, gripping the railing until his meaty knuckles turned white. With a final steadying breath, Immanuel knew what he had to do. He clutched The Theatrum Chemicum and began his silent shuffle toward the intruder. In the shadows, the man never noticed as he slunk behind him. Raising the tome high above his head, Immanuel brought it down so hard on the back of the heavy man’s skull that he crumpled against the rail. Immanuel dashed the book to the floor and jumped over the edge. His leg gave out under him as he stumbled forward, ignoring the pain radiating up from his ankle.

For a few fleeting seconds, he thought he would be able to escape until he heard the sound of a bench crashing to the floor and boots thundering behind him on the ancient planks. His satchel slapped against his thigh as the shelves blew past him on either side. Immanuel slammed his wobbly ankle down step after step despite the pain. The door was only feet beyond the deserted librarian’s desk, but as he rounded the corner, the footsteps finally caught up with him. They collided in a pile of wool and leather and fell to the ground with the brawny man easily pinning him. Immanuel flailed and thrashed wildly until he was able to work his arms free from under the man’s body. The bug-eyed Higgins soon joined the pile, but as he reached for Immanuel’s arms, the younger man sent his elbow into the criminal’s nose. When his attacker fell back onto their commander, Immanuel rolled onto his stomach and scrambled to his feet. A claw wrapped around his sore ankle and yanked him back down. Immanuel lay on the floor panting, the wind knocked out of him by the fall, as the man knelt on his back and tightly bound his hands with the strap from his satchel.

“I knew you were in there. Even if I could not see you, I could sense you,” their leader explained in a harsh whisper. His mouth was so close to Immanuel’s ear he could taste the puffs of hot tobacco-ridden breath with each syllable. “I did not expect such a fight from you.”

“The money is in my pocket. I swear, I have nothing else of value,” Immanuel cried with his face pressed into the floor from the man’s weight, but his hands worked frantically against their binds.

“Oh, you have something much more valuable than money that I want. Stop struggling, boy. We are just going to have a little talk.”

Before Immanuel could reply, a sharp pain followed by a flood of cold ran through his arm. Then, the world went black.

***

Hours later, Immanuel’s blue eyes finally fluttered open and roamed across the brick walls of the catacomb and up to the beams and floorboards of the house only a few feet above his head. His back hurt, but as he shifted uncomfortably, he found his hands and legs were both tied to the back of the chair on which he was seated. He blinked and groaned, still too groggy to panic.

“Good, you are awake.”

Immanuel turned toward the voice and came face-to-face with a man in a leather mask and golden eyes. From his voice, he recognized him as the muscular man from the library. “What do you want from me?”

“Information. What was in that potion you gave to Emmeline Jardine?”

“Who?”

“The girl at the river. If you tell me what was in the vial, I will let you go, and you will never see me again. That way we both get what we want.”

“But I do not know, I did not make it.”

“Where did you get it?”

Immanuel stared at him, picturing his dear mother held captive in this place. “I found it in my grandmother’s attic.”

His voice took on a hard edge as he enunciated each word, “Who made it?”

“I don’t know.”

The blow came so hard and fast across his cheek he didn’t register what occurred until he felt the lingering, stinging ache.

“Is that all you know how to say? You don’t know,” he spat mockingly back at him. “What do you know?”

Immanuel closed his eyes against the abashed warmth flushing his cheeks where the handprint burned as he replied through clenched teeth, “Nothing about what was in it or what it did. I only used it because I had no other way to help her.”

The gentleman in the mask gripped the younger man by the jaw and pulled his face to his until their eyes met. Immanuel defiantly held his gaze as his captor squeezed until his nails punctured the soft flesh of his cheeks, drawing blood and tears. The devil’s eyes flashed, and he roughly released Immanuel’s face before casually walking toward the door with the lantern at his side.

“Where are you going?”

The man ignored him as he slammed the door shut and slid the bolt. “Maybe a night down here will make you more cooperative. You better have something useful for me tomorrow, or this will not end well for you.”

“But I do not know anything!” he called desperately.

His heart pounded in his throat as he stared at the barred oak door. How was it going to end for him? Immanuel had nothing to tell his kidnapper. No one would believe him if he said he had a necklace filled with liquefied lapis philosophorum. He wanted to know why they wanted the secret of the potion so desperately, but more importantly, he wondered how they were able to find him after nearly a month. The young man’s blood ran cold as he realized the man with the yellow eyes had been there that August day. He had carried the girl away after her mother arrived.

The wind whistled through an unseen crack and wafted down his neck in an icy draft, snuffing out any tatter of warmth or hope he had left. Immanuel shivered against the darkness of the stone sepulcher as it rose around him, engulfing his senses until all that was left were his thoughts in the musty earth. Everything else disappeared from his mind as it raced to the girl with owl eyes. What would happen to her if the man realized he didn’t have anything to tell?

Chapter Three:

Samhain Night

“I don’t know,” Emmeline frowned as she scrutinized her reflection, her eyes running over the dark tendrils of hair that hung down from the sides of her coiffure. “Is this style what a fairy would wear?”

Her long-suffering lady’s maid sighed as she held up the hand mirror, so her indecisive mistress could inspect the back of her head. It was the fourth style of the night, and the tips of her fingers were beginning to grow numb from the constant stab of hairpins.

“Oh, yes, just like a fairy princess! It will be perfect for the ball,” Abigail tittered as she pressed in beside her queen at the looking glass and adjusted her own hair.

At Emmeline’s insistence, the small group of girls all dressed as flower and crinoline clad fairies with Miss Jardine as the leader of their little band. She eyed the light-haired faces behind her reflection before staring at her countenance contemptuously. Why did she, the oldest of the four girls, have to look like a child? Abigail and Annette Raleigh were twins born over a year after her, but they were half a foot taller and were already beginning to fill out into curves. Adele, their younger sister, was Emmeline’s size but had waves of angelic hair while Emmeline had thick, dark curls and dark eyes. She stared at her chubby cheeks and small mouth, envying their high cheek bones and swan-like necks. If she couldn’t be an ideal beauty, then she only had one hope, to grow up to be just like her mother. Despite her dark features, Madeline Jardine appeared radiant and even stately with her exotic looks and majestic bearing. Everyone adored her, but while she accepted their praise, she never took a second husband. The freedom of early widowhood had been her reward for marrying strategically, placing her among high society and garnering clients at the height of the Spiritualist Movement’s popularity.

“Do you think there will be a séance?”

Emmeline arched one dark brow in disgust. “Don’t be vulgar, Abigail. We don’t hold séances during parties. How would we hear the spirits over the music?”

Abigail’s cheeks reddened. “How should I know? Unlike you, our parents only started going to the Spiritualist Church last year. It’s as boring as regular church. All we do is sing hymns and listen to old men drone on about responsibility and God. I always hope the vicar will perform a séance since I have never seen one, but apparently only mediums do that.”

“We believe in other things besides talking to the dead, you know,” Emmeline snapped.

“Like what?”

“Spirits still learn in the afterlife, they can know things the living can’t, God is an intelligent creator. I don’t know, ask my mother. All I know is this is just a party to celebrate Samhain.”

From the vanity mirror, Emmeline could see the manicured lawns and the burnt orange and brown leaves of the trees that obscured the lights of the shrunken houses on the other side of the field. In front of the house, jack-o’-lanterns glared and grimaced. Flames lapped in their cavernous mouths and flared through their eyes with each gust of wind. Servants heaped log after log onto an unlit pyre as the girl’s mind drifted to stories of martyrs and saints who had been set ablaze.

“What’s Samhain?” Adele asked dreamily.

“It is a feast for the dead. Mama says we deal with them so often that we should honor them even if it is a pagan festival.”

The child’s eyes widened at the prospect of half-rotten couples in torn dinner suits and gowns popping out of the lawn like daisies and sitting beside her at dinner. She imagined an eyeball plopping from a dead man’s socket into her soup. “How dreadful! I don’t want to see a dead person!”

Emmeline sighed as she glared at the girl through her reflection in the glass. “Don’t be hysterical, there won’t be any—”

“They’re here!” Adele squealed with delight. “The London Spiritualists are here! I cannot wait to see their costumes. They always have the latest fashions.”

Emmeline and the twins bustled over, shoving the younger girl out of the way to get a better view of the caravan of steamers rolling toward the portico below. The liveried footmen opened the doors of the cabs, allowing the brilliantly dressed lords and ladies to enter the masquerade in grand style. The three faces pressed against the panes as a set of broad shoulders clad in carmine velvet and a blonde head emerged from the coal steamer and swept out with a great flourish of his silk cape. He extended his hand to the lady who trailed behind in an equally gay costume of red and black, whom Emmeline recognized as the opera singer Henrietta Wren. Her nose crinkled in thought. She could have sworn that last time she was in London he was courting Lord Waters’s daughter.

“What is Lord Rose dressed as? I couldn’t see with your big head in my way,” Emmeline scolded as he slipped out of her line of sight.

“A devil. All the London Spiritualists are devils!”

“Well, Annette, as I was saying before, that is what Samhain is about. Mama says it is the day when everything in the spirit realm comes into our world. All the ghosts—”

“He has the body of a pugilist,” Adele sighed, her nose still pressed to the glass.

Emmeline settled back in at the vanity and began adding the subtle details to her costume while picking through her box of pins and earrings to find the enamel and pearl forget-me-not brooch her mother allowed her to borrow. “When have you ever seen a pugilist?”

“I haven’t, but I have seen pictures.”

The twins appeared on either side of her reflection. “You know what they say about him. He won medals for gymnastics at Cambridge supposedly, and he climbs cliffs all over the countryside.”

“I don’t know why you three even bother to look at him,” the dark-haired girl began. “I am the one going into society this year, and he will obviously be interested in me.” She narrowed her eyes as the other girls suppressed peals of laughter. “Why wouldn’t he? He is only seven-and-twenty. Older men marry young girls all the time, and it would only make sense to pick me. He is the head of the London Spiritualist Society, and mama runs the Oxford branch. He is one of the queen’s favorites, and mama and her brother are very close to Her Majesty. I am the obvious choice.”

Before the girls could reply, the maid, who had slipped out when they rushed to the window, poked her head back into the room. “Her ladyship requests you come down to the party now.”

Emmeline grabbed her silk and boning fairy wings from the bed and slipped them onto her back. Abigail cranked the clockwork mechanism, and with a faint click, the wings began to flutter. With one final look in the mirror, they marched into the hall with Emmeline in the lead and Adele trailing behind. They held their heads erect with their backs and necks straight to give the illusion of maturity and grace. It was their first real ball, and they had to make a good impression just in case their future husbands or mothers-in-law were down there.

From the upper railing, Emmeline watched as the couples below collided and twirled in brilliant pinwheels of silk and brocade to the lively notes of a waltz. In the nebulous light of the candles and gas lamps, the cast of revelers were transformed into an otherworldly parade of demons, fairies, and spooks. She could scarcely believe they were real as she descended the staircase and entered their world. Her eyes roamed over the throngs of guests in their elaborate costumes they had made especially for the party, but she closed them, taking in the energy from all around her. There was something different about this party. It wasn’t a dull dinner party where the guests never seemed to leave the table or one of the barely audible parties she had listened to from the upper rail at her governess’ side. Tonight the guests seemed less inhibited, the dances faster, the music louder. It had a life of its own that pulsed with the tempo of the orchestra and filled every room of the manor with heat despite the brumous day.

A hand lightly gripped Emmeline’s arm. She looked up expecting to see her mother when she met the light eyes of Henrietta Wren behind a devil’s mask. “Have you seen Lord Rose?”

She shook her head, but as she opened her mouth to reply, the woman released her arm and disappeared into the crowd in a huff. Suddenly, the music stopped and a hush fell over the guests. Emmeline turned to see hundreds of masked faces staring up at the grand staircase. Standing on the center landing was a Pre-Raphaelite goddess bedecked in purple crepe and jewelry of the richest gold. Her jet hair tumbled down her back, but in the front, it was interwoven around a crown of spikes. Emmeline never heard a call for order or saw a hand raised for silence; her presence was enough to snuff out their voices.

“Welcome to the Oxford Spiritualist Society’s Samhain Ball,” Lady Jardine began, her voice ringing through the foyer as if it were empty. “Many of you may not know the origin of Samhain, but it is an ancient pagan festival, old as England herself, marking the end of the harvest and the beginning of winter. Tonight is the night when the dead walk among us and our worlds spin closer until they nearly touch. To keep the demons and fairies at bay and lead our dead to the otherworld, we will appease them with food and drink and a bonfire to light their way to the afterlife.” The great doors were thrown open to reveal a massive pile of wood stacked on the lawn. “May you all find peace and safety in the coming year.” The torch kissed the kindling and within seconds, a fire roared up toward the moon. “And may our loved ones find their way home.”

Applause erupted, but by the time Emmeline’s eyes moved over the revelers who began to drift into the parlors and drawing rooms, her mother was gone from sight. The Raleigh sisters giggled with delight as the orchestra began to play a familiar song and rushed off to find dance partners, but as Emmeline was about to be pulled back into the throng, she spotted the familiar blonde head of Lord Rose. She tugged her hand out of Abigail’s and pushed her way through the forest of fabric, watching his head bob in and out of sight. She cursed her height as she lost him in a crowd of particularly tall gentlemen in front of the dining room. Her mother was holding court near the tables of elaborate puddings and steaming dishes of meat and poultry, so Emmeline tiptoed casually past the doorway, hoping she would not be noticed and called in. She walked toward the back parlor and sighed; he was gone. A sweet yet acrid vapor wafted from the unfastened mullioned door. The fairy stepped onto the balcony and found her devil with his head resting against the brick façade of the house, blowing smoke rings into the midnight air.

She let her gaze rest on him for a moment. Lord Alastair Rose was the most handsome man she had ever laid eyes on. Every time he was near, her pulse raced and heat flushed her breasts, making her acutely aware of their swollen prominence beneath her camisole. He was perfect; tall, strong, and the third son of a marquess. He was her Lancelot, her Darcy, her Prince Charming even if he didn’t know it yet. Finally his persimmon eyes languidly fell on her before rolling back to the copse of trees ahead of him. He brought the cigarette back to his lips and drew a long breath as if she was not even there.

“Are you enjoying the party, Lord Rose?” Emmeline asked, deepening her voice until it sounded like her mother’s.

He flicked the burned out nub into the bushes and pulled a silver cigarette case from his jacket and lit another. “It’s a party.”

“The Sleeping Beauty Waltz is coming up soon. It is one of my favorites.” She leaned closer, glancing up at him from beneath her dark lashes. “I asked mama to have them play it just for me, but I have not found a partner yet.”

Smoke seeped from his nose as he exhaled, keeping his eyes locked on the conifers and oaks beyond the ring of the balcony. His eyes flickered and slowly he half-turned toward her. “Where is your mother?”

“In the dining room.”

Lord Rose abruptly dropped the hot cigarette and nearly crushed it out on the hem of her dress. Before she could speak, he pushed past her and walked inside. Emmeline lingered in the haze for a moment as the cold air dashed the burning in her eyes. Other people were dancing inside her Headington Hill home. Their faces were alight with the laughter she longed for, and she could hear their jubilant cries above the clinking of glasses and scuff of slippers and boots. Several songs passed before she took in a ragged breath and charged back inside toward the dining room. She would get her dance even if her mother had to make him do it. The dining room was empty by the time she got there, but as she turned back down the hall, voices rose behind the shut pocket-door of the library. Emmeline pressed her ear against the wood, fighting the apparatus of her wing as she tried to get close.

“I will not allow that! She will not be dragged into something like that, Alastair,” her mother snapped.

“It will not only benefit her but both of us.” The reply was cool and barely audible above the din of the ball.

“I don’t care who it benefits. Emmeline will not be going to London with you.”

“She would have to go to London. That is the only way it would work. I would see to it that she wants for nothing.”

“I forbid it. I will not let you take my child from me.”

The girl’s eyes widened with glee. She picked up her skirts and hurried off in a dither to find her company of fairies. By the time she found them at the edge of the dance floor, her face was flushed and all she could do was stammer.

“Did you see one of those ghosts your mother was talking about?” Annette chided as she looked around Emmeline for the young man she had been dancing with earlier.

“Even better! Lord Rose wants to marry me.”

“Of course he does.” The younger girl stood on tiptoe as she peered over her friend’s head. “Have you seen John Pemberley?”

“No, it’s true. I heard him and mama in the library. He wants to take me to London, and he said it would benefit both of us. What else could it be but marriage?” When the girl continued to ignore her, she stepped closer until all Annette could look at was the flat, beaded bodice of her friend’s costume. “Mama, is highly opposed to the union. Isn’t that romantic? All the best romances are forbidden, aren’t they?”

“John!” Annette squealed as she nearly knocked Emmeline over and caught the edge of her dress with her heel.

Emmeline watched in horror as the edge tore half way to the dance floor before the girl’s heel finally dislodged from the trim. That was it, that was all she could take for one evening. She grabbed the piece of fabric and trudged back to the balcony in the rear parlor. The night air soothed her tears as she fitfully pulled the rest of the lace off and tossed it over the railing. She hated them all for ignoring her. After all, she was the important one, and her friends just threw her over for someone else. If it hadn’t been for me, the Raleigh sisters never would have even been invited since none of them had been presented into society yet, Emmeline thought as she sat on the edge and looked out at her kingdom.

Her waltz was playing. The little fairy closed her eyes and hummed as she pictured herself dancing in Lord Rose’s arms. She checked to make sure no one was around before she held up her arms and carefully spun in measured steps to Tchaikovsky’s airy melody. Something clicked behind the girl, and as she gracefully turned with her skirts sweeping behind her, a rag-clad hand clamped over her mouth while the other pulled her into the shadows. Emmeline’s body stiffened and buckled, but as she raised her hand to her assailant’s, it drooped. The sickeningly sweet odor engulfed her senses as the Samhain ball faded away.

Chapter Four:

Penny Dreadfuls

“Emmeline! Wait, Emmeline! Bring her back!” her mother screamed in the crackling darkness. She sounded so far away, and Emmeline was too drowsy to lift her eyelids to see where. The voice died away until she was left with only warm, passive blackness. The steady cadence of her breaths moved in time with her dream of fairy waltzes and red devils.

Emmeline shivered and opened one eye and then the other only to see her hair hanging in front of her face. As she pushed it to the side, she started up in bed, rattling the flimsy iron cot with her sudden motion. The room was silent except for the creaking as she stood up with the woolen blanket wrapped around her shoulders like a shawl. The chilled room was half the size of her bedroom and lacked all character or personal touches as there were no photographs, paintings, or even wallpaper hanging on the cracked, plaster walls. No, she was definitely not in the servants’ quarters in Headington. Standing in the corners were dusty specters, but when she pulled away their white mantles, all she uncovered were pieces of chipped and worn furniture. As she inspected the looming wardrobe, her eyes finally fell upon the peeling door.

Emmeline held her breath as she reached for the knob and felt it easily turn in her hand. Behind the door was a narrow hall with two more identical oak doors catty-corner to each other and a wooden panel on the opposite wall. Her heart pounded in her ears as she noiselessly padded down the hall, careful not to alert an unseen presence to her flight. She feared what lay behind the nearest door, but as she wrapped her gloved hand around the limp, brass knob, the door squealed open.

Emmeline’s heart sank at the dingy bathroom staring back at her. The once white toilet and sink had dulled to a sallow bone, and under the faucet of the tub, rust cascaded and crumbled in streaks of dull red. As her eyes ran up the cistern, she noticed that concealed behind some brown paper was a window. She looked over her shoulder and listened for any signs of life before carefully climbing onto the toilet seat. Emmeline teetered on the rim as she tore the paper away from the window, but when she finally created a big enough hole and stood on the tips of her toes for a better view, she could only make out the bleak, brick façade of the neighboring building less than a foot from the glass. Where am I? As she blinked away the remaining grogginess, the fear fell heavy in her breast. How did she get here? As she tried to recount the previous night’s events, her satin slipper slowly slid until her ankle rolled and her foot unceremoniously plunged into the cold water of the toilet.

Her shrill shriek reverberated in the tiny space before she could stop herself as she hopped down from her perch with her foot held out in horror. She didn’t want to touch it, but the water was rapidly seeping through the delicate fabric. Grasping the dry lip of the shoe, she flung it from her foot and against the far wall with such force that it bounced back and nearly touched her. She sneered at the shoe one more time before rushing toward the only door left in the hall. If someone did hear her, she would need to escape now. This time, the door would not budge. Emmeline pulled on the knob with all her might until her sore hands slipped off and refused to grasp its surface. As she drew back with tears of frustration pooling in her eyes, the floorboards rhythmically creaked overhead. She froze as she listened to the tread of boots stop above the hall.

Something scraped and squealed in the cavernous space behind the panel. Her brown eyes locked onto the wall as the straining noises grew louder until they terminated in a dull thud. Emmeline eyed the panel with suspicion, too afraid to open the pocket door but not knowing was too much for her to bear. She threw open the hatch and discovered a pot of tea, a tin of biscuits, and a plate of roasted mutton and carrots along with utensils and an empty cup on a chipped, wooden tray.

“How are you feeling?” a nasally voice intoned, echoing from seemingly nowhere.

The young woman spun around with her food in hand, sloshing tea as she searched for the source of the man’s disembodied voice. “Hello? Who is there?”

“I asked how you were feeling.”

She placed the plate and tin back in the miniature elevator before scanning the walls of the hall and the door at the end, which she was certain had not opened. “Scared.”

“Physically, miss. I need a baseline.”

“Fine. Cold?” Swallowing her fear, she cried, “Let me out! When my mother finds out what you did, you will be sorry you ever kidnapped me!”

Her eyes finally came to rest on a brass pipe running down the wall above the dumbwaiter that ended in an open tube. Tiptoeing into the bedroom, Emmeline returned with a chair and placed it right below the pipe. The young woman drew in a deep breath and released a long, ear-piercing scream with her mouth directed toward the ear of the man upstairs. When she thought it would end, she drew in another deep breath and continued the shrill note. She always fancied that the great operatic divas would have envied her lung capacity, especially compared to her petite stature.

The nasal voice at the other end cried sharply. “Stop that! You aren’t getting out any time soon, miss. Not until we’re finished.”

“Finished? Finished with what?”

Silence and the tattoo of her heart in her ears met her answer.

“Who are you? Why have you taken me?”

Opening her mouth to scream again, she stopped when she heard footfalls retreating away from the tube. The faint clap of a door that rocked the plaster of her apartment confirmed he was gone. Emmeline moved the chair under the bathroom window, but neither feet nor steamer wheels blocked the sliver of sun in her dank alley view. The girl slowly slumped down in defeat, feeling particularly small and oddly helpless. She sniffed and dabbed at her eyes but refused to cry and let her face grow red and inflamed. Much like her screaming, it would do nothing to help her escape.

Her eyes trailed up to her reflection in the mirror. During the night, her hair had tumbled down with pins sticking out at all angles, but apart from being a little wrinkled from sleep, her green gown remained without anymore missing sequins or tears. She turned to leave the powder room when she glimpsed her twisted and crunched wings. In a panic, Emmeline tried to set them back in place, but they drooped as the gears of the mechanism ground together, reminding her of a swatted insect. With a sigh, she slipped them off and let them drop beside the soiled shoe on the bathroom floor.

Stepping back into the hall, she carried her tray back to the bedroom. She sniffed at the plate, checking if it was poisoned but realized she didn’t know what poison smelled like. The dish smelled like cheap meat, so she daintily nibbled at her meager dinner. The sinewy meat refused to cut, and the waterlogged carrots oozed moisture with each fall of the knife. What disgusted her even more than putting her foot in the toilet was the cold, dishwater tea. She left the pot on the dresser and dug into the only passable morsel of food, the box of Huntley and Palmer biscuits, hoping to drown out the awful taste. If they were going to hold her captive, they could at least give her real food, she thought as she lay back on the bed and stared at the cracked plaster ceiling.

Why would anyone take her only to ask if she was feeling well? Her mother was wealthy, so maybe they were holding her for ransom. Yes, that must be it, she told herself. As long as her mama paid them, she would be fine. As she ran her fingers through her hair and the remaining pins tinkled to the ground, a grin crossed her features. Maybe Lord Rose had stolen her to elope when her mother refused his proposal. How romantic. Just like Hades and Persephone. If that was true, she would only remain there a few hours more until the vicar could be called. She would have preferred a white dress but at least her Samhain costume was fine. Emmeline turned the tiny piece of metal over in her hand before scratching 1 November 1891 into the wall to mark the day of her engagement.

She gathered the blanket around her arms as she checked the bedside table and discovered a hairbrush and toothbrush that looked newer than anything else in the room. In the drawer below were several candles and a box of matches. She quickly shut them and unlatched the wardrobe. A few dated, doleful dresses that smelled of mothballs hung on the bar but sitting on the shelves were a few extra pairs of stockings and another dusty blanket. Stooping down, Emmeline pulled open the drawers at the bottom. They were littered with stationary and half-empty bottles of ink that had been scattered and upturned by some invisible wind. As she scooped them up to tidy the pile, brightly colored books printed with painted damsels and highwaymen on their tattered covers appeared below. Emmeline abandoned the pile of papers in favor of the penny dreadfuls. Thumbing through the tales of robbers, rapscallions, and regal ladies, she headed back to her bed. For hours, she lay quietly on the mattress, transported from the empty space to castles on the misty moors. The tales of adventure and passion held her until the light from the electric bulb in the hall grew too weak to read anymore, and when it did, she lit a candle and contently continued. Until her mother or Lord Rose came to rescue her, there was nothing to do except read.

***

The charcoal steamer stopped before the unkempt brick house as it did every day for the past month and a half. Though the neighbors heard strange noises every time he was there, they never dared to ask questions. He owned their houses and could turn them out at any moment if they tried to make trouble. Marching past the cloaked furniture and shutting the kitchen door behind him to block out the last rays of day, he descended the steps. He slipped past the locked door where the girl slept and continued until he reached the rough-hewn portal hidden within the cupboard under the stairs.

Emmeline’s head was pressed against the pages of one of Jack Harkaway’s many adventures when the bolt on the cellar door slid open and the man inside whimpered at the sight of his captor. An agonizing scream from the depths of hell sent Emmeline from her paper pillow with a start. In a daze, she patted her mouth and realized she wasn’t the one screaming. His bestial cries were like nothing she had ever heard before. She had screamed and heard her mother and maid do the same at the sight of a mouse, but she had never heard a man scream. The voice was tinged with the unmistakable tremble of fear and the abandon of horrific pain. The hairs on her arms and neck stood on end. A sharp thwack resonated from the boards below followed by another. She listened to the cries pierce the still air over and over until she thought her heart would pound out of her chest and into her throat. But it was not only fear that made her listen. Something in his wails thrilled her like a Gothic tale. Maybe she was dreaming. Could her imagination simply be running wild after reading too many of the penny dreadfuls her mother had forbade her to read?

After what felt like an eternity of sitting on her mattress waiting for the cries of pain and bangs from below her feet to cease, the purgatorial room fell silent. Emmeline froze anew, feeling her own pulse race against the flesh of her neck as she anticipated the cry that never came. She jolted as the door in the cellar slammed shut and the sound of boots headed for the other end of the hallway. Her eyes widened in panic as she darted from the cot and into the wardrobe, shielding her face with the row of old dresses. The man’s heavy steps echoed past her chambers and continued upstairs where they disappeared out the front door. A chunk of plaster in the corner crashed to the floor as it slammed.

All fell silent. Pushing open the wardrobe door, she stepped back into the room on trembling legs. Her breath and pulse refused to slow. This was not some romantic elopement or ransom. She was trapped. Her apartments were no longer a great tower or cell in the Bastille but a tomb she may never leave, and there was another who was brought by her captors to share her fate. Even if she never laid eyes on him, there had to be a common bond for them to be brought together. Would they do to her what they did to him if she didn’t do what they wanted? Getting down on her hands and knees, she pressed her cheek against the cool boards to be as close as possible to her fellow hostage. At first, the young woman couldn’t hear anything, but then a muffled moan followed by a sob echoed from the abyss. The man was weeping.

***

The dumbwaiter rattled down the chute until it came to rest in the hallway. Emmeline carefully removed the new tray and replaced it with the dirty dishes from the night before with shaking hands. She was about to dart back to her room to escape him when the abrasive voice echoed down the pipe.

“How do you feel?”

Questions hung on her lips but fear hushed them as the screams echoed through her mind again. Maybe if she played their game, she would survive. “Fine.”

Chapter Five:

The Catacomb

The dates tipped down and across the wall, haphazardly scratched daily into the plaster with the end of a hairpin. Emmeline was beginning to lose track of day and night as the days grew shorter and the weather darkened the sky with snow and torrential downpours, but the routine of the two men continued like clockwork. The man with the heavy tread came every morning before the sun disappeared above the adjacent building at noon to brutalize her unseen neighbor. Hours later when it was necessary to light her lamp to even see in her bedroom, the man with the clarion voice asked only one question, How are you feeling?

Every time they arrived, she imagined what lay beyond the confines of her plaster and wood cell. From what she remembered of her own home, she assumed the dumbwaiter in the hall led to the pantry above and would open up to a dining room or parlor, and from the creaks on the other side of her bedroom wall, she knew the stairs and door to her fellow captive lay nearby. What stood past the threshold of the front door or up the stairs to the upper floors she did not know. The men never seemed to go beyond the ground floor and no one had ever tried to enter her apartments.

Emmeline sank her ears deeper into the folds of the pillow to drown out the groans and pleadings from below the floorboards. When she asked for more books and candles, they sent her an oil lamp and a stack of penny dreadfuls along with a few novels. Now, the Count of Monte Cristo served as her guide to escape. She read aloud to drown out the pitiable cries. If she didn’t, she would tremble at the sound of his wails and imagine every blow dealt to him. She flinched as something sharply hit flesh, but she clasped the pillow to her head before she could hear the resulting lamentation. Why do they treat me so well? she wondered as she let the book drop and held the pillow to her ears to block the attacker’s muffled jeers and half-heard insults. They treated him so differently. Her captors seemed to provide her with whatever she needed. She had asked politely for more to read and a sewing kit with which she could hem the sad dresses in the wardrobe, and she received them the next day without a word. For now, they were treating her like a princess held captive by a rival kingdom, but why weren’t they beating her as they did to him? More importantly, why hadn’t her mother come to rescue her? Maybe she was happy to be rid of her. Swallowing hard, she choked down her tears to keep the man below from hearing her.

What would she even do if they came into her cell? She was cornered down there with no place to hide. At any moment they could come in and murder her or commit the crimes of Jack the Ripper that her mother refused to explain past their heinous nature. All she had to fend them off with was a dull, bent butter knife from her dinner and a piece of molding with nails jutting from its surface that she had torn from the edge of the door in a failed attempt to break free. Taking a deep breath, she fixed her eyes on Dumas’ words. She had to know how Edmond Dantés escaped. If she finished, maybe he would help her find a way out.

The house fell silent again after the heavy-footed man creaked up the steps to the main floor beyond her chambers. With a sigh and a sniff, she walked over to the wardrobe to get the other blanket from the bottom drawer, but as she crossed the room, something scraped against the sole of her foot and tore through her stockings. Emmeline felt the holler rise up her throat but squashed it in a harrumph of frustration and a stamp of her foot. That nail had caught all three pairs of stockings she had. She tried to pry it up with her fingers, but it was too small to grasp. Grabbing the knife from her previous day’s dinner, she slipped it under the head of the nail and wiggled it until finally it popped out. A satisfied smile played on her lips as she grasped the new weapon to add to her pitiful arsenal and ran her foot over the now smooth board. On the second swipe, the wood shifted beneath her foot. She pushed on it again with her toes and watched as the edge collided with its neighbor and lifted. The girl had only placed the knife beneath it when the hurried footsteps of the other man crossed the floor above. Fearing he would hear her through the tube, she let it drop.

***

It had been hours since the two men had been in the house, and light no longer filtered through the window in the bathroom. Emmeline scuffed her foot along the boards until she heard the familiar clack as they slid into one another. She turned up the lamp and easily removed the loosened board. The gap between the planks was wide enough to stick her head through, but as she stared into the darkness, the sour yet metallic odor of rot wafted into her room and made her eyes tear. Her mouth watered as the bile rose in her throat, but she choked it down. No heroine she ever read about vomited in the face of danger. Wind whistled below, ruffling the edge of her black frock and blowing against her fingers as they clung to the edge of the boards. Skirting around the opening, she grasped the next plank and pulled with all her might until the nails groaned and popped. When the board toppled out of her hands with a clatter, she froze, but no boot treads rushed to stop her. She retrieved a candle from the nightstand and lit it from the oil lamp. Swinging her feet over the edge of the sulfurous abyss, she lowered the candle until a simple wooden shelf appeared a few feet below.

Placing the candle on the top shelf out of her foot’s reach, she slid down into the cavern unencumbered by the maid’s malleable dress. Emmeline slowly scaled the rough-hewn shelves until her toes touched the dirt of the floor. The candle’s wispy flame danced as a breeze zipped past her, escaping up into the chamber above. She took a step further into the catacomb, but the golden glow from her taper only illuminated the brick wall at her side and the wool at her breast. The young woman peered into the darkness, grasping to discern the shapes ahead. Her pulse quickened as the shadows danced and seethed, splitting off into terrific beings before shrinking back to nothing more than a brick at the other end of the tunnel. The tip of her stockinged foot brushed against something hard, but when she brought the light closer, she could make out the remnants of a shattered chair, a brother to the one in her bedroom.

A few yards beyond, something shifted, dragging across the dank dirt floor. Emmeline raised the candle in front of her and stepped closer until something white appeared to be sitting on the floor. He was filthy and thin, but in the isolated rays of light, she noted his bare feet caked in muck and his curled hair which peeked around a tight band of fabric. The creature had his mottled, waxen arms wrapped around his legs as he rocked forward and teetered back. She tiptoed closer, but the moment her foot crunched the earth, his misshapen head whipped toward her. Clotted in his hair and down the side of his face was dark, congealed blood. As her eyes followed the trail down from the blindfold, Emmeline was horrified to find his jaw askew and gaping. He drew in a long, rattling breath as he groped for purchase on the floor and wall, revealing the deep purple and green bruises on his arms.

“Hewo,” he murmured. His voice was breathy, barely audible, and resonated like an un-fingered flute. “Whoosh der?”

The man’s head swept back and forth but stopped in her direction as she tried to suppress the shudder that threatened to escape her lips. His fingers sunk into the mortar as he teetered before hoisting himself to his feet. He blindly staggered forward, reaching with one hand while the other held tight to the wall. Emmeline’s body locked in fear. The thing was coming straight toward her, but she couldn’t move or do anything except draw in a ragged breath. As his hand swept through the air only inches from her, so close she could feel the dank breeze against her cheek, her body lurched back into action and she let out a scream loud and long enough to stun him before flying back to the shelf.

In her haste, the candle blew out, but the light streamed down from the two open boards in her room and onto the shelves. The creature was still calling out for her, but she heedlessly scrambled up the shelves and into the safety of her chambers. Rough, shallow breaths rocked her body and hands as she threw the planks back into their original positions, sealing her off from the horrors of the catacomb below. The thin, hollow voice lapsed back into tears as she dragged the nightstand over the opening. Emmeline backed up until she hit the wall of numbers by her bed. Her throat and mouth were dry, but as she stared down at the hem of her dress and her stocking feet, the bile climbed from the pit of her stomach. Her toes were covered in the same offal that coated his body. Her eyes locked on the nightstand waiting to see it thump or attempt to be moved from below by the creature as he struggled to reach her, but he never tried.

***

It had been three days since she ventured down to the cellar, and as she stood at the dumbwaiter receiving her meal, she dreaded the question she knew he would ask. How much longer would it be before they grew tired of her answer? How many days would she be fine before they decided to change that? Every time she closed her eyes, she saw his battered and deformed body, and she could not help but wonder if he counted the days by his beatings too.

“How do you feel?” demanded the clinical voice at the other end of the tube.

She paused with the new dinner tray in hand. Should she tell him how she wretched when she heard the man below being pummeled again? “Miserable.”

His tone sharpened with curiosity. “Miserable how?”

“Miserable because I want to go home!”

The dumbwaiter rose and carried the plates away.

Her eyes locked onto the bedside table that still stood over the loosened boards. She hadn’t been able to get his twisted features out of her mind since she saw him. He was what she could become if they decided she was no longer worth caring for, and she had to go back. She had to speak to him and find out how he got there. With trembling hands, she carried the thick stew back to her room unable to keep it from sloshing onto the floor. In the silence, she listened for the rattle of the front door. When it slammed somewhere in the distant rooms, she pushed the miniature chest of drawers out of the way and dislodged the planks. Emmeline removed her socks and rolled up her skirt before carefully lowering herself into the tomb.

The stench of death was as strong as ever, yet it didn’t bother her as much this time. Her pulse quickened at the sound of his ragged, hiccupped breaths as he consoled himself by rocking with his unblemished cheek on his knees somewhere beyond the glow of her lamp. For a few minutes, the young woman stood watching him. She had found him so frightful during her first journey, but now, he was just a woeful creature. He was not the romanticized man in the iron mask or the Byronic robber clad in velvet and leather waiting in the Tower of London for an execution he would escape. He was a human, broken and forever altered at the hand of another, and for him, there would be no escape. New bruises peeked out from under his tattered shirt and across his neck. They had no qualms about hurting him, but what stayed their hand against her? Was it simply because she was female?

“Whoosh der?” he called, his soft voice sharpened by alarm as she took several steps closer.

“I am.”

“Plesh don’ hurd me.” The man tightened his body into a ball, pressing the peaks of his vertebrae dangerously toward the surface of his skin and the remnants of his shirt. “Plesh.”

The backs of Emmeline’s eyes grew hot with the burn of tears. “I am not here to hurt you.” No matter how hard she tried to push the realness of him from her mind, the tremble in her voice only grew worse. “I am a prisoner here, too.”

“Are you hurd?” He inhaled sharply before struggling to cough as his hanging jaw and ribs rattled with each feeble puff of air. “I heard you skeem.”

“They have not hurt me yet.” Emmeline tore her gaze away from his bloodied cheek and cloaked eyes, so she could finally explore the room. “Who are you?”

An inarticulate string of groans escaped his lips. His mouth trembled as if he was about to cry before he replied, “No one.”

Emmeline ran her hand over the thick, ancient oak of the door, but even when she threw her full weight against it, it didn’t budge or even creak. There was not a window or any evidence of human habitation apart from the shelf built into the wall and the splintered chair. As she turned to check the outer wall, her foot brushed against the cold porcelain surface of a shattered plate. Strewn across the refuse were bits of bread already speckled with blue and unidentifiable chunks of brown meat that had long since spoiled. She glanced over her shoulder at him. He stared blindly at her but clasped his ribs as he succumbed to a coughing fit. With a lurch, the man with the distorted jaw rested his head against the wall wheezing.

“Why did they do this to you?”

“‘hey ‘hought I ‘ew too much. Wha’ ‘bout you?”

“I do not know,” she replied softly as she stood at his feet and watched him shrink away from her imminent touch. He was so fragile and boney. He could be her, and she couldn’t bear to let him suffer while she was still cosseted. “Have you had anything to eat?”

As he shook his head, a rebellious, golden curl escaped from under the fabric binding. Had he once been beautiful? “No, but is too har’ ta eat.”

“I will be right back. I have something you can probably manage.”

As soon as Emmeline climbed into her little room, she sank to the floor with tears streaming down her cheeks. Sitting in her dollhouse-like apartments, she couldn’t fathom how life was for the poor creature below. The room was even more revolting than she remembered, and she swore he was weaker than he had been less than a week earlier. He hadn’t even attempted to get up when he heard her this time. Emmeline wiped her eyes with her knuckles before retrieving the soup and gingerly positioning it on the shelf below to keep from spilling most of it during her descent. The emaciated man groaned softly as she drew near and held out the bowl he could not see. At least he couldn’t see her tears.

“Here, I think it is beef stew.”

He groped blindly for the bowl, nearly knocking it out of her hand but never grasping it. Emmeline caught his arm, which flinched in her grasp, yet after a moment’s hesitation, he allowed her to put the small dish in his hand and guide it to his lips. The viscous stew dribbled from the corner of his mouth as he gulped it down without pausing to take a breath. As he attempted to choke down the last mouthful, he aspirated a bit of broth and sent his lungs into spasms once more. She hesitated before lightly patting his back, feeling the sharp bones of his scapula and spine poke the flesh of her palm. Tears burned the backs of her eyes as she stared down at him. She couldn’t bear another moment down there near the man who was only hours from death. When he was gone, it would be her next.

“I— I have to go,” she stammered as she pulled the empty bowl from his hands and hurried to the opening in the ceiling without looking back. “I will bring you more food tomorrow.”

Emmeline scrambled toward the surface, holding back the sobs just long enough to cover the hole to keep him from hearing her cries. She clasped her hands over her face as all the frustration of her time in captivity poured out. There was nothing she could do to help herself let alone him. Every door was locked, and if she continued to feed him, she would starve as well. All she wanted was her mother to make everything all right. She had always been able to count on her before, so why hadn’t she come to bring her home yet? As she reached up to rub her eyes, she froze.

His blood was on her hands.

Chapter Six:

A Mother’s Love

Emmeline Jardine tried her hardest to forget about the poor soul under her feet. She had taken a bath to wash away the evidence of her visit, but as she lay on her bed in the darkness, her mind trailed to Samhain night when she was ripped from her mother’s arms. The party had been just as beautiful as she imagined. She hadn’t even allowed herself to go downstairs until the guests arrived because she didn’t want to ruin the magic, but now, it was the worst day of her life. All that was left of the beauty from that night were the clothes she had shed in favor of the plain gowns hanging in the wardrobe. Her owl-like eyes roamed over to the nightstand drawer where she stowed all her jewelry after she knew she would not be leaving any time soon. The room was nearly consumed with shadow, but as she opened the drawer, her favorite brooch sparkled. It was her mother’s, and after months of eyeing it in her ebony jewelry box, she had allowed Emmeline to wear the diamond and enamel sprig of forget-me-nots for the party. As she ran her fingers over the stone petals, it was as if she could smell the warm vanilla and honey perfume of her mother’s boudoir.

“Emmeline.”

The young woman shot up, ratting the cot at the sound of the familiar voice. The tall, stately figure of Madeline Jardine sat in the worn chair in the corner. Through the darkness, Lady Jardine glowed with her porcelain skin and plum gown. Even her jet hair shown and reflected a sourceless light.

“Mama!” she cried as she jumped out of bed to embrace her, but her mother raised her hand to stop her. “Oh, mama, you don’t know how I have missed you. Why didn’t you come for me?”

Lady Jardine rested her weightless hands on her daughter’s arms and held her far enough away for her to see her mother’s byzantine eyes moisten with tears. “Sweetheart, I looked so hard for you, and I never stopped.”

“What is the matter, mama?”

“You need to find a way out of this place tonight.”

“But how? I have tried everything. The alley by the window is so narrow even cats can’t fit through and all the doors are locked.”

“There are other ways for both of you to get out.”

“Both?” the girl snapped. “How am I supposed to get him out? He can scarcely walk! If I escape, I could always come back with the police. They could rescue him.”

Lady Jardine gripped Emmeline’s arms until her nails indented her flesh. “No, you must take him with or you will both perish. It is imperative that you do it. Do you not understand how serious this is?”

“But you found me. Why can’t you come and get me?” she asked, her voice trembling as she squeezed the pin in her grasp until the diamond settings dug into her palm.

Madeline gently rubbed her daughter’s balled up hand and held it to her lips. “Because I can’t.”

As their eyes met, Emmeline saw her mother was crying but couldn’t understand why. She was so happy to see her after being away from home for so long. Then, she stared down at the brooch, her mother’s brooch. It wasn’t a dream, she was reading her jewelry. The grief washed over her, running through her eyes, squeezing her ribs, and engulfing her wholly as she stumbled back.

“No, mama, no, it— it can’t be. You can’t be—”

Lady Jardine crushed her weeping daughter to her breast one last time as her little body was racked with sobs. Tears streamed down her cheeks and neck, never clinging to the ethereal violet fabric of her mother’s gown. Seeing her only child cry hurt more than the flames, but she wanted to be the one to tell her. They were all each other had for sixteen years, and now, they must part. When the child’s cries finally slowed, Madeline carefully wiped her face and brushed her dark hair back into place. Placing both hands on the sides of Emmeline’s flushed cheeks, she kissed her forehead and the scant trail of freckles on her nose. Her energy was fading, dimming her image before it brightened again.

“Please don’t go,” Emmeline whispered as she trembled and suppressed a sob.

“I will never leave you, sweetheart. You know spirits never go far.” She smiled softly as she took in Emmeline’s fine features. Her heir’s were so much like her own. “I will help to guide you, but you need to leave tonight and go where you both can be safe.”

“I would rather stay and go with you.”

“No, I love you, and I do not want this to happen to you.” Lady Jardine stroked her only child’s hair as she pleaded, “If you love me, my darling, you will listen to your mother one last time. I raised you to do what is best for you, and tonight you will have to do it alone. For that, I am so sorry, but I will always be there for you. I love you, Emmeline.”

“I love you too, mama,” she answered as her mother, her double, and her best friend faded away.

Emmeline sobbed as she ran her hand over the seat of the empty chair, but there was no trace of her or the smell of her perfume. Taking a steadying breath, she admired the forget-me-not brooch before pinning it to the inside of her dress out of sight. Never could she remember a time when she was so alone. No one would be coming for her. If she was to leave, she would have to do it on her own, but why did she have to take him with her? The Spiritualists always said spirits could know things the living could not, and her mother’s last request was that she take the man below despite how cumbersome he would make her escape. While she could reach him, she had no idea how to get out. The only connection led between their cells and not to the rest of the house. She turned up her lamp and ran her hands up and down each plaster wall. Emmeline felt around doorways and moldings but found no hidden panels or means of escape except the loose boards that led to the catacombs.

Down the hall, she tried to doorknob again, but it still refused to budge. Grabbing the knife she saved from the previous day’s meal, she attempted to turn the screws holding the knob in place. Its tip was too thick and clumsily slid from the metal plate. In frustration, Emmeline jammed the knife under the edge of the doorknob. The wood flattened and splintered beneath it, but as she turned the utensil on its side, the knob popped off. Sticking her finger into the hollow space in the door, she tugged and pushed with all her strength, but the door was still locked from the other side. She tore at the molding, which broke off at the bottom and hung from the wall by its nails and rammed it into the wall over and over, but the plaster barely cracked.

With a tired sigh, she let the molding clatter to the floor and went back down the hall. The bathroom window seemed like an obvious escape route, but as Emmeline climbed onto the chair and pressed her face to the glass, she knew there was no way she could fit out there. Then there were the glass shards and the noise breaking it would make. She drew back and sat on the chair, staring into the hallway. It had been staring her right in the face, the dumbwaiter. Drawing back the panel, she held the light into the shaft and spotted the cord that raised and lowered the box lying against the wall of the tunnel. With a few tugs, the pulleys and tracks squealed to life as the dumbwaiter descended to the servants’ quarters. She tested the cart, pushing down with all her weight, but it didn’t dip or drop under the strain. Emmeline climbed onto the chair and into the box with her knees pressed up near her face, but for once her short stature was a blessing. Using the rope, she hoisted the dumbwaiter up toward the main floor one fist at a time. Halfway up, she rested, panting as her ribs strained against her thighs at the uncharacteristic exertion. By the time the scant light was peeking through the top of the lift, her delicate palms were raw from the coarse fiber of the rope and her back cramped from being hunched around her knees. That man had better be worth it, she thought as she slowed down as she reached the top, but the butler’s pantry was empty.

The room was dark save for the glow drifting under the door from the street lamps glaring through the front parlor and dining room windows. She held her breath as she listened for any sign of life but heard nothing apart from her own heartbeat and the occasional clatter of steamer wheels. The door of the pantry opened out into the kitchen, and with a glance to confirm the men were gone, she roamed the halls of the empty house. Going through each room of sheet-covered furniture in the moonlight, she wandered until she found the stairs leading to the servants’ hall.

Off the empty common area, there were two doors. Emmeline recognized the first door as being the backside of the one in her chambers with its tarnished brass knob and peeling white paint. She threw her weight into it and tried to turn the knob, but it was locked with a key she did not have. Her heart quickened at the thought of having to stuff the deformed man into the dumbwaiter. There had to be another way to reach him, but where was the door the heavy-footed man opened to reach him? She peered into the far room, which stood open but was nothing more than another bedroom. Under where the stairs clamored over the empty bedroom, there was a sloped door that resembled a coat closet, but when she opened it, it revealed a set of bare, wooden steps leading into the earth beneath the foundation.

Emmeline blinked in the darkness, hoping her eyes would quickly grow accustomed to the complete absence of light as she inched her way down the stairs by the touch of her toes. She cursed herself for not taking her lamp or at least a candle. At the last step, her foot slipped and she collided with the stalwart door at the bottom. Feeling around the edge, a smile finally crossed her lips as she touched the cold of a metal brace. It held a thick timber across the prison cell, but with a lot of grunting and puffing, she finally dislodged the bar and guided it to the floor with her back and legs buckling under the strain. The door groaned on its ancient hinges, and within the chamber, the man crawled toward the back corner, trembling against the bricks at the dreaded sound. She could barely make him out amid the shadows, but as she stepped forward, he picked his head up at her familiar tread.

“We are getting out of here tonight,” she said as she groped through the muddy blackness until her outstretched hand brushed the shelving, “but I need to get a few things first.”

“How?”

Emmeline stood on the second ledge and swatted at the boards above her head until the plank finally dislodged and light to stream in. “Out the front door I suppose.”

With a final push, she hoisted herself up and fell face-first into her bedroom. She stripped the blankets from her bed and wardrobe and gathered her remaining stockings before tossing them onto the shelf below. In the bathroom, she found the slipper that had fallen into the toilet right where she left it. No matter how disgusting she found it, she knew she had to put it on if she wanted to walk outside in the November cold. The girl darted around the bedroom, trying to decide if there was anything else they could possibly need. She debated taking a few penny dreadfuls with her, but if she had to lead him around, it would be too hard to carry them all. In the end, she put her jewelry from the party under the drab wool of the maid’s uniform and descended into the catacombs with her lamp. The man was waiting for her, rocking back and forth on his heels, but when she dropped onto the dirt floor, he gripped the bricks and staggered towards her.

“I am going to try to take this off, so you can see.” As she pinched the edge of the fabric and attempted to pull it out far enough to wiggle over his head, he yelped and pulled away. Holding the lamp closer, she noticed the splotch on his blindfold spreading rapidly. She threw the woolen blanket over his head and tucked it around his shoulders and neck, hiding his misshapen face as best she could. The icy flesh of his feet was bare, so she helped him into her spare stockings before wrapping his limbs in scraps of the white cloths that covered the wardrobe and chair. Emmeline averted her gaze as she noted all the wounds and bruises littering what she could see of his body in the dim light. She gently took his clammy hand, but as they walked toward the cell door, his lungs wheezed feebly at the slight exertion. The man wiped the saliva slipping from his hanging jaw before letting out a string of coughs that nearly jarred him off his feet. She sighed. It was going to be a long night.

Chapter Seven:

Wimpole Street

Getting her fellow captive up two flights of stairs and through the front rooms to the entrance took over half an hour of tugging, pulling, and coughing. She could have been halfway to anywhere if her mother hadn’t made her take him. Her mother..., she thought as tears climbed to her eyes, but that would have to wait. They needed to make it to safety before the men returned.

From the moment they stepped onto the empty street, Emmeline knew they were no longer in Oxford by the sound of steamers running even at the late hour and people yelling and chattering somewhere in the distance. The medieval houses had been replaced by modern rows of dingy brick. She looked up and down the cobbled road, but in the sporadic light of the streetlamps, the parallel rows of houses seemed to stretch on forever like a red and tan hedge maze. A shudder passed through her small form as she stared up at the blackened windows. No house looked safe to knock on and no one reputable would be awake at that hour. Both directions looked equally bleak, but as she stared past the man beside her, the smell of honey and vanilla permeated the icy gale blowing through her dress. She grabbed his hand, holding onto it even as he instinctively yanked it back at her unexpected touch, and dragged him down the street behind her, following her mother’s perfume.

As the red buildings dissolved into yellow bricks and white Grecian temples, Emmeline glanced over her shoulder for any sign of the two men who had held them captive. How was she to recognize them? She had never seen their faces and had only heard the one’s voice, yet with every shifting shadow, she paused and pushed the blinded man into the nearest alcove until it passed or proved to be only a product of her fearful imagination. What if they were following them? Emmeline would never be able to recognize them, and while they inched blindly toward a destination she hoped would appear, she knew they still had the upper hand. She expected them to be thugs, the scruffy common men with shifty eyes who stared back at her from engravings in the paper, but her fears couldn’t slow her pace now. Nothing mattered except finding a place she would be safe and could leave him before returning home, but he was hindering her with his constant shuffling and staggering. She wished she could leave him tucked away in an alley or on a bench in the park up ahead until she could return with help, but when she let go of his hand for even a second, he stumbled over his rag-clad feet and called out to her in his disquieting, dissonant voice like a lost child. Tugging him forward, Emmeline fortified herself against his whimpers and wheezes. They would have to wait.

***

He wasn’t sure when he had been in so much pain. Even during the beatings, the pain resonated only in one or two areas at a time, but today his entire body ached from his toes, as he walked through another puddle of half-melted snow, to his head, which pounded rhythmically and crested each time his feet hit the pavement. The odd pressure in his jaw he had learned to endure, but the stab of lightning through his eye socket and into his skull was becoming so unbearable that he couldn’t string a coherent thought together. No matter how hard he worked to figure out how long he had been locked in that accursed oubliette, he could not tell if he had been there a month or a year. All the days had rolled into one never-ending night after they sewed the blindfold over his eyes. Even though he had wanted to take it off, he had to stop her when she tried to pull it from his face. The pieces of cartilage in his nose ground against each other, and the pain became so intense that he thought he would pass out or vomit what little was in his stomach if she continued.

As she pulled his arm to make him walk faster, he wondered if he should have let her take it off despite the possible repercussions. Now, he never knew where his next step would fall or what it would fall into. His guide never warned him when there was a curb or puddle of slush but still chastised him for being so slow and clumsy. How could she expect him to move as quickly as she did when he had to sightlessly manage obstacles with a blindfold on? Something wet trickled over the distended skin around his left eye, burning the open wounds until it combined with the drying delta under his nostrils. Licking his lip, he tasted the coppery brine as it seeped into his woolen shawl and coated his teeth.

The wind blew into his hood and ran down his spine, cutting through the tatters of his remaining clothing and carrying with it the subtle, earthy smell of trees from behind him. There were moments during the journey when he wasn’t sure if he was naked or clothed by the chill that passed through him, but with his free hand, he confirmed his clothes were there by patting and tugging the blankets closer. The girl never gave him a moment to fix the limp cloths bound around his feet, and somewhere near the trees, he lost the wrappings on one foot while the other remained only because it had been saturated by a puddle and clung to his clammy flesh until he could no longer feel his toes when they pressed against the cobblestones.

As they ambled on and the blood from his fractured features continued to drip into his mouth, his stomach churned from the dense liquid as it settled beneath the beef broth. Her grip on him slackened as he nearly walked into her but quickly drew back when the hem of her dress brushed against his leg. The sudden change in motion made his head reel as if he was swaying in open water, and before he could stop himself, the bile rose in his throat along with thick clots of blood. He staggered away from her until his outstretched arm hit the rough façade of the nearby buildings and retched. He groaned and held his ribs tightly when they seized and crunched under the strain of the bitter vomit pouring from his nose and dislocated jaw.

“I recognize this house,” she said, ignoring the man as he was sick behind her. The house on the corner was a mass of the usual red brick, but on its corner was a white tower with urns and laurels affixed to its face and a weathervane on its peak. Her gaze ran between the house and the rest of the street that ran perpendicular to the road they had been traveling on. It was so familiar. At the corner was a sign marked, Wimpole Street. Emmeline’s strigine eyes brightened in recognition. They were in London only a few hundred yards from her uncle’s house. She hadn’t seen him in a year, but she still remembered his was number thirty-six because it was the same number as her own. Her fellow prisoner was still leaning against the wall with his head resting on his arm as he struggled to catch his breath, but she could not wait for him as the rhythmic patter of footsteps echoed down the empty street.

Emmeline tugged at his arm, nearly knocking him over. “Come on, we have to go. We are almost to my uncle’s house.”

He shook his head, refusing to budge as he clutched his chest.

“You will move, or we will be caught and brought back to that horrible place. Do you want that to happen?”

What she didn’t understand was it wasn’t that he didn’t want to move, he couldn’t move. His lungs were expanding and contracting so rapidly that it felt as if his heart was being forced against his sternum. The thundering organ resonated up the armature of his throat, but as he tried to straighten up again, his heart skipped a beat, stumbling out of rhythm as it erratically writhed against his ribs in protest. The girl roughly pulled him upright, refusing to be ignored, but the string of coughs it elicited sent his heart back into its normal cadence. She wrapped the blanket closer to his mouth to muffle the sound as the steps seemed to grow nearer.

Emmeline looked over her shoulder and found that the disembodied feet echoing up the street came from the worn boots of a bobby walking his beat. She watched as the policeman prodded a ragged man who had been sleeping in the doorway of a house and hollered at him to keep moving otherwise he would be arrested for trespassing. Her companion looked as filthy and perhaps even more tattered than the beggar who had been thrown out of the respectable Westminster neighborhood. Five houses now stood between them and safety, but it only amplified her fear of being caught. The officer would never believe her explanation, and if he saw the other man’s face, who knows where he might take them. A steamer chugged past, shining its headlamps on them. Emmeline flinch in the spotlight, but it continued on without looking back at them.

Staring up at number thirty-six, Emmeline noticed a light illuminating one of the upper most windows of the house. Maybe they are still awake, she thought as she gave him a gentler tug to indicate they were at the front steps. The blindfolded man used the railing to grope his way to the landing until he was at her side. She quickly tidied his wrappings to better disguise his dangling jaw and mask before smoothing her own meager dress to give some semblance of decorum. Emmeline was about to reach for the doorknocker when she recoiled at the sight of a grinning metal skull. The constable was directly across the street from them when she grasped the knocker’s jaw and frantically banged it against the metal plate, hoping her aunt and uncle would be able to hear her. She was about to knock again when she spotted an indent around the nasal cavity, and upon pressing it, a buzzer sounded on the other side of the black door. One light flipped on upstairs and then another until finally the foyer lamps glowed brightly through the glass beside the door. The warmth and light from the rooms within seeped onto the porch until the winter wind scared it away. A redheaded woman with a thin, slightly upturned nose and sharp green eyes hesitantly opened the door to the strangers on her steps.

“May I help you?” she yawned. While she was still dressed, her gown was rumpled as if she had been sleeping in it.

“Aunt Eliza, it’s me. It’s Emmeline.”

The book dropped from the older woman’s hand as she searched the girl’s features. A gasp escaped her lips and her tired eyes flickered with recognition. “Emmeline?” Eliza Hawthorne scrutinized her niece’s face again before wrapping her arms around her. “Oh, you do not know how happy your uncle will be to see you. We thought—”

“I was dead?”

Before she could reply, the lanky form of Dr. James Hawthorne sprinted down the steps with his dressing-gown thrown over his clothing. “Who is it?”

“It’s Emmeline! She is alive.”

As Eliza stepped out of the way to allow the young woman in and to close the door, it was as if she noticed the threadbare man standing beside her for the first time. Each breath crackled louder until finally he fell into a fit of wet coughs. When he drew back his grimy hand, it was flecked with fresh droplets of blood.

“Who is this?”

Emmeline hesitated as she looked up at the faceless man and tugged his arm to make him cross the threshold into the house. “I do not know his name. We were trapped by the same people, and when I escaped, I took him with me.”

“Escaped? You were kidnapped?”

James held his niece’s shoulders and looked into her brown eyes, which were so much like his own. “I cannot believe my sister was right about you. What happened on Samhain?”

“I am not sure, but that can wait. He needs to be properly attended to.”

Chapter Eight:

Meatless Bones

James Hawthorne studied the man huddled behind his niece. His head and torso were obscured with a wool blanket, and while he was hunched over, the doctor could tell he was probably near his height. Below the cloth, what was left of his black trousers was stained and torn, revealing the skin below, which was coated in mud, offal, and bruises. The small portions of his legs and arms that could be seen were punctuated by jutting bones, but beneath the stockings, the tops of his feet appeared swollen. As he drew closer, James caught an eye-searing whiff of the sour odor emanating from his skin, but beneath it was a smell Dr. Hawthorne had come to know well while working in the hospital and morgue, the metallic yet sweet scent of blood. From the strength of the odor, there was probably a lot of it.

“Sir, my name is Dr. James Hawthorne. I would like to help you, but I need to know what is troubling you,” the doctor called as his wife came to his side, picking up the volume she dropped along the way.

“E’ryting,” the faceless man murmured. His fingers groped across the side of his head until he reached the end of the blanket.

His hands shook as the makeshift hood fell away with each section he unwound, revealing his grimy blindfold and distorted features. Both doctors’ eyes widened as they beheld his askew jaw and lips, which glistened with sputum and blood. The man’s eyes were hidden beneath the swath of second skin, but the unseen wound bubbled and trickled congealed plasma. He blindly turned toward the faint gasp that broke from Eliza Hawthorne’s lips. She covered her mouth as he turned his head sideways, silhouetting his distended features as the swelling fought to free itself from the fabric binds. Tears crept into her eyes against her will, but her husband’s hand pressing against her own steadied her.

When she glanced up at James, she realized he, too, had been greatly affected by the young man’s grave appearance. His face had paled, and his eyes refused to leave his patient’s body as he mentally noted each injury. She knew that look well. It had appeared on his face when he had been a practicing surgeon, but recently, she had only seen it down in the morgue when he was trying to discern the secrets of the dead. During his time as Coroner to the Queen, Dr. Hawthorne had forgotten the spectral countenance of human suffering, which flickered with the ebb and flow of life and threatened at any moment to blow out. Something was palpably sad about this man’s condition that had so often been absent in the cadavers who, apart from lacking a pulse, didn’t differ much from the pitiful creature before them.

“I need to get you downstairs, so I can properly care for you.” James was able to conceal the tremor in his voice, but he was grateful that the blindfold shielded the man from their horrified expressions. He deserved better than to be gawked at like some sideshow curiosity. “I am going to take your arms now and lead you to my office. Is that all right?”

The young man nodded and held his aching arms ahead of him.

“Eliza, please take care of Emmeline. If she needs to use the bath, do it now and be quick about it.”

“Will you need any help with him?”

“I do not think so, but he will need—,” he began but stopped their trek to the basement in order to support the other man as his body was racked with coughs.

“I will get a bed ready and prepare something he can eat.”

The doctor heard his wife and niece going upstairs as he led the man blindly through the house, carefully guiding him around the corners of furniture and warning him when his feet neared the upturned edge of a rug. In the hall beside the dining room, there stood a very plain door resembling a cupboard or linen closet, but behind it stood a set of polished steps that led down to Dr. Hawthorne’s examination room. As the younger man navigated the stairs with the doctor’s aid, his heart quickened with each yawning creak. In the narrow, wooden shaft, the musty perfume of dust and earth crept up from the soil outside the walls and into the blindfolded man’s mind. For a moment, he saw the stone and earthen chamber before his eyes, a sharp blow lashed against his face as the man mocked and assaulted him again. When the door at the bottom opened, the catacomb disappeared as the sharp, familiar scent of ethanol burned his nose.

“Stand right here, and I will get you a chair,” Hawthorne said as he finally released the stranger’s arms.

He swayed unsteadily with nothing to hold onto, but as he groped behind him, his hand landed on the cold, marmoreal surface of the examination table. Despite the bright, electric lamp shining down over the table, his swollen eye and dirt-encrusted blindfold only allowed the darkest of shadows through. Across the room, the leg of the chair squealed against the tile floor, and as it clattered, he flinched and clenched his eyes shut against the grating sensation. The next bang erupted only inches from his feet. As the doctor reached out to guide his patient into the seat, the younger man jerked away, hitting his back against the edge of the table. James caught his arm to steady him, but the other grimy fist swung frantically, nearly knocking the glasses off his face as he narrowly avoided the blows. Finally, he let go and watched the other man whimper and pant as he scurried heedlessly toward the corner. A bottle from the apothecary shelf teetered with the sudden motion before crashing to the floor in countless shards of glass and particles of powder. The deformed man dove under the table and clung to the farthest leg. Silent sobs shook his fragile body. James sighed at the sight and quietly crawled toward him while still staying out of reach.

“Don’ hurd me,” he begged, the words barely audible through his labored, tear-laden breaths.

“My boy, I have no intention of hurting you, and I most certainly did not mean to scare you.” When the man finally looked up at him, he continued, “If you come out from under there, I will take off your mask, and we can discuss getting you patched up. I know you have no reason to trust me, but I want to help you.”

His heart bounced out of rhythm, and suddenly he felt faint. His body was telling him not to come out from under the table, but the man’s voice was not like the one who beat him. It wasn’t harsh or mocking. Instead, it was sonorous despite its softness and deep, like Professor Martin’s. He shouldn’t trust him, but he had to if he wanted to live. The young man felt the floor in front of him for obstructions and hesitantly crawled out toward the doctor.

“The chair is beside you on your left.” As Dr. Hawthorne silently drew his surgical tools from the cupboard, he watched the young man grope his way to the chair, feeling the seat and back before finally settling on the edge. “If you will allow me, I will cut the blindfold off, but I need you to hold very still.”

His patient nodded and held his breath as the other man slipped behind him and lightly pulled the edge of the fabric away from his hair. After three snips from his scissors, the binding was severed, but it was still enmeshed in the clotted blood across his eye. The doctor soaked a wad of gauze in alcohol and wiped the edge of the wound until finally the fabric peeled off. Behind the blindfold, the left side of his face had distended until the skin was shiny and so filled with fluid that his features were lost. From an inch above his eyebrow down to his cheekbone, a laceration cut through the swelling as well as his eyelid, pulling the wound asunder. Surrounding the cut was a deep purple and red bruise that blended with the one around his nose. The man’s nose was unnaturally bent to the right, but from the darkness of the bruising, James was fairly certain he could still set it back in place if he would allow him to do so. His patient tried to open his eyes, but dried blood clumped in his lashes and sealed his eyes shut at the corners. With the square of gauze, the doctor carefully cleaned around his eyes until the right one shot open, revealing a crystalline blue iris.

He clenched his eyes shut against the searing brightness of the electric examination lamp. The vessels in his head and neck dilated, increasing the pressure and pounding in his temples and sinuses. When he opened them again, he discovered his left eyelid was so swollen he could barely lift it, and for the brief time it was open, it throbbed and was too blurry and dim to see through. Finally, he saw the man who offered to put him back together. James Hawthorne’s soft features stared back at him. His dark eyes casually caught his patient’s gaze from behind a pair of wire-rimmed spectacles, and his chestnut brown hair was parted to the side and had begun to grey at his temples. The doctor turned to the counter behind him and brought back a piece of paper and a pencil.

“If you are able, I would like you to write your name for me.”

His hands quavered as he scrawled Immanuel Winter for the first time in months before handing the paper back to the doctor. Dr. Hawthorne studied it before writing several lines in his ledger. His eyes darted from Immanuel to the book as he rapidly inventoried the injuries that were visible and needed to be treated. As the doctor drew near, Immanuel shrunk back but stopped when he realized he was staring at his jaw. James’s fingers probed the hinges and edges of his mandible, feeling for any cracks or loose bones.

“Immanuel, there is good news and bad news. The good news is your jaw is only dislocated. The bad news is I need to put it back in place, which may not be very comfortable for you. Try and hold your head still.”

He watched as Dr. Hawthorne wrapped his thumbs in gauze before inserting them between Immanuel’s slack lips. His hands clamped onto the younger man’s jaw and pulled down hard until he felt the condyle pop out of place. Pain radiated through his swollen features and made his eyes water, but the pressure from the pulling was not nearly as bad as he anticipated. Taking a deep breath, Immanuel clenched his eyes shut as James pushed his jaw back and up until it fit snuggly back in place and the pressure dissipated. The doctor gently felt the side of his face to ensure everything was properly aligned before manually opening and closing his mouth and examining his teeth.

“That should fix it.” He grinned as he examined his patient’s mouth, which no longer drooped or hung cockeyed but only gaped slightly from the muscles being stretched for so long. “For a few weeks, you should not open your mouth too wide because it will be susceptible to dislocation until the muscles return to their proper shape. As you are probably aware, your nose is also broken, so I am going to clean your face and then realign the cartilage.”

“Thank you,” Immanuel whispered, hearing his own voice, his real voice, for the first time in weeks.

James soaked a cloth in the sink and stripped away the months of caked on dirt and blood that had run and dried before being coated over again like paint. The doctor was careful not to linger on the inflamed laceration or swollen cheek, but soon it was clear that the other cuts on his face were superficial and would heal in their own in time. The skin from his hairline down to his collarbone finally returned to its natural pallor, but his cheeks were flushed with the unmistakable heat of fever.

As Immanuel’s eyes traveled over the instruments, machines, and shelves of chemicals, Dr. Hawthorne wrenched his nose to the left. He whimpered and jerked his head away with tears in his eyes, but when he brought his hand to his nose, he realized it was nearly straight again.

“Sorry, but it always hurts less when you do not know it is coming.” James sighed. “I cannot treat your wounds with you in this state, or they will all be infected if they are not already. Are you strong enough to walk on your own?”

Immanuel grabbed the back of the chair, and after a moment’s hesitation, hoisted himself to his feet. At the top of the first set of stairs, his lungs tightened, and by the time he climbed the steps that led to the next floor, his head was swimming. The damask wallpaper swirled around him. With each step, he moved further off kilter until finally he stumbled over his own feet. His heart sputtered as he hung precariously near the top of the stairs, but the doctor’s arms caught him and pulled him away from the edge. James placed his fingers over Immanuel’s carotid artery and counted the beats as they weakly pumped past.

“Are you all right? Do you want me to get you a chair?”

He drew in several deep breaths and shook his head as the doctor kept his arm around Immanuel’s back to keep him standing. The bathroom was only a few feet away, and once the hall stopped spinning, he began to shuffle toward the open door. James Hawthorne smiled when he spotted the pile of towels, clothing, and soap along with his Gladstone bag. After ten years of marriage, Eliza always knew exactly what he would need before he ever asked and had it ready for him. It was the role she had assumed after realizing she would never be allowed to use the medical license she earned alongside him. As he released the young man and turned on the tap, his eyes ran across the bathroom walls. Something was missing. The mirror over the sink was gone, but when he looked at the stranger’s face, he realized why his wife had taken it down. In his fragile state, even seeing his distorted reflection could send his body into shock.

Immanuel stared at the water as it ran from the spigot, wondering how much it would burn. He couldn’t fathom that it wasn’t scalding hot, that the doctor wasn’t tricking him and only pretending to help him. When he finally worked up the nerve to stick his hand under it, he felt only balmy water washing away the residue of the catacomb from his hand.

“If it is warm enough, you can get in,” Hawthorne stated as he closed the door.

Immanuel stood rooted beside the tub and stared at him with one wide eye.

“I won’t look, but you must understand that I cannot leave you in here alone after you nearly fell down the stairs. If you should fall again, you may not be able to call for help.”

James kept his eyes locked on the back of the door until he heard three faint splashes. As the man in the tub scrubbed at his arms and chest, the doctor silently gathered his ruined clothing into the rubbish bin. He tried to busy himself with his medical bag, but from the corner of his eye, he watched Immanuel’s movements slow as he attempted to wash and lather his hair. When he finally released a stifled groan, Hawthorne cautiously drew closer. The poor man panted with his head resting on the edge of the tub and hugged his ribs beneath the murky water.

“If you were kicked, your ribs may be broken. I would rather you let me wash your hair than have you hurt yourself trying to be independent too soon.”

Dr. Hawthorne had expected a fight or at least a disgusted glare, but instead, the young man stared up at him with tears in his eyes and nodded. He quickly let out the dirty water and refilled the tub before turning to inspect his patient’s body for the first time. The nails of fingers and toes were splintered and torn. His breast, torso, and legs were littered with bruises in varying stages of healing overlaid by an inflamed rash caused by the offal he had lived in for so long corroding his flesh. Among the purple and green blotches were several nasty cuts that would require stitches, but it wasn’t until he sat behind him to work on his hair that he felt the bile rise in his throat. A dozen small, perfectly circular burns were seared into his back and side, but what disturbed him most were the man’s meatless bones, which jutted under his sallow skin and threatened to tear through at the slightest movement. Dr. Hawthorne choked down his outrage and pushed away the plaintive thoughts. He couldn’t think that way. Immanuel Winter deserved the chance to live.

Chapter Nine:

Saviors

As they worked their way to the foyer one hesitant step at a time, James Hawthorne kept his arm tightly wrapped around the small of Immanuel’s back to keep him standing. With a fresh set of clothing and a bath, he appeared nearly normal, but they merely hid the source of his infirmity and the torture he endured. Since he arrived, he had braved the sting of antiseptic and the pull of the doctor’s needle and thread without ether or chloroform to dull the pain, but with each wound that was stitched closed, his breaths came more rapidly and a little more color drained from his cheeks. When they reached the bottom, James lowered him onto the steps to catch his breath before they joined the others. Immanuel hung his head as his lungs fought to expand against the pressure of his cracked ribs. The slightly salty yet comforting scent of chicken broth and carrots wafted from the dining room along with the soft chatter of his wife and niece.

The doctor knelt in front of him to meet his gaze. “If you are not up to it, I can bring your food here. You do not need to go to the dining room to eat.”

He shook his head of loose golden curls and covered his mouth as he began to cough again. James knew the steam from the bath would only clear his lungs for so long, but he had hoped it would have lasted through dinner. When he was finished, he drew in one more tremulous breath before climbing to his feet with the support of the newel post. Immanuel made his way into the dining room with the doctor trailing a step behind him. The table was set for two, but by the time he arrived, Emmeline was already halfway through her plate of cold chicken and bread.

As she looked up from her plate, her already large eyes widened and the chicken tumbled off her fork. Emmeline stared at the man’s swollen face in disgust, unsure of why she had to be subjected to his bloated features while she ate. His skin was unnaturally purple and distorted to the point that she wished they had left the blindfold on. His cries echoed through her mind. Couldn’t they have kept him upstairs and away from her now that she had fulfilled her promise to her mother? They were both safe now, and she wanted no part of that horrible place, including him. Feeling eyes upon her, she glanced to the side and found her aunt glaring at her. Eliza Hawthorne smiled kindly at the young man on the other side of the table as she doled out a portion of chicken broth with vegetables she had mashed up for him.

“How are you feeling?” Eliza asked as she placed the bowl in front of him along with a cup of lukewarm tea.

“Tired.”

She stood at the sideboard and watched him slowly bring spoonfuls of broth to his mouth as her husband busied himself beside her. “Well, you look much better even if you do not feel better yet.”

James leaned closer and whispered into her ear, “His name is Immanuel Winter. He is highly malnourished, has a broken nose and cheekbone, and a fever probably due to more than an infection.”

“What are you not telling me?” she replied, keeping her voice low enough that the man and Emmeline could not hear.

The doctor swallowed hard. “I do not know if he will survive the night.”

Eliza sighed and stirred the pot of soup. “I told Emmeline about Madeline.”

“And?”

“She already knew.”

Emmeline crinkled her nose as the taste and smell of her dinner was invaded by the astringent tang of alcohol and iodine from the man sitting across from her. His hand trembled as he repeatedly dipped into the bowl, causing the spoon to dance and clank against the side of the china with each mouthful. Her lip curled at the sight of him slurping and struggling to keep the liquid in his mouth between noisy spoonfuls.

When Immanuel finally looked up at the girl sitting opposite him, the breath hitched in his throat. He recognized her. She was the girl from the river, the girl with the owl eyes and the sprig of forget-me-nots in her hair. Emmeline raised an eyebrow at his unnerving stare and glared back at him. Immanuel drew in a deep breath and choked down the thickness in his throat.

“You saved me?” he asked, his voice clearly audible for once.

She looked around to see who the creature was speaking to but realized it was her. “I guess.”

He swallowed hard again. “Thank you, miss.” Why did she not recognize him? It couldn’t have been that long ago that she stared up at him and spit a mouthful of muddy Thames water into his lap. “Did… did they hurt you?”

“No,” Emmeline responded curtly as she fought the urge to leave the table since she no longer had an appetite, “now, if you will excuse me I—”

A thin hand clamped down on her shoulder and held her in her seat. “Emmeline,” her aunt reprimanded with a smile, “you have not finished your dinner yet, and it would be rude to leave before our guest is finished.”

Somewhere within the darkened rooms of the house, two clocks chimed together as they struck two, but the Hawthornes were more awake than they had been all day. Eliza watched the young man sedately sipping his tea with quavering hands and wondered how thin he must be for her husband’s shirt collar to hang from his neck and the sleeves to rumple with uninhabited fabric.

Immanuel held the cup to his lips, but each time he put it down, it grew heavier as if it was being refilled with lead. When he peered into the teacup, he realized it was empty. His hand trembled as a chill passed through him, sending the ceramic cup to the floor.

“I’m sorry,” he whispered weakly as he looked up at Eliza and James.

She quickly bustled over to the other side of the table and plucked the unblemished cup from the rug. “No harm done, Immanuel.”

As she stood at his side to see if he needed anything else, he picked up his spoon and dropped it back into the bowl. His ribs rose and fell rapidly as his eye drooped shut against his will. No matter how hard he tried to keep his eyes open and his head up, he couldn’t fight the fatigue. Eliza pressed her hand to his forehead and felt the excessive heat radiating from his flushed skin. She patted his shoulder and called his name, but he only mumbled under his breath with his eyes shut as his head lolled back.

“James, he is losing consciousness,” Mrs. Hawthorne cried as she supported his slumping form. “His fever is spiking.”

The doctor ran to the other side of the table and checked his patient’s eye and pulse. “He wasn’t this hot before. Eliza, open his bedroom door for me and grab my bag from the bathroom.”

Emmeline watched as her uncle slipped his arms under the young man’s legs and shoulders before hoisting him up to carry him up the stairs. His long, thin limbs dangled lifeless from the doctor’s arms, and from behind, it was as if he was not a person but the pale form of a statue or doll. She listened for a moment as their steps faded away on the third floor and sighed as she looked around the empty room and her empty plate. Leaving her dishes on the table, she ventured into the kitchen, hoping to find a tin of biscuits or at least something interesting enough to pass the time until she could leave. She refused to go upstairs to her bedroom for fear of being asked to help them. Becoming a nursemaid was the last thing she wanted to do.

***

Dr. Hawthorne laid Immanuel across the bed as Eliza rushed in behind him with his Gladstone bag. She piled up the pillows to raise his head and shoulders high enough to ease his labored breathing. His rapid hyperventilating rattled his emaciated body and whistled through his throat with each exhalation. As James ripped open the man’s shirt with buttons flying and listened to his pounding heart with his stethoscope, his wife disappeared into the small bathroom down the hall. The water sloshed out of the basin as Eliza ran back in and slipped the shirt off Immanuel’s back and arms. She dipped towel after towel into the water before laying them all over his body, especially his feet and forehead. To bring his temperature down even further, she threw open the window to let the cool night air naturally sweep away his fever. After half an hour in the cold, his eye opened no more than a crack and roamed over his room and the concerned faces peering down at him. James listened to his heartbeat again, counting them as they rushed past in a frantic tattoo.

“He is still tachycardic.”

Eliza pinched the flesh on the back of Immanuel’s hand and watched as it slowly sunk back into place. “It may be from dehydration. If the blood is thicker, it is harder to pump.”

Dr. Hawthorne nodded as he lifted Immanuel higher onto the pillows until he was sitting upright with the back of his head leaning against the headboard. Using the leftover water, Eliza filled the glass from his bedside table and put it to his lips. Between weak, puffing coughs, he swallowed sips of water. The thoughts that came so easily during dinner seemed to have slipped from the thread and dispersed before he could catch them. Immanuel weakly swatted the cup away as his heart skipped and drummed faster than he ever thought possible. It writhed and squeezed ineffectively until finally it collapsed into convulsions. Dr. Hawthorne watched with wide eyes as the young man clawed at his chest and drew in a constrained breath before falling limply against the pillows. The flame had blown out.

“Immanuel!” he called as he rubbed the bones of his chest over his heart to wake him but received no response. James placed his ear over his breast and heard only the faint sigh of air escaping his lungs. “Immanuel, please wake up.”

***

Emmeline paused with her arm elbow deep in a tin of stale, chalky biscuits and listened to the distant cry of her uncle’s voice. Through two floors of wood and plaster, she could barely hear the chaos going on only two doors from her bedroom. Venturing through the parlor and study, the seventeen year old hadn’t found a single novel or magazine amid the shelves of medical texts and encyclopedias. Her mother had led her to her uncle’s house, but why? Couldn’t she have showed her the way to the London Spiritualist Society instead? Someone, anyone, there could have given her a better place to stay than in the house of two doctors and collectors of macabre preserved specimens. The bloated and malformed organs had nearly caused her to lose her dinner.

Sticking one more crumbly biscuit between her lips, she stowed the tin in the back of the cupboard and carefully climbed down the creaking stool. When her feet reached the floor, she took a bite, wiping her hands on the pigeon grey fabric of Eliza’s dress, which had been pinned at the hem to keep her from stepping on it. Through her crunching, James’s voice rang out indecipherably again. Her lungs seized, but as she fought to cough and spit out the remnants of cracker, only a feeble puff of flour dust escaped. Emmeline was poised to move, yet her hands and legs refused to budge. A bubble formed in her chest, squeezing her heart until her vision became fuzzy and her body sagged under its weight. With each lost breath and beat, the kitchen grew darker. At the edge of her vision, a swath of purple satin swept by, nearly touching her. Her skin tingled as if a draft had penetrated her hair and her dress, and as the wind whipped away, her lungs expanded and her body pitched forward as she caught the teetering stool. All that remained of the baffling sensation was the barely discernable scent of honey and vanilla.

***

The color rapidly seeped from Immanuel’s body as the doctor dug through his bag, searching for the tiny vial that might help to revive him. He sucked the solution of caffeine into a syringe and injected it into the boy’s arm. It might bring his pressure up. It may bring him back. James and Eliza stared down in hopes he would stir, but he remained as still and battered as before. His ashen skin clung to the bones of his face and neck, revealing the armature of his body except where some villain had broken his features and bloated them beyond recognition. His pain was finally gone, but the remnants of brutality were forever etched into his features, never to be healed. Tears crept into James’s eyes against his will. He had failed Immanuel Winter; he had failed the first living patient who truly needed him. As he reached to close the blue eye that peeked out into nothingness, it snapped open, and a loud gasp broke from his lips. The color slowly flowed back into Immanuel’s lips and cheeks with each breath and beat that came at a steady cadence.

The doctor smoothed back the young man’s golden hair and smiled. “You are a remarkable lad. Close your eyes, and soon you will get better, my boy.”

Dr. Hawthorne excused himself, leaving the young man in his wife’s more than capable hands. Standing outside the door, he drew in and released measured breaths until the adrenaline died away into the familiar, aching memory of panic and fear. Every time James closed his eyes, he saw the boy’s split face and skeletal body as he grasped for the life that seeped out of him. It had been several years since he had a live patient in need of so much care, and his first patient nearly died on his watch. School had taught him facts and treatments, techniques and causes, but they had never taught him how to tell a mother she no longer had a child. His stomach churned at the realization that if Immanuel Winter died, he never would have known whom to tell, and a woman somewhere would have always wondered why her son never came home. A potter’s grave for the mysterious boy would have haunted the doctor until they met again on the other side.

ACT TWO:

“Man is least himself when he talks in his own person. Give him a mask, and he will tell you the truth.”

-Oscar Wilde

Chapter Ten:

Sickness and Soul-Stealing

“Do you think they will go to the police?” Higgins asked, his voice crackling as he crinkled his papers and dithered between the back parlor windows.

“Did she see you?”

“Well, no, but—”

“Then, how could she identify you?”

The scientist stared down at the nobleman as he languidly drew on his cigarette and let the smoke billow from his mouth and nose. “You’re awfully calm, Lord Rose. Aren’t you afraid the German boy saw you?”

“No, and even if he did remember what I looked like, he does not know who I am.” Mashing the burned out butt into the ashtray beside the divan, he rose. Without breaking eye contact with the jittery little man, he drew closer until he loomed over him and Higgins could taste the ash on his breath. “What I am upset about is how your little experiment was an absolute waste of time! We gained nothing from it, and you promised me results, Higgins.”

Higgins took a step back, but Lord Rose matched him step for step. He swallowed hard before double checking his creased notes for anything he could tell the imposing man to pacify him. “I could only change one variable at a time, but maybe— maybe phase two would have yielded better data. I was certain if we hit him, it would affect her. We should have started with her first.”

Alastair snatched the papers from his shaking hands, ripped them in two, and threw them into the hearth. The man’s gaunt face twisted in agony as almost three months of work curled and crumbled into blackened dust before his eyes. As he reached in to gather what little bits he could salvage, a claw clamped down on his shoulder and dragged him to his feet. Higgins hung helplessly in Lord Rose’s grasp, forced to meet his patron’s jacinth irises, which seemed to absorb the glow of the hearth and reflect it back in a blaze of rage.

“Forget the experiment, Higgins. We are no closer than we were before to understanding it. You said you had something else to show me. It had better be worth my time because I am in no mood for more of your idiocy. Do I make myself clear?”

“Yes, sir! Of course, Lord Rose,” he sputtered as he was released from his grasp and darted toward the two wooden boxes he brought with him to Mayfair.

He unhinged the lid and withdrew a contraption of brass, glass, and wires about the size of a typewriter. The main apparatus resembled a pair of binoculars turned on end with an empty glass jar on one side and an identical one filled with a translucent yet brown-tinted liquid on the other. Holding them in place was a web of curved brass straps laid out like ribs to protect the delicate vessels, but at the shoulder, a long string of intertwined tubes and wires trailed from the solution to a gauntlet of black leather and shining metal. Rubber covered the delicate cables and branched into a strap that fit snuggly into the palm for better grip and comfort. A brace covered the first two fingers and terminated in three long, viper-like fangs. Lord Rose ran his hand over the skeletal apparatus before slipping it into the electric gauntlet. Shrugging the weighty device onto his back, he adjusted the straps and stretched his arm until the cord fell into place.

“What is it?”

“It is a portable version of the machine your predecessor created. Technology has advanced a lot in thirty years, and I couldn’t let you revive the prince consort with a bulky, outdated machine,” he answered with a grin, revealing his crooked and yellowed teeth. “If you can persuade Dr. Hawthorne to finish his part of the project, you won’t need the boy’s potion.”

“How does it work?”

“In the case of your business with the Crown, you simply load Prince Albert’s vial where the empty jar is, flip this switch,” the scientist explained as he turned it on and the machine awoke with a gurgling, crackling growl, “insert the prongs into the side of the corpse’s neck, and pull the trigger in the palm of the gauntlet. The more interesting aspect of this machine is it has the opposite function when the switch is flipped the other way.” His thin voice vacillated with excitement as he clicked it down. “If the prongs go into a living person and you pull the trigger, electricity will flood the body while the solution goes into the empty jar. This makes the jar the same charge as the body normally is and draws the soul out of the body and into the container.”

Alastair watched as Higgins turned back to the second box and kept his voice level and calm. “This is quite ingenious, Higgins. I am impressed that you were able to condense Leopold’s creation from the size of a man into a breadbox. Do you have reserve jars and solution?”

The self-satisfied smile refused to leave his lips. “Oh, yes, I have plenty of it in the lab.”

Lord Rose flexed his fingers until the gauntlet sat as comfortably in his hand as a pair of brass knuckles. The cords and veins in the scientist’s gaunt neck bulged each time he reached inside the bin, unaware of the other man’s probing gaze. As Higgins turned around with a second jar in his hand, Alastair plunged the fangs into the man’s neck and squeezed the trigger. Electricity rushed through his body, contorting his muscles and making his eyes pop further in their sockets. The nobleman stared into his eyes and watched as the light drained out of them. Higgins slumped to the floor, but his eyes and mouth remained open in surprise. On his neck were three red pinpricks arranged in a triangle that barely bled. Alastair removed the machine before powering it down and opening the latch that held the brass webbing in place. He unscrewed the jar with its self-healing membrane and stared into it. At first it seemed empty, but something inside shimmered as it drifted around the edge. Stepping over the body, the nobleman pulled the bell-rope and lit another cigarette.

***

Adam Fenice held down the skeletal doorbell again as he tried to shield his bag of books from the glacial November rain. He was about to turn around and leave when the front door opened and a dark-haired young woman stood staring up at him. Her eyes ran over his coiffed henna hair and pencil mustache before surveying his bright blue eyes and handsome features with keen interest.

“Hello, is Eliza home?” he asked slowly as she continued to eye his motley waistcoat.

She stepped out of the way to let him in as she noted the family resemblance. “Are you her cousin?”

“Yes, and you are James’s niece?” When Emmeline nodded, he bowed and gently brought her hand to his lips. “It is a pleasure to finally meet you, Miss Jardine. I have heard so much about you.”

Her cheeks reddened as he followed her into the parlor. “And you, Mr. Fenice.”

As Emmeline moved to take a seat on the sofa, he offered her his bag. “I believe Eliza said you wanted some books to read.”

The girl let out a high-pitched squeal of delight and snatched the leather satchel from his hand. She threw it open and pulled book after book into her lap with child-like abandon until her entire hoard was on display. There weren’t any penny-dreadfuls or Jack Harkaway adventures, but there was plenty of romance and adventure to be had between the covers of Austen and the Bröntes to keep her occupied for a while. There was even a book of Shakespeare’s plays from which she could become all the passionate and witty women of comedy and tragedy. That was all she wanted, to be anyone but herself and escape for a little while.

“Thank you so much,” Emmeline cried with a massive grin as she clasped Cleopatra to her chest.

“Just remember, I want them eventually returned in the condition you got them. I do not want to find tea and chocolate inside them.” When the girl nodded and began thumbing through the first book, he asked, “Where are your aunt and uncle?”

“Uncle James is out with some detective or something. Aunt Eliza is upstairs.”

Adam left Emmeline on the sofa and quietly padded up the stairs hoping to sneak up on his elder cousin, but upon walking through the study and the bathroom, she was still nowhere to be found. Above his head, the boards creaked with her light tread, so he mounted the steps again and headed up to the floor of guest bedrooms. The redheaded man walked past the door at the top of the staircase but stopped and went back when he realized the usually shut room was occupied. Unlike the parlor downstairs, the guest bedroom was cool and dark with the curtains drawn against the glaring, grey afternoon. A soft groan came from the gloom, and finally, Adam’s eyes trailed to the man in the bed.

Sweat drenched his forehead, entrapping the edges of his curly, yellow hair to his temples. The patient’s eyes were closed as he weakly tossed and clenched the sheets between his fingers in unconscious pain. The man drew in a strained breath that rattled his thin form as if he were shivering and echoed in a wheeze as he exhaled. Adam stood rooted in the doorway, unable to take his eyes off the stranger. His cheeks were sunken, and a deep bruise radiated from a stitched wound that distorted his left eye and forehead but faded near his nose. His throat and the rest of his face were painted in a deathly pallor and glistened with perspiration. He wasn’t certain what it was about the young man that held him so wholly. Maybe it was his features, which he could tell from the unblemished half of his face were delicate or his long, artistic hands. No, it was not the remnants of his beauty that held him; it was his suffering. His older brother George had been sick with consumption for months at a time, yet he had never been this sick, even at the end. Sleeping should have been an escape from such sickness, but the pain was evident in every shudder and gasp.

“Adam, I’m sorry I did not hear you come in,” Eliza apologized as she carried a pile of linens into the guest room and placed them on the dresser.

“Your niece let me in.” Adam followed close behind her as she felt the man’s forehead with her palm. “I received your letter and brought her some books. I even stopped on the way and picked up some ladies’ magazines she may like.”

“Oh, thank you so much. I would have done it myself, but James is out with Scotland Yard, a suspicious suicide, and I could not leave him here by himself in this state.”

Eliza rolled back the covers and stripped the man of his now dried towels before replacing them with fresh ones soaked in the wash basin. Adam averted his gaze as she tucked rolled up towels between his legs and laid several more across his thighs.

“Emmeline has been driving me mad for days. I do not know if it is the grief or the captivity, but she is dying to go out. All she wants to do is shop or go to tea rooms, and she does not understand that he needs constant care right now.”

“Should I leave?” he asked as she lightly wiped the patient’s cheeks and neck down.

“No, I will be done in a minute.” She stared down at the sleeping patient, who coughed weakly in his sleep. “Actually, we should talk up here. I do not want to go too far in case he needs something.”

“Is… Is he going to be all right?”

Her lips straightened and her eyes swept toward the floor before coming up to meet her cousin’s concerned gaze. She leaned closer and whispered, “We do not know yet. He is doing better, but he is still in very poor condition.”

“Oh, is there anything I can do to help?”

Eliza sighed, shaking her head as she followed Adam’s eyes to Immanuel’s battered face. “All we can do is hope Immanuel’s body still has some fight left in it. There is nothing more we can do for him, except try to bring down his fever and keep him comfortable.”

He opened his mouth to speak, but the right words never came. No words would make the young man better and even the actions of two doctors didn’t seem to do much to keep him in the land of the living. When he looked up from his lap, Immanuel’s clear, blue eye was locked onto his. For a moment, they held each other's gaze. A conversation in a wordless language surged between them and bound them together in the knowledge that he would fight. Immanuel took in Adam's face, but slowly his eyes slid shut as his energy began to wane again. As his cousin complained about Emmeline’s restlessness and Scotland Yard constantly calling her husband away to a crime scene, Adam continued to watch Immanuel hoping he would awaken. He couldn’t help but wonder if the mysterious stranger, no matter how hard he tried, would still die without ever knowing his name.

Chapter Eleven:

The Price of Freedom

The sun shone through the curtains of Immanuel Winter’s bedroom, settling its warm rays across his split cheek. Apart from the chirping of a bird on the sill and the dull clattering chug of steamer carriages, the house was silent. Licking his chapped lips, Immanuel opened his eyes. While his left eye was still blurry and ached each time he blinked, his head was clear for the first time in months. He remembered his name, his cramped room back at Oxford, and even his mother’s smiling face and the information appeared at his command without hesitation or confusion. Then, he thought of why his face and side hurt and shuddered as the blows came as vividly as the day it happened. With a heavy hand, Immanuel wiped the clammy film of sweat from his forehead and cheek before slowly sitting up. The room spun around him, but after a few seconds, his body adjusted to the altitude change. His eyes ran over the sturdy oak furniture, the empty hearth, and the intertwining brocade wallpaper until they came to rest on the porcelain basin beside his bed. Where was he?

As he washed the cold sweat from his face and neck, he noticed his forearms were bare and realized what he thought was a shirt were merely thin swaths of cotton clinging to his flesh. He peeled them off and cringed at the sight of the stitched wounds on his sides and breast. Near where his ribs ached there was a pink and puce bruise the size of his fist. How long have I been here? Immanuel wondered as he swung his stiff legs over the side of the bed, but when he tried to stand, his knees buckled. His chest tightened as he staggered toward the dresser on legs that barely cooperated and shook as if he had never taken a step before. In the top drawer were several clean, white shirts and pairs of dark trousers. When he held them up, they looked to be his size, but upon finally putting them on, they were too loose and threatened to fall from his hips.

Immanuel shivered as the December chill swept in beneath the open window. After becoming winded getting dressed, he knew he would not be able to force it shut. Craning his neck, he could see that the street below was filled with steamers rushing by. People of all ages stopped at houses with doctors’ names engraved on brass plaques beside the doors while men in long, wool coats and top hats hailed cabs. His heart quickened with panic; he didn’t recognize the houses or people. It was definitely not Oxford, but if he was not in Oxford, then where was he and where was the man in the devil mask? His ribs tightened. No, he was gone. He escaped, that much he remembered. Drawing up to his full height, he shuffled toward the hallway.

It was the first time he could remember being alone, but as he neared the stairs, he could hear papers shuffling and metal clicking below. From the bottom of the steps, he had a clear view of the dark-haired doctor as he peered through his glasses at a ledger before pecking at the keys of a massive, black typewriter. Immanuel held back the coughs that tickled his throat during his walk to the threshold. Every inch of the colossal desk was covered in scattered papers, books, or ribbons of ink for the typewriter. The shelves behind and to the side of him were filled with books by leading scientists, ancient physicians, and lesser know doctors from all over the planet, but holding the books in place were jars filled with curious specimens. There were anomalous organs that had been twisted from birth and others that were riddled with disease. Mummified heads and limbs sat under bell jars while a fully articulated skeleton wearing a derby stood in the corner opposite his desk. Others would have shied away from the morbid depository of death, but to Immanuel, it was a comfort to see so many objects he could name and describe without hesitation. The doctor looked up from his work and spotted the tired young man standing in the doorway.

A wide smile spread across his face at the sight. “Mr. Winter, I am pleased to see you up and about. You gave us quite a scare. Please, have a seat.” He motioned toward the wooden chair in front of his desk, and Immanuel gladly sank into it after his first walk in over a week. “How are you feeling?”

“I’m not sure.” Unable to hold it back any longer, his ribs rattled with the wet coughs that forced their way up his throat. “I do not mean to be rude, but I cannot recall your name, sir.”

“Dr. James Hawthorne. My wife, the one who has been caring for you, is Eliza Hawthorne.”

Immanuel bit his lip and nodded. “To answer your question, Dr. Hawthorne, I am still hurting all over. I cannot really see out my left eye. Will that eventually go away?”

Dr. Hawthorne stared into Immanuel’s damaged eye, which was still stained with blood from the broken vessels. “As the swelling goes down and the blood recedes, you should regain some sight, but I think you will have some permanent damage.”

He nodded as he ran his fingers over the slightly swollen spot above his eyebrow. “How long have I been here?”

“Ten days.” The doctor watched as Immanuel’s eyes widened. “I am not surprised you lost track of time. You were extremely ill when you were brought here, and we thought we were going to lose you. We did lose you on the first night actually, but you seem to have finally fought off the pneumonia and the infections. I know you are feeling better and will want to move around, but you must take care not to disturb the bones you have broken. You mustn’t bend, pull, or lift anything because you will disturb your ribs, and you must refrain from pressing on your nose or left orbit.” Immanuel winced at the mention of his eye. “I have been wondering how you broke your zygomatic bone.”

Swallowing hard, he saw the moment through the dirty blindfold. “I was hit with a chair. At least, I think it was a chair.”

“That would explain that,” James replied as he jotted down a note in the ledger he had been transcribing.

“Explain what?”

“Why you tried to strike me when I brought you a chair the first night you were here. The noise must have scared you, especially since you could not see where it was coming from.”

“Oh.” He tried to think back to that day, but it was all a blur. There were only bits and pieces with no beginning or end, glimpses of faces and a bathtub. “I’m sorry.”

“There is no need to apologize, you have been through a lot.” James noticed how sunken Immanuel’s eyes and cheeks were as he swallowed and coughed. “Are you hungry, my boy? I cannot make much, but I can make you breakfast.”

“Thank you, sir. I am a bit hungry.”

As he did the first night, James supported him down the stairs and deposited him in the dining room. Immanuel smiled to himself as the older man hummed over the sizzling pop of the stove. Being at the Hawthornes’ was so different from Oxford or the catacomb. It was almost like home. Within a few minutes, Dr. Hawthorne returned with a plate of eggs, bacon, and toast along with a pot of tea and placed the bounty before the skinny young man. While he slowly ate his first real meal since the kidnapping, he found his jaw grew tired chewing, but at least he could swallow his food without having to worry about it falling out of his mouth. Immanuel glanced up at James Hawthorne but only saw the back of the newspaper.

“Dr. Hawthorne,” he began and waited until the gentleman put his paper down to continue, “I don’t know how to thank you and Mrs. Hawthorne for all you have done for me. The thing is, I have no way to repay you. What little money I had was stolen when I was kidnapped, but my mother may be able to send a few marks when I write to her to tell her I am all right.”

James sighed as he watched him bite his lip and push his food with the prongs of his fork. “Immanuel, I was never expecting you to pay me when I helped you. I do not want your money.”

“Thank you, but I cannot stay here for free. As soon as I am strong enough, I will go back to Oxford and find some way to repay you.”

“Are you a student of science or a professor?” he asked casually as he folded the newspaper and put it to the side.

Immanuel’s eyes widened. “A student, but how could you possibly—?”

“I asked how you broke your zygomatic bone, and you replied without hesitation. I understand you would like to return to your studies as soon as possible, but I do not know if you will be strong enough to travel before every one goes on holiday.”

“On holiday? What day is it?”

“The second of December.”

Tears burned the bottoms of his eyes as he realized how much time had been stolen from him. In the darkness of the catacomb, days and weeks slipped by unnoticed, but he never suspected he had been there that long. Hawthorne watched his patient’s face pale as the moisture disappeared from his mouth and migrated to the edges of his eyes. The boy covered his face while his chest throbbed with each silent cry.

“My boy, what is the matter?”

“He— he stole two months from me!” he sobbed. “It was September when they kidnapped me. I lost a whole chunk of my life, and I don’t even know where I am or how to get back.”

As Immanuel collapsed into hiccupped cries, the doctor quietly walked to the other side of the table and stood behind him. He hesitated a moment, unsure how the young man would react to his touch, but taking a chance, he held his knobby shoulders and rubbed them, hoping it would soothe him.

“It will be all right in the end. I know all this is a lot for you to deal with, but you do not need to worry about where you will go or what you will do. You need to focus on getting better, Immanuel. This man may have taken a lot from you, but he did not take your life. You will miss the rest of the term, but after Christmas, you can go back to Oxford if you would like.”

Each inhalation sent a sharp pain through his cracked ribs. “I don’t know if I can go back there.”

James Hawthorne gently shushed the weeping man, feeling a slight burn behind his own eyes at the sound of his pained lamentations. “You do not need to figure anything out now. You are in no shape to make any big decisions. Now, I do not want you to tax your system with fretting about school or repaying me. School is not going anywhere, and if you insist on earning your keep, I could always use a secretary to type my autopsy notes.”

Immanuel’s head snapped up as the front door opened and two female voices erupted into bickering. He wiped his good eye and dabbed at the bruised one with his napkin before the Emmeline or Eliza could see his tearstained cheeks.

“Why should I have to learn anything?” Emmeline whined. “I’m seventeen! Mama said I was too old for a governess or lessons. I was supposed to go into society this season, not go back to school.”

“Do you expect to sit around all day reading novels for the rest of your life?”

Her high-pitched voice rose to a shriek. “Society women do not need to learn about laws or geography! I am not a child.”

“How can you be a society woman if no one introduces you into society?”

As the two female voices tussled and tried to overtake each other, the men at the dining table merely looked at one another and sighed. James ignored his wife and niece yelling in the next room, using his newspaper as a shield while Immanuel kept his head down and shoveled eggs into his mouth between sniffs and coughs. The pocket door flew open as Emmeline stomped in, her face red with angry tears.

“Why can’t I live with Aunt Georgiana? She would do what is best for me. She would do what mama would have wanted.”

Eliza huffed, grabbing the door before Emmeline could slam it shut. “Your aunt is in America, and I don’t think she will come all the back to England just for you.”

Emmeline grabbed her hair by the fistful and screamed. “I hate you! I hate all of you. I swear if I do not go into society this year, I will throw myself off London Bridge!”

“Please, don’t do that,” Immanuel peeped.

The women’s gazes whipped toward Immanuel’s gaunt, pleading countenance as if seeing him for the first time. With her aunt’s attention suddenly shifted toward the man with one bloodshot eye, Emmeline grabbed the twined together boxes of hats and gowns from her aunt’s grasp and stormed up the stairs. Slamming her bedroom door behind her, she sunk onto her bed and wept into her pillow. Her aunt could try her best to please her but she would never be good enough. She could never bring back her mother, and for that, she hated her.

Chapter Twelve:

Trepidation

“That poor man,” Hadley Fenice cried as she poured her brother and cousin another cup of tea. “Why would someone do that to another person?”

Eliza shook her head. “I have no idea. He will not talk about it either. James does not want to push him, but he is not dealing with his problems. Now, he is up in the study typing autopsy reports all night.” She took a long sip and let her eyes roam over Hadley’s automatons, which lay in unpainted pieces of porcelain on the counter or in the corner as fully articulated dioramas ready for shipping. “He has been at it nonstop for three days.”

“Won’t he work himself into exhaustion going on like that?”

“Probably, but I think that is what he wants.”

“Why would he want that?” Adam finally asked as he pictured the frail young man with the bruised face shivering in bed again. “He nearly died. Shouldn’t he be happy he is alive?”

“In theory he should, but from the little I gleaned from Emmeline and what I have seen of his injuries, Immanuel was tortured.” Mrs. Hawthorne swirled her tea absentmindedly as she continued, “When people go through something like that, they either think about nothing but what happened or think about everything but what happened. He has chosen the latter, and honestly, I do not know how to draw him out of it.”

Hadley thought about what would bring her back into the world or make her smile again, but all that came to mind were her creations or her fiancé. She looked at her oddly quiet twin. The subject had been on his mind from the moment he dropped the stack of books off for Emmeline days ago. Since then, he had asked if she had heard about the blonde man’s condition while unconsciously rubbing his wrist just as he did when he was nervous about an account at work. He tried to mask his concern with indifference, but she saw him flinch as their cousin pronounced the word torture.

“Do you think a day of sightseeing would help him forget his troubles?”

“It might, but I do not think I will be able to convince Emmeline to cooperate. I have become her enemy now that I want her to be more than a socialite with a pretty face.”

“Don’t you think you are being a little hard on her?” Adam brushed at the sawdust and porcelain residue from the workroom floor that stubbornly clung to the bottom of his trousers. “You cannot expect a cosseted child to give up her ways for a more serious life without a fight. Why don’t you tell her that her mother left her a fortune for when she is of age? You are still planning to introduce her in the spring, aren’t you?”

“If I told her that, she would be an even bigger horror to deal with and there would be no chance of changing her. She would want to spend her entire fortune on new dresses and balls. I want her to understand that there is more to life than just fancy clothes and being a wife. If she applied as much energy to her studies as she does to whining, she would be well on her way to being the first woman in the House of Commons. I am so glad that James was home, so I could escape her tantrums for a little while. I do not know when I will be able to take Immanuel around town without Emmeline.”

“What if Adam took him instead?”

Adam’s eyes widened in alarm, but before he could respond, their cousin flashed a tired smile. “Oh, would you? You have been such a great help since all this happened. He will probably enjoy your company more than mine anyway since you are closer to his age and know what he would want to see.” She glanced at the clock near the door. “I should be getting back. Thank you so much, Adam. Would you be willing to collect him tomorrow morning?”

“Of course,” he replied with a tight grin as he and his sister followed Eliza to the door. He trailed beside her and waited until the other redhead was finally out of sight before turning to his sister. His doppelganger smiled wryly as she easily pushed past him. “And why, may I ask, did you volunteer me to play tour guide to someone I do not even know?”

“Because you need a day out as much as he does,” Hadley explained as she walked back to her room of automatons but lingered with her hand on the knob, “and because you would like to know him but are too afraid to do it on your own.”

She quickly shut the door to keep him from arguing, but as he stood on the other side poised to retaliate, he couldn’t help but sigh. Who was he fooling? His twin knew him all too well.

***

It was half-past ten, and Immanuel Winter had already been hammering at the lettered keys for three hours. A partially eaten plate of cold eggs and toast sat beside him along with a pot of tea that had been nearly drained. His eyes stayed locked on the ledger to the right of the typewriter as he tried to block out his blurry eye and focus only on the words that flowed directly from his eyes to his fingertips. Keeping his head down, he pretended not to see the physician standing in the doorway frowning at him.

“Mr. Winter, I think you should take a break. You have been in here so long you are beginning to become part of the furniture.”

“I will, but I am nearly done with this one, Dr. Hawthorne,” Immanuel murmured, never missing a letter.

“You said that last night when I told you to take a break, but you did not stop until well after midnight.” The doctor quietly closed the book and put it aside. “I insist you take a break today.”

Immanuel’s jaw clenched as his fingers froze over the keys, stopping mid-word. “I don’t want to sit in my room all day, sir. I would much rather be productive.”

“You have been productive enough for five people, which is why we have arranged for you to go on an outing. Eliza’s cousin has kindly offered to take you on a proper tour of the town.” James waved his hand toward the door, and a man with the reddest hair he had ever seen hesitantly came in but remained on the blurry side of his vision. “Immanuel, may I introduce Adam Fenice, Mrs. Hawthorne’s cousin. Adam, Immanuel Winter.”

“It is a pleasure to make your acquaintance, Mr. Winter. I do hope you are feeling better,” Adam replied with a grin as he proffered his hand to the pale man, who still looked befuddled by the idea of an outing but shook his hand anyway.

Immanuel stared up at him, taking in his pencil mustache and his impeccably tailored dark blue and cream suit. “Much better, thank you.” He couldn’t shake the feeling he had seen those eyes before. “I’m sorry, Mr. Fenice, but have we met?”

“Barely, I stopped by one day when you were still in a very grave state, but I did not think you would remember my visit.”

As the young man stood up to make an excuse about not feeling well and excuse himself, Eliza appeared in the doorway with one of her husband’s old coats, a derby, and a pair of dark gloves. He resigned himself to his fate and silently donned them, but next to the dapper gentleman, he felt like a child wearing his father’s clothes. Immanuel swallowed against the knot in his throat as he followed the stranger out the front door and into the sunny street. At the top of the steps, he hesitated. The man who destroyed him could be anywhere, around any corner, or in any cab. He could pass the house that nearly became his tomb without ever knowing it. That man had blinded him from ever knowing the truth of his confinement, and now, all his nightmares lay just beyond the porch.

Adam watched the steamer cabs roll past filled with passengers and raised his hand to hail the next free one, but while waiting, he took a better look at his companion as he lingered on the steps. The long cut and bruise that deformed his delicate features were gone, but it left behind a dark rose crack that shifted his brow and lid and stained his eye. The white was still sallow from the bruise, and his once pristine blue iris was now blotted brown on the left side while the other half retained the natural color of its brother. Immanuel’s aurous hair waved and curled around his colorless cheeks, but in their shadows, a little bit of pink flesh began to peek through. His eyes widen as he glanced up and down the road as if searching for someone.

“Mr. Winter, where would you like to go? We could go to the usual places, like Buckingham Palace or the Tower of London, or we could go to places that suit your interests.”

He walked down to the curb and stood beside Adam as a cab gradually came to a stop in front of them. “I do not know where to go. I have never been to London before.” He sighed and hung his head. “Mr. Fenice, you do not have to take me anywhere. I do not want you to take time away from your own life just to take me for a walk.”

“Nonsense, you are no trouble at all. I hope you do not mind, but Eliza told me and my sister about you and what happened. After being that sick, I think you deserve a day of relaxation and leisure.” Sensing the man’s trepidation, he flashed a bright grin and allowed him to go in first. “I think I know the perfect place to start. You can see the palace or Big Ben any day.” As he closed the door, he called to the driver, “To the natural history museum, please.”

Immanuel stared at the handsome man in the car beside him and frowned thoughtfully. A part of him wanted to be afraid of Adam Fenice, to not trust him, but he had been nothing but kind and affable toward him. As Adam turned and noticed his eyes upon him, Immanuel averted his gaze to the steamer’s window but soon realized London was bleary and dark at the edge as it rolled past them. To admire the view, he would have to look at Mr. Fenice.

Chapter Thirteen:

Really All Right

As Adam watched Immanuel’s eyes run over the cases of stuffed birds from Darwin’s adventure in the Galapagos Islands, he finally saw a smile brighten his features. He wasn’t sure if the younger man would enjoy himself after his initial reaction to seeing the natural history museum. At first, he stared up at its nemes-striped bricks and cathedral spires without saying a word as the other visitors bumped past them and entered through the Romanesque, ringed portal that led into the museum. The rain began to patter down when suddenly with a jerk of his head, the spell was broken, and he headed inside. Once within the upturned hull of steel and stone, his companion’s eyes and feet roamed through the parade of skeletons and fossils as if in a trance. The accountant couldn’t be sure if he was miserable or enjoying their trip until that smile appeared.

“I heard you went to Oxford,” Adam began cautiously as Immanuel moved to the next case. “What branch of science did you study?”

His voice came as soft as if he was in a library rather than in a nearly empty hall. “I am studying evolution along with the other sciences.” He was about to keep reading the information tag when he spotted the red-haired man looking at him expectantly and realized the conversation was lapsing back into silence. “What do you do, Mr. Fenice?”

“Nothing as glamorous as science or Oxford. I am an accountant. I also am the co-owner and bookkeeper for my twin sister’s prosthesis and automaton business.” When the German’s eyes flickered with interest, he continued, “I am the odd one out. I have no creative abilities, but I do appreciate the arts. Hadley is the artist and inventor in the family now, but she takes after our father and late-brother. We lost him last winter.”

Immanuel looked up to see Adam’s countenance dim with the shadow of melancholy. “I’m sorry for your loss.”

“He was sick for a long time.” A stifled, dry chuckle escaped his lips as he turned toward another case. “I feel so hardhearted saying this, but it was almost a relief when he died. I hated seeing him ill and knowing he was never going to get any better.”

“I understand, but you shouldn’t feel guilty. Even when you are the one who is ill, you feel the same way. Death often seems like the better option than suffering.”

“You would know better than any of us, wouldn’t you, Mr. Winter?”

They unconsciously caught each other’s gaze, and the unspoken phrases passed between them again. Adam noted the subtle sag of regret at the corner of Immanuel’s eyes as if he had confided too much in the accountant. They fell into silence as they passed specimens and dioramas of beasts in jungles of paint and paper. He watched Immanuel glance at the contents of the cases and move on without the fervent interest that had come with the spark in his smile. As they passed a man with a cigarette pressed between his lips, his companion stumbled.

Immanuel’s heart raced. Something was wrong. His body buckled as the tobacco embers seared into the thin flesh of his spine. With each quickened breath, the glass in the cases around him seemed to grow closer and the air thinner. He tugged his collar away from the flushed skin of his neck as he swallowed hard.

“I’m sorry, Mr. Fenice, but I cannot stay here any longer,” he blurted, darting toward the nearest hallway.

The urge to get out was stronger than any instinct he could remember. He would surely suffocate if he couldn’t get out of the museum. The stones would rise up and wall him in, sealing him behind glass for all eternity. Rounding the corner at the end of the hall, he froze as he met the unforgiving mortar and stone of a dead-end. He wheeled around with eyes wide and glistening. When Adam finally reached the corner, the scientist’s breathing was coming in shallow, ragged gasps, and his eyes seemed to take in everything but see nothing.

“Mr. Winter,” he called as the other man paced in the tunnel with his hands cupped around his face like blinders. Without thinking, he put his hand on the panic-stricken man’s arm, but even though he saw it was him, he whipped it away in alarm. Adam kept his voice as soft and calm as a mesmerist’s. “Immanuel, I will get you out. Just follow me, and I promise we will be outside in a few minutes.”

He couldn’t remember how long it really took to get back to the throngs of people on the street outside but following the henna-haired head through the transepts and wooden galleries until they reached the nave seemed to drag on for hours. Immanuel drew in one lungful of crisp air after another until the trembling in his limbs subsided. Somehow in the mobs of people bustling to the natural history museum and the Victoria and Albert Museum he could breathe easier than under the great steel roof. Adam stared at him as the color finally ebbed from his cheeks and his light eyes lost the wild edge imparted by fear.

“Are you all right?” Mr. Fenice asked as he slowly drew closer to keep the crowd from coming between them but made certain not to touch him. “I mean, really all right.”

He opened his mouth and closed it, glancing back at the lumbering museum that only a minute earlier seemed a tomb. “You must think me mad after that nonsense. I— I lost my head. I am so sorry for causing such a fuss. It won’t happen again, Mr. Fenice.”

“You don’t need to apologize. Something must have scared you very much.” Immanuel’s damaged eye pinkened as he chewed on the edge his lip with his eyetooth. Adam flashed a magnetic grin that showed off his ivory teeth and waved his gloved hand before changing the subject. “You must stop calling me Mr. Fenice, only the people whose accounts I handle call me that. Please, call me Adam.”

“Adam,” he began hesitantly, his hands shaking as he tried to stuff them in his coat pockets, “is there anywhere we can go where I can clear my head?”

“Hyde Park is right up the road if you would like to walk about.”

Immanuel nodded and ambled beside him, passing through the crowds milling between the museums and gardens of the Royal Horticultural Society. He was happy to have his clear eye facing the road to keep him from stepping off the curb, but as they went on, he had to quickly apologize each time his shoulder collided with those of the men and women passing on his left side. Out of the corner of his eye, Adam caught the sneers and indignant glares, especially when their stares met his cracked cheek.

“Hold on.” He waited for Immanuel to stop walking and moved to his other side, shielding him from the unsympathetic crowds. “I do not mind being bumped.”

A faint smile, barely perceivable even to his companion, crossed his lips. He couldn’t see Adam Fenice at his side except for the occasional pop of red or blue, but when he stepped out of line, he felt his arm brush against his without repercussion. Steamers and horse-drawn carriages rolled through the gates of the park and down its cobbled paths out of sight. Immanuel marveled at the massive beasts as their muscles slid beneath their burnished coats. He couldn’t recall when he had ever seen a horse in Berlin, except in statues or when farmers brought their produce or animals to market, but he had never been so close to one. England had been one of the last countries to relinquish the horse from its duties, but they still remained near the parks as a nostalgic reminder of the steam-less past.

Even though the leaves had decayed and only the bronchial skeletons remained, the park still hummed with life. Vendors peddling roasted chestnuts and drinks to warm passersby from the cold called out while ladies in muffs and fur or wool coats strolled in clusters or on the arm of a husband or brother. A group of young boys sprinted past the dawdling amblers with hockey sticks raised and skates slapping against their shoulders.

“Can we go ice skating?”

Adam’s head snapped toward his companion as his mottled eyes followed the raucous children through the trees. “Of course, but are you sure you are up for such an exertion?”

“No, but I should like to try.”

Following the wild shouts of the boys, Immanuel and Adam wound their way through the manicured lawns and around the mercurial waters of the Serpentine until the artificial pond that surrounded the bandstand appeared. Children zipped across the ice as quick as water-striders while men and women glided around the perimeter, merging on and off the ice with ease. Adam smiled at the happy couples laughing arm-in-arm as he left Immanuel sitting on a bench and went to rent two pairs of skates from the stall nearby. When he returned, a pretty young woman with a heart-shaped face and dewy eyes was talking to the German, and while he was polite about giving her the time, he fell silent long enough that she returned to the women she was skating with.

After wordlessly buckling the blades’ leather straps to their boots, Immanuel and Adam clattered onto the ice. Immanuel teetered unsteadily as his ankles wobbled and his arms pin-wheeled, but he stayed on his feet. With a smile, he pushed away from the edge and drifted into the throng with his friend out of sight but always protectively on the left. Each lap loosened his thoughts and chased away the panic. Soon, the sky grew whiter with each slow circuit around the pond, and by the time they passed the boys playing hockey in the far corner again, the cold seared Immanuel’s face and constricted his ribs. He clopped over to the edge and stood still, hoping his breath would return. His companion followed close behind with the weight of guilt settling in his stomach.

“Before you ask, I am fine. I just need to catch my breath, but I will join you when you come around again,” Immanuel explained with a raised hand to Adam’s protest. “Plus, I think you would ice skate much better without me slowing you down.”

With a final sigh, Adam glided back to the whirlpool of skaters. Immanuel stood with his arms crossed as he watched his dapper friend move as fluidly through the crowd as if skating was his natural gate. He tipped his hat to the young ladies he passed, who greeted the handsome stranger with grins and giggles. With snow clumping at the ends of Immanuel’s filigree lashes, he watched Adam Fenice pivot with a flick of his heel. Gliding backwards, he rounded the corner and leisurely wove his way toward the bench. Immanuel stepped back onto the ice to join him when a little rubber disk skidded between them. By the time he saw the flock of children coming, it was too late. The others were caught in the revolving swarm of skaters, but two broke through with their sticks at the ready. One of the boys darted out of the way as Adam approached, but the other stayed to shoot the puck across the ice.

As Adam’s back collided with the child, he spun around and caught his skate on the wooden hockey stick. He stumbled forward, his legs skidding out from under him, as Immanuel reached out to catch his arm. The scientist’s feet slid back, but when the other man’s full weight hit him, his blades lost traction and slipped under Adam’s. They landed in a heap on the ice; their hats escaped the twisted limbs and floated down gracefully beside them. Adam froze on top of his friend, fearing he had snapped one of the man’s ribs, but when he looked down, Immanuel was staring up at him with wide eyes. His ink-stained irises dilated and his breath quickened but not in panic as it had in the museum. The accountant exhaled as a chill rippled through his body, teasing each strand of hair on end and stretching his pupils to darken the surrounding blue. The condensation of their breath smoldered as a tingling more mystifying than the one that stopped Immanuel’s heart ran between them. Several pairs of skates were clattering toward them, so Adam climbed onto his elbows and knees before pulling himself up and then his companion. Immanuel clamped the derby back to his head but couldn’t hide his burning cheeks. They skated to the nearest bench and began unfastening the leather straps of their skates.

“Are you all right? I didn’t mean to land on you,” Adam whispered. “I hope I did not hurt you. James warned me not to tax your system, and instead, I squashed you.”

Immanuel looked into his new friend’s worried eyes as they researched his body for any sign of injury and couldn’t help but laugh. Out of all the things to happen, he had never expected that. The silent chuckles rocked his body as he gave up on the buckle wrapped around his ankle. He laughed so hard tears came to his eyes and burned his cheeks, but it only made the redhead’s brows peak higher and his eyes grow even wider with concern. When the German covered his mouth and let out a string of lively, carefree giggles that culminated in a snort, Adam couldn’t help but join in.

“I’m sorry. I’m sorry. You must really think me mad now.” He dabbed at his eyes. “It is just that I was dreading this day out more than anything, but it has turned out to be the most fun I have had in years.”

“Really?”

Immanuel nodded. “I have not had much fun since I came to England, and I honestly never thought I would find a friend. With all of this,” he replied as he motioned toward his eye and chest, “I never expected anything good to happen anymore.”

“I know you have a hard time seeing out of that eye, but do you think it will get better with time?”

“Dr. Hawthorne says it should heal a little, but it will never be what it once was. I wish the scar would go away. It makes me look… seedy.”

Adam’s lips and mustache curled into a grin. “I think it makes you look mysterious.” When the eye under the scar lit up, he added, “If you are still feeling up to it, we could walk to Covent Garden and get dinner. There is no way you can come to London and not have real fish and chips.”

“I would like that very much.”

Chapter Fourteen:

An Old Friend

For the first time since his fever broke, Immanuel awoke not thinking about brick walls or autopsy notes. The view of Wimpole Street from his window was no longer daunting and tainted with unknown danger. Instead, the world outside was filled with color and life, and he couldn’t help but grin as he dressed and made his way downstairs even if his body ached from the fall. At breakfast, he ate with Emmeline and the Hawthornes, cleaned his plate, and made conversation rather than sitting there like a mute as he had done for nearly a week. When James and Eliza asked about his day with Adam Fenice, his face lit up. They gave each other the eye and smiled at his altered demeanor, knowing their plan had succeeded in drawing the real Immanuel Winter to the surface. A shrill bell resounded in one of the backrooms of the house and brought their conversation to an abrupt end.

“Ah, Mr. Porter must be here.” James Hawthorne left his plate for his laboratory but stuck his head back into the dining room while cleaning his glasses. “Mr. Winter, if you are up to it, I would greatly appreciate your assistance downstairs.”

As Immanuel nodded, Emmeline cried, “Why did he get to go out with his friends? Why does he not have to stay inside all day and do lessons?”

“He is studying at a university, and you could do the same if you applied yourself. Then, you wouldn’t need lessons. Today I am going to teach you about a woman’s legal rights,” Mrs. Hawthorne explained between the clinks of soiled dishes, “so one day you will be able to decide what to do with your inheritance.”

“Isn’t that what a husband is for?”

Immanuel excused himself and hurried down the hall to escape the fray that he knew was about to erupt in the dining room. Descending the creaking steps of the cellar, he rounded the corner only to find a pale, fleshy body deposited on the marble table in the center of the room. James Hawthorne was donning his apron and gloves when he made it to the dead man’s feet. For a moment, he wondered how the man arrived without being wheeled through the house until he noticed that behind the table and the apothecary shelf was a narrow hallway just wide enough to admit a gurney. The man’s stomach arched toward the ceiling and eclipsed the doctor on the other side. Across his mottled, mauve skin were wiry brown hairs that covered him like a threadbare sweater. Immanuel tried to suppress his disgust at the hairy, morbidly obese man but ended up grimacing as a puff of noxious gas escaped the man’s orifices.

“His family members suspect foul play,” James began as he waved away the smell. “I suspect the only foul that killed him was the goose his foie gras came from.” The doctor migrated over to the antiseptic steamer drawers that held his tools and artfully arranged the blades, saws, and forceps onto a tray. “Have you ever performed an autopsy before, Mr. Winter?”

“I have sat in on one and conducted one with a group of students but never on my own.”

“This time I will have you watch. You can take notes for me. It will be easier for you to read your own handwriting than mine when you transcribe them.”

Immanuel nodded as he picked up the portable writing desk and watched the doctor carve into the corpse’s chest with a scalpel. Within moments, the flesh and fat were peeled back and the organs exposed. The young scientist averted his gaze as Dr. Hawthorne gnawed through the man’s dense ribs with a bone saw. After a final snap, the front of his chest was removed, and the dignitary finally lay bare and ready to be explored. James called out descriptions of the whole thoracic and abdominal cavities before diving into the autopsy with his scalpel. With a few flicks of his wrist, the brown, slimy fish of a liver was unceremoniously plopped on the scale. The doctor continued to call out measurements and observations for his assistant to jot down as he moved through the cadaver.

“Ah, here is the culprit!” he cried as he reached the hollowed bottom of the man’s ribcage. “Mr. Winter, come take a look and tell me what you see.”

Putting the ledger aside, Immanuel stepped toward the table, but as he approached, the toe of his shoe caught on a hose. His hand landed squarely on the corpse’s arm when he caught his balance, and suddenly the acetone-laden laboratory was gone. At his fingertips was not a corpse but a plate of treacle tart topped with a dollop of clotted cream. Immanuel looked up from the dessert of shortbread and cinnamon and locked eyes across the table with a beak-nosed woman. She smiled sedately at him like a bird-of-paradise as a thin, grey lock broke from her tight coiffure. The fire crackled nearby in the dining room as the scent of tea and coffee mingled with the butter from the tart’s crust. His stomach suddenly tightened but quickly rushed away, and he was finally able to pull his hand from the man’s chilled arm. Immanuel shook away the image of the wifely woman only a few feet from him and gazed into the patient’s cavernous corpse. At the bottom was a pool of congealed blood beside an artery that had blown open to reveal the interior of its muscular tube.

“An aneurism?”

“Precisely. Mark down that the cause of death is an aneurism of the aorta.” James watched his protégé dutifully record every word. “You came highly recommended, Mr. Winter.”

He furrowed his dark blonde brows as he tried to read the doctor’s face but could glean nothing.

“I wrote to my father-in-law while you were recovering. At my cousin’s engagement dinner, he mentioned that his best student went missing a few months earlier. He was a German. I cannot imagine there are many Germans at Oxford.”

“Professor Martin is your— your father-in-law?” he stammered as his mind drifted back to the last day in the museum. Wimpole Street.

“Yes, he is Eliza’s father. He was relieved to hear you were alive and on the mend. He also wanted me to tell you he hopes you will return to finish your studies because you were the best student he has had in a long time.”

Immanuel’s ashen cheeks bloomed with pride as he put his head down and continued to write, hoping the doctor wouldn’t see the smile that refused to leave his lips. Even if his favorite teacher wanted him to come back, could he do it? Could he go back to where it all happened and walk among the ancient buildings that stood silently as he was drugged and carried away?

***

Tapping his pen against James’s desk, Immanuel stared out the window lost in thought. He wanted to write to Professor Martin, but he didn’t know what to say about returning to Oxford. He also wanted to visit Adam Fenice or at least write and thank him for taking him out for the day but wondered if it was too soon. A sooty steamer bounded down the street, flying around pedestrians and other cabs on two wheels. Only when it stopped at the edge of the road in front of the house did Immanuel take notice. From behind the desk, he couldn’t make out the man’s face beneath his top hat as he strode toward the door. In the house below, the doorbell buzzed and one of the Hawthornes bustled to open it. Immanuel lingered in the study, counting the time it would take for his trip downstairs to not look conspicuous. He adjusted his vest and smoothed back a wayward curl, hoping it was Adam.

The foyer was empty by the time he made his way down the stairs, and the house was silent. Had the visitor merely been a patient who came to the wrong door? The floorboards in the parlor whined under the slow tread of boots. Immanuel peeked around the doorway and spotted their guest standing in the harsh light of the hearth. The imposing gentleman had removed his jet top hat to reveal blonde hair much like his own, but it was uncurled and cropped short. His shoulder blades rolled beneath the fabric of his coat as he stretched and passed a gloved hand over his hair.

“Lord Rose, to what do I owe the pleasure of your visit?” James chided as he stood in the doorway between the parlor and the dining room with his arms barred across his chest.

He turned, revealing his ochre eyes and stony features. “I thought we needed to have a little talk about our project.”

The breath hitched in Immanuel’s throat and a tremor rippled through his body. His heart pounded against his ribs as he backed away from the threshold, groping for the banister behind him but never taking his eyes off the man before the flames. That voice had haunted his dreams for months, taunting and degrading him until he was nothing more than a shell that refused to die. His head twitched involuntarily as the clattering blow landed against his cheek with an explosion of pain and wood. The man who had beaten and starved him was in the house.

Immanuel’s breaths came in short spurts as he darted up two flights of stairs and ran into his bedroom. Grabbing the nightstand from beside his bed, he shoved it under the knob and backed away until his hand brushed the cool surface of the wall. He slid down and covered his head with his arms, weeping as the invisible blows replayed in his mind and jolted his body each time a foot or knuckle dug into his ribs. How could James let that monster into the house? How could the person who saved him let his captor in and know him by name?

A panicked thought flitted through his mind. The man could barge in at any moment and find him sitting in the middle of the floor. Immanuel crawled toward his bed, stifling his cries for fear the man two floors below would hear him. He started to slip under the frame when he stopped and scurried toward the dresser. Under the security of the oak frame and thick mattress, Immanuel tried to scrawl out a letter to Adam.

Between hiccupped sobs, he poured out his soul in incoherent blurs of memory. He wanted to tell him about being cornered in the library and waking up in the catacombs, the burning on his back that came with the reek of tobacco, and the moment he felt his heart stop when he gave Emmeline the potion, but the smatterings of sensation seeped from his body and evaporated into the aether before he could commit an entire image to paper. What words could adequately describe what he experienced? He lay with his head against the cool boards and closed his eyes until his exhalations returned to a nearly normal cadence. Wiping his eyes with the back of his hand, he pushed the indecipherable jumble of words away and wrote a simple letter to his only friend.

Dear Adam,

I must speak to you as soon as possible. I need someone to talk to, and the only one I can think of whom I can trust is you. Please come to Wimpole Street or send me your address if you prefer it. I need to tell someone.

Your friend,

Immanuel Winter

He would put it with the other post when it was safe to come out and the man was long gone. For now, he put his head down and curled up with his back resting securely against the plaster. As long as he was in his room, he was safe.

***

“What about our project?”

The nobleman smiled as he drew closer to the lanky doctor, but James merely stared back without flinching. “Why is it taking so long? You have not made any progress in months, and Her Majesty is growing restless.”

“She has been without the man for thirty years. A few more months will not make a difference.”

“You disrespectful little—”

“I had patients to attend to, and the living come before the dead, no matter how powerful they are. Since when were you reduced to the queen’s goon? She can easily send her own messengers to harass me.”

Lord Rose sneered as his eyes trailed back to the fire. His fingers stretched and contracted against the urge to strike the insolent man. “I have my own interests to promote, doctor. We will both profit from the completion of your part of the project, but I have been ready since I was given my charge.”

James arched a brow. “Your predecessor completed the task, not you. Inheriting it is not the same as actually doing it, Alastair.”

He was about to snatch his collar when a familiar dark head peered into the dining room before bounding in with wide eyes. “Lord Rose!”

For fleeting moment, Alastair’s heart quickened with fear. How did she get here? He widened his eyes and dropped to her level as he grasped her arms. “Miss Jardine, is that really you?” He let his mouth slacken and searched her face, not to confirm it was really her but for recognition of her captor. “We— we thought you perished in the fire like your mother.”

The young woman smiled up at him, taking in his handsome face as he stared at her with those brown eyes she still dreamed about. “I was kidnapped, but I escaped and came to Uncle James’s house. Are the other Spiritualists all right? Was anyone else hurt?”

“No, you and your mother were the only fatalities.” Lord Rose allowed his voice to falter as Eliza Hawthorne crept into the edge of his vision. “Everyone will be so pleased to hear you are safe. You should come to the Spiritualist society soon. Your mother would want you to continue your education.”

Emmeline turned to her aunt and pleaded, “May I, Aunt Eliza? I will complete my lessons if you let me go, I promise.”

Drawing in a deep breath, Eliza nodded. “As long you do what I tell you, I will allow you to go and act as your chaperone.”

“Tomorrow then. I will send Thomas with the address later,” Lord Rose smiled as he put the girl’s hand to his sanguine lips and turned to leave with a flourish of his hat and cloak.

Chapter Fifteen:

The Crown

Dr. Eliza Hawthorne watched curiously as her niece stared out the steamer window at Gower Street. For the first time since she appeared on their doorstep, Emmeline seemed genuinely happy and nearly bouncing with excitement, yet it was as if Emmeline and Immanuel had switched dispositions overnight. At breakfast, she thought maybe he had a relapse of his illness when he didn’t appear after she called him twice to the table. She was about to go up and check on him when he appeared in the doorway dark-circled and ashen. As Emmeline and James read the paper, Immanuel kept his head down and his fork in his hand even if he didn’t eat anything.

“Immanuel, I am going to be giving a lecture at the University College about post-mortem examinations. Would you care to join me?”

He cleared his throat, but when he lifted his head, he was as white as the china. “I would love to, but I do not feel very well. I think I may have over-exerted myself the other day.”

Satisfied with his excuse, the doctor gathered his bag and left before the others finished their breakfast. As Eliza stood to collect the dishes, Immanuel neatly stacked them and carried them into the kitchen. By the time she came in with the rest, he was elbow-deep in the sink.

“Immanuel, you do not have to do that.”

“I want to,” he replied with a weak smile. “Mrs. Hawthorne, I was wondering if I could have Mr. Fenice’s address. I would like to send him a letter to—,” he paused, biting the edge of his lip with his eyetooth before continuing, “to thank him for showing me around London. It was very kind of him.”

“Of course. I’m certain he will appreciate that.”

With the dishes done and the address in hand, he thanked her in little more than a whisper and darted out. She sighed, wondering if Immanuel’s illness was more than just one of the body. All of the progress of the past two days was gone, but at least he hadn’t retreated behind the typewriter again. Eliza had nearly invited him to come with them for she feared leaving him alone after his rapid spiral into melancholy, but she knew he would refuse anyway.

As the steamer came to a stop, Eliza Hawthorne ran her eyes over the brick façade and empty window boxes before coming to rest on the wrought iron fence. Nothing on the homely exterior indicated that this house was where spirits and souls gathered to be spoken to, where men and women dipped below the veil of death to discover secrets and reunite loved ones for a brief moment. The address on the note Lord Rose sent matched the one on the house, but Eliza told the cabby to wait until they were safely ensconced inside before leaving. She wasn’t sure what she expected from a group of people who believed they could talk to ghosts, but she had assumed the Spiritualist society would have a spectral air rather than appearing as benign as any respectable middle class home. Emmeline flounced ahead and rang the bell, admiring her reflection in the brass numbers of the door as they waited. While her aunt came in her usual subdued, brown gown, Emmeline had donned her best new dress, which was fashioned from a rich violet taffeta, and reminded her of one that had been her mother’s favorite.

When the door swung open, she held her head high, straining to reach her aunt’s height. A plump, white-haired woman with a genial grin and grandmotherly eyes allowed them in and took their coats. The front hall of the Spiritualist society was bedecked in dark wood but brightened with floral wallpaper and matching rugs. The stained glass window on the landing depicted birds and butterflies in flight, and trailing on either side of the stairs were portraits of mediums and benefactors gazing down at visitors from their mosaic of frames. Women’s voices chattered softly somewhere beyond the hall, but Eliza could not make out what they were saying.

“Lord Rose is expecting you,” the housekeeper murmured as she raised the velvet curtain that cordoned off the front parlor from the rest of the house.

“Ah, Mrs. Hawthorne, Miss Jardine, welcome to the London Spiritualist Society,” Alastair Rose said as he stood behind a table set for tea. “What a pleasure it is to see you both. We never do get the chance to see each other outside of business matters, Mrs. Hawthorne.”

“Yes, but I so rarely require a medium. Lord Rose, you must send your brother our felicitations on his engagement. I saw the announcement in the morning paper.”

Lord Rose’s face stiffened, but he caught himself and grinned. “I am sure Alexander and Miss Waters will be quite happy together, especially since they will be moving into Eidolic Hall after the wedding.”

Eliza smiled but wasn’t certain if she liked the nobleman. During his rare visits to their home, he was confrontational and coarse, but today he actually seemed to play the part life had assigned to him. Maybe he did have a certain affection for her niece. Emmeline, who was apparently more intimately acquainted with him than the Hawthornes, seemed quite taken with him. She stared into his jacinth eyes and blushed each time he doled out tea or words of praise for her outfit or hat. Even her voice rose to meet Alastair’s questions, taking on a womanly ring while losing its quarrelsome dissonance with every reply.

“Lord Rose,” the doctor’s wife began as she set her tea aside, “I am curious as to what sort of education the Spiritualists have to offer Emmeline. You said her mother would want her to continue, but James and I have little idea as to what Madeline started.”

“The education Lady Jardine began was that of a spiritual nature. I trust that her intellectual education is more than taken care of in your capable hands, but she was raised a Spiritualist. As the daughter of a renowned medium, she is expected to follow in her mother’s footsteps if she is willing to,” he raised his gaze to meet the girl’s large, brown eyes, “embrace her gift.”

“I do!” Emmeline cried a little quicker and louder than she intended. “Mama said I have the same gift as she had, and I want to be as good as she was one day. I want to learn how to help people like she did.”

He continued without acknowledging the young woman’s outburst. “Some of our reasons for wanting to nurture Emmeline’s gifts are selfish. Ever since the Fox sisters admitted to being frauds, we have been trying to ensure that those with natural gifts are encouraged to use them. Emmeline and her mother come from a long line of spiritually precocious women. To begin with, I would like to test her ability to do readings if that is all right with you.”

Eliza Hawthorne nodded, and once they finished their tea and cakes, they were led up the stairs to the floor devoted to performing readings. Each bedroom had been converted into parlors with plenty of tables and chairs to accommodate group séances. They walked past three women huddled around an Ouija board as the planchette darted across the letters at an alarming speed. Going up another set of stairs, Lord Rose unlocked the solitary chamber at the top landing and ushered the women inside. The room had once been a small bedroom but now held only a few chairs, a chaise, and windows blocked off from daylight by heavy curtains.

“Miss Jardine, I would like you to take a seat on the chaise and clear your mind.” As the young woman left her aunt’s side and settled on the red, upholstered fainting couch, the nobleman drew a black, silk scarf from his pocket. “The object I am going to give you to read may be familiar to you, so I am going to blindfold you to make certain you are not influenced by the sight of it.”

Emmeline held her breath as a shiver passed over her at his touch. His hands grazed the back of her neck, setting every nerve on end. As he tied the blindfold, he was so close she could feel his breath graze her neck and smell the distinct spices of his preferred brand of tobacco. Her skin flushed and her pulse quickened at the thought of what he might do next.

“I want you to tell me what you see.”

Lord Rose peeled back her fingers and placed something into her palm. As she ran her fingers over the pointed, adamantine surface, the soft din of women’s voices from below the floorboards and Alastair’s heavy tread disappeared only to be replaced by the keening of women and men calling out over the crackling of flames. Across the blackness of the blindfold, her house with its mansard roof, portico, and window boxes rose between the trees, ablaze like a pyre.

“Where is my daughter? Has anyone seen Emmeline? Emmeline! Emmeline!”

“No, Lady Jardine, don’t!”

Madeline Jardine ripped her arm from the maid’s grasp and sprinted into the burning house, her crepe dress streaming around her. Flames burst through the windows, devouring the furniture while the walls stubbornly remained. Smoke poured from every orifice, burning her eyes and staining her face and dress with soot, but she pushed through the parlor and into the hall where she last saw her daughter. Lady Jardine’s eyes swept over the floor, searching for any sign of her only child as she tore open each closet and cupboard. She blinked and held her head as the world spun. It was as if the air had been sucked from the atmosphere only to be replaced by the stifling heat. Inching toward the balcony door, something stirred in the distance. Someone in red was standing near the trees only twenty yards away with a bundle in his arms, safe from the biting heat of the fire’s light. He raised his ember gaze from the girl’s lax features to the woman at the window.

“Emmeline!” she called as a wave of relief passed over her, but as Madeline locked eyes with the man, he turned away and disappeared between the oaks. “Wait! Emmeline! Bring her back!”

She tried to open the French door, but the lock had melted. Grabbing a smoldering ottoman, Lady Jardine tossed it into the glass. With the rush of night air, came an inferno. The flames swept in from the curtains and reared up until they engulfed the ceiling and carpet, catching the swath of purple crepe. The glass from the broken window sliced into her feet through her silken slippers, but it didn’t matter. Even with the intense heat creeping up her legs and back, the noblewoman pushed out into the autumnal air of the balcony and cried out for her daughter. The man continued his trek into the darkness as the flames climbed up her strands of ebony hair until her head was alight behind her spiked crown, but her byzantine eyes never left the man in red.

“Emmeline!”

As she exhaled, the vision was gone, and all that remained was the artificial void of the blindfold and the piece of metal. With a trembling hand, Emmeline tugged away the silk and sat up on the chaise. Her aunt and Lord Rose stared at her expectantly from their seats across the room, but she could not meet their gazes. In her hand was a charred spike inlaid with bits of jet. She closed her eyes against the burning and only to see the searing flames as they crept up her mother’s dress. One breath came a little quicker than she expected followed rapidly by another. Sobs poured out as Emmeline covered her face with the piece of her mother’s crown clutched in her hand and shielded her eyes. An arm wrapped around her shoulders and pulled her petite frame closer until it came to rest against a soft cheek. Emmeline looked up expecting to see Lord Rose when her eyes met the green-eyed gaze of Eliza Hawthorne. Her aunt rubbed her shoulders and hugged her to her breast as she wept with childlike abandon.

“What did you see?” Lord Rose asked flatly from his chair near the door.

Eliza glared up at him as she smoothed Emmeline’s dark locks from her face. “How can you ask her that when she is—”

“I saw mama,” Emmeline replied through tears as she straightened and stared down at the point of her crown. “I saw her at Headington Hill in the middle of a fire. She— she was looking for me, but she couldn’t find me.”

“Why would you make her see that? Why would you give her something like this to read?”

He drew near and put out his hand to retrieve the artifact. “It is hardest to read from someone who is so close to you, but she passed the test.”

“I want to keep it.” The girl held the piece near her heart and refused to meet his amber eyes. Him seeing how red hers were would be the final humiliation. “She was my mother, and this is from her crown.”

“Fine. Mrs. Hawthorne, I would like to work with Emmeline at least once a week. That way she will learn to do readings for others and hone her skills as a medium.” Seeing the twinge of betrayal in her eyes, he added, “Nothing will be as upsetting as this time. If I had known, I would not have given it to her. I expected her to see Lady Jardine during happier times.”

Emmeline looked up at her faltering aunt with pleading eyes for her answer.

“If that is what Emmeline wants and as long as she continues her studies at home, then I will allow her to continue.”

Alastair’s eyes glinted. Emmeline had done better than he expected. Her reading confirmed she still did not recognize him as her captor. If she had, he would have simply told her that he rescued her but lost her in the commotion. Leading the women back to the foyer, he smiled at his good fortune. Eliza Hawthorne proved to be much more cooperative than her husband, and if he could control the child, her aunt would fall in line. More importantly, Emmeline was a real medium, which was what the London Spiritualist Society was lacking, but even better, she was a suggestible one.

Chapter Sixteen:

Hesitation

When the doorbell rang, Immanuel darted down the steps but hesitated with his hand only inches from the knob. What if it was that man again? He had come once, and he could always come back. Immanuel pulled back the curtains beside the door and caught a glimpse of unmistakably red hair. With a relieved sigh, he stepped aside to allow Adam Fenice into the foyer. His companion’s eyes ran over Immanuel’s form, immediately noting his downcast gaze and wrinkled clothing. Something was amiss. He looked as he did outside the museum after he calmed down. The terror had passed, but now the guilt of fear remained in each crease and darkened feature. But what had scared him so this time?

“I received your letter when I arrived home from work and came as soon as I could. What did you want to talk about, Mr. Winter?” Adam asked as he followed him into the front parlor but heard not a single voice in the house apart from his own.

Immanuel stared past Adam’s head as his eyes stayed fixed on nothing but a blank spot on the wall. “I don’t know if I can talk about it now.”

“Whatever do you mean?”

“Inviting you here was a mistake. I’m sorry to have wasted your time, Mr. Fenice, but,” he drew in a breath and exhaled slowly before resolutely tightening his mouth into a straight line, “no one should hear what happened.”

“But why?”

The white of his ink-stained eye glistened. “Because it is too horrible.”

“Then, I must hear it.”

Immanuel’s eyes shifted onto Adam’s face and pierced behind his sockets. Holding him there, he probed for honesty, for the readiness to grasp the gravity of what had occurred, and for the understanding that wounds leave more than misaligned fissures of gnarled flesh. It didn’t take long to find them within Adam Fenice. He had already seen the scars on his soul. The intimate glimpse had occurred in the museum when reality had been ripped from Immanuel’s feeble grasp. He had not judged or pushed him back in line as the others might have. He led him outside, and while standing only inches away, he asked if he was all right. All Adam wanted was to know what was going on inside Immanuel’s mind, and his loyalty had finally gained him admittance. Immanuel’s gaze broke from Adam’s brow and roamed to the street that lay just beyond the pane. This was not a conversation for front parlors or drawing rooms.

“Let’s talk upstairs then.”

Adam followed Immanuel up the two flights of stairs and down the hall to his bedroom. The nightstand sat askew a few feet from the bare bed with the curtains behind it drawn against the afternoon sun. A solitary cushioned chair in the corner faced the wall, but as the redheaded man pulled it closer to Immanuel, he noticed the edges of a pillow and blanket peeking out from under the bed. His companion sighed as he took several sheets of paper off his dresser and studied them before dropping onto the edge of the mattress. Without looking up from the typed page, he pushed the bedding further under the bed-frame with his foot until he was certain Adam could no longer see it.

Immanuel swallowed hard. “How much did Mrs. Hawthorne tell you about what happened to me?”

“Just that you were—” Adam rubbed his wrist. “You were tortured.”

Immanuel smoothed the page he copied from the doctor’s records. He couldn’t say it. He couldn’t bear to relive all that he went through. To say it was to acknowledge all of the pain and humiliation during those two and a half months in hell. How could he have thought he would be able to tell Adam what happened? The man was staring at him, watching the beads of perspiration collect on his forehead. At least Mrs. Hawthorne had already told him the gist of it. Even if he couldn’t understand it first hand, Adam would know why it was so hard for him to speak of it. If the word barely came from his mouth, how could anyone expect him to be able to recount it?

“We do not have to speak of it if it upsets you.”

“I want to.” His eyes gleamed as he blinked away the burning behind his lids. “I have to, but I do not know how. Here, read this.”

Taking the papers from Immanuel’s trembling hand, Adam scanned James’s account of Immanuel’s injuries on the night he arrived. He had seen the bruise and long wound that bisected his features when he was ill and he knew of the pneumonia, but how he received the injuries was worse than he could have imagined. Bruises, broken ribs, and infections were spelled out in clinical detail. A dislocated jaw. Adam watched Immanuel chew on the edge of his lip. How could something like that even happen? The amount of brutality needed to fracture three ribs or break his eye socket was unfathomable. Covered in offal. He flipped to the next page and swallowed hard. On his back over his right shoulder blade are twelve perfectly circular burns, presumably caused by the application of a cigarette. There was a whole other page of his treatments, all laid out in gory detail. Midway down, he froze. Febrile seizure followed by cardiac failure. Death lasted roughly one minute.

Adam shut his eyes, banishing the image of Immanuel’s lifeless body, but the tremor in his voice remained as he asked, “Why did they do this to you?”

“I do not know.” Immanuel fell silent as his hand trailed to where the gold and silver necklace once was. Would Adam really believe what happened? At least he could tell the beginning. “This all started in August, you know. I was drawing plants for one of my classes the day I saw Emmeline fall into the Thames. When I pulled her out, she was dead.” The words tumbled out before he could stop them. “When I left Germany, my mother gave me a necklace that had been in our family for centuries and could be used if my life was in danger, or so she said. It had the instructions ‘mix with blood’ at the top, and when I saw her dead, I used my own blood. You will probably think me mad, but at the moment I gave her the elixir, my heart stopped. I felt it. I was certain I was going to die when suddenly her eyes opened and my heart began to beat normally again. I don’t know why they want it, but that potion my ancestors created was the reason I was kidnapped and tortured for two months. He wanted to know what it was made of, but I didn’t know. I don’t know.”

A gentle hand rested on his arm, and for the first time since they came upstairs, Immanuel raised his eyes to meet Adam’s wetted gaze. “But you escaped. That is what you need to remember. You are all right now.”

“I am not all right!” Immanuel leapt from the bed and stood before the dresser near the closed door. Holding either side of the cabinet, he stared into the mirror as he did every day, but rather than fixing his gaze on his hair or what lay behind him, he lingered on the face he scarcely recognized. “He altered me so wholly. Not only did he fracture my soul but my body too, and neither have healed properly. Look at what he did to me! I don’t even look like me anymore. In one blow, he broke my nose and shattered my eye, leaving me with this!” he cried as he pointed to the crack that passed from forehead to cheek, severing his eye. “He blotted out my vision, and I will never get it back.” Immanuel hung his head, his chest rocking with each ragged sob. “I don’t think I will ever stop being afraid now.”

Adam sprung to his feet and stood beside Immanuel as he dissolved into tears, afraid to touch him. Despite standing where his companion could not see him, he wrapped his arm around his shoulders, and Immanuel relinquished his hold on the dresser, letting his body sag against him. The bones of the German’s shoulders pressed into his companion’s chest as he walked him back to the edge of the bed and lowered him onto the mattress. As his cries tore into coughs and loose hyperventilating, Adam’s lightly patted his back and ran his hand over his shoulder blades and spine until the air finally returned to his lungs.

“I am here to listen, Immanuel. Tell me why you are afraid. Maybe— maybe I can help.”

He shook his head. “You cannot do anything. I thought I was free of him. I thought I would never see that man again, but he was in the house.” Staring up at Adam with pleading eyes, he continued, “Dr. Hawthorne knows him. He knows who he is and let him in the house.”

“Did you tell James?”

“No, I can’t. They are working with him, and Emmeline went to visit him today. If I tell, they will all be in danger. I cannot do that. I will always be under his control even if he never knows I am here. I just want to die. How can I live knowing he could be lurking around every corner?”

“Don’t say that.”

“You don’t understand. I have nothing to live for. I don’t know if I can go back to Oxford and continue my studies, and I can never go back to Germany. I have nothing. No plans, no prospects, nothing. I would be better off dead, but I don’t know if I could die even if I wanted to. He took everything from me. What do I have, Adam? What do I have?”

Without thinking, Adam held him by his arms. Immanuel stiffened in his grasp, but he refused to let go until he raised his gaze to meet his. “You have me. I want to help you. I would do anything to help you, but you will not tell me how.”

Immanuel stared into Adam’s soft, blue eyes as the pent up frustration flowed through his arms and seeped from his fingertips into the aether. He had never had someone care for him like that, but there he was only inches away. One hand released his arm and came up to his face to wipe away the moisture that clung to the point of his scar. Holding Adam’s eyes, the tears stopped flowing, but the heat from his companion’s body radiated out as Immanuel allowed himself to be drawn closer. When he closed his eyes, it was as if they were back on the ice again with the electricity coursing between them, and as he squeezed them shut against the sticky dew still clinging in the corners, Adam pressed his lips to his. A flush of vigor washed over them, infiltrating every cell of their bodies with the ebb and flow of their heartbeats. Drawing a breath in harmony, their bodies enmeshed as they sighed and deepened their hold. The warmth spreading within Immanuel’s breast chased away the fear and grief for his past life as he cupped the back of Adam’s head, lingering in the softness of his hair. With a final tremble of breath, Immanuel drew back with hooded eyes.

Adam Fenice’s eyes flew open, and he froze. His body had acted without his mind’s permission, yet his companion had not pushed him away. What had he done?

“I— I need to go,” he stammered as he ran his thumb and forefinger across his lower lip and dislodged his body from Immanuel’s slack grasp.

“Adam, Adam, wait! I can explain!”

Immanuel bounded down the steps after him, tripping over his feet when tears clouded his vision. “Please, let me explain.”

Adam shook his head, putting on his coat as he slipped out. “I have to go.”

Tears burned the backs of Immanuel’s eyes as he lingered at the threshold, watching Adam disappear into the bitter December gloom. He was about to shut the door when he spotted a pair of dark gloves lying on the side table. Darting back upstairs, he stuffed the slip with the Fenices’s address into his pocket and emerged onto Wimpole Street in one of James’s hand-me-down coats. Immanuel Winter looked toward the direction the redhead had gone when he disappeared and hoped he had headed home. He smoothed the paper on the front of his leg. Where was Baker Street? As he stood at the corner of Wimpole and Weymouth, he wished he had grabbed a map from the study. Studying the houses in either direction, he sighed.

“Excuse me, ma’am. Sir!” he called as he spun, trying to catch a passerby, but the citizens of London paid the man with the cracked face no heed. “I just want to know—”

“Are you in need of assistance?”

“Yes.” Immanuel turned to find a young man on a bicycle and wearing a Norfolk jacket regarding him with grey eyes and a crooked smile. “Do you know how to get to Baker Street?”

“Turn left. When you get to the second major intersection on Weymouth, turn right. You will need to take Paddington Street next, which will be the first intersection on your left. Follow that road until you hit Baker Street.”

He tried to commit the directions to memory but knew he would need to ask at least one more person for help along the way. “Thank you so much, sir.”

“You are welcome. My fiancée lives there, so I am well acquainted with Baker Street,” the stranger grinned as he pedaled away, but as Immanuel’s eyes followed him, he noted that one hand was of flesh while the other was of metal.

***

Standing outside of 124 Baker Street, Immanuel took a deep breath and checked the slip of paper Eliza wrote that morning for the eighth time. His heart pounded as he finally rang the doorbell and waited, hoping his friend wouldn’t slam the door in his face the moment he saw him on the porch. The door creaked open, and Immanuel blinked in disbelief as a female version of Adam stood on the other side. Her hair was cropped short and covering her legs was not a gown but a pair of dusty trousers. She wiped the sweat from her brow with a paint-splotched hand and stared up at him.

“May I help you?”

He opened his mouth but pulled out the pair of black gloves left back at Wimpole Street instead. “Is Mr. Fenice home? He forgot his gloves.”

Hadley studied his face, running her gaze over the smudge of brown in his left eye. “He just arrived home. Come in.” As she stepped out of the doorway to allow him to pass, she added, “You must be Immanuel Winter. Adam has told me so much about you. I’m Hadley, his sister.”

“It is a pleasure to make your acquaintance, Miss Fenice, but I do not want to keep you. I just wanted to drop these off.”

Noting the sag of sadness hanging at the edges of his features, she led him toward the stairs. “Adam is upstairs if you would like to speak to him.”

Her eyes saw past the man’s meager excuses as she ushered the blonde man to her brother’s room. Adam had come home only a few minutes earlier obviously upset, and she knew his friend’s arrival coupled with her brother’s inability to talk to her about what had transpired must have been connected. Hadley’s soft tread tapered away as she headed back to her studio, leaving the men alone. After taking only a few steps into the hallway, he could make out Adam sitting pensively at his desk, staring at the wall. Adam Fenice looked up with a start as his gaze fell upon the thin scientist gripping his best pair of gloves.

“You forgot these.” Immanuel tossed them onto his desk. Adam shifted in his seat before finally looking directly at him. “You kissed me, yet you left like I did something wrong. What did I do?”

“Nothing. You did not do anything. I should not have— I should not have done that. Let’s not mention it again. It should not have happened.”

“Stop.”

Adam met Immanuel’s gaze as it bore through his eyes again. Tears threatened to spill out again, rattling his form as he fought to hold them in.

“You said I would always have you. Don’t say anything to me you don’t mean. I am tired of being played with! Do you know why I had to leave Germany? I kissed another boy, and he panicked. He told his parents, and they went to the police. My uncle was caught doing the same thing, and he and his lover both went to jail. He died there from typhoid, and my mother couldn’t bear the thought of her only son sharing the same fate as her brother. She sent me to England before they could lock me up, and here I finally met someone who feels the same way I do. You do not see me as some abomination, yet you push me away because you cannot come to terms with your own feelings.” He paused as he thought for a moment. “Does your sister know?”

“Yes, and that is probably why she sent you up here.” Rubbing his wrist, he sighed. “I’m sorry I left so suddenly, but I have never acted on my impulses before.”

“Well, that explains it. Denying who you are is not going to make them go away. Believe me, I have tried.” Immanuel dropped his voice, letting each word come out slow and measured, “Adam, I want us both to be happy, and I believe you and I both feel a certain attraction. I want to be happy again, and I think if you allowed yourself to give in to your feelings, you would be happier, too. What I am saying is, I think a relationship would be good for both of us. That is, if you feel as I think you do.”

He hesitated. Never had he thought it would have been possible. That moment of freedom was the best thing he had felt in so long. Gently taking Immanuel’s hand, he clasped it between his own and brought it to his lips. “It is worth a try.”

Chapter Seventeen:

Tea and Tears

Eliza reclined by the hearth, book in hand and tea at her elbow. The soft flames flickered and reflected off the cabinets of curiosities, illuminating a cylinder housing a complete human spine and pelvis covered in nodules of nervous tissue. She looked up at the specimen fondly before returning to the pages of Frankenstein. Adam had brought it for Emmeline with the rest of the novels she requested, but after twenty pages, she had abandoned it for Austen. The doctor had forgotten the joy of reading fiction, but something about Shelley’s creation was tantalizingly off-putting when combined with her husband’s profession. Her eyes roved over the love-worn pages until the creaking of boards behind the chair roused her from the creature’s journey through the Alps. She expected to find her husband reminding her of the late hour but instead met the copper and blue gaze of Immanuel Winter as he stood in the doorway with his hands clasped behind his back.

“Is everything all right, Immanuel?”

He shook his head silently, but the heaviness of melancholy that clung to him that morning was gone by the time she and Emmeline arrived home. “Emmeline is crying.”

“Do you know why?” she asked as she tucked the book between the cushion and armrest and stiffly rose from her seat.

“I did not ask. I know she would prefer I not speak to her, and I did not want to make things worse.”

What could be wrong now? She sighed, assuming her tears were for some petty thing like a gown without enough lace or a slipper made of satin rather than silk. As Eliza reached the second landing, she caught a faint but tremulous mewl. Tiptoeing down the darkened hall, the girl’s soft, pitiable cries grew clearer. They were not the exaggerated cries of one who wanted to be discovered but those of pain which were stifled by the awareness that others may hear. Emmeline sat with her back to the door and her knees drawn to her chest under the white cotton of her nightgown as she stared into the breathing tinder of the hearth. Eliza Hawthorne paused in the doorway, watching her niece’s back quiver with sobs, and couldn’t help but feel compassion for the wayward girl for the second time in the same day. With a rap of her knuckle on the molding, Emmeline’s red rimmed, owl eyes gaped up at her. Upon seeing her aunt’s form silhouetted in the fire’s dying light, she pawed at her cheeks with balled hands and fought the pull of hiccupped cries that refused to be smothered by pride.

“Emmeline, what is the matter?”

“I’m fine,” she snapped as another wet whimper leapt from her throat.

“You can lie to me,” the redhead said, softening her tone as she sat at the foot of the bed behind the girl, “but your tears can’t. Why not tell me what the matter is instead of keeping it to yourself?”

“I don’t want to. You wouldn’t understand.”

Eliza’s green eyes fell on the glinting surface of blue enamel petals and diamond faces between the orphaned child’s fingers. “I think I would. You know, I lost my mother when I was thirteen. I know how hard it is to lose your best friend. I cried every day for months because I missed her.”

With a sniff, Emmeline raised her head, never taking her eyes off the hearth. “How did you get over it?”

“I didn’t. You never get over losing your mother, but my father helped me a lot. Some people never talk about their loved ones after they die, but my father spoke about her all the time. At first, we would sit and cry together about some memory we shared of her, and it hurt more than anything to think of her. After a few months, I realized I was smiling when I thought about her laughing or singing. I still missed her terribly, but the pain lessened the more I talked about her.”

“Did you like mama?”

“Yes, we did not always see eye to eye, but I think she and I were too much alike. We were both hardheaded women desperately trying to be independent in a society that wants us to be anything but.” The doctor laughed to herself as her mind wandered ten years back to her wedding. “I thought Madeline hated me. The Hawthorne women played by the rules to get some semblance of freedom while I went to a university to become a doctor and inadvertently stole their only brother from the upper class life his father had envisioned for him. At our wedding, your mother was the first one to truly welcome me to the family.”

Squeezing the jewelry and shard of jet in her palms, Emmeline clenched her eyes shut against the image of her mother in flames. “I thought— I thought mama would be there for me forever.”

The words tumbled out as her body shook with sobs. Mama would never be there anymore. She would never come back no matter how hard she wished or prayed, no matter how hard she pretended Samhain never happened. Gentle hands wrapped around her shoulders and enveloped her until her face was pressed into the skirt of her aunt’s gown. Artful fingers as skilled in science as in tenderness combed through her hair and smoothed the inky tendrils away from the wetness around her eyes.

“Mama will never see me presented into society or be there on my wedding day. She won’t be there when I have children. Who will I go to when I need help?” the girl cried, her voice strained and weak under the enormity of her mother’s absence. “It’s all my fault. If she hadn’t gone back into the house to find me, she never would have died!”

Eliza gently shushed her niece. “It’s not your fault, Emmeline. Someone set the fire and kidnapped you, and your mother reacted as any woman who cannot find her child would. Her love for you was incalculable.”

“I wish she didn’t love me so much. Then, she might still be here.” The room fell silent as Emmeline closed her eyes against her aunt’s lap. If she concentrated, she could smell the sweet perfume in her mother’s boudoir and feel the plush Turkish carpet under her naked toes, but she couldn’t picture her alive or peaceful. Her face was already fading. “These bits of treasure are all I have of her now. I have nothing to remember her by, nothing. Why did she have to die? I’m— I’m so afraid I will forget her.”

She gently wiped the tears from her niece’s cheeks and whispered, “I will be right back. I think I have something that may help.”

Dislodging her body from under Emmeline’s head, Eliza Hawthorne descended to the floor occupied by her bedroom and the study. Through the crack in the door, she could make out her husband fast asleep with his face pressed into his pillow and his glasses resting on the nightstand. The study stood open on the other side of the hall, but as she crept inside, she swore she heard the shriek of a kettle. Eliza dug through the cabinets below the bookshelves until her hands fell upon a bound parcel of photographs varying in size and subject. At the bottom of the pile among the larger pictures was a group of dark-eyed, dark-haired children. She smiled at the boy who sat on the edge of the portrait looking off into the distance as if he did not belong with the four older girls. As she carried it back to Emmeline’s bedroom, she chuckled. Poor little James probably looked so lost because they had taken away his glasses and he had no way of knowing where the camera was. When she came in, the lamps were on and her niece was sitting on her bed blowing her nose and staring at her reddened reflection in the mirror with a deep frown.

Eliza handed her the photograph as she lowered herself onto the edge of the mattress. “Your mother was only twenty in this picture.”

“She was beautiful,” she replied, immediately recognizing her mother’s byzantine eyes and knowing gaze amid the four familiarly featured women. Madeline Hawthorne, the very recent Lady Jardine at the time of the photograph, stared directly at the camera and beyond into her daughter’s eyes. “Uncle James looks so young.”

“He was only twelve at the time.”

Emmeline had only begun mastering her emotions when the sight of her mother’s youthful visage crumbled her resistance again. Dry, sticky tears irritated her eyes as she stared into the face the father she had never known fell in love with. Sweat and the flush of feeling flooded her cheeks as Emmeline drew in a constrained breath. Her mother was the only one in the photograph who would never age. She would be forever frozen in time, never to deteriorate or diminish with age, but at what cost?

A light knocking on the door broke the girl’s tearful reverie as she clutched the picture to her chest. He was in the doorway carrying a tea tray. Her eyes roamed up to the liver scar across his cheek, the lasting reminder of her twenty-two days in captivity. Every time she looked at him, the inhuman howls of pain surfaced in her memory followed by the reverberating smacks of flesh being struck and the pleadings for mercy half indecipherable and the rest horrifically comprehensible. She had moved past all that now. She was becoming a medium. She wasn’t stuck there helplessly counting the days by his lamentations.

“I thought you could use some tea,” he began softly as he waited to be allowed in.

“How thou—”

“Go away!” Emmeline spat as she spun her body toward the wall, blocking him from seeing her face.

Eliza gaped at her niece but quickly turned to Immanuel who stared back uncertainly. “That was very thoughtful of you, Immanuel. Thank you.”

He nodded stiffly and placed the tray on the dresser a little harder than he intended, rattling the porcelain cups and pot. “Good night, Mrs. Hawthorne.” His tone sharpened as he added, “Miss Jardine.”

When the door across the hall thudded shut, Eliza Hawthorne’s steeled eyes fell on the sulking child beside her. “What is the matter with you? Have you no manners? Immanuel is nothing but kind to you, yet you treat him worse than you would a dog. I demand to know why.”

“I hate him.” She kept her head on her knees as she turned the picture of her mother her siblings away from her. “I hate that he makes me think of that place.”

Eliza sighed as she poured herself a cup of tea. “That is not his fault, Emmeline. He is as much a victim as you are if not more. You should be blaming the men who took you and Immanuel, not him.”

She would if she knew who they were, but the only tangible proof was etched on his face.

“You should talk to him. The two of you are the only ones who can understand what the other has gone through. Maybe you can help each other heal by talking about it.”

Emmeline feared that what he would tell her would be worse than anything her imagination could create, and for that, she remained silent.

“I want you to apologize to him in the morning, Emmeline.”

“I will,” she croaked as she laid the photograph on the nightstand and watched her aunt move to leave. “Aunt Eliza, am I a bad person?”

The redhead lingered on the threshold. “No, you are not a bad person. You are a child who has not yet learned compassion.”

“But bad people are selfish, and mama always told me I was terribly selfish.”

Looking over her shoulder, she saw that the girl’s wide eyes were diminished by striations of pained red and her mouth was drawn bitterly straight with the realization of her guilt. “Work on it then and better yourself. That is all I have ever wanted for you, Emmeline.”

When the other woman was out of sight, Emmeline crossed the boards to the pot of tea and poured a cup. Even if the sight of him upset her, she couldn’t let tea go to waste. With only a sip, she knew it was exactly as she liked it. It was a light hyson tea, and each mouthful tasted like a cup of flowers. Her mother would always tell her it tasted like lawn clippings, yet the man down the hall had made it for her without prompting. Aunt Eliza was right, he had gone through it with her, yet he didn’t regard her as a disdainful reminder of the past. As she drained the teapot one cup at a time, she knew she had to keep her word. She would apologize to him in the morning. He at least deserved that.

Chapter Eighteen:

The Gentleman Devil

Miss Katherine Waters watched as her lady’s maid removed her coiffure and brushed away the creases until her hair tumbled down in loose chestnut ringlets. She had finally gotten the chance to wear the apricot dinner dress her father had bought for her in France, and even if it was a little big on her, the night had gone exactly as planned.

“How did the dinner go, milady?” Kirby asked, her dark eyes crinkling into a smile as she unbuttoned the back of her mistress’s gown.

“Splendidly. Father adores Alexander just as I thought he would. The idea that one day I will be the Marchioness of Montagu only makes him love him more. Who wouldn’t love Alexander though? He is more than I deserve.” Her soft, hazel eyes fell upon the purple-tinged diamond ring that had once been his mother’s. “You will come with me to Eidolic Hall, won’t you, Kirby?”

“Yes, ma’am, as long as Lord and Lady Waters will allow it.”

“Of course they will.” She paused as the dumpy maid helped her step out of the gown and slip her camisole and petticoat off. Miss Waters smiled as she gazed at her reflection in the vanity. The corset cinched in her already narrow waist until she could nearly wrap her hands around her middle. Her limbs and chest were thin but gradually filling out now that her past ills were behind her with the aid of Alexander’s unwavering support. “Mother has her own lady’s maid, but I will still need one after I am married.”

The maid tugged the strings of her corset until, with a sigh, the boning’s grip loosened, allowing her body to unfold and relax for the first time all day. As she stood in only her chemise and bloomers, she raised her eyes to the darkened window on the other side of her bed with a start. For a second, she was certain there had been a grimacing, grinning face peering in, but that was impossible. No, her room was on third floor. Her doctors always told her she was susceptible to becoming hysterical when she was overly tired, and that must have been it. With an exchange and flutter of fabric, she was in her nightclothes, tucking her silk dressing gown close as Kirby tidied up her toilette before slipping out for the night.

Miss Waters lingered in the stillness, listening to the wind lash against the windowpane. When she was certain she was the last one awake, she tiptoed to the dresser at the far end of the room and soundless slid open the bottom-most drawer. Shaking the lid off the box, she drew out its precious cargo of lace and silk. Her wedding dress had only arrived a few days before, but every time she was in the room, she found herself staring at it and lovingly stroking the fine fabric. Her mother would think her foolish for being so infatuated with something she wouldn’t wear for months, but she did love Alexander Rose. He would make her life better.

A steamer horn blared behind her, and she dropped the bridal gown as she flinched. Behind the bed curtains, the drapes danced in front of the open window. Katherine frowned as she tucked the dress back into its casket and crossed the vacant room. Staring out into the night, she saw nothing but the iron filigree of the decorative balcony rail just beyond her reach. She smiled to herself. Did she really expect to find a face glaring back at her? As she shut the window against the winter dampness, the murky tang of tobacco ash blew across her nose in a long puff. Her body froze before her eyes ever fell upon the massive figure obscured between the bed curtains and the window’s drapes. Katherine Waters hesitantly raised her gaze to meet the creature’s saffron eyes, which glowed in the shadows behind his molded leather mask.

Her throat tightened, refusing to form a sound, as she stepped back. The monster’s unnaturally long legs terminated in a metal, hoof-like pad, but as it stalked her, it moved with the controlled, rolling gait of a panther. The humanoid beast was nearly seven feet tall with elongated metal nails at the ends of its fingers, which caught the dying light of the fire as they flexed and reached as if to snatch her. His body was clothed in black but peeking from beneath his cloak were jutting brass ribs that covered empty yet opaline lungs. As her back collided with the oaken poster of her bed, Katherine stared into his face. While the mouth and chin were of a man, the top was that of a sharp-featured demon with curled horns. Had the devil finally come to collect her sullied soul?

“God, help me.”

“God has no business here, Kitty.”

Kitty. Only one person called her that. “Alastair?”

“Ah, you recognize your devil,” he drawled as he slipped a claw into the knot of her dressing gown. “At least that is what you called me the last time we were together. It suits me, doesn’t it, Kitty?”

She shrunk from his probing fingers but was halted by the unforgiving surface of the bedpost. “Touch me, and I swear I will scream.”

“By the time they get in here, I will be long gone. When you start babbling on about devils and men in masks coming through the window, do you think they will believe you? If you scream, you will be sent back to the doctors.”

“What do you want, Alastair?”

A cold grin passed his lips, chilling Kitty to her core. “To see you, of course. How could I not congratulate you on your brilliant maneuver? You were able to seduce both brothers.” With barely a tug, the robe fell open, revealing her gossamer nightgown and the pale pink flesh hidden beneath it. “But Alexander will never enjoy your company as much as I have. Is he aware that he is engaged to a fallen woman?”

“Yes,” Kitty snapped as she swatted at his hand, “he knows it all, and he loves me anyway. You soiled my reputation, but your brother is willing to make it right, which is better than anything you did.”

“Any soiling of your reputation was done by you, Kitty, not me. You are the weak one. You couldn’t resist,” he dropped his voice as his body brushed hers, “but you enjoyed every moment of it until you got caught.”

Her hazel eyes glowed with rage. “I hate you. You ruined my life.”

“You hate me?” The devil feigned surprise with his carefully cultured mask of innocence. “I should hate you. I am the one who was thrown over for my own brother. You could not bear to leave the family, but you could not stand to be with the one who couldn’t bring you prestige.”

“That is not why I am marrying Alexander. I love him. You would not understand that, Alastair. You will never understand what love actually means. Your brother treats me like a lady and not a harlot.”

The anger climbed up his veins as he loomed over her, waiting for the perfect moment to strike. “You are worse than a harlot, Kitty. Harlots know what they are. You pretend to be a lady, a future marchioness, but you are selling yourself for a title. You chose my brother,” he spat as his fingers contracted near the trigger of the brass and leather gauntlet, “because he is the first born, the only one who matters. I was merely a means to have him come in and rescue you.”

The young woman’s breast trembled as the words fought their way to the surface. No matter what he was, man or devil, he would not speak to her that way. “I didn’t leave you for money. I left because you nearly drove me mad! Your constant talking and touching made me sick. You are the one who sent me to the doctors, you drove me to starvation! Six months with you made me pray for death, and your brother was willing to do what was right when you wouldn’t! Alexander isn’t a coward.”

His jaw clenched and his lip curled into a sneer as she stared up at him in defiance.

“He isn’t a freak like you!”

“Good bye, Kitty,” Alastair hissed as he plunged the metal fangs at the end of his fingers into the woman’s fragile throat.

Her eyes widened as he squeezed the trigger, flooding her frail body with current. The prismatic brew under his ribs glowed as Kitty Waters’ body buckled and struggled to break free from unseen binds. When her hazel eyes rolled back in their sockets, the machine pulled the last of the energy from her body and deposited it into the confines of a quartz jar. With a final convulsion, her head fell back and all that held her standing was the bed frame and the three metal tines skewered into her neck. Alastair pivoted the woman’s body until it was resting on top of the bed and carefully dislodged the needles from her flesh. A minute trickle of blood escaped the wounds but stopped before it reached her pillow. As he slung her legs onto the bed, he noticed the purple gem on her ring finger. He yanked it from her boney finger, leaving pinpricks of blood on her hand from each of his metal nails. Taking the vase of flowers from her bedside table, he threw the thick porcelain to the floor with a clatter and waited at the window. Below him voices murmured and moved up the stairs, so he lit a cigarette and slid open the pane.

“Miss Waters! Miss Waters, is everything all right?” When the maid didn’t receive an answer, she cracked open the door. Her eyes fell upon the beast at the window, looming over her mistress like an incubus. A fog of smoke leaked from his lips and nose as his blazing eyes met hers. Finally, her gaze travelled to her Miss Waters, who lay crumpled on the bedcovers with her silk robe and hair fanned around her. A scream rose from her throat, and the creature slipped out and bounded down London’s streets, disappearing into the misty gloom.

Chapter Nineteen:

Murder in Mayfair

It had been a very peculiar week for Immanuel Winter. Not only had he entered into a relationship with a man whom he could trust and maybe even love, but he received an apology from Emmeline Jardine, which he was fairly certain was the first nice thing she willingly said to him since they arrived at Wimpole Street. Now, he was being roused in the middle of the night by Dr. Hawthorne to accompany him somewhere, but he was too drowsy at the time to remember where. He rubbed his eyes and laid his head against the shadowy interior of the steamer. The brim of his top hat dug into the back of his head and fell over his eyes. When did he put that on? He ran his hand down the front of his jacket and waistcoat to confirm he was actually dressed, and thankfully, he was. Sitting beside him was Dr. Hawthorne with his Gladstone bag at his feet and a leather-bound ledger on his lap. Behind his glasses, his mind had retreated to its laboratorial recesses and begun playing out scenarios from the little he gleaned from the driver who came knocking at two in the morning.

Indistinguishable houses blurred past the deadened portion of Immanuel’s vision. As they rounded another corner, one house stood alight. Six black and grey police steamers huddled outside the cream bricked building with its red door and eye-like windows, which seemed to blink through their iron lashes as someone paced within. A growing throng of men lingered outside the door, clambering for information and straining to peer through the slits between the lower most drapes despite the late hour. A stalwart constable stood guard at the door, jutting his potbelly to block any reporters who dared to intrude upon the professionals inside, but when James’s head poked from the cab, the policeman’s eyes brightened and he allowed the doctor and his companion passage. The shabby reporters crushed against them, crying for information, and tried to follow the two men into the empty foyer. While the constable shoved the men back with a wave of his nightstick, Immanuel and doctor darted inside.

The gilded and marble foyer stood desolate, but the faint creaks and cries from above hinted at the presence of the men who had come from the Scotland Yard steamers. As Immanuel followed Dr. Hawthorne up the steps, voices permeated the layers of plaster and paneling. The door to a darkened parlor stood open, revealing a woman lying prone on a divan. An equine-featured gentleman with red-rimmed, hooded eyes held her hand between his as she mumbled under sedated breaths. Immanuel averted his gaze. It was not his place to intrude upon these people in their hour of grief. How was Dr. Hawthorne able to barge right in and mount the steps as if he lived there?

Even if he could not see the constabulary, he could hear their authoritative tones as they interrogated those left in the house. Only when they reached the uppermost floor did Immanuel spot the lumbering drones of Scotland Yard bumbling through the townhouse. They buzzed in and out of empty rooms and milled in the halls to exchange information and instructions, but upon seeing the funereal figure, silence fell over the men as they parted to allow him passage. Death had entered, instinctively drawn toward the solitary door at the end of the hall.

Immanuel shifted uncomfortably under the men’s dark, probing gazes at his back. Could they see the sins he committed written on his soul? There was a fugitive in their midst, a foreigner with whom they could never empathize. He was guilty and rightly so, though not justly. How could he be punished so severely for something beyond his control? The crime had been sanctified by men centuries ago who lacked empathy and sought only to dominate and demoralize the supposed heathens. No, they could not dominate him anymore. Men like Lord Rose, whose cruelty knew no bounds, would never control him again. His need for and desire to express his love was no concern of those who had ever only cultivated hate. They would think him foolish for repeating what nearly sent him to prison in Germany, but Adam was worth it and so was he.

As James Hawthorne stepped out of his line of vision, Immanuel froze. Nestled between the four great oaken trunks was a maiden. Her chestnut curls cascaded across the pillow and spilled over the lace collar of her gauzy gown and silk robe, which lay torn open at her sides. A few detectives stared out into the pluvial blackness of the balcony while others quietly scratched information into pads of paper, oblivious to the woman with her eyes shut in repose and her limbs lax against the coverlet. A lump formed in Immanuel’s throat as his eyes roamed over her scratched hands and ashen lips. There had been bodies at Oxford or beneath thirty-six Wimpole Street, but they had always existed in a marmoreal vacuum. This woman was the daughter of the people only a floor below who clung to each other in inexpressible grief. Only a few hours ago, she had a life of her own, and this room with its vanity, tapestried canopy bed, and shattered porcelain vase of amaryllises had been hers. In her bedroom, she was still someone.

“You have a helper now, Dr. Hawthorne?” one of the detectives in a dark suit asked, his mustache and muttonchops wriggling with each grumbled word.

“For now. Inspector Kemp, Immanuel Winter.”

Immanuel was about to proffer his hand when he realized the detective had not even looked up from the shards of porcelain on the damp rug.

The coroner stepped over the scattered flowers and leaned close to the inspector as his eyes traveled over the other men in the room. Their uniforms were too pressed, too clean for everyday wear. “Why are the queen’s men here masquerading as police?”

“Ever since Jack the Ripper, the queen likes to investigate the murder of any woman if the killer is not obvious,” Inspector Kemp murmured.

“So who was she?”

“Her name was Katherine Waters, daughter of Sir Roland Waters, fiancée of the Marquess of Montagu. She was found dead by her maid about two hours ago. The maid has been blubbering on about Spring-heeled Jack since we got here. Do you think you could give her a sedative before you leave?”

The doctor glanced up to see Immanuel jotting down every word. “Spring-heeled Jack? Why would she bring that up?”

“Apparently, the suspect was wearing a mask, breathed smoke, jumped from the balcony, and bounded down the street with preternatural agility. Hysteria, I say.”

James stepped closer to the woman’s bedside and carefully turned her stiffening neck, brushing back her mane of curls to reveal a triad of pricks only an inch from her carotid artery. The very edges of the wounds were singed and pinkened, but the blood that dripped from them was negligible. Whatever killed her had caused that wound. The doctor didn’t want to inspect her body under her night clothes with all the officers around, so he took each of her limbs in turn and inspected them. All were thin but unblemished save for her left hand, which had five straight lacerations, four on the proximal edge of her palm and one slightly longer one on the distal edge.

Dr. Hawthorne stared down at the pale void on her left ring finger. “Kemp, where is her engagement ring?”

“What ring?”

“Precisely. Look, there is nothing on either hand. The murderer must have pulled it off. That would explain the wound pattern on her hand.”

“Robbery?” Inspector Kemp scoffed as he propped open the dead woman’s jewelry box on the vanity. “Why would they leave all this behind and take the ring? This whole thing makes no sense. He kills her and steals her ring but leaves her jewelry. He rips open her dressing gown but doesn’t go any further. Then, he breaks the vase and waits to be seen when he could have escaped without notice. I just don’t understand. All I know is, I don’t want another Ripper, James, and if this Spring-heeled Jack nonsense gets to the press, we will have mass hysteria again. Do you have any idea how she was killed? It doesn’t look nearly as gruesome as Ripper. Probably a lover.”

Dr. Hawthorne shook his head. “I will need to get her back to the lab for further—”

“Where is she?” an unseen baritone boomed through the hall. “Where is Katherine? Let me see her! Unhand me!”

Two stout constables tried to hold the enraged man back as he hurtled into the room, shaking the smaller officer from his arm as if he was a child. Immanuel’s breath quickened at the sight of the man’s face, but it subsided as his gaze traveled to his once golden hair that had faded to a dull brass and his light brown eyes flecked with orange that were shaped exactly like his brother’s. The gentleman was nearly a decade older than Alastair Rose and slighter but lacked none of his strength as he ripped his elbow from the remaining guard’s grasp and leveled it at his face.

“Lord Montagu, Katherine Waters is dead,” James Hawthorne said as he gingerly laid her arms across her stomach.

Kemp and the other investigators turned to the Coroner to the Queen at his abrupt tone. Lord Montagu froze as his mouth fell open and his eyes moved past the detectives to Katherine’s lifeless form. It was true; his fiancée was dead.

“Oh, God, Katherine,” he moaned as his hand migrated toward his mouth but dropped as he stepped toward the bed.

Kemp edged to block his path but James raised his hand to stop him. The marquess moved blindly to Katherine’s side as he stared down at her graceful limbs and porcelain skin. Even in death, she was beautiful. As he knelt at her side and touched the cold flesh of her cheek, his legs gave way, and he folded to the floor beside the nightstand.

He shook his head, never taking his eyes from her pale lips. “How could this happen? She was only three-and-twenty. How could she die? What did she die of? She was not ill at dinner.”

“She was murdered, Lord Montagu.”

When the nobleman’s head whipped around to meet Dr. Hawthorne’s gaze with blazing eyes, Immanuel instinctively took a step back. “Murdered? By whom?”

“We do not know yet, sir. Did Miss Waters have any enemies?”

“No,” he replied as the fire died in his eyes upon seeing her again, “none. Everyone loved her. She was an angel, my angel.” He drew in a ragged breath at the holes torn into her throat and the scratches across her hand before bellowing, “Find who did it! Find who did it or I will!”

Inspector Kemp pushed past the doctor. “Sir, we are trying to do that, but we are going to need your full cooperation—”

“I know who did it.” Standing in the on the threshold was Miss Waters’ maid with a flushed face and pained eyes. She crinkled and wrung her handkerchief between her water-chapped hands as every man’s gaze fell upon her. “It was Spring-heeled Jack, sir. I saw him with my own eyes. You all think me hysterical, but I saw him. Spring-heeled Jack killed Miss Waters, Lord Montagu. I know it was him. Please, please believe me.”

“I told you, you should have given her a sedative,” Kemp whispered into James’s ear.

***

Immanuel let out a slow, deep breath as he kept his eyes locked on the tin ceiling of the basement laboratory. With each exhalation and swallow, he was able to temporarily stave off the caustic bile threatening to surge from his throat. Katherine Waters lay on the doctor’s table exposed, but he didn’t want to look at her. After seeing her in her room surrounded by her tapestried bed and pink silk robe, he couldn’t bear to watch her be sliced open and her organs heaped onto a scale like offal at a butcher’s. To avoid witnessing her defilement, he kept her pale form in the filmy portion of his vision as he scribbled down the measurements and observations called out by Dr. Hawthorne.

James hesitated when his assistant’s face turned green before returning to an unnatural pallor. “Immanuel, could you lend me a hand? I need you to hold her head steady while I inspect the wound.”

Refusing to let the doctor know the extent of his nausea, Immanuel laid the ledger down and put his hand on the dead woman’s forehead. Her icy flesh melded with his palm, but no vision of her room or murderer invaded his eyes. Immanuel removed his hand as if readjusting its position and touched her again while clearing his mind, yet the images refused to flow. How odd, he thought as the doctor probed and measured the minute holes on the curve of her neck. What was it about Miss Waters that set her apart from the walrus or the dignitary? Could it be because she was a woman? Until now, he had avoided peering at her naked flesh as he had never seen a woman’s body before except in statues and paintings at the Neues Museum or drawings in textbooks. He let his gaze run over the shallow mounds of her breasts, avoiding the scalpel-hewn cleft as he took in her graceful arms and flat, if not concave, belly. Was this how Adam felt when he saw a woman? He felt nothing, except pity for her untimely loss and the suffering of her parents.

“Do you know what killed her, Dr. Hawthorne?”

He pushed on the cords of her neck near the wound with his thumb. “The injury on her hand is post-mortem while the neck wound is peri-mortem. There are no obvious signs of internal damage. We will not know for certain until I have run the toxicology analyses, but I think she was electrocuted.” When the younger man raised a blonde brow in confusion, he continued, “Wounds from electricity often leave burns where the current entered, and each of the three cuts are surrounded by a ring of slightly singed skin. The muscles around it are also prematurely in rigor, which is common in electrocutions. Whoever killed Miss Waters had some sort of device that dispatched enough of a current to stop her heart.”

Immanuel swallowed hard. “What could do that?”

“I haven’t the foggiest, but I am sure Scotland Yard will figure it out in due time.” He stepped back and sighed. “As soon as you have written down my findings, I would like you to type up the report, so I can send it off to Inspector Kemp as soon as possible.”

With a nod, he abandoned his station at Miss Waters’ head and wrote down the coroner’s tentative conclusion. Never was he so happy to escape the Hawthornes’ cellar. As he mounted the last of the steps and threw open the door in the kitchen, Immanuel froze. His eyes met the dark gaze of Emmeline Jardine as she nibbled at a piece of toast while the morning newspaper sat propped against the salt shaker.

“Is Katherine Waters down there?” she asked, never taking her eyes off him.

Immanuel bit the inside of his lip as the words refused to come.

“Well? Is she?”

“How did you know?”

The young woman folded the paper with a flourish and tossed it across the table towards him. The front page headline read, Socialite Slain by Spring-heeled Jack, and was followed by an etching of the creature as seen by her maid. “All the racket you and my uncle made woke me up. He is the Coroner to the Queen, you know, and Katherine is from a noble family. It only makes sense that he would take her case.”

“Did you know her?” he asked, shifting and tugging at his collar.

She glared at him as she struck her soft boiled egg with her knife. “Yes, I know her— I knew her.”

When she began to saw the head off the egg, he knew their conversation had come to an end. As Immanuel shuffled into the foyer, his eyes burned from the mid-morning sun as it blazed through the front windows of thirty-six Wimpole Street. He turned his back to morning and trudged towards the dim sanctuary of James’s study. Dropping into the wooden chair behind the typewriter, he sighed. Sleep would have to wait until he finished. Immanuel opened the ledger, loaded the paper into the machine, and stopped as his gaze fell on the skeleton wearing the derby on the other side of the room. The skeleton was petite, standing no more than five and a half feet, with a flared, wide pelvis. It was a she.

Leaving the report behind, Immanuel laid his hand on the skull’s soft brow. His sightless eyes dilated as he was transported to the bleak, grey walls of a prison. He looked out from the gallows at the high walls and small crowd of wardens below as the frayed cord scratched his neck, waiting for the moment when— Immanuel drew back with a start. No, being female was not the problem.

Chapter Twenty:

Promise and Disappointment

Adam Fenice straightened his tie and smoothed his teal vest under his coat before grasping the mandible of his cousin’s doorknocker. The smile refused to leave his lips, but when he caught his toothy reflection in the mirrored surface of the knocker’s forehead, he smothered his mirth back to an acceptable level. He was dying to tell Immanuel his news, but as he waited on the steps, he recalled how not so long ago Immanuel had been closer to death than he had ever seen another being. For over two weeks, he had watched him progress from an invalid to a prospective partner, and while he was still haunted by the ghost of his attacker, he admired him for his strength. It had taken a lot to admit he was afraid.

He was about to push the doorbell when the front door creaked open, and a haggard Immanuel Winter leaned against the threshold for support. He rubbed his hooded eyes with his knuckles before feebly attempting to smooth down his curls and rumpled shirt, which had come unbuttoned at the top and hung on his thin frame without a vest or jacket. Upon seeing Adam, his tired eyes lit up.

“Are you ill? You look positively dreadful!” Adam cried as he came into the foyer and quickly shut the door behind him to prevent the sleety chill from worsening his friend’s condition.

“Ich habe nicht gut geschlafen,” he yawned but caught his slip back into German. “Sorry, I did not sleep well last night. Dr. Hawthorne was called out to a murder scene in the middle of the night, and he brought me along. I have only had about two hours sleep since.”

“If I woke you up, Immanuel, I can come back later.”

He caught Adam’s arm. “No, stay. I’m happy to see you. How have you been? I have not seen you in nearly a week.” Immanuel paused at the parlor door. “Would you like me to put on some tea?”

“Thank you, but I cannot stay long.”

His companion’s smile drooped to a lopsided frown as he whispered, “No one is home. Mrs. Hawthorne and Miss Jardine went to the Spiritualist society, and Dr. Hawthorne is at Scotland Yard.”

Adam reached up and tugged Immanuel’s tie back into place before smoothing his collar. “It isn’t that.”

Immanuel wanted to tell him not to bother with his clothing as he planned to return to bed, but the occasional brush of Adam’s fingertips against his neck arrested his protests.

“I promised my sister that I would help her sort through some invitations and linens her future mother-in-law sent over for her to look at. I came over because my boss gave me two tickets to La Basoche at the Royal English Opera House since he cannot make it. I do not know if you like opera, but I was wondering if you would like to accompany me.”

“I would love to,” he replied with the same grin that had appeared after they crashed on the ice.

“Good.” Adam’s cheeks burned until they nearly matched his hair. “I will come by Friday evening at eight to collect you.”

As his redheaded companion tried to escape with his answer, Immanuel laid his hand on his shoulder. “Could you stop by a little earlier? I want to take you out to dinner with the money I earned from typing up all those autopsy reports for Dr. Hawthorne. Then we could have some time to talk.” Immanuel laced his fingers through Adam’s loosening grasp and brought his hand to his lips. “How does one dress for the opera?”

He glanced over his shoulder to make certain no one was at the door or window peering in and stammered, “Form— formally. If James has nothing suitable for you to use, I will let you borrow some of mine. My sister always jokes that my share of the profits is my clothing allowance.”

Swallowing hard he raised his gaze to meet Immanuel’s bichrome eyes. His iceberg blue irises drew him in while the tinge of tragic brown urged him to stay. Hadley wouldn’t mind if he was late. She would just pick something at random if Lady Dorset pressed her for an answer that night. He knew she only wanted his opinion because her mother-in-law liked him and because he could tell the difference between cream and ivory. Ardor and panic from twenty-four years of hiding his proscribed desires sent his heart thundering up his throat. He could stay, but what if someone saw? Would anyone notice how long he was there alone with him? He wanted to. He really wanted to, but the voices of his long-dead parents, his boss, and the queen echoed through his mind, forbidding his thoughts. One day they will be dead, and I will still be here as unhappy as I ever was.

He threw his arms around Immanuel’s back, drawing him closer until his companion’s body was flat against his own. A soft gasp escaped Immanuel’s lips but was quickly silenced by Adam’s mouth. Letting his weight fall against the front door, Adam barred the outside world from intruding upon his moment of freedom. His body hummed as his fingers trailed into Immanuel’s loose curls. Caught off guard by the sudden embrace, Immanuel stiffened before sagging into Adam’s grasp. His lungs strained beneath his still bruised ribs, but as he gently pulled away, a grin was etched into his features. He wrapped his arms around the dandy and rested his head against his neck.

“I would love to stay, but I need to get home, Immanuel,” he whispered as he kissed the top of his head and helped his friend to his feet, “especially before the others get back.”

“I know.”

Immanuel sighed soundlessly as he watched Adam don his coat and gloves to fortify him against the snow that fell just beyond the panes. It was impossible, but he wished he could stay with him. Adam Fenice put his hand on the knob but turned back to see Immanuel’s eyes brighten once again with hope.

“It slipped my mind before, but Hadley wanted me to invite you to spend Christmas at Lord Sorrell’s home. He knows you have no family in England and that you are close to me and Uncle Elijah. I hope you will come with us.”

“I would like that very much.”

Adam’s mustache curled into a grin as he stepped into the cold. “Until Friday, then.”

“Until Friday.”

***

“Oh, great spirits, come to us!” the frizzle-haired psychic called out in the darkness at Emmeline’s elbow. “Tell us your secrets. Spirits, if you are with us, send us a sign! Lift the table or knock on the walls. Please, let us know you are here.”

Emmeline swallowed down a yawn as she waited for the theatrical pounding on the walls from the “spirits,” but nothing came. Apparently, the spirits are not talkative this evening, she thought as Madam Nostra swallowed hard, her eyes meeting the expectant gazes of the others at the table. Emmeline had heard of the acclaimed medium and fortune teller, Madam Nostra, from her mother. She assumed the woman’s real name was probably something like Agatha Newman. Ever since the Fox sisters came out as frauds, these women who claimed to be gifted with second sight and the ability to commune with the spirits came out of the woodwork in droves. She pegged Madam Nostra to be a spinster from nowhere who had been praised one too many times for correctly predicting the weather or the sex of infants in her tiny hamlet and burst out of obscurity with a new and artificially exotic name. Woman after woman like her had come to the Oxford Spiritualist Society for admittance, but Lady Jardine had turned nearly all of them away after their first performance. Her mother could spot an imposter a mile away. Almost imperceptivity Madam Nostra’s skirt shifted and her foot jutted toward the base of the table. A collective gasp rose from the others at the table as the still air was disrupted by three solid knocks coming from the center of the table. Emmeline sighed. Another fraud. Apparently, it was true that anyone could go to London, but only the best could get into Oxford.

“Spirit, are you a man or a woman? Knock once for male and twice for—”

From behind the door, two male voices fought for dominance. The deeper one cried out while the other retaliated indecipherably, but his sharp tones still broke through the oaken door.

The fraudulent medium’s eyes lit up. “Speak, spirits! Tell me what you want to us to know! Share your divine knowledge.”

The six unassuming guests turned toward the door behind them as the knob turned but stopped as a scuffled erupted behind it. There were muffled grunts and cries followed by several bangs as something heavy hit the door. With the others distracted, Emmeline gave Madam Nostra a discreet kick in her knocking leg. Someone had to let her know she wasn’t fooling everyone. As the psychic’s bug-eyes met hers, the door burst open, slamming and embedding its knob into the wall. An older, brass-haired version of Alastair Rose stumbled in, nearly pulling an elderly gentleman from his chair as he grabbed him for support. Alastair whipped into the room, grasping his elder brother by the shoulders before wrenching the blubbering man toward the door.

“You are making a spectacle of yourself, Alexander,” he hissed under his breath as his brother tried to shake free beneath his claw-like fingers. He looked over his shoulder at the table of guests staring at them. “Everyone, please excuse my brother. He is not in his right mind. Let’s go, Alexander.”

“Why are you doing this? Please, Alastair! Please, I just want them to try to— I just want them to try,” the man sobbed as he sank to his knees in front of the table.

Alastair’s face blanched before burning back to red as he struggled to pull his hysterical brother back to his feet. How dare he barge into his place of business and cause a scene. Now, he was sobbing in front of two of his best mediums and a handful of guests who had come for a séance but would only remember the lunatic who barged in. With a sharp twist, Lord Montagu shook off his brother and staggered forward until his hands came to rest on the tabletop. Reaching into his rumpled jacket, the marquess withdrew a delicate aquamarine and pearl necklace.

He held it out in his trembling palm. “I need to know if she is at peace. Please. I need to know.”

“I told you, brother, it is too soon for them to do that!” Alastair’s hand clamped down on his shoulder again, digging into his flesh. “Come now, Alexander. You are making a fool of yourself.”

Emmeline stared up at the pitiable form of Alexander Rose. His eyes were sunken with fatigue and burned with tears. Grey and gold stubble dotted his chin and cheeks, and along with his creased suit and loosely knotted tie, he appeared closer to a beggar than a nobleman. As a stifled groan broke from his lips, the sour, sweet odor of stale alcohol wafted across the table. Eliza Hawthorne and the others sitting around Madam Nostra averted their gazes as if he were not even there. How could they ignore him? Lord Montagu was the lovesick knight she read about in so many books. He was the faithful man who gave up his existence for the love of another. In her seventeen years on earth, she had never seen someone feel anything so deeply.

As Alexander closed his eyes in defeat and gave into the hand that forced his shoulder toward the door, Emmeline called out, “I would like to try.”

Alastair’s eyes widened as his brother placed the necklace into her narrow palm. “This is ridiculous. Miss Jardine, Miss Waters has not even been buried. It is much too soon to do a reading. Do not give into the fancies of a troubled mind.”

She stared up into Lord Montagu’s pained, amber eyes. How could Alastair be so cruel as to deny his brother closure? “I can at least try.”

Swallowing hard, Lord Rose held his breath. He had seen her abilities with his own eyes, and now more than ever he regretted ever bringing her to the Spiritualist society. She was just like her mother.

Emmeline shut her eyes and held the necklace between her palms. All thoughts cleared from her mind as the others remained silent, but nothing came. No thoughts or smells or visions passed through her mind’s eye. She clasped the piece of jewelry tighter, but it didn’t make a difference. Alexander looked at the dark-haired girl hopefully, but Emmeline shook her head and carefully trickled the chain into his hand before closing his fingers around it with her own.

“I am so sorry, Lord Montagu. I am afraid it is too soon for me to see anything.”

The older gentleman squeezed his hand against the stones in the pendant and nodded. His eyes and chest burned as he smiled bitterly but softened when he saw her large eyes film upon seeing his expression. “Thank you, miss. Thank you for trying. At least— at least I know now.”

“Satisfied? Come, brother, let’s leave them to their séance now,” Alastair snapped as he finally led the inebriated man out the door.

The others at the table sat in silence, unsure of what to do after all the hubbub. Could the spirits perform after such an interruption? Before Madam Nostra could continue her charade, Emmeline pushed away from the table and moved to her aunt’s side.

“Can we go home now? I do not feel very well,” she whispered into her ear to keep the others from hearing or seeing the tears hanging in her eyes.

All she ever wanted was to be like her mother, to use her powers to help people and give them the closure they so ardently sought, but these mediums were no better than fortune tellers at the fair. They were frauds, but was she one too? When there came a time for her to finally help someone, to make them feel better, and to share something only the spirits could know, she had nothing to offer. Maybe she, too, was just another spectacle.

Chapter Twenty-One:

Revelations

Immanuel drew in a deep breath and smiled at his reflection in the bedroom mirror. There had never been a time when he had been dressed so well. With the trousers and dinner jacket borrowed from James and the accessories and white waistcoat from Adam’s expansive wardrobe, he looked like a man out of an advertisement. Turning in front of the mirror, he admired his narrow waist and long legs. He pushed a curled tendril of blonde hair out of his eye, but when he scrutinized his face in the glass, he saw only his old self. His life was finally going in the right direction. Patting his pocket, he confirmed he had the money for dinner with him. He was about to settle in near the window when a steamer cab pulled up to the pavement. Immanuel slid open the sash as the redhead stepped out.

“I will be right down!” he called as Adam smiled up at him and ducked back into the cab.

With a final check in the mirror, he grabbed his top hat and trotted down the two flights of stairs to the front rooms. He paused on the last set of steps as he listened to the voices in the parlor. The Hawthornes and Miss Jardine were supposed to be going to a party, and he thought they had left already.

“Immanuel, please come here for a moment,” Dr. Hawthorne called from within. “I would like to introduce you to someone.”

He glanced out the window. Even though he knew it would be quick, he really did not want to keep Adam waiting, but when he crossed the threshold into the parlor, the breath caught in his throat. Immanuel froze as his eyes fell upon the demon in the dinner jacket standing at the hearth. Hardening himself to the invisible blows, he stared into Lord Rose’s steady gaze, but with each flicker of the fire, the nobleman’s shock disappeared as a flash of the baneful nature behind his eyes surfaced before sinking out of sight. He knew he was afraid. Alastair Rose could sense the momentary paralysis when prey realizes they are in the predator’s sights.

“Lord Rose, this is my assistant, Immanuel Winter. Immanuel, this is Lord Rose, the head of the London Spiritualist Society.”

As Alastair Rose proffered his hand, he locked eyes with Immanuel, narrowing them just enough that they flared orange in the light. The corner of his lip curled into a smirk as he eyed the young man’s ashen cheeks and deformed eye. Seeing the primal fear in his victim’s eyes set his blood racing. He had him in his power.

But that was exactly what he wanted. The beast was smiling at him, at his terror. No one, not even Lord Rose, would ever make him feel powerless again. Immanuel gripped the man’s gloved hand and lingered with his thumbnail embedded in his palm.

“We have already met,” he said as he held Lord Rose’s widening gaze. “Good day, Lord Rose, Dr. Hawthorne.”

Without looking back, he donned his top hat and burst into the icy night air. Immanuel let out a constrained breath, the air rolling into the aether in a puff of white smoke. The knot that had been in his chest since he arrived at Wimpole Street finally unfurled as he took another lungful of cleansing air. He stood up to the man who had nearly destroyed his life, and maybe now he could move on.

Settling in beside Adam, fear’s cloying grasp pulled at his heart and mind, but tonight, he refused to give in. He couldn’t be upset when Adam was beaming. As always, he was handsome with his crimson mustache and perfectly coiffed hair. His inky black tailcoat and white vest hugged his body, but his achromatic attire was enlivened by a pink rose tucked into his collar and his vibrant hair and eyes. Tonight Immanuel was determined to embrace life.

“I— I picked this up for you. I thought you could wear it in your buttonhole.” Adam reached into his dinner jacket and pulled out a sprig of miniature blue flowers with golden faces surrounded by blades of grass.

Immanuel smiled at the familiar flowers. “Myosotis scorpiodes.”

***

Alastair Rose hung at the edge of the drawing room, smiling when the other Spiritualists came to greet him, but he was far into his own mind. He hadn’t expected to see the German at the Hawthornes’ home. His escape with Emmeline and resilience had not been part of his plan. After the way he beat him without mercy day after day, he had expected the boy to be dead or at least afraid of him, yet he called his bluff. The terror had died right before his very eyes and what replaced it was something that struck fear into the nobleman’s heart. He knew who he was, and he acknowledged it in front of the others. Something had to be done. If not, the boy would be his undoing.

From across the room, Emmeline watched Lord Rose standing against the floral wallpaper. Seeing his handsome features set in a pensive frown in the midst of everyone else reveling brought her back to the Samhain party. She wasn’t dressed nearly as well since she only had half a dozen dresses now, but the music was the same, half of the people were those who had ventured to Oxford in October, and she thought she looked fetching in her red velvet dress. Glancing over her shoulder, she confirmed Aunt Eliza and Uncle James were deep in conversation with some doctor who had a handlebar mustache. He sounded like a bore, but at least he would give her the opportunity to dance with Lord Rose even if it was almost two months late.

“Miss Jardine!”

Emmeline turned and met the soft gazes of Mr. and Mrs. Raleigh. She smiled as the chubby, blonde couple fawned over her. Complimenting her complexion, how happy they were to see her alive and well, how their daughters missed her back in Oxford. She would be coming back to Oxford, wouldn’t she?

What could she say to them? After months away from home, she hadn’t even thought of the three girls who had practically been her sisters. Now that her mother was gone, there was nothing left for her in Oxford.

“The resemblance is uncanny. You are as beautiful as your mother,” Mrs. Raleigh said as she took in Emmeline’s purple dress. Her pale face was framed with curled, dark hair and pearl earrings like her mother wore to so many dinner parties.

As she opened her mouth to reply, her eyes trailed to Lord Rose. He cut through the crowds and turned down the hall toward the front door. She covered her mouth and with her tearless eyes cast down, she murmured, “Please excuse me.”

Keeping her head down, Emmeline wove between the chattering men and women in their finery. At the door, she waited to see if anyone would call her away, but no voice or hand came to stop her. A gust of cold, damp air bit into Emmeline’s arms and neck as she stepped onto the cobbles. Rubbing her arms, she drew closer to the figure standing in the shadows. If it hadn’t been for the faint glow at the end of the cigarette between its lips, she wouldn’t have seen him. Whorls of smoke streamed from his mouth and nose as he exhaled, the darkness cutting his face like a mask. Emmeline edged closer, pushing her arm into the side of her gown in hopes of creating a greater swell at her neckline, but as quickly as his eyes fell on her, they returned to the road ahead.

“The band is lovely this evening. I do hope they will play the Sleeping Beauty Waltz soon. No one has asked me to dance yet.”

Alastair took a long draw on his cigarette and retorted, “Not now, Emmeline. I am in no mood.”

She stared at him with her wide owl eyes, moving from his furrowed blonde brows to the tip of his cigarette. “Is it because of Katherine Waters?”

“Why would you bring her up?” he asked, his voice sharpening as he kept his eyes locked across the street.

“Lord Montagu is your brother, and he was very distressed about her death the other day. It must be upsetting to you to see your brother so sad, especially since she was your friend too, wasn’t she? You were always together at our parties.” She waited for an answer but was only greeted by a mouthful of smoke. “I know it was too soon to read the necklace, but I was hoping maybe in a week or two to try again. Mama said—”

Before she could get the words out, Lord Rose gripped her arms. He loomed over her, glaring at her with blazing saffron eyes as he growled, “What did you say?”

“I— I thought I could try and—”

“Don’t you dare question my authority!” The heat from his cigarette radiated dangerously close to her skin as he squeezed the flesh of her arms harder. His lips curled back to reveal his saliva-shined canines and his sulfurous maw. Anything she found beautiful fled from his lupine fury. “You will do as you are told. I am the head of this society. Do you understand? You have no say in anything. You work for me.”

“You’re hurting me.”

“I don’t care.”

Emmeline stood paralyzed in his grasp as his jaw clenched and his eyes held hers. She could barely breathe with him holding her in so tight a grip, but as he bored into her sockets, an image flashed in front of her vision. Headington Hill burned while the man stood in the shadows of the trees with only his orange eyes catching the moonlight. No, it couldn’t possibly be him. It just couldn’t.

“Mention Kitty again, and you will never do another reading for as long as you live.”

With a shove, Lord Rose released Emmeline’s arms. She stumbled back into the damp masonry of the Spiritualist society. As he opened the door, light and laughter streamed out, yet she couldn’t move. Had he really been there, watching while her mother burned? And if he was holding her, then maybe he kidnapped her too, but why? Her throat thickened as she rubbed her arms where bruises rose from his steeled fingertips. She inhaled sharply, her breath devolving into stifled sobs before she could stop herself. He didn’t care.

***

The Royal English Opera House was one of the most beautiful buildings Immanuel had ever seen since arriving in England. From the outside, it reminded him of a mosque or a sandcastle with its red and tan stripes and minarets, but when he ventured inside, he determined that it reminded him of a layer cake. The entire opera house was comprised of stacked layers of grandeur coiling up from the stage. As they ascended the grand staircase to reach the level of their box, he could not help but marvel at the green marble columns and alabaster balusters that sat atop more venous marble. A Grecian temple couldn’t have contained more luxurious stone or honored the muses better than the Royal English Opera House. If there hadn’t been so many people crushing past him to reach their seats or companions, he would have touched the stone or studied the capillaries cutting through the massive slabs.

The moment they closed the door of their private box on the first circle, the bustle of the theatre melted away. The box was as fine as the rest of the theatre with wooden paneling and solid doors built to block out the sound of those in the corridor behind them. With a bow and a grin, Adam ushered him into the chair closest to the stage to ensure his good eye would catch the majority of the action below. Immanuel looked out over the balcony at the faceless people in the seats above and below them and those in the boxes on the other side of the stage. Did any of them feel as happy as he did tonight? His heart quickened as the lights dropped and the curtain opened on the Tavern du Plat d’Etain. After sitting in silence for an entire act, Immanuel’s study of Marot’s plight was interrupted by Adam nudging his arm.

“Aren’t the costumes superb?” Adam whispered, inadvertently tickling Immanuel’s ear with his mustache as he handed him a pair of opera glasses from inside his jacket.

Immanuel closed his left eye, but the player escaped out of the binoculars’ view before he could catch a glimpse of the costume’s detail. He smiled and handed the glasses back to him, but as Adam let his hand drop next to his lap, his companion reached for it. They were sitting only inches apart, and with the lip of the balcony in front of them, no one would see their small token of intimacy. A smile crept across Immanuel’s face as he ran his gloved hand over Adam’s, catching the boney prominences of his knuckles and the sculptural smoothness of his fingers beneath the fabric. Intertwining their fingers, he let their hands rest between them and went back to watching the comedy play out below.

Swallowing hard, Adam resisted the urge to pull his hand out of Immanuel’s grasp as he stroked it and finally let it drop on the edge of his seat. The presence of the door behind them had never been so apparent until that moment. What if someone came in and saw them? No one was in the box beside them, but anyone could barge in. If it was someone he knew, he could be fired or brought up on charges. His life could be ruined. Their lives could be ruined. Taking a deep breath, he attempted to silence those fears, but as he raised his eyes, they came to rest on the boxes on the second circle. If they were to look down upon them, what would they see? Could they see their fingers intertwined, bridging the distance between their bodies? Immanuel was still contently watching the opera, and with a gentle tug, Adam dislodged his hand as if to scratch his wrist. When he put it down, his companion moved to return to their prior embrace, but Adam quickly tucked his hand across his stomach out of reach.

“What is the matter?”

“Nothing, I just—” Adam sighed. “Not here.”

Immanuel glanced at those sitting across from them and above them, but all eyes were locked on the stage. “But no one will see. We are only holding hands.”

“I know, but we can’t, not here.”

He opened his mouth to reply, but the words dissolved into nothingness as Adam’s attention returned to the intermingling voices of the bass and soprano. Immanuel bit his lip and shifted his mouth into a stiff, crooked frown. Turning his body toward the stage, he tightly crossed his legs and barred his arms across his chest. Adam disappeared behind him, but the sting of undue dismissal remained. With one gesture, his night was ruined and he was reminded of the limitless impossibilities of their relationship.

Chapter Twenty-Two:

No More Tomorrows

The pavement glistened with the fog’s sickly yellow dew as Immanuel Winter marched down the street with his head down. Holding his arms close to his chest, he fought against the chill of the damp winter wind seeping further through his tailcoat and trousers with each gust. He cursed himself for not taking a scarf or a coat with him. Somehow, he had not felt the cold when they left together. His blue and copper eyes burned, yet he pressed on, all the while ignoring the man hanging at his elbow. In the gloom and with his gaze locked on the cobbles, he could scarcely make out where he was going, but if he began to stray, he knew Adam would put him back on the path to Wimpole Street.

“Immanuel, can’t we talk about this?”

He held his arms tighter and quickened his pace as he turned the corner. “What is there to talk about? You ruined a perfectly good dinner and night on the town.”

“Cousin Eliza’s house is the other way,” Adam called. When Immanuel did a downcast about-face, he continued in a harsh whisper, “Please be reasonable. You must understand how much risk is involved. We could be arrested for simply holding hands. Aren’t you afraid of ending up like your uncle?”

Immanuel turned on heel, stopping only inches from Adam. Even with the sheen of moisture across his eyes, they steeled and held his companion’s shrinking gaze. “Don’t you dare bring up Johannes and Theodor! You know nothing about them, Adam. Have you forgotten that I nearly went to jail for the same thing?”

“All the more reason for us to be cautious.”

“If you knew what I went through, you would understand why I am tired of hiding. I am done letting the world push me.” Number thirty-six’s windows glowed brightly only a hundred yards down the street. “Thank you for taking me to the opera. Good night, Adam.”

The accountant caught his narrow wrist before he could escape his reach. “I’m sorry I upset you, but please, Immanuel, let’s talk about this.”

“Not tonight.” He drew in a constrained breath. “Tomorrow we can discuss it. Tonight, I just want to go to bed.”

Storming past the last five houses, he sighed, knowing Adam hadn’t left. Even without looking, Immanuel knew he was lingering at the corner where he left him. He resisted the urge to go back and apologize. It could be done tomorrow. Immanuel searched his pockets for his house key, but as a black mass vaulted over the railing and landed on the step behind him, he froze. A plume of hot, ashy breath blew against his shattered eye socket. The smell of the demon’s breath had haunted him for months, and with his eyes shut, he could feel the cigarette sear into the flesh of his back again. There was nothing left to do but face Lord Rose.

***

Adam Fenice sighed and hung his head as he walked back toward the corner of Wimpole Street. How could he have been so harsh to him? Immanuel needed to know how risky it was to do anything in public, but he could have explained himself with a little more tact. Tomorrow. Yes, tomorrow, he would make it right. Maybe he could make him breakfast since Hadley was supposed to go visit her future mother-in-law in the morning. Taking a step into the road, he allowed two women to pass, but as they swept past them in their red and grey gowns, a pale hand jumped from a fur muff and grasped his arm.

“Cousin!” the taller woman cried, but when he glanced up, Eliza Hawthorne was grinning at him. “Did you and Immanuel enjoy the opera? He was so excited to be going.”

He smiled stiffly. “He seemed to. Actually, I just walked him home.” Adam looked down the street and over his cousin’s head, but one person was still missing. “Where is James?”

“Some of the queen’s men came looking for him and Lord Rose at the party. They always keep him late, so Emmeline and I decided to leave soon after.”

“Aunt Eliza, who is that on the steps?” Emmeline asked, her eyes wider than he had ever seen them.

Adam turned as a towering, bat-like creature wrapped his hand around Immanuel’s neck, hoisting him off his feet. Where had he come from? His friend stared directly into the assailant’s face, never wavering as the tips of his fingers dug in. No one was going to hurt Immanuel on his watch. As he poised to rush the man, Eliza caught his arm.

“Don’t move,” she whispered, her green eyes gleaming with fear. Without removing her gaze from the men on the steps, she pulled her niece closer until she was behind her cousin. “Keep Emmeline safe while I get a constable.” Eliza dropped her voice, “It is imperative that no matter what happens, you stay out of sight.”

***

Immanuel turned, expecting to see the nobleman in tails, but instead, his eyes met a set of gleaming metal ribs and clawed fingers. His gaze inched up the creature’s unnaturally tall form until it came to rest on the familiar horned leather mask looming over him. Just behind it lurked the man with the yellow eyes that never showed a hint of mercy no matter how hard he cried. As he returned to the creature’s ribs and glass lungs, he knew he had seen that costume before.

“We have already met, have we?” Alastair Rose growled as seized the younger man by the throat and slammed him into the door, digging his metal talons into the delicate flesh. “For months you refused to say a word, but tonight, in front of everyone, you decided to be brave.”

Immanuel’s throat burned as the man tightened his grip. He struggled to kick at his attacker but met only the senseless metal of climbing stilts. Beneath the anger of the nobleman’s gaze was that same smug satisfaction. Locking eyes with the madman, he breathlessly spat, “You’re Jack.”

“You stupid boy.” Pulling him higher, he slammed his back and head into the black door. Blood trickled from the points of his claws as he locked eyes with the insolent man who stared back defiantly with his blotted eye. “And to think, I almost let you live.”

With a sneer, Lord Rose pulled the trigger.

***

The cry caught in Adam’s throat as Immanuel’s form buckled and writhed in the beast’s grasp. His blue eyes disappeared into his skull and his long legs kicked and snapped. After a final convulsion, his body fell silent. With a flick of his wrist, Immanuel slid off the end of the man’s glove and crumpled in a heap at his feet. There would be no more tomorrows. No more chances to apologize or explain himself. As the creature stared down at his victim, a toothy grin crossed his lips. Anger exploded in Adam’s chest, thundering in his ears and deadening his fear. The man would pay dearly for what he had done. Fury compelled him forward, but when he took a step toward the next house, a hand latched onto his sleeve.

“Help— me,” Emmeline choked, grabbing at her breast with her free hand.

Her heart writhed against her sternum, wringing the air from her lungs. The muscles of her legs gave out as she stumbled forward, nearly pulling the red-haired man down with her. Landing on her knees with her fingers still loosely coiled in the fabric of his coat, her vision tunneled in until only a sovereign of light remained.

Adam halted at her side as his eyes ran from the still girl to Immanuel’s corpse. For a second, he thought of ripping his arm from her grasp and running to him when a gasp broke her paling lips. Her body lurched forward, and as she slammed her gloved palms onto the wet cobbles, the energy broke free from her body. It flew from her flesh to the prone man on the porch, reanimating his body with a shudder.

***

Lord Rose smiled to himself as he stared at the broken body of Immanuel Winter. This time didn’t have the same charm as Kitty’s death, but he had to give it to Edison and Tesla, electricity had its appeal. With a twitch of his fingers, the ribcage swung open, revealing the glass jars nestled over his lungs. He gingerly dislodged the quartz canister and watched as a blue opalescent shadow floated within. The soul bobbed, blindly bumping into the sides before drifting into the center. Now, he had the German boy right where he wanted him.

A shuddering breath broke behind him. “You— you didn’t let me live.”

Alastair’s saffron eyes bulged behind his mask as Immanuel staggered to his feet with the help of the rail. Sweat glistened on his brow as he drew in another ragged breath and steadied his pounding heart. The muscles in his legs quavered and twitched with each step, but the electrical charge refused to dissipate.

“I survived.”

“How?” Alastair Rose snarled as he stared at the contents of the jar. It was there. How could he be alive while his soul was in there? With his claw, he tore open the thin membranous lid. A breeze blew past his hand before darting toward the younger man’s chest and down the street. “How can this be? You can’t—”

“I can’t die.” The wound on his neck pulsed blood onto his collar in time with his heart. Immanuel teetered before straightening to his full height. “For all those months, you tortured me to find out if I could die, and now you know. You hold no power over me.”

Without taking his eyes off his victim’s strained face, the creature’s stilted feet backed down the steps one clacking hoof at a time. Perspiration collected under the mask as he watched the blood from the triangular wound clot and seep through the white of his victim’s shirt until a hand-sized stain formed on his shoulder. Alastair looked down at the blood-tipped claws and the empty jar in his hand. The machine had lost its lethality and so had he.

“Now, I know who you are,” Immanuel hissed as he matched the nobleman step for step, his blood boiling, “and I will not rest until everyone knows what you did.”

Lord Rose broke his eyes away as a constable rounded the corner and charged down the street toward them, crying, “Stop! Stop, police!”

Before the policeman could reach them, Alastair slammed the jar into the pavement and kicked off the steps. Lord Rose jumped into the air, propelling higher each time his heel landed on the ground. With a final bounce, he grabbed the narrow, brick ledge on the second story of the house across the street and scrambled up the façade. By the time the policeman reached the building, Spring-heeled Jack had bounded over the rooftops and disappeared into the night.

Adam’s face paled as he jogged past Emmeline and Eliza to reach Immanuel’s shaking form. The younger man staggered down the last two steps, but when his companion put his arms out to steady him, Immanuel collapsed into his chest. Sinking down under his sudden weight, Adam broke his fall and held him on his lap. The world beyond them died away as he clasped his twitching limbs. His breath came in short gasps, and with each inhalation, blood soaked into Adam’s tailcoat, coating the pink rose at his lapel.

“He’s Jack,” Immanuel whispered, his legs and arms contorting against Adam’s tight grip. His gaze drifted over his face, lingering on his glistening blue eyes. “I’m sorry.”

Eliza was calling to them from the top of the porch, but Adam didn’t hear as Immanuel’s eyes slipped into their sockets and his body twitched and gasped with convulsions. Hiding his face in Immanuel’s hair, Adam held him to his chest and clamped his hand over the hemorrhaging wound. Adam hefted the weightless man into his arms and rushed him inside.

Chapter Twenty-Three:

The Aftermath

Pushing the tips of her nails into her bottom lip, Emmeline stood in the darkened kitchen and listened to the voices of her aunt and Mr. Fenice rising from below. When they carried Immanuel inside, they had rushed past her, leaving her at the threshold waiting to be called in to help, but no one seemed to notice her absence. Who was she kidding? She wasn’t needed by anyone. She was only a burden that needed to be dressed, fed, and chaperoned until she could be passed off to the next caretaker.

For the first time since they arrived nearly a month ago, she wanted to be part of helping him, and she needed to speak to him, but now, she wasn’t certain if he was going to be all right this time. The door to the cellar laboratory stood open, and with soundless steps, she padded halfway down before settling on a tread where she could observe the others through the railing. Aunt Eliza hovered over Immanuel’s neck with a needle and thread as he lay on his side across the marble tabletop. Standing behind him was Mr. Fenice who held Immanuel’s hand with his left and soaked up the excess blood with a wad of gauze in his right.

While Immanuel’s face was blocked by Eliza Hawthorne’s body, his voice rose through the stillness, high and strained as it had been when she found him in that filthy dungeon. “I— I ruined Dr. Hawthorne’s jacket. I promise— I promise I—”

“Sssh, don’t worry about that, Immanuel. James will not be angry. He will just be happy to hear you are alive. Now stay still a little longer.”

As Eliza brought over a magnifying glass in order to finish off the last few minute stitches, Emmeline finally saw Immanuel’s ashen cheeks and clammy forehead. Blood clotted in the ends of his hair and halfway to the scar that cracked his features. Even though his neck had been wiped clean, his collar and the shoulder of his waistcoat had wicked up the blood, staining them beyond salvaging. Her aunt moved back to his head to affix the final sutures, but Emmeline’s eyes traveled to the young man’s hand. When Immanuel’s breath sharpened, his companion laced his fingers with his and let him squeeze until he rode out the pain. The way the henna-haired man looked at Immanuel was like nothing she had ever experienced. It was similar to the way she gazed at her mother, with reverence and devotion, but there was so much more in the manner in which he regarded him. In his eyes, it was as if there was nothing but them, and she and Eliza were nothing more than shadows. His eyes caressed the one he dared not touch, sheltering him from the world that threatened them. That soft intensity and palpable yet wordless connection was what she longed for but never found in Lord Rose or any other man.

With Eliza and Adam’s help, Immanuel sat up, teetering as the congealed blood was rubbed from the ends of his curls with an alcohol-soaked piece of gauze. Peering over the doctor’s shoulder, his weary gaze landed on the dark-haired girl who eyed him from the steps without contempt or repulsion.

“Is there anything I can do to help?” Emmeline asked as her aunt followed her patient’s sightline to her perch.

“Put on a pot of tea and get him something from the larder.”

Emmeline left her aunt dabbing ointment onto the fresh burns that surrounded the torn, three-pronged wound. Averting her gaze from the scolded and singed skin, she returned to the kitchen and filled the spouted pot with water. As she picked through the cupboards for something to add to his plate, her hand lingered on the tin of biscuits. That was what she had been doing when it happened the first time, when her heart seized and her vision closed in until she thought her life would be snuffed out. It happened the night they arrived and he had slipped away from his injuries. No one had said anything, but she knew from the way the Hawthornes shook their heads in grief and then in wonder that he had passed that night even if it was only for a moment.

This time, she saw him fall, watched him die right before her eyes. There had been no question of it. The life had drained from his eyes, and within seconds, her body shut down too. Then, the most miraculous thing happened. The strangle-hold on her body released and a tingling, tugging pressure pulled through her skin before flying away with a breeze that blew her hair. Suddenly, Immanuel Winter was alive again as if he had not been electrocuted and dumped on the porch. But what bond could they possibly share to make this possible? Searching her mind, Emmeline could not come up with anything that linked them apart from being kidnapped by the same people. She had never seen him before, so why kidnap them? Take him with you or you both will die. Her mother knew the link before he ever died or she hung on the edge of oblivion. Emmeline had to speak to him. Maybe he knew how their souls could be inexplicably intertwined.

Filling the plate with cold ham and buttered bread, she loaded the tray and was about to carry it downstairs when the light from the basement was broken by the silhouettes of the men coming up the steps. Adam Fenice supported his friend as his legs buckled and fumbled at the landing. Immanuel’s neck had been wrapped in gauze and bulged on the left side where the sutures and burns were padded with honey-soaked linen. Lingering with the plate in her hand, Emmeline listened to instruments clanking below as they were washed and loaded into the steam-sterilization drawer and knew her aunt would not be coming up any time soon. With a sigh, she walked up two flights of stairs with the teapot clanking and threatening to tip at each step. Outside Immanuel’s door, she stopped at the sound of Mr. Fenice’s voice cracking.

“Are you certain?”

“Yes, I will change after you leave. It is too much to ask of you at this late hour, Adam,” the blonde replied in little more than a whisper. “What’s wrong? Don’t—”

Emmeline peeked around the corner of the doorframe in time to see Adam’s black-clad back quaver as he covered his face. Sitting on the bed only a few feet away, Immanuel reached out and pulled him closer until Adam knelt before him. As he whispered in his ear, Adam nodded and stifled a sob with a sharp inhalation, but when the next cry worked free from his throat, he let his face fall against Immanuel’s neck, burying it against the bandage.

“I nearly lost you. I did lose you,” Adam whimpered as the taller man wrapped his arms around his back and kissed the side of his head. “I cannot believe I fought with you. The last thing— the last thing we would have talked about—”

“Don’t think of it.” Immanuel wiped his own eyes as Adam straightened and wiped his face between sniffs. “You need to get home before your sister begins to worry about you.”

With a nod, Adam raised his gaze to Immanuel’s reddened eyes and brought his face closer until they touched. Emmeline’s hands shook as Mr. Fenice cupped his companion’s cheek while their lips lingered. After a second, they parted, locking eyes again. Even from twelve feet away, Emmeline could hear the wordless phrases flowing between them, the unspoken endearments and promises of tomorrow. If only someone loved me like that, she thought as she backed away from the door and waited for Mr. Fenice to slip past her. It wasn’t her place to interrupt them.

***

The gentle glow of the hearth warmed Hadley Fenice’s hands as she read her fiancée’s latest book on mechano-archaeology. Pride bloomed in her chest with each passage on the automated mechanisms found in Etruscan and Greek temples. Eilian Sorrell was more intelligent and eloquent than she ever thought possible in a member of the nobility. Down the darkened hall, the grandfather clock struck one. By the end of the chime, the front door squealed opened with a rush of icy air that made her shudder beneath her blanket. With a smile, she remembered how Adam had waited for her to come home after she visited Eilian.

“You’re home late. Did you have a good time?”

Adam’s footfalls stopped at the parlor’s threshold, but her question was met with a sharp intake of breath and a thunk. Glancing at her twin brother, Hadley did a double-take before kicking off her blanket and dropping the book to rush to his side. His top hat lay at his feet as he stared at her with pained, misty eyes. Drawing closer, she realized the back of his glove was spattered with blood and the black fabric of his jacket was darker and stiffer over his breast. His boutonnière had been flattened and dyed red with the pink only peeking out where the pedals had fallen away. Before he could say a word, his sister patted his hair for wounds before unbuttoning his collar and shoving her hand beneath his shirt to find the source of the blood.

“Good lord, what happened to you? Were you robbed?”

Pushing her hands away, he shook his head and took a deep breath. “Immanuel was attacked on the way home.”

“Is he all right?”

“Yes, he— he was bleeding a lot,” Adam’s voice cracked against his will, “but Eliza stitched the cut on his neck closed. That creature from the paper, Spring-heeled Jack, attacked him.”

Hadley gasped. “How can that be? How can Spring-heeled Jack be real?”

Adam slipped off his jacket with shaking arms and let it drop before unbuttoning his vest. “I don’t know, but I saw him. He is as real as you or me.” Biting his cheek, he stared down at the bloodstain on his shirt. A vision of Immanuel’s body contorting and snapping passed across his eyes. “I think he is the same man who tortured him. He grabbed Immanuel by the neck and electrocuted him. I— I watched the light go out in his eyes.”

Her brother's face flushed and his eyes reddened until his blue irises glowed. No sound broke from his lips as he clenched his eyes against the foreign wetness and dug his thumb into his wrist. As he met Hadley's sympathetic gaze, a slow tear slid from the corner of his eye. It had been nearly ten years since Adam came running out of the studio with tears streaming down his cheeks after speaking with George.

“Are you crying?”

“I don't know what's wrong with me, Had,” he croaked, his voice faltering.

Ten years was far too long for anyone to repress their emotions. Wrapping her arms around him, her brother tensed beneath her grasp, but when she didn't let go, he closed his eyes and hung his head. His body rocked against hers with each stifled cry.

Keeping him close, Hadley whispered, “Don't fight it. Sometimes you need to feel things, and crying isn't something shameful. It's a way to show how much he means to you without saying it.”

Adam nodded. He tightened his lips against the words that urged to break free. Never had he thought a relationship, a real relationship, was possible, but he found that in their few short weeks together, he cared for Immanuel Winter. He cared for him more deeply than tears could suggest.

***

Even with his head down, Immanuel could feel Emmeline Jardine’s owl-eyes boring into him. Looking up from the tray of cold odds and ends of food, he met her gaze as she sat in the chair across from his bed. Once Adam headed home, he changed his bloodied clothes, but when he opened the door, there she was with the tray. Now, she wouldn’t leave.

“If you are staying for the tray, Miss Jardine, I can bring it down later.”

She smoothed her red velvet gown. “I do not care about the tray.”

“Then why are you still here? I thought you could not stand the sight of me.”

Opening her mouth to speak, Emmeline faltered as she paused on his blotted eye. “I— I am here because I want to ask you a question.”

Immanuel looked at her expectantly, mimicking the expression she had used so many times on him.

“How are we related? I mean, before we ended up in… that place.”

“Why do you believe there is some deeper tie between us?” he asked as he watched her face, hoping to discover how the seed had been planted in her mind. Could she have really come up with the idea on her own or had Lord Rose sent her to fish for information?

“Something strange happens to me when you die. If you die, I feel as if all the air is being squeezed out of me, and for a moment, I fear I will die too. Then, you come back to life, and I'm fine. That does not happen to normal people. You are a scientist, aren’t you? You must know what is wrong with me. Maybe that is why they held us together. They knew there was a connection.”

Emmeline stared into his face, searching for the answer, but his brows were knit in annoyance while his shoulders sagged with fatigue. Usually the answers to her questions were written across his features, yet tonight his guard was up. He had to know what the tie was, otherwise he would have answered.

Her father had died before she was old enough to remember him, but from his portraits and pictures, she knew he was a plain, average Englishman she could have easily lost in a crowd. Even his looks had been lost in her when mixed with her mother’s. She swallowed hard. Immanuel Winter was only a few years older than her. There were countless stories of noblemen with illegitimate children.

“Are we related by blood?”

Immanuel flinched but kept his gaze hard. “No.”

“But you know how we are.” She balled her fists, her voice sharpening. “What are you hiding from me? Tell me. I am not a child.”

Putting the tray aside, Immanuel met her gaze as it softened with fear. “You died, too. That is how we are connected.”

“I— I didn’t— I never— When did I die?”

“Last August. You drowned in the Thames, don’t you remember?”

Emmeline’s eyes fell as she slipped back to that summer day with the balmy breeze blowing through her hair and the grass crunching beneath her feet. There were flowers in a pile that she planned on giving to her mother later as a pressed bouquet. A pale purple ball of pedals poked from the edge of the bank, but when she reached out to grab it, the marshy ground gave way under her feet. Colliding with the water, her body sunk down, sending out puffs of silt from the edge of the bank as her heavy skirts were engulfed by the River Isis. She desperately tried to paw toward the surface, but something held her foot. Her chest tightened in protest, and suddenly her mouth opened against her will and cold, muddy water flooded her lungs. Wrenching and kicking, she struggled against her binds until her vision tunneled and the world darkened into nothingness.

“I thought I only fainted. How do you know I died?”

Immanuel stared into her wide, brown eyes. She really didn’t remember. “Because I pulled you out.”

No, it couldn’t possibly be him. There was no way the handsome boy whose face she stared into was the same as the creature that crawled around the basement dungeon in his own filth. Immanuel picked up his empty plate and covered the cracked side of his face. A gasp broke from Emmeline’s lips. It was true. His angular features and bright blue eyes had always been there, but she had never been able to look past his disfigurement and the ugliness of his imperfections.

“Why didn’t you tell me it was you?”

“Until recently,” his voice never rose above a whisper, “I thought you knew but were ignoring me.”

“I had no idea. You do not look the same as you did then.” She swallowed hard. “Immanuel, if I was dead, how did I… come back?”

“When I came to England, my mother sent me with a family heirloom, a pendent that had been in our family since the Dark Ages. She told me to use it if I was ever in danger, but after I realized you were dead, I knew you needed it more than I did. To make the solution work, I had to add blood, and I used my own. That is what tied us together.” A weak, bitter smile crossed his colorless lips. “You were right, we are bound by blood.”

Immanuel and Emmeline paused as the boards of the stairs a floor below creaked under Eliza Hawthorne’s light tread. For an instant their gazes met, and the young woman jumped to her feet and pulled the dish from his hand. As she reached the doorway, she turned. How could she have been so cruel to him? She had dragged him through snow, cursing him the entire way, when he had sacrificed so much to save her.

“Thank you for saving me.” I didn’t deserve it. “I am sorry for how I have treated you.”

Before he could respond, the young woman slipped out in the hall and dashed down the stairs with the dull clap of her slippers echoing in the still house. Had he done the right thing by telling her? Now that Emmeline knew their connection, they were in more danger than ever before. She still had no idea who kidnapped them or that she saw him each week at the Spiritualist society.

A heron-grey steamer chugged down Wimpole Street, illuminating the icy pavement. He sighed. There was only one person who could know what Lord Rose was after, and he had just arrived home.

Chapter Twenty-Four:

His Father’s Burden

With a tired sigh, James Hawthorne stepped over the shards of glass scattered in front of his porch and across the steps. He glanced over his shoulder as two bobbies conversed on the other side of the street while nodding toward number thirty-six. Pausing with his hand on the doorknob, he looked back at the glass, but with fatigue weighing heavily on his mind, he shrugged off the odd behavior of the policemen and stepped inside.

“Thank goodness you are home!” Eliza called as she darted out of the parlor and came toward him. She drew near as if to embrace him but let her arms drop before they could touch.

When she met his gaze, her usually steady eyes glinted with fear. “What is the matter?”

“Spring-heeled Jack attacked again.”

“Where? Is Emmeline all right?”

“She is fine.” She dropped her voice as her husband hung up his coat and pulled off his hat and gloves, but it cracked against her will. “He attacked Immanuel.”

“Immanuel?” James’s eyes widened as he remembered Katherine Waters’ lifeless form strewn across her coverlet. “Is he—”

“He is upstairs, weak but very much alive.”

The doctor stroked his jaw before taking his glasses off to clean them with his handkerchief. His theory was gone. He had imagined Miss Waters was murdered by someone she knew and the Spring-heeled Jack sighting was simply hysteria, but Eliza Hawthorne was not some overwrought lady’s maid. If she saw Jack, then he existed. Swallowing hard, James strained to find some tie between the noblewoman and his father-in-law’s protégé, but neither seemed to have enemies. The young man had only been in London a few months, most of which were spent in torture, and his only contacts were their family members. James grimaced at the prospect of a less discerning Ripper.

“Was the attack the same as with Miss Waters?” he asked as they mounted the stairs.

“Exactly the same. A three-pronged wound on the left side of the neck accompanied by burns. He was electrocuted like she was, but he lost a significant amount of blood during the scuffle.” Eliza sighed as they passed the study and stood only a few feet from their bedroom door. “You can speak to him in the morning. I sent him to bed after suturing the wound and giving him a plate of food to hopefully counteract the anemia.”

“Good.”

Dr. Hawthorne was about to follow his wife to bed when his eyes fell on the gap between the molding and the door of the study. Something shifted in the darkness, and as it turned, a blue eye locked onto him.

“Are you coming?”

“Yes, I just need to check something.”

With a huff, Eliza closed their bedroom door, and he slipped into his office. Normally, he would have been weary of someone lurking in his study under the cover of night, but when he flipped on the lamps, he found an ashen Immanuel Winter sitting before him.

“Aren’t you supposed to be in bed, Mr. Winter?”

“Aren’t you supposed to be with Lord Rose and the queen?” Immanuel blurted but stifled his anger until it dissipated down his arms and out his fingertips. “You are home early. Am I to assume Lord Rose never showed?”

He shook his head as he settled behind his desk and let his eyes fall on the lump of gauze on the young man’s neck. “Eliza told me what happened. Are you all right?”

“No, I was stabbed and electrocuted by a madman.”

Raising his eyes, James met Immanuel’s hardened gaze and shaking form as he struggled to stay composed. For a moment, he thought he might cry, but instead he knit his brows and stared the doctor down with an intensity he had never witnessed in him before.

“Mr. Winter, what is the matter? I have never seen you in such a state.”

“What sort of project are you and Lord Rose working on?”

James leaned back in his chair and sighed. “I am not at liberty to discuss it. It does not involve you anyway.”

“It does when your partner tries to murder me.” Immanuel’s jaw clenched as a lingering bolt coursed from his neck to his toes. “That is why he was not at your meeting. He left the party to come after me.”

Staring at the other man, the doctor tried to speak but the words escaped him. “Why? You have nothing to do with the project.”

“I called his bluff. In front of you and Mrs. Hawthorne, I said I knew him, and that was enough. I want to know why you are associated with the man who— who,” his voice broke as tears rose to his lids, “tortured me!”

The doctor’s chest tightened at the image of his helper covered in sore-laden offal and blindfolded with the filthy cloth cutting into his swollen orbit. How could this be? Lord Rose was a notoriously volatile man whom he never trusted, but would he go so far as to starve, burn, and beat a young man to get what he wanted?

“Is this some sick game to get me to divulge what I know? He tries to kill me and you nurse me back to health, so he can do it again. I still don’t know what was in it, and no amount of torture will get you the answer!”

As strong as he wanted to be, his façade faltered. Too many emotions were surging through him, and in his fragile state, he couldn’t fight the tugging at his ribs or the wetness in his blotted eye. Dr. Hawthorne paled, but his eyes were soft with compassion and confusion rather than steeled with anger. A quavering sob broke from Immanuel’s lips as he covered his mouth just in time to stifle it. It was too much. If the doctor was in on it, then he was finished. Why couldn’t he have asked Adam to stay? He would have told him everything would be all right, and he would have believed him.

“My boy, I most certainly was not involved in your abduction. This is all a horrible coincidence.” James watched as the German turned away to pull himself together but revealed the sticky, bloodied wad affixed to his neck. When he quieted and grew still with his eyes cast to the rug, the doctor softly prodded, “Immanuel, why did Lord Rose hurt you? What did he hope to gain?”

“You will not believe me,” he croaked. “You are a man of science, and this cannot be explained by anything I know.”

He leaned across the desk until Immanuel’s eyes drifted back to his face. “You would be surprised as to what I have seen. Magic and superstition are only natural laws we cannot yet explain. Please, tell me, Immanuel, so I can get to the bottom of this.”

Immanuel studied the doctor’s face, but James’s eyes never wavered or hardened with suspicion. The only reason he snuck into the study was to confront him, but now he was the one confessing. Maybe— maybe one divulgence would lead him to their greater tie. There was no way it could all be a coincidence. His potion and the doctor’s project had to be connected if Lord Rose wanted both so adamantly. Could the elixir have gotten the nobleman what he wanted without needing the doctor anymore?

The tale of what happened that August day and September night poured out, irrevocably linking Immanuel Winter and Emmeline Jardine. With a silent sigh, his body sagged into the wooden chair. He had finally purged the poison Alastair Rose had infected him with, and the doctor had not once interrupted or scoffed at his claims. James Hawthorne stroked his jaw as he scowled in contemplation, letting his eyes fall upon the innocent victim of his father and Lord Rose’s ambition.

“I was foolish to think I could stall and have a man like Lord Rose give up his pursuit of fortune,” Dr. Hawthorne uttered as the house groaned against the winter wind whipping just beyond the panes and bricks. “I owe you an apology, Mr. Winter. This is all my fault.”

“Sir, you could not have anticipated—”

“No, I should have foreseen that Lord Rose would try to find another venue through which he could complete our commission from the queen. You and your family’s heirloom were exactly the sort of thing he was looking for.”

“Dr. Hawthorne, I have told you everything about what happened to me and your niece, but you still have not told me what this commission is. What could Lord Rose want with a potion that could save a life? He does not seem like a man who would save anyone but himself.”

The doctor sighed. The boy had the right to know. “Alastair wants to use the elixir to bring Prince Albert back from the dead.”

“Back from the dead?” Immanuel opened his mouth to speak but closed it as his mind combed through what he knew of British history. “But he died decades ago. You would have been a child at the time, and Prince Albert would be nothing more than bones now.”

“My father took care of that. Let me start from the beginning.” Taking a key from his pocket, the doctor unlocked the bottom drawer of his desk and withdrew a folio of papers tanned with age and crinkled where they jutted from the edge of the leather case. He flipped through the pages until he found a long sheet written in clear, uniform script and signed at the bottom by the queen. “A year before his death, Prince Albert and Queen Victoria sensed he was taking a turn for the worse. For years he had suffered from a debilitating affliction of the stomach and bowels, but in 1860, he grew weak and was in severe pain. My father was a prominent Harley Street physician, who had treated several members of the royal family before, but what lured the queen to him was his work with the Spiritualists. With the help of a medium named Charles Leopold, he studied death and conducted experiments to find a quantifiable soul. The queen came to them when no other doctor was able to help her husband. He was too weak to undergo exploratory procedures, but my father and Leopold concluded the only way to stave off death would be to sever his soul from his body, treat his condition, and put his soul back in.

“It sounded simple enough, but my father realized through his experiments that if the body began to decay after death, there was no way to reestablish a connection with the soul. You may not know this, but the soul is at least partly electrical and attaches to the body through reciprocal charges binding them together. For a year, I barely saw my father as he worked tirelessly with Leopold to create the perfect formula that would not only preserve the prince consort but could be reversed to allow him to be reanimated. Traditional methods like formaldehyde permanently altered the tissue, but by the time the queen called them to a meeting at the palace, he had figured out a preservative that could be reversed even if he wasn’t yet sure how to do so completely. By the winter of 1861, Queen Victoria was despondent over his failing condition. She had lost her mother earlier that year, and Albert’s impending death was more than she could handle. If they were to save him, it would have to be soon.

“All of their equipment was moved from London to Windsor Castle where Albert had been staying. He was rapidly deteriorating, but my father believed his death was not a certainty. If it had happened a few decades later, he probably could have recuperated, but at the time, he was wasting away. My father always told me that if Prince Albert had died, the queen and the country would have crumbled, but to know that he would be revived in the future, gave her enough hope to go on. On December fourteenth, Prince Albert spent time with each of his children and his wife before he was submerged in a cistern of chemicals and his soul was extracted from his body and deposited in a jar for safekeeping. From that point on, she dressed like a widow and would do so until he returned.”

Immanuel’s heart skipped out of rhythm as he saw Lord Rose in his devil’s mask drawing out the jar from his metal ribs, studying the translucent, glittering shadow captured inside it. For thirty years, Prince Albert had been trapped in a manmade purgatory. The pain that coursed through his body when the device sucked out his soul hurt more than anything he had ever felt. What was the difference between being tortured in a dungeon and being confined to a glass cage?

“And what did the prince think of what was to be done to him?” he asked, steadying his voice with a hard swallow.

“I do not know. My father never discussed that. I would assume he went along with it to appease his wife and in hopes he would be cured.”

“How did you and Lord Rose get involved?”

“A few years after Prince Albert was put in Limbo, my father figured out how to reverse the chemicals and bring his body out of its suspended state, but he had a change of heart. He realized the ramifications of such a discovery and feared it could be used to create eternal life. If every monarch used the technology he and Leopold created, regimes would never change, monarchies would transform into dictatorships, and progress would cease. The moral ramifications were too much for him, so he decided to pretend he had never found the answer. Unfortunately, his contract with the queen stipulated he could not work on anything that did not pertain to reviving Prince Albert. Because he was no longer allowed to practice medicine, he was given the position of Coroner to the Queen, which gave him access to all the corpses he could need and kept him under the crown’s watch. My father did not anticipate that the queen would outlive him, and as per the contract, I inherited my father’s burden five years ago.”

“So Lord Rose is related to Charles Leopold?”

The doctor shook his head. “No, and I have no idea how Alastair Rose became involved with the Spiritualist society since he is not a medium. Leopold never had a son. I did not know Alastair was his heir until after he died. With Charles Leopold’s blessing, he rose to head of the London branch without question.”

Alastair Rose had to have something to gain from all of this. He wouldn’t have bloodied his hands for glory. “How does Lord Rose profit from reviving him?”

“The contract states that upon the successful completion of the project, we will be granted baronies, land, and a small fortune. You can see why Lord Rose would like to finish before the queen dies.” James pulled off his glasses and laid them on his desk before running his hands over his face. In the flickering glow of the gas lamps, the creases around his eyes and the grey at his temples were unmistakable. “Her Majesty’s project has torn apart my life and strained my marriage. I want nothing to do with this, yet my wife wants me to complete it just so we can have some semblance of a normal life. She does not care that if this technology is used by others, I will go down in history as a monster, but now, she will finally get her way.” He sighed. “Tomorrow, I will send word that I am ready to conduct the reanimation after Christmas.”

“Dr. Hawthorne, you do not have to do this.”

“With only your word that Lord Rose is Spring-heeled Jack and your tormenter, no court will convict him, and I have nothing to tie him to Katherine Waters if he really is Jack and not a copycat. It is the only way he will leave you and Emmeline alone, and hopefully, he will quit the Spiritualist society once he has an estate. I do not want my niece around him, but if we tell her to stay away from him, she will only want to be with him more.”

Two clocks chimed downstairs, beckoning the early hours of a new day. “You should go to bed, Mr. Winter. There is no sense in staying up when there is nothing more to be done tonight.”

How could he be expected to simply go to bed after learning all of this? To protect them, the doctor would have to go against his own morals and what he and his father had resisted for thirty years. Immanuel’s heart sunk. All of this, all of these lives in ruin, had been caused by the selfish desire to thwart nature. He reached the door but lingered as his hand trembled against the doorjamb. There was one thing he had to know.

“Dr. Hawthorne, what— what did the machine that removed the soul look like?”

“I never saw it myself, but my father said it was big enough to take up an entire wall with all the turbines and mechanisms needed to generate enough electricity.”

“Ah. Good night, sir,” he whispered as he slipped out and down the hall.

Chapter Twenty-Five:

Hope for Happiness

Sallow rain battered the window of Adam’s study, congealing and sliding down to the sill where it crystallized like peridot. He stared at the pane with the pen poised above his ledger, slowly dripping ink from the nib. Finish the books, and you can leave. Finish and you can leave, he repeated to himself, but as Adam stared at the jumble of numbers, he could not bring himself to add them up even if it would free him from the self-imposed confines of his house. At the crack of dawn, he had wanted to set out for Wimpole Street to check on Immanuel, but Hadley had suggested he allow the poor man the chance to sleep in and have some breakfast before he entertained a visitor. His sister was right, and to occupy his mind before he left, he decided to balance the books for her toy company. Closing the ledger, Adam sighed. He couldn’t do this right now. How could he think about profits and losses without knowing what state his friend was in? His friend. The world would call them friends, yet behind closed doors and in their minds, they were so much more. Somehow the right word didn’t exist for what they were.

The stillness of the house was punctuated by the ticking of the grandfather clock at the end of the hall. Sticking his head out the door, he was pleased to find that it was half past eleven, enough time to give Immanuel a chance to be up and about when he arrived. As he climbed the steps to his bedroom, Adam Fenice stopped mid-step at the sound of a gentle rapping on the front door. Retreating, he smoothed his jacket and hair before cracking open the door to meet the bichrome gaze of Immanuel Winter. The tainted soot and sulfurous snow lazily whirled past him, ruffling the curls hanging at the edge of his forehead. With a shiver, he rubbed his arms and shrugged his scarf closer to his chin.

“Immanuel, get inside before you catch your death!” Adam cried as he pulled his companion in by the arm and shut out the cold. “Did you walk all the way from Wimpole Street? You shouldn’t have walked here after what happened yesterday. You are in much too fragile of a state to be walking through snow and murk like that.”

A smile played on the German’s lips at Adam’s fussing. “Don’t worry, I did not walk. Dr. Hawthorne gave me the day off to recuperate, so he dropped me off on his way to a crime scene. Apparently, Jack struck again last night after he decided to pay me a visit. They found the body this morning.”

“Good lord. Who was it this time?”

“I don’t know.” He unwound his scarf and wrapped it around the arm of the iron coat rack, revealing a veil of gauze encircling his neck. “It was a woman though, like the first time.”

“Do— do you know who he is?”

“The man who attacked me was the same man who kidnapped me. He went after me to tie up some loose ends. At least now that he knows it will not work, he probably will not come after me again.” He smiled bitterly. “Thank the lord for small miracles.”

Adam swallowed hard, unconsciously rubbing his wrist. “You must be freezing. Let me put the kettle on.”

Leading Immanuel into the parlor, his eyes fell on the dwindling fire in the hearth. As his companion settled into an armchair, Adam knelt before the grate. The flames had died away, leaving only the fading embers to warm the room. With the bellows in his hands, he mechanically stoked the fire and added more wood until the fire swelled, but his mind was on the man who had grabbed Immanuel by the neck the night before. He had seen his companion in a grave state only days after his escape, yet what happened finally became real when the man appeared on the porch. His faceless tormentor existed. He had a name, he had a life, and he was still in the city. Somehow, he had found Immanuel, and Adam was powerless to stop him. Adam’s chest tightened as anger and fear wrapped around his ribs and set his heart pulsing to a frantic pace.

“What is the name of the man who hurt you?”

Immanuel froze at the sight of Adam’s face. His eyes had hardened, darkening with a single-minded resolution he had not seen in him before. “If I tell you, you have to promise not to do anything rash. You have seen what he is capable of. There is no way you could survive if he went after you.”

With an effervescent grin, Adam dismissively waved his hand, but the manicured smile died away when he saw the fear in his friend’s eyes. “Don’t be ridiculous. I—”

“I am serious, Adam. I will not tell you who he is if you are going to foolishly endanger your life.” His hazy eye glistened, and Mr. Fenice blurred into smears of red and dove grey, rippling with each blink. As Adam stood, he caught his hand and held it tight. When their gazes met, Immanuel mutely urged him to squelch his temper. “You saw what happened when I stepped out of line. I could not bear to know I was the source of your destruction. What would I do without you?”

Wrapping his other hand around Immanuel’s, the redhead softened and curled his lips into a faint smile. If it had not been for the window behind them, he would have stooped down and kissed him, but that would have to wait. “I promise I will not do anything to the man,” he paused, “unless you tell me to.”

Immanuel scratched his neck over the bandage and bit his lip but knew he had to tell him even if he still worried he may try something drastic. “His name is Lord Rose. He is the head of the London Spiritualist Society.”

“That man Miss Jardine has been spending time with?” Adam asked with wide eyes as he took the adjacent chair. “Does she know?”

He shook his head. “No, but I told Dr. Hawthorne last night about what happened with Lord Rose. Surprisingly, he believed me. I did not expect him to, but he did not seem to trust him even before I told him about how he found me at Oxford.”

“What are you going to do about Emmeline? You cannot let her go off with that lunatic.”

“I know, I know. Dr. Hawthorne does not want me to say anything yet, but maybe she would listen to me if I presented the right evidence. After all, he kidnapped her too.” Immanuel chewed on his lip and sighed. “The thing is, I do not know if she will believe me. Last night, she came in after you left and asked me how we were connected. I told her about what happened in Oxford, and she finally remembered me after I covered the side of my face. Are the Hawthornes invited to spend Christmas at your sister’s fiancé’s house?”

“I believe so.”

“Maybe I can talk to her then. I do not think she will be visiting the Spiritualist society until after Christmas anyway.” The house was silent apart from the crackling of the fire and the ticking of an unseen clock. “Is your sister home?”

Adam cleared his throat. “No, she is at Lady Dorset’s dealing with wedding business. Linens, flowers, food, things of that nature.”

“Is she looking forward to the wedding?” he replied, resisting the urge to scratch his stitches.

“Not really. She wants to marry Lord Sorrell, but all the planning and fussing over flowers and linen really is not her—” His eyes widened as they fell on the growing red blotch on the side of his companion’s neck. “Immanuel, your neck is bleeding!”

Touching the wad of gauze, he drew his hand away only to find his fingertips covered in a thin coating of fresh blood. “May I use your lavatory? If you have any gauze, I can clean myself up.”

He nodded and quickly led Immanuel up the stairs. On the third level, he walked him to the door across from his bedroom. The bathroom was nearly pitch black without any windows, but when Adam flipped on the gas lamps, he found a cozy room fitted with a cast iron tub and pristine porcelain fixtures against striped, green wallpaper. As Immanuel washed his hands, his host darted out of the room. After peeling off his jacket and removing his borrowed tie to keep from ruining more of the doctor’s clothing, he unwound the gauze from his neck. Using a clean portion of cotton, he gingerly wicked and wiped away the blood around the stitches.

“I found some dressings in Hadley’s workshop. I hope it is enough,” Adam said, his voice pointed with worry, as he bustled in with a roll of gauze and a pair of scissors. “How bad is it?”

Immanuel inspected his wound in the mirror and confirmed the blood was dripping from the corner of a loosened scab. “Not very. I’m just a bleeder.” Taking the fabric and scissors from his companion’s hand, he cut a swath and folded it against the wound. “Would you be willing to wrap the other piece around my neck for me?”

He nodded and carefully tethered the wad of to his throat, but as he tied and tucked the end under, a stirring of guilt tugged at his stomach when his fingertips lingered on the delicate flesh. “I’m sorry for fighting with you yesterday.”

“It’s all right. I was angry, but I understand the need for discretion in public. It is just that I was really looking forward to being with you.”

As Immanuel reached to retrieve his tie, Adam put his hand over his. The words worked free of his mouth, silencing his righteous conscience. “We can now. It will be a while before Hadley gets home.”

“Really?”

When the German’s face lit up with a hopeful smile, Adam nodded and trailed the edge of his hand across Immanuel’s cheek. This man with his thin face and cracked cheek had been the reason he cried for the first time in a decade. A young man he had scarcely known a month had affected him more than his brother had after a short lifetime together. Looking into Immanuel’s eyes, he saw the possibility of happiness and a place where he could lay his soul bare. No one had held him so wholly. With a kiss, he had bewitched him into betraying the façade he built up to please the world. There was no way he could convince himself he could change and love the prescribed sex. No woman would ever make him feel like he did around Immanuel. Matilda Meriwether had moved on and so had he.

A shudder of electricity passed through him as he brushed against his companion’s cool lips before pressing against them, drawing him into an embrace. The moment their bodies touched, Immanuel latched on, wrapping his thin arms around his neck and into his hair to keep the redhead close. As Adam coaxed Immanuel’s lips to part and deepened the kiss, the taller man tried to steady himself, but his legs faltered. His heart pounded with sudden panic, yet it only made his flesh pulse at each point he and Adam’s bodies met. Before he could put his hands out to break his fall, Adam’s arms tightened around his waist and supported his frame against the bathroom wall. Energy hummed and raced between the two men, enlivening their nerves and tugging every hair on end. Immanuel drew in a trembling breath when his companion’s tongue grazed his lip, inhaling the fragrance of his pomade and lavender cologne. Resting his head against the wall, Immanuel smiled and met Adam’s gaze as he broke from his lips. His light eyes ran over his friend’s ashen face, which had flushed from exertion, to his shaking hands as they twitched against the nape of his neck.

“Are you all right?” Adam whispered as Immanuel’s body slipped lower in his grasp.

“Yes, I am just a little weak from last night and weak-kneed because of you,” he chuckled through strained breaths. “Can we sit down? I still cannot stand that long.”

“Of course. My room is right across the hall.”

***

With a harrumph of exacerbated self-control, Hadley tossed her carpet bag onto the bench beside the door and strode down the hall toward the office as she pulled off her damp hat and gloves. “Adam, you would not believe how close I am to eloping. If Lady Dorset asks me to pick from five indistinguishable shades of white again, I will scream. How can anyone tell them apart? Does it even matter which one I pick if they all look the same?”

Reaching the threshold of the study, Hadley’s rant abruptly stopped. His desk was empty. Where could he be? Glancing over her shoulder, she confirmed his coat was still on the rack and mounted the steps. If he wasn’t home, at least she would be able to fill a few last minute automata orders. As Hadley crossed the hall toward his room, she sighed when she spotted a tie and jacket slumped on the floor in front of the tub. Shaking her head, she snatched up the clothes and pushed opened his door, ready to dump them on his bed when she froze. For a second she thought her brother had fallen asleep in his clothes when she realized Immanuel Winter was pinned beneath him. Their legs intertwined as Adam planted a trail of kisses down his companion’s bandaged neck. Immanuel gripped his arms, but when he turned his head, his eyes shot open upon seeing Miss Fenice in the doorway clutching his jacket.

“You left these!” Hadley called as she dropped the clothes and her face reddened nearly to her hair color.

Before her brother could react, she turned and dashed down the hall. Cursing under his breath, Adam jumped off the bed and buttoned the top of his shirt and straightened his tie. His face pinkened to match his sister’s as he tidied his hair and clothes at his mirror, leaving Immanuel on the coverlet to slowly fix his own clothing. Adam’s heart pounded as he rubbed his wrist and walked half out the bedroom door before turning back to meet Immanuel’s guilty gaze.

“Now what do we do?” he asked, running his hand over his pomaded hair and pacing between the cloaked window and the open door.

“I don’t think she is angry, just surprised to find us like that.”

“Should we leave or should we just pretend like nothing happened?”

“Why don’t we talk to her? She already knew how we were before,” Immanuel whispered as he retrieved his tie from the floor where it dropped from Hadley’s hand.

“I can’t talk to her about— about this!”

Immanuel sighed as he went to put on his jacket but left it on the bed. “Then, I will.” Adam opened his mouth to protest, but he held up his hand to silence him. “We cannot stay up here forever. We will have to face your sister some time.”

His heart climbed up his throat as he descended the steps, hoping what he knew of Hadley Fenice was true. It seemed she had an inkling about their relationship when he came to bring Adam his gloves after their first kiss, but when she saw them kissing and wrapped in each other’s arms, did she change her mind? If she did, then at least he could be a buffer between his companion and rejection. When he reached the bottom of the staircase, he found her sitting on the fifth step with her hand across her brow and her face still flushed with embarrassment. The stairs creaked as he reached her side, and she finally met his eyes but quickly averted her gaze.

“I’m sorry,” they uttered in unison.

“No, I am the one who should be sorry. I should have knocked.” She looked past Immanuel, but the stairs were empty. “Where is Adam?”

“Upstairs, too ashamed to come down.”

She sighed. “I will see if I can convince him to join us. The three of us need to talk.”

When Hadley reached her brother’s bedroom, he was staring out the window with his arms barred across his chest and his eyes hard with the only emotion that could block out his fear. The moment he turned to meet her, he was ready to reproach her, but his sister drew closer until they were nearly touching before adopting the same fire in her eyes.

“Don’t make a scene in front of Mr. Winter before you even know what I am going to say, Adam. What did I tell you when I came back from Palestine? I love you, and I do not want any secrets between us.” Taking his arms, she uncrossed them before holding his hands in her own. “Let’s talk about this together.”

Adam exhaled. The anger ebbed while the fear stubbornly remained as a weight in his head and stomach. Even with his twin sister, he had never openly discussed his sexuality. When she brought it up, he fled and refused to speak to her for weeks. A part of him still couldn’t accept it, so how could she? But if he didn’t talk about it this time— if he couldn’t speak about it this time, he would be denying his feelings for Immanuel. He had rebuffed him with his actions in public, but could he reject him aloud? Following his sister down to the foyer, he found his partner at the newel post waiting for them. Immanuel mustered a reassuring smile as they took their seats at the kitchen table.

“Miss Fenice, I hope my presence here did not create tension between you and your brother,” Immanuel began, locking eyes with Adam’s twin. “I never meant any disrespect. I just—”

“I told him you were going to be out for a while.” His sister regarded him with the same softened gaze she had the night she discovered his secret. She accepted them even if he didn’t. “I thought we would be safe here. I wanted to spend some time with him, especially after what happened last night.”

Hadley sighed. “I am not cross or upset with either one of you, but I do not know how to handle this situation. If one of you was female, I would have to object to what I saw upstairs, but I am uncertain how to approach this. You are both adults and can do as you please, yet I hope you are moving toward a more... intimate relationship for the right reasons. You have only known each other for a few weeks.”

“I like Immanuel very much, and I have gotten to know him over those weeks. You know we are not strangers to each other, Hadley, so don’t act like everyone is utterly chaste. I’m sure you and Lord Sorrell—”

“Have only kissed,” she retorted as her henna brows furrowed to match her brother’s.

“Maybe I can explain it better.” The Fenice siblings slowly sat back and turned to the blonde man who bit his lip as he composed himself. “Yes, we are moving quickly, but when you are in a relationship like ours, you never know when it is going to end. One false move and we can be beaten or arrested for something beyond our control. A man and a woman have a prescribed set of steps they move through when they are a couple: courting, engagement, marriage, parenthood. When they are married, they can be intimate or share a household together, but we can never be married, which means, according to society, we can never be together. We never have an acceptable time to do all the things we desire. If we are found out,” Immanuel’s voice cracked at the thought, “we must part, possibly for good. A relationship like ours can only end in heartbreak, so we try to hold onto a normal life when we can. I am sorry if we offended you by publicly displaying our affection, but since you know how we both are, your home is the safest place for us.” He put his hand over Adam’s and stroked his barely freckled skin. “I wish we could have a relationship like the one you have with Lord Sorrell. For our relationship’s validity and morality to not be questioned or scorned, I would give anything.”

Hadley’s blue eyes roamed from her brother’s face to Immanuel’s, noting the light of a smile that gleamed in their eyes when they looked at each other even when their faces never hinted at their love. How many times had she looked at Eilian like that when they were in the desert together while she was disguised as a man? It had never crossed her mind to mask her feelings for him, yet her brother and Mr. Winter had to every day. To deny her love for him had been the worst pain she had ever felt, and if she had been a different woman who lacked her experiences beneath the desert sands, she would be giving the edict that would destroy these men. No, she could not do that even if the rest of the world would tell her she was making the wrong decision for the sake of morality. Society would not unravel at an act that only affected the two participants.

“I am glad you trust me enough to let your guard down. In your house, you should be who you really are, and I will not stand in the way of that.” She paused as she searched for the right words. “If you are going to be intimate, for the sake of not creating an awkward situation, try to do that when I am not home and do keep your door closed because next time, it might not be me who catches you.”

A wide grin spread across Immanuel’s cheeks, brightening his blotted eye as he squeezed it shut against the moisture creeping to the surface. Good people still existed in the world, and maybe, just maybe, there was hope for them.

Chapter Twenty-Six:

The Deceiver

Lord Rose took a long drag on his cigarette, relishing the billowing ash passing between his lips and out his nostrils. Holding the dying cigarette between his fingers, Alastair carefully cleaned the prongs of the machine that helped him traverse the veil between life and death. It was coated with blood from his previous experiments and victims, and no matter how thoroughly he cleaned it, he knew Higgins, Kitty, the German boy, and Henrietta’s blood still mingled with his own. The idea of his victims being part of this process thrilled him, but if he was going to enjoy this, he would need to be calm. With a twist of his finger, he unlatched the whining hinge at the front of the brass ribs. The jar of solution was still fairly full, but he needed a fresh vessel to tease his soul into.

In the darkened room, the quartz containers were barely discernable tucked away in the divided nooks of the crate, but as he lifted Kitty’s jar to his eye, a faint outline danced within, glowing a dull yellow like a waning firefly. Each soul was different, and while indiscernible and amorphous, he found they varied in size and color. He remembered Prince Albert’s was nearly as large as Henrietta’s, yet Higgins’s was barely a wisp. The royal consort’s soul was hidden away in a vault far below the palace beside the bubbling vat that had been his tomb for three decades, but the sight of his immaterial form forlornly knocking against the jar never left his mind.

Narrowing his eyes, Alastair stared at the empty space in the box where that stupid boy’s soul should have been. He had eluded him, but he could wait. At his leisure he would devise a way to kill him, and next time, he would ensure he stayed dead. In less than a fortnight, he would get everything he wanted, wealth, land, a title, and all the respect he rightly deserved now that the doctor finally finished his end of the project. Someone could always be hired from the less desirable parts of town to kill the boy, but watching the life drain from his eyes permanently would be the crowning glory of his triumph.

This moment wouldn’t be ruined by him; he had to focus on what he did have. With a flick of his wrist, Henrietta Wren’s urn rested neatly in his palm. Inside, a reddish light glowed and rippled, growing in intensity as she pressed against the edge of the glass. Alastair put his hand over the feeble heat only to have her soul shrink to the other side of the container. A cruel grin stretched across his features as he drew in an ashy breath. He had her right where he wanted, and no matter what she desired, she was his now. Killing her was not what he intended to do that night, but she pushed him too far. She thought she was too good for him, and for that, she had to pay, especially after the German escaped.

He had seen her on the way back to Mayfair from Wimpole Street. From the back of his idling steamer, he watched her between the curtains as she wandered through the thick fog rolling off the Thames in her dark green, velvet gown and mink wrap. Immediately he recognized her. Henrietta Wren had been on his arm when they attended the Samhain ball in Oxford, and with a little flattery and sweet words, the alluring diva’s prudish hauteur crumbled for a time. After that night, she avoided him, only greeting him when necessary and attending Spiritualist society gatherings when he was not there. Maybe it was time they had a talk about that.

Tucking his climbing stilts under the seat, his persimmon eyes followed her as she paused beneath a street lamp. The nebulous light illuminated her tightly curled coiffure like gold coins. She cast her eyes to the street signs before taking a few steps down the road but shook her head and turned to walk straight toward his hiding place. As she passed without noticing his gaze on her, he pocketed his devil mask, affixed a fresh jar beneath his ribs, and pulled his great coat closer to hide the machine that hummed and growled against his chest.

“Miss Wren,” Lord Rose called with the door open just far enough that she couldn’t see him against the darkened interior, “would you like a ride home?”

The opera star stopped at the sound of that familiar, cloying tone. A little voice, the one she listened to on Samhain when she saw a hint of what he was capable of, urged her to keep walking, but with the murk soaking through her fur stole and the sherry coursing through her veins, the voice died into a dull nudge at the back of her mind. With an inaudible sigh, she stooped into the steamer, crinkling her nose as she inhaled a mouthful of stale tobacco.

“Thank you, Lord Rose. I hope I am not inconveniencing you.”

“Not at all. You never know who you will run into at this hour. One can never be too careful with Spring-heeled Jack on the loose.”

A throaty chuckle escaped Henrietta’s lips as she stared out the passenger window, keeping her eyes locked on the bleak brick façades sliding past in hopes that the wave of nausea from the cigarette smell and the alcohol would pass. “I am more worried about the human riffraff.”

“Then, what brought you out of the Christmas party all by yourself?” he asked, watching her close her eyes and let her golden head rest against the seat.

“My sister and I had a row, so she took her husband and left me behind.”

“Then, our meeting was fortuitous.” Alastair Rose’s gaze trailed from the emeralds adorning her alabaster fingers up her arm until they came to rest on the green and gold pendant at her throat. With the woman’s eyes shut, he slid down to the swollen curves of her ivory breasts, which peeked from between the edges of her stole and rose and fell rhythmically with each drowsy breath. Slinking closer, he let his hand rest on her thigh. “We really have not seen enough of each other, Henrietta.”

Her light eyes flew open at the pressure on her leg, but as she tried to move it away, his hand clamped down. Looking into his eyes, she swore they flashed orange before returning to their dull brown. “I have been very, very busy.” She glanced out the window at the familiar façades before calling, “Driver, let me out here, please! Thank you for taking me home, Lord Rose. This is close enough. I would not want to inconvenience you further.”

“It is no trouble at all. For some time I have been meaning to ask you why you have been avoiding me.” His hand slid higher, cutting a strip of velvet away as he dragged the tips of his claws into the pliant flesh of her upper thigh. “I thought we made quite a pair together at the ball. Everyone spoke of how smart you looked on my arm.”

Henrietta gasped as the metal dug into her leg so hard that blood pooled and dripped onto her chemise and drawers. Reaching behind her, she groped for the door handle, but the nobleman continued his advance until he knelt across her. When his face finally loomed over hers with his smirking eyes gleaming, she drew her hand back and brought it hard across his cheek.

“I said, let me out here,” the diva seethed as blood trickled from his lip where her ring cut him.

Alastair Rose glared at her, poised to attack but stood transfixed over her with his eyes locked on hers. Her painted porcelain face stared back as she held his gaze, masking the fear that constrained each breath and did not allow her to move from beneath him. In the shadows of the backseat, his hand slid closer until it came to rest at the base of her neck. Pushing his leg against hers, he leaned forward, so the humming machine’s pulse echoed through her body. Henrietta’s eyes darted from the gleaming ribs to his face, which had contorted into a fiendish mask.

“No one denies me what I want,” he growled as he sunk the needles into her neck and flooded her body with electricity.

When she opened her mouth to scream, the cry died in her throat. Her eyes rolled back in their sockets, leaving only a rim of blue at the edge of her lids. Small gasps and sighs broke from her lips with each muscle contraction that contorted the singer’s body. Spitefully holding down the trigger, he let her body dance against his even though he knew her soul was already trapped within the glass prison. A scant amount of electricity raced through the velvet and into his body where they touched, eliciting a silent moan as his limbs twitched from the energy’s effects.

That was how he realized what the machine was capable of. It could steal life and instill it anew, but it could also bring pleasure. Did his victims, just for a second, feel the same ecstasy he experienced when he dulled the charge and plunged the prongs into his own flesh? Dropping the opera star’s soul back into the wooden box, he withdrew an empty jar and strode across the room to where the machine lay. Once the vessel was secure, he flipped the switch that sent the machine humming to life and moved the second switch to the midpoint between extraction and deposition. By keeping the setting in limbo, the amperage was cut in half, allowing him to maintain mastery of his body throughout the process. Standing before the mirror, his eyes traveled to the series of triangular wounds littering his torso. Most were sore and red and a few had even purpled from the force of the puncture, but it was worth it.

Alastair took one more puff from his cigarette to steady his racing heart before mashing it into the ashtray beside his bed. Slipping his hand into the gauntlet, he flinched as the needles plunged into the flesh of his hip. With one squeeze, current flooded his body, sending a shockwave that tensed every muscle against his will. He locked onto his reflection as his vision tunneled and the world died away. As the energy was pulled from his body, a film as thin as a spider web caressed his flesh and sent his heart sputtering. His adrenaline rushed as a black mist came into the jar, but when the ecstasy reached its peak, he released the trigger. His caliginous soul darted back into his body, and a shudder passed through him as he stood panting before his reflection. A smile crossed his lips even as he yanked the prongs from his flank. No one could get as close to death as he could. No one could feel the euphoria of their soul being teased from their bodies and returning with a flood of relief as every muscle finally relaxed. He would never be prey like them. In becoming Jack, he had mastered death, conquered it and dealt it with a deft hand. Blood trailed down his thigh, but as he wiped it and brought his wet fingers to his lips, he tasted the metallic brew of his body. Life and death were his to command.

***

Immanuel hesitated at the head of the autopsy table, taking a deep breath to stifle the guilt that climbed up his throat like bile. For the third time, he reread Dr. Hawthorne’s wiry handwriting. Henrietta Wren, age thirty. Found posed on her doorstep in Chelsea, discovered by her housekeeper around five in the morning. Time of death difficult to determine due to the cold weather, estimated to be between one and two that morning, in rigor mortis. Triad of three punctures on the left side of the neck an inch above the clavicle, minimal blood, peri-mortem, burns at the periphery of the wounds. Eight inch cut on the left thigh beginning two inches above the knee. Laceration is pre-mortem, considerable bleeding (presence of clotted blood across limb). Blood on right hand but no wound present. Livor mortis shows body remained in sitting position in doorway for considerable amount of time, coinciding with time of death. Cause of death unknown, possible cardiac disruption from electrical shock. Potential Spring-heeled Jack victim. No autopsy performed.

“Adam, you do not have to stay for this.” Putting the ledger aside, he met his companion’s gaze as he waited for him at the base of the cellar stairs. “I have seen a dead body before.”

“I know, but I want to make sure you are all right.”

A faint smile crossed his lips before he resolutely sighed and folded back the sheet covering Henrietta Wren. Her face even in death retained its natural beauty. With her blonde hair and fair skin, she reminded him of his sister Johanna, but when he reached her neck, he chased all visions of his younger sister away. Instinctively Immanuel reached for the bandage around his throat. Resting his fingers against her icy shoulder, he waited for the visions he knew would never come. Alastair had killed her. When he couldn’t kill him, he found someone he could. His fingers twitched as he covered his face and tried to tug the sheet over her, but his fingers refused to cooperate. A hand reached past him and carefully covered the deceased singer. Adam clasped Immanuel’s trembling arm as an aftershock of the electricity darted through his limbs, cramping his legs and shaking hands.

“Sit,” Adam commanded as he lowered him onto the step. Kneeling before him, he glanced toward the closed basement door before holding Immanuel’s hands. “There is nothing you could have done to stop him.”

“If— if I had died, he would not have looked for someone else,” he croaked. “She died because of me. In a few days we are going to be in Greenwich celebrating Christmas, but her family— her family will be planning her funeral. If only I could have done something.”

Immanuel’s eyes watered and his hands quavered in Adam’s grasp. If he didn’t act, his guilt would push him to tears again. Intertwining their fingers, Adam kissed his forehead and wrapped his arms around him. After a few minutes of reassurance, Adam hoisted the thin man to his feet and led him up to the kitchen. As they emerged from the morgue, a pair of dark brown owl eyes locked onto them. Emmeline opened her mouth to speak but faltered upon seeing Immanuel as pale as he was the night before when he was lying on the table bleeding.

“Who is it this time?” she asked softly as the men walked past her.

“Henrietta Wren.”

She swallowed hard, her eyes widening at the implication. “He is killing Spiritualists.”

ACT THREE:

“The boundaries which divide Life from Death are at best shadowy and vague. Who shall say where the one ends, and where the other begins?”

-Edgar Allan Poe

Chapter Twenty-Seven:

Plans for the Future

Emmeline pressed her nose against the window of the cab, watching the streets of London crawl by. For more than an hour she had been stuck in the cab with her aunt, uncle, and Immanuel, who had barely looked up from the copy of Dorian Gray he borrowed from Mr. Fenice since they left Wimpole Street. Self-consciously running her hand over the front of her red gown, she sighed. It was the same one she wore for the Christmas social and she hoped it would be fancy enough for a party at the house of an earl as she only had one evening gown. Who knew who would be there? Hopefully no one from the Spiritualist society or they would surely know how far she had fallen.

She had owned so many beautiful dresses and hats. Her mother always made sure nothing was overlooked when it came to her happiness. Her mother. The fire— that man— had taken her away and, with her, every tradition or comfort she had ever known, leaving her adrift in the world. It was times like this when they passed family after family walking together through the bustling streets where mothers tugged lingering babes from toyshop windows and older daughters walked side by side with their mothers in matching fur muffs and hats that she felt the sting of orphanhood. This time last year, they would have been decorating the tree with fancy ornaments from Paris and singing carols at the piano while the smell of goose and pie wafted up from the kitchen. Emmeline’s lip trembled. Would her mother truly be with her or had all that she had been taught as a Spiritualist been a lie?

“How should I address the Earl of Dorset?” she asked suddenly, ripping her mind away from all thoughts of her mother. “Will you introduce me, Aunt Eliza, since I have not yet come out?”

“Yes, Emmeline.” Eliza Hawthorne’s thin lips curled into an amused smile. “You needn’t worry too much about introductions or formalities, Lord Sorrell won’t. He is not accustomed to using his father’s title yet, so Lord Dorset or Lord Sorrell are both acceptable.”

With a nod, Emmeline recited his titles in her head, but her wide eyes lingered on Eliza’s holly-green gown. The day after Henrietta’s death her aunt’s stoic demeanor had melted into mirthful smiles and easy laughter. She had even hummed as she cleaned the breakfast dishes and brushed Emmeline’s hair with motherly care. Gone were the drab dresses of grey and black. There didn’t appear to be a cause for the change, and Emmeline couldn’t be sure if she liked it even if her aunt was more willing to entertain her wishes in this state. Luckily her uncle remained as sullen and stony as ever with his arms barred across his chest and his brows knit in a frown.

Falling back into idle thoughts of who would be at the earl’s home for Christmas Eve dinner, Emmeline smiled. Surely there would be plenty of women in beautiful gowns with elaborate coiffures, young men all in black and white who would whisk her onto the dance floor and ask to call upon her, girls her own age with whom she could gossip and giggle, and no Lord Rose to ignore her. As the steamer finally slowed to a stop, her heart sank.

The icy rain pattered down against the weather-beaten façade, fogging the windows tucked into the manor’s Gothic arches. On the muddied plain at the edge of Greenwich Park, their cab and the mottled brown house stood alone. There was no party. Her face darkened as she crossed her arms and closed her eyes against the sting of disappointment. Not only would she be spending Christmas without her mother, but every agonizing moment would be dragged out by the tedium of spending another evening with her family and a nobleman who was probably as old and boring as his house.

A servant with spectacles and a full head of white hair darted from behind the great oaken door with an umbrella, but as he escorted the ladies inside, Miss Jardine realized he was only in his thirties despite his prematurely colorless hair. The manor’s mahogany-paneled foyer was bedecked with boughs of evergreens over the doorways and entangled around the banister, leaving a dusting of needles beneath them. Inhaling the earthy scent of pine, she unbuttoned her coat while watching her uncle and Immanuel carry in their luggage alongside the servant. Where are the other footmen? Emmeline wondered, listening for footsteps but none came. Could a nobleman with an estate really not have more than one servant? Then again, the one he had wasn’t even in livery. Once all the coats and hats had been hung up, the white-haired man led them toward the parlor. As they rounded the corner, a jovial voice rose and fell with the theatrics of storytelling but stopped when they entered.

“James, Eliza, welcome!” the earl cried as he broke away from his audience at the hearth and moved towards his guests.

Emmeline froze in the doorway. This was the Earl of Dorset? The man she expected to be old and dull was only in his late-twenties with a bright, open face and pleasing features even if they were not to her taste. He was too hardy for her, too rugged with his square jaw and unaffected gait. Instead of a tailcoat, he wore a charcoal suit and violet waistcoat, yet what held her attention was the titanium hand peeking out from the end of his right sleeve.

“I am so sorry we are late, Eilian, but the traffic was horrendous,” Eliza replied as she stepped forward and kissed his cheek. “Allow me to introduce my niece, Emmeline Jardine.”

When he took her hand in his to bring it to his lips, she gave him a solemn curtsy, but the moment a wide smile lit up his face, she couldn’t help but do the same. “It is a pleasure to make your acquaintance, Miss Jardine.”

“And this,” her aunt called, ushering the young man forward, “is Immanuel Winter, James’s temporary assistant and my father’s protégé.”

Grasping the nobleman’s hand, Immanuel’s eyes flickered with recognition as he took in Eilian Sorrell’s features, yet he couldn’t place him. He opened his mouth to speak, but his eyes traveled over his shoulder to the balding head that popped up from the sofa between Adam and Hadley. Immanuel’s eyes brightened the moment Elijah Martin drew near. As the older gentleman reached out to shake his student’s hand, Immanuel crushed him to his chest but quickly released him with reddened cheeks. Oh, how he missed his favorite professor.

“Mr. Winter, you are a sight for sore eyes.” Professor Martin’s gaze darted over the dent in his student’s eye socket and the scar that marred and soldered his once pristine features together like a strip of lead. The thin boy from Oxford had been reduced to little more than a skeleton with the bones in his hands and cheeks jutting from his ashen flesh. Despite the changes and evident trauma, he seemed happier than he had ever been there. “Seeing you in the flesh has finally put my mind at ease. When James told me you were safe, I took the liberty of writing to your parents to say you were no longer missing. I was also just telling Adam and Hadley that I spoke to the dean and the head of the science department, and because of your high academic standing, they are willing to allow you to complete your degree on time as long as you make up your missed work with me after hours. That is, if you are willing to come back after the holidays are over.”

Immanuel’s eyes trailed to Adam, afraid of the hurt that would be etched into his face, but instead, his lips curled into sympathetic grin. “I would love to.”

“Before I forget,” Eilian interjected as he wrapped his prosthetic arm around the small of Hadley’s back, “Miss Jardine, this is Professor Martin, Eliza’s father, and this is my fiancée, Hadley Fenice.”

Emmeline gave her a demure smile as she took in the red-headed woman’s simple bun and dark blue dress, which was closer to a man’s suit than to an evening gown. To be sure, she was pretty, but there was no way she was a noblewoman. The earl’s grey gaze softened with the same reverence she had seen when Mr. Fenice looked at her housemate every time he laid eyes on his future wife. Another marriage for love. Sighing, she listened half-heartedly as Hadley Fenice explained that she had heard a lot about her from Eliza and hoped to see more of her now that she was living in town, but her mind was elsewhere. How was her mother able to marry Archibald Jardine if she did not love him? Her mother had strategically selected a husband to ensure her place in society, but could she do the same when all she wanted was for someone to gaze at her like she was the only person in the world? The plaintive thoughts began to take over, dampening her back and tightening her chest, when the white-haired butler appeared once again.

“Dinner is served.”

“Thank you, Patrick. I hope you all do not mind, but I deviated from the traditional Christmas fare. My mother is spending Christmas with my sister-in-law’s family, and I wanted to do Christmas my way,” Eilian explained as he led the group into the dining room with his prosthesis interlocked into the crook of Hadley’s arm. “After dinner, we can have someone play the piano or play party games. Oh! I bought Christmas crackers as well. I have never thrown a party before and have no idea what I am doing, but I am hoping you will enjoy yourselves.”

***

Immanuel swallowed down a belch as he followed Adam down the hall to the drawing room. He couldn’t remember the last time he had eaten or talked so much, and while he had never tried Indian food, he was surprised by how much he enjoyed the lamb curry and baingan bharta even if they weren’t quite authentic according to the young earl. From across the table, he watched Emmeline pick at her food with a sneer, but once the desserts were brought out, traditional English pies and puddings along with fried Indian confections, suddenly she regained her appetite. When they reached the end of the passageway, Hadley gently took her brother and his companion by the arms and drew them close.

“I have a surprise for you two later,” she whispered, her eyes flashing playfully before she rejoined the rest of the party without any further explanation.

The taller man looked to Adam for a clue as to what his sister had in mind, but he simply shrugged and stopped in his tracks, causing Immanuel to walk into him. Standing beside the roaring hearth was a Christmas tree that stretched toward the ceiling at ten feet. The wide pine boughs were wrapped in silk ribbon, shimmering tinsel, lit tapers, and strings of popcorn, and hanging above the fireplace was a wreath bedecked in equally gaudy trappings. On the opposite wall beneath a tapestry of knights fighting beasts of thread and filigree was a squat piano, whose lid was lined with a neat row of a dozen brightly papered Christmas crackers.

“Eilian, the house looks splendid!” Eliza Hawthorne cried as she ran her eyes across the tree and trimmings while her husband planted himself on the sofa beside his father-in-law. “You have outdone yourself.”

“Thank you. I have blisters on my hand from chopping and dragging the tree. You should have seen Patrick’s face when I lugged it inside. There were needles everywhere, and I am pretty sure I still have some stuck in me that I have yet to find.”

Emmeline’s eyes widened a little more each time her gaze moved from the Earl of Dorset to the yards of branches along every doorway. “You did this yourself?”

“Yes.” A wide grin spread across his cheeks. “I was a little overzealous in my decorating and ended up staying awake until dawn to ensure it would be ready before everyone arrived. Hopefully, I won’t nod off.”

The earl’s future wife stood beside him as Patrick carried in a tea tray and placed it on the end table. Hadley swept an invisible strand of hair behind her ear and smoothed her dress before calling the crowd to attention by clearing her throat. “I wanted you all to be the first to know that we have decided on April second for our wedding date.”

“Have you chosen a honeymoon destination yet?” came Professor Martin’s gravelly reply between gentle tinks of the spoon against his teacup.

“We plan to go to Dorset first to see Brasshurst Hall and maybe Egypt. There are no definite plans for a honeymoon since both of us are fairly content to be on English soil for a while.”

“Well,” Eilian Sorrell called as he clapped his hands together, “now that the official announcements are out of the way, is anyone up for a game of charades? But let’s open our Christmas crackers first. Charades is always better with hats and masks.”

While the Christmas crackers were passed around, Eliza watched Emmeline’s face fall as she stared into the roaring hearth. Beneath her impassive shell, which was nearly identical to James who sat in morose silence at her elbow the entire night, she knew Emmeline was hurting. It was the first holiday she would have to endure without her mother, and no amount of lighthearted distraction would dull that loss. There was no way to bring Madeline Jardine back, but there was a chance she could at least allow her to enjoy Christmas Eve by giving her something to look forward to.

“Before we start, I was hoping Emmeline could open her present from me. I know Christmas Day is still a few hours away, but I cannot wait to give it to her any longer.”

From under the tree, Eliza Hawthorne pulled out a long, flat box wrapped in shiny purple paper and placed it on her niece’s lap. Emmeline’s owl-like eyes traveled between her aunt’s soft smile and the box as she slid her nail into the paper and pulled it away. Shaking off the lid, she let it drop as a gasp escaped her lips. Her eyes welled with tears at the sight of a white debutante dress. Running her hand over the lace and beaded bodice, it dawned on her that she would be coming out this season. Her aunt had kept her promise, and it was everything she had ever imagined. Maybe it would be her first step toward a wedding dress.

“Do you like it, Emmeline?”

In her elation, words evaporated. Putting the box aside, she leapt from the chair, wrapped her arms around her aunt’s corseted waist, and whispered into her neck, “Thank you.”

Chapter Twenty-Eight:

Broken China

The clocks in the darkened halls of Eilian Sorrell’s home tolled one, but the mechanized bells were drowned beneath the laughter of his guests as another round of charades came to an end. Around the feet of the party lay bits of paper from spent ideas and burst Christmas crackers. On the side tables empty teacups and plates waited to be collected again after being endlessly filled and drained throughout the hours after dinner. Eilian straightened his paper crown as he puffed out his cheeks and pantomimed taking a large bite of meat while rubbing an invisible belly.

“Santa Claus?” Emmeline called but was given a shake of his head as he continued to swagger and eat.

“King Henry the Eighth?” The last word trailed from Hadley’s mouth as a stifled yawn.

“Correct!” Eilian glanced over his shoulder at the clock perched atop the mantle and realized it was nearly two-thirty in the morning. “I guess we should head off to bed before sunrise, shouldn’t we? Hadley, would you be willing to show Adam, Mr. Winter, and Miss Jardine to their rooms?”

With a nod, the group clambered to their feet and followed the redhead down the hall as they rubbed their eyes and sighed, suddenly feeling the weight of suppressed fatigue. Emmeline clutched the box containing her coming-out dress to her breast as she blinked and toddled blindly, entering the door Hadley opened for her without a word. She knew she would probably fall asleep before she could even get into her nightgown. Once the youngest guest had been safely deposited in the room beside Hadley’s, she led her brother and Immanuel further into the labyrinth until they reached the two adjacent doors at the end of the hall.

Linking arms with the men, she drew them near and whispered, “I told Patrick that neither of you needed a fire lit in the morning. Merry Christmas.”

With a smile, she was gone, her heels clacking softly as she retreated back to her room at the far end of the corridor. Adam locked eyes with Immanuel as each turned the knob and disappeared into their rooms. His travel bag was lying on the dresser, but when he locked the door and pulled off his jacket, a pang of guilt rang through him. Immanuel was in the next room, far from the prying eyes and ears of his extended family as Hadley intended them to be, yet he couldn’t bring himself to dart back into the hall and sneak into the next room. No, he wouldn’t be caught prowling around his future brother-in-law’s house in the middle of the night. But Immanuel would be expecting him, wouldn’t he? He could picture his companion’s crestfallen face, his two-tone eyes downcast when he realized his lover would not be paying him a visit. Could he resist for both of their sakes?

The dull squeal of a hinge opening roused him. When Adam turned, his gaze met Immanuel’s as his head appeared in the gap between two well-worn tapestries hanging on the wall that separated their rooms. The breath hitched in his throat as his companion lingered between the chambers watching him. Adam took a step forward. Could he let go again? The last time he tried, his sister stumbled upon them in his bedroom, but with everyone on the other side of the house, would they hear them? Would they know they had crossed the threshold?

Before he could act on his discordant thoughts, Immanuel's arms were around him, drawing their bodies together until their lips touched. He planted a series of light, slow kisses on Adam’s lax mouth, letting their lips interlock and linger before pulling away to repeat the process. After half a dozen kisses, he withdrew and rested his head against Adam’s neck, his arms tightly wound around his chest. With a sigh, they stood in each other’s arms with their eyes closed, relishing the simple intimacy of an embrace.

“Are you mad at me?” Immanuel asked, his voice muffled by the redhead’s collar.

“No, why would I be?”

“Because I will be going back to Oxford in a few weeks, and we will not be able to see each other very often.”

Adam trailed his fingers into Immanuel’s curls and cradled his head as their bodies swayed slightly. “I know, but it won’t be for long. You will be back for the wedding, and in the meantime, we could still write to each other. Once in a while, I could come up to Oxford and we could make a holiday of it. Also, once you are done there, you can get a job in London, and we can see each other all the time.”

His lips curled into a smile against the warm flesh of his companion’s neck. “That sounds perfect.”

Swallowing hard, Adam tensed against the succession of kisses that began at the top of his collar and ended at his ear before coming back down again. Immanuel’s hand came up to loosen his tie, but Adam pulled it away and brought it to his lips.

“Is your door locked?” he whispered, hesitating before slipping his hand under Immanuel’s jacket and resting it on his side.

The second Immanuel nodded, Adam pressed his lips to his, drawing him closer until their bodies were flush. Warmth radiated from his core as his tongue darted against the other man’s lip. Ever since their interruption, he had wanted nothing more than to hold Immanuel in his arms and explore his flesh, but he never thought he would have the chance. The taller man’s long fingers tugged his shirt loose before yanking at his tie. When Adam’s tongue grazed his and raced across his palate, his hands faltered, slackening before pawing at the silk with renewed urgency.

It was in these moments when he was with Adam that he felt like his old self, the Immanuel that existed before Lord Rose stripped him of his identity and personhood. Even during the brutality of those days in solitary confinement, he longed to remember the feeling of a reassuring hand on his back and the loving caress of someone who genuinely cared. He dreamed of it so often, but it never felt as good as this.

At the museum when panic stole what little control he had over his faculties, Adam restored him, and he knew then that this man, who had only just entered his life, was not there by chance. Both men were searching for parts of themselves that had been forced into hiding, yet somehow in the intertwining of limbs and the vulnerability of their souls lying bare, they returned to their rightful place, even if only for a few fleeting moments.

Before Adam could try to remove it, Immanuel’s jacket slumped to the floor behind him with a shrug of his shoulders. With trembling fingers, he worked on the buttons of the redhead’s vest, pausing and struggling each time a kiss pulled his attention away. Breathlessly Immanuel broke away from his lips. Adam watched his companion’s fingers slip over the buttons of his waistcoat, unable to grasp them and thread them through the opening, and with each failure, his breaths grew more ragged and strained. Reaching out, he held Immanuel’s hands and kissed the ridge of his clavicle as it peeked out from the edge of his collar until the other man quieted. Immanuel shut his eyes against the frustration burning behind his lids, allowing Adam to lead him back until his legs abutted the edge of the bed. When he finally sat down, a gentle hand lifted his chin and gaze.

“It’s all right,” Adam whispered as his companion’s hands danced in his lap against his will. Slowly, he undid the buttons of his vest and removed his shirt before doing the same to Immanuel’s waistcoat. “Tell me if you need help instead of struggling in silence.”

His eyes clouded, blocking out most of his companion’s body. “I’m sorry. I— I just wanted tonight to be special.”

“There is no reason to be sorry, Immanuel. Tonight already is special.” Resting his hand against his split cheek, Adam stared into his turquoise eyes. For the first time, he noticed how the veins of copper not only aggregated to form half of a coin but threaded through the blue of his iris, terminating at his pupil. He flashed a reassuring grin. “We have the opportunity to be together and we are, but we do not have to do everything this instant. It will be something to look forward to next time.”

“Are you certain? Dr. Hawthorne says I may have tremors for some time because of the dosage of electricity I received, but I can still— I don’t—” Immanuel sighed as he wrapped his arms around Adam’s torso and pulled him closer until his cheek rested against his bare stomach. “Thank you for understanding.”

Adam’s smile tightened as he swallowed against the tingling and heat rising below. “We can still spend a pleasant night together. Do you want me to bring you your nightclothes?”

“No,” he chuckled as he gently tugged at his partner’s braces.

“Have it your way, but you are going to be cold tonight.”

Slipping his arms through his suspenders, Adam let his trousers drop as he kicked off his socks and shoes. Immanuel stared up at his companion, running his eyes over his firm arms and chest. Much like Hadley, he was sturdy without being muscular or weighty. His breast was dusted with henna hair that trailed down his stomach and disappeared beneath his cotton drawers. How could he let Adam see him?

As the redhead bent down and kissed him, his hands slid over Immanuel’s shoulders, taking his shirt with them, but he stiffened and kept it tucked around him at his elbows. Wrapping his arm around his waist, Adam sat beside him on the bed and deepened his hold with each kiss until he and Immanuel breathed in time, and with a press of his hand, he lay back on the coverlet. When Immanuel opened his eyes a few minutes later, his shirt was tumbling off the edge.

In the dark, Immanuel hoped Adam wouldn't see how he had wasted away since September from starvation and illness. The body he had lived in for twenty-one years was gone and had been replaced by something frail. Like broken china, he had been hastily pieced back together. From afar he appeared whole, but lying beside him, Adam would surely see every scratch, crack, and gap. A hand trailed up his leg, but before his companion could reach for the button of his trousers, he hopped off the bed. If he could get under the covers quickly, maybe Adam wouldn't notice his defects.

Adam climbed onto his knees and watched Immanuel fumble with the button. His heart sank when his eyes followed the sharp outline of his rolling shoulder blades to a field of circular scars etched into his back. In the dim light, they shone against his ashen skin. The monster had held a lit cigarette to his back a dozen times, and for what? He averted his gaze only to have it fall upon the edge of a scar that disappeared around the curve of his torso. What had been done to him in the hell his companion refused to speak of? As Immanuel’s wool trousers finally sagged to the floor, Adam pressed his lips to the lasting reminders of his torment.

Immanuel drew in a sharp breath. His flaws had been found, but with each reverent kiss, the agony from the moment his flesh was incinerated dulled. There was love and goodness in this world, and they were as transformative as wickedness. He would always have to live with the horrors he experienced at the hands of Lord Rose, but Adam had the power to save him from the bitterness and grief of knowing true evil.

Standing behind him with his arms wrapped around Immanuel’s narrow waist, Adam’s lips grazed the stitches on his neck. “Come to bed, Immanuel.”

Silently, he followed Adam beneath the sheets. The redhead’s arms enveloped him as he rested his head on his breast, listening to the steady cadence of his heart. Adam rested his thumb in the dent on the side of his ribs where the bones had not aligned properly and stroked the soft flesh around it with his fingertips. Lying in the security of Adam’s embrace, Immanuel closed his eyes. This wouldn’t be a onetime thing, a fleeting embrace. There was a promise of tomorrows and of a life together that behind closed doors would flourish. Even if the world could never accept who they were, at least they had each other and the knowledge that someone else knew.

Chapter Twenty-Nine:

Nightmares of Devils

Immanuel’s body jerked, curling inward as his fingers gripped the sheets in pain. A cry escaped his lips, but with his mouth pressed into the pillow, it went unheard by his companion. He had to get out. Somehow he had to escape. His eyes flew open and met only the opaque fabric film of a blindfold. Frantically pawing at his face, Immanuel peeled off the sweat-drenched sheet. Relief washed over him, slowing his pounding heart as his eyes trailed over the tapestried wall ahead of him and the mullioned windows to his left. Flipping on the lamp beside the bed, Immanuel sighed. The catacomb was gone and in its place only inches away beneath the coverlet was Adam’s slumbering form. He was safe. The beating was a dream. The man in the mask wasn’t real, he told himself as he wiped the sweat from his forehead, his hand radiating heat. At least this time he didn’t wake up alone.

Inching closer to Adam, he leaned against the headboard but remained far enough away to take in his features in the diffuse light. A scant amount of auburn stubble darkened his jaw and throat, removing what little foppishness was left once he slipped from his fussy attire. The final traces of the offal from the cellar disappeared as he inhaled the faint aroma of Adam’s lavender cologne. With a smile he drew in a deep breath, tasting the subtle spice of his companion’s flesh and hair with its hints of black tea and nutmeg. He hadn’t expected Adam to coax him into bed after the resistance he put up in the past regarding his proclivities, yet he found himself drawn in and made to feel safe. A hand gently squeezed his beneath the sheet.

“What’s the matter?” the redhead murmured, pulling the blanket closer. “Go back to sleep, it’s early.”

“I can’t. I’m overheating.”

Adam’s eyes flew open as he threw off the covers and inspected Immanuel’s colorless skin and flushed cheeks. Sitting up, he put his hand on his companion’s forehead. “You are positively burning up! Are you all right?”

“Am I ever, Adam?”

Catching each other’s gaze, Adam’s eyes softened at the fatigue and spent fear lingering in his companion’s features. The color in his eyes and cheeks rose with feral heat, the same he had seen outside the museum. His skin glistened with cold perspiration, highlighting the peaks of his ribs as they pushed against the confines of his skin with each breath. A part of him wanted to take Immanuel in his arms and hold him until all dread and panic were gone, but the hardness of his eyes kept him from acting.

“It was only a nightmare. I will be fine.”

“Well, whatever frightened you is gone now.” Drawing Immanuel closer, he kissed his cheek. “Would you care to lie with me a little longer? The others probably will not be up for another hour or two.”

He closed his eyes as Adam kissed his shoulder, but the moment he relaxed, the vision of Alastair Rose’s saffron eyes burning behind the devil mask flooded his mind. Biting his lip, he suppressed a shudder. There would be no going back to sleep. A wave of heat flooded his face and neck, and he instinctively reached for the collar that was not there. The tapestries and wood-paneled walls distorted, growing closer with each quickened breath. All thoughts except escape fled his mind when a hand clasped his forearm. Immanuel jumped but forced a smile as he met his companion’s kind features.

“Are you sure you are all right? I can help you get dressed and call James.”

Immanuel swallowed hard between measured breaths. “Really, I’m fine. I just need to step outside and cool down.” Leaning in, he planted a kiss on Adam’s lips and hoped the other man could not feel his mouth quaver. “Sharing a bed with you does not make it easy.”

“Would you like me to accompany you?” he asked with a bright grin.

“No, stay. I shall only be gone a few moments.”

Climbing out of bed, he kissed Adam one more time before gathering his clothes off the floor. In the safety of his room, he wiped away the sweat with the icy water of the washbasin and donned Dr. Hawthorne’s hand-me-downs. Even if today was Christmas, he wasn’t feeling very festive. Lord Rose had cast a shadow over him again, ruining the moment when he awoke at Adam’s side.

Digging through his bag, he pulled out a rolled piece of paper tied with red ribbon. He had run out of money after they went to the opera, but he had to give Adam something for Christmas. Long into the night before they left Wimpole Street, he sketched his companion from memory, delineating the graceful curves of his face and the spark in his blue eyes. Immanuel peeked into Adam’s room and found him sleeping peacefully where he left him. Placing the scroll on the nightstand, he slipped into the hall and headed for the foyer.

As he passed the drawing room, something moving within caught his eye. With soundless steps, he walked back to the door and peered inside. Sitting in front of the Christmas tree was Emmeline Jardine, absentmindedly stoking the fire. Her dark hair was mussed from sleep and hung about her head in a loose braid except in the front where it fell in curled tendrils. Sensing someone behind her, she pulled her quilted, purple dressing gown closer and stared up at him with wide eyes.

“I did not expect anyone to be up yet.”

“Don’t mind me. I was just stepping out for some fresh air.” He was about to leave when he noticed the red rim around her eyes. “Is there anything wrong, Miss Jardine?”

“No, I—” She sighed as she placed the fireplace poker back in its rack. “I was thinking about my mother. This will be my first Christmas without her.”

“I’m sorry you lost her.”

“We have both lost things that were important to us.” Her eyes flickered over the scar on his cheek. “Did you notice them talking about you at dinner?”

Immanuel shook his head. During dinner, he had been listening to Lord Sorrell and Miss Fenice’s recount the tales of their courtship and time in Palestine.

“Uncle James was telling Mr. Martin how you were attacked. What was it like to be electrocuted? Is Spring-heeled Jack really human? You are the only one who has seen him and lived.”

His throat tightened. Did she know her Lord Rose was the man who ripped the soul from his body? He eyed Emmeline suspiciously. Could he trust her? She had spent hours with this man, attended parties with him, yet she seemed oblivious to his depravity. Though he couldn’t prove it yet, Immanuel knew he had to be behind the death of Madeline Jardine, and Emmeline deserved to know the truth about her benefactor.

“He is human, but that is what makes him the worst type of monster.” Taking a deep breath, he chewed on his lip. “I have been meaning to speak to you about him. You are in grave danger.”

“Are you going to lecture me about not going out at night?” she scoffed as she rolled her eyes. “If so, save your breath. Aunt Eliza already did.”

“Forget it, you will find out eventually.”

“Find out what? I am not a child. I have a right to know why I am in danger.”

He had to tell her even if she would not believe him. “Lord Rose is Spring-heeled Jack.”

For a second, Emmeline’s mouth hung open before indignantly snapping shut. “Are you daft? Lord Rose is a gentleman from a respectable family, not some lunatic.”

“I know what I saw. Even through his mask, I recognized his face and his voice.”

“How would you know? You don’t even know him,” she badgered as she stepped toward him with an accusatory finger. “You only met him that day.”

“Keep your voice down. You will wake up the whole house.”

“I don’t care! You are lying. You do not even know what he looks like.”

“Before he put that blindfold on me, I saw his face every day when he beat me! I saw him in the Bodleian when he and his cronies kidnapped me, and he was there in Oxford when I pulled you out of the river. I know exactly what he looks like.”

Emmeline stared him down. His hands shook and his voice sharpened, yet it was never raised above a low whisper. It couldn’t be true. He was lying. That was the only explanation for his outburst, or maybe the attack had unhinged his mind. She couldn’t be right. Lord Rose couldn’t have kidnapped her. If he did, then he—

“He couldn’t have done that. He—” The crazed look in his eyes when he seized her by arms flashed but was drowned beneath her anger. “He would never harm me! He loves me, and one day, we will be married.”

“If he doesn’t kill you first. Do you think if we had not gotten out that he would have spared you? My life was all that stayed his hand against you.” As he locked eyes with her, her gaze faltered, falling to her feet before rising back to his face in strained defiance. “He killed two women! Do you think he would have thought twice about killing you if he had to, especially a girl who was presumed dead already?”

“No,” she cried, freeing more inky curls with each shake of her head, “no, no. He can’t be. You are lying! How dare you accuse him of something so horrid! You don’t even know him.”

“I am certain you know there is connection between Lord Rose and the murdered women. You know the comings and goings of the Spiritualists better than anyone, and I am sure you know the link.” Immanuel dropped his voice at the sound of a door squealing open somewhere in the house. “You can put him away for murder. For once in your life, Emmeline, please think for yourself.”

As he turned to leave, the rage churned up Emmeline’s throat until it roared out. “I hate you!”

“I’m sorry you feel that way, Miss Jardine.” Stopping at the threshold, he stared into her owl-like brown eyes. Deep down something stirred even if she did not yet know it. He searched them and found that beneath the venom something else lingered in their depths. “My only hope is that you will see him for what he is before it is too late.”

Looking toward the oak door at the end of the hall, he turned. The heat and fear of his nightmares had finally left him. Even if the devil still haunted his dreams and left his mark upon him, he had cracked his hold on his greatest ally. Emmeline Jardine held the key to his undoing, and by underestimating his captives, he had brought about his own ruin.

Shutting the door behind him, he peeled off his jacket, tie, and waistcoat before slipping silently beside his slumbering companion. He rested his head against Adam’s chest and closed his eyes as the other man wrapped his arms around him. Soon, a plan would have to be set in motion that would put all their lives at risk, but with his partner’s arms holding him tight and his gentle breath against his cheek, Lord Rose was only a memory.

Chapter Thirty:

The Serpent

The front door of thirty-six Wimpole Street opened, admitting three cheerful revelers and one sullen teenager in from the cold. As the men carried in the remaining luggage from the steamer cab, Eliza gathered the letters strewn across the hall floor before they were once again trod upon. Emmeline stomped past with her head down but paused when she noticed her foot rested on a letter addressed to her. Her pulse quickened at the sight of the cultivated handwriting incised into the parchment. Flipping it over, she found a red wax seal with the letters A and R intertwined with a serpent. It had to be from Lord Rose, but what could he want from her? Maybe he knew she was coming out this season and wanted to catch her before any other man could. Scooping up the envelope, she continued toward the stairs as nonchalantly as she could muster.

“What did you get, Emmeline?” her aunt asked as she added another Christmas card to the growing collection on the hall table.

She froze. Even though his tirade had been over a day ago, anger still coiled around her chest, mercilessly constricting and consuming her. Keeping her voice level, she replied, “The Raleigh sisters sent me a Christmas card and a letter. Their parents must have told them they saw me at the Christmas social. If you will excuse me, I am dreadfully tired from the festivities, Aunt Eliza. I think I am going to lie down for a while.”

“All right. I will call you when dinner is ready.”

Dashing up the remaining steps, Emmeline pulled the door shut behind her, careful not to draw her aunt or uncle’s attention. Whether the note contained only a holiday card or a proposal, she wanted to be the first person, the only person, to read it. All of his past invitations to the Spiritualist society were addressed to her aunt, so why would he write a note directly to her? Tearing at the envelope, her hands trembled as she pulled the piece of paper out and held it under the gas lamp.

Dear Miss Jardine,

Since the night of the Christmas social, I have been unable to sleep after how I acted towards you. I was unduly churlish and unfairly abusive, and there is no way for me to express how deeply I regret my actions. My hope is that you will accept my humble apologies and think me no less of a gentleman for letting my emotions get the better of me. It was wrong, but I am merely human and prone to ill-humor. Your offer of a dance was meant in kindness and should not have been so coldly rejected. In the future, I hope to take up your offer if it is still available to me.

This letter is not merely meant as an apology as I have been called to participate in an event of the utmost importance, and as the eventual successor of the Oxford Spiritualist Society, I would like to extend an invitation to you. On the third of January, Dr. Hawthorne and I will have an audience with the queen. Her Majesty has asked for a medium to be present during the proceedings, and I know no better medium than you, Miss Jardine. You have inherited your late mother’s aptitude for connecting with the dead, and as a young lady about to come into society, this would be a perfect opportunity to find favor with Her Majesty ahead of the others. The successful accomplishment of this classified endeavor will not only bring you accolades as a Spiritualist medium but will elevate your standing in court. If you would like to discuss what will be required of you, please send word as to what time we can meet in Mayfair since the matter is much too sensitive to discuss in public, and I will send your aunt an invitation. You may wonder why I am choosing you above a more experienced medium, but out of all the women in the society, I hold you in the highest regard.

Ever yours,

Alastair Rose

Holding the paper close, she caught a faint whiff of his spiced tobacco. The letter had been infused with his scent, and with the masked endearments, it was as good as a love letter. Emmeline smiled. He held her in the highest regard and begged for her forgiveness. Taking the letter, she sat at the vanity and pulled the pins from her coiffure until her hair fell upon her shoulders in thick ringlets. Of course she would forgive him. It was merely an outburst. A man of his stature must find socializing with the bourgeoisie a dreadful bore, but she was worthy of his attention. Lord Rose wouldn’t let her down. No, he meant to raise her up and give her every opportunity to improve.

Reaching behind her, she unfastened the buttons of her gown and let it slip from her shoulders. Before her eyes could take in what had changed since the Samhain ball, they fell on the series of light green bruises no bigger than peas on the flesh of her upper arm. Emmeline swallowed hard. Lord Rose hadn’t meant to hurt her. In the moment, he simply lost himself. She had crossed him after all, but it was an accident. He even lost sleep for it and wrote a letter of apology, so he must be sorry. If he doesn’t kill you first. With a sharp bang, her fist collided with the tabletop. There was no way he could be right. She had known Lord Rose for years while he had only just met him. Alastair couldn’t possibly— But the look in his eyes when he seized her. Her body tensed at the image of his face twisted with rage and his eyes ablaze like the end of a cigarette. All she wanted to do was a reading for Lord Montagu to put his mind at ease. Why would he deny his brother a reading?

Emmeline’s heart quickened and every muscle locked. She had mentioned Katherine Waters. What would she have seen if she read Katherine’s necklace again? Would she have seen those eyes burning into her and his mouth curled into a snarl ready to tear his brother’s fiancée apart? Maybe that was why he tried to stop Alexander that afternoon in the Spiritualist society when he crashed through the door and made a scene. He couldn’t let a real medium get her hands on Katherine’s jewelry or he would be caught, and that was why he threatened her when she suggested trying again.

Could it really be true? Her eyes burned as she set aside the letter and covered her face. Lord Rose and Miss Waters were always together when they came to Oxford for parties or dinners. They would dance, and when they weren’t, she was always at his side. At the Samhain ball, she was surprised to find—

“Oh, God,” she whimpered with tears scalding her eyes and slipping down her cheeks as her body shook with silent sobs. How had she not realized it sooner? Henrietta Wren had been on his arm the night her mother was burned alive in their house. They weren’t just Spiritualists, they were the women he was courting, but what reason was there to kill Miss Wren or Miss Waters besides that they had hung at his arm? It didn’t matter why. He hadn’t made it to the meeting with the queen, and Immanuel was right. If Lord Rose killed Katherine and Henrietta, did that mean he was the one who gave Immanuel his deformity?

Those days in captivity had been ticked away by the ritual of Immanuel’s screams of pain at their invisible captor’s hand. All along it had been him. She had been locked away where he could keep an eye on her but where she could never identify him. Her lungs convulsed against her ribs as she let out a ragged cry. He killed her mother. The vision from the crown flashed before her eyes. Lord Rose in his red devil costume had carried her away as her mother and home burned. He had manipulated her the entire time. He had been there at the Thames. He had been there on Samhain. He had witnessed every death and dealt it without a qualm. Emmeline’s lips and face twitched as each breath came quicker and harder than the last until she let out a wail and swept her arm across the tabletop, sending everything off with it.

“Emmeline, are you all right?” her aunt called through the door.

She pawed at her eyes and steadied her breathing. “Yes, Aunt Eliza. I thought I saw a spider. Everything is fine.”

In the stillness, she listened to Eliza Hawthorne’s footsteps taper away until she descended the steps. Turning her gaze to the mirror, Emmeline’s eyes widened in horror. Her hair stood out from her face in wild tangles of inky black while her eyes sharpened with rage, losing their owl-like innocence with the monstrous tinge of red. This creature standing in her undergarments throwing a fit was not her. In a matter of moments, he had reduced her to the same inhuman state she found Immanuel in, and he never had to lift a finger. Lord Rose was a force of destruction she wasn’t prepared for.

Quietly padding across the floor, she retrieved the letter and envelope which had scattered when she lost control. But how was she to respond? If she didn’t say anything or rejected his offer, he would surely know something was wrong, and being discovered could only end badly for her. How could she be around him knowing he killed her mother? Emmeline squeezed her eyes against the pain, but when she opened them, they fell upon the monogram of his seal. The serpent had seduced her into believing he would get her what she needed: power, position, a husband. At what cost had she nearly given herself utterly to him? Holding her arms, she sat on the edge of her bed and hid the letter in the bottom drawer of her nightstand.

Immanuel would know what to do. He knew about Lord Rose before she had any inkling of his other side and he knew how their lives were intertwined. A part of her wanted to tear Lord Rose apart, but that course of action would get her nowhere. Surely, Immanuel would know what she could do to avenge her mother and take down the man who destroyed her life. Pulling on a rumbled nightgown and dressing gown from her traveling bag, she crept into the hallway and softly rapped on Immanuel’s door. After a few seconds, the door squealed open, and Immanuel Winter stood before her with a new top hat and a brush in his hands. His blue and brown eyes widened upon seeing her.

“What happened?” he gasped as he put his Christmas present aside and stooped down to look at her face. “Are you hurt?”

“No.” She drew in a tremulous breath and shut her eyes again when the words refused to budge. Opening her mouth, only a sob came out before she cried, “He killed my mother.”

Emmeline covered her face as soft, mewling cries broke from her lips but were muffled by her hands. Her body shook against her will. It wasn’t right for her to be blubbering in front of him, yet it was beyond her control. A gentle hand settled on her back and drew her closer until her damp forehead rested against the fabric of his waistcoat. In Immanuel’s loose grasp, she stiffened at the intimacy of the gesture, but there was no guile or ulterior motive when his hands moved up and down her back in an attempt to sooth her. He quietly shushed her and allowed her to cry into his chest.

“I am so sorry, Miss Jardine. I never meant to drag you and your family into anything like this.”

Nodding, she steadied her breath and stepped out of his arms. “We need to do something. We cannot let him get away with this. Maybe Uncle James and Aunt Eliza will help us.”

“He already knows.”

“And he isn’t doing anything?”

Immanuel put his finger over his lips to silence her as a door below opened and shut. “He does not think we will be believed since we have no real proof.”

“I refuse to let him get away with it. He killed my mother, he killed Katherine and Henrietta, and he nearly killed you, too,” she blurted in a harsh whisper as she wiped at her eyes.

“There is nothing we can do tonight, but I have been thinking about how we can go about proving our case. Tomorrow, I am going to Adam Fenice’s house to ask him for his help. Would you like to accompany me?”

“Who would be my chaperone? I can’t just be in the company of two young men alone.”

“His sister will be home, so she could act as your chaperone instead of Mrs. Hawthorne. That way we can speak freely. I will send a letter right now to Adam and see if we can arrange for Miss Fenice to walk with us to Baker Street.”

As Immanuel turned to enter his room, Emmeline caught his sleeve. “Thank you.”

“You are welcome, Miss Jardine.” He smiled weakly. “I would hope you would do the same for me.”

Chapter Thirty-One:

A Woman’s Finesse

It seemed like such a good idea the night before. Emmeline steadied her breath and straightened her back as she waited on the steps of Lord Rose's Mayfair home beside her aunt. Be brave. Heroines must always be brave, she repeated to herself. Was Cleopatra afraid when she plotted against Octavian? Did Portia cower when she testified against her father? No, they did what they had to no matter the danger. Lord Rose couldn't know what they were up to, and it was her job to remain charming and affable.

Before she left, Immanuel had reminded her that as long as she was with Eliza, she was safe. He was too busy keeping up appearances to strike in front of someone. After what she realized only days before, she couldn't be sure of that. If she let on that she knew what he did, they would all pay dearly for her misstep. Emmeline tightened her grip on Eliza’s arm. While she and Immanuel shared the ability to return from the dead, her aunt did not.

Sitting around the Fenice's kitchen table with bottomless pots of tea, they drew out the first phase of their plan. Nothing could be done until they had evidence of Lord Rose's involvement, and while she was inside, she hoped to sneak away. Originally, Mr. Fenice and Immanuel had intended to somehow break into the house, but even before seeing the sheer Grecian façade, she knew it was stupid idea. Immanuel was barely able to stand, let alone climb, and Mr. Fenice would have surely not gone unnoticed with his distinctive hair. No, this part of the plan needed a woman's finesse, but how she would slip away was still a mystery, even to her.

She glanced down the street. Somewhere in the city, Immanuel and Mr. Fenice were breaking into the house that had been their prison. Miss Fenice’s fiancée had made a list of the Marquess of Montagu’s properties from his late-father’s records. There was only one within walking distance of Wimpole Street, and with Lord Rose occupied with their meeting, they only had to worry about the neighbors alerting the police. Emmeline recited a silent prayer to her mother and hoped she would keep them all safe.

Her heart sputtered as the front door opened, but luckily it was only one of the footmen. As he hung their coats and took their calling card to Lord Rose, she attempted to take a deep breath but was hampered by her corset. Her eyes traveled over the dark wallpaper and heavy wooden furniture. Each surface seemed wrought and worked into an arabesque or Grecian line, and much like her own home in Oxford, it was sumptuous with gilded knickknacks and an ebony angel holding a torch aloft on the newel post of the stairs.

“Lord Rose will see you in the drawing room,” the footman announced before leading them past the stairs and into the rear of the house.

Why did they have to leave the safety of the front rooms? If something went wrong in the parlor, she could run out onto the street, but in the drawing room, there was no easy source of escape. The breath caught in her throat. Standing before the fire was Alastair Rose. In the crystal ashtray beside him a cigarette still smoldered, and for a second, she felt the heat of it on the back of her arm again. For the first time she noticed the thick knuckles of his hand and the power in the veins that popped and rolled as he gnashed out the butt with a final twist. Lord Rose turned, his penetrating predator eyes flickering before fading into rehearsed hospitality. She glanced at Eliza, but she hadn’t noticed.

“Mrs. Hawthorne, Miss Jardine, I am so glad you could come,” he said as he motioned for them to take a seat. “I must apologize for sending you such a hurried invitation, but I wanted to ensure we spoke before your husband— He has discussed the project with you, hasn’t he?”

“Of course,” Eliza Hawthorne replied as a servant carried in a tray loaded with tea and cakes. “Dr. Hawthorne and I do not have any secrets.”

Obviously you do, or you would not have brought me here, Emmeline thought as she took the cup offered to her. It had been hard to feign surprise after Immanuel told her about her grandfather’s contract with the queen to revive her dead husband and how her uncle had inherited it after his death. Her aunt had revealed much less, only stating the prince consort wasn’t really dead and that her uncle and Lord Rose were involved in returning him to health.

“Miss Jardine, are you feeling well? You are very subdued today.”

She didn’t have to look up to know his eyes were boring into her. Could he see her hand shaking as she placed her cup and saucer down? “I’m sorry. I am simply overwhelmed by the possibility of meeting the queen. What will I say? How should I dress? What will be expected of me?”

The corner of his lip curved into a smile. “There is no need to fret, Miss Jardine. I have your best interest at heart. Now, I promise this will be brief.”

Emmeline held her breath as he began outlining the duties that would be required of her. It would be nothing more than reading one of the Prince Consort’s belongings and confirming to Her Majesty that all was well. She had to act, she had to get away before he finished otherwise the trip would be an utter waste and she would have nothing to help convict him. Her eyes trailed to the cup of tea her aunt was refilling while still listening to Alastair Rose. Picking it up, she watched the steam rise from its rim. It might burn, but it would be worth it. With a lurch, Emmeline sent the cup spilling into her lap and onto the carpet. She yelped as the liquid seeped into the layers of her periwinkle gown.

“My dress!” she cried, jumping up from her seat and turning away from her aunt and Lord Rose to keep them from seeing her spread the stain further with her handkerchief. “It’s ruined!”

“Let me help you.”

“No,” Emmeline pushed her aunt’s hand away, “I’m fine. Lord Rose, may I use your powder room?”

“Of course.” He pulled the bell cord, and within moments, the same footman who took their coats reappeared. “Joseph, please show Miss Jardine to the powder room.”

Following close behind the tall young man, the knot in Emmeline’s chest loosened as they climbed the steps. Her eyes darted over each door, trying to discern which would yield what she needed. The footman opened a door at the end of the hall for her and withdrew a towel from the neighboring closet. She gratefully took it, but he lingered outside the door.

The footman wasn’t much older than she was, so she stared up at him through her lashes and whispered with a smile, “Joseph, was it? Joseph, thank you for assisting me, but you needn’t wait for me. I am sure you have much more important things to do, and I can find my own way back.”

With a nod, Joseph disappeared down the stairs. Turning on the tap, Emmeline wet the cloth and blotted her dress. The stain wouldn’t come out anyway, but she knew she had to make a show of it. Carefully closing the door behind her, she tiptoed down the hall and opened the first door. The curtains were drawn across the windows, casting the room in near darkness with the sallow rain pattering beyond the panes, but there was no mistaking Lord Rose’s bedroom. Emmeline’s pulse quickened. At one time she would have given anything to be beneath the dark, silken canopy of the Gothic bed, yet now she was ashamed of those forbidden feelings. How could she have ever been in love with the man who killed her mother? She quietly shut the door and darted over to his dresser. Opening each drawer in succession, she found nothing but clothing and books, which she quickly put back when she realized what they were. Where else could he hide something?

Looking up into the mirror, her eyes fell on an armoire tucked behind the heavy canopy. With a soft click, the door swung open to reveal a hodgepodge of equipment and clothing. Heavy sweaters with leather pads for climbing hung beside his red devil costume, and sitting below them was a pair of worn climbing stilts, a wooden chest, and a strange contraption. It was the size of sewing machine but resembled a set of metal lungs. Tugging the cord at the top, Emmeline pulled the rubber-coated wire until a plate with spikes slid into her hand. She turned it over in the dim light. As she brought it closer, she stifled a gasp. The end was tipped in blood. It had to be the device he used, the one she saw Immanuel killed with. If only it was small enough to take with her, at least then she could ensure no one else would be harmed by it. After returning the trigger to its proper place, she lifted the lid of the chest.

The box was divided into sixteen cubicles with nine empty slots. Carefully lifting a jar out of its cubby, she stared into it. At first it seemed empty, but something shimmered within. Her hand grew warm as the wisp of blue light drew closer. It flattened against the edge, and before Emmeline’s eyes appeared the ragged form of a woman. Through her thin face and the dark outline of her curly hair, she could make out Lord Rose’s bed, but there was no mistaking that it was Katherine Waters. Her wide, colorless eyes seemed to be staring through her when finally they locked onto hers. Goosebumps swept over her arms and neck as Katherine’s lips moved to form words she couldn’t understand even though their meaning was clear. Release me. Emmeline stared down at the lid. She could tear it open and let her out, but he would surely notice and know exactly who did it. As she moved to return Katherine’s vessel to its place, something caught the light.

Reaching in, Emmeline pulled out a ring with a purple stone. It had to have belonged to her. She slipped it onto her finger. If she couldn’t take the jars or the machine, she could at least bring back Katherine’s ring. After placing Katherine back into the ossuary, she lifted each jar in turn to see if anything was hidden beneath them, but when she reached an empty slot, she found a familiar vial on a chain. The empty glass was decorated with gold and silver leaves curling up its length before reaching the cap where it was engraved in Latin.

Emmeline froze as a board creaked outside the door. The light filtering in from the hall was broken by two thick legs. She looked into the armoire, but it was too full for her to climb in. Soundlessly closing the doors, she flattened against the wall behind the curtain and slid to the floor as the knob jiggled in its plate. Her heart pounded as she wiggled under the low frame of the bed, silencing her squeaks of panic by biting her lip. Light streamed in front of the bed when the door finally opened and the man walked in. She flinched with each heavy step while he lumbered only inches from her face, moving past the bed and over to the armoire. The breath hitched in her throat as he threw back the bed-curtains and then the drapes. He knew someone was in there. Covering her eyes with her arm, she held her breath and waited. The man opened drawers and doors, circling the bed until finally his heavy tread retreated out the door. For a long moment, Emmeline lay in the silence, waiting for the tattoo of her heart to slow. Sliding out on her belly, she stood and brushed the dust from her hair and dress. With trembling fingers, Emmeline opened the top of her gown and slipped Immanuel’s amulet over her neck before buttoning it.

Cracking the door just far enough to see down the hall, she confirmed the man who sought her was gone and stepped into the hall. Emmeline could hear her aunt and Lord Rose talking as they had before, though the conversation had turned to their Christmas holidays. At the top of the steps, she took a moment to smooth her dress and flatten her hair where it caught under the bed’s frame. She pulled out her handkerchief and trotted down the stairs, but as she reached the angel with her torch raised, she looked down at her hands. The ring was gone. For a moment, she thought about running back upstairs and scrambling under the bed to find it, but it was too risky after being nearly caught the first time. Immanuel’s necklace would have to do. Taking a deep breath, she let out a huff of frustration and stomped back into the parlor, still fussing at the stain with her handkerchief.

“Ruined! Absolutely ruined!” she cried as their eyes fell upon her.

“Don’t worry. I am sure the washerwoman can get it out,” Eliza replied as she eyed the stain. “She has gotten much worse out of my clothing.”

Alastair Rose cleared his throat. “As I was telling Mrs. Hawthorne, your part in the project is a simple one. All you must do is read something that belonged to Prince Albert and assure Her Majesty that everything is all right. Can you do that?”

It really wasn’t a question. When she looked into his eyes, she saw the mesmeric stare of a predator, daring her to defy him. She wanted to ask what if the object told her everything was not all right, but she dared not. “Of course.”

Chapter Thirty-Two:

The Horrors of Mortimer Street

The steamer chugged down Mortimer Street, passing façade after façade of bland, red brick. Adam's eyes trailed from the piece of paper to the brass house numbers. The night before Hadley stuffed it into his hand after returning from dinner with Lord Sorrell. With a hissing lurch, the cab stopped only a few feet beyond the shabby intersection of Mortimer and Cleveland Street. The once well-tended Ionic columns and weathered bricks had been overtaken by ivy. In the winter cold, the leaves had fallen away leaving only creeping veins from which sallow icicles clung. The naked windows were coated in grime as was the moldering, peeling door. Turning to the man beside him, Adam watched his companion’s breath quicken.

“Is this the right place?”

Immanuel’s eyes stayed locked on the cold brick beyond the steamer window as he whispered, “I don’t know. I was unconscious when I was brought in and blindfolded when I left.”

Seeing a tremor pass through his companion’s hand as he curled inward against an unseen force, Adam’s heart sank. He kept one eye on the driver and put his hand over Immanuel’s. “Stay in the cab. I am going to take a few photographs and come right back.”

Cradling the his late-brother’s boxy Kodak under his arm and slinging the tripod against his shoulder, Adam stepped onto the pavement and kept his head down as he made his way to the front door. The street was oddly quiet. The midday sun was bright enough to chase away the chill, yet no one was milling on their porches or struggling to hail a steamer. An occasional careworn laborer or grey man clad in dark wool hurried down Cleveland Street but no one paid the man with henna hair any mind.

Adam leaned into the door, ready to throw his weight against it, when the knob easily turned in his grasp. It had not even been locked. As he stepped inside and shut the door, he listened in the stillness for any signs of life but heard only his heart beating in his ears and the gurgle of the steamer idling outside the door. Walking through the front rooms, he confirmed the house was empty save for the cloaked furniture. His eyes trailed to the stairs, but Immanuel and Emmeline both agreed neither had gone upstairs during their confinement. In the hearth, the ash from numerous fires had been left behind, mixed with half-burnt paper. Prodding the singed bits of wood and parchment with the poker, Adam could faintly make out long, loopy writing, but the pieces were so small, he couldn’t tell if they pertained to Immanuel or Emmeline at all. He was about to leave when a larger fragment appeared beneath a coating of ash. Brushing it off, he held it up in the dim light. Claudia Leopold Rose. Adam could not place the name but stuffed it in his pocket anyway. Emmeline knew more of the lowlife’s affiliations than he ever would.

Old boot-treads cut through the layers of dust, carving a path into the kitchen. Stopping at a decorative panel in the wall, he drew back the door. The sour smell of long-spoiled meat and vegetables drifted from the dumbwaiter, but as Adam slammed the compartment shut against the nauseating odor, his eyes trailed to the footprints that veered around the corner and down the steps to the servant’s quarters. Emmeline said she had been held there, and much like the floor above, the rooms below had been deserted long ago. The main chamber was empty, but one door stood open with its knob embedded in the plaster. Hesitantly, he walked past the other dumbwaiter hatch and the empty bathroom. Stepping into the bedroom, his eyes fell over a pair of torn lace and boning wings. A trail of smashed clockwork parts lay scattered across the floor, mingling with sheets of paper and penny dreadfuls that trailed from an overturned armoire only to slip through a hole where the floorboards had been removed. Beside the bed on the far wall, dates tumbled down the plaster in harsh scratches.

Adam set the camera up a few feet into the door to capture the torn wings from Emmeline’s costume as well as the graffiti and missing boards. Putting as much of the room in focus as possible, he snapped the shutter and cranked the film to the next available frame. Emmeline Jardine had been held there for nearly a month, and now he saw why she did not suffer nearly as much as his companion. The room was practically as well furnished as his, and apart from the mess and what happened below, it seemed like any other bedroom. As he carried the camera back into the hall, his eyes fell upon the window above the toilet. Had anyone guessed at the horrors happening in that house? With the neighbors only feet away, could they hear Immanuel’s piteous cries each time Lord Rose landed a blow?

Beneath the boards, where even light didn’t dare enter, Immanuel spent months at the mercy of a madman. A part of Adam wanted to collect his camera, return to the safety of the cab and leave with some semblance of innocence, but he had to know where Immanuel was kept. It would give him some insight into the horrors he suffered and give a backdrop to the nightmares he refused to speak of. Maybe if he saw it, he could be able to help. Adam scanned the floor of the servants’ hall for a trap door or anything that would lead to the cellar, but as he was contemplating slipping between the boards in Emmeline’s room, he spotted the closet under the stairs.

Reaching into his coat, he withdrew a taper and a book of matches. With his free-hand, he held the flickering candle as he opened the door and stepped into the fetid air. Keeping his elbow against the bare timber wall, Adam crept down the stairs. The air and shadows closed in as the bricks and crooked planks shifted under his weight, threatening to send him and the camera to the bottom of the shaft at the slightest misstep. Growing nearer to the open cell door, Adam’s eyes and nose burned from the reek of ammonia while his throat jumped in revulsion at the overpowering stench of sewage and copper.

Standing at the threshold, he stared into the darkness just beyond the flame. A few faint rays drifted from the missing boards, illuminating the makeshift shelves at the end of the dungeon and the penny dreadfuls that had escaped Emmeline’s chamber. His shoes sunk into the dirt and offal as he swept the light over the bricks where a trail of handprints and smears clawed at the grout before falling back to the floor. Stepping further into the shadows, his light fell over a broken plate half-buried in the muck before coming to rest on the remnants of a chair. Its dismembered body lay in ruins amongst the refuse, splintered, cracked, and spattered with blood. Adam set the camera in the doorway and clicked the shutter. As the flash erupted from the pan, he saw the room in daylight with its trails of blood and filth streaking the walls and maggoty food strewn in the corners.

How could anyone have done this to another person, let alone Immanuel? Adam’s chest tightened as rage climbed up his throat and tensed his lips into a tight line. Immanuel had done nothing to deserve this. His eyes trailed back to the handprints. How long had he fought to break free before finally being resigned to the idea that he would never get out alive?

What would he do if he saw Lord Rose before him now? His molars ground together at the thought of having him at his mercy. If given the chance, would he hold the nobleman’s own cigarettes to his back until the flesh incinerated, or would he lock him away and force him to live in his own feculence? He swallowed hard and sighed, watching the specter of his breath dissipate into the aether. Exacting revenge would do nothing to help Immanuel and would only show him that his lover and his tormenter were more similar than either would care to admit.

A board whined behind him, but when he whipped around and nearly snuffed out the wick, Immanuel’s ashen face peered around the edge of the doorway clutching a stack of penny dreadfuls. “Immanuel, you didn’t have to come in. I would have returned in a few minutes.”

Adam watched as his companion’s eyes unfocused and stared through him before running along the beams and boards of the ceiling. “I remember the beams from when he brought me here.”

Finally they came to rest on the chair at Adam’s feet. “Immanuel, are you—”

His cracked eye clouded. “How could I ever forget that smell?”

***

Shutting out the horrors of their trip to Mortimer Street, Adam closed the door behind them. The entire cab ride home they hadn’t said a word. What could he say to make it better for him? Nothing he did would change what happened to Immanuel. He had seen a glimpse of his experiences in captivity but knew it paled in comparison to what Immanuel had gone through. The clawing, desperate handprints on the wall told a story more dreadful than anything his imagination could have conjured. After all that, Adam was ready to return him to Wimpole Street to allow him time to rest, but then he saw tears building in his eyes as Immanuel crunched and rolled his scarf between his fingers and bit at his lip. His companion was suffering again, reliving some awful memory Adam would never know about, and he couldn’t bear to leave him alone. Adam leaned the camera against the wall and pulled off his coat.

“Would you like some tea, Immanuel?” he asked softly.

Immanuel paused from unwinding his scarf but kept his eyes locked on the people and steamers passing the front window.

Touching his arm, Adam watched Immanuel lurch back with wide eyes, but upon seeing his friend’s familiar features, the panic momentarily abated. “Tea?”

“Oh. Yes, please.”

The accountant lightly pulled the scarf from Immanuel’s hand and removed his coat, knowing if he didn’t, he would still be standing in the hall when he returned. “Go sit. I will bring it to you when it is ready.”

Immanuel nodded and blindly wandered into the parlor, his eyes slipping out of focus once again. With a silent sigh, Adam hung up the limp coat on his way to the kitchen, feeling the dampness at the collar where sweat collected despite the winter cold. Filling the tea pot and loading the tray, he lingered beside the stove. He never knew what to say in these situations. His sister and Immanuel were better with words, and when he went into the parlor, he knew he would have to say something. There were no platitudes or ready-made phrases to make Immanuel feel better. The kettle whistled, and he mechanically transferred the water to the porcelain pot and returned to the parlor. He would have to say something.

Raising his eyes as he turned the corner with a measured smile, Adam froze. The room was empty. He glanced over his shoulder to confirm that Immanuel’s wool coat still hung over his own in the hall. A soft, sharp inhalation cut through the empty air. Carefully placing the tray on the end table, Adam inched closer to the fireplace and listened as one quick breath followed by another broke from the far side of the sofa. Tucked into the corner between the upholstery and the wallpaper, Immanuel sat with his knees drawn to his chest and his eyes locked onto the window. His body trembled and his chest heaved as he hyperventilated. Immanuel’s nearly iris-less eyes were transfixed on the glass, but when Adam followed his gaze, he saw nothing that should strike such terror in him, only a parade of shadowed steamers and faceless people.

“What is the matter?” he asked, keeping his voice calm as he dropped to his companion’s side. Reaching out to touch his arm, he hesitated, afraid he would spook him. “Immanuel.”

He kept his eyes fixed on the window and croaked, “He’s out there. I know he is.” His thin form rocked with each sudden inhalation. “He knows who I am, and he is going to find me. He— he is going to hurt me again. Please, please, don’t let him find me.”

Adam’s eyes burned at Immanuel’s plea. With one final look at the window, Immanuel buried his head in his knees and collapsed into hiccupped sobs. What could he do to make things better for him? For a second, Adam was not certain he should leave him in that state, but without hesitation, he rose and walked to the window. He looked up and down the street to confirm Lord Rose was not there before tugging the curtains shut. Going from room to room, he locked every window and door and blocked out the world. Now it was only them within the familiar confines of 124 Baker Street.

Kneeling down in front of his companion, Adam reached out and laid his hand on his arm. He jerked away without looking up, but when Adam rubbed his shoulder, he did not resist. “Immanuel,” he said, swallowing down his own fear, “I know you are afraid. I would be too, but you must believe that I would not let any harm come to you. You are safe here. Would you please come out of the corner?”

He shook his head and held his knees tighter. “He will find me.”

“I locked the doors and covered the windows. I promise, he cannot see you.”

“Don’t leave me, Adam,” Immanuel whispered, his voice thick with tears.

“I won’t. Now, give me your hand.”

Taking a shuddering breath, Immanuel held out his hand and allowed Adam to pull him to his feet. The muscles of his thighs locked and quavered as Adam led him to the sofa, and his ribs ached from the strain of hyperventilating and sobbing. All he wanted were the tears to stop and Lord Rose to leave his mind, but no matter how many times he closed his eyes, he was still there, lurking in every half-glimpsed shadow. Adam still held his arms even though he was safely deposited onto the couch cushions, yet he could scarcely see him through the tears gumming his eyes. How could Adam stand him when he was being such a fool? With a whimper, his lungs convulsed back into a series of sharp, shallow breaths.

“Sssh. Immanuel, you need to take a deep breath or you are going to faint.”

His face and chest burned with fevered heat, yet his neck was clammy as Adam loosened his tie and unbuttoned the top of his shirt. Adam’s hands slipped around his shoulders and tugged the jacket from his arms before draping it over the back of the armchair. With his eyes locked on Adam’s, Immanuel forced the air down one slow, constrained breath at a time until finally his chest loosened enough for him to speak.

“I’m— I’m sorry, Adam.”

“You have nothing to be sorry about. Let me get you some water to wash your—”

Immanuel’s tear-burned eyes widened as Adam rose to leave. “Please.”

“I’m not. I promise.”

Grabbing the now cold teapot, Adam dipped his handkerchief into the water. With light strokes, he wiped his companion’s sticky cheeks and swollen eyes. Immanuel stared miserably at his lap as he steadied his breathing. Thoughts swirled through his mind, surfacing as broken images of the catacomb and pangs of smell or pain, but thankfully, his head was pounding too much for any of them to be pursued. Adam swept the curls out of his companion’s face, running his fingers along the curve of his cheek where the heat finally began to dissipate.

“Why don’t you rest? You will probably feel better after.”

“Will— will you stay with me?”

A small smile spread across his lips. “Of course.”

Wrapping his arms around him, Adam pulled him closer until they were cheek to cheek. Immanuel closed his eyes and gave into the reassuring pressure. There was no question in his mind that Adam would do anything in his power to protect him even if the monsters only lived in his imagination. No one else would be so patient with him during these fits of hysteria when reality slipped away only to be replaced by a nightmarish scene. The familiar smell of lavender and the inherent spices of Adam’s skin quieted him as he buried his head against his neck. Adam ran his hand down Immanuel’s side until his thumb settled into the knick in his ribs. When his companion finally met his gaze, Adam pressed his lips to his and ran his fingers through his soft curls with his free hand. There was so much he wanted to say, but instead, he pulled the afghan off the back of the sofa and laid it over Immanuel’s legs.

“I will be right here while you sleep.”

Immanuel’s eyes rested on his companion as he settled into the armchair less than an arm’s length away. “Thank you.”

As he pulled the blanket closer, he reached out and Adam took his hand, rubbing it between his palms until finally his breathing fell into a slow, sleepy rhythm. Watching Immanuel’s face finally slacken, Adam released a sigh. Though the fear had finally left him, he couldn’t help but wonder if they would ever be free of Lord Rose or if he would always cast a shadow over Immanuel’s life.

Chapter Thirty-Three:

Vulnerability

Hadley paused with her hand on the front door, waving as Eilian smiled at her from the back of his steamer. She kept telling herself it was only a few more months of dealing with his mother and her endless litany of questions she couldn’t answer. Only a few more months and it would all be settled. When the steamer finally disappeared into the evening gloom, she tried the knob but found it locked. As she rummaged through her carpet bag, the door opened to reveal her twin staring back at her with tired eyes.

“What is—”

Adam raised a finger to his lips and nodded toward the parlor. Craning her neck to see over the armchair, she found Immanuel Winter sleeping under a blanket on their sofa with his knees drawn close to his chest and his hand dangling from the edge of the cushion. His jacket and tie hung over the back of the chair while a tea service sat abandoned on the end table on top of a pile of penny dreadfuls. The afghan tucked up to his chin obscured his features, but from the relaxed rise and fall of his chest, she confirmed he was asleep. For a man who was two inches taller than her brother yet gave the illusion of added height from his willowy build, he seemed incredibly small curled up on the chair.

“Is he all right?” she asked as she hung her coat and hat on the last unoccupied hook.

“Not really. We went to the house where he and Miss Jardine were held.” He swallowed hard and rubbed his wrist. “I went in, and he followed me. I was foolish to think he would stay in the cab. He looked so distressed on the way home that I couldn’t bring him back to James and Eliza’s house.”

Tiptoeing past her brother, she picked up the tea tray and watched as Immanuel’s eyelids and arms clenched in time. “Poor Immanuel.”

“He once said he feels safe here. I would like for him to believe that. Had, you should have seen him before. I thought he was having a fit. His entire body was shaking, and he was gasping for breath. I didn’t know what to do. He was so afraid Lord Rose was going to find him and hurt him again.” Following Hadley into the kitchen, he leaned against the doorway to keep an eye on his companion. “I shouldn’t have taken him there. The fear in his eyes was—”

Hadley looked up from the dishes in time to see Adam’s blue eyes moisten. Stuffing his shaking hands into his pockets, he set his mouth into a firm line and stared at his shoes. It was still odd to see her brother display any emotion apart from anger, but it was a needed change Immanuel Winter brought into their lives. When she put her soapy hands on her brother’s arms, he didn’t pull away.

“You cannot blame yourself, Adam.”

“I should have known better.” He finally stepped out of her grasp and wiped at the wet patches on his sleeves. “Does Lord Sorrell ever talk about the accident?”

“Sometimes, but losing your arm in a dirigible crash and being tortured are two very different things.”

“I know. I only wish he would tell me what he sees when he is so afraid, so I could know how to comfort him better. From the look on his face and the scars, I know it was horrific.”

Sighing, Hadley followed Adam’s gaze to the thin outstretched arm jutting from the sofa. “You need to have patience with him. If you push him, he will run. Remember what happened when I asked you about your inclinations? For weeks, you refused to speak to me. Immanuel will open up when he is ready.”

“But—”

The sofa creaked under Immanuel’s weight as he shifted onto his back and slowly sat up. His sweat-drenched shirt clung to his skin, and his collar hung open at the top of his vest. Immanuel rubbed his throat as he surveyed the room with pink, blurry eyes, unsure for a moment where he was.

“Adam?” he called, his voice tentative and low.

“What should I say to him?”

“That everything will be all right.”

***

Immanuel mounted the steps, his body aching and cold from the aftermath of spent fear. After sharing dinner with the Fenice twins, the tremors in his hands and legs finally subsided, but his knees still snapped and jolted with each step.

“You look horrid.”

At the top of the steps Emmeline stood in her purple dressing gown with her hair framing her owl-like eyes in wayward curls. With her head cocked and her eyebrows scrunched in a concerned frown, she didn’t seem like the indolent child who refused to so much as look at him only weeks ago. He knew she was staring at the sore, scalded skin around his eyes and nose and could tell he had been crying. Immanuel kept his head down; he couldn’t let the Hawthornes see him in that state.

“I know.”

When Immanuel moved to slip past her, she stepped in his path. “Did anything happen? When you didn’t arrive in time for dinner, I thought something happened to you.”

“No, we—” He paused to listen for any creaking boards or voices rising from other rooms. “Where are your aunt and uncle?”

“Aunt Eliza went to bed, and Uncle James is in the basement.” Emmeline dropped her voice. “The thing arrived today.”

“What thing?”

She put her finger to her lips and beckoned him to follow her into her room. Closing the door behind him, she answered, “The king’s dead body.”

Immanuel’s eyes widened. Somehow he had expected them to go to one of the palaces to reanimate the prince consort rather than have the corpse come to them. “You saw it?”

“Well, no, but I saw a crate arrive, a big one, and there were more men there than were needed to carry it inside. Some of them haven’t left. They have been outside the house since it arrived. Look.”

Going to the window, Emmeline drew back the curtain. Over her head, Immanuel could make out a constable walking his beat but, much like the men at Katherine Waters’s crime scene, his uniform was far too clean and crisp for everyday use. Another man sat in the back of a dull grey steamer a hundred yards down the street with his eyes trained on the house. When the flutter of the drapes caught his eye, Emmeline pulled them shut and bumped into Immanuel as she backed away.

“What other dead person comes with body guards?”

“You are probably right. I will ask Dr. Hawthorne about it in the morning to be sure.” Immanuel pulled the wad of rolled up penny dreadfuls from his breast pocket. “Here, I found these at the house. I thought you might want them.”

Emmeline stared down at the stack of flimsy novels. When she first arrived at Wimpole Street, she would have covetously devoured them, immersing herself in an adventure far, far away from the memories of what happened. To be someone else somewhere else was all she wanted during those days where she measured her life by hair pin scratches and Immanuel’s muffled cries, yet now the penny dreadfuls had lost their appeal.

“Thank you, Immanuel.” She laid them on her vanity and sat before the looking-glass to finish brushing her hair. “How did it go? Did you and Mr. Fenice find anything?”

He shrugged, not wanting to linger on that place long enough for his imagination to take over again. “Adam took some photographs of the cellar and servants’ quarters. After they are developed, we could take them to the authorities, but that will take some time and they aren’t exactly proof of Lord Rose’s guilt. We weren’t particularly successful.” Reaching into his pocket and pulling out the scrap of paper from the fireplace, Immanuel stared down at the name. It seemed vaguely familiar, yet he couldn’t place it. “Adam also found this. Do you recognize the name?”

Claudia Leopold Rose. “No. Maybe it was Lord Rose’s mother. Where did you find it?”

“In the drawing room fireplace. Adam said there were other papers burned there, but this was the only one of value he could salvage. How did your meeting with Lord Rose go?”

“Better than your outing. I was able to sneak into his bedroom while he and Aunt Eliza were having tea, and when I was there, I found this.”

Emmeline slipped the necklace over her head and held it out for Immanuel to see. His tired eyes widened as they ran over the delicate leaves of precious metal that grew over the now empty glass vial. Running his fingers over the letters engraved into the stopper, he couldn’t help but smile. He had never been so happy to see that ugly pendant.

“Where did you find it? I thought I lost it in Oxford.”

“Lord Rose had it hidden in a box.” Drawing in a deep breath, Emmeline remembered Katherine’s vacant eyes and silent pleading. “He keeps them in jars.”

Immanuel looked up to see Emmeline’s lips tighten like Adam’s did when he was upset. “Keeps what?”

“The people he kills. It sounds bizarre, but he has a crate with jars in it, and when I touched one, I saw Katherine Waters. She was begging me to free her, but I couldn’t. He would know I did it if they were all gone.” She swallowed hard. “It’s like their souls are trapped when he uses that machine, the one he used on you. Don’t you find it odd that you are still here and whole after what he did to you?”

“The only reason I survived was because we are tied by the potion, but,” Immanuel remembered the look on Alastair Rose’s face when he began to climb to his feet with the wound on his neck still pulsing blood, how his eyes traveled from the sealed jar to his victim, “he opened the lid. Part of me would be there too if he had not opened it to make sure I was inside. Now, it makes sense. That is why when I touched Miss Waters and Miss Wren I could not see anything. He has their souls.”

When he glanced up from fiddling with the pendant’s clasp and saw that Emmeline had no idea what he was talking about, he continued, “When I touch a dead body or a skeleton, I can see the last moments of the person’s life. It happened in Oxford with a walrus skeleton and here with a dead body, but when I touched Miss Waters and Miss Wren, nothing happened.”

“You are a medium? Why didn’t you tell me?”

“It never occurred to me to call myself that, and I did not think you would be interested anyway. Before last August, this never happened. Maybe I inherited it from you. Does this mean your powers are real?”

“Of course, they are real,” she snapped but caught herself and watched Immanuel’s reflection in the mirror as he slipped the necklace on. “I had the same problem as you did. Lord Rose’s brother was Katherine Waters’s fiancé. He came to the Spiritualist society to have a piece of her jewelry read, but I could not see anything. I felt so guilty. He was so distraught, and I—” Emmeline’s eyes brightened as the next step in their plan suddenly became clear. “I know who can help us. Lord Montagu, Lord Rose’s brother, has much more authority than we do. If he believes Lord Rose murdered his fiancée, he will surely do something about it.”

“But how would we convince him to turn on his own brother?”

“I could go to him and do a reading of Katherine’s necklace. When Lord Montagu came to the Spiritualist society, Alastair wanted nothing more than to keep him and that necklace away from the mediums. He was afraid that if one of us read it, then he would be caught. We are going to do exactly what Lord Rose does not want.”

“But you won’t be able to read it.”

“That doesn’t matter. I have seen fakes do it all the time. All you need is a little information.”

Immanuel watched Emmeline’s face enliven with purpose. For the first time, he felt a swell of hope bloom in his breast. “How can I help?”

Chapter Thirty-Four:

Memento Mori

“You know, you did not have to accompany me,” Emmeline said as she pulled the hood of her cloak closer and kept her head down for fear of running into her aunt or Lord Rose on their way to Berkeley Square. “Pull your hat down. Your face is pretty hard to miss.”

With a frown, Immanuel tipped the brim of his top hat to cover the upper portion of his scar. “I couldn’t let you go alone. You didn’t see him break free of two police officers like they were children.”

“What is he going to do? Kill me?” She slowed her pace as she counted off the house numbers. “Apparently, that is impossible.”

“We don’t know that, and I don’t want to die again. If he shot us both, we would probably die.”

“Well, we don’t know that,” she replied in a mocking, sing-song. In front of a house with a mansard roof and tall windows ensconced in bays or beneath pediments, Emmeline fell silent. Its white stone façade and ornamental rails topping the rooflines along with the gentle glow of lamps from within took the edge off her fear. She would have to be careful with her words, but she wasn’t afraid to go inside. “This is it.”

For a moment, Immanuel held Emmeline’s gaze. When had she gotten so strong? Those big brown eyes did not waver as she led him up the steps and pushed the bell. Eliza Hawthorne always seemed to be trying to coax Emmeline into throwing off her life of leisure to be a productive woman who could stand on her own without a husband’s guidance, yet she hadn’t needed her to do that. All she needed was a hint of success, a hint of recognition of her talents, for her to suddenly move forward. Lord Rose had been the force that nearly brought her life to ruin, and because he foolishly believed she was under his control, she was now able to outmaneuver him. By inviting her into his plot to spite her uncle, Emmeline had been given all the room she needed to seek every crack in his plan and work away at them until he crumbled. She may not have been book-smart or studious or even independent, but she was clever. Straightening her back, she held her head high and prepared herself for what was to come.

Immanuel smiled to himself. He wished he was that confident. After all that Lord Rose had done, he had survived in spite of him and even stood up to him when he attacked him at the Hawthornes’ door, but he was still afraid. Emmeline saw their shared soul as a means to invincibility, and while he was grateful that she had kept him alive several times, it meant that should he fall into Lord Rose’s hands again, it would be an endless cycle of torture where even death would not end his misery.

“Tell me again what her injuries were,” Emmeline whispered, keeping her eyes locked on the door. “Quickly.”

“Killed by electricity, three-pronged wound on her neck, and four scratches across her hand where her ring was pulled off.”

As the lock clicked inside, Immanuel fell silent. A footman in dark breeches opened the door but barely looked at either of the strangers standing on the porch.

“The master of the house is not seeing visitors,” he said flatly, but as he moved to shut the door, Emmeline stepped in the way.

“If Lord Montagu knows we are here, he will want to speak to us. Please, just take my card up to him.”

With a derisive sigh, the servant allowed them into the foyer. Placing her card on a silver salver, the footman disappeared up the stairs, but within seconds, a booming voice cried out. Emmeline and Immanuel flinched and instinctively drew closer as a door slammed and heavy boot-treads echoed down the hall. The imposing man barreled down the steps and stopped, running his eyes from Emmeline’s owl-like features to the man with the cracked face and two-tone eyes. Luckily, when he reached Immanuel, there was no flicker of recognition.

The Marquess of Montagu seemed to have aged from when Immanuel saw him at Katherine Waters’s bedside. His hair had dulled to a tarnished brass with a patch of grey growing at his temple. Set into his now bloated cheeks, his light brown eyes still flickered like hot coals as he ran a paw over several days’ growth of his grey and white peppered beard. Before Lord Montagu could speak, Emmeline gave a slow, delicate curtsey and met his gaze.

“Your lordship, my name is Emmeline Jardine, and this is my associate from the Spiritualist society, Mr. Winter. I would like to apologize for intruding upon you while you are still mourning, but I had a dream I could not ignore.”

“Go on,” the marquess grumbled as he glared down at them.

Immanuel resisted the urge to blink away the burning in his sinuses as he caught a singeing whiff of spirits on Lord Montagu’s breath. Even with the massive man towering over her and regarding her with suspicion bordering on contempt, Emmeline did not waver.

“Miss Waters came to me the other night and told me to try to do the reading again. Enough time has elapsed, and there is a pressing message she needs to convey.”

For an instant, his eyes softened. “What is it?”

“I do not know. I need to read something that belonged to her to make contact.”

Lord Montagu stared at the young woman in her royal purple gown and black cloak. He could scarcely recall the day he barged into the Spiritualist society and demanded a reading, the absinthe and gin took care of that, but he remembered her. The girl had tried when the others pretended not to see him. Taking a step back, he motioned for them to follow him into the study.

The heavy drapes had been drawn against the waning winter light, casting the room in a mulberry gloom. The room had been cleaned, but the subtle signs of chaos remained. Tobacco ash was smeared down the wallpaper near the door, and minute bits of crystal still crunched as they crossed the carpet to the chairs. Across the surface of his desk were rings where wet glasses had been left too long. A gleaming amber puddle had formed under a glass of what Immanuel could only guess was bourbon or whiskey. Immanuel and Emmeline waited behind the wooden and leather chairs as Alexander Rose stood in front of the empty hearth. He stared down at a red enameled frame fitted with a picture of Katherine, running his hand over the surface of the glass and the chain that hung from it. With a few twists of his wrist, the aquamarine and pearl necklace unfurled.

“Here, use this.” He carefully coiled the gold chain into Emmeline’s palm before sitting across from them. “It was her favorite.”

Emmeline ran the delicate chain between her fingers, knowing that even if she focused, Katherine would never speak from beyond the grave; Alastair had inadvertently made sure of that. Silently she recited a prayer for her mother to help her, and as she closed her eyes and drew in a deep breath, she inhaled the familiar honey and vanilla aroma of her mother’s perfume. Rubbing her fingers against the smooth surface of the pearl like a rosary bead, she let what Immanuel told her and what she learned through bits of gossip flow. First, he had to hear what he wanted.

“She knew you loved her very much, and she wants me to thank you for all you did for her.” Emmeline furrowed her brows as if listening closely to someone. “You want to know if she is at peace, but that is impossible.”

The nobleman’s eyes stayed fixed on her. “Why?”

“Because her murderer has not yet come to justice, and he still believes he has gotten away with it.”

“Who is it?”

Shaking her head, Emmeline clenched her eyes shut and gripped the arms of the chair. Her voice trembled as she replied, “She will not say his name. She is too afraid of him... even now, but he was close to her. How much do you want to know?”

“Everything.”

Immanuel held his breath. While Emmeline’s artful reenactment of a séance held Lord Montagu under her spell, he didn’t seem aware of the young man’s presence beside her. She was doing so well, but now that she was at the critical juncture in the reading, he was thankful that the marquess was not watching his expression. Keeping his eyes locked on Emmeline, Immanuel recited the answers in his head hoping they were loud enough for her mind to catch.

A pearl slid between the medium’s fingers as she looped the chain around her thumb. “The man came in through the window and advanced on her. She does not know why he did it, but he had a— a vicious device. He sunk a claw into her neck, and electrocuted her with his machine. That is how she died. He didn’t do anything beyond that, but he took her ring. The purple ring is the key to finding him, and she knows where it is.” Emmeline resisted the urge to open her eyes. If she opened them, he would see through her. “The man keeps it in his bedroom, and you will find it under his bed. It is a canopy draped in red.”

“Can,” the marquess swallowed hard, “she give a clue as to who he is?”

For a second, Emmeline wasn’t certain what to say. She couldn’t be sure that Alastair and Katherine had been anything more than friends, and if she was wrong or insulted him, all they had done would be lost. But there had been a moment inscribed in her mind, when Lord Rose had shown his true self for an instant. It was fleeting, but she could never forget it. Licking her lip and opening her eyes, she met Lord Montagu’s hard gaze.

“He called her Kitty.”

***

“Do you think the guards will tell Aunt Eliza that we left together?” Emmeline asked as she hung up their cloaks and cast a sidelong glance out the foyer window at the plainclothes officer parked across the street.

“Probably not. They are here to make sure no one harms the prince consort, not to monitor whether we were chaperoned.”

“Thank Mr. Fenice for me next time you see him. Without his sister inviting my aunt and uncle out for dinner, we never would have been able to leave.” In the shadows of the parlor, the clock struck seven. “Do you want to see the body before they come home?”

Halfway up the stairs, Immanuel stopped. “Are you certain you want to? I don’t know what state it will be in.”

“I will have to see it soon anyway, and I want to see it now. I do not want to faint or vomit in front of the queen.”

“I cannot imagine you fainting or vomiting over anything.”

Emmeline’s lips curled into a smile as they made their way to the cellar door. “Do you mean it?”

“Of course.” Immanuel’s breath quickened at the sight of the timber walls. “You did very well with Lord Montagu.”

“Do you think he believed me? He did not mention his brother after. Maybe he suspects someone else.”

“Even if he does, he believed you. You should have seen the look on his face when you said ‘Kitty.’ He knew who you meant. That’s probably why he hurried us out. At least he wasn’t angry with us.”

Emmeline opened her mouth to speak, but her voice failed. Sitting in the center of the floor on a short, wheeled gurney was a bubbling tank. The emerald liquid churned and skittered across the skin of the man enclosed within the glass coffin. In the glare of the morgue’s electric lamps, the royal consort glowed an icy blue. The tall, robust man looked as if he had only died hours ago. Every dark hair was combed neatly across his balding pate, and his arms and stomach were plump yet not bloated like a corpse dredged from the river. Tiny beads of air rushed over and through the three holes on his neck.

Katherine Waters and Henrietta Wren’s lifeless bodies flashed before Immanuel’s eyes. Lord Rose hadn’t killed him, but his predecessor along with Emmeline’s grandfather had convinced the queen to murder her husband only to resurrect him later. A sharp bolt darted down his spine, contracting every muscle in his body at the thought of the machine flooding him with current. How could the queen have agreed to subject her husband to that sort of pain? When they concocted their scheme to conquer death and secure their legacies, did any of them know what he would go through? Somehow he doubted they cared.

“This is awful.”

Immanuel looked up, wondering if his thoughts slipped out against his will, but found Emmeline staring at the tank with wide eyes.

“Can you imagine spending thirty years in a jar? I spent thirty days in one room, and I thought I would go mad if I could not get out. If she knew what I saw when I touched Katherine’s jar, she would never have done this.”

“I don’t like it either, but what can we do?”

His eyes drifted to the generator humming behind the monarch’s head. He could rip the wire from the back and bring it all to an end, but Dr. Hawthorne would be the one to take the blame for it even if he confessed. The Hawthornes had been far too kind for him to do that. As he raised his gaze from the power supply, their eyes met. Nothing needed to be said. A plan was set, and if they could help it, Prince Albert would stay dead.

Breaking away from her owl eyes, Immanuel cleared his throat. “You probably shouldn’t see this. It is indecent.”

“You needn’t worry. My mother’s library had plenty of books with yellow covers, but we should go upstairs before they return.”

Without casting a glance back at the suspended monarch, Emmeline and Immanuel hurried up the steps. In the kitchen, Emmeline set to work making a pot of hyson tea while Immanuel filled two plates from what he found in the larder. Emmeline watched him as he hesitated with each selection, pausing to check whether it went with what he already chose. He was so careful and calculated yet guileless.

As she poured the hot water into a tea pot and brought it to the dining table, Immanuel placed a plate of bread, cheese, and leftover meat before her. Staring at the odds and ends, she couldn’t help but think of him on the night he was attacked. It was the first time she truly cared for him. She knew she had helped him out of the house on Mortimer Street half out of guilt and half from the fear that her mother’s ghost would terrorize her, yet he had rescued a stranger, asked her if she was hurt when he could barely speak, and tried to warn her about Lord Rose.

“Why are you nice to me?” Emmeline asked, her voice sharper than she intended.

“Because you were kind to me once when I really needed it. I don’t forget that sort of thing.”

She nodded. Of course, he would feel that way. “When all of this is over, what are you going to do?”

He took a sip of tea and shrugged. “Go back to Oxford and finish my studies, I suppose.”

“I mean, for the rest of your life. Are you going to stay with Mr. Fenice?”

Immanuel’s pulse quickened, but he tried to keep his face impassive.

“I have seen the way you look at each other, and I am envious. Don’t worry, I will keep it a secret. Do you love him?”

“I think I could.” Against his will, his lips curled into a smile. “After I finish my studies, I am hoping to take a position in town and rent a room from him since his sister is leaving.”

She sighed as she tore off a piece of bread and rolled it between her fingers. “That is all I want, you know. Aunt Eliza wants me to be a nurse or a teacher or even a medium, but what I really want is a family and for someone to love me.”

“But you have your aunt and uncle.”

“Yes, but Aunt Eliza isn’t blood and Uncle James could not be bothered. Most of my family could not be bothered with me. I want to love someone and have them love me back. My mother was the only one who ever did that. I thought Lord Rose was my Prince Charming, but he is the farthest thing from it. At least if our plan works, I will only have to see him one more time.” Eying the vial’s chain peeking from the collar of his shirt, she asked, “Do you think they will kill him once he is caught?”

“I would not be surprised. Don’t you think he deserves it?”

“Yes, but I worry he would haunt me. He is the type to do that.”

Chapter Thirty-Five:

Forgiveness

As Immanuel slipped into this shirt, he was acutely aware of the pain in his half-healed ribs and the scabbed wound on his neck. Nothing would be the same; he could feel it in ever aching muscle and bone. All night he had stayed up, staring at the ceiling and turning the empty alchemical vial over in his hands. Now, the hour of the queen’s arrival was near, and all he wanted was to stay upstairs and hide, but with the charm hanging around his neck as it had for three years, the fear ebbed slightly.

Knotting his tie and buttoning his jacket, he crept into the hall only to find Emmeline already waiting outside his door. Rather than wearing her best dress, she had donned a subdued grey gown and swept her hair into a shell-like bundle at the back of her head, but near her collar was the enamel and pearl forget-me-nots.

“Are you ready?” she asked, running her eyes over his dark suit before coming to rest on the gold and silver vial.

Shrugging, he pulled the door shut behind him. “I guess we will find out if Lord Montagu suspected his brother. If Lord Rose shows up, we have failed.”

“Not necessarily. The police may not act immediately.”

“I know,” Immanuel dropped his voice, “but I am going back to Oxford in a few days, and I don’t want him running free. Even if he gets his land and money, he is not going to let me go. I know too much.”

Emmeline was about to speak when her aunt called for them to come down. At the bottom of the steps, Eliza ushered them into the cellar to wait for the queen and Lord Rose’s arrival. Two of the queen’s plain-clothed guards already stood at Prince Albert’s feet with their hands folded behind their backs. The body no longer floated in a vat of bubbling absinthe but in a bath that smelled of rain water. A tube ran from the prince consort’s wrist while another ran from his neck, below where the device left its mark three decades earlier. The blood exited his vein and ran through a series of tubes warmed by a steam bath to raise his body temperature and mimic his circulation before re-entering his body through his neck. Taking their places on either side of the monarch, Emmeline and Immanuel waited in silence for the Hawthornes to arrive. In less than a minute, the door at the top of the steps opened. Immanuel looked up, hoping it was the doctor coming down to say it had been called off, and met the flickering gaze of Alastair Rose. His heart sank at the realization that their plan hadn’t worked, but Emmeline caught his eye and tilted her head as if to remind him that Lord Rose couldn’t do anything in front of the guards.

The nobleman descended the steps with a crate tucked under his arm and a wry smile incised in his features. When he reached Emmeline’s side, he glared at Immanuel, trying to stare him down as he did on the porch the night he attacked.

Drawing in a deep breath, Immanuel smiled. There was nothing Lord Rose could do to him now. Yes, his memory terrified him and what happened in the basement in Mortimer Street irrevocably altered him, but Alastair Rose was a man and nothing more.

“Miss Jardine,” Alastair began as he turned from Immanuel and pulled the lung-like device out of its crate and placed it on the table, “remember your part in this. All you must do is assure Her Majesty that Prince Albert is all right and nothing more. Do you understand?”

Lord Rose flicked the switch that sent the machine humming to life. Emmeline ignored the urge to swallow hard and kept her eyes locked on Immanuel as the nobleman loomed beside her. He moved to grab her arm when the boards above their heads groaned with hurried steps. The door above opened, and the Hawthornes stepped inside. For days she had barely seen her aunt and uncle between preparing the body for reanimation and cleaning the house for the queen’s visit. Even if Eliza didn’t like the woman, she wouldn’t let her believe she wasn’t a fit wife with a messy house.

Before anyone could see them, Eliza tucked her chapped hands behind her back and announced, “The queen will be arriving in a moment, so please be on your best behavior.”

Emmeline knew the comment was meant for her, but she was too excited to be offended. It was still months until her coming out, yet she never thought she would meet the queen under such morbid circumstances. Somehow she had expected fanfare or pomp with her arrival, but instead the queen quietly descended the steps in mourning black, flanked by two plain guards. Everyone bowed or curtsied when the stout woman reached the bottom step and turned to face them. Under hooded lids, her sharp eyes fell upon her husband’s body in the vat, and for a second, Emmeline was certain, the queen’s eyes brightened with anticipation.

“Lord Rose, Dr. Hawthorne, who are your associates?” Queen Victoria asked, her penetrating gaze falling on Emmeline like lead.

“Please allow me to introduce, Emmeline Jardine, Your Majesty. She is one of England’s finest Spiritualist mediums. She is to be introduced into society in the spring.”

As Emmeline curtsied as fluidly and carefully as possible, her uncle added, “And this is Immanuel Winter. He will be acting as my assistant during the reanimation.”

“You are German?”

Immanuel looked up from his bow to find her eying his features, lingering on his mottled iris. “Yes, Your Majesty, from Berlin.”

Nodding, she motioned for one of the guards to come closer. In his hands was a black velvet bag as tall as a lamp and as round. The queen peeled the fabric away to reveal a quartz container identical to the one Lord Rose had in his lethal machine but inside was a sliver of green. When she drew near, it danced and flashed, condensing for a moment before dulling to a diffuse powder.

“Dr. Hawthorne, please remind me of how we shall proceed.”

Immanuel watched the doctor beside him. The man had been the first kind face he saw upon being freed, but within a few days, he seemed to age ten years. While Eliza came alive at the prospect of no longer being under the queen’s control, he sagged under the enormity of his task. He wasn’t doing his duty to the crown, he was fighting a war against a power he never signed up for, and it was taking its toll. The grey strands were no longer content at his temples but wove through his sideburns and across his forehead. From skipping meals to prepare the prince consort, his face was drawn and creased around his mouth and eyes, which had lost their vigor. It was killing him, yet he did it to save his niece and a stranger. What plagued Immanuel most was the thought that even going against his principles and reviving the monarch still wouldn’t stop Lord Rose.

“The body has been soaking in an emulsion for the past week to remove any foreign compounds left by the preservative. When we are ready, I will remove the circulation tubes, and Lord Rose will assemble his machine. In theory, his heart will restart when his soul and the current enter his body. After he awakes, I will deal with any immediate complications before he is transferred to the royal physicians.”

“Very good. Miss Jardine, please speak to my husband and tell him of what is to transpire.”

The guard stepped forward with the jar, holding it out for her to take. The idea of dashing it to the floor flashed through her mind, but being tried for treason wasn’t worth it. Taking a calming breath, Emmeline cleared her mind and held it close. Everything outside her vision darkened and the mechanical hum of her uncle’s machinery died away. In the gloom, a tall figure rose before her, as thin as if he was imprinted on lace. There was barely any color left in his cheeks or hair, but his tired eyes met hers without hesitation. The words floated between them in the void, not whispered or spoken but merely heard.

Let me go.

But why? She has waited thirty years to see you again.

I am not what I once was, and I never will be.

Don’t you want to be with her?

For decades, I could have been, but without life, I have degraded. Tell her, if she loves me, she will let me go.

She will not believe me. What can I say for her to know it is you?

The broad face of the man entrapped in the tomb of glass and steel flickered before dissolving. Emmeline’s eyes burned as the basement came back into view and her ears filled with the chug of gears and hissing of tubes. All eyes were on her, waiting for her to play her part before the real action could begin.

“Well, did you tell him?”

“I couldn’t, Your Majesty. He told me that he wants you to let him go.” Keeping her eyes locked on the doleful light, she continued, “Thirty years in here has put too much strain on him. Coming back will not get you want you want. Nothing can. He is gone whether or not his body is whole and his soul is in your hands.” Emmeline handed the jar back to the guard and raised her gaze to meet the queen, who stared back mute. Her wide eyes glistened as her gloved hand reached to cover her gaping mouth. “I did not think you would believe me, so he told me that as he was dying, you whispered something in his ear.”

“And?” she asked, her voice tight with tears.

“Ein Kuss.”

“A kiss,” Immanuel echoed.

“Please, Your Majesty, he is suffering. Look, look at his soul. You can barely see it anymore,” Emmeline said before she could stop herself. “It wasn’t always like this. At first it was bright and strong, but look at what this has done to him. His body is not him. This is him.”

Alastair Rose glared at the girl beside him. How dare she. How dare she keep him from what he wanted. “Your Majesty, please ignore her. I am certain she is mis—”

“Silence!” the monarch snapped. Her eyes softened as she stepped forward and laid her hand on the glass coffin over her husband’s face. Taking the jar from her guard’s hand, Queen Victoria stared into the green patch as if willing it to condense. “Oh, Bertie, what have I done?”

Emmeline watched as the queen ran her fingers over the membranous lid. If it was her mother in that machine, would she be able to step away and let her go? If it meant one more hug or one more long talk at bedtime, she would do anything to keep her alive, but what if she came back only to suffer from a damaged soul in a whole body? It wouldn’t be worth it to watch her struggle and succumb again, to feel the sting of death a second time. The queen’s eyes glistened, running from the bubbling box to the quartz tomb between her palms.

“Verzeihung, bitte,” she whispered, plunging the end of her nail through the thin cover of the jar. The faint green blur drifted from the opening. It trailed along the side of the queen’s round cheek before dissolving into the aether.

No one moved. Immanuel and James released silent sighs of relief while Eliza and Lord Rose stood frozen in surprise. Closing her eyes, Emmeline listened to the faint swish of blood rushing through the prince consort’s lifeless form. Lord Rose’s eyes burned through her breast, but she steadied her breath and kept her eyes downcast. More than anything, he wanted to strike her. She could feel it in the subtle twitch of his wrist and the curl of his lip, even if she couldn’t see them.

“Dr. Hawthorne, please shut it off. There is nothing left to do.” Lord Rose drew in a breath, but with an icy glare, he was silenced. “You have fulfilled your contracts and are released.”

The queen paused as something crashed to the floor above their heads. Voices cried out and heels pounded against the boards toward the cellar door. The guards tightened their circle around the queen. At the top of the steps, the door shuddered, jarring on its hinges with a clap before flying open. Grabbing Eliza by the arm, James pulled her behind him as a man darted down the stairs with two guards on his heels. When he rounded the banister, the queen’s guards threw their arms around him and pushed him back. The man with dull gold hair and wild eyes struggled in their grasp, thrashing and pushing against them as hard as he could.

Emmeline’s pulse quickened. He came. Their plan had worked. Locking eyes with Immanuel, he reminded her to not give them away yet. Immanuel inched toward her, stepping over the wires connecting Prince Albert to the warming machine, until they met in the middle.

“I told you not to come near me again, Alexander,” Lord Rose snapped, the veins on his neck and forehead straining as he stepped closer but retreated when his older brother swung at him.

“Lord Rose, what is the meaning of this?”

“I must apologize for my brother’s behavior, Your Majesty, but he has not been in his right mind since the death of his fiancée.”

“You would know all about that, wouldn’t you, Alastair?” Alexander said, no longer struggling to break free. He reached into his pocket and held up a thin band of gold topped with a purple stone. “I found this in your room, just like she said.”

Lord Rose’s chest tightened and his teeth ground together as he turned toward the woman beside him. Her owl eyes widened, and she stepped closer to the German boy, who stood at her elbow defiantly glaring at him. Alastair’s fists clenched in time with his jaw as he spotted the vial and chain hanging from Immanuel’s neck.

“What did you do?”

“You miserable bastard,” his brother spat. “You couldn’t leave Katherine alone, could you? She said the one who killed her called her ‘Kitty’ and had her ring. Guess what I found in your bedroom today right where she said it would be.”

“You!”

Emmeline’s heart pounded as he advanced on her. In one swift motion, the gauntlet was on his hand, flexing and snapping with lethal fury. He dove toward her and she braced herself for the pain, but a hand grabbed his wrist. Immanuel pressed against her as he reached over her head and held Lord Rose’s hand inches above her neck.

Keeping his bichrome eyes on the nobleman, Immanuel summoned all of his strength and pushed him back one centimeter at a time. Suddenly, Alastair wrenched his arm away, and Immanuel stumbled forward with Emmeline teetering in front of him. He wrapped his arm around her to pull her back, but when he did, Lord Rose plunged his claws into them, catching both Immanuel and Emmeline’s arms in his viper bite.

The Hawthornes watched in horror as Immanuel and Emmeline buckled against the electricity coursing through their bodies. Blood trickled from their wounds when their bodies pulled away from the metal fangs before being drawn back to the hissing current. With a final shudder, they sunk under the weight of their bodies and collapsed. As they hit the ground, a sickening crack like breaking ice came from the ribs of the machine. Lord Rose turned in time to see the light within it glow brighter before exploding out, showering the room in shards of quartz. Emmeline and Immanuel gasped, their bodies shaking and their eyes bulging open as the electricity dissipated and their souls settled back into their flesh.

“Seize him!” the queen’s guard cried.

Alastair Rose looked at the stairs and down the hall, but James and Eliza blocked his path. The guards were advancing, drawing nearer with pistols and clubs drawn. His pulse quickened. There was no where left to go. They would capture him and take him to prison where he would surely hang once they found out what he had done. He drew in a constrained breath. How dare they. He stared down at the metal and leather glove around his hand. Plunging the tines into his ribs, he met Immanuel’s gaze and pulled the trigger. His eyes rolled back in his skull as his body bucked and thrashed against the current, relishing the single moment of ecstasy before pain took over and the world went dark.

With a disjointed lurch, Lord Rose slumped to the floor at Immanuel’s feet, pulling the machine down with him. The remaining jar shattered, spilling the electrolyte solution across his lifeless body. As Immanuel pulled Emmeline to her feet, they watched as a shadow slipped from the machine. It billowed from between the brass ribs before dissolving into the darkness of the empty hall. Immanuel closed his eyes, holding Emmeline close as a soft sob broke from her lips. It was over. It was finally over.

Chapter Thirty-Six:

The Future Awaits

Tucking the last of his hand-me-down clothing into his bag, Immanuel sighed. His entire room was packed into the cloth duffel apart from the top hat from Adam, which would be on his head when he left. Immanuel dropped onto the edge of his bed and smoothed the quilted coverlet. It had been a long time since he felt like he had a family, and the Hawthornes and Fenices were as close as he could ever get in England. If he wasn’t so near to finishing his courses, he would have stayed in London, but in a few months, he would be back for good. Slinging the bag onto his back, he walked into the hall and resolutely shut the door behind him. At the base of the stairs, the Hawthornes were waiting to see him off, and even Emmeline seemed sad to see him go. Her owl eyes sagged as her lips curled into a reluctant smile upon seeing him.

“Do you have everything packed?” Eliza asked. “Do you have your money for the train?”

Immanuel patted his pocket as he slipped on his coat and met their doleful eyes. Nothing at Oxford would be as good as what he had in Wimpole Street. “Yes, I believe so. Dr. Hawthorne, Mrs. Hawthorne, you have been so kind to me. I owe you my life, and I do not know how I could ever repay you.”

“My boy, we are even. You and Emmeline helped us get our lives back.”

James Hawthorne smiled to himself, taking in Immanuel’s thin form. The night he saw him huddled on the porch swaddled in rags, he never would have guessed how the young man he saved would have transformed. When he first arrived, he was barely more than flesh and wounds, but now, as he stood before him with his scarred eye and wide grin, something warm bloomed in the doctor’s chest. Maybe this is how he would feel if he had a child to be proud of. He was about to send the one he nursed back to health out into the world, and he couldn’t be happier with the bright young man he turned out to be.

Shaking Immanuel’s hand, he said, “You must write to us often. We would like to know how you are doing.”

“Yes, and I do not want to only receive news from my father. I want to hear from you how you are getting on,” Eliza added as she straightened his cockeyed scarf. “We will miss you, Immanuel.”

“I will miss all of you, too. I promise I will write, Mrs. Hawthorne.” Turning his attention to Emmeline, who kept her eyes on her shoes or out the window for most of their conversation, he brought her hand to his lips and bowed. “You will tell me how the season goes, won’t you?”

Emmeline scoffed, her lip curling into a grin. As much as she didn’t want to admit it, she would miss him, but at least part of her soul was going back to Oxford. “I will try, but I may be in demand and have no time for writing letters.”

Behind him, a steamer horn blared through the morning air, and when Immanuel glanced out the window, he found Adam waiting in his future brother-in-law’s red car. Shouldering his bag, he gave the Hawthornes a final good-bye before slipping into the cold. His eyes burned as he slid into the backseat beside Adam, but at least he would be there to see him off at Paddington Station. A gloved hand curled around his, squeezing it gently.

“Are you all right?”

“Yes, but I will miss them and you.”

“I will miss you too. I bought these for you,” Adam said as he pulled a sprig of forget-me-nots tied with a blue ribbon from his pocket. “They remind me of you, and I thought you could wear them like you did when we went to the theatre.”

“Thank you, Adam, they are beautiful.” Immanuel sniffed and blinked away the tears threatening to come as Adam slipped the boutonniere into the lapel of his coat. “You know, this is the first time I have had something that felt like it was mine since I came here. I feel like family, but I don’t know if I still will be after being away for a few months.”

Adam inched closer and slipped his arm around Immanuel’s shoulders. Lord Sorrell’s driver was too preoccupied with not hitting pedestrians to watch them. “You are family to me and definitely to Hadley. She already has a wedding invitation with your name on it and a contract in the works for you to rent her room once you are settled in town. She would have let you stay there without one, but I said we had to make it look legitimate in case anyone ever asked.”

“You must thank her for me and Lord Sorrell, too. I wish I could have spent more time with you before I left.” Immanuel smiled and rested his head against Adam’s cheek. “Dinner was great last night, but you know what I mean. April seems like an eternity.”

“Well, it just so happens that I decided to take a holiday in February and Oxford seems like a good place to go during the dreary months.”

Immanuel’s eyes lit up. “Really? You will love it. I could take you to the libraries and show you around the museums. You can even see the walrus Professor Martin and I assembled.” He stopped, the fire ebbing as reality surfaced in cruel bursts. “Adam, what if you find you no longer care for me by then?”

How could he say that? Holding Immanuel’s arms, Adam stared into his wetted eyes and whispered, “I have never felt this way about anyone. You have awoken something in me, something I tried very hard to hide, but I can’t anymore. The world is not kind to people like us, yet there is nothing I want more than to be with you. Months ago, I never would have imagined I would be saying this. I hated myself, I hated the façade I put on every day, and then, suddenly, I stumbled across you. You were bruised and battered, barely alive, but I wanted to know you.” He rubbed his wrist and swallowed hard. “When Lord Rose attacked you, I was so afraid you would die. Finally, I realized how much you meant to me. Don’t ever think I won’t care for you, Immanuel. You have irrevocably changed me, and I am looking forward to our future adventures more than anything.”

Sliding behind the driver’s seat, Adam and Immanuel sunk down below where London’s prying eyes could reach. Immanuel drew his companion close and pressed his lips to his, relishing the familiar scent of his lavender cologne and the subtle spice of tea on his breath. These simple moments of intimacy were what he would miss most. The light scratch of Adam’s mustache against his lips or the security of their fingers laced together would be what he longed for during those days where his classes took their toll and all he wanted was Adam’s companionship.

Pulling away, they straightened up and brushed the creases from their coats as the station came into view. That would have to be their good-bye kiss, but pulling off Adam’s glove, he slipped their fingers together. Immanuel pressed his palm to Adam’s as if it were their bodies, flesh on flesh with warmth and the gentle hum of electricity between them. With a smile, Adam brought Immanuel’s hand to his lips before donning his glove and opening the steamer door for him.

Beyond Paddington Station, the future awaited, and while it was as unclear as his mottled eye, at least through the fog, he knew Adam would be waiting for him.

Epilogue

Footsteps echoed in the tile and brick hall of the mortuary. The night porter glanced up from his post at the desk, but the room was empty apart from the sputtering gas lamp in far corner. His pulse quickened. A place like this was bound to be haunted, yet every time he thought it was a ghost, it turned out to be porter from one of the hospitals dropping off more bodies or a janitor making his rounds. Turning his attention back to his copy of The Strand, the porter tried to put the rhythmic clacking of shoes from his mind, and as suddenly as they appeared, they stopped.

“Excuse me.”

The porter lurched back when his eyes met the hard gaze of a woman in black. His heart pounded in his throat, but as she drew back her widow’s veil, he was relieved to find she was as solid as he was.

The woman was like no one he had ever seen. Beneath her hat and veil, her polished bronze hair curled in tight ringlets like spooled wire, and despite the winter cold, her skin was sun-kissed and glowing. Her full lips and high cheekbones rivaled that of his wife, but his amorous musings were cut short by her pale green eyes.

“Ma’am, the morgue is closed.”

As if she didn’t hear him, she said, “I am here claim my husband.”

There was something about her, some force behind her gaze that repelled any rejection or rebuff before he could utter it. The porter fumbled for the ledger, feeling her eyes upon him, and turned to the latest entries. “Name?”

“Lord Alastair Rose.”

“Right this way, Lady Rose.”

Leaving her in the viewing room, the porter shuddered. He wove through the rows of bodies until he reached the one that matched the number in the ledger. The body had been brought in two days ago during his shift. It had been surprising to see Dr. Hawthorne dropping off a body, usually he was collecting one or one was being delivered to him by a policeman for a post-mortem examination. As he rolled the body into the room, he watched as her eyes never left the form beneath the sheet. The porter folded the cloth back to the dead man’s shoulders.

“That is him,” she said, flatter than he expected. “May we have some privacy?”

The porter blinked and back out of the room. “Of course, Lady Rose. If you require anything, I will be right outside the door.”

When the door clicked shut behind her, she grabbed the edge of the sheet and threw it back, revealing her husband’s pale corpse. Even after five years, nothing had changed. His dark blonde hair and muscular form were just as they had been when she left for the continent, but as her eyes trailed lower, they lingered on the purpled, mottled patches on his torso where his flesh was littered with three-pronged wounds. On his breast was an identical wound but unlike the others was surrounded by pristine skin. Tracing her hand across his brow, she brushed his hair from his forehead. She could have loved him once, if he had accepted her. They were so alike, but the ambition that brought them together severed them just as quickly.

“Oh, how the mighty have fallen.” Claudia Rose tugged the glove from her hand and ran her palm over the cold skin of his abdomen. “How curious.”

The hair on her neck rose as a swath of cold air pressed against her. She turned toward the door, thinking the porter had intruded, when she found a shadow blocking her path. The mass undulated, condensing and dissolving until it disappeared.

“Claudia!” hissed a sooty breath at her ear.

Before she could react, the specter shot through her, chilling her and taking her breath away. At the end of her nose, the mass coagulated. The shadows rolled and churned until they formed the nebulous outline of a face. He loomed over her, drawing so close that her breath scattered the particles of his familiar chin and lips. With a wave of her hand, the face drifted apart like smoke. Taking a step into the hall, she found the porter waiting.

“Where would you like us to send the body for burial, ma’am?”

“There will not be a burial.”

“So we should send him to Surrey for cremation?”

Claudia Rose slipped the fine leather glove over her hand, watching the black mass shift at the edge of her vision. “Donate him. Let him be of use for once.”

The porter opened his mouth, but the words deserted him.

Claudia Rose sauntered down the hall, her heels clicking in time with the swish of her black silk gown and the whir of her husband’s shade at her side. They had work to do.

The Earl and the Artificer:

Book Three of the Ingenious Mechanical Devices

To my classmates and professors, who helped me take this project from a thesis project to a book, and to Steph, who put up with my whining and helped more than she could know.

ACT ONE

“Every man is surrounded by a neighborhood of voluntary spies.”

–Jane Austen

Chapter One:

The Ninth Earl

Elbow-deep in steamer engine innards and covered in grease was not how Hadley Sorrell expected her honeymoon to begin. The wedding and journey to Dorset had been surprisingly smooth, but their luck never lasted. She should have expected the steamer to pop and belch smoke in the middle of the road. Glancing over her shoulder, she watched her husband stare off, his grey eyes locked on the rolling waves as they lapped against the piebald coast in the distance.

“Hold my leg, so my dress doesn’t blow up,” she called. “Eilian!”

“Sorry!” He snapped to attention and held her billowing gown, his prosthetic hand resting behind her knee, as she looked into the hood. “Are you certain you don’t need help? I feel bad just watching.”

“It’s fine. I don’t think there is room in here for you, anyway.”

Leaning into the front of the cab, she brought her face close to the boiler as the heat of the kettle stung her cheeks. The metal coils of the heating element had melted into a blackened cake that smelled of burnt hair. Using the sides of the hood for leverage, she pivoted back until her satin boots met the road’s white gravel. Staring down at her cream dress, already streaked with soot and grease, she sighed and wiped her hands across it before smoothing a lock of henna hair behind her ear.

“I can’t fix it. It’s burned out.”

“We could take the bicycles into town. I don’t think it’s that far.”

“Let’s just wait for Patrick to come back. You know he won’t be long.”

As Hadley lingered in the road, reconnecting the pipes and organs from the disemboweled car, Eilian listened to the pastoral silence. Under the waves and the rustling trees, there was a faint noise he couldn’t identify and it was growing louder. Gravel hissed on the other side of the bend. By the time the steamer broke from the tree-line, it was barreling down the narrow lane. Eilian waved his arms to catch the driver’s attention, but he never slowed. Wrapping his arm around Hadley’s waist, he darted and turned, falling back onto the grass in time to watch the car hurtle past in a blur of steel and wood.

“Good Lord, he nearly ran you down!”

Hadley sat in her husband’s lap, arms and legs wrapped around him. As she tried to uncurl her legs from his lap, the muscles of her thighs locked and shook. Resting her head against his collar, she inhaled the sweet, earthy scent of sandalwood that lingered on his skin and let him hold her a little longer. If he had been slower— She shook away the thought.

“It’s no different from London. They would sooner run you over than look at you. Help me up, and I’ll finish before someone else comes.”

“No, let me do it. I’m already part metal. What’s one more limb?” he replied, kissing the top of her head and carefully disentangling himself from her skirts.

Watching Eilian from the grass, Hadley smiled to herself. The mechanized fingers of his right hand flexed at a thought, reattaching the engine’s cords and tubes with ease. It had been a year since they met, when she came knocking on his door with a tape measure and an idea for an electric prosthesis. They had shared a tent in the dusty lunar gorges of Palestine while she was disguised as a man, but there would be no more charades or mutterings from his mother about scandal or imagined impropriety. Now, they could finally be together. A thrill laced through her breast at the thought of such liberty.

“Incoming!” she called as a steamer chugged down the lane, slowing to a stop a few yards away.

Eilian stepped out of the way, his eyes trailing to the black-haired woman in the driver’s seat and beside her, his butler clamoring out the door. Patrick burst from the cab, sputtering apologies and half-formed phrases.

“Pat, slow down. I can’t understand a word you’re saying,” Eilian said as he joined him at the steamer’s hood.

Taking a deep breath, Patrick pushed his glasses up his nose and collected his thoughts. “Sorry, sir. She’s willing to take you and Lady Dorset up to Brasshurst Hall. I’ll stay behind and wait for the mechanic.”

The woman with the full features of a Caravaggian saint climbed out of her cab, her voluminous skirts rustling with each step. Her dark eyes ran between the young man with the wayward hair to the woman in the stained dress at his side. “Sorry to intrude, but your valet said you were headed for Folkesbury? I am headed that way now if you would care to join me.”

“That is very kind of you, Miss—?”

“Mrs. Rhodes,” she replied, walking back toward her steamer while the butler dithered between the trunks and bicycles tethered to the back of the hissing steamer.

Eilian held the passenger door open for Hadley to slide in. “I hope we aren’t inconveniencing you.”

“Not at all, I was heading back home. Brasshurst Hall is on the way.”

A pang of guilt rang in the pit of Eilian’s stomach as he watched Patrick grow smaller behind them.

“I was surprised to hear you were headed for Brasshurst. No one has been up there in ages. I almost didn’t believe Argus—my husband—when he told me the earl’s servants were coming up from London to clean the house. Are you his guests?”

Hadley’s lips twitched into a grin, and she shot her husband a knowing look. “He is the earl.”

“Oh.” Mrs. Rhodes’s eyes left the road long enough to search the nobleman’s face for any sign of offense while her own cheeks burned. “I beg your pardon, Lord and Lady Dorset. I— I was expecting someone… older.”

“No harm done, Mrs. Rhodes. You were probably thinking of my father. I have only been the earl for a few months, and I— Is that the house?”

Over the tops of the closely clumped elms and oaks, the spire of a tower rose. As they cut through the brush, Eilian’s eyes widened. Knowing his father, he had expected a conservative Georgian brick manor with a square roof and a smooth face, but the house was like none he had ever seen.

Brasshurst Hall was an asymmetrical monster. It had a Gothic portal and face on the front, a Palladian annex shooting off the side complete with columns and pediments. Straining his eyes, he could make out the latticed windows of a sultan’s harem floating above another layer of cathedral spires and pointed arches. The weathered grey-brown cloister stone was half-covered with ivy and wisteria. Following the gravel drive across an old stone bridge, the orangery appeared. The greenhouse’s glass and metal body bulged from the side of the manor like a verdurous boil. No wonder his father chose to move them to London.

When the steamer slid to a stop, Mrs. Rhodes swallowed hard, looking between her passengers. “I do hope you will call on us while you are in Folkesbury, Lady Dorset. My cousin is staying with us, and he has been eagerly awaiting your arrival. He lives in London, too, near Bloomsbury. You may have heard of him. Nadir Talbot, the novelist.”

“Yes, I think my brother read his last book, the one about Cleopatra. He enjoyed it very much.” When the woman’s eyes lit up, Hadley continued, “Thank you so much for giving us a lift, Mrs. Rhodes. I will most certainly pay you a visit once we are settled.”

Watching the steamer roll away, Hadley sighed as the grin fell from her cheeks. She would have to pay calls in a few days, drifting from house to house pretending she was the Countess of Dorset and not Hadley Fenice of Fenice Brothers Prosthetics. It was hard enough to pretend she was an aristocrat for a few hours at their wedding. How was she supposed to keep it up the entire time they were in Dorset? At least her etiquette books were packed in her trunk and Folkesbury seemed like a small town. Maybe no one would notice that she wasn’t a born aristocrat.

Eilian’s metal hand pressed against her palm. “So, what do you make of it?”

“It’s... different,” Hadley replied, her gaze running over the bright blue brace and ledge door set into the deep rings of the Gothic facade.

“I’m beginning to wonder if insanity runs in my family.” Eilian opened the door and turned to her with open arms. “Well, shall we?”

“You’re going to pick me up? Are you sure you can carry me?”

“I have before.”

Slipping his arms around her shoulders and behind her knees, he hoisted Hadley against his chest. She wrapped her arms around his neck and braced herself in case his prosthesis couldn’t bear her weight. Whenever he picked her up or held her close, part of her still wanted to look around to ensure no one was watching, yet she didn’t want him to stop.

“This is a silly tradition, Eilian. You don’t have to do this.”

“I want to; it’s good luck.” He kissed her cheek and pushed the door with his back. “The Romans believed carrying a bride over the threshold would protect her from evil spirits...”

Eilian froze in the doorway. The tunneled hall was dark, looming over them and pressing close to his head. While the floor had been swept and the old rug laid out, the ribbed arches were webbed with spider’s silk. As the dust motes danced and surged around them, he tightened his grip on her. Turning toward the sun’s rays, he reached to close the door but left it for fear of the shadows rushing in or what might lie beyond the threshold.

“I think we are a little late if we want to beat the evil spirits.” Hadley’s eyes roamed over the clots of long dead insects and debris spun into the grooves of the stone ceiling as he set her down. “I thought the maids were supposed to come and clean up.”

“They were. Maybe I didn’t send them early enough. There are only three of them, and I had no idea the house would be this large... or filthy.”

Taking Eilian’s hand, Hadley stepped into the great hall. The house groaned and yawned somewhere deep within. Hadley raised her eyes to the high Gothic windows and skylights she had seen on the drive up, but they were so choked with ivy they barely emitted enough light for her to make out the family coat of arms carved into the hearth on the other side of the room. A pile of furniture covered with once white sheets stood in the corner, blocking off the entrance to the dining room. The wood-paneled walls were caked in grime while the pointed arches in the upper arcade were cloaked in curtains of cobwebs as opaque as silk screens.

Rubbing her arms, Hadley stared into the mouth of the massive hearth. A granite lion’s head snarled back at her, a spider skittering from his drawn lips to his meager mane. She pulled a handkerchief from her purse and stood on tiptoe to wipe the crest above his head. An otter and a fox stood on either side of a shield surrounded by acorns and leaves. In the fox’s paw was a key while the otter clutched a scallop. Between them an oak sprouted, and a banner stretched across its roots. With her finger wrapped in the linen square, she scrubbed at the stone until the thin letters peaked through. It all had significance. If only she knew what.

“Eilian, what does it say?”

The earl squinted, tracing the letters with his fingertip as he pronounced the familiar phrase. “Salus in Arduis. A refuge in difficulties. Maybe in better days. Come on, let’s see if we can find the library or the orangery.”

Walking into the windowless hall, Eilian felt along the wall for the gas lamps’ switch but found only the dusty edge of a picture frame. He reached behind it, but when something in the shadows brushed against his hand, he lurched back, bumping into his wife. Raising his eyes, he met the face of a man in a powdered wig as the lamps lit with a gurgling sigh. The third earl stared down at him from the wall, the grey irises beneath the cocked brows and the signet ring on his finger were all that tied them together, and he still hadn’t been able to wear his father’s ring yet. He swallowed hard. So these were his ancestors. These were the men he had to live up to.

Eilian took a step forward but stopped, moving back with his eyes locked on the painting.

“What are you doing?”

“His eyes follow you.” He shuddered and tried it with the fourth earl’s portrait further down the hall. “Do we really have to stay here? Can’t we just go to Greece instead?”

Hadley rolled her eyes, avoiding the women hanging in a row on the opposite wall. Why look at them when she knew what she would see? They were a line of noblewomen, born and bred to be the wives of aristocrats, all perfected in oil and exuding a hauteur she couldn’t hope to emulate. She dreaded the day when she and Eilian would sit for their portraits, when their faces would be placed beside his ancestors and everyone would see the glaring deficiencies in the ninth Earl and Countess of Dorset. Reaching the end of the hall, she tugged at the pocket door. With each inch it slid, the thrumming hum of an engine grew louder, but on the other side stood the library. Eilian drifted in behind her, his eyes wide as they followed the bookcases up the wall where they melded with the coffered ceiling.

All of the houses prior eccentricities and sins were forgiven at the sight of the library, which rivaled his back in Greenwich. He ran his hand over the edge of the cabinet before turning the key and pulling it open. Books by Pliny, Archimedes, Al Jazari, and the Banū Mūsā brothers stared back at him. Carefully pulling the last tome from the shelf, Eilian cradled it against his chest with his prosthetic arm and turned the fragile vellum pages with the tips of his fingers. His gaze darted over the tight lines of Arabic and intricate schematics as he settled in at the divan under the window. He wondered who else had cared about ancient engineers.

Hadley’s cream gown floated at the edge of his vision until she knelt on the chair beside him and wiped at the window. She swatted at his shoulder, but his attention never wavered from the page.

“Eilian.”

He had never been able to find a pristine copy in Arabic, even in Cairo and Constantinople. His friends at the Oriental Club would be envious if they knew of his find.

Hadley gripped his shoulder and squeezed. “Eilian, look!”

Glancing up, he met her wide blue eyes, the freckles across her nose stark against her sudden pallor. She motioned for him to peer through the hole in the dust. Between the trees and dense foliage of the greenhouse, a figure sat in a wingback chair beside the algal pool.

“Someone’s in there.”

Chapter Two

Derringers and Disappointment

Hadley swallowed hard. “Did you hire footmen?”

“No, the only male staff I have are Patrick and my gardener.”

“That isn’t the gardener, is it?”

He shook his head.

She put a finger to her lips and backed away from the window, her eyes locked on the head swaying above the chair’s back. As Eilian crossed the room and grasped the rough fireplace poker, he frowned at the hearth. Despite the dust and cobwebs coating the rest of the room, the ash had recently been swept from the firebox. Inching toward the double doors at the far end of the library, Eilian listened to the chug of an engine on the other side. Hadley followed close behind, fishing through her clutch. He stared at the beaded purse. When had she started carrying that instead of her carpet bag? Her face brightened as she pulled out a snub-nosed gun the length of her palm.

“You brought your derringer?”

“It’s been useful thus far.” She checked the chambers before snapping it shut. “You didn’t think I would let you go in there alone, did you?”

Holding Hadley's gaze, he counted off with his fingers. At three, he drew in a deep breath and inched open the door to the orangery. A puff of hot air hit them as they stepped into the artificial jungle. Massive palms and bushy camphor trees blocked the sun, casting the greenhouse in a balmy haze. The stench of fetid water was overwhelmed by the scent of plants. Everywhere was the smell of earth and the things that belonged to it, concentrated and bottled under the glass dome.

Eilian pushed back a Jurassic fern and slowly followed the cobbled path toward the pool. Sweat collected under the leather brace around his upper arm, but he ignored the urge to wipe it and swept his eyes through the brush. With firecracker flowers and orchids of every shade and strange conformation crowding the path, he expected to hear the caw or flutter of a parrot, but the air was quiet, rolling and bubbling with the river and fog. As they rounded the corner, the man in the armchair came into sight. The hammer of Hadley’s derringer clicked in Eilian’s ear. He tightened his grip on the poker and watched the man turn. His sharp grey eyes never left his assailants as he stood and stepped around the chair.

“Who are you and what are you doing here?” Eilian called, feeling Hadley tense beside him.

His dark suit was impeccably pressed and the fabric even from a distance was fine, costlier than anything Eilian owned. Something in the intruder’s aquiline features was strangely familiar.

“Is that any way to greet your cousin, Lord Dorset?”

“Cousin?”

“Put down the gun, Lady Dorset, before you hurt yourself.”

Hadley’s jaw clenched, but she kept the muzzle pointed at the grey-haired man at the edge of the pool. Catching her eye, Eilian nodded, and she exhaled, dropping her arm only to keep the gun at her side. Eilian lowered the poker as the man approached with measured steps.

The man’s lined, silver eyes fell on Hadley’s simple coiffure before lingering on her breasts and waist a moment too long. The new dress, while of good quality, was already dirty and the corset too loose, and though her features were pleasing, she was far from beautiful. The garter gun hung looped in her stained fingers. Where Lord Dorset had found such a creature, he could hazard a guess, but why would he marry it?

“I’m surprised your father never spoke of me.”

“We didn’t speak very often.”

“Apparently. Lord Dorset, the last Lord Dorset and I were cousins. We were raised in this house.”

When the man’s cutting gaze reached Eilian’s mechanical hand, the younger man tucked it out of sight. “How did you get in here? Did the maids let you in?”

His eyes narrowed as he straightened and cocked his head with a scoff. “I have a key, and even if I didn’t, I know this house better than my own body.”

“You still haven’t told us who you are,” Hadley said, resisting the urge to train the gun on him. There was something in his manner, the way all of his movement seemed to be in his eyes, that set her on edge. She had seen men like that in London— men who kept you busy with their eyes when you should have been watching their hands.

“Randall Nash, and you are Hadley Fenice, the illustrious toy heiress who has risen to countess.”

Hadley winced. The embellished wedding announcement in the society pages had not been her idea. Her future mother-in-law had taken it upon herself to soften the blow of an inter-class marriage with money. Heiress had a better ring than craftswoman, even if it was false. At least the article brought in as many orders as their Christmas advertisement.

“Are you insinuating something, Mr. Nash?” Eilian asked, but before the man could reply, the butler’s harried voice rang through the walls. His voice grew fainter as he retreated through the gallery. “In the greenhouse, Pat!”

Eilian and Hadley turned as a crash resounded behind them, and when they looked back, Randall Nash was gone. Using the end of the poker, Eilian pushed back the bushes growing at the edge of the pool but could find no trace of him. He stared down at the empty armchair. From the humidity of the orangery, the fabric had rippled and dampened, raising the varnish on the arms and legs. Beside it sat an open bottle of champagne, a chipped glass, and a book on Caesar Augustus.

“I wonder how long he’s been raiding the wine cellar. He’s definitely been in the library, too.” The butler’s flushed face appeared in the doorway. “Pat, did you know he was here?”

“Who?”

“Randall Nash.”

“He’s the estate manager, sir.” Patrick pulled off his fogged spectacles and cleaned them with his handkerchief. “I had to write to him, so he could let the maids inside when they got here.”

Hadley shuddered at the thought of the maids trapped in the house with that man. “Does he live in the house?”

“No, ma’am. On the grounds in the dower house.”

“Good. Don’t let him wander in unescorted, and make sure any doors leading to the greenhouse are locked at night.”

“Yes, ma’am. Should I have Mrs. Negi make lunch?”

Hadley nodded, and Patrick disappeared into the library. As she reached Eilian's side, her eyes swept over the soaring vaults and the paths around the pool leading deeper into the greenhouse. What secrets laid buried beneath weeds and dust?

Slipping her hand into her husband’s metal palm, she felt his fingers curl around hers. “Shall we explore some more?”

***

Eilian groaned as he collapsed onto the bed. Hadley had put him to work dusting and moving furniture until he was too sore to move. His body ached all over, throbbing in his lower back and heels despite soaking in the tub for the better part of an hour. How had he not realized when he saw her attack the grime on the family crest or the library window that Hadley would take it upon herself to clean the entire house? Exploring had merely been a ruse to find a maid and a bucket of soapy water. He ran a hand through his wet hair and let out a stifled chuckle at the look on the poor chambermaid’s face when the lady of house stole her bucket and brush before she could protest. At least part of the house was clean or would be when the maids put their final polish on it. Closing his eyes, he slid lower until the hearth at the end of the bed warmed his sore feet.

He raised his head at the squeal of a board and found Hadley standing in the doorway with a red silk caftan hanging over her nightgown. Climbing onto the antique bed, Hadley settled beside him. Her light eyes ran over his face before following the faint burn scars that trailed like vines down his neck, across his chest, and under the edge of his dressing gown. With her free hand, she traced his sternum in a slow line, but as she reached the satin of his dressing gown, Eilian brought her hand to his lips.

“You still have your prosthesis on.”

“Don’t worry, I took it off and cleaned it. I just didn’t feel like carrying all the parts.” Sitting up, he shrugged off his robe and unhooked the springs of his prosthesis one by one. “So what did you think of our guest?”

“He gave me the creeps.”

“And he has a key. We’ll probably find him sitting at the breakfast table tomorrow.”

Hadley shook her head. “Maybe we should change the locks. Here, let me get that.”

Eilian held out his arm as his wife removed the triceps coils on the back of his arm and tugged at the knot in the leather couter. Those grey eyes laced with malice combined with the evident disdain for what he was brought back too many bad memories. The image of his father dressed in his tailcoat with his bison head and black beard as he loomed over the dinner table floated to the surface. I forbid it.

“He reminds me of my father.”

“I hope your father didn’t stare like that.”

“No, no, but his tone, his voice—” He sighed as the leather corset encircling his arm finally slid off. “I had hoped we wouldn’t have to deal with patronizing family members for a while. My brother’s toast at the wedding was bad enough.”

“Oh yes, being called an upstart in front of our guests made my day.”

“If I had known how much he had to drink, I would have stopped him. At least mother gave him a proper earful for that.”

“Well, unlike Dylan, we will only have to deal with Cousin Randall for a few more weeks. Then, it will be back to London or Greece or wherever.”

“Now, that sounds like a real holiday.” He watched Hadley arrange the pieces of his arm on the nightstand. “You know, I wasn’t expecting you to clean the house, Had. I sent the maids up for that.”

“I know,” Hadley began, slipping her finger under the stocking covering what was left of his right arm, “but what if someone stops by? We can’t show them into a filthy sitting room. They will think we’re inept.”

“But we kind of are. At least with these things.”

Hadley stopped, locking eyes with her husband who regarded her with a lopsided frown. “They don’t need to know that. Eilian, I know you don’t care what anyone thinks, but I want to make a good impression.”

“I do care. I’m just not very good at any of this.”

“Well, I’m paying calls tomorrow, and if you want to accompany me, all you have to do is be your charming self.”

“Fine. Then can we do something more fun?”

A coy smile played on her lips as she ran her hands across her husband’s bare shoulders. “Oh? What do you have in mind?”

“I was thinking we could go for a bicycle ride around the grounds or down to the beach.” His grey eyes brightened. “They call it the Jurassic Coast, so maybe we’ll even find some fossils there.”

“Anything else?”

Eilian thought for a moment. “There might be some Roman ruins nearby. I don’t know what else is around here, and we can’t go too far with the steamer in the shop. Why? What were you thinking?”

Her face lurched into a stiff grin. “Nothing in particular.”

Hopping off the Gothic bed, Eilian pulled back the covers. With his forearm unprotected and barely more than a titanium rod with a hand at the end, he kept it tucked against his chest as he shimmied into bed, careful not to put too much weight on it. As Hadley slipped off her caftan and settled in beside him, he grinned. He had forgotten how much he missed waking up to find her beside him or listening to her gentle snoring in the dark. Those months when they slept beneath the cool desert stars only an arm’s length away seemed so long ago.

Wrapping his arm around her, Eilian pulled her closer until he could feel the warmth of her skin radiating beneath her cotton shift. She tipped her head back and caught his lips, cupping the back of his head and running her hand along the hilly terrain of his right arm. The heat rose in her breast with the brush of his hand against her cheek and down her neck, but as soon as his lungs tightened, he pulled away. For a moment, she waited, hoping he would continue. Instead, he reached into the nightstand and withdrew a copy of The Royal Egyptology Society Chronicle.

“Mind if I read? I can turn the lamp down.”

“It’s fine. I’ll read Mrs. Beeton’s.”

Hadley found her stack of etiquette and advice books arranged on her bedside table. Grabbing her mother’s worn copy of Mrs. Beeton’s, she sunk lower until she was lying with her back to her husband. Her eyes followed the rickety, uniform type, but after a few lines, her mind drifted as she stared at the heading of chapter one, The Mistress. Tonight was their third night together, and while the sheepishness of crawling into bed together had ended the first night, something felt off. On their wedding night, they had been so tired that they fell into bed, lulled into sleep by rich food and exhaustion, and while traveling to Folkesbury, they had stopped at an inn where the only rooms left had a single bed. She slept with her face buried in his neck and his hand on the small of her back to keep her from falling off the narrow cot. Now that they were in Folkesbury in a real bed, clean and relaxed, she expected things to progress, yet it seemed to be the same as it had been for months.

“Eilian, I—” The words dropped as she watched the journal with its sharp-eyed sphinxes flutter in time with the slow, steady cadence of his breath. She plucked the paper from his lax grip, but he didn’t stir. “Never mind.”

Chapter Three

Keeping Up Appearances

Hadley gritted her teeth and gripped the handlebars until her fingers turned white as her velocipede rattled down the cobbled hill. Her beaded clutch bounced in the bicycle’s front basket, threatening to fly out for a third time. The people of Folkesbury flattened against the thatch and stone cottages to let the earl and countess rumble by. As they flew past shops with painted signs swinging in the salt-kissed breeze, she tried to take note of what the town had to offer, but the moment she nearly collided with another child or wizened gentleman, her mental map muddled.

At the bottom of the hill, they slid to a stop in front of a house that had once been slightly grander than its neighbors. It was larger and set further back from the road with a walled garden and unobstructed view of the coast, but the roof appeared frayed in patches and the paint around the doors and windows had begun to peel. Leaning their bicycles against the stacked stones, Hadley drew in a calming breath as she swept her hair behind her ears and smoothed the front of her riding jacket. When Eilian dismounted and reached for the bell, she pulled him to her level and flattened his hair down, but the moment he ducked away from her hand, the wayward spikes popped back up.

“You can’t fight it, Had,” he whispered as he rang the bell.

A grim-faced butler ushered them inside and disappeared with the cards Hadley pulled from her cramped bag. Her eyes swept over the wooden beams that cut through the plaster and disappeared into the next room. A fire crackled on the other side of the velvet curtain which had become threadbare at the edge where years of hands had pulled it aside. A board whined upstairs as Mrs. Rhodes’s head appeared at the top of the landing. Close behind, a man followed as she bustled down the steps. He was older than Eilian by at least five years with thick glasses, a paunch, and frizzy black muttonchops that connected into a mustache.

“Lord and Lady Dorset, we weren’t expecting you so soon,” Mrs. Rhodes said when she reached the bottom. “Allow me to introduce my husband, Argus Rhodes.”

Mr. Rhodes held out his right hand but quickly switched to his left when he noticed the earl’s metal hand.

“It’s a pleasure to make your acquaintance, Mr. Rhodes.” His brows furrowed as he turned the name over in his mind. “Did you recently write a paper for the Royal Egyptology Society? I think it was on Rome’s influence on the Ptolemaic dynasty?”

“Why, yes. You’ve read it?”

“Not yet, but I was reading the Chronicle last night and came across the review. It sounds fascinating.”

“Would you like to take a look at it? I have the manuscript in my office.”

“Argus, show him the printer’s copy instead,” his wife replied. “It’s in your desk, bottom-right drawer.”

When the men turned to leave, Hadley stepped to follow them, but Mrs. Rhodes laid a gentle hand on her arm. “Men are always talking shop, aren’t they? Let’s leave them to it.”

Before Hadley could reply, the woman led her into the parlor and offered her a seat. Ringing the bell beside her chair, she waited for the butler to appear again and asked him to bring them a tea tray. Mrs. Rhodes’s dark eyes lingered on the younger woman’s houndstooth trousers and riding boots as Hadley fidgeted in her chair.

“You rode a bicycle over from Brasshurst?”

“Yes, our steamer won’t be fixed for some time, and I was afraid everyone would think me rude if I didn’t pay some calls soon.”

As the butler returned to pour their tea, Mrs. Rhodes asked, “Do you have any causes, Lady Dorset?”

“Not really. I mean, not officially. I think I may get into women’s education or creating opportunities for female artisans. Being one myself, I would love to create a union of sorts. Wouldn’t it be lovely? Women supporting themselves and each other.”

Hadley looked up from her tea to see her hostess laughing into her cup. When Mrs. Rhodes noticed the countess wasn't laughing, she cleared her throat and focused on her tea.

“Then again, there’s always the poor,” Hadley murmured, her cheeks flushing.

“There are so many noble causes. I thought maybe you were part of the Rational Dress Society.”

“Why? Oh, the knickerbockers. I’m not officially part of anything, but once you catch your skirts in the spokes, you understand why trousers are preferable.”

Mrs. Rhodes nodded thoughtfully. “But aren’t you afraid of bicycle face?”

Hadley sighed as she listened to her husband and Mr. Rhodes chattering in the next room. She knew little about the Ptolemaic rulers and would have had nothing to contribute, but she would have liked to learn. Instead, she was stuck hoping her companion would strike up a conversation about herself so that she could focus on what the men were saying. Mrs. Rhodes was waiting, watching her with the same languorous stare laced with domestic authority that she had seen in her mother- and sister-in-law. If she couldn’t get through an afternoon with Mrs. Rhodes, how would she ever manage real society ladies?

***

Eilian followed Argus into his study. While it sat off the parlor, it opened into a glass conservatory just large enough to place his desk and a few potted spider plants. In the bookcases were rows of atlases and encyclopedias, and propped between pots filled with alien lilies and scruffy marsh plants were books on history and pharmacology. Tucked in the corner far from the sun’s harsh light sat a curio cabinet. Potshards, fragments of papyrus, and stone amulets littered the upper shelves. Below, busts of Caesar and half-worn Romans stared back from flattened coins that collected dust beside a nearly intact amphora.

“Do you read The Royal Egyptology Society Chronicle often, Lord Dorset?” Mr. Rhodes asked as he knelt beside his desk and opened the bottom drawer.

“Only since I joined it a few years ago. I like to see what others have uncovered. Sometimes it inspires my own research.”

He flipped through the papers within before trying the drawer above it. “Are you an Egyptologist or a backer?”

“Neither, I’m a mechano-archaeologist. I’ve conducted excavations in Egypt in the past, but I tend to work more in Greece and the Middle East.” A soft chuckle escaped his lips. “The last thing I expected to find in Folkesbury was an Egyptologist.”

Slamming the drawer shut, Argus tried the last one and withdrew a typed manuscript. He ran his eyes over his name as a swell of pride rose in his breast, but when he reached the rows of text below, all meaningless and shifting, he quickly handed it to the earl. “You can borrow it for as long as you would like. It would take too long to read it here.”

Eilian thanked him and let his gaze trail to the photograph beside the desk where Mr. Rhodes sat atop a camel with his wife riding sidesaddle beside him. Upon closer inspection, he realized the camel was stuffed and the desert landscape was no more than a painted screen.

“I hope you don’t mind me asking, but why settle here? Surely you would have an easier time making a living near a city or a university.”

For a moment, Argus stared at him. Swallowing hard, he fiddled with his glasses before turning to the side table. “Would you care for a drink?”

“No, thank you,” Eilian replied and watched the other man’s hands shake as he poured himself a healthy portion of brandy.

Drawing in a deep breath, he threw back half the glass and wiped away what clung to his mustache. “I— I only recently began pursuing Egyptology as an amateur. I’ve always been interested, but I never thought I would get anywhere with it. I could go elsewhere, I suppose, but it would be hard to leave this house. The house, along with the inheritance from my aunt, has supported me and allowed me to do what I please. That and the misses keeping the books. I don’t suppose I could manage that in a city.”

The earl nodded and drifted back to the bookshelves. Titles flashed through his mind, ticking off his mental inventory, until he reached a book on hieroglyphics he didn’t own. “May I?”

“Of course.” As he sipped his drink, Mr. Rhodes watched Lord Dorset flip through the pages of hieroglyphs with their translations written neatly beneath them. With each mouthful, his chest flooded with heat and the knot within it loosened. “The thing is, Lord Dorset, I’m self-taught. Anything I know about Egypt I learned on my own. I never went to university. I don’t think I would have even gotten in then, so why would they want to hire me?”

“That makes two of us.”

Mr. Rhodes raised his heavy brows.

“Don’t look so surprised. My father tried to send me to university, but I left after a month. I decided to travel and get some first-hand experience instead, much to his dismay. At that age, I couldn’t sit still. My tutors taught me Greek and Latin as a child, but I taught myself hieroglyphics, Hindi, Urdu, and Arabic on boats or dirigibles when there was nothing else to do.”

“Don’t tell Nash that, though he probably already knows.”

“Why?” Eilian asked, slipping the book back into the shelf.

“He’s a snob. He’s well-educated and lords it over everyone. I wanted to ask him a few questions about the Roman economy at the time of the Ptolemaic dynasty since he used to be a big name at Cambridge, but when he saw me, he gave me this disgusted look and slammed the door in my face.”

Eilian gave him a sympathetic nod. “I’m surprised he’s a scholar. I would have sooner taken him for a burglar. Lady Dorset and I found him in the greenhouse.”

Argus raised his heavy brows as he threw back the rest of his brandy. “Sounds like him. I don’t think he’s been right since the scandal.”

“Scandal?”

“Apparently, years ago he tried to convince everyone he had grown a silphium plant. Said he found it right here in town”

“Really? Imagine that. Silphium in Dorset. Do you think he was telling the truth?”

“Nash is a nutter. The plant’s been gone since Nero.”

***

Why had she told Mrs. Rhodes they had only been married a few days ago? After recounting and fabricating details about the flowers, the courses served, the guest list—of which her hostess certainly knew no one—and their living arrangements in Greenwich, the woman was giving her marriage advice. Nodding and smiling as she went on about wives being a reflection on their husbands, Hadley let her eyes trail to the window behind her head. The wind wove through the grass, blowing bits of seeds and pollen over the bluff. If she made a run for it, would anyone stop her?

“Always make certain your staff is keeping an accurate ledger. You never know if—”

The front door squealed open and a motley figure strutted past the doorway.

“Nadir? Nadir darling, is that you?”

“Did you know someone left their filthy velocipedes against your fence? Should I alert the sergeant? Get him off his lazy duff for once,” the voice replied.

“Nadir, we have guests. Come introduce yourself to Lord and Lady Dorset.”

“Busy, Leona,” he called, the stairs creaked in time with his steps.

Mrs. Rhodes’s face blanched before reddening. “He must not have heard me. Nadir, come down here and meet our guests now.”

The footsteps stopped and retreated down to the parlor door. The young man who pushed back the curtain was not what Hadley was expecting. Knowing he was a man who wrote romantic adventures women clamored for, she had expected someone older, more distinguished, or at least someone less of a dandy like her brother. While Nadir Talbot shared Leona Rhodes’ black brows and Mediterranean complexion, his hair hung in loose waves to his shoulders and a shadow of stubble already outlined his jaw. Even in the warm weather, he wore a teal velveteen jacket over a lilac vest with a Damask rose tucked into his lapel. Her brother would have certainly envied Mr. Talbot’s perfectly tailored wardrobe.

Locking eyes with his cousin from behind his sun-spectacles, Nadir dropped his walking stick into the stand near the door with a clatter and stood with his hands on his hips. He folded his glasses, barely giving Hadley a second glance, before proffering his hand and bringing the countess’s to his lips with a graceful bow.

“I’m sure it is a pleasure to make your acquaintance, Lady Dorset, and that you are a very charming person, but I have things to do. My dear cousin seems to think books magically write themselves when no one is looking. Now, if you will excuse me, I will be upstairs getting some work done.”

With a flourish, he deflected his cousin’s dirty look and disappeared into the hall. Hadley suppressed a grin as Mrs. Rhodes stared at the curtain in disbelief. If only she could have been so bold as to excuse herself to the other room.

“Mr. Talbot seems charming,” Hadley said sweetly as she poured each of them another cup of tea while Mrs. Rhodes’ attention was elsewhere.

“I must apologize for my cousin; he is so dreadfully focused on his career. Those publishers are always breathing down his neck for the next book.” She shivered and rubbed her arms, watching the fire falter and wave. Ringing her bell, she swallowed hard. “Nadir must have let the chill in. Barnes will take care of it.”

Staring at the study door, Hadley willed Eilian to come out. What excuse could she make to leave? If she were by herself, she could have feigned fatigue or left for another appointment, but she couldn’t leave without him. Mrs. Rhodes was staring at her as if waiting for her to speak again. Suppressing the urge to groan, Hadley turned her gaze to the window and the fields beyond it. The bell’s jarring peels grew louder as the other woman shifted and sighed huffed excuses for her butler. Hadley rubbed her temple and let her eyes roll back to the fireplace. Sitting beside it just out of arm’s reach was a stack of firewood in a brass bucket.

Mrs. Rhodes rang the bell again.

“For God’s sake!” Hadley cried as she threw a log in.

Leona sunk back in her chair, eyes wide as if the countess had struck her. Eilian and Argus peered around the parlor door, looking from the noblewoman to the fireplace. Hadley’s hair was askew and she stood with her hand out as if they had interrupted some impassioned moment. Swallowing hard, she tucked her hair back and smoothed her jacket before meeting her husband’s gaze.

“Oh, dear. I hope you will forgive us, Mrs. Rhodes, but we are late for an appointment, right, Eilian?”

He frowned and glanced at his watch. He didn’t think they had any plans. When he looked up, his wife’s eyes were wide as she twitched her head toward the door. “Ah, yes, the solicitor. Mr. Rhodes, it was a pleasure to make your acquaintance, and thank you for letting me borrow your paper. Hopefully we can speak again soon.”

Once he had repeated his good-byes to the lady of the house, they were ushered outside with promises of seeing the couple again soon. As they waved and led their bicycles up the path, Hadley leaned close and hissed into her husband’s ear, “You better not leave me alone with that woman again.”

Chapter Four

The Letter

Nadir took the stairs two at a time, bounding past oil landscapes of waves, overgrown ruins, and pirates’ coves painted long ago. Shutting the door on the bell jangling below, he tossed his jacket onto the coverlet and rolled the tension from his shoulders. As much as he didn’t feel like dealing with guests, he hoped the earl and countess would stay long enough that his cousin would forget he was upstairs. Then, maybe he could get some work done without her barging in.

The sun shone through the old bleary glass, casting its gaze across his manuscript. Pages lay scattered on the desk and stacked in a hat box on the floor beside it, but when he shuffled the blank pages into a neat pile, he sighed. They still vastly outnumbered the pages he had written. A trip to the country was supposed to rouse his characters from their slumber, not send them further into the recesses. He stared down at the page of script and scribble. Well, if they wouldn’t come out, he would chase them out. Sinking into the hardback chair, he cracked his knuckles, loosened his tie, and reread what he had written a week before.

His pen flew across the page, crossing out whole sentences and rewording others, but as he reached the end of the chapter, his gaze trailed to the world beyond the window. As much as he enjoyed the fresh air and scenery, he missed the vitality of London: the din and haze of smoke in his parlor when his friends stayed late into the night, the thrum of parties, the women. The country was too damn quiet.

Pushing open the pane, he leaned out with his elbows on the sill and drew in a gulp of salt air. He raked his hand through his hair and pulled his lucky talisman from his pocket. Turning the misshapen bead of Roman glass between his fingers, he sighed. What would he do if he didn’t write something soon? Rogers was already breathing down his neck. His valet kept forwarding the letters his publisher sent to his house in Bloomsbury asking for the next section, but he had nothing to send. Of course he had the sales of his other books to fall back on for a time. He swallowed hard. That would only last so long until he faded into obscurity and another writer rose to take his place.

The door below whined, breaking him from his morose thoughts. Craning his neck, he watched the Earl and Countess of Dorset emerge from the house with his cousin close on their heels. She patted the Countess’s hand, and the woman’s face contorted into something between a grimace and a smile. His cousin had that effect on people.

“You must call on us again soon!”

“Please don’t,” Nadir whispered as they waved and walked their bicycles up to the road. At least his cousin would have someone new to bother.

As soon as Leona was back in the house, Lady Dorset admonished her husband, he couldn’t hear for what, but the man bowed his head and nodded. Nadir clicked his tongue and settled back at his desk. He watched the blank pages futilely flap against his paperweight. Maybe a pot of coffee would help get things going. At the top of the stairs, he listened for Leona moving below. She rustled through the parlor, clicking shut her sewing box before the springs of her chair whined. With Argus in his study and Leona’s attention turned to her latest project, Nadir crept down the steps.

Slipping into the dining room and down the servant’s stairs into the kitchen, he smiled at his luck; the butler was occupied elsewhere. In the cool space beneath the house, he set to work filling the pot and loading the coffee grinder with beans, both of which he brought from home. He should have brought his valet. At least then someone could make him a real cup of coffee. Barnes still ignored him and made dishwater coffee. As he counted the rotations of the crank, a gentle rapping came from the side door. Pursing his lips and drawing in a deep breath, Nadir put the grinder aside with a thunk. He had expected to find the butler or grocer red-faced and waiting impatiently at the door with a crate of supplies, but instead he found a woman. She reminded him of a splotch of ink, all middling hues of black and white with narrow features that were more shadow than line.

“Yes?” he asked, leaning against the doorframe.

The woman’s nearly white eyes flickered over his bright waistcoat as her mouth gaped mutely and her gloved hand surged forward with a half-crumpled letter. Her thin voice faltered as she said, “I— I need to speak to Mrs. Rhodes, sir.”

“I’ll take it to her.”

“No!” she cried and shrank back, pulling the missive to her breast. “My master wants me to deliver it to her personally.”

Nadir’s eyes ran between the little woman and the letter in her hand. Peeking from under her shabby wool coat was the white lace collar of a maid’s uniform. “Wait here. I’ll get her.”

He stepped out of the way to let her inside, but the maid stayed rooted on the cobbled path. Closing the door on her, Nadir walked upstairs. For a moment, he considered going back to his room without saying a word, but the woman had piqued his interest. Plenty of women or their servants sent calling cards to Leona or Argus, yet none came to the servant’s door or refused to relinquish their message. If only he had snatched it from her and slammed the door in her face when he had the chance.

At the parlor curtain, he hesitated and cleared his throat. “Leona, someone’s at the door for you.”

“Who is it?”

“I don’t know. She said she would rather wait downstairs.”

Even without seeing her, he could sense his cousin tense on the other side of the wall. Nadir backed down the hall and watched as Leona stormed out of the parlor, her needle whipping on its fabric tether. When she reached the servants’ hall, she pulled the door shut behind her, but Nadir caught it and waited until she reached the kitchen counter before creeping down the steps behind her. Staying just out of sight on the landing, he watched the smaller woman cower as Leona wrenched open the door.

“What do you want now, you little toad?”

The maid’s eyes widened as she held out the letter. “Mr. Nash sent me to give this to you, mum.”

Leona ripped it from her hand and unfolded the note. From the stairs, Nadir could only make out her back and the side of her face, but skimming the page, her gaze hardened. As she refolded it, he swore he saw her hand tremble. “What if my husband had seen this? Does he have no consideration or shame?”

“He said I had to give it to you and only you. I never would have given it to Mr. Rhodes.”

“Oh? And how would that have looked?”

She straightened up, gaining back what little height she had. “What should I tell him, mum? He told me not to leave without a reply.”

“Tell him the devil can have him.”

His cousin reached to shut the door when the maid put her foot in the way, wincing when the wood collided with her instep. “Please, I need an answer—a real one. He’ll be cross with me and just make me come back if you don’t respond properly.”

“Let him know that I will meet him in the usual place at the usual time. He will know what that means.” For a moment, she seemed to deflate, but her voice sharpened as she asked, “Did you read it?”

“No, mum.”

“Then, you have your answer. Now, get back to your master, Pilcrow, before I call the constable.”

The maid’s eyes flicked onto the shadow on the stairs, but Nadir ducked further out of sight before his cousin could see. He listened as the door shut and a chair squealed as it was pulled away from the table. Nadir chanced a look. Leona sat with her forehead resting against her fist, watching the grey little maid through the kitchen window as she disappeared into the village. When she sat back, he noticed that she held the letter against the bodice of her dress. He had never seen her upset, let alone angry, yet any emotion that had been there before already seemed to be seeping away. She reread the short missive, her face impassive.

With silent strides, Nadir returned to the top of the steps and bounded down them again. His cousin looked up at him with a start and tucked the letter under her needlepoint, which she promptly picked up and began to work on.

“Who was at the door?” he asked as he moved back to the stove.

“No one. A woman looking for work.”

“I could have sworn I heard voices just now.”

She shook her head and carefully added another stitch. “You must have heard me muttering about the mess you left.”

With a shrug, Nadir returned to the coffee grinder.

Dropping the fabric and pinning it under her elbow, she turned to watch him. “You were quite rude to Lady Dorset. You know they live in London.”

“So?”

“They know people. They could help you, and you decide to be flippant. You’re not a fool, Nadir. You know how important first impressions are.”

Clunking the grinder against the counter, he barred his arms across his chest and faced her. “What do you expect me to do now, Leona? Beg forgiveness? Lady Dorset didn’t seem too put out. The earl probably didn’t even notice that I snubbed him.”

“You’re just lucky Argus was entertaining him. Tomorrow, I want you to go up to Brasshurst and bring her a signed book. Apparently, her brother is a fan of yours... if she hasn’t already written to tell him how rude you are.”

“And what if I don’t have a book to spare?”

“You told me you always carry one, in case you run into some spinster or eligible lady you want to impress. Bring Lady Dorset a book tomorrow, or I will write to your parents and tell them to cut you off again.”

“I’ll have you know, I haven’t asked my parents for money in two years,” he cried as Leona picked up her needlework and letter and headed up the stairs. “My books are wildly popular, but you would know that if you actually read them.”

“Bring her a book, Nadir!” she called from the landing.

Shaking his head, his eyes traveled back to the broken beans in the grinder. He inhaled its warm, bitter aroma, his mind perking at the familiar scent. If he was to follow Leona to her secret meeting, he would need it to be strong.

***

Nadir sat in the darkened dining room, fighting his body as it grew lax and heavy before snapping alert at the slightest sound. Tucking his coat and scarf closer, he fortified himself against the cold and took a swig from his flask. The brandy coated his throat, warming his chest from the inside out and making his head swim. From his perch in the furthest corner of the dining room, he could watch the front door and the servants’ stairway, but in the shadows, his cousin wouldn’t see him. Stretching and straining, he could just barely make out the face of the mantle clock in the moonlight. Two forty-five. Maybe she had been bluffing after all. He moved to stand but froze as the top step creaked in the foyer. Leona's plump form, swathed and veiled in black, appeared in the doorway. Nadir leaned further into the shadows as she opened the front door and slipped out into the night. Watching her through the dining room window’s undulant glass, he waited until she rounded the corner at the end of the road before following.

The streets of Folkesbury were empty. Nadir rubbed his ears, unaccustomed to the silence, as he crept behind her, darting from doorway to doorway. Even at that hour, London had never been this desolate. Fog rolled in from the beach, trapping the flickering glow of the streetlamps in luminous clouds. Leona’s silhouette bobbed through the mist, her heels tapping down the cobbled path as she moved away from the stone and thatch houses and into the brush. Out of the town’s dim glow, Nadir could barely make out her form among the scruffy trees and long grass. His boot-soles slipped on the cool, salty spray of the fog as it lapped and whirled against the weatherworn stones. Perhaps brandy wasn’t the best idea.

Fifty feet ahead near a copse of oaks, she stopped. Nadir knelt behind a tree as she looked over her shoulder and opened the shutter on her lantern. In the harsh light, he couldn’t be certain if she really was his cousin and not some fae leading him into another realm. What could the letter have contained that would have brought her out in the middle of the night? Maybe he had fallen asleep in the dining room chair or maybe he was slumped over his desk and the maid’s arrival had been a dream.

With the lantern lit, Leona picked up the pace, marching along the rickety fence at the cliff’s edge. Wind whipped off the bay, catching Nadir’s scarf and blowing through the wool and silk of his coat like it was not even there. As he took a step forward, his scarf tightened around his throat. When he slowly turned, he found his scarf had tangled in the branches behind him. Cursing under his breath, he tried to unwind the knit fabric from the tree while keeping his eyes on his cousin. The light grew fainter until finally he ripped the scarf from the tree with a sharp snap. Staggering back on the dewy stones, Nadir’s foot slipped from under him and he collided with the road, crushing the bush behind him with a crack.

“Who’s there?” Leona called, her brown eyes wide as she walked toward his hiding place.

Her lantern’s beam swept across the road only feet away from him. Nadir held his breath, fingering the bead in his pocket for luck. What would he say if she caught him? She would know that he had spied on her and that he followed her from the house. Then again, what cousin wouldn’t be concerned if his closest relation left in the middle of the night?

“Nash, is that you?”

His ankle and tailbone throbbed, but he turned his head away to muffle his cry. A night bird warbled and was answered by its companion near the shore. In the stillness, waiting to be found, Nadir listened to the ebb and flow of the waves below and shut his eyes.

“I must be hearing things,” she murmured. Her skirts swished and her footsteps retreated down the path.

Letting out a silent breath, Nadir stiffly climbed to his feet and padded behind her. As the hill rolled closer to the beach, the light around his cousin grew brighter but more diffuse. She moved as a ball of light like a will-o’-wisp, but when she stepped from the path, the light went out.

Nadir blinked in the sudden darkness. Groping forward, he reached for his cousin and met only the cold, chalky wall of the cliff-face. He rubbed his eyes, his heart pounding in his ears with panic. She had been there a moment ago.

“Leona?” he whispered before repeating himself a little louder. “Leona!”

With hesitant steps, he pushed through the brush, feeling for ahead of him for her skirts or a hidden door. There was nothing but the scratch of grass and the rustle of unseen creatures. She was gone.

He wasn’t sure how long he stood there in the oppressive blackness waiting for her lantern to reappear, to prove that he wasn’t dreaming, that she hadn’t vanished. The damp soaked into his clothing, wracking his body with shivers as he stared into the void. He couldn’t wait there all night.

Overhead, the moon blazed, illuminating the inky ripples of the sea and the fog coating the lane’s shining cobbles. Limping up the hill to return home, Nadir stopped at the summit. On the cliff above him lit like a lighthouse was Brasshurst Hall. For the first time, one of its upper rooms twinkled with firelight. His eyes traveled from the glass dome of the manor to the space in the mist where his cousin had disappeared. Maybe he could spare a book after all.

Chapter Five

Ghosts of Brasshurst

Pulling a cog from the washbasin, Hadley polished its smooth, brassy surface until it shone. With her brows furrowed in concentration, she carefully brushed on a coating of her father’s special oil before putting it aside with the others, which had been piled on a tea tray like a stack of gold coins. She sat back, looking at the pieces of the emptied grandfather clock, and wiped her hands on a clean cloth. At least now it should work again, once she replaced all the pieces. She drew in a deep breath and held her knees over her brother’s hand-me-down trousers. The house was coming along nicely. Leaning back, she closed her eyes as the sun rained down from the skylights and warmed her cheeks. Now that the ivy was gone and the sheets of cobwebs removed, the rooms were airy and bright, as if they had never been shut up. While she set to work fixing the lifeless clock, she had sent Eilian to see what the other rooms still needed done and she hadn’t seen him since.

Despite coming home from the Rhodes’s house the day before with a smile on his face and Argus’s paper in hand, he had been quiet all morning. She woke to find him sitting on the edge of the bed. His prosthesis had already been assembled and in his hand was the chunky ring that had once belonged to his father. The gold band caught the light as he turned it over to reveal the family crest etched in minute detail on the metal’s surface. She reached out and ran her hand down the smooth flesh of his back. Just for a moment as he turned, she caught the heaviness in his eyes, when the grey of his irises held the gravity of all he didn’t say. Before she could speak, he leaned over and kissed her forehead. Pulling back with a smile, he asked, “So what are we to do today?”

She thought that would be the end of it, but as they were eating breakfast, she caught him staring past her at the portrait of his great-grandfather and his children hanging above the fireplace. He brought a few forkfuls of sausage and eggs to his lips and then let the rest grow cold. That was not like him. Once he was given his orders to look for things to repair, he went off without a word. Sighing, she decided that if he was still in a funk when she finished with the clock, she would determine what the matter was.

Hadley gathered the last stack of clockwork parts and loaded them into the nearly naked hull. Reaching for the next batch, she paused, listening to the doorbell peal through the stillness. For a moment, she waited to see if Patrick would get it, but when it rang again, she wiped her hands on a fresh rag and answered the door. Standing on the other side was Nadir Talbot gazing at her from under long, dark lashes. In his fern suit and yellow cravat, he looked as if he could have sprouted up in the orangery.

“Mr. Talbot, what a pleasant surprise,” she said with a smile but in a tone flat enough for him to understand her true meaning. “Please come in.”

“I hope I didn’t come at an inopportune time.”

As he followed her into the great hall, she could have sworn he leaned on his walking stick more than he had the day before. His cardamom eyes traveled over the stone walls and ancient tapestries before falling on the disassembled clock. With the end of his stick, he reached to nudge the nearest pile.

“Don’t touch that.”

Nadir looked up at his hostess, his eyes drifting to her grey trousers. They weren’t jodhpurs or bloomers but men’s trousers. “My apologies, I did not realize you were trying your hand at horology, Lady Dorset.”

“Trying my hand? Is that what you think I am doing?”

“Surely a lady of your esteem does not dabble with a broken clock when she could easily bring in a clockmaker to repair it.”

The redhead scoffed and shook her head, a wayward tendril escaping her bun. “Mr. Talbot, you write books about women who are queens, pharaohs, courtesans, women who hold power, yet you don’t think I can fix something as simple as a clock. Do you truly believe that your women are only intelligent because a man created them?”

“The women I write about are fictitious.” He swallowed hard, watching the countess regard him with raised brows and crossed arms. “I have never written or met one who was capable of doing so.”

“Well, now you have met a real one. Make no mistake, Mr. Talbot, I am the Countess of Dorset, but first and foremost, I am the owner of Fenice Brothers Prosthetics and Hadley’s Hobbies and Novelties. A clock is nothing compared to what I create on a regular basis. Just because women choose not to, doesn’t mean they can’t. Now, what business do you have here, Mr. Talbot? While I’m sure you are a very charming person, I have work to do.”

Nadir winced at the sting of his own words being used against him. “I do hope you will forgive me for making assumptions about your character, Lady Dorset. I came to bring a peace offering for my rudeness yesterday, but I probably should have given it to you before I misspoke.” He reached into his jacket and pulled out a book decorated with filigree flowers and stars. “Leona told me your brother was a fan of my work, and I thought he might like an autographed copy. I have yet to inscribe it as I did not know his name. But if you don’t want it, I can leave.”

Hadley’s temper ebbed as she exhaled. “That is very kind of you, Mr. Talbot. My brother’s name is Adam.”

Sitting on the edge of the sofa, he balanced the book on his knees and withdrew a fountain pen from his breast pocket. He signed his name with a flourish and watched her from the corner of his eye. Despite her deservedly cutting him, he found he liked Lady Dorset. It was refreshing to meet resistance rather than a demure tight lipped smile. She reminded him of his impertinent heroines. With her vibrant red hair and contrasting blue eyes, she was a striking figure. She wasn’t beautiful, not in the classical sense as his women always were, but the air of power was evident in her upright bearing and charged stare. The women he met in London would titter about how they saw themselves in Cleopatra or Boudicca, and he never understood how when he could never picture them giving impassioned speeches or leading anyone to victory. In Lady Dorset, he sensed a different sort of woman.

“I was rather surprised to hear your brother was a fan. Most of my readers are women. I can’t remember ever seeing a man at a reading, apart from my friends and the ladies’ husbands, of course.”

“Adam... Well, he’s a romantic sort. As I told your cousin, he loved Lotus on the Nile. He will be delighted to receive this.”

Nadir pushed down on his walking stick to get to his feet, feeling the aching strain of his sore hip and ankle, and left the book open on the end table to dry. “I do have an ulterior motive for paying you a visit, Lady Dorset. I was hoping to see the inside of Brasshurst Hall.”

“Is it to be the setting of your next novel?”

“No, no, I grew up in Folkesbury. Leona and I spent many a summer collecting shells and fossils along the shore, and every time we returned home, we had to pass this house.” His eyes roamed over the carved wooden columns and the intricate lattice of the upper arcades. “It has been shut up for as long as I can remember, and we always longed to know what it was like inside. Leona thought it must be a grand palace, but I, being prone to morbid thoughts, assumed it was haunted.”

“It’s definitely grand, but you should have seen it when we arrived.”

As she spoke, Nadir’s gaze drifted to the dining room. Something moved in the shadows. He narrowed his eyes, watching the light break and shift as a low whine whistled from an unseen source. Was that breathing he heard? He stumbled back, grabbing the end table and dropping his stick as a ghastly face appeared in the doorway. His face and hair were white and his breath came as labored as if he had been drowned. Lady Dorset continued on, but he couldn’t hear with the colorless figure in black coming closer.

“Lady Dorset, I beg your pardon,” the man panted, suddenly solid and very human. “I heard the doorbell but got lost. I am deeply sorry for any inconvenience I may have caused.”

“It is quite all right, Patrick. When you catch your breath, would you please bring us some— Mr. Talbot, do you take tea or coffee?” she asked, pretending her guest wasn’t white as wax.

“Coffee,” he replied in barely more than a whisper, but his voice was drowned out by his heart beating in his ears.

Once the butler was out of sight, the countess’s face brightened as she broke into peals of laughter. So much for Nadir Talbot’s hauteur. “Morbid thoughts, indeed. You thought he was a ghost!”

“The light in this place plays tricks on you. Surely Brasshurst must have a few ghosts.”

She sat in the armchair across from the hearth and motioned for him to take a seat. “I don’t think so. At first I did, when the place was still covered in spider webs and dust, but now it seems so alive that I can’t imagine anything hiding in the shadows. Was it really shut up when you were a child?”

“Oh, yes, it was utterly deserted not fifteen years ago and had been for some time. The orangery had grown wild with the gardens outside to match.” Nadir raked his fingers through his unfashionably long hair, whisking it from his forehead to behind his ear. “I was taking a walk last night and was surprised to find the house alight. For my entire life it has been shuttered. We would try to peer inside, but except for the greenhouse, all the windows were sealed off and even the glass dome was filthy. I hope you don’t mind me prying, Lady Dorset, but was there a reason your husband avoided Brasshurst?”

“Actually, we didn’t know it existed. He was raised in London at their townhome, and his father never spoke of Brasshurst Hall. Why his father decided not to live here, I have no idea. Mr. Nash, the previous earl’s cousin, has been overseeing the property. I’m ashamed to say that it fell into such disrepair.”

His ears perked at the name. “Are you well-acquainted with Mr. Nash?”

“No, we have only met him once. Do you know him?”

“Only by name. I have been meaning to call on him, but he doesn’t seem to live in the village.”

“He doesn’t. He lives in the dower house down the road.”

Nadir looked up as the spectral butler scurried down the hall with a tray. He poured them each a cup of thick Turkish coffee before disappearing into the shadows of the dining room. Taking a sip, heat flooded Nadir’s chest and throat. For the first time since stepping into the hall, calm washed over him. He breathed in the smooth, nutty bitterness and sighed. This was what he missed from home. When he looked up from his drink, the countess was smiling at him.

“Have you fully recovered from your fright, Mr. Talbot?”

“Yes, thank you.” His gaze traveled to the clock, but seeing its missing face, he pulled out his pocket watch and pretended to look at it. “I guess I should let you get back to your clock, Lady Dorset. I have taken up quite enough of your time.”

“Wait,” she called as he eased to his feet. “Would you like a quick tour before you go?”

“Would Lord Dorset mind?”

“Not at all. Maybe we will even find him along the way.”

***

The house was bigger than he ever imagined. From the outside all those years ago, Brasshurst Hall seemed monumental, but he was a child then. With the hawthorn and yew trees growing unchecked and the vines obscuring the Gothic stone, it was impossible to tell how far it extended into the greenery. Comparing the size of the rooms to his flat in the city or Leona’s cottage, he tried to guess how many would fit inside Brasshurst. Many was the only answer he could form, yet what surprised him most was not the size but the amount of light. Most of the castles and manors he had visited were cold, drafty places where every room was lit with a fire to chase away the damp. Instead, Brasshurst radiated warmth and smelled faintly of the forest. Its layout resembled a cathedral, with a spine growing from the Gothic portal flanked by transepts on either side to allow a set of tall windows on at least one wall in every room.

His hostess seemed as in awe of the place as he was. Upon entering each room, many of which she still did not know the name of, she pointed out what she admired most. In one of the drawing rooms it was the pianoforte, which Lady Dorset thought had been beautifully carved and gilded even if she could not play it. In another, it was a series of landscapes set in Folkesbury with maelstroms, rolling waves behind green coasts, and overgrown ruins. Nadir found that they hadn’t been done with any particular skill or by a great artist, but the countess was taken by the idea that perhaps one of her husband’s relations had painted them. Throughout the manor, the moldings and tapestried walls had been decorated with stylized jungles filled with parrots and long-armed monkeys. While the furniture was not opulent, it had a claw-footed strength that balanced the flighty birds woven into the tapestries.

There was no question that Brasshurst was a unique house, but what held Nadir’s attention was the view. On the east side, he could see the grey waves and glimpses of the forest surrounding the property while nearly every room on the west side of the house faced out into the wilderness of the greenhouse. The tall Georgian French doors of the drawing room overlooked the garden where the creeping tendrils of ivy had broken through the top of the glass and edged along the crown molding. Lady Dorset stared out at the greenery beyond as Nadir settled into one of the old tapestried chairs to silence his sprained ankle.

“What do you think of Brasshurst, Mr. Talbot? Is it as you imagined?”

“It’s better. Bigger, too.”

Her dark red brows furrowed as she watched him stretch and flex his leg. “Are you all right?”

“Yes, I’m fine. Just a little clumsiness on my part.” His eyes rose to the glass door. “Is it as beautiful as it looks?”

“Come and see for yourself.”

With a yawning crack, the doors opened, engulfing the drawing room in the cloying aroma of flowers. Easing onto his feet with his walking stick, he followed her into the mist. His eyes ran along the ribs and spine of the glass dome until they disappeared beneath the massive leaves of palms and yews and flowers of every color and size. Nadir walked down the stone path, careful to not aggravate his throbbing ankle by slipping on the mossy tiles.

On either side of him shattered columns rose from the dirt. The smallest were consumed by the garden while the taller pieces served as a support for flowering vines seeking sunlight. Under the dome’s center sat a clearing decorated with mosaic tiles depicting squids, shellfish, and serpents. Somewhere nearby water gurgled, but from the middle of the floor, he couldn’t see where. Lady Dorset stood waiting as he studied the plants lining the edge. Most were exotic flowers, others were common weeds, and some were simply ugly. Raising his eyes to the ceiling once more, he noticed that several windows in the manor’s upper stories were trapped beneath the glass bubble.

“You should throw a party here.”

“Here? Why would I do that?” she asked, returning to his side.

“You said no one has seen the house, and if you had a party, you could invite all of Folkesbury to see what you have done with the place. With it being shut up for so long, everyone must be dying to know what it looks like inside. Why not satisfy their curiosity?”

She nodded, frowning as she ran her eyes over the wayward plants. Her heart pounded in her throat. The thought was terrifying. Everyone in her home, judging her, her food, her house, her husband. There would be countless things to arrange, lists to be made, people to invite. Eilian would of course have to agree to it, and the servants would have to be trained. She didn’t think they had ever served during a party, except Patrick, and they were understaffed to begin with. They could barely have anyone over, let alone host a party while the house was still being put back together. On top of everything else, she wasn’t certain she could do pull it off. What if she failed?

Hadley smoothed a lock of hair behind her ear and swallowed hard. “I don’t know. We are not planning on being here long, and it would be a massive undertaking.”

“You’re an intelligent woman; I’m certain you could figure it out. Picture this: the entire house is open to allow couples to stroll in and out of the garden to the parlors and drawing rooms. In the orangery, a band plays against that wall,” he motioned toward an ancient potting bench leaning against the house, “while your guests dance among the creatures and conks. Is there a pond?”

“Yes, on the other side of the trees.”

“You could have your gardener bring in lily pads or lotus plants or you could even float small candles on saucers. It would look like something from Monet.”

His brown eyes brightened with visions of women in Worth gowns and men in tails twirling, absinthe flowing from a glass fountain held aloft by a silver faerie. What he could do with a house like this.

“My parents throw parties in their vineyard all the time, and Folkesbury is a lot smaller than Alexandria; you could invite the entire town and still have room. As the lord and lady, you would win them over and secure your reputations here, for what that’s worth.”

A knot coiled in Hadley’s chest. Or ruin them.

Chapter Six

Duty

Pain bloomed in Eilian’s arm, radiating down the stump until it burned in his metal palm as if the muscle refused to relax. Gritting his teeth, he clenched his eyes and drew in a constrained breath. It had been months since his body reminded him of the flesh and bones that had been seared beyond salvation. The last time he could remember the phantom pain occurring was when he finished settling his father’s estate and he realized he was now the earl. Even in death, his father still managed to cause him grief. He had expected the pain to return on the day of their wedding, but any worries he had dissolved when he saw Hadley enter the church. She showed up without looking as if she wanted to run and that was all that mattered.

Staring at his prosthetic hand, Eilian watched the titanium fingers uncurl to their full length before slowly retracting. With each exertion of his will on his prosthetic hand, the invisible muscles loosened. He groaned as he creaked back in the old desk chair and stared at the portrait hanging on the far wall. It differed from the painting hanging in the portrait hall. There his great-grandfather appeared stoic and ever the proper grey-haired nobleman. In this portrait, he was only a few years older than Eilian. Laurence Sorrell posed against a rocky outcropping spattered with moss and vines. His legs and back were tense and his jaw clenched as if he had been cornered against the cliff face. The artist had painted the sky brighter than Eilian thought possible in England, and resting in his hand was a sheathed saber. With his scarlet and gold officer’s uniform, he looked as if he stepped off the battlefield, removed his bicorn hat, and sat for the portrait. His hair stuck up in wayward brown curls and clung to his cheeks as if they were coated in sweat. The hand resting in his lap was adorned with the same ring that now rested in Eilian’s palm. Swallowing hard, Eilian turned the signet ring over in his hand and watched as the stylized family crest glinted in the sunlight. For months it had hung from his neck on a silver chain out of sight, only taken out to seal official documents.

He couldn’t put it on. He didn’t deserve the ring or all that came with it.

“How can I represent my family? A one-armed prodigal. How did you do it?” he asked the ill at ease young man hanging from the plaster. “I’m sure you were ready. I’m sure you were able to handle it. You probably didn’t think twice about it.”

After all, Laurence Sorrell probably wasn’t the family pariah like Eilian. Being born first wasn’t Eilian’s choice, and if he had it within his power, Dylan would have been the earl while he would have simply been Mr. Sorrell. As the Earl of Dorset, his life would forever be tethered to the land by duty and blood. He was trapped on an island with the flood rising, snuffing out what was left of Eilian Sorrell. There was nothing he wanted more than to pretend to be Mr. Sorrell again. Mr. Sorrell could do as he pleased and be whoever he wanted. The Honorable Second Son Sorrell’s life was an afterthought, a spare in case the heir couldn’t wed and bed someone before he died. He sucked in his breath as a bolt of pain shot up his arm. Primogeniture was a farce and so was he.

Eilian looked around the tiny office. It was barely more than a closet hidden behind a panel in the parlor with space enough for a desk, a narrow shelf of ledgers, and an old brass telescope folded in the corner. He had pulled a ledger down to see what the others before him had done, but the numbers and acronyms never made sense. His eyes jumped between lines, blurring and muddling the figures no matter how hard he tried to concentrate. Rubbing his eyes with his knuckles, he groaned. How could he be the earl when he couldn’t even figure out the household accounts or do what Hadley had asked? All she wanted was for him to check for cracked plaster or broken clocks, yet he found himself hiding in a closet and interrogating a painting. Ever since they arrived at Brasshurst, Hadley had bustled from task to task. She was constantly cleaning, mending, or socializing, while he was left unable to act. He felt utterly useless.

***

Patrick Sinclair stood in the doorway of the private study watching his master. Even with his back to him, he could see by the sag of his shoulders and the dip of his head that something was amiss. He had hoped that a trip to the country would lift Lord Sorrell’s spirits. Since arriving back in England after his father’s death, he had vacillated between elation and sorrow, just as he had after the amputation. Losing his arm had made him aware of his mortality, but the loss of his father cemented it. With mortality came fear, and with fear came misery. Eilian’s contagious grin and youthful exuberance were nowhere to be found. He stared ahead, flicking the ring between his thumb and forefinger.

“Sir?” Patrick called softly from the doorway. “Sir, are you all right?”

Eilian shook his head and rubbed the muscle of his sore arm. “What am I doing here, Pat? I’m not ready for any of this.”

“You knew it would happen someday.”

“I know, but I thought I would be older,” he stifled a bitter laugh, “or dead before that happened.”

The butler furrowed his brow. “Don’t say things like that, sir.”

“But it’s true. I never thought it would actually happen. Did you really think I would survive malaria or the crash?”

“I did.”

“Of course you did.” His grip tightened on his arm as he rode out a wave of pain. “Pat, I just don’t know what I am supposed to do.”

“Have you spoken to Lady Dorset about it?”

“Do you mean Hadley or my mother?”

He pushed his spectacles up his narrow nose and cleared his throat. “Your wife.”

“I don’t want to upset her. She’s already worrying about being a lady. I can’t have her worry about being an earl, too.”

“Her ladyship was looking for you in the portrait hall. Shall I tell her you will be joining her shortly?”

“Yes, thank you, Pat,” he whispered as he slipped the ring and its chain into his collar, out of sight.

“Sir, is there anything I can do to help you?”

His lips curled into a stiff smile. “Switch places with me. I always considered you to be my older brother.”

“If I could, I would.” Taking a step into the drawing room, Patrick stopped and turned to face his master again. “Please speak to her, sir. She can help you more than I ever could.”

As soon as he was out of sight, the butler hurried down the hallway and into the passages behind the walls created decades ago for servants to go about unseen. He had told his master that Lady Dorset was in the portrait hall to buy a few minutes alone with her. If Eilian got to her first, he would brush everything off with a blithe grin. If Patrick could be fooled into thinking Eilian was fine when he had cholera, then she would most certainly be fooled. In Greenwich, it was infinitely easier to keep an eye on his master. The house and staff were small enough that he could be butler, valet, and driver; but Brasshurst’s size alone made it impossible to stick close by. He had shadowed Eilian since they were boys and he was a footman in his parents’ house. As a servant, Patrick had been trained to recognize what would be needed before anyone asked, and from a young age, it was apparent that Eilian Sorrell needed help the most.

Bustling behind the wall, he passed the thrumming engine that powered the orangery and the stairs leading to the catacombs beneath it. Every few feet, light broke through narrow slits cut into the walls, casting strange shadows in the dank hall. At the end of the tunnel, Patrick pushed open the paneling and arrived outside the dining room. He brushed the dust from his elbows and shoulders and waited out of sight until his heart slowed. Catching his breath, he rounded the corner to find Lady Dorset replacing the last of the gears in the grandfather clock.

“Did you find Eilian?” she asked, watching the blur of white hair from the corner of her eye.

“Yes, my lady, he’ll be here in a moment.” He straightened and craned his neck to see if Eilian was coming. “Lady Dorset, I was hoping to speak to you. I know it’s out of turn, but it’s very important.”

She turned to find Pat’s face grave. She was so accustomed to seeing him flustered with nerves that to have him stand before her with his light brows furrowed and his demeanor calm scared her. “Of course, go ahead.”

His eyes darted down the hall again. “I’m worried about his lordship. He has been out of sorts lately.”

“I noticed that this morning. Do you have any idea what’s wrong?”

“It’s the earldom, my lady. He’s feeling the pressure of his new position, and his outlook is becoming very bleak. It’s the worst it’s been since the dirigible accident, and that troubles me.”

Hadley sighed. For once Patrick wasn’t overreacting. “I knew I should have asked him what the matter was when he skipped breakfast.”

“He wouldn’t have answered. His lordship doesn’t want to upset you.” He paused. For a second he thought he heard footsteps in the hall. “May I ask you for a favor?”

“Anything.”

“Tomorrow, please get his lordship out of the house for a while. Apart from your outing to visit Mr. and Mrs. Rhodes, he’s been inside since you arrived. He needs to get out for a little while. I know you are very busy, but please go for a walk or ride together. It should set things right.”

“But if he wants to go outside, why doesn’t he? He’s a grown man; he doesn’t need my permission.”

“He doesn’t know what to do, so he’s following your lead. You stay inside, he stays inside.”

“Well, why didn’t he say anything to me? I would have done it if I knew.”

“I don’t think he knows what he needs.” Patrick dropped his voice as Eilian drifted toward them with his head down. “Please don’t tell him I told you.”

“I won’t,” she mouthed as the butler disappeared into the dining room.

Eilian stood in his shirtsleeves and waistcoat with dust-ringed cuffs. When he saw her, he gave her a gentle grin, but the hint of cheer never made it to his eyes. “Pat said you were looking for me.”

“I was wondering where you had gone. Dinner is ready.”

Taking his hands, Hadley pulled him closer until he wrapped around her with his chin resting against her temple. For a moment she thought he wouldn’t embrace her when suddenly his arms cinched around her waist and the warmth of his body sighed into hers. His cool lips pressed against her cheek and hair before his head came to rest between her neck and shoulder.

“I love you,” she whispered into his collar, running her hands up and down the length of his back.

“I love you too. I’m sorry, Had.”

“For what?” She asked as she pulled away and led him into the dining room, watching Patrick place two plates of chicken fricassee on the table.

“I got distracted. I only inspected three rooms,” he replied as they settled into their seats.

He sighed and pushed a mushroom around the edge of his plate. Anger flared in Hadley’s breast. She had asked him to do one thing—one thing—and he hadn’t done it, but she drowned out the thought with what Patrick had said. It was obvious that something was wrong by his faraway eyes and slack frown. She knew what caused it and hated that she could do nothing to fix it. Even with a replacement arm, a wife, and a title, he wasn’t happy. In his mind, he still wasn’t an earl and never would be.

“Did you hear the doorbell ring a while ago?”

Eilian shook his head.

“Nadir Talbot, Mrs. Rhodes’s cousin, came to bring me a signed copy of his latest book. He heard that Adam enjoyed his work and thought he would like it.”

“That was very generous of him. I’m sorry to have missed him again.”

Watching him finally stab a bit of tomato and chicken, she continued, “It turns out he grew up in Folkesbury. He said Brasshurst has been shut up for as long as he can remember, so I gave him a tour.”

“What did he think? Was he as afraid of it as we were?”

She chuckled to herself. “I would say so. He thought Patrick was a ghost, but he seemed quite taken with it. He even suggested that we throw a party, so everyone could see the house restored to its former glory.”

When she looked up, Eilian’s eyes were wide and his face had turned a sickly grey. “A— a party?”

“I told him it was a foolish idea, but he was pretty persuasive. It would be a great way to meet all of your tenants and show everyone that you intend to restore Brasshurst.”

“Do I?”

“As I said, it’s a foolish idea. We are in no position to throw anything larger than dinner for Mr. Talbot and his cousins.” She waited, watching the pain surface in his face. He took a bite of chicken and clenched his eyes shut. His breath hitched, and as he swallowed, she noticed how the whites of his eyes glistened at their edges. Now was not the time. “I was thinking that maybe tomorrow we could go down to the beach. We have been stuck inside for days, and I don’t think I can stand another day of dust or clocks. What do you think?”

“I don’t know. Aren’t you busy? Maybe I should stay home. I still need to check for repairs.”

“But I want to spend the day with you, away from all this.”

Eilian locked eyes with her, relief loosening his features. “All right then, if you’re sure. Are we taking the bicycles?”

“We will have to; the steamer is still in the shop. I bet we could fit a picnic basket in the front of my bicycle. How does that sound? A picnic on the beach.”

The color drifted into his cheeks and eyes. He was far from himself, yet somewhere in his eyes, a glint of hope appeared. It wasn’t strong or sure, but it was there.

Chapter Seven

Picnics and Prostheses

Drawing in a lungful of sea air, Eilian felt the knot in his chest loosen. The sun warmed his cheeks as he threw back his head and closed his eyes. Only a few feet away the water roared over the jetties, being caught by a thousand tiny arms until it sloshed over his bare feet in an icy surge. Eilian stood rooted on the shore, feeling the press of the slick pebbles under his numbed soles as another wave sprayed over the hem of his trousers. If he closed his eyes and banished all thought, he could feel the ocean’s pull. It urged his feet and body forward toward the channel to be swallowed up by the earth. All it would take was a few more—

“Don’t go in too deep! Remember your arm can’t get wet!” Hadley called, spreading a blanket across the detrital sand.

As she unpacked the wicker basket of sandwiches, chutneys, and sweets, along with bottles of lemonade and wine, she watched her husband at the water’s edge. He picked up a broken clam that lazily spun in with the tide and pitched it into the bay. It skimmed the surface before hitting the jetty and breaking in two. Patrick had been right; the change was undeniable. By the time they reached the path and got the velocipedes rolling downhill toward the coast, Eilian’s face had regained its color and his eyes had brightened with glee. At the bottom of the bluff, they were forced to walk their bicycles through the coarse sand, rumbling over the seashells and bits of stone that had drifted the world over before coming to rest on the Dorset shore. Every so often Eilian would stop to examine a shell or to check if an upturned rock was a really a fossil in disguise.

“Patrick has really outdone himself. I don’t know how he fit it all in here. Finger sandwiches, bread, curds. Is that curry?” she asked as she uncapped a jar and brought it to her nose. It was still warm.

Eilian kicked the sand from his feet and settled on the edge of the picnic blanket. “You should thank Mrs. Negi for that. She cooked it and probably assembled the basket.”

“You know, I still have never met her.”

“She keeps to herself, but if you’re still thinking about throwing a party or dinner, you may want to speak to her. She... she doesn’t like having things sprung on her.” Grabbing a slice of bread, he loaded it with curds, chutney, and a dollop of curry. “Much like you, she has a temper, but if you were descended from Rajput warriors, I would expect you to have one, too.”

“Rajput warriors?”

He nodded, licking the sauce from his lips. “Her ancestors were palace guards. At the time, I was traveling through Northern India and I stopped to have dinner with a British family my parents knew. They were the local officials, trying—successfully, might I add—to usurp the princes’ power. One night we dined with the local prince. Thing is, the entire time I had been with the family, all we had was British food apart from dessert, and when I was invited to dinner with the prince, I thought I would finally get to taste real North Indian cuisine.” As he spoke, he assembled another sandwich dripping with mango chutney. “Apparently, she was tired of English food, too. As we were leaving, I heard her arguing with the head servant about never getting the chance to cook the food she was hired to make, and he told her to leave. I asked her if she would like to travel with me as my personal cook.”

“And she just went with you?”

“Oh, no, of course not. Who in their right mind follows a twenty year old anywhere? Anyway, after I convinced her that I could pay her and that I really wanted to hire her as a cook, she agreed. Her husband had died some years earlier, along with her only child, and she needed the work.” He chuckled to himself. “Most of my servants are cast-offs. I don’t understand why any of them were let go in the first place.”

Hadley smiled to herself and wondered what stories were attached to his maids. From what ill fate had the three girls been plucked? Raising her gaze from her cold chicken sandwich, she spotted a familiar dark head. At the far end of the cove, Nadir Talbot ambled along the path, his cane ticking in time with his step. His scarlet coat and plum vest glowed in the sunlight as if he were dressed for a party, but what betrayed his formal attire were his sun-spectacles. In his free arm, he lugged a portable writing desk, a valise, and a camp chair slung over his shoulder, which required straightening every dozen steps. As he crossed the sand, he stopped, letting the wind whip his black curls and open collar like the debauched hero of some Gothic novel. When he turned toward them, Hadley raised her arm and beckoned for him to come over.

“Mr. Talbot, going for a stroll?”

“Searching for inspiration, Lady Dorset,” he called as he walked over. “My heroine will be coming ashore from a foreign land in a few pages and I thought the smell of the ocean might evoke something.” He barely spotted her bright red hair above the two bicycles leaning against a massive boulder, but as he drew closer, he realized she wasn’t alone. The man beside her sat half in the sand in only his shirt, waistcoat, and trousers, which had been rolled to his knees. His shoes and stockings sat beside him while his jacket had been slung over the seat of his bicycle. He supposed he was the Earl of Dorset, but from his sandy feet and state of under dress, he couldn’t be sure.

Hadley smiled to herself. It seemed strange to have the two men in such close proximity. Nadir Talbot gleamed like a ruby while her husband in his linen shirtsleeves and light brown trousers, looked like a laborer. “Eilian, this is Nadir Talbot, the writer. Mr. Talbot, this is my husband, the Earl of Dorset.”

Eilian quickly wiped his hands and mouth and climbed to his feet. “My wife speaks very highly of you, Mr. Talbot.”

“And you. I hope you didn’t mind that Lady Dorset gave me a tour of Brasshurst. It’s quite a unique specimen.” Reaching for the earl’s hand, his eyes landed on his prosthesis. Despite being identical in size and shape to its twin, his right hand was nearly black and perfectly smooth. The segmented titanium fingers were curled into a loose fist, and where it met the wrist, two rings sprung from either side where long, tightly curled springs were attached by bent hooks. The fingers unfurled as their hands touched. From being in the sun, the earl’s metal palm radiated a dull heat. “That is a beautiful prosthesis, Lord Dorset. If you do not mind me asking, where did you come across it? I have never seen one open like that.”

“My wife created it.” His lips curled into a stiff grin as he rubbed his hand over it self-consciously, but when he looked in the Mr. Talbot’s eyes, he found only curiosity. “That’s how we met. She designed and built it for me.”

The writer laughed. “So this is what you create on a regular basis, Lady Dorset. Now I understand what you meant about the clock.” He tilted his head, searching for a bulge or string beneath the nobleman’s shirt. “How does this contraption work? Is there a spring or lever?”

“No, it’s electric. There’s a battery in the holster.”

“But how does it open?”

There was something about Nadir Talbot that put Eilian at ease. It could have been that he acted like Adam Fenice and looked like the Egyptian men he worked with in his excavations. Perhaps it was that Hadley trusted and liked him. His questions about his arm seemed to arise from natural curiosity rather than repugnance or ignorance, and Eilian thought genuine interest should always be rewarded.

“Would you like to see it?”

When Mr. Talbot nodded, Hadley watched in shock as Eilian unbuttoned his sleeve and rolled it over his forearm and up to his shoulder. He almost never showed others his prosthesis, yet he allowed the writer to step closer and examine it.

Nadir’s keen eyes traveled over the springs that began at his wrist and looped through half a dozen more sets of metal rings before connecting to a leather bracer on his upper arm. Sticking out from the side of the couter was a pouch large enough for a battery. All that was left of his forearm was a metal rod surrounded by spring muscle bundles, and while he couldn’t see what was beneath the leather brace or cotton sleeve under it, he was certain his upper arm was still intact. The design was simple and strong. Metal, leather, and flesh melded to rebuild what had been lost. Nadir watched as the fingers bloomed open before curling shut once more.

“How did you do that?”

“A doctor inserted gold needles into my nerves. If I think about my hand opening, it does. Well, it’s more like I feel it opening.”

“Fascinating. So you had surgery?”

“Yes, they had to attach the porcelain joint with,” he cleared his throat, “donated tissue.”

“I’m impressed, Lady Dorset, thoroughly impressed. I may need to include one of these in a story someday. My readers would love it, especially if they knew it really exists.”

“That’s very kind of you.” Hadley’s cheeks pinkened. “Would you care to join us? We have plenty to spare.”

He looked from the earl to his wife and then at the spread of edibles that lay across the blanket. There had to be a dozen tins, jars, and linen parcels of food, and each looked better than anything Leona could muster up. “I wouldn’t want to intrude.”

“Please, join us, Mr. Talbot,” Lord Dorset said, motioning toward an empty space adjacent to his wife. A soft smile spread across his features as he rolled down his sleeve. “Then you can tell us all about your book.”

“All right, but only for a little while. Then, I must be off and actually write something.”

Dropping his valise and camp chair next to their bicycles, he settled in beside Eilian and Hadley. Between neat bites of finger sandwiches, he told them of his latest idea. After seeing the vast orangery of Brasshurst, he had decided to alter his current manuscript from another Greco-Roman drama to a Babylonian tale of a young peasant woman sent to the king’s harem only to be thrust into a world of hanging gardens and exotic riches. Of course it would be a romantic tale full of intrigue and mystery as the girl rose to queen despite attacks from the other women of the harem and the king’s scheming priests.

“My brother will love it. May I tell him of your idea?” Hadley asked as she unpacked the glasses and poured each of them some lemonade.

“Of course. Just don’t give away the ending, though it will probably change by the time he reads it.”

The back of Nadir’s eye burned as he resisted the urge to wink. If he had been talking to the well-to-do widows or the young women barely out in society who usually frequented his and his friends’ parlors, he would have done it as he had hundreds of times before. Even if Lord Dorset hadn’t been there, he wouldn’t have dared to do it. In her blue and yellow dress with her hair artfully bundled under a straw hat, it was hard to imagine Lady Dorset standing before the grandfather clock in men’s trousers and an oil rag in her hand. After seeing her like that, so at ease in both roles, it seemed impossible to approach her the same way as he would other society ladies. At least her husband didn’t appear to be the jealous type.

Hadley leaned back, soaking in the ocean’s gentle murmur and the sun’s warm gaze as the men rooted through the tin of desserts. She had hoped Eilian and Nadir Talbot would get along. For the second time in her life, she and Adam were separated, but this time, it was for good. There would be no returning to Baker Street except as a guest. It was odd to wake up and not have someone to critique her outfit or help her pin her hair before she went out. Mr. Talbot’s dandified dress and air of cultivated eloquence would be as close as she would get to Adam in Dorset, and it only made her long to see her twin more. Opening her eyes, she watched the waves lap against the coast as it curved away from Folkesbury.

She squinted. Someone was walking on the far end of the beach. As the figure slowly processed across the sand, she realized there were actually three people. The woman in front wore a forest green gown, the side of her face obscured by high mutton sleeves. Holding a fringed parasol over her mistress was a slight maid. With her colorless dress and jet hair, she could have been the woman’s shadow, narrowed in the afternoon sun. Linked arm-in-arm with her was a well-built gentleman. From afar, he seemed handsome, even if he appeared old enough to be Hadley’s father. He stood very straight beside her but lacked the polished gait of the aristocracy.

“Mr. Talbot, do you know who that woman is?” she asked as the party grew closer.

He craned his neck. His eyes roamed over her light blonde hair, which had been elaborately coiled and pulled back severely from her forehead. Her face was set in a scowl, giving her stately features a hard edge. Even though she didn’t appear to be over fifty, she had the bearing of a much older woman. Her maid’s eyes widened when she noticed Nadir watching them. Without question, he recognized her. She had delivered the letter to Leona, the one they both tried so hard to hide. His cousin had said her name, but for the life of him, he couldn’t recall it.

“I don’t know, but they appear to be headed this way.”

The woman and her companions crossed the sand and stopped near the outcropping where the Sorrells had parked their bicycles. As her eyes ran over the velocipedes, she sneered, looking down her upturned nose at the picnickers. The Sorrells were not what she had imagined, even if her husband had warned her of their immaturity and lack of decorum. They were dining in the dirt without gloves or servants. Their lips and corners were tinted orange from their meal, and they were eating with bare fingers. Worst of all, the earl had shed his jacket and shoes in favor of sitting the sand in only his shirt sleeves.

“Lord and Lady Dorset, I presume?” she stated, coming no closer.

Hadley watched sweat bead down the maid’s cheek as her arms shook from holding the heavy parasol steady, but her lady took no notice. “Yes, and you are?”

“Rubella Nash. I believe you have met my husband.”

“Yes, we have.”

Mrs. Nash’s hard gaze never wavered from Hadley’s face. It was impossible to tell if she was studying her or boring through her skull, but it unnerved her just the same, even if she refused to show it. Hadley glanced at the man at her side. His mustache had been artfully set and waxed into a fine curl. The man was far younger than Mr. Nash and much more attractive, but he was much too old to be Mrs. Nash’s son.

“It is a pleasure to make your acquaintance, Mrs. Nash. We were not aware that Mr. Nash was married. If we had known, we would have called on you sooner. And you, sir, though I don’t believe we have made your acquaintance.”

“Sergeant Purcell, head of the Folkesbury constabulary,” he replied, his speech clipped with authority. Purcell gave her husband’s hand a firm shake before bowing to Hadley. Neither visitor even paid Nadir a glance. “Hopefully we will not meet again, your ladyship, unless in a social setting.”

Mrs. Nash’s eyes narrowed on the young couple. “We did not see you at church this morning.”

“That’s because we were not there,” Hadley replied, forcing a soft smile.

“Did you not know where it was?”

“We chose not to go.”

“Do Londoners not attend mass?”

Eilian and Mr. Talbot exchanged glances as Hadley took a deep breath and stiffly replied, “Not all, Mrs. Nash. We do not. We are secular.”

She pursed her lips. Finally, Mrs. Nash said, “Then, you will not be joining the Society of Visiting Ladies? We meet every Wednesday at Billings’ for tea. We’re a decidedly Christian organization. If you choose to no longer be a heathen, then you may join us.”

“Rubella, why not let her join?” the sergeant asked genially while giving Hadley and Eilian a sharp look. “You know how young people are nowadays.”

“They need to know expectations here are different from the city.” Without removing her gaze from the redhead’s face, she snapped her fingers and the maid lurched forward. “I hope we will see you next week. Come, Pilcrow.”

Nadir and the Sorrells watched as the Mrs. Nash and Sergeant Purcell sauntered out of sight with Pilcrow at their backs.

Eilian blinked, unsure if what he had seen had really happened. “Did we just get reprimanded for not going to church? My parents didn’t even care if I attended mass.”

“She called you a heathen!” Nadir cried. “Decidedly Christian. Like you would even want to—”

“Are either of you really surprised? Folkesbury is a small town, and we are all outsiders. I’m sure they have been keeping an eye on us for that very reason. Small town gossip.”

“Too bad we aren’t in Bath or Paris. They only talk about where you are, not where you aren’t. Unless it is a party. Then, they wonder why you were not invited and what you did to deserve it.”

Eilian frowned, nudging a pastry away. “Hadley’s right, we are all curiosities. Still, it was unwarranted. I don’t know how anyone can like the Nashes.”

For a few minutes they sat in silence, finishing the last of their desserts and the remaining lemonade. Nadir’s eyes flickered to his neglected writing desk where it rested beside the Sorrell’s bicycles. A dusting of fine sand coated its top. An afternoon of good conversation and food would have been much preferred to a solitary half-day of writing, but the Babylonian king’s mistress was dancing through his mind and he had to catch her before she left.

“I beg your pardon, Lord and Lady Dorset, but I really should be going soon. Unfortunately, I owe my publisher the first half of my book in a week or so, and I have barely begun my rewrites. Thank you for allowing me to dine with you. There is nothing I cherish more than good food and conversation.”

Hadley inwardly sighed but smiled. “I’m so glad you could join us.”

“I do hope we will see you again soon.” As the writer gathered his valise and desk, Eilian asked, “Mr. Talbot, do you know if there is anything interesting to see in Folkesbury? Hadley told me you lived here as a child.”

He thought for a long moment. “Not really. The ocean is the biggest draw in the summer months, but there are Roman ruins scattered throughout the woods. When we were children, Leona and I would search for the faerie caves that were supposed to be hidden amongst the trees, but all we found were old foundations and walls. But who knows? Perhaps you will be the first.”

Chapter Eight

Woman Troubles

Nadir gently clicked the front door shut behind him and dropped his writing desk on the hall table. The day had gone better than he expected. At first he feared his picnic with Lord and Lady Dorset would eat into his writing time or dampen his mood, but it only inspired him. In the hours after they parted, he sat on the beach with his writing desk resting against a rock and slipped into the perfumed, dangerous world of Ancient Babylon—or at least what he thought Ancient Babylon to be. Maybe a steady stream of good company and good food were all he needed to finish this book.

Hanging his top hat on the rack, he listened in the stillness for his cousin or her husband. A loud stuttered snore ripped through the darkness of the parlor. Nadir drew back the curtain and found Argus asleep across the sofa with his hairy hands neatly folded over his paunch. A half-empty teacup cooled on the side-table behind his head, and his wire-rimmed glasses hung half-off his face, fogged from his hot breath. He considered waking Argus up to save his spectacles from being broken under his heavy cheek when he heard a clatter in his office. Slowly creaking open the door, Nadir peered in.

Every gas lamp and candle in the room had been lit, despite it being only a quarter past seven. While the desk remained tidy and untouched, the bookcase beside it had been nearly emptied and its contents scattered across the floor. Only the books at the edges were left standing, leaving a ragged gap that ran the length of the shelf.

“Blast it! Where did I put it?”

Nadir stuck his head around the edge of the door and watched his cousin. Running a hand across her brow, she released a tremulous breath and stared at the pile before her. She picked up each book in turn, checking the spine and cover before tossing it behind her onto a slanted stack. When she finished inspecting that sample, she leaned into the next shelf and felt behind the books. Her back straightened as she withdrew a small text. Its light grey cover appeared to be blank, but when she opened it to the front page, her eyes brightened.

“Every Woman’s Book,” she read aloud, frowning thoughtfully at the weathered page, “not quite what I was looking for. I could have sworn I put Carlile by Hanchett.”

Tucking the thin volume under her skirt, she stuck her arm into the gap between the pages and the shelf. When she didn’t find what she was looking for, she repeated it on the final one. Leona sat back and stared at the bookcases. Lying across the floor, she reached under the shelf. Between Argus’s labored breaths, he could hear something running across the wooden boards. A black book slid out at the end of Leona’s fingers like a planchette. From his hiding place, Nadir couldn’t make out the golden letters across the cover, but it had to be the right book. She let the pages run between her fingers until she found what she was looking for. Silent words raced across her lips, but as her eyes widened, the board under Nadir’s boot groaned.

“Doing a bit of redecorating?” he asked with a cheeky grin.

Her eyes shot to the door as she slammed the volume closed. “I— Oh, I hate it when you do that! What are you doing here?”

Before she could slip the book out of sight, he had crossed the space between them and plucked it from her hand. Leona shot up after him, her hands snapping for her book, but he raised it above his head and spun toward the door as he had so many times when they were children. This time, it wasn’t a diary in his hands but a medical textbook. He cocked his brow and stared down at his older cousin. Her dark brows knit in anger and her breast heaved, yet beneath her blustering and scowling, her eyes were strained with fear.

“Sexual Health?” he asked, holding it out for her to take.

Her round cheeks grew hot as she snatched it from his hand and placed it on the mantle. “Yes, it’s a textbook. I’m— I’m having woman troubles, thank you very much, and I would appreciate it if you did not pry while you’re here.”

“Oh.” His face fell. “I hope it’s nothing serious.”

“No. At least, I don’t think so.”

“Have you seen a doctor?”

Leona cocked her brow. “If I went to Dr. Sturgis, the whole town would know.”

“You could come back to London with me. I’m sure someone on Harley Street could sort it out.”

“Really, it’s nothing. Help me put these back if you care so much.”

Picking up a handful of books, he stared at the spines. Half were her father’s old apothecary manuals while the rest were books on Egypt. “Shouldn’t these be in some sort of order?”

“Just put them back. Argus won’t notice the difference.”

“Have you told him?”

“Told him what?”

“About your ‘woman trouble’?”

Leona froze with her hand on the shelf. Her voice came out pinched and strained as she replied, “No, no. You know Argus. He would worry so, and it’s nothing. Please don’t burden him unnecessarily, Nadir.”

It wasn’t a hissed threat or a tight whisper, as he expected. Her voice faltered, but her impassive face betrayed nothing. Nodding, he restocked the shelves. For her sake, he hoped it really was nothing. As much as he said he hated staying with her, Leona was the closest thing to a sister he ever had and he had been looking forward to their time together after nearly five years of only sparse letters.

She cleared her throat. “How was your day? Did you get any work done?”

“Yes, quite a bit. I met Lord and Lady Dorset by the beach. They invited me to share in their picnic. We ended up talking for quite some time.”

“That was very nice of them.” Her face and eyes softened before tightening into a tired frown. “I don’t think Lady Dorset likes me very much. Women usually like me, but she seemed miserable when they called on us.”

With her eyes cast down and her face darkened with thought, she looked like her younger, more innocent self, the girl he remembered collecting shells with during his childhood. He wrapped his arm around her shoulders and gave them a squeeze. “She is an odd sort. Then again, you know you can be off-putting when you try too hard, but she will come around. I can even put in a good word for you if you want.”

“Thanks,” she replied as she replaced the final handful of texts.

“I don’t think she dislikes anyone. Well, except for Mrs. Nash.”

Nadir watched from the corner of his eye as Leona stiffened.

“Oh? Why does she dislike Mrs. Nash?”

“Because while we were eating, she chastised her for not attending church.”

***

The grass crunched under Eilian and Hadley’s boots as they led their bicycles up the hill toward Brasshurst Hall. While they hadn’t discovered the faerie caves Nadir mentioned, they had found the remnants of a Roman wall on the cliff above the beach. In places the mortar had chipped away only to be held fast by countless mossy fingers. To Hadley, the wall seemed barely more than bits of stone stacked one atop another like a poor man’s fence, yet it brought her husband great joy. He measured its height and width against his hand and leg before following it up and down the hill where it disappeared into the earth and brush only to reappear several yards away. By the time they completely lost the wall to the countryside, both Sorrells were ankle deep in mud.

“What do you think it was?” she asked as Eilian lugged their velocipedes down the back steps into the servants’ quarters.

“I’m not sure. It could have been part of a fortification or town. It would make sense since we found them on the hill, but I will need to go back and look again. Maybe I should do an excavation here.”

“Does that mean Brasshurst was built where there used to be an ancient town?”

Before Eilian could reply, Patrick opened the basement door. Charlotte, the lanky maid who had been with him the longest, appeared behind the butler’s shoulder but quickly curtsied upon seeing the earl and countess. Both servants’ eyes widened as they trailed to the dirt that had wicked up the Sorrells’ clothing. Hadley plucked the half-empty picnic basket from her bicycle and handed it to the waiting maid before working on her boot laces.

“Charlotte, in a little while, would you come to collect my dress for cleaning if you aren’t occupied?” Hadley asked as her gloved fingers slipped over the sticky mud.

The light-haired maid left the basket on the dining table and gathered Hadley’s soiled gloves and shoes. “Yes, milady. Will you need help redressing?”

“No, thank you. I will see to it myself.”

“When you go up, fetch his lordship’s trousers as well,” Patrick added as he motioned for Eilian to hand over his caked boots. “I have already laid out clean clothing for both of you.”

In their stocking feet, they padded through the servants’ hall and up the darkened iron staircase that led to the upper floors. Cutting through the high, latticed windows of the harem-style wing, Hadley paused to watch the sun set over the trees. Beyond the panes and panels of dark wood, the sea engulfed Folkesbury in a cloak of fog. Hadley laced her fingers with her husband’s as they rounded the bend near their bedroom. From the corner of her eye, she watched his lips curl into a smile as she squeezed his palm.

“Did you have a good time today?” she asked as he held the door open for her.

“Very much so. Thank you for arranging it.” He released a constrained sigh, pulling off his jacket and setting it aside on a hanger. “It was nice to spend the entire day with you. It seems like I barely see you even though we’re always here together.”

She frowned. She hadn’t intended to ignore him, but the house had been a bigger project than she had imagined. Shutting the door, Hadley stared down at the four inch line of mud running along the hem of her gown. Before she could ask, Eilian wrapped his prosthetic arm around her waist and undid the buttons running down his wife’s neck one-handed. He kissed the top of her head and left her to disrobe. She stepped out of her dress and slipped off her camisole and dirt-peppered stockings. Standing in only her chemise and corset, she watched Eilian toss his muddied trousers onto the valet stand and his father’s signet ring on the nightstand. Sunlight spilled through the curtains, pouring over his firm shoulders and down the lean musculature of his torso and arms until it stopped at the edge of his cotton drawers. The deep scars that marred what she could see of his right arm fanned across his ribs in webbed vines before dissolving at his waistline. When they were first in the Negev together, she remembered them being redder, but over the past few months, they had paled to his natural skin tone. It seemed so odd to her now that they never once touched all those nights they were alone in the tent.

“Close your eyes,” she said, standing before him as he sat on the edge of the bed to remove his wet socks.

He stared at her for a moment, unsure of what she intended, but when she didn’t budge, he obeyed and shut his eyes. Her hand grazed his thigh before coming to rest on his shoulder as she shifted her weight across his knees. With his eyes still closed, he wrapped his arms around the small of her back.

Hadley took in her husband’s face. When he was looking at her, it was hard to not be drawn to his quick grey eyes. With them shut, she could finally see the rest of him. She ran her fingers through his thick brown hair, which was still damp at the roots with sea spray and sweat, and planted a reverent kiss between his brows. Her hands traveled along the aperture of his neck as she kissed each eyelid. When her soft lips grazed his jaw, his grip tightened, inching her closer until their bodies brushed. Her flushed breasts burned through her chemise where they pressed into the muscles of his chest. The breath caught in his throat as her mouth kneaded the sensitive flesh of his neck. He shifted beneath her, his hand trailing up her back in time with her mouth. Reaching his chin, she gazed at him for a moment before finally bringing her lips to his. Eilian was hers.

Eilian pressed back, heat flooding his chest and abdomen as her hands wandered across his shoulders and into his hair. The moment he parted his lips to draw in a breath Hadley’s tongue swept along his lower lip. She shifted onto her knees, kneeling over him as he mimicked what she had done. Against her will, a soft groan escaped her lips at the sensation of his tongue grazing hers. Her arm slid behind his neck and drew him closer until her hips rested against his stomach. They breathed in time as their hands ran over the curves of the other’s body and their lips slipped and locked. Sliding his hands up her sides as he planted a line of kisses down her clavicle, his prosthesis caught on the strings of her corset. He tried to tug it free, but the lace held fast. When he broke away from her flesh to untangle it, her dark blue eyes fixed on him, waiting.

Eilian swallowed hard. He knew she expected him to remove her corset, but he couldn’t. Another man would have jumped at the chance, yet it filled him with dread. His stomach churned as a cold sweat broke over his forehead and back. He didn’t know what he was supposed to do next. Hadley instinctively knew, everyone seemed to know, and it came as naturally to them as walking. Averting his gaze from her silk chemise, he desperately sought to untangle his spring from the laces. If he didn’t do something, she would. With one final roll of his prosthetic hand, it came free. Relief slowed his racing pulse as he sank back. Had she seen the panic in his eyes?

Resting his lips on her freckled shoulder, he swallowed against the gnarl in his gut. His wife was still waiting, but apart from the race of fear, his mind was blank. When he leaned back to meet her light-eyed gaze, the tension left her face only to slacken with disappointment. His hand shook as he traced her cheek and kissed her once more, but this time she barely pressed back.

His heart pounded. He hadn’t meant to hurt her. He loved her. He loved her dearly and wanted nothing more than to spend his life with her, yet he couldn’t bear to do it. Opening his mouth to speak, Eilian realized there was nothing he could say. How could he tell her that thinking about it made him so anxious that he felt sick to his stomach? How could he possibly talk about desire when he had never experienced it?

The back of his eyes burned as he carefully lifted her off his lap and slipped out from under her. “I can’t. I’m sorry, Hadley, but I can’t.”

Her eyes darted over his fallen features, silently pleading for him to stay. His face grayed as he rubbed his upper arm and ducked into the dressing room without meeting her gaze. The door softly clicked shut behind him.

Sitting on the edge of the bed, Hadley drew in a tremulous breath. She cleared her throat and straightened her back before smoothing and re-pinning her mussed hair. As she picked her soiled dress off the floor, she stared down at her form. What had she done wrong? She replayed her part in their embrace, but she couldn’t understand what would have made him leave. Slipping on a clean gown, she stared at the dressing room door. She could confront him, demand to know what that was all about, but what good would it do? The damage had already been done.

Hadley calmly stepped in the hall and walked toward the grand staircase. Surely there was something in the house that needed fixing.

Chapter Nine

An Unwelcome Guest

Hadley Sorrell’s heels clicked across the polished floorboards. Her eyes swept into each open door, searching for a maid or even Patrick, but thus far, her staff had eluded her. In her hand she clutched two letters; one for each of the important women in her life. To her mother-in-law, she wrote about the possibility of throwing a party at Brasshurst. The dowager countess would know the feasibility of such a plan, and perhaps she would even offer to help her draft the menu or tell her where she could procure a few more servants. The other was addressed to Eliza Hawthorne. Ever since her mother died, her cousin had become her surrogate mother and honorary sister, and she was the only woman with whom she could speak freely. Days like these made her wish Eliza and James had come with them to Folkesbury. As a married woman and a physician, surely she could spread some light on what had occurred a few days earlier. Maybe it was a normal reaction, but she wouldn’t know until she replied.

For three days she had debated whether she should say anything. The night of the incident she stayed downstairs taking apart and cleaning the algae-encrusted mechanisms of the orangery’s pond until she was too tired to reassemble the engine. She left the pieces strewn across the mosaic floor and returned upstairs to soak away the slime and what remained of her misery. When she slunk into their bedroom in her nightgown, she was surprised to find the room dark and Eilian beneath the bed’s canopy with his face to the wall. He didn’t stir as she sank into the mattress beside him, but she knew he was awake. His eyes fixed on the bed curtain while he cradled his stripped prosthesis in his other arm. She hadn’t seen him since he locked himself in the dressing room, and watching his bare back rise and fall, she wondered if he had eaten dinner or if he had gone to bed after she left. Sliding under the covers beside him, she stared at the bed’s gathered ceiling. Words hung in the air ready to be plucked but neither spoke. The hours wore on and the disquieted silence soon faltered into a stiff slumber.

In the morning when she awoke, he was sitting on the edge of the bed assembling his prosthesis. At the sound of the bed creaking with her waking movements, he turned to face her. He bent down to kiss her forehead like he did every morning, but as he drew closer, he hesitated, giving her ample time to pull away if she chose. When she didn’t, he reverently kissed her on the brow. Leaning back to meet her gaze, Eilian's eyes were soft with guilt.

“I’m sorry,” he whispered.

Hadley cupped his cheek, her thumb scratching across his stubble. “I know.”

For the past three days, he had disappeared into the recesses of the house only to reemerge upon being summoned for meals. When they were together, their conversations were sparse and the kisses chaste. Releasing a long breath, she wondered how long it would go on like this.

Hadley stuck her head into the parlor. The pale blue upholstered chairs stood empty and the hearth cool. She could have sworn she saw a shadow move within, but no one was there. As her eyes roamed over the darkened corner of the room, she took a step forward only to collide with something solid. Jolting back, she stumbled into the coffered wall, dropping her letters, but a gloved hand caught her arm and kept her on her feet.

“I beg your pardon, your ladyship. I didn’t mean to startle you,” Patrick began as he released her and picked the missives off the floor.

“It’s fine, Patrick. Actually, I was looking for you. Would you or—” She stopped when she noticed that his lips were drawn straight and behind his spectacles his gaze was tense with worry. “What’s going on?”

“There is a situation in the greenhouse.”

“What sort of situation?”

“Mr. Nash is back. Shall I find his lordship?”

This again. “No, I will take care of it.”

Squaring her shoulders, Hadley marched down the hall. Even if she still had trouble finding their bedroom at night when fatigue made all of the hallways meld into one, the orangery was the one room she had no trouble locating. Hadley paused, listening to the pool’s engine thrum. Now that she had cleaned and oiled its internal workings, its rhythm was less cacophonous, but it was still loud enough for her to hear on the other side of the house. As she rounded the corner of the light-cut hall and crossed the empty drawing room, voices rose on the other side of the French doors.

“Touch one more plant, and I will break your bloody arm.”

“I didn’t come all the way from London to be threatened by the likes a you, ole timer. Her ladyship tol’ me to weed an’ prune, an’ that’s what I’m gonna do.”

“Her ladyship,” Nash spat, “is not in charge.”

Hadley ground her teeth. Mr. Nash was lucky she left her derringer in her bedside table.

Throwing open the door to the orangery, she stormed inside. As she followed the path past the oceanic mosaic and into the murk of the pool’s chamber, the men’s voices grew louder. Standing at the edge of the pool were Randall. Nash and Mr. Bernard. The heavy-browed gardener stood with one hand on his stout hips and gesticulated threateningly with a pair of shears in the other. Randall Nash had his back to the countess, yelling into the gardener’s face despite his added girth. His curled grey hair and fine suit were unmistakable from behind. As she broke through the foliage, Mr. Bernard’s beady eyes brightened.

“Here comes her ladyship now,” he replied with a smug smile. “She’ll set ya straight.”

Nash’s eyes narrowed as he turned to meet the Countess of Dorset’s glare. With the penetrating gaze of a great horned owl, he sliced through her form, cutting across her knees where her jodhpurs ended in wool stockings and piercing her breasts where they pressed against her shirtwaist. Resisting the urge to straighten her clothing or hair, Hadley came to the edge of the pool with her head high and her back rigid. How dare he invade her home and bully her staff.

As she had seen Eilian do, she turned to the gardener as if Nash was not even there. “What seems to be the problem, Bernard?”

“He won’t let me do m’ weedin’. Says you ain’t in charge.”

“This is ridiculous. Mr. Nash, what problem can you possibly have with our gardener pulling weeds?”

The older man’s gaunt face convulsed, contracting into a pinched grimace. “I don’t have to explain myself to the likes of you. You have no right to destroy this house.”

“I’m not destroying anything!” she cried. “All I want is to weed the garden to ensure that it looks nice for our guests.”

“Leave it alone.”

“It has been left to go to seed for decades. Am I supposed to leave it that way?”

“You are supposed to mind your own business, Lady Dorset.”

“Don’t talk to her ladyship that way,” the gardener snapped, looming over Nash, who seemed to take no notice.

Hadley raised her hand. “It’s fine, Bernard. Mr. Nash, if you have a problem with me, I would prefer it if you came and spoke to me like a civilized person. If there is a certain plant you are worried about, say something.”

“Why should I speak to an upstart like you? This isn’t your house. You have been here for less than a month and think you own the place.”

Rage climbed up Hadley’s ribs, squeezing her lungs and pumping her body with heat. “No matter what you may think, Mr. Nash, this is our house now. Harland Sorrell is dead. Eilian is the earl now, and I am his wife. We own Brasshurst Hall and everything within it whether you like it or not. Nothing you do or say will change that.”

“We shall see about that. You think you’re entitled to—”

The gardener took a deep breath, about to start again when Hadley laid her hand on his arm. She smothered her anger with a civil smile that would have scared Eilian or her brother and said coolly, “Thank you, Mr. Nash, for letting me know what you think of me, but I have no need of your opinions as I have plenty of my own. I speak for myself and my husband when I say that you are no longer welcome at Brasshurst and we no longer require your services as the estate manager. Now, please leave before I have Bernard throw you out.”

Nash’s sharp brows knit as he scowled, shaking his head and tutting in disgust. “You are making a grave mistake, Lady Dorset. I don’t think you understand the consequences of your actions. Your husband will be very disappointed in you.”

“I know full-well what I’m doing, and no self-important busybody is going to insult me and tell me how to run my household. Get out, or I will call the constabulary and have you arrested for trespassing.”

His hands twitched into fists at his sides. Before she could get out the final word, Randall Nash turned on heel and stormed off into the greenery. Without waiting for Hadley’s command, the gardener charged after him, disappearing into the dense brush. Hadley ran a trembling hand down the front of her shirt. When she heard Nash was in the house, she had expected conflict, if their first meeting was an indication of his temperament, but his words and gaze had cut her deeper than she anticipated. An upstart. Is that what people really thought of her? That she was Eilian’s mistress or servant turned wife? Even if she had been, she wouldn’t have deserved that sort of harassment. In London, where people knew who they were, where they lived, and could guess how much they each earned, did they think she was nothing more than a scheming woman climbing the social ladder by marriage? No matter what they thought about how she got there, the truth was she loved Eilian, and despite what happened the other day, she knew he loved her too.

Stifling her thoughts, Hadley turned to where Bernard had been working. A mound of dead stalks and milkweeds sat at the edge of the pool. Her eyes ran over the discarded bits of grass before returning to the bed of alien flowers and ferns. It was obvious that the gardener had only clipped what couldn’t be salvaged, so why had Nash reacted so strongly? It wasn’t unheard of for old men who were set in their ways to overreact to even the smallest changes, but to threaten to break a man’s arm over weeding a garden was past overreacting. There had to be a reason. She narrowed her eyes as she scanned a row of tightly curled ferns but lingered on a thickly stalked plant that rose from the dirt behind it like a three-tiered fountain filled with daisy heads.

“I lost him, your ladyship,” the gardener wheezed as he loped back to her side.

“Thank you for trying. Do you know how he got out or is he lurking somewhere?”

“I don’t think he’s hiding. How he got out, I haven’t a clue. Like a bloody magician, that one.”

“Bernard, while you’re tidying up, if you find a plant that you are unsure of, leave it be, but if you come across a box or strange object, bring it to my or his lordship’s attention.”

He nodded, his eyes trailing to where the redhead stared. “Should I be lookin’ for anythin’ special?”

“I don’t know yet. Mr. Nash is guarding something, and I would like to know what.”

Leaving the gardener to his work, Hadley cut through the greenery and into the cool, bright rooms of the main house. As she crossed each threshold, she glanced inside to make certain they were empty. Mr. Bernard’s reassurances that Randall Nash had escaped gave her little comfort. She couldn’t bear the thought of the man peering at her from some darkened corner, watching her in the one place she could let her guard down. Upon reaching the parlor, Hadley pulled the pocket doors shut and sunk into the sofa. She closed her eyes and lay back with her arm thrown over her face as if she had swooned. Nash trespassing, Eilian acting strange, and the self-imposed agony of an impending dinner party were too much for her all at once. If only swooning meant she could admit defeat and hand her problems off to someone else.

“No more,” she whispered as she rubbed her eyes.

“No more what?”

Hadley shot up. She spun to the right and left before finally looking over the back of the chair only to find her husband staring at her with concerned eyes. Over his shoulder he hefted a brass telescope on a wooden tripod. His grey eyes flickered over her face. Leaning the telescope against the fireplace, he sat across from her and felt her forehead with the back of his hand.

“Your face is flushed. Are you ill?”

“No.”

“Something’s wrong.”

“No, it’s just that nothing is going right. How did you even get in here?”

“Back in the corner, behind the paneling, is a little office. I have been working in there all day, going through some of my great-grandfather’s things. Look, I found a telescope.” He smiled, but when she sat back and stared at the ceiling, he prodded softly, “What happened?”

“Patrick came to fetch me because Mr. Nash came back.”

“Why didn’t he find me? I would have taken care of it.”

“I told him I would handle it, and I did. He’s gone now, disappeared like he did last time. Bernard looked but couldn’t find him.”

“He was in the garden again?”

“Yes, he was all put-out because I told Bernard to weed—” Hadley stopped when she noticed her husband’s brows furrowed thoughtfully. “What is it?”

“I’m not sure. It may be nothing, but when we visited Mr. Talbot’s cousin, Argus mentioned that Nash told everyone he grew silphium.”

“Is that some sort of poppy?”

“No, it was a medicinal plant from Ancient Rome. The last one was given to Nero, but the species was supposed to have been harvested to extinction. Can you show me where he was in the greenhouse?”

She exhaled and sank lower into the cushion. There was nothing in the world that would make her get off the sofa. “Ask Bernard. He was there when Nash came in.”

Leaving his wife on the couch, Eilian trailed down the hallway, dashing past the portrait gallery of past earls. In the library, he unbolted the door to the orangery and pushed into the suffocatingly thick air. Sweat instantly prickled his scalp and clung to his shirt as he followed the path to the edge of the pool. With the engine back in working order, the pool no longer reeked of fetid water and had gone from nearly black to a healthy algal green. The heavyset gardener knelt beside a carpet of flowers, ripping out weeds with roots as thick as turnips and tossing them onto the growing mound beside him. When he realized Eilian was watching him, Bernard mopped his brow and climbed to his feet.

“Your lordship. I tried to catch the villain, sir. I really did, but he’s a slipp’ry one.”

“I know you did. Where did you see Mr. Nash?”

“Well, he was right there, sir,” he replied, pointing to the far side of the pool. “Then, he came over here when I didn’t stop workin’.”

Nodding, Eilian paced along the water’s edge. His grey eyes darted over the palms and brush before migrating to the smaller plants. If the ancients gave silphium plants as gifts, they would have to be small enough to transport. From what he could remember from the etchings of it he had seen on coins found in Cyrene, it grew on a thick stalk and had heart-shaped seeds. Nothing here looked right. While he couldn’t name any of the English wildflowers or exotic plants from the Far East, he knew they weren’t silphium. The garden hadn’t been laid out in any sort of order, and while it was obvious that the trees and larger specimens had been planted first, the smaller flowers appeared to have been placed where there was room enough for them. Eilian walked to where Bernard said he had first seen Nash appear. What had the man seen that he couldn’t?

He watched as the gardener threw aside a vine that had nearly choked out a Chinese lantern plant before moving onto the next one. “Look at this beaut. You don’t see weeds this big every day.”

Raising his eyes to the gardener’s calloused hands, the words died in Eilian’s throat. A plant half as tall as a corn stalk and as thick as a man’s arm rose from the middle of the bed. Veering off from the main stem were undulating leaves and diffuse clusters of yellow flowers. Bernard reached into his pocket and pulled out his gardening sheers.

“Wait! Don’t cut it!” Eilian cried as he ran back to the other side, his foot slipping on the slick tiles. He caught his balance, staggering into the pile of clippings and scattering them across the water’s surface. “That’s not a weed.”

Eilian’s hand shook as he gingerly bent the head of the plant closer. One of its flowers had gone to seed, transforming from a blossom to fleshy green pods. Carefully working one of the segmented seeds free, he turned it over in his metal palm. The orangery’s engine died away beneath the pounding beat of his heart in his ears. While the seed was more elongated than it appeared on the ancient coins, it was clear that it was shaped like a heart.

Chapter Ten

Silphium Hearts

A plant long thought extinct had been growing in his family’s ancestral home for God knows how long. Eilian could barely believe it, but there it was sprouting at the edge of the pool. Like most of his discoveries at dig sites, he couldn’t be certain if he was right, but he felt the inkling of truth in his bones. He was onto something. Pulling down books from Hippocrates, Pliny, and Theophrastus, Eilian pored over the ancient texts. His notebook rapidly filled with half-conceived ideas, possible leads in other works, and what he knew to be true about the plant. The massive desk in the library was soon stacked to the brim with crumbling books and ink-covered parchment. When he ran out of room, Eilian transferred them to the floor near the hearth where he could surround himself with everything he could possibly need. By the time Patrick came in with his afternoon tea, half of the locked cabinets stood open and he had to step over a pile of books three deep to reach his master.

Not often did the ancients agree on anything, but Eilian was certain that silphium had been used as a medicinal plant. According to Hippocrates, it had been used to treat all sorts of ills: wounds, fevers, warts, sore throats, coughs. Pliny’s account supported that the plant had gone extinct at the time of Nero when it was given to him as a curiosity, but the natural historian added that one of its additional uses was to promote menstruation. Eilian stared at the text for a long moment, unsure of what to make of that. He would have to ask Hadley about it later.

Despite all of the information he garnered from the Romans and later from secondhand medieval sources, he still couldn’t be sure what the silphium looked like. If only his ancestral home had been in London, then he could have called upon a dozen numismatists who would certainly have a coin from Ancient Cyrene or Rome depicting the plant. If he sent a letter now, even if it went by express dirigible, it would take at least a week for a reply and more than likely they would only send a sketch or written description and not the actual coin.

Sitting amongst his books and notes, Eilian frowned. He had to tell someone; he had to run the idea past someone else to prove to himself that he wasn’t crazy. Hadley had listened with interest when they discussed his preliminary findings at breakfast, but now, she was busy compiling menus and reading the women’s magazines she picked up in Folkesbury’s bookshop and he didn’t want to disturb her. Ultimately, her knowledge of ancient history was limited and she wasn’t much help past acting as a sounding board. He wanted someone to share in his excitement. Cracking his neck as he climbed over the stacks of books, he paused when his eyes met the pile of papers on his desk. Why hadn’t he thought of him before?

Eilian tossed on his jacket and dashed down the hall. Propped against the wainscoting near the servants’ door, he found his velocipede waiting. At the top of the steps, he lingered on the threshold, watching the rain patter down in a steady tattoo. He could go back upstairs and wait for the storm to pass or he could change into his Norfolk suit to keep from ruining another pair of trousers. Without a second thought, he kicked away from the portico and peddled down the muddy lane toward Folkesbury.

***

Leona Rhodes held the needle poised above her embroidery. From beneath his thick spectacles, Argus was watching her. She wanted to ask him what he was staring at, but doing so would only imply that there was something to look at and that was the last thing she wanted. Maybe he wasn’t looking at her, maybe it was only paranoia, and he was simply staring into space. Then, he smiled. For a second, she hesitated, the nausea thickening her throat. With a swallow, she smiled demurely and turned her attention back to her embroidery hoop. If she went to look for Nadir, would Argus think it strange?

Her head shot up as the doorbell jangled in the hall. Barnes trudged past the parlor, ruffling the heavy curtain as the front door opened. She held her breath, her heart thundering in her chest at the thought of the dark little maid at the door with another letter. Thus far she had made sure to keep out of sight, but what if Nash decided he was tired of discretion? A man’s excited voice rose from the hall, and she sagged into the armchair with relief as Argus turned his attention to the foyer.

The butler pulled the curtain back just far enough for his broad face to poke through. “Lord Dorset is here to see you, sir.”

Nodding, the couple rose to their feet as the earl was ushered in. His dark suit had been soaked through with rain while his trouser legs were spattered with mud. Eilian ran a hand through his hair, returning it to its usual configuration of sickled spikes. Despite his rain-soaked face and clothes, his smile and eyes were bright.

“Lord Dorset, what a pleasant surprise. What brings you to our home in such dreadful weather?” Leona asked, relieved to have the attention off her for a time. “Did you bring Lady Dorset with you?”

“No, not this time. I came to speak with Mr. Rhodes on a discovery of some importance. That is, if you aren’t too busy.”

Argus shook his head and led him into his office. Eilian’s eyes ran over the shelves before coming to rest on the cabinet of Roman coins and pottery fragments. The pudgy man once again offered him a drink, which he declined, but as Argus poured himself a glass, Eilian knelt before the case. His grey eyes gleamed as they came to rest on a tiny, lopsided coin. The edge of the image had been rubbed smooth as if by a nervous hand or the course of water, but in the center, the engraving was unmistakable. An alien plant complete with a stout stalk and a cluster of round flowers at its top grew from the metal. It wasn’t identical.

“Mr. Rhodes, may I see that coin there? The one with the plant.”

“Of course, help yourself.”

Opening the cabinet, Eilian gingerly plucked the coin from the shelf and placed it in his prosthetic palm seed side up. With his free hand, he dug into his pocket for the heart-shaped pod. His hand shook as he laid them side by side. The shape, the texture, the ring of raised flesh around the edge was all the same. It was as if the artist had drawn it based on another’s description and not from the real thing.

“What do you make of it, Mr. Rhodes?” Eilian asked, holding out his prosthetic hand to allow the other man to study the coin and pod.

“It’s a bean?”

“It’s a seed. A silphium seed.”

His palpebrous face darkened as he put his glass on the mantle and adjusted his spectacles. “It can’t be. It died out with Nero, probably burned with Rome.”

“Pliny was wrong. How was he to know someone brought one to Britain?” Eilian dropped his voice. “I found it growing in Brasshurst’s orangery. Nash was telling the truth.”

“But— but how did it get there? How do you know it’s the real thing? I mean, neither of us are botanists.”

“I don’t, but look at it, Rhodes. You can’t deny that the seeds are the same, and the plant—if you squint your eyes—looks just like this.”

Argus shook his head, retrieving his drink from the mantle and holding it close. “I don’t know...”

“Many historians have made greater discoveries than this with less proof. We can’t pretend as if it was never found.”

He swallowed hard. The earl’s eyes gleamed and his prosthetic hand flexed and gestured in time with his left as smoothly as if it were still flesh and bone. He was impassioned by his discovery, and Argus Rhodes, who had never had colleagues, didn’t know how to respond to that.

“Are— are you going to write a paper on it? After more research, of course.”

Eilian cocked his head, watching the Egyptologist from the corner of his eye as he returned the coin to its rightful place in the cabinet. He wasn’t nearly as excited as he expected him to be. Did he not understand the implications of discovering a plant that had been so important to Rome’s economy that they mourned its demise?

“Ancient botany really isn’t my field of study, but aren’t you intrigued by the idea of finding out why this plant was so important to the Romans? Haven’t you ever wondered why they harvested it to the point of supposed extinction?”

“I suppose.” Refilling his glass, Argus settled into his desk chair. “Have you spoken to Nash yet?”

“No. Part of the reason I came to see you is because I wanted to ask your opinion on how I should approach Mr. Nash. You have dealt with him more than I have, and I don’t want to publish a paper or bring the plant to the world’s attention without his permission, even if it is on my property. I wouldn’t feel right about it.”

“He’s never going to let you. You may as well take that seed and grow your own. He’s been claiming that plant existed for years, but he’s never shown it to a single soul.”

***

Leona smiled to herself as she pressed her ear to the plaster between the study and the parlor. Now she finally had something she could wield against Nash. Going to the constabulary would have only ended in exposing her own sins, especially when the sergeant was such a dear friend of Mrs. Nash, but the plant was more than she could have hoped for. A few more kernels of information were all she needed to gain a little leverage.

When the earl left and her husband settled down after dinner, she would slip into his study and take what she needed. She made a mental note of every name Lord Dorset mentioned while her husband sat mutely on the other side of the wall. Even if Argus, with his limited imagination, couldn’t appreciate the fortuitousness of Lord Dorset’s discovery, she did.

***

Pilcrow stood outside the Gothic face of Brasshurst Hall, staring up at the ivy-scarred stone. While the vines had been removed upon the ninth earl and countess’s arrival, the ghosts of the plants remained as veins across the great house’s face never to heal but as a testament to years of neglect. It wasn’t the size of the house that made her pause; she was accustomed to feeling small even in the dower house, which was scarcely an eighth of the size of the manor. It was that their eyes were watching her from the portal. She had never been a woman to give into fancies or superstition, but after following Mrs. Nash to mass and hearing the sermons of fire and brimstone year in and year out, how could she not feel the hollow-eyed saints casting their gaze upon her from the ring of the portal? In her breast pocket out of sight was a note to the lady and master of the house, which she was to deliver directly to one of them and not to a servant as usual. Her hand shook as she reached for the bell pull, hoping it would be the lady of the house who answered. She could weather a slap, but she always feared the pitiless knuckles of an angry man. Maybe if she let herself disappear into the doorway, the stone saints wouldn’t see what the Nashes were making her do.

She licked her cracked lips as briny rain dripped off the roofline, down the brim of her hat, and onto her nose. When no one seemed to be coming, she tucked her coat closer and trotted away from the bright blue door. Mrs. Nash wouldn’t be venturing out of the house in this weather, so maybe she could stop at the tavern for a hot meal and a bit of time to herself. As she reached the gravel path, a voice called out behind her.

The maid turned but froze upon seeing the figure in the doorway. She had never seen hair so red. It was as dark as blood, but it brought out the light dusting of freckles over the woman’s nose and ruddy cheeks. Her eyes were a bright blue, and while they could have been striking to the point of being unnerving, they were softened by her rounded features and expressive brows. The dark blue skirt and jacket she wore over her plain shirtwaist were simple but well made, unlike her lady’s fussy dresses.

“Wait! Do come back. I’m so sorry I didn’t get to you sooner, but I didn’t hear the bell. Who are you looking for?”

“Lord and Lady Dorset, mum,” she called.

“I am she.” As the umbral maid drew closer, Hadley’s eyes widened. “Please come inside; you are soaked to the bone.”

Before Pilcrow could protest, the countess was ushering her inside with one hand and closing the door with the other. Lady Dorset shook her head as she appraised the maid’s thin form, which appeared even more drawn and frail when wet. Her wool coat hung from her bony shoulders while her threadbare hat sagged where water had run from the brim. The hollows of her cheeks cast hungry shadows across her ashen skin. With a little prodding, the countess convinced her to remove her coat and follow her into the great hall.

“Please, take a seat by the fire. How long were you waiting?” Hadley asked after speaking to Charlotte who appeared at the tug of the bell-rope. Drawing close to the hearth, she laid the water-logged coat across the grate. “I hope it wasn’t long. I heard the bell, but with my husband and butler out, I didn’t realize no one let you in.”

“I was only there a moment, mum.”

Pilcrow’s eyes ran over the massive hearth before skimming over the columns of the upper arcade and skylights. She glanced down the darkened hall to see if anyone would call out to stop her as she sat stiffly on the edge of the embroidered chair. It had been years since she sat anywhere upstairs. If Mrs. Nash knew she was sitting in the earl’s house like an honored guest, she would be furious.

“You’re shaking.” When Charlotte reappeared with a tray of tea and placed it on the side table, Lady Dorset quickly poured a cup for Pilcrow and handed it to her with a gentle grin. “I can’t believe your master sent you out in this weather. Wait here.”

Disappearing down the hall, the countess returned with a wool blanket. With a snap of the fabric, she carefully wrapped it around the maid’s shaking shoulders. As she crouched beside the chair to ensure it was tucked close, the maid shrank back into her seat. If it had been made of a darker fabric, the woman would have disappeared, but there was nowhere to hide against the red Damask. At Hadley’s touch, Pilcrow flinched, averting her gaze to her lap, and drew the shawl closer.

“Thank you, but you needn’t trouble yourself for me, your ladyship. I’ll be fine.”

“Have you eaten? Our servants will be having something soon, and I’m sure they could spare you a plate.”

“No, thank you, your ladyship,” she replied, her words betraying the ache in the pit of her stomach that she had grown accustomed to, “I already ate.”

“Your name is Pilcrow, isn’t it? You’re Mrs. Nash’s maid, I think.”

“Yes, mum, her lady’s maid.”

“So what brings you to Brasshurst in the rain? I do hope it isn’t the church business.”

For a moment, she tried to avoid the countess’s probing gaze by taking a long sip of tea. The warmth flooded her chest and chased away the damp cough tickling her lungs. In the inner pocket of her coat was the letter Mr. Nash had given her. All morning he had picked through his stacks of London papers, combing the society pages and announcements for anything he could discover about the Sorrells. When he had reached an article reporting a strange meeting at the British Museum where Lord Sorrell’s fiancée had simultaneously confessed to cross-dressing to travel to the Middle East and discredited Sir Joshua Peregrine, an archaeologist of feeble renown, Mr. Nash’s brows arched and his thin lips curled into a wry smirk. What exactly was in the letter she couldn’t be sure, but it was never anything good. Half of the village hated her. As she passed, they would mutter an oath under their breath or shoot her black looks that seemed to accumulate on her person until she appeared more specter than woman. They would never dare to treat her masters that way even if she wished they would, so punishing her would have to do.

Pilcrow’s grey eyes flitted between the grate where her coat hung limply and the countess’s bright face. She had dried her coat, offered her food and tea, given her a blanket, and even remembered her name, which was far more than the Nashes had done for her in the twenty-three years of service with them. It would be easy enough to slip the letter from her pocket and toss it in the fire before she left. No one would be the wiser. If Mr. Nash asked, he could confirm that she had been to the manor and talked only to Lady Dorset.

The words hung in her throat, but with another sip of tea, her chest loosened, allowing them to work free, even if they were soft and stilted. “Since you’re new here, mum, Mrs. Nash would like to offer my services to you in case you require anything.”

Chapter Eleven

Ancient Paths

The wind blew through the trees, carrying with it the sea’s salt and the musk of wet earth. Donning his best suit and hat, Eilian followed the gravel path across the lawn and into the ornamental garden. Along the way, he passed the moss-consumed walls and foundations of buildings long forgotten. He considered straying from the path, but if he wanted Nash to take him seriously, he would have to stay out of the dirt, at least on the way there. The white rocks crunched beneath his shoes as he mounted the hill. Halfway to the top, Eilian stopped.

Standing between Brasshurst and the dower house was a miniature cathedral complete with Gothic facade and minarets that mirrored the ones affixed to the front of the hall. Much like its parent, ivy had grown around it until the figures ringing the portal were crumbling beneath their roots and shoots. Even without leaving the road, he knew it had to be the family crypt. Sorrell was barely legible above the door, eroded to a dull outline after centuries of rain and sea spray. He swallowed hard, stretching and flexing his prosthetic hand before the pains could start. Would his body one day rest there? All of the men and women who hung on the walls of the gallery rested there, still in neat rows. His father had been buried in London while he was away. It was a small comfort to know that the door hadn’t been opened since his father inherited the earldom and that the bones of his ancestors had remained undisturbed for nearly thirty years.

The world died away as Eilian lingered outside the mausoleum. His eyes trailed over the lopsided headstones that lay on the periphery, half-buried by brush where servants and distant relatives rested at the earls’ and countess’s sides. He had always imagined he would die somewhere far from them, maybe in India from the plague or from a dig accident in Greece. When the dirigible crashed in the countryside and he saw the bowels of the airship alight between its mighty ribs, he couldn’t fathom that it would end here. To be trapped in English soil forever was the worst fate he could imagine, and in those moments when he was certain his life would end, did he really hope the flames would consume him until he could be scattered to the wind?

Heat lanced through his missing muscles, ripping him from his morbid thoughts. Eilian rubbed his arm as he cut through the twisted yews and ancient oaks to reach the glen before the dower house. When they arrived at Brasshurst, this was the house he had expected. Instead of being a conglomeration of mismatched styles, the dower house resembled the cottages in town with a thatch roof and stone face, but the windows had been rendered with Gothic lines and leaded glass. An ornamental garden surrounded the house, painting the lawn in delicate pastel pinks and purples. A figure floated past the glass in the upper windows, disappearing and reappearing as they crossed the upper arcade. Drawing in a controlled breath, Eilian stepped onto the porch and checked his reflection in the mirrored surface of the doorknocker. He pushed his hair down as best he could and knocked.

Minutes passed, but no one came even after he knocked again. Eilian walked back to the tree line, confirmed that the figure was still moving within, and tried the door. The knob turned easily, creaking open to reveal a familiar but scaled down version of the great hall, complete with a grand stone fireplace and columned arcades on the upper floor. Light streamed in from the wall of windows behind him, catching the strands of gold in the tapestried chairs. Taking a step into the room, Eilian craned his neck down the hall where a door stood open. The sun danced across the coffers and plaster, yet he could not tell if anyone was within. He listened for the nearly unperceivable tread of a servant as he crossed the great hall, but no one came.

“Anyone here?” he called, following the edge of the rug to the empty hallway. “I tried the knocker, but no one came. Hello?”

Passing a row of locked doors where light streamed in dusty beams from empty keyholes, Eilian waited at the threshold. In the back parlor, Randall Nash sat amongst dozens of stacks of newspapers. Much like their owner, each had been carefully pressed and creased before being set aside. They sat in grey piles nearly half a man high at the sides of his chair and around the perimeter of the room. On the table near the window, thick albums sat two rows deep with the edges of oversized slips of newsprint jutting from the tops of pages.

The older man’s face was blocked by a two month old copy of The Daily Telegraph. Eilian kept his grey eyes locked on Randall Nash as he crossed the boards on silent feet and sunk into the armchair directly across from him. When Nash lowered the paper to turn the page, he jolted back, crushing the paper in his grasp.

“Who let you in here? I told Pilcrow I was not to be disturbed,” Nash snapped as he tossed the ruined newspaper aside.

“I knocked, but no one came.”

He glared at the young man sitting across from him. “Did you think maybe there was a reason for that?”

“Well, Mr. Nash, now you know how it feels to have your privacy violated by an uninvited guest,” Eilian replied, surprised by his own boldness.

“What do you want? Did that wife of yours send you to confront me?”

“She doesn’t know I’m here.”

“That isn’t a good way to start a marriage, Lord Dorset,” he muttered under his breath as he searched the earl’s face.

He was far too confident to be there because of his letter. When people came to settle the matter, they were furious or cocky, thinking they could intimidate him, but they were never this secure. She must not have told him. Nash smiled to himself. He could use that.

“I came because I believe you.”

His face contracted into a sneer. “Believe what? I don’t need you to believe anything.”

“The silphium plant. I, too, believe it isn‘t extinct.”

“Who told you that?”

Eilian watched Nash’s face tighten with strain. “Mr. Rhodes told me there was some scandal or something in the past, but I think you’re right. After you left the other day, I found it in the orangery beside the pool.”

“Oh, that’s why you have come,” Nash began, nodding as he climbed to his feet and loomed over Eilian. “You want to lord it over me. You want to destroy my plant unless I do what you want, eh? Well, you have another think coming because—”

“Good lord, no. I want to do nothing of the sort. I’m— I’m an archaeologist, not an extortionist,” Eilian sputtered, gazing up at the seething man with pleading eyes. “I wanted to ask for your permission to study it, maybe even send a seed to a botanist in London, but that’s all. Why would I destroy it?”

“Do you take me for a fool, Lord Dorset?”

“No! I took you for a rational human being. I thought that if you listened and understood that I only wanted to continue what you started and bring it to the attention of the proper scientists and historians, you would—”

“Get out of my house this instant!”

“Mr. Nash, please listen to me a moment longer.” Eilian spoke as he walked backwards around furniture and down the hall as the older man urged him toward the door. “I’m not trying to steal your discovery; you would receive most of the credit. I simply want your permission to move forward. I didn’t want to go behind your back, which is why I came here in the first place. We are both scholars; we could even work together if you want.”

Eilian’s back collided with the front door. Even though Randall Nash was three and half decades older and several inches shorter, the earl shrank back, groping for the knob behind him with his prosthetic hand. He had never been as afraid of his father as he was of this man. His father’s outbursts were predictable—anti-imperialism, sympathizing with anyone who wasn’t British—but Nash was a different animal. His reactions were over the top and reeked of potential violence no matter the size of the offense. A slender shadow appeared from one of the locked doors in the hall, but when she saw her master’s teeth bared and his hand raised in rage, Pilcrow ducked back into the other room.

“There is nothing that would make me want to work with the likes of you. Just because you put on a clean suit and comb your hair, doesn’t make you worthy of your family name and it does not make you worthy of my respect!”

The backs of the earl’s eyes burned as he ground his jaw. Randall Nash was done intimidating him. “You’re right. It doesn’t make me worthy of a title, but I never asked for that; it was given to me by chance. But you can keep your respect. I don’t want it.” Eilian doffed his hat and straightened to his full height. “Good day, Mr. Nash. You won’t have to worry about hearing from me again.”

Turning his back on Nash, Eilian slipped out and slammed the door behind him. His breath hitched as a bolt of pain ran down his arm. He drew in a lungful of cool air and let it wash through him to staunch the burning. Before him stood the garden of candy floss flowers and the misshapen yews whose bodies hid the spires of the family crypt. Leaning against the corner of the house out of sight, Eilian’s eyes traveled to the gravel path. From where he stood, he could see the white line that led down to the hulking manor with the edge of the orangery’s glass dome appearing above the roof. Stepping toward the yews, Eilian vanished into the mist and murk. He would take the long way back.

***

Nadir glanced up from his portable writing desk and out at the sea as it lapped against the beach, whisking shells across the sand in a lazy waltz. Something still nagged at the back of his mind. He had yet to figure out how his cousin managed to disappear the night he followed her to her mysterious meeting. It was like something out of one of his blasted stories or a nightmare. From the pain in his ankle and backside the next day, he knew he hadn’t been dreaming, so he had to have missed something. Placing the papers inside his desk and locking the catch, he slipped it under his chair. The beach had been deserted all day, and it was unlikely that anyone would tamper with the chapter he worked on.

Climbing up the path toward Folkesbury, Nadir followed it until he stood just below the ridge, out of sight of the village. He studied the path before him. She had come this way past the rough undergrowth and low trees, of that he was sure, but somehow he thought it would be easier to work out the twists and turns of her path in daylight. Soon, he found nothing looked the same. Slipping on his dark sun-spectacles to simulate the midnight darkness, he pushed through the brush and followed the drunken fence posts up the bluff. That night, it had seemed to take hours to reach their destination as he waited and watched, but within moments, he found the tree branch where his scarf caught. Minute fibers of indigo wool still hung from its forked fingers.

He slipped off his glasses and pursed his lips as he envisioned Leona standing no more than twenty-five feet away from him with the lamp in her hand and her cheeks painted in deep shadows. Stepping into her place, he stared into the clusters of gnarled and salt-stunted trees but saw nothing. There was no door or path for him to follow. But how could that be? He had seen her step off the path and vanish. Moving into the grass, Nadir’s eyes caught a shadow on the cliff face. It had been impossible to see from the path as trees and the lip of the cliff stood in the way, but cut into the stone was an arch. His head scraped the ceiling’s smooth surface as he entered the tunnel, running his hand along the rounded diamond-shaped stones that had been laid centuries ago. Sunlight streamed into the shaft and reflected off the scant coating of water that hid the floor. Keeping one hand on the wall, he walked into the gloom.

Dusty cobwebs tangled in the waves of his hair as he kept his head down, following the tunnel until he could no longer rely on the sun to light his way. Water splashed with each step, yet it never seemed to grow any higher than the soles of his shoes as he ventured further into the rock. The diamond tiles soon faded into blackness, and with each breath, the air grew thicker with humidity and must. Nadir’s lungs tightened against his well-tailored suit as the air pushed in on his ears to the point of pain. His pulse pounded in his temples as he proceeded forward, guided by the tips of his shoes, which he could no longer see. Even his hand on the wall was no longer visible, but he trusted the cold bricks beneath his palm and the gentle splosh of water beneath his feet. In the dark, he couldn’t be sure if he had passed forks in the void or if the tunnel traveled straight under the town, but during his trek, he felt the ceiling rise away from his skull as if the room had widened before narrowing again a few yards later. He cursed himself for not bringing a torch. It had been foolish of him to assume Leona only brought it to find her way down the bluff. She had lived in Folkesbury her whole life and could have followed the cobbled paths through the woods or the trails around the earl’s land with her eyes shut.

A voice carried over the stillness, so faint he couldn't discern if its originator was male or female, but it didn't matter. He froze, pressing his back against the wall as he waited for the blaze of a lantern to appear. A thousand thoughts of who could be hiding in the tunnel flitted through his mind until his legs locked with fear and he drew a fist back in case he had to fight. With his other hand, he rolled his lucky bead between his fingers. Waiting in the thick air, his heart pounded in the ears and drowned out the voice. When no one appeared, Nadir took a lurching step forward.

As his hand slid over the smooth surface of a curve, his heart leapt at the sight of a shaft of light streaming from the ceiling. The clean air above chased away the stench of still water and eased the fear that entrapped his breast. Standing beneath the warm light, Nadir looked up to find a brass grate no bigger than a brick embedded in the stone three feet above his head. His teal suit was coated in a layer of dirt. He reached to brush the dirt away when he realized with disgust that his hands were equally filthy. Nadir ducked into the shadows as voices rose again and boots clacked above his head. This time, they were undeniable.

“He is insane. There is no other way to put it.”

Listening to the echoed words ricocheting down the vent, he cocked his head. He recognized that voice.

“Well, what happened? Did he give you permission?” a woman replied from the other side of the room.

“Of course not. You would have thought I asked him for his first-born the way he carried on. He acted like I was an extortionist or something, went on about me using the plant against him, that I would destroy it if he didn’t do what I wanted. I can’t say I understand it.”

“That’s a big leap.”

“That’s what I thought! Then, he threw me out.”

Boards whined above his head as mud-encrusted soles stopped on the grate. Bits of grass and dirt drifted down like dust motes, peppering Nadir’s suit. The man sighed, pacing over the shaft with his head down before coming to a stop a few feet away. Nadir let out a slow breath and stepped away from the wall again. It took all his self-control to keep from wiping the flecks of dried muck sprinkled across his nose.

“So what are you going to do now?”

“I don’t know. I can’t let it go. If that plant is the real thing, it could be one of the most important discoveries of our century. What if it’s the key doctors need to cure consumption or malaria? Of course, Nash would never see it that way.”

“Why not just pretend you never spoke to him? It’s a plant after all, anyone could have found it, and no one can stake a claim on something that has been there since the Roman Invasion.”

“I don’t know, Had. It feels dishonest to claim it as my own.”

Nadir’s eyes widened. He was under Brasshurst Hall, right below Lord and Lady Dorset’s feet, and they had no idea he was listening in on their conversation. He had to get out and go back to the beach, but he didn’t dare move for fear they would notice the gurgle of water or the blur of black and teal under the grate. Why had Leona come to the tunnel if it led to Brasshurst?

“If he is as unstable as you say, he has no right to be the deciding factor in your decision. The silphium is growing on your property, which means it’s yours. Eilian, you are an archaeologist, and if you know there is a trail to follow, I think you should. Damn what Mr. Nash says,” she laughed warmly. “Why let him stop you?”

Eilian’s feet crossed the room to his wife in two long strides. The room fell silent. The familiar soft click of lips parting meant they were kissing, and like a voyeur, he was eavesdropping on their intimate moment. Nadir covered his reddening face and leaned out of sight, too afraid to move and disturb the water on the floor. He could picture the earl drawing back with a gentle smile as he rubbed Lady Dorset’s arms to maintain contact a little longer. It seemed like something he would do.

“You’re right, Had. Anyway, I have a seed of my own. I could grow a silphium plant myself if worst came to worst, and he would have no right to that plant, now would he?”

“So does that mean I shouldn’t invite him to the party?” she asked, her voice lifting with a grin.

“No, definitely not. He would probably try to turn our guests out of doors along with us if he had the opportunity.”

“I don’t think Mr. Nash cares whether he gets an invitation or not. If he catches wind of the party, he will be there. You can count on that. Now if only we could figure out how he keeps getting in.”

“I have searched that room top to bottom, and for the life of me, I can’t figure it out,” he replied, his voice trailing away.

Two sets of feet crossed over the roof of the tunnel and out of earshot. When Nadir could no longer hear the lilt of their voices or the soft groan of ancient boards, he sighed and let his head rest against the wall. He ran his hand across his face, but drew it back in disgust when he coated his lips and nose in the tunnel’s grime. The path ran from the beach to Brasshurst, but where did it go? Nadir narrowed his eyes, trying to peer past the beam of light to see what lay beyond in the gloom. Where was Leona headed that night? She could have met someone in the tunnel along the way, but if they were just meeting, then why didn’t they go somewhere more convenient and less... dirty?

Nadir sharply exhaled and stepped out of the comforting shaft of gaslight. Following the tunnel around another serpentine curve before straightening again, his heart leapt as the shadows engulfed him. The darkness was absolute. His senses betrayed him, keeping him from orienting himself. The echoing drips of water that could have been ahead of him, behind him, or in his head for all he knew. A rhythmic clatter shook the bedrock around him, and suddenly he was seized with the urge to turn back. He feared the tunnel would grow narrower and narrower until it trapped him or the marrow between the tiles would falter after a thousand years and come crashing in upon him. His lungs burned as they rapidly expanded and contracted, straining against his ribs. He tugged at his silk tie to relieve the tightness in his throat. Was the air growing thinner and colder the further he inched? He could turn around, but if he did, would he be able to tell if he was facing the way he came? For all he knew, the shaft could run through all of England or it could end only a few hundred yards ahead, just beyond the next curve.

There would be no turning back. Stretching his arms out to touch both sides of the wall, Nadir closed his eyes. This darkness was his own, and in it, he steadied his pounding pulse by reminding himself that the shaft had stood for hundreds of years and there was nothing to worry about. Thus far, he hadn’t found any rubble or heard the creak of imminent destruction. He promised himself that if he didn’t find a way out by the time he counted to a hundred, he would follow the wall back to the coast.

“One... Two,” he called, his voice echoing away endlessly in the void. He swallowed hard and kicked through the water. At fifty, he still saw nothing, yet it felt as if the outlines of the tiles were growing more distinct and that the ceiling had lifted away from his scalp more than once. Suddenly he blinked, realizing he could see his hand at his side smeared with grime. Nadir picked up the pace. His eyes burned as light streamed in from the tunnel’s crumbling end. Outside trees obscured the entrance, but when Nadir emerged, furiously shaking the cobwebs from his hair with dirt-stained hands, he found that he was surrounded by tall swaying grasses and ornamental yews. The tunnel fell away into half-stacked walls with piles of diamond-shaped bricks strewn around them before disintegrating into the grass.

Panic lanced between his ribs as he stopped mopping at the teal fabric of his suit and looked around him. Where was he? At the thought of going back through the tunnel, his fear of cave-ins and creatures surfaced once more. If he had to, he would, but if he could find someone he could pay to drive him back to Folkesbury, he would choose that instead. Anything to not go back in. Following a trail of dirt no more than a deer path, he froze at the top of the hill. He recognized this place.

As children, he and Leona had stalked this house. They had wiped the film from the lower windows with their sleeves and gathered bouquets of flowers from the overgrown garden to play wedding. It had been abandoned then with wisteria climbing the chimney pots and along the heads of the yew trees, but now, it breathed with life locked beyond the Gothic panes. An old man with the face of a horned owl moved within, fretting irritably between the windows in the back parlor without ever seeing the young man standing in his yard. Around the corner of the house, Nadir spotted a familiar gravel path.

Walking back toward the beach past Brasshurst, his brows furrowed. What did Leona have to do with the dower house that she wouldn’t want her husband or cousin to know about? Whatever Nash wanted with her, it wasn’t right.

Nadir would have to have a word with him.

ACT TWO

“Women are naturally secretive, and they like to do their own secreting.”

–Sir Arthur Conan Doyle

Chapter Twelve

The Countess and the Cad

Hadley smiled as she glanced up from her breakfast to find her husband’s eyes bright again. He sat with a book propped in his prosthetic hand, his eyes locked on the page while his left hand brought forkfuls of meat and egg to his mouth. Occasionally he would set down his fork to jot down a line in his notebook, but he never wavered from his project. Perhaps she should have been annoyed that he was ignoring her in favor of his work, but she wasn’t a morning person and had very little to say at that hour. It was comforting to see him return to his old self.

“Anything wrong?” Eilian asked, finally pulling away from his book on ancient plants when he felt her eyes upon him.

“No. I was just thinking how lucky I am to have you.”

His cheeks and neck burned. He wanted to ask her if she was sure about that. There were too many aspects of life in which he was acutely aware of his short-comings. Instead he smiled. “I am the lucky one.”

“Is your research going well?” she yawned with a smile, pouring herself another cup of coffee.

“Not sure. I can never be certain whether medieval philosophers are telling the truth or speaking in riddles. Thus far, I still believe our silphium is the real thing. I have no evidence to the contrary. I only wish I knew for sure.”

“What’s so important about this plant? From the looks of it, it isn’t ornamental.”

“It seems to have been medicinal. At the peak of its use, Rome was prospering, yet their population didn’t grow despite that there weren’t any plagues or wars. This plant is the reason.”

Hadley’s sleep-addled mind perked at the thought. “Imagine how useful that would be today.”

Before he could reply, a mop of white hair appeared through the panel in the wall. Patrick carried in a silver tray laden with envelopes. He placed a stack in front of Eilian before giving the remainder to Hadley. Her eyes skimmed the handwriting on the front of each letter. A few were cards congratulating her on her marriage from those who couldn’t attend their nuptials, but at the bottom, she found two she immediately recognized. One bore Eliza Hawthorne’s neat script while the other, which was written in ornate arabesques on prim stationary, could only be from Eilian’s mother. Fearing what Eliza’s might have said, she dropped it into her lap to read later and tore open the other letter.

“Is that from my mother?”

Hadley’s eyes widened. She hadn’t even gotten it out of the envelope yet. “Yes, how could you tell?”

“I tend to recognize what I dread most. At least she only writes to invite me to parties or to tell me about family business. Which is it this time?”

“A party, but I brought it on myself. I asked her if I could borrow some of her staff.”

Watching her scan the lines of looped script, Eilian ground his teeth at the sight of a matching letter in his own stack. “And?”

Despite the panic curling like smoke in the back of her mind, Hadley smiled. “She’s willing.”

***

Hadley drifted down the cobbled street. Her eyes flitted over shop windows and the weathered signs swaying above them though her mind was far away. What had she done? She had asked her mother-in-law for extra servants, and the dowager countess had agreed. Somehow she had hoped the woman would refuse, and she would have to call off the party. She still could.

In front of a cockeyed building shoved between a draper and a butcher shop, Hadley stopped. Despite its tilted windows and mossy roof, the building radiated warmth and the cloying scent of Earl Grey and scones. On the sign beside the door, a tea pot with a banner advertised Billings Tea Room and Bakery. Hadley fingered her clutch, hearing the familiar clink of coins within. There were plenty of errands to run, but she had time for a cup and a cake.

The bell jingled as she slipped inside. Passing the empty tables, Hadley eyed the counter laden with sweets, petit fours, and scones beneath glass domes.

“May I help you, ma’am?” the young shopkeeper asked as she carried out a batch of steaming crumpets.

“I would like one of those, please, and a scone, and half a dozen petit fours.”

“I assume you would like those in a box,” she replied with a cheeky grin and a tilt of her head.

“Yes, they are for my husband. He would love this place. Leave the scone, please. I will have that here.”

As the girl turned away, the bell rang and a sweep of cold air rustled Hadley’s skirt.

“You have seen her?”

“Oh, yes, at the beach. Ghastly creatures, no decorum at all. She’s certainly dragging the family down with her poor-breeding, though the husband isn’t much better. She hasn’t even paid me a call.”

“How impertinent.”

“Is the countess at least pretty?”

“She’s young. Now, where is that girl? She knows we come in the same time every week, yet she never has a tray ready.”

Hadley resisted the urge to turn around. She knew who it had to be. It was Wednesday after all; when the Society of Visiting Ladies met at Billings. Tears burned the back of her eyes.

“Miss,” Hadley called, suppressing the tremor in her voice, “please put the scone in the box. I— I forgot that I have an errand I have to run.”

The shop girl nodded. She said the cost of the order, but Hadley barely heard her.

“Apparently she’s thinking of throwing a party while they’re here,” Rubella continued. “I hope we receive an invitation.”

“Oh?”

“If she’s going to make a spectacle of herself, I want to see it.”

Dropping a handful of coins into the girl’s palm, Hadley drew in a tremulous breath and snatched her box from the counter. She hesitated, pretending to rearrange her clutch. To leave, she would have to face Mrs. Nash and her friends. Hadley cleared her throat and straightened her back. She wouldn’t let them get the better of her.

Her boots clicked across the floor, but when she reached their table, she stopped. Raising her gaze, Hadley locked eyes with Mrs. Nash. The older woman paused mid-sentence but didn’t betray any regret she may have felt. The other women of the Society of Visiting Ladies looked from Hadley to Mrs. Nash, waiting to see who would strike first.

“I do hope you come to the party,” Hadley said with a smile. “A woman of your esteem would be greatly missed, Mrs. Nash.”

Before the woman could respond, Hadley turned on heel and marched out the door toward the cottage with the walled garden. With adrenaline shaking her hands, Hadley rang the doorbell. The stone-faced Barnes let her in, but before he could fetch her, Mrs. Rhodes appeared at the parlor curtain in a fine pink dress and a matching flowered bonnet. Her face blanched as she realized that the countess had come to call.

“Lady Dorset, to what do we owe the honor?” she said, her tight voice betraying her welcoming smile. She reached for her hat before letting her hand sink back to her side. “I was just on my way out to have lunch with Mrs. and Miss Campbell, but you are welcome to join us. I’m sure they would be pleased to make your acquaintance.”

“I don’t want to keep you, Mrs. Rhodes,” Hadley began slowly, her eyes trailing up the stairs to where she imagined Mr. Talbot to be hiding. “I actually came to ask you for a favor. I know we don’t know each other very well and it’s a lot to ask, but I wanted to know if, one day, you would be willing to help me compile a list of everyone in town. In a few weeks, I hope to throw a party, and I don’t want to miss anyone. As I said, it’s a lot to ask, and if you are too busy, I would understand.”

Leona watched the redhead fidget with the white bakery box dangling from her hand.

“You can borrow my address book; it should have everyone. Barnes, please fetch it for her. Is there anything else you require?”

“Is Mr. Talbot in? I was hoping I could speak to him.”

“Let me fetch him.” Nadir? What could she want with him? she thought as she mounted the steps and knocked on his door. “Nadir! Nadir, darling, someone wants to speak with you.”

“I told you I am not to be disturbed! Tell whoever it is to go away,” he yelled through the wall.

“It’s Lady Dorset.”

His chair scraped across the floor followed by a series of bumps and thumps. After a moment, the door whined open and her cousin appeared looking much more put together than he did when she last saw him that morning. When he had been furiously writing and berating her for bothering him, he had only been in his shirtsleeves, but for Lady Dorset, he had donned one of his bright suits and matching cravats. He buttoned his cuffs and was about to saunter past his cousin when she sunk her nails into his arm.

“Ow! What is your problem?” he hissed as she dragged him away from the stairs out of earshot.

“Is there anything going on between you and the countess?”

“What? No, of course not.”

Her full cheeks flushed with anger as she grabbed the tender flesh on the underside of his arm and pinched through his suit. Nadir tried to wrench his arm away, but Leona held it fast.

“Stop that! Do you think I’m that much of a rake?”

“I have heard plenty of rumors, Nadir. You had better not be involved with Lady Dorset.”

“Can a man and woman never be friends?”

“No.”

He rolled his eyes, letting out an exasperated groan. He grasped his cousin by the shoulders and met her dark gaze. When their byzantine eyes met, she pinched her lips until they nearly disappeared and glared at him. As he cocked a black brow and grinned, Leona’s resolve faltered. Her lips curled against her will, but she quickly stifled her smile with a half-hearted scowl.

“Please tell me there is nothing between you.”

“Nothing but friendship,” he replied softly. “She seems to want a companion, and I like her. She’s... eccentric. You know how I enjoy the company of interesting people.”

His cousin wrapped her fingers around his upper arm, ready to pinch him again. “You promise that is all?”

“Yes! Really, Leona, how can you think I’m such a cad? I would never get involved with another man’s wife. Their daughters, on the other hand, are a different story.”

“You’re horrid.” Leona slapped his arm before looping her own through it. “Hurry up, or I will be late to the Campbell’s house.”

“You’re the one holding us up.”

At the bottom of the stairs, Lady Dorset waited with the leather address book clutched to her chest. A grin brightened her countenance as her eyes roamed between Leona and Nadir. While the shapes of their faces and lips differed, it was clear from their expressive almond eyes and matching noses, which began narrow and gradually widened into an arrow at the tip, that there was a family resemblance. Nadir had the rich golden brown skin of the men Eilian worked with in Palestine and the striking angular features that caught women’s eyes no matter the man’s skin color. His cousin could have easily been an Italian or Greek, maybe even a dark Englishwoman. By her countenance, Hadley assumed that, unlike Nadir, at least one of Leona’s parents was of English descent.

As they reached the lower steps and Leona released her cousin’s arm, her booted foot caught the carpet-runner. Nadir watched her fall, but before he could catch her, she hit the steps. Instinctively throwing her arm across her stomach, she slid down the last three stairs and came to rest on the wood floor in a heap of silk and crinoline. The countess darted over as Nadir ran down the last few steps. Leona quickly pulled herself to her feet using the banister and steadied her panicked breath.

“Leona, are you hurt?” Nadir asked, reaching for her arm but was quickly shaken off.

“I’m all right! I’m perfectly all right!” she cried as she fought against her shaking limbs to slip on her gloves and walk to the door. Nadir and Lady Dorset watched her with wide eyes, poised to administer any aid she could need, but she brushed off their concern with a shake of her head. “I promise I’m fine. Now, I really must be off, or I will be late.”

Before either Londoner could stop her, Leona bustled out, leaving them alone.

“Is she all right?”

Nadir shrugged. “Who knows with her? She’s probably embarrassed to have fallen in front of you. Let’s go in the parlor and—”

He pulled back the curtain blocking the parlor only to find his cousin’s barrel-chested husband snoring softly on the sofa. Tugging the drape shut, he turned back to the Countess of Dorset and lightly guided her down the hall.

“On second thought, it’s a lovely day. It would be a shame not to sit outside.”

Leading her by the arm, he walked her out the back door and into the little walled garden. It was barely more than a patch of cobbles with enough room for an iron table and two chairs. In each corner stood a terracotta pot of half-dead petunias. Nadir sneered at the shriveled brown flowers sitting amongst sprigs of weeds. If Argus was going to loaf around all day, the least he could do was keep the house presentable. He made a note to pay a visit to the florist after the countess left.

As Hadley thumbed through the address book, skimming the names and addresses with mild interest, Nadir gracefully seated himself on the hip-high wall. For a moment, he considered mentioning the dusty tunnel running beneath her house, but he thought better of it.

“My cousin was under the impression that you came to see me and not her.”

Hadley closed the book and folded her arms over it. “I hope I didn’t offend her. To be honest, you were the one I came to see.”

His sharp brow arched.

“My mother-in-law has agreed to let me borrow a handful of servants from her when I throw my party in a few weeks.”

“That’s wonderful. Now, I can finally wear my new tailcoat.” He paused, noting how the redheaded woman fiddled with her clutch and gloves. “Somehow I doubt you walked all the way down here to tell me that.”

“No,” she began slowly, “I wanted to ask for your assistance with throwing the party.”

“I doubt a woman like yourself needs my help.”

The countess’s face fell as she smoothed a lock behind her ear. “A woman like myself has never been to a real party... apart from my wedding.”

“Oh.” Sinking into the chair opposite her, Nadir cocked his head, regarding Lady Dorset with a frown. “What about Lord Dorset? I’m sure he could help you.”

“He’s not the sort who enjoys large parties. While he would never stop me, he isn’t much help. Eilian can’t even remember the names of different canapés or wines he’s had.” She released a nervous laugh. “My title may be countess, but I’m brass with just enough polish to pretend I’m gold. I had hoped that someone with your experience would be willing to help me sort some of this out. I’m sure you have hobnobbed with plenty of people.”

“That I have. If you would like my expertise, Lady Dorset, then I would be happy to give it, especially since throwing a soirée was my idea.”

“It will be far from a soirée. Mr. Talbot—”

“Please call me Nadir.”

“Nadir, when you stopped by, you mentioned that your parents throw parties in their vineyard in Alexandria. What are they like?”

A smile crept across his face as the garden faded into the Egyptian night. Insects chirped all around, hidden in the rows of vines, but as the musicians picked up their bows and flutes, they were downed beneath strings of notes and the clatter of conversation, the tink of wine glasses.

“The servants would hang colored jars with candles on the fence posts surrounding the vineyard, where they would shine like a thousand oversized jewels. Between the fields, there would be a series of chandelier-lit tents where the guests would sample my parents’ favorite new vintage and dance to an orchestra that would play European and Egyptian melodies. Waiters would filter through the crowd with canapés and grapes. Of course, all of this would be done at night when the air was cool and crisp and smelled faintly of fruit and wood.”

“It sounds magical.”

He nodded, his gaze finally returning to the shabby garden with a lurch, as if he had not expected it to be there. “It was.”

“Are both of your parents from Egypt?”

“Yes, well, my father likes to tell people that he is half-English and half-Egyptian, like that means something to them. Even if he was, he would only be the bastard son of some faceless Englishman named Talbot. Leona, on the other hand, really is half-English, and for the most part, she passes.”

“Passes?”

“They assume she is merely a swarthy Englishwoman, and I’m glad for it.” When the noblewoman still looked puzzled, he continued, “Anyone can see I’m not English. My father made certain we had a British surname and only let me speak English, but it doesn’t change the fact that I’m obviously not from here even if I was born in Dorset. You would be surprised how quickly you can be expelled from some of the best schools in the country when you misbehave and are not British. No amount of eloquence or money or friends can change the fact that you are not one of them.”

Hadley sighed. She had expected Nadir to become upset or impassioned by the sudden turn in the conversation, but he simply sat across the table from her, rolling a glass bead between his fingers as if they were discussing the most mundane of subjects. Is that how it felt to deal with inequity for so long? To have the hatred dull to the expected sting of a switch? Maybe that was what Eilian meant when he railed against the empire’s mistreatment of its colonies.

“To a lesser extent, I know how you feel. But what about your friends? I’m sure they don’t feel that way about you.”

“I don’t know what they truly think, and I don’t think I want to. My aesthete friends call me exotic.” He shook his head, pursing his lips in thought. “Animals or clothing are exotic. I tend to lose my appeal when they realize I’m much more like them than they first realized. It’s funny. They would pay a king’s ransom for a mummy or a chair with my ancestor’s face on it, but I’m worth much less than any of their friends, if it ever came down to it.”

“I can’t imagine that to be true. There’s no reason to discount you. You’re successful and charming. Look at the books you have written. People love them.”

“Perhaps, but I wouldn’t want to see what would happen if I was put in a situation where I needed them.” He spread his hands across the tabletop and leaned closer. “Enough of that, I have monopolized your time on my woes long enough. Let’s discuss the party. When is it?”

“I was hoping to have it maybe a week and a half or so from now.”

“We can work with that. You will need to get the invitations out as soon as possible and contact musicians and the florist. I assume you aren’t picking flowers from the orangery.”

“No, definitely not. Can I get all of that in Folkesbury, apart from the musicians?”

Nadir crinkled his nose in disgust. “The nearest florist is in Poole, which is where I would suggest you get everything. It isn’t London, but it will do.”

“I can’t ride my velocipede to Poole, can I?”

“Not unless it has an engine. Luckily for you, your ladyship, I brought my steamer.”

***

Quietly pulling the door shut behind him, Nadir listened in the stillness for any sign of Leona or Argus in the dining room or parlor. He grabbed hold of the banister and staggered up the stairs, trying to avoid the squeaky boards. At the top, he froze as the clock struck ten, filling the small house with its rhythmic clamor. Lurching the last few feet to his bedroom door, he slipped in and hoped that the whining hinge was drowned beneath the clock’s gonging. He couldn’t bear to speak to Leona. After their conversation that afternoon, she would surely think that he had spent the entire day and part of the evening with Lady Dorset even though they had parted company hours earlier.

His head swam as he pulled off his coat and threw it across the bed. He had gone for a walk along the shore after their outing to clear his head. In Poole, they had picked out flowers and stationary and visited the market. While Lady Dorset seemed to finally relax once he steered her toward what he and his friends would have chosen, most of which she dismissed for her own choice, he couldn’t stop thinking of the vineyard in Alexandria.

What he hadn’t told her was that the party he remembered was nearly twenty years ago. He had escaped from his governess’s ghost stories and run down the candle-lit lane to find his parents. He hadn’t thought of Egypt in years. After spending most of his life in England, the thought of being in the abysmal heat was more than he could bear, yet nostalgia made him long to return. No amount of wave-watching or walking could chase away the idea. What was the point in traveling there? It had never been his home. His parents lived in England, his publisher was here, his house was here, his life was here. After downing half a bottle of wine and something brown that tasted like lamp oil at the pub, he concluded that the only Egyptian paradise that would ever welcome him existed in one of his books.

Pulling off his shoes, he turned them over to let the sand trickle out into a tiny dune beside his bed. As he unbuttoned his waistcoat, the door creaked open, but he ignored the voluptuous figure behind him with her hand on her hip.

“Where have you been? I thought you would have been back for dinner.”

“The countess and I went to Poole to order supplies for her party. She wanted me to thank you again for letting her borrow your address book,” he replied without meeting Leona’s narrowed gaze. “Oh, that reminds me, I have new plants for the garden in the back of the steamer. You really shouldn’t let them go to seed like that.”

“You reek of liquor.”

“So? I went to the pub. I’m allowed to go where I bloody well please, Leona.” Nadir turned to find her scowling at him, her lips nearly invisible. “What do you want?”

She clinked a china cup onto his desk, sprinkling droplets onto the pages of his manuscript. “I came to bring you this. I should have dumped it on your head. Good night, Nadir.”

Without another word, she slammed the door behind her. Nadir rolled his eyes and sank into the stiff seat of his desk chair. He carefully soaked up the drips of tea with his blotter before turning his attention to the words beneath them. Nadir skimmed the scene he had written the night before and readied his pen to continue. If he was to write a chase, he would need to at least be somewhat sober. Downing the tea in two gulps, he penned his heroine’s clandestine escape from the king’s harem by feigning death, but as she was about to be nearly caught, he yawned and rubbed his eyes. Nadir’s breath came in languorous puffs. His mind wandered and the ink seeped from his pen where it lingered on the parchment. He leaned back, stretching his neck and arms to fend off the fatigue. Maybe he had misjudged the potency of the wine. Closing his eyes, his body loosened and the pen dropped from his hand.

***

Something shuffled in the darkness, thumping up the steps and across the loose boards. Nadir’s body jolted upright in the chair at the sound of a door slamming nearby. He blinked, the pain of the noise echoing through his skull. Looking over his shoulder, he found that his door was closed and no one else was there. He rubbed his eyes and checked his desk clock. Three hours had passed.

Cracking his stiff back and neck, he collapsed onto his bed and lay facedown in his pillow, too tired to turn off the lamp. As he waited for sleep to overtake him again, a sharp inhalation broke the still air followed by the wet tremor of a sob. Thoughts of his books, Lady Dorset, and Leona’s fall tumbled together as he was pulled under.

But why was the harem girl crying?

Chapter Thirteen

The Lieutenant Colonel

Party preparation was in full swing. Everywhere Eilian turned, he found maids scrubbing or polishing, noisily clanging their brushes against metal buckets. Scooping up his notebook, he crossed the bare halls. The carpet runners had been stripped away to be beaten out back while the statues and paintings had been smothered with white cloths. In a way, the house appeared to be regressing, returning to the entropic state they found it in, save for the spiders, yet there was nothing left for him to do. Hadley stood like a general on a domestic battlefield—directing staff maneuvers and ordering supplies—and he expected no less from her. After all, she had run a business practically on her own for years and built her line of toys into something sought by rich and poor alike, so a party should have been an easy feat. Still, he hoped there would have been a place for him. He didn’t mind menial tasks, and during the first few days of preparation, he cleaned the library from top to bottom, washing the shelves’ glass panes before oiling and polishing the books within. He had even smoothed things over with Mrs. Negi who was in a black mood after discovering she would be cooking for several hundred alongside the spare kitchen help from his mother’s home in Grosvenor Square.

Now on the sixth day, he was no longer needed. Keeping his head down, he made his way to the parlor and was relieved to find the room empty. The sofa and chairs were cloaked with sheets, but standing in the corner just far enough away from the wall to catch the light filtering through the mullioned windows was what appeared to be a pot of dirt. After being insulted and derided by Nash, Eilian returned home determined to collect his own silphium seeds. His professional integrity wouldn’t allow him to send the flowers or seeds from the original plant to London, but he didn’t feel the slightest pang of guilt as he harvested a handful of seeds, several of which he dried out on the windowsill while the rest went into the empty pot. Picking up the watering can, he checked if any green had broken the surface. If he could grow his own silphium plant, then maybe it was possible that the species could be revived again and he could send it out for analysis. Part of him wondered what the consequences of his discovery would be, but if the Romans used it for hundreds of years, then surely it could only benefit society.

His eyes trailed to the wall beside the fireplace. With its intricate scrollwork, massive mirror of Venetian glass, and busy wallpaper, the faint outline of the study door was barely visible. Pushing on the edge of the plaster, a faint click sounded behind it and the door swung open. Every surface was coated in a layer of dust, except for the tabletop which Eilian had cleaned when he discovered the room and the blank space against the wall where the brass telescope had once been. It was a relief to know that the maids hadn’t yet discovered the hidden cubby. Eilian slipped inside, leaving the door open far enough to let in air and light while still being able to be quickly shut if someone entered the main parlor.

Opening his notebook, he separated his notes from the stack of letters he had yet to open. Most were nothing more than updates about his late-father’s shipping company or bills from the various merchants Hadley procured for the party. A smile spread across his lips but rapidly faded to a grimace as he withdrew a letter from the mechanic and saw the figure it would cost to fix the steamer. It would be ready to be picked up in town at his earliest convenience. Hope bloomed in Eilian’s chest. Maybe they could return to London soon. He deflated with a sigh. No matter how much he wished to return to the city, they would remain in Dorset until after the party and probably a week or two more. He never imagined London to be a place he would want to return, but being trapped in Folkesbury made him realize how much he missed his home and even the familiar garden paths of Grosvenor Square and Greenwich. There was smog and noise and frippery, but there was more variety in London than any city he had ever visited. Now that he and Hadley were married, he would be tied to England due to her businesses and his duties, yet he found he was looking forward to staying in Greenwich for part of the year. During the offseason, they would travel to the Near East or around Europe, and when she had to build her inventory, he would stay to help her or work on his mechano-archaeology research. For once there would be balance in his life.

Eilian put aside the bills to be taken care of later. At the bottom of the pile was a letter from his mother. He considered sticking it in the back of his notebook, but what if she was writing to tell them she could no longer spare her staff? Reading the letter, his eyes slowed as he reached the body of the missive. A tremor passed through his hand. He let the letter fall and rubbed his brow.

The announcement has not yet been made public, but Dylan stopped by the yesterday to tell me some wonderful news: Constance is with child! The baby will be born sometime in December if all goes well, and in the meantime, your brother and his wife have settled in a lovely flat near Grosvenor Square, close enough that I can visit my grandchild whenever I please. Nothing could be better, except perhaps a second grandchild in the near future.

Eilian groaned and closed his eyes. He knew what his mother meant. His chest tightened at the thought. Dylan already had a life of his own and punctually met their mother’s expectations. He was happy for his brother, truly he was—Dylan and Constance would surely shower their child with love—but what he craved was freedom, not children. Even though he happened to be the elder brother, Eilian felt as if he was not much more than a child himself. Starting a family seemed so far off that he and Hadley hadn’t even discussed it. When speaking of future plans like traveling or expanding her business, children were never mentioned.

A ripple of fear gurgled through his gut. If he truly loved his wife, how could he willing put her in mortal danger? Maybe Patrick was rubbing off on him, but he was afraid. If all goes well. So much could go wrong, and he couldn’t bear the thought of no longer waking up beside her or hearing her brisk step through the halls just to fill an obligation.

Rubbing the back of his neck with his prosthetic hand, something cold slithered across his neck and down his chest. Eilian rose and tugged his shirt from his trousers only to have his long silver chain snake out. The signet ring bounced off the chain and across the floorboards before skidding under the desk. Frowning, he stuffed his shirt back in and dropped to his knees. The ring glittered in the far corner. He reached for it while keeping his head against the desk’s front, but his fingers barely brushed its cool surface. Getting down on all fours, he crawled under the dusty desk.

“Now, I’ve got you,” he whispered, his fingers finally closing around the ring, but as he raised his gaze, he bumped his head in surprise. Lining the back wall were three dozen journals. No two were the same in size, color, and level of wear, but on each spine a white numeral had been carefully painted. His elbow ached as he leaned on his prosthesis to pull out the first two volumes. Shimmying out from under the table, he dusted his knees and placed the books on the desk along with the chain and ring. Eilian threaded the chain through it again, but as he reached the clasp, he realized the links around it had been torn open. There was no way around it. With a sigh, he slid the ring above his wedding band, flexing his fingers until it rested comfortably below the joint.

Pulling the study door a little closer, he inspected the stack of books. The first journal was barely more than a hand-length long, small enough to easily tuck into a breast pocket. He turned it over in his hand, noting the spatters of dried dirt on the edges of the pages and the degraded condition of the stitches that bound the spine. The ink on the inside cover was smeared and stained with water, but through it Eilian could make out:

If found, please forward to Brasshurst Hall, Folkesbury, Dorset, England. Property of Lieutenant Colonel Laurence Sorrell—

The battalion number that followed had been washed away long ago. Eilian’s eyes trailed to the portrait of the young man seated against a boulder. So this was Laurence Sorrell. Carefully cracking the pages apart, he found that most of the journal cataloged the daily happenings of the Napoleonic War: the condition of the men; their surroundings, which were often drawn in detail along the edges of pages only to intrude upon the words; the things he missed most on the battlefield.

January 2nd, 1809

Starving. Can’t wait to have real food. Cottage pie, perhaps...or pheasant.

He chuckled to himself at the short entry, which was surrounded by drawings of bread and what looked like a cauldron over a fire. Things hadn’t changed much. Glancing over more complaints and half-decipherable battle maneuvers, he stopped when the pages suddenly appeared free of drawings and mud. Laurence’s handwriting no longer seemed scribbled in haste. Ink pooled at the ends of his words as if he sat deliberating whether to commit them to paper. He could picture the curly-haired soldier wrapped in a blanket penning the entry by candlelight. The night would have been punctuated by boom of cannons and rifles in the distance, and the air would have tasted of sulphorous smoke.

March 14th, 1809

Gabriella has written to tell me that my father is dead and I am expected to return home at once. Why? Why should I abandon my men to return to a man who will be long dead and buried by the time I reach English shores? The letter itself was sent nearly a month ago. For a month I had no knowledge that I was now the earl, but I should make haste. I will leave when I am good and ready. My purpose is here. No one in Dorset needs me as much as my men do now.

Eilian frowned. He could sympathize with his great-grandfather. When he received the letter from his mother in Beersheba, it felt as if his life had been ripped out from under him. In one moment, he found himself fatherless and shouldering a burden he had tried to escape from for a decade. Neither he nor his great-grandfather had the experience of most men. There was no sickbed to wait at or decades to watch their fathers wizen with age all during which they could gather experience. Eilian’s gaze trailed to his prosthetic hand. Then again, he ran as far away as possible from his father the moment he could.

Thumbing a few pages forward, the drawings of soldiers and greenery once again disappeared.

March 21st, 1809

I never thought my family would stoop so low. I have been accosted. For months I have complained of the noblemen who have decided to try their hand at playing soldier. They are the ones who think having a title allows them to watch the war from their social clubs. They hide at the general’s camp, if you can call it that when it has beds and a roof, and have servants fetch them wine while their men roast whatever creature they can find and march in sole-less shoes. Now, I have been forced into their ranks by my own flesh and blood.

This morning I received a letter summoning me to the general’s camp. I expected to be given new orders or even boots to bring back, but instead, I was met with toasts and carousing. They were congratulating me on my sudden rise in station. How can they celebrate a rise in stature if it comes at the expense of another man’s life? Wellington at least seemed to understand that. He brought me into his office to speak privately, and I was horrified to find Thomas waiting there with a painter. They made me sit for a portrait to commemorate becoming the seventh earl right then and there.

It was the most uncomfortable experience of my life. I would rather trudge through a hundred muck-strewn roads than be scrutinized for hours against my will. The painting will never see the light of day.

My brother seemed thrilled to find me well and whole, yet I can’t help but be churlish. Being on the continent, I had hoped to escape all of them: mother, father, Gabriella, Thomas. My deep love for them doesn’t negate the fact that I am most myself when there is distance between us, and while I yearn to see my nieces and nephews again, I wish my return was only a visit.

Now, I shall be drawn back against my will as if Fate’s wheel turned only to reel me back across the channel to Dorset. Maybe I will be lucky, and the French will sink us. If only Thomas wasn’t joining me. What my life will become on the other side of the sea, only the Fates know.

“What did you become?” Eilian whispered as he peered under the desk at the other thirty-three volumes neatly numbered and arranged out of sight. From his portrait in the hall gallery, he knew Laurence lived well into his golden years and appeared to have become the quintessential gentleman he imagined when he thought of earls or dukes, but how did he get there? Prying the stained pages apart, Eilian read on. There was only one way to find out what became of the Seventh Earl of Dorset.

Chapter Fourteen

Love and Desire

Hadley scrutinized her reflection in the vanity mirror. Her eyes slid over every pore and freckle, her heart quickening as the list of flaws mounted. Swallowing hard, she met her own weary gaze. At least she liked her eyes and nose. She pushed on her cheeks and ran her hand along the edge of her jaw. They would say her cheeks were too full, her jaw too masculine. Licking her finger, she smoothed her auburn brows. It felt strange to suddenly try to care so much about her appearance. She had never felt the need to bother with it. No one looked at her, and she didn’t really want them to.

She had resigned herself to becoming a spinster with the business as her only companion, and spinsters didn’t need elaborate coiffures or fancy gowns. Living with Adam hadn’t helped either. How could she possibly measure up against a man whose clothes fit better than hers and whose hair was done with more care than anyone she knew? Occasionally, she did try. After her older brother, George, died and she was forced to attend meetings with potential buyers, she added new trimmings to her old gowns and had Eliza style her hair to ensure that the only flaws they could find were in her product.

She ran her hands over her arms, which were far too strong from lifting molds and heavy automata. Her calluses caught as her palms brushed. Over her cotton nightgown, she traced the shape of her full breasts and trailed over her sides until she came to rest on her hips. After more than a decade of wearing a corset, she should have been narrower, but the restriction was infuriating and she could never bring herself to pull it too tight. Maybe she would take up the Rational Dress Movement after all. It had to be better to be mocked in the society pages than to be so limited.

Resting her head in her hands, she sighed. The party was only four days away, and she still hadn’t decided whether she would strive to be what people like Mrs. Nash would respect or the woman she truly was. A woman who loved to indulge in a dress that matched her eyes but much preferred to work with her hands and wear trousers. She wouldn’t wear them then, but if one woman had already scoffed at her ideals, others certainly would.

Her gaze returned to the woman in the mirror. With a shake of her head, waves of dark red swirled and settled against her skin, highlighting the lines of cheekbones and the cupid’s bow of her lips. Biting them until they pinkened, she smiled and smoothed the edges of her hair. If nothing else, she was striking, and if Adam could work with that, so could she.

Slipping Eliza’s reply from the vanity’s drawer, she retreated to her bed. She sank into its plush folds as she reread the missive for the tenth time. Nearly every night she had meant to bring it up with her husband, but it didn’t seem like the right time. How did one discuss these things, especially when they had never even gotten that far? Hadley straightened as a thump echoed from behind the dressing room door. When the door squealed open, she threw the letter into the bedside table and fluffed her hair. She watched as Eilian crept inside in his pajamas but upon seeing her awake and waiting for him, a lopsided smile spread across his features. Crossing the room, he dropped a stack of mismatched books from under his arm onto the dresser and leaned across the bed to kiss her.

He plopped down beside her, wrapping his prosthetic hand around hers. “I’m surprised to see you still up. You looked exhausted at dinner.”

“I was, but now, I am wide awake,” she replied. She had fallen asleep on the chaise in one of the drawing rooms while looking over the final menu. When she awoke, she found Mrs. Negi glowering over her, the menu crumpled on the floor, and the chair’s white sheet wrapped around her. “What have you been up to?”

“Patrick and I walked to town to retrieve the steamer. Apparently the boiler damaged several other parts, but it’s fixed now.” His grey gaze traveled over Hadley’s face. Despite her bright smile and quick movements, her eyes betrayed the fatigue lingering behind them. “Is there anything you want me to do tomorrow, Had? I feel as if you are shouldering so much with this party, and you needn’t do that. I can help— I want to help.”

She rubbed her face and fluffed her hair at the roots. “I know, I know. Tomorrow, I promise I will think of something. I’m not accustomed to delegating.”

“And I am not accustomed to being useless.” Rubbing her shoulder, he reverently kissed her forehead. “Let me help.”

As she nodded and watched him walked to the weathered books sitting on the dresser, her eyes locked onto the gold ring sitting above his wedding band. “Are you wearing your father’s ring?”

“Only by necessity. My chain broke, and I didn’t want to lose it.”

“Maybe it’s a sign.”

“I doubt it.”

Her cousin’s letter called to her from the drawer. She had to say something. When he returned with book in hand, the words worked free from her mouth against her will, “Eilian, before you start, there is something I need to speak to you about.”

He cocked an umber brow and settled beside her. “Is everything all right?”

“Yes. Well, no, not exactly. I want to discuss what happened the night your arm got caught on my corset.”

“Oh, that,” he replied, raking a nervous hand through his hair. “What about it?”

“I just want to know what happened. Was it something I did?”

“No, of course not.”

Without meeting his gaze, she reached into the nightstand and pulled out the letter with shaking hands. “I hope you don’t mind, but I wrote to Eliza.”

Eilian’s face fell. “Had, did you really? Do you know how embarrassing that is? To have everyone know our intimate business. I’m sure she told James, too.”

“I didn’t know who else to turn to!” she cried. “You wouldn’t talk about it, and she’s been married for years. I thought she might have some advice.”

“What did she say?”

“That it isn’t rare for a man to be hesitant, especially one who is very respectful.” She swallowed hard and smoothed her hair behind her ears. “Eliza also said that you may not want children yet, so you might be worried about that. I mean, I don’t want them yet either, but apparently there are ways around that. I will let you read it yourself.”

Sweat broke across Eilian’s back as he took the letter from his wife’s hand. The more he read, the harder it was to fight the thickening in his throat. Swallowing against the nausea, he rubbed the back of his neck where the skin burned against his will. He glanced up at Hadley to find her watching him, as if waiting for him to rejoice at this epiphany, but all it did was make him feel ill. To Hadley, it must have sounded so simple on paper, but to him, it was as indecipherable as one of his great-grandfather’s battle maneuvers. Eilian wiped the sheen of sweat from his forehead and drew in a measured breath to stifle the bolt of pain lancing down his arm.

“What do you think? None of it sounds too bad.”

“I... I don’t know. You’re all right with all of this?”

“Of course, aren’t you?” Hadley searched his face, noting his downcast eyes and quickened breath. “You’re not?”

His eyes trailed back to the paper before he shook his head. “No, I don’t think I can do this.”

“Can’t do what, exactly?”

“Any of it. Honestly, Had, I’m not comfortable with any of this.”

“But— but why?”

“Because thinking about it makes me feel ill.”

The words had escaped before he could think to stop them. Hadley stared at him, blue eyes wide in confusion and hurt. Looking down at his mismatched hands, Eilian tried to squelch the burning behind his eyes. There was nothing he could do to change how he felt. It wasn’t her fault that she wanted to make love and he didn’t. He was the odd one, the one lacking.

Her lips twitched as she asked, “Do I make you ill?”

“No, please, Had, don’t ever think that. It isn’t you, it’s— it’s the act itself. None of this has anything to do with you.”

“It has everything to do with me. You won’t even touch me.”

“Of course I touch you. I kiss you, hug you, help you dress.”

Hadley’s voice cracked as tears moistened the corners of her eyes. “But you don’t touch me in that way. Do you not feel that way about me? Do you not want me?”

Eilian froze, his stomach knotting and churning. How could she think he didn’t want her? He had invited her to join him in the Negev because he couldn’t imagine going months without seeing her. He had proposed to her and married her. She was the only person he ever knew that he wanted to spend his life with, so how could she think that?

“I do want you,” he replied, holding her hand between his. “When have I ever rejected you?”

“Eilian, you’re rejecting me right now!”

“But...” He opened his mouth, unsure what to say, as she pulled her hand away. Bile rose in his throat. How could he make her see that he rejected the act, not her? “When you say ‘feel that way,’ what exactly do you mean?”

“That you desire me. You don’t even seem to want to touch me.”

“If you wanted me to, why didn’t you tell me to?”

“Because you’re my husband and you should want to!” She dropped her voice. “What about men? Do you feel that way about them? I won’t be angry. It would at least make sense that you seemed attracted to me in Palestine.”

Sitting in stunned silence, he watched his wife’s lips tremble with his hesitation. “No, should I?”

She wiped at her nose with the back of her hand and sniffed against the staunched tears. As Eilian inched closer, she turned her face from him. Her lips contorted into a grimace, and when she could no longer suppress them, hot tears trickled from her eyes. Eilian wrapped his arms around her as she rocked with silent sobs.

“I didn’t mean to hurt you, Had. I only wanted to be honest with you. It isn’t you, though. I have never felt that way about anyone.”

“That’s of little comfort,” she replied, pushing the cold metal of his prosthesis away.

“I don’t know what you want me to say, but this is how I feel. It wasn’t until recently that I found out that not everyone feels as I do.”

She drew in a tremulous breath and straightened, her voice coming in grating bursts as she said, “Eilian, you aren’t stupid. How could you have not known that?”

“How was I supposed to know when I have never felt it?”

“Maybe you would feel differently if you actually tried.”

Her hand shot out, reaching for the buttons of his pajamas. Before she could work it loose, he swatted her away and hopped off the bed.

“Stop! Just stop!” Eilian released a constrained breath. His fear and nausea hardened into anger as he stared into her defiant eyes. “I would love to try if I didn’t feel as if I were about to vomit. Despite what you may think, I’m not exaggerating, Hadley. Do you not care at all about how I feel?”

“I don’t understand what’s happening between us.”

“Then, that makes two of us. Look, I need some space. I need to get away from all of this,” he replied as he refastened his buttons. Gathering his pillow and dressing gown, he refused to meet her gaze. “I will sleep in one of the guest rooms tonight. Good night, Hadley.”

“Are you suggesting that we will never—?”

He paused with his hand on the door, swallowing down his rage. “No, I would never do that to you, but I need time to figure this out. All I ask is that you allow me to go at my own pace. If you can’t accept that, I will be moving my things into the guest room.”

Shutting the door behind him, he leaned against it and closed his eyes. He lingered for a moment to see if Hadley would pursue him, but to his relief, she stayed in bed. There was nothing in the world he wanted to discuss less than another personal failing. But could he really call it that when he could never remember a time when he felt differently? Opening the nearest bedroom door, he stripped the dusty cover from the bed and collapsed onto the mattress. He ran a hand through his hair and stared up at the gathered silk canopy hanging precariously above his head. Maybe it would come crashing down in the middle of the night and end his misery.

Attraction. Desire. The words were bandied about but their meaning never made clear. He should have known then that something was wrong. His attraction to Hadley was stronger than it had been to any other woman. He loved her tenacity, her curiosity, the way she self-consciously smoothed her hair and clothes when she was nervous. It made him want to spend his life entirely in her company. But what did others feel when they looked at her? He thought she was beautiful and clever, but it was impossible to fathom that phantom feeling of desire. Apparently she felt it when she saw him. His stomach knotted at the thought.

His inability to experience desire wounded her. It wasn’t something he could control. Like a colorblind man, he had no idea of what he couldn’t see until it was reflected in another’s perception and he realized the magnitude with which they felt what he could never know. Hadley would assume that he did not desire her in the way she did not desire his brother. While she could never understand the complete absence of a feeling that was natural to her, he wouldn’t be able to construct that feeling from others’ testimonies.

On his wedding day, his brother had ribbed him about the wedding night, and while he smiled and chuckled along, he knew he hadn’t fully understood what he meant. There was some anticipation of the event that he did not feel. Eilian closed his eyes, his body sighing into the old mattress. It was naive and foolish to have assumed that anyone felt as he did. They never did before, so why would they now?

Chapter Fifteen

Opportunity Makes a Thief

Hadley lay in bed with a copy of The Strand resting against her thighs. Her eyelids drooped despite her best attempts to follow Mr. Holmes’s latest case. It seemed fitting to read a story about a runaway bride. Even with the lamp burning in the corner of her vision and Hatty Doran’s mysterious disappearance, her head lolled forward, snapping up momentarily as she regained her place on the page. The house had fallen silent long ago, but she didn’t want to sleep. If she slept, it would be morning and she would have to speak to Eilian or pretend the night before never happened. Neither option sounded preferable. As she reached to turn the page with a sluggish hand, a loud clank echoed through the house. Sitting up, her eyes drifted over the furniture and door. Had she imagined it in that moment between sleeping and waking? No, she was certain she heard something fall.

“Eilian? Eilian, is that you?” she called, thinking he had stumbled over something in the guest room, but no one responded and no footsteps padded on the other side of the door.

Opening the drawer without taking her eyes off the door, she withdrew her derringer and slowly slid out of bed and into her slippers. She crossed the boards on soundless feet, cracking the door enough to peer into the darkened hall. Light streamed from the bedroom but was drowned beneath the deep shadows at the other end. The only noise came from the faint hiss of the gas lamps behind her and the steady thrum of the engine in the orangery. In the stillness, it clanged and rattled as she inched toward the doors at the darkened end with her gun pointed ahead of her.

A scant glimmer of light shined off the polished floors and wood-lined walls as she crossed the empty hall to the row of guest rooms. Her eyes swept over the doors flanking either side for any sign that someone might be hiding in one, but when she opened the first door, she found her husband sprawled across the bedspread sound asleep. Two springs had unhooked from his prosthesis during the night while the rest remained assembled and tucked around a pillow. Her gaze softened as she reached his face, which was already peppered with stubble and lay lax against the sheets. Reaching out, she shook his shoulder.

“Eilian,” Hadley called, patting his side and cheek, “wake up!”

“Is it morning already?” he mumbled into the blanket, but when his vision cleared and his eyes came to rest on the glinting derringer, he snapped into consciousness. Scrambling to his knees, his heart pounded as he fumbled with his prosthesis. He looked toward the window to gain his bearings, but all he could make out was the pre-twilight blackness.

He drew in a constrained breath as his grey gaze traveled from Hadley’s knit brows and tight lips to her gun. “What’s going on?”

“I heard something. I thought maybe it was you, but obviously not.”

He shook his head, rubbing the sleep from his eyes. “Want me to go look? Maybe one of the servants dropped wood or a bucket.”

“At this time of morning?”

“Right.” Eilian pulled his dressing gown over his pajamas. “Let’s look. It’s probably nothing.”

“Maybe thieves broke in or Nash.”

“If it’s the latter, feel free to shoot, but please refrain from killing my staff,” he yawned, plucking the iron shovel from the edge of the hearth.

Eilian followed his wife down the hall, but as they flung open each door, ready to attack any intruders, they found the wing of bedrooms empty. The only footsteps or breaths they heard were their own. The hard fear in Hadley’s eyes ebbed when the last door closed. She could have sworn she heard something, but when searching the upstairs revealed nothing, she couldn’t help but wonder if she had been dreaming after all. But if she was mistaken and someone remained in the house…

“Shall we go downstairs?” Eilian asked, his voice reverberating in the gloom of the upper arcades.

“Ssh, keep your voice down! They might still be here,” she whispered, glaring at him over her shoulder.

With a renewed resolve, she raised her firing arm and crept ahead. Eilian stayed at her side as they peeked into the statue and vase-filled niches along the arcades of the great hall. Moonlit fog filtered in from the skylight, illuminating the spectral furniture in the room below. As the shadow-drenched staircase came into view, Eilian put his hand on Hadley’s arm. She stopped, her mouth poised to reprimand, when he put his finger to his lips. Her light eyes widened as quick steps crossed the boards, growing louder until a figure emerged from the hall below. Eilian and Hadley leaned back from the pillared arches while the man crossed the room. His taper flickered in his hand, casting queer shades dancing on the family crest and lion’s mouth of the hearth. When the stranger disappeared into the dining room, Hadley met Eilian’s gaze.

“You distract him,” she whispered, cocking the gun’s hammer. “I will go downstairs.”

He caught her arm and pulled her back to his side. “No. There could be more of them. We will do it from up here. I would rather have him run out the door than go after you.”

Releasing a tense breath, Hadley nodded and trained her gun on the dining room door. Shadows roiled and drifted in the blackness below the arcade. Her heart drummed in her throat as she waited with her finger on the trigger. Drawing in a deep breath, Hadley released it slowly. She had to calm down or she would shoot him the moment he appeared. As she readjusted her hand, candlelight drifted back into the great hall. Eilian locked eyes with her, and with a nod, her gaze sharpened as she stared down the barrel at the man below.

“Identify yourself!” Eilian yelled.

The man below jumped, looking around before raising his gaze to the upper arcade. His white hair and silver-rimmed spectacles glistened in the scant light of the flickering candle as he spotted them leaning behind the wooden pillars. “It’s me, sir! I thought I heard something.”

Hadley exhaled and dropped her arm. She had never been so relieved to see Patrick. Quickly descending the staircase, they joined the butler in the great hall. Standing amongst the covered furniture in the dark, the house took on an otherworldly hue. The blackness beyond the hall leading to the gallery and library were absolute.

“Why didn’t you turn on the lights? Hadley nearly shot you.”

“I’m sorry, sir, but I didn’t want to wake the whole house. Did you hear it, too?”

“I heard something, but I’m not sure what. Are all the servants accounted for?”

The butler nodded. “I woke Charlotte, and she said the other girls are in bed and haven’t moved all night. I’ve been going room by room, checking the windows, your ladyship. I thought maybe a tree or branch broke through a window, but they’re all closed and the doors are locked, too.”

“That’s good, at least. You didn’t happen to see anyone while you—?”

Hadley froze as the unmistakable crack of shattering glass erupted behind her. They slowly turned, their gazes trailing to the pitch-black hall. There was no question; someone was in the house.

“Stay behind me,” Eilian whispered as he held the shovel like a cricket bat and crept toward the gallery.

Fear inched up Hadley’s form, sending a tremor down her arm as she held the gun ahead of her with both hands. She drew in a constrained breath. With the disorienting pulse of the pool’s engine, it was nearly impossible to tell if the noises she heard were footsteps or merely an offbeat churn of the weathered cogs. As Eilian flipped on the gallery’s lamps and illuminated the generations of nobles, her body relaxed under the familiar glow. The room was empty.

At the library’s pocket door, they readied themselves for an ambush, but when it was thrown open and the light turned on, it appeared as if no one had entered it since Eilian cleaned it. That only left one possibility.

“You checked the back rooms, Pat?”

“Yes, sir. The parlors, the back drawing room, the morning room, the kitchen, the servants’ quarters. I didn’t go upstairs though.”

“We did.”

Eilian and Hadley exchanged strained looks. Neither wanted to go into the orangery. With the fog from the pool and the cover of the foliage, anyone could be hiding in there and they might never find them. Eilian swallowed hard. For once he hoped to find Nash lounging beside the pool with another bottle of champagne.

“Should I fetch the police?” the butler whispered, his eyes running between his master and mistress.

“Not yet. We need you to keep an eye out by the door. If you see anyone, yell.”

At the library’s double doors, Eilian waited, watching Hadley’s chest rapidly rise and fall. “Had, you don’t have to come in if you don’t want to.”

“I do. I just need a moment.” Closing her eyes, she drew in a deep breath and focused on the piece of steel in her hand. It would protect her. She believed in her skills and knew what she was capable of. Hadley swept her hair behind her ears and cleared her throat. “Ready.”

Eilian opened the door a crack and gazed into the darkness. Inching along the wall with his hand, he searched for the switch that would turn on the auxiliary lanterns he had seen hanging on the metal armature that held up the massive dome. He ripped the stray vines from the switch and with a sharp click, the lamps exhaled to life. One by one the globe-sized bulbs alighted, radiating an eerie green light through the moss-coated glass. It wasn’t much, but it was enough to make out the overgrown path that cut through the trees. In the alien glow, the fog churned, creating faces and shadows between the trunks, but as Eilian and Hadley stepped through the mist, the nightmares disappeared only to be replaced by darker shades once they left the safety of the library door.

Hadley’s eyes darted across the brush, searching for any sign of movement. Every curl of mist caught her eye, but nothing appeared. The deeper they moved into the darkness, the louder her heart pounded. A little voice whispered that no one was there. Maybe a hedgehog or rat had broken into some forgotten cupboard and shattered a glass. As they rounded the corner where the mosaic floor lay, something caught Hadley’s foot. Before she could catch herself, she stumbled forward and hit the ground hard, knees-first. She held her breath as her derringer skidded away, hoping that it wouldn’t go off.

“Are you all right?” Eilian whispered, rushing to her side. “What happened?”

“I tripped.”

Climbing to her feet, she brushed off her nightgown and glanced down at what caught her foot. She had expected to find a stray root or misplaced shovel but instead found an overturned iron candelabrum. It was one of a set she had brought down from the attic for the party. As Eilian righted it, she frowned thoughtfully. The candelabrum weighed over fifty pounds and had a wide decorative base. The vibration of the engine couldn’t have knocked it over. Fear curled around her ribs at the implication.

“This must have been the noise Patrick and I heard. Where’s my gun?”

“It’s right here,” he answered as he retrieved it from the edge of the path. “I really don’t think anyone is here. We haven’t heard anything or seen anyone. If they made this much noise before, I don’t think they would be able to keep quiet for this long.” He gently rubbed her arms, but she continued to clutch her gun and eye the gardens around them for the intruder. “Maybe they broke in, realized all of the doors were locked, and left.”

“But I heard this first! I know I heard it. I was still awake. We need to keep looking, Eilian. I can’t go back to bed without knowing for certain that no one is here.”

“All right. Let’s circle back. If we don’t find anything, Pat will go and bring the police back. How does that sound?”

“Fine.”

She crossed her arms and stared at the path ahead of them. Her thoughts churned in an infinite loop of fear that would only break and capturing the thief or the sun rising to chase away the unknown. Then, the shadows would recede and everything would be as it once was. Eilian wrapped his arm around her shoulder and drew her closer, reverently kissing the top of her head. Against her better judgment, she allowed him to draw her forward around the path toward the pool. She huddled against Eilian’s side, shivering as a biting breeze cut through her cotton gown. Her eyes narrowed as Patrick came into view again.

Slipping away from Eilian, she broke from the trail and cut through the thin patch of trees between the girders and the pool. The wind tousled her hair as her eyes locked onto the shattered pane. In the spectral green glow, she could make out the sea breaking against the bluffs in the distance and the spray of shattered glass across the lawn. Hadley backed away from the window to allow the moonlight to shine onto the orangery’s floor, but no glass was left beneath her feet.

It didn’t make any sense.

When she emerged from the brush, she found Eilian standing beside the pool with Patrick’s candle in his hand. His grey eyes were wide as he stared into the patch of earth where orchids and birds of paradise sprouted. Even when she reached his side, he didn’t stir. She followed Eilian’s gaze, but the spot was empty.

“What’s wrong? Did they take anything?”

He raked a hand through his hair and swallowed hard. “The silphium is gone.”

Chapter Sixteen

A Sleepless Night

Hadley and Eilian watched from the chaise in the library as three policemen paced through the greenhouse under Mr. Bernard’s watchful eye. The sun shone into the glass globe, revealing every errant footprint and wilted flower. Patrick had been sent to fetch them in the early morning hours, but when the police refused to come until daybreak, he drove to the mechanic and returned to Brasshurst with a large sheet of metal. Careful not to disturb the broken glass, Hadley and Eilian had welded the metal over the frame where the pane of glass once stood to keep the delicate plants from dying in the spring chill. A few hours after dawn, the police finally arrived bright-eyed and smelling of breakfast while the Sorrells glared at them with weary scorn. After waiting hours for them to arrive without going back to sleep or having a bite to eat, they barely cared if the culprit was caught. All they wanted was to have their lives and house back.

“I know I said this already, but I am so sorry this happened, Eilian,” Hadley said as the sergeant gave one of the younger men orders and walked toward the library door.

“At least I saved some seeds. It isn’t gone, not indefinitely yet. Hopefully the one I planted will grow.” He sighed. “Imagine what we could have learned from it. If the other doesn’t take, all of my research was for nothing. If only Nash hadn’t been such a stubborn fool. Now, we will never know what it could have done.”

The library door squealed open, letting in the overpowering scent of musky cologne before revealing the well-groomed Sergeant Purcell. His mustachios had been perfectly trimmed and waxed to fine, curled points. Despite being in his late-forties, his military baring and blue eyes gave him a semblance of youth. Hadley could see why Mrs. Nash would have preferred his company to that of her husband. The sergeant gave them a curt bow and wiped the sweat from his brow with the back of his hand.

“You’re sure all they took was the— what did you call it?”

“Silphium, and yes, from what I can tell, that is all they took,” Eilian snapped. He knew where this was going. The sergeant had already tried this line of questioning twice.

“And you say all of the doors were locked from the inside when you came in?”

“Yes, I told you before that my manservant checked. Did you find anything?”

Purcell licked his thumb and flipped back through his notepad. “I want you to think hard about this. Is it possible that one of your servants unlocked the doors, stole the plant, and locked up again?”

“Why do you insist that one of our servants is a thief?” Hadley scolded.

“It’s the most probable outcome, your ladyship,” he began, his voice honeyed. “You never really know—”

“Don’t patronize me, sir. I will have none of it.” She pressed her fingers to her forehead, her eyes narrowing to a fierce sliver. “I have been up half the night because someone broke into our home, and you and your men didn’t have the decency to get out of bed and figure out what happened or at least give us some semblance of safety. Now, you come into my house and accuse my servants of mischief. I will have none of it.”

“Lady Dorset, if all of the doors were locked, then how did the thief get into the greenhouse? Hmm? It had to be an inside job. You said yourself that the broken window was shattered from the inside.”

Hadley’s hands curled into fists at her sides, but at Eilian’s reassuring touch, she let out a puff of hot air and gritted her teeth. “As I mentioned when you first got here, we think there is a trap door or false panel in the orangery, but we haven’t found it yet. The thief could have gotten in and out through there without having to unlock a thing.”

“A trap door, right. Then they just happened to break a window. If you have it all figured out, do you have a suspect in mind, Lady Dorset?”

Eilian wrapped his arm around his wife, shielding her from the sergeant as much as he was protecting him from her. Before she could answer, he replied, “Our servants have no reason to steal from us. None of them even know what silphium is, and besides it has no real value. There are only two people besides us who know—”

The words died in his throat as his eyes fixed on the window to the orangery. Up the path from the drawing room came Nash’s gaunt form. His grey head swept over the pair of constables standing amongst the plants before coming to rest on the library window. Eilian was on his feet and out the door before Sergeant Purcell could figure out what was going on. Meeting Nash at the pool’s edge, Eilian blocked him from reaching the patch of dirt where the policemen and gardener stood watching them.

“Out of my way,” he spat as he attempted to step past the earl but was matched step for step.

“Why? Have you come to look at your handiwork, Mr. Nash? I know you didn’t want me to study it, but to tear it from the ground, so no one could have it— Are you that daft?”

Nash’s brows furrowed as his grey eyes narrowed and his legs rooted in place. “What are you talking about?”

“The silphium, Mr. Nash. It’s gone. I’m assuming I have you to thank for that and my broken window. You are the only one who frequents our greenhouse uninvited.”

Pushing Eilian’s prosthetic arm away, Nash marched over to the edge of the garden. As Bernard moved to stop him, Eilian raised his hand for the gardener to let him be. At the sight of the empty patch in the dirt where a dozen disembodied hair roots still reached for the light, Nash’s eyes lost their cold intensity and faded to silent consternation as his mouth hung open. For a moment, Eilian feared the man might swoon or have a fit and fall into the algal pool, but he caught himself, staggering back a step and clenching his eyes as if absorbing a blow. Eilian stood at his side as the older man’s mouth worked in half-formed phrases.

“Mr. Nash, do you know who did this?”

“It’s gone. She said she would,” he said to no one, his voice trailing into a whisper. “I should have— I should—”

Eilian laid his hand on his arm, and Nash whipped it from him as if he had been stung.

“I didn’t take your blasted plant. You probably pulled it out and hid it away when I told you, you couldn’t have it. Ask your pretty little wife about the letters she received. She probably did it to spite me.” He shifted his attention to the two young men milling between the trees with their heads down and yelled, “And if I see any of you trespassing on my property, you will pay dearly.”

Shoving Eilian hard in the chest, he pushed past without looking back. Eilian’s heart skipped off rhythm as he grasped for the nearest tree, narrowly avoiding slipping into the pool. He looked up to see Nash storming up the path to the drawing room, muttering to himself and shaking his head.

Before Nash disappeared out of sight, the sergeant appeared at the library door and hollered, “Go home to your wife, you bloody bastard! You’ve caused enough trouble already.”

Nash turned, eyes blazing. His thin hands contorted into clawed fists as he advanced toward the officer. Catching his balance, Eilian darted between them.

“Both of you please leave,” the earl said, his voice calm but strained.

His eyes flicked from the academic to the policeman. Neither moved or removed their gaze from the other. The officer stood with his chest puffed out and his hand resting on his club while Nash eyed him with contempt.

“Now. Please go. Sergeant Purcell, I will not be pressing charges. Whoever did it is long gone. Please take your men and leave the premises. Same to you, Mr. Nash. You already know where we stand.”

Turning from Nash, the sergeant smiled smugly and glanced over his shoulder at Hadley, who stood watching the men from the doorway with her arms folded. “I look forward to your party, your ladyship. I do hope you don’t cancel it,” pausing to widen his grin, he added, “and I hope to see you there too, Nash. You and Rubella. You really shouldn’t keep her all to yourself. It ain’t fair to the rest of us.”

Nash’s face paled and his eyes bugged. For a moment, Eilian feared he would strike the stalwart officer. He braced himself to absorb the blow or have to force the men apart, but instead, Nash gave the sergeant one last dirty look and left the way he came.

“Osgood, Lyall, pack it in!” Purcell yelled to his constables.

Releasing a tense breath, Eilian looked back at the library door. Hadley was gone. His gaze ran over the palm and pomegranate trees blocking the mosaic floor at the end of the path, but she was nowhere to be found.

“Bernard, please see the men out,” Eilian called, ducking out of the greenhouse.

Trailing down the hall, he glanced into each room, hoping to find her standing at a window or meticulously deconstructing a clock or gadget, but all he found was Charlotte’s younger sister in the parlor looking up at him with a cleaning rag clutched in her chapped hands.

“Lidia, have you seen Hadley?” When her brown brows knit in confusion, he added, “Her ladyship.”

The mute teen shook her head. Walking into the great hall, he glanced into the dining room, already knowing she wouldn’t be there. As he his eyes rose to the arcade, it dawned on him. How could he have been so stupid? He trotted up the steps and followed the floral carpet runner through the halls to their bedroom. Light shone from beneath the door, punctuated by shadowed steps as his wife crossed the floor within.

“Hadley, may I come in?” he asked, gently rapping with his metal knuckles.

The door flew open beneath his hand. Hadley glared up at him in only her chemise and corset, her pale freckled shoulders peaking from beneath the silk. “You don’t have to knock, you know. It’s your room, too.”

His face reddened as he slunk in and shut the door behind him. “I’m sorry, but I didn’t know if you were changing or sleeping. I didn’t want to intrude.”

She kept her back to him as she dug through her dresser, pulling out nightgowns and fresh undergarments only to drop them in a heap on the floor. As she found the stockings she was searching for, her shoulders sagged with fatigue, her flare of anger losing its momentum.

“I didn’t mean to be curt, Eilian. I’m just frustrated. After all the work I put into planning and cleaning, this happens! I just can’t believe it. Should we just call it all off?”

“You mean the party, right?”

Stuffing everything back into the drawer, she turned to meet her husband’s anxious gaze. “Of course I mean the party. What did you think I meant?” Her voice caught as she watched him rub his arm and stare down at his feet. “Oh, Eilian. I would never do that. How could you even think that?”

“Because I couldn't blame you if you wanted to. It's perfectly reasonable for a woman to leave a man who neglects her. Men do it all the time.”

Hadley drifted to his side and wrapped her arms around his chest. Pulling her close, his arms closed around her waist until their sides were flush. He rested his head against her neck as she ran her fingers through his hair, teasing it into unruly peaks.

“I’m not going to leave you,” she whispered. “I love you, Eilian. It’s just hard to take it all in.”

“If it’s really important to you, I guess I could try to do it,” he replied, his voice tight and controlled.

“You don’t have to yet. I’m not going to force you to do something that obviously upsets you. Then neither of us would enjoy ourselves.”

His lips curled into a mischievous grin. “Then, I don’t have to go to the party?”

“Nice try, but you aren’t that lucky.” Sighing, she shifted her hold and settled onto Eilian’s knee. “So you think I should still have it?”

He nodded. “I don’t think you have to cancel it. It was a theft, not a murder. The question is do you want to call it off?”

Hadley drew in a tremulous breath and smoothed her hair behind her ears. “No. I mean, I don’t know. I’m dreading it as much as I’m looking forward to it.”

“Then, cancel it. You don’t have to do anything you don’t want to do, and after what happened today, you have the perfect excuse.”

“But the whole reason I’m throwing this party is to prove I can do it. If I cancel, then I’ve failed and proven Mrs. Nash right.”

Her tired eyes burned at the thought of having to tell everyone in Folkesbury of her failure. Mrs. Nash and her Society of Visiting Ladies would have something to chat about next Wednesday, and that was far worse than breaking the news to her mother-in-law. Lady Dorset would probably be relieved to have her staff back.

“I just wanted to prove to myself that I could throw a party like Constance or your mother, that I’m not just some uncultured tinker.”

“Had, is that what you think you are?” Eilian raised Hadley’s chin until her scalded blue eyes met his. They gleamed with suppressed frustration and fatigue but never wavered. “You are the brightest, most tenacious person I know. Who else would have the smarts to keep her family’s business going while still running her own without help from anyone? Who else would go so far as to dress like a man?”

“I don’t know if that would qualify as smart.”

“Call it clever then.” He rubbed her arms, but as she opened her lips to speak again, he caught them with his own, silencing her self-doubt with a kiss. “So what if you don’t know how to throw a party? I don’t know how, and I’m sure my mother didn’t either until someone taught her. You will learn with time. Soon, you will be the talk of London society.”

A laugh escaped her lips against her will. “Let’s not get ahead of ourselves. We still need to get through this one. Can you unlace me? I need to change before I prepare for our borrowed servants’ arrival. They should be here by nightfall.”

“That should calm Patrick at least. Had, Nash mentioned that you received letters from him. What was he talking about?”

Hadley held up her hair, so he could see the back of her girdle. “I have no idea. The only letters I have received are responses for the party and the ones from your mother and Eliza.”

Leaning back, he untied her stays and gently tugged until her corset’s grip slackened. Her body exhaled as she loosened it further with three well-placed pulls and finally unhooked the front. As she let it drop on the edge of the bed, she swallowed a yawn and took a step toward the wardrobe, but Eilian’s gentle hand caught her wrist and pulled her back to his side.

“You have been up all night, Had. Why don’t you take a rest?”

She hungrily eyed the bed’s plush folds and rumpled pillows. Snapping to her senses, she half-heartedly pulled her hand away and began searching the dresser for clean stockings. “I can’t. Who will tend to the servants and get them trained?”

“Patrick and Charlotte will do both. I don’t think either of us could do a better job, and I’m certain Mother’s servants don’t need much more direction than getting the lay of the land.”

“I supposed you’re right.” Hadley looked over her shoulder to find her husband removing his waistcoat and shirt. “What are you doing?”

“I thought I would join you. I only had a few hours of sleep.” Tossing his tie onto the nightstand, he sheepishly said, “The guest room was rather lonely. It didn’t feel right to sleep without you by my side. I was hoping we could pretend that last night never happened. That is, if you will have me back.”

A smile crept across her lips as she abandoned her fresh clothing on the dresser and climbed onto the bed. When Eilian had removed his trousers and stood only in his drawers, she began detaching the springs and outer corset of his prosthesis. He sunk into the bed beside her and inched closer, extending his naked prosthesis under her neck and around her shoulder as she settled in with her head on his chest. Closing her eyes, she listened to the steady tattoo of his heart beneath the layers of roped burns and bone. She ran her hand across the lean muscles of his abdomen until she found his other hand resting against his stomach. Their fingers intertwined, and with little shifts and sighs, their bodies folded into the comfort of their natural grooves. In the stillness, she listened to his breathing slow with contentment. Despite their comfort, she felt the words climbing up her throat. She had to say it. He had to know.

“Eilian,” she began hesitantly, “I’m not talking about right now, so please don’t take this as me pushing you, but in time, if you ever become curious or consider doing anything, just know I will always be there. I’m not going to leave you or make you feel guilty about it again. If I ever do, I don’t mean to.”

His mouth shifted into a half-smile. Catching her hand, he brought it to his lips before lowering it to his breast where he tightened his grip. “I appreciate that, Had, and I want you to know that I will try. It may take a little while, but I am trying.”

“I know.”

Eilian snuggled closer and held her against his side. Drawing in a deep breath, he inhaled her familiar fragrance of cinnamon with a hint of gear oil. When he was certain she had nodded off, he gently ran his fingers through the silken curls of her henna hair. For his whole life, he did everything in his power to escape rejection and failure before they could tear apart what little love he had for himself. He had run from his father, his university, his duties, but he wouldn’t run from her. No, for Hadley, he would stay and fight.

Chapter Seventeen

Expectations

“Leona! Leona, let’s go!” Nadir called through the lavatory door, banging it with the flat of his palm. “We’re going to be late.”

“Go on without me,” she croaked.

Stepping back into his bedroom, Nadir primped in front of the mirror. With the edge of his finger, he smoothed the smudge of charcoal beneath his lashes.

“I’m not leaving without you. I already told Lady Dorset you were coming. Anyway, Argus is waiting out in the steamer. If you’re worried about Lady Dorset or any of those rubes you call neighbors, I wouldn’t be. I’m sure you can dance a waltz as well as anyone... even if it is with Argus.”

The bathroom door creaked open, and his cousin stumbled out, wiping her lips with a handkerchief. She drew in a rattling breath and slowly straightened to her full height. Gripping the front her butterscotch gown, she clenched her jaw as she rode out another wave of nausea. At least during her dry heaves, she hadn’t stained it.

“You look dreadful,” he said, his reflection watching her as he brushed the lint from his red velvet tailcoat.

“And you look like Lord Byron. I didn’t know it was a fancy dress party.”

Nadir snickered as he applied another swipe of black beneath his eyes, dragging the line to a thick point at its corner. “Good, then I’ve gotten my point across. What’s wrong with you?”

“I’m sick as a dog, can’t you tell?” Leona replied, leaning against the doorframe for support.

He shrugged. “It’s probably all of that disgusting licorice tea you have been drinking. It smells foul.”

“I have been taking it to make this go away. Don’t you think the turban is a bit much?”

“No, it completes the look, and besides, Byron wore a turban. They will be expecting it of me.”

Satisfied with his cosmetic calligraphy, Nadir eyed his reflection. In his layers of colorful silk and rich velvet, he was the picture of decadence. His friends in Bloomsbury would have applauded his daring, his rejection of English traditionalism in favor of art and beauty, but even he knew he was simply playing on the English’s love of the exotic. There was no subversion in it anymore apart from refusing to blend. Part of him enjoyed flaunting his well-carved cheekbones and the nutty hue of his skin, which glowed when put against the bright silk of his turban. There was no rush like strutting into a party and having all eyes fall upon him, to hear the chorus of whispers asking, “Who is he?”

He averted his gaze from the mirror and turned his attention to his shoes. In the end, it was all a gimmick, a game to make others remember his face and name without associating either with dusty natives or crumbling piles of stone. Nadir Talbot wasn’t some Egyptian boy whose parents boosted him up into society by pretending his skin wasn’t too brown or that his features were too fine in some places and too wide in others. No, Nadir Talbot was exotic, an Aesthete who not only created art but was a work of art. He was to be taken seriously, not held up as some lucky victim of happenstance.

Swallowing hard, he ripped his thoughts away and stared at his cousin. A sheen of sweat glistened on her forehead as she stood waiting for him in the doorway. Her mustard gown stretched across her bodice, pulling at the armpits and breasts.

“Is that what you’re wearing?”

“Yes,” she replied flatly. “You wanted me out. Now, I’m out, and you’re primping. It’s getting late. Are we going or not?”

Adjusting his turban and practicing his smoldering gaze one last time, Nadir followed her out the door. It was time for him to make his entrance.

***

By the time they arrived at Brasshurst Hall, the gravel drive was lined with idling steamers waiting to reach the manor’s Gothic portal. On the drizzly night, no one had chanced walking through the muddy fields to reach the great house or risked their necks to share the gravel paths with cabs in the grey haze. If he hadn’t brought his steamer, they would have been slogging through the mist on foot.

The house rose from the mist, its stone exterior taking on an ethereal sheen from the wavering glow of the gas lamps within as it spilled from the tall arched windows and overflowed from the skylights and orangery dome. Even from the old stone bridge, Nadir could make out the orbs of faerie lamps hovering in the jungle of the greenhouse. As he stared, they flickered and danced, occasionally blinking when an unseen figure crossed before them.

“Did I tell you that Lady Dorset modeled the decorations after my description of those parties my parents used to throw in the vineyard?” he declared offhandedly, but when he received only a stifled groan in response, he turned to find his cousin shifting uncomfortably in the seat beside him. “Leona, are you—”

Before he could finish, she grabbed the flesh on the back of his arm and pinched it hard enough that he cried out. As he opened his mouth to speak, she put her finger to her lips and glowered at him. She nodded toward Argus who inched the cab forward unaware of what was transpiring in the backseat. Drawing in a constrained breath, she exhaled slowly and closed her eyes.

Nadir tapped the back of her hand until she looked up at him. He mouthed, “Are you all right?”

Her dark brows knit together as she grimaced and silently replied, “Don’t say anything, I’m fine.”

“I do hope there are drinks there. The earl and countess aren’t temperate are they?”

“Even if they were, what do you need alcohol for, Argus? You see these people every day,” Nadir replied with a scoff.

“I don’t see them all at once. There will be so many people. Just look at all the cabs. Everyone’s here.”

“Thank God you don’t live in London then. You would drink yourself to death.”

“Nadir, leave him alone,” his cousin replied in a strained whisper.

Sitting in silence, the procession of steamers filed toward the house and disappeared around the corner as liveried servants moved the cars out of sight. At the entrance, the footman opened the door to allow Leona and Argus to step out. Nadir drew in a calming breath, pursed his lips, and concentrated his energy into cultivating his signature stare. A waiting servant took their coats as they crossed the tunneled hall. In the cloistered space, the din of voices and music seemed so far away, but the energy hummed only yards beyond his reach. Hundreds of people waited just beyond the threshold and all that held them back was a layer of ancient stone.

Stepping into the great hall, the ceiling rose away and with it came the bouncing melody of a merry waltz. The men and women of Folkesbury mingled in clumps around the roaring hearths or in front of the grand paintings hanging over the tropical tapestries, laughing and chattering as if they did not see each other every day. The guests came in their least mended suits and best gowns. Some he recognized from the shop windows in Poole when he and Lady Dorset ventured there together. Others wore their Sunday best, reworked with new trimmings and mended to appear fresh. Leaving his cousin behind, Nadir cut through the crowd. With each step, he drank in the sights and sounds of the party, feeding off the cadence and energy of those around him. Perfume mingled with the savory aroma of food in the dining room and the tart champagne and wine waiting on platters. In the midst of it all, he closed his eye. He had to commit everything to memory, so he could put it to good use later.

With a satisfied grin, he found that his plan had worked. Once one pair of eyes fell upon him, the others turned to catch a glimpse of his purple, red, and gold attire as he swept through the hall. He paused long enough in each room to be seen before casually strolling through the open door in the drawing room to the orangery. It was just as he had envisioned it on his first visit. The massive mosaic floor had been cleared of pots and dirt to make room for a string quartet. Around the perimeter stood massive iron candelabras, but instead of having tapers stuffed into the bases on each arm, a colored glass globe containing a squat candle hung from them on decorative hooks. Blue orbs hovered around the dance floor as couples whirled in measured steps while red lamps trailed down the path toward the pool. Following the line of scarlet light, Nadir’s eyes wandered over the milling crowd, and at the edge, he spotted the countess standing alone as the earl slipped into the house. Snatching a flute of champagne from a passing footman, Nadir sauntered over.

Hadley’s eyes lit up at the sight of his familiar brown eyes and sharp cheekbones amid a sea of draped fabric. “Mr. Talbot, is that you? Somehow I knew you would be dressed to the nines, but I hadn’t pictured something quite so ornate. Is it traditional garb?”

“Not in the slightest,” he purred, turning for her so she could get a better view of his printed silks and fine jacket. “It’s my own creation.”

When she had finished taking him in, his gaze ran over her gown. It was nearly the same cornflower blue of her eyes. Traveling up her skirt and around her bodice were tendrils of white piping that formed an intricate lattice, laid to accentuate the lines of her form. Her dark red hair and lightly freckled skin popped against her elegant dress and white gloves.

“Eilian surprised me with this the other day. He saved me from one headache at least.”

“Very nice. Your husband has excellent taste.” Leaning closer, he whispered into her ear, “Any problems?”

“No, shockingly. Mrs. Negi and my mother-in-law’s cook have come to a truce, the musicians showed up, everyone seems to be enjoying themselves, and my husband hasn’t slipped upstairs to hide yet. What do you think, Mr. Talbot? You are the expert, after all.”

He turned to watch the couples, young and old locking eyes and hands, turning in time with the music. “I think you have won them over.”

***

Eilian drew in a lungful of damp, earthy air. The orangery hummed with life. Couples strolled arm in arm down the paved paths with glasses of champagne or wine in their hands as if the mossy dome was a botanical garden. Even in the light of the jarred candles, the orchids with their otherworldly conformations thrilled their guests. Several had even asked the earl what this or that plant was, yet the robbery and his prosthetic arm seemed to be forgotten or ignored. Whether it was due to disinterest or good-breeding, he couldn’t tell.

He circled through the main rooms, offering how-do-you-dos and pleasure-to-meet-yous to their guests. With each group he spoke to, the anxiety loosened in his breast. He had expected the party to be a miserable experience like the ones his mother threw, yet he found himself smiling and drifting through the crowd as if he had done it a hundred times. No one was trying to manipulate him into finding a mate or goading him into an argument. Being one of the hosts, he had expected to be worrying about food or whether they had hung the right pictures, but Hadley had every gear in place and oiled to run smoothly. Patrick and his mother’s servants made sure there was plenty of food and liquor flowing from the kitchen and wine cellar, and for the men, they had set up a room where they could play cards. It was a party and nothing more.

Smiling and nodding, he passed through a room of young women speaking eagerly around the samovar. Once he confirmed that Leona and Argus Rhodes were not there, he looped back out and moved on to the next room. He had hoped to discuss his article about the Ptolemaic Dynasty with him. While the review in The Royal Egyptology Society Chronicle had been favorable, something felt off. He couldn’t put his finger on what it was, but something about the writing had nagged at the back of his mind since he finished it.

Returning to the entrance of the orangery, a grin crept across his lips. Hadley stood at the edge of the dance floor talking happily with Constable Lyall and his pretty young wife. At her side, Nadir Talbot’s gaze flitted over the crowd as if searching for someone, but when he didn’t see his quarry, he frowned and threw back his drink before fluidly placing it onto an oncoming tray. As the couple moved on to join the others lining up for the next dance, Eilian slipped in and wrapped his arm around Hadley’s waist. Thus far, no one had seemed to notice that one of his hands was made of metal.

“Mr. Talbot, I must thank you for helping Hadley with the party. I fear I was of no use,” Eilian said, watching the couples on the dance floor switch partners until he was unsure who belonged with whom.

“It was my pleasure, but Lady Dorset should take all the credit. She has done a wonderful job; the ambiance has exceeded my expectations. This alone should give me inspiration for a month.”

“How is the book going?”

Nadir caught another glass of champagne as a footman strutted past. “Swimmingly, for once. Our lady has escaped the harem and reappeared in the court masquerading as a princess from a foreign land. I only have a few chapters left. That should get my publisher off my back.”

“Is that why we haven’t seen you?” Hadley replied, watching the writer absently finger the end of his turban. “I figured you were either stopped up or writing nonstop.”

“The latter luckily.”

“Mr. Talbot, did you come alone or are your cousin and her husband with you? I wanted to speak to Argus about his article.”

“They should be here. Leona wasn’t feeling very well, so they may be sitting somewhere.”

“Is she all right?”

“Yes, just a touch of stomach trouble.” He craned his neck to see over the crowd, but as his eyes reached the path from the pool, they narrowed. “God, why did they have to come?”

Chapter Eighteen

Keeping Secrets

Hadley and Eilian turned, simultaneously spotting Nash with his grey-hair and aquiline features ambling across the cobbles, sneering at the colored lanterns and merry villagers. On his arm, Mrs. Nash stiffly followed in a dower brown gown, her thin lips lined and pinched. As they cut through the crowd and everyone’s eyes fell upon them, the atmosphere contracted and cracked. The gaiety felt only a moment earlier evaporated as the others straightened and fell silent. Dancing couples dissolved mid-song, drifting back to their original partner before disappearing into another room with a sidelong glance and a harsh whisper. Eilian shot his wife a questioning look.

“Yes, I invited them,” Hadley explained, sweeping an invisible hair from her forehead. “I did it to be polite, but I didn’t think they would actually show up. Should we say anything?”

“No,” Eilian replied with a sigh and watched Nash settle into position at the corner of the mosaic where he could survey the room. He hoped the sergeant would stay far enough away him to not cause another uproar. “I know his type. If he’s anything like my father, he’s looking for a scene, and we won’t provide him with one. I won’t let Nash ruin your party.”

A wan smile played on Nadir’s lips. “Though it seems tossing him out would bring most of the town a lot of pleasure.”

With a laugh, Hadley tore her eyes from Nash only to land upon Argus Rhodes’s broad form as he slowly led his wife into the domed room. She clung to his arm, her back hunched and her eyes crinkled at the edges as she shuffled in. His bespectacled gaze roamed over the crowd before he lifted his glass to his lips and took a long swig. A footman approached them with a plate of hors d'oeuvres, and while Argus loaded his wide palm, his wife greened and waved the canapés away.

Leaving the men at the dance floor, Hadley strode to Leona’s side. The dark-haired woman gave her grimace barely disguised as a tight smile. She tried to straighten, but when she nearly reached her full height, she recoiled with a hiss.

“Mrs. Rhodes, are you feeling all right? Should I fetch a doctor?” she asked low enough that only the two women could hear.

“No, thank you,” Leona Rhodes replied through harsh breaths, her chest tight with pain. “I’m fine.”

“I don’t mean to overstep my bounds, but you don’t look fine.”

Before Leona could respond, Hadley slipped her arm around her shoulders and dislodged her from Argus’s grasp. When he realized who was taking his wife, he relinquished his hold and trudged over to Nadir and Eilian for companionship. Leona held her breath as another wave of pain ripped through her abdomen. The only tell-tale sign of her plight was her nails digging into Hadley’s arm as they crossed the tiled floor. An iron chair stood empty only a few yards away, but already she seemed to be worsening. The pain coursed through her body and into her fingertips where Hadley felt its aftershocks, and the flesh of her face was no longer a healthy olive but a sickly grey coated with a layer of sweat. Helping her into the chair, Hadley motioned for the nearest footman.

“Fetch me a wet rag from the kitchen. No stops in between,” she ordered before kneeling beside Nadir’s cousin, who had wrapped her arms across her stomach and leaned forward into the pain. Hadley pressed her hand to Leona’s brow and then her cheek. “Mrs. Rhodes, you have a fever. You shouldn’t have come if you were ill. If you’re worried about leaving Nadir or Mr. Rhodes, I can have one of our men drive you home, but honestly, I do not think you should be by yourself.” She lowered her voice and asked, “Is it cramps?”

Leona bit her lip and shook her head, still clutching her stomach. Sucking in a breath, she looked past Hadley with tears glistening at the edges of her eyes. Her gaze suddenly hardened, but when Hadley followed it, she found Nash staring at them. She looked between Mrs. Rhodes and the troublesome gentleman, their expressions unreadable in the flickering lamplight. Letting out a stifled groan, Leona broke away from his grey eyes. Hadley squeezed her hand and stood up. What had possessed her to come in that state?

“Stay here. I’m going to find your husband.”

Anger bubbled in Hadley’s chest. Was the man daft or did he simply not care? A minute with his wife and she could feel the tremor in her hand with each stroke of pain and the heat that radiated from her fevered body. She hoped to God Argus Rhodes was merely a fool who was easily placated by reassurances. Being an idiot was much more forgivable than being a callous spouse. The men stood where she had left them with Eilian questioning the Egyptologist about his paper. The large man’s black eyes were glazed with drink as he stumbled over his words. He rubbed his ruddy cheeks and muttered half to himself about the Ptolemy’s lineage. Eilian arched a brow and leaned closer, still unable to make sense of his explanation.

At their side, she swallowed her anger and said as politely as she could muster, “Your wife is ill, Mr. Rhodes. She needs to return home at once. She is in no shape to be at a party. I suggest you leave immediately.”

He stared down at her, his mouth hanging agape as if he didn’t understand, but before he could reply, Nadir’s shoulder collided with his. He shoved past and into the crowd, his silk turban unwinding behind him.

“Dear God, Leona! Someone call for a doctor!” he bellowed.

Hadley turned in time to watch Leona Rhodes slump off the garden chair and land in a heap of mustard muslin. Reaching her side first, Nadir rolled her onto her back, but as he went to pat her cheek, he drew back, eyes wide. Smeared across his hand was a streak of blood. Looking down at the floor beside him, his eyes followed a thin line of droplets that trailed from the dance floor to the chair, pooling beneath where she had sat to form a saucer-sized puddle of liver-colored blood. Behind him, a murmur of hushed voices grew louder as news spread of her collapse. They were growing closer, their bodies breaking the orbs of glowing light from the lanterns and closing off the air.

“Leona, stay with me,” he whispered to her listless form.

She groaned and gasped, the cords of her neck straining against the pain, but her eyes remained shut. He had never seen her so pale. Against her black hair and his tawny hands, her face appeared nearly white with the only color in the heated flush of her cheeks. Breaking from the crowd, Lady Dorset rushed to his side with a damp cloth. She dabbed the sweat from Leona’s neck and cheeks before laying it across her forehead.

Hadley’s eyes drifted to the blood before returning to Nadir’s face, which had blanched to nearly the color of his cousin’s. Glancing over her shoulder, she watched the crowd press in for a better look. “We should move her up to a guest room. Can you lift her?”

He nodded, climbing to his knees. Her head rolled against his shoulder as he struggled to raise her to a standing position so he could get a better grip. Where was the doctor? Someone should have been there by now. His head swam. The earl was yelling, telling everyone to make a path for them. As Nadir slipped his arms beneath her legs to lift her, the breath caught in his throat. A sticky crimson mandala seeped across the back of her skirt, trickled down her stockings, and through her petticoat. On the front of her dress, a faint splotch slowly materialized, growing wider before his eyes. Raising his gaze as he hefted her into his arms, Nadir met Nash’s probing grey eyes. While everyone watched in confusion, Nash stared, his cold gaze softening. He lingered on the blood before pausing on her breasts and the line where the fabric of her bodice and skirt joined.

He knew. Whatever was going on, he knew.

***

Nadir turned his good luck charm over in his hand, feeling its familiar lopsided surface roll beneath his fingers. His turban and jacket lay in a heap on the coverlet where they had been shed in a flurry of frustration and fear. His body, heavy with fatigue, sagged into the wooden chair, but at the slightest noise in the hall, he awoke. He ground the heels of his hands into his eyes, not caring if he smeared the black powder of his eyeliner across his face. He should have convinced her to go to London.

He had brought Leona home in the back of his steamer with the town physician following close behind, and the doctor had yet to emerge from her room. Argus had been too upset and drunk to drive and rode with the doctor instead. Luckily, halfway home Leona had regained consciousness, though Nadir couldn’t tell which was worse: not knowing if she would wake again or listening to her sobs and gasps of pain while he could only drive through the drizzle and fog. Not much had been said after that. The door had been slammed in his face while Argus haunted the downstairs rooms. He couldn’t bear to listen to his mutterings and mantras of Leona’s good health or virtue. If he had to share a room with him a moment longer than necessary, he would strike the useless oaf. How Leona stayed with him, he couldn’t imagine.

At the squeal of the bedroom door, Nadir leapt from his desk. Dr. Sturgis stood in the hall in his shirt sleeves with a bloody rag in one hand and his dinner jacket in the other. He had a boyish face even though he was in his thirties, but his eyes were quick and his manner short. For a town physician, he at least seemed capable. His light eyes swept appraisingly over Nadir’s half-open shirt and soot-streaked skin.

“How is she, doctor?” he asked, unsure if he wanted to hear the answer.

“Are you the cousin?” When Nadir nodded, he went on, “She wanted me to speak to you. The bleeding and cramps will persist for another few days, but she will be fine. At her age, failed pregnancies are fairly common. Will you relay the news to her husband? He seemed distraught.”

A failed pregnancy? Why had she not told him she was with child? “I will deal with him. May I see her?”

“Go ahead, but I gave her a bit of morphine for the pain. I don’t know how awake she will be. I will return tomorrow to check on her.”

When the doctor’s slow tread plunked down the steps, Nadir pushed open the door. Despite the late hour, the lights had been left ablaze, and his cousin lay in bed with the quilt pulled up to her shoulders and a fire crackling in the hearth. Thick curls ringed her lax face, which had finally regained some of its color. She reminded him of the porcelain doll she lugged around as a child, a smaller, more perfect version of herself. Settling on the edge of the bed, Nadir gently brushed the hair from her eyes, but as he touched her forehead, she stared up at him.

“You look like a pirate.”

Nadir shook his head and wiped at the streaks of charcoal. “How are you feeling, Lee?”

“Lee.” A drowsy smile crossed her lips as let out a weak chuckle. “You haven’t called me Lee since we had a governess.”

“You have always been my Lee.” When she pulled her hand out to push her hair from her face, Nadir held it. “Why did you go to the party if you were that ill? If you told me, I would have gotten a doctor.”

She shook her head. Her voice came tremulous and strained as she replied, “I thought I could handle it. We can’t afford it, anyway. I don’t know how we’re going to pay Dr. Sturgis.”

“Don’t worry about that. I will take care of it.” He swallowed hard and squeezed her hand. “The doctor told me what happened. Why didn’t you say anything about the baby?”

“Dr. Sturgis didn’t tell Argus, did he?” she asked, her eyes bright with panic.

“No, I don’t think so since he asked me to do it, but shouldn’t he know? Did you not know you were with child?”

“I knew, but you can’t tell Argus.”

“Why? It was his child, too. Even he will understand that a miscarriage isn’t your fault.”

Leona bit her lip and turned her face from his, her fingers gripping his hand. “He can’t know, Nadir. He just can’t! We have always kept each other’s secrets. Please don’t tell him.”

“What am I supposed to say instead? You swooning and bleeding through your dress is hard to explain away.”

“I don’t know. Tell him it was a bad month.”

“There will be talk. I’m sure Dr. Sturgis will tell someone. The whole village will now by the end of the week.”

“You know him. He will believe anything you or I tell him.”

“Lee, what are you not telling me?”

When she turned back to him, the whites of her eyes burned pink and glistened with tears. “I can’t say, but look in my sewing box.”

Nadir followed her gaze to a tapestried box tucked under the chair in the corner. He crossed the room, averting his gaze at the waste basket stuffed with bloody sheets and her soiled gown, and knelt before the sewing box. Flipping open the lid, he held his breath, unsure of what he would find inside. At first he only found embroidery hoops, thread, and her half-finished pillow case, but as he moved them aside, bits of green poked through. Carefully untangling it from the myriad of threads, he drew out a long bundle. The plant had been cut into pieces with the roots, stalk, and heads in separate pieces but tied together with twine. It had been beheaded; its flowers had been cut off and all that remained of the top was a neck. The roots were missing in patches, and the once long stalk had been chipped away at both ends. He stared at the dissected plant for a long moment. Where had it come from? His brown eyes widened at the realization.

“You didn’t?” he cried, looking from the stalk to his cousin. “Please tell me you didn’t do what I think you did.”

“You aren’t going to tell her, are you?”

His hands shook as he reburied it beneath her projects and shut the lid. “No, I wouldn’t want Lady Dorset to know my cousin is a thief. I can’t believe you would do this. What would possess you? Are you trying to get us all in trouble? You better have a very good reason, Leona.”

“Don’t be mad at me, Nadir. I had no other choice.”

He returned to her side and found her still facing the wall, unable to meet his gaze. All he could picture was the look on Nash’s face when she fell. The cold gravity of understanding in his gaze.

“Tell me this: what does Mr. Nash have to do with all of this? I know he is playing some part in it.”

“Even if I wanted to, I can’t tell you.”

“You expect me to keep your secrets, but you won’t tell me any of them. I don’t understand what is going on with you or why you would do something so foolish.”

She clenched her eyes shut against a numb wave rippling through the muscles of her abdomen. “And you never will.”

Chapter Nineteen

Histories

Tying his manuscript in twine, Nadir frowned. It was far from perfect, but he longed to be rid of it and enjoy the last few weeks of his holiday without kings and harem girls hanging over his head. He had jotted a few corrections and notations in the margins of what he might consider fixing later, but Rogers would have to take it as is. After he returned to London, he would put the final polish on it. His publishers had made enough money off him to give him a little leeway for once. Dropping it into its casket, he slid on the lid and pushed it out of sight. Now that Leona was recovering from her illness, he would be heading home before the summer crowded descended upon Dorset in droves.

He stared out the window at the coast in the distance. He would miss the clean air and the stab of rocky sand beneath his feet. It wasn’t quite the holiday he had expected, but even with the odd circumstances, he enjoyed seeing his cousin for the first time in several years and spending time with Lady Dorset. At least he might see her again in town. Leona he might not see again for another five years. He would have to figure out how to prevent that.

In the hall below, the doorbell twilled. The door down the hall creaked open and his cousin’s head peaked out. Her skin was still pale and the shadow of dark circles ringed her eyes, but at least, she could walk again without stooping or rushing to the lavatory. Spotting Nadir coming out of his room, relief eased her tight features.

“Stay put, Leona. I got it.”

From the afternoon after Lady Dorset’s party, a parade of women had made the pilgrimage down the hill to the house to deliver pies and baskets of food as if they feared he and Argus would starve to death with Leona bedridden. At first, she appreciated the company, but after the fifth visitor in one day, she willingly took her medicine and fell asleep to escape their gossip-mongering under the guise of well-meaning questions. As he walked down the steps past the old paintings and photographs, the bell trilled again.

“I’m coming!”

At the bottom, he straightened and put on his best company smile. When the door opened and he saw the Randall Nash standing before him with his expensive suit and ebony walking stick, the smile fell from his face. The man’s quick eyes twitched at Nadir’s change in expression.

“What business do you have here?”

“Is Mrs. Rhodes home?” Nash asked coolly.

“She is indisposed. As you know, Mr. Nash, she has recently been unwell and is still recovering. Is there a message you would like me to relay to her?”

His rough voice hardened. “I would prefer to speak to the lady myself.”

“And I would prefer it if you left our property.”

Nash narrowed his gaze. “Excuse me?”

“I said get off our property. Whatever you have to say to my cousin, you will have to say to me.”

“This isn’t your business, boy,” he spat, his hand shooting toward the door. “Out of my way.”

Nadir flattened against the doorway as the older man tried to weasel past him, using his walking stick to whack at his ankles. Reaching behind him, Nadir slammed the door shut and rammed his shoulder into the older man. Nash stumbled back, tripping over the cracked cobbles of the path and landing in the grass. He stared up in fury and alarm as he raised his cane to fend the writer off.

As Nadir stepped closer, Nash held it back as if to swing. “Stay back, or I will crack your skull!”

The cane jutted toward Nadir’s abdomen, but he caught the shaft and pulled Nash forward onto his knees. The old man looked up, his gaze wavering before hardening once more. Despite his fear and age, Nash clung to the cane with all his strength, causing Nadir to have to tighten his hold.

Leaning close, Nadir growled, “Stay away from my cousin, old man. I don’t know exactly what is going on between you two, but if you come near her again, you will be the one with the cracked skull.”

With a shove, he released the cane and stormed back to the door. Constable Lyall and his wife lingered at the edge of the pavement, watching to see what either man would do next. Before he could see Nash rise and dust himself off or hear the slur slip from his lips, Nadir marched inside and slammed the bolt on the lock. At the top of the steps, Leona watched her cousin kick the umbrella stand before storming into the parlor.

“Who was it, Nadir?”

“No one of consequence.”

***

Eilian lingered in the portrait hall, his eyes locked on the painting of his great-grandfather. He seemed so different from the young man who leaned uncomfortably against a rock while forcibly having his portrait painted. Now his hair had grayed to match his eyes and lines had sprouted from the edges of his eyes and the corners of his mouth. In the four decades between the two paintings, the discomfort had disappeared, but what he had originally taken for an air of snobbery, he now recognized for what it was: contempt. He smiled to himself. Even after forty years of playing the earl, old Laurence still hated the pomp of it all. In the whole house, Eilian had only found three portraits: the hidden one of him as a young man, the official hall portrait, and the one hanging above the dining room fireplace where he posed with his wife and three children. While preparing for the party, they had found dozens of miniatures and paintings of men in powdered wigs and women in fancy gowns, yet his great-grandfather was nowhere to be found, leaving his legacy in ink instead of oil.

At the bottom of the portrait, a slip of painted paper stated that the subject was the Seventh Earl of Dorset. Eilian stared at it for a long moment. He had read it over and over in the covers of the journals, but something nagged at his mind. Had there been a mistake? He was the ninth earl, his father was the eighth. What had happened to his grandfather? His mouth twisted into a lopsided frown as he wracked his brain for any stories his father told of his grandfather. The tales he had been told during dinners where his friends from his club had come to smoke and talk were always of their exploits as young men. Courtships gone awry, secret dalliances behind parents’ backs, near robberies by backwater bandits, but the man who came to retrieve the Harland Sorrell Eilian never knew was always called the Colonel. The Colonel dragged him home by the ear. The Colonel taught him everything he knew and kept him on the straight and narrow. Somehow he had always assumed the Colonel was his father.

Leaving behind the line of earls and countesses, he ducked into the library. His eyes trailed along the shelves until they came to rest on a massive tome bound centuries ago in filigreed leather. Eilian unlocked the cabinet and carefully laid the old Bible on the desk. Despite its age, it was better preserved than half of the books on ancient philosophers. It appeared as if it hadn’t been cracked more than a dozen times in two hundred years. With the tip of his finger, he slowly opened the front cover to reveal a family tree drawn in spider writing before becoming bolder, then turning to his great-grandfather’s thin and cramped hand as the tree spread across the page. His eyes ran across the minute names of Sorrells he had never heard of with birth and death dates he could scarcely imagine before coming to rest on William Sorrell, the earl who never was.

It read, William Sorrell. Born 1811. Died 1845., and nothing more.

Eilian tapped the page over the name thoughtfully. His father had only been ten years old when his father died. No wonder he heard little of the man; his father barely knew him. To the left of William’s name was an older brother, Alexander Sorrell, who had been born a year earlier and died nine years before him, and a sister, Beatrice Sorrell, whose name connected to a Fitzwilliam Nash and trailed to Randall Nash. He shared his birth year with her death year.

Returning to William, he traced the dangling branch Harland Sorrell hung from before it entangled with Millicent Holland. Eilian frowned. No one had added his name or Dylan’s to the family tree or his father’s death year. His stomach churned as he reached across the desk for a pen and carefully transcribed 1891 in his unsteady wrong-handed script. It only seemed right to close that chapter.

Eilian shut the book, raking a hand through his hair and staring through the fogged window into the orangery. What had he hoped to find in the family bible? He had gotten halfway through his great-grandfather’s journals, but as they dissolved into short-hand ledgers of expenses and remarks about men he could only imagine had been his friends or neighbors, his interest waned. There was little advice or thought as to how he rose from soldier to earl. It seemed he took it as his new charge and simply did what he had to. Eilian spun the signet ring sitting heavily on his finger. That was of little consolation.

Eilian checked the death date for Great-uncle Alexander one more time before walking back to his little nook in the drawing room. On the top of the desk, the decades of journals sat in a neat row. Sinking into the chair, he pulled out one of the middle volumes to check the date and found that it was only a year before his grandfather’s death. He thumbed through the pages, slowing as he reached his father’s birthday. Between doodles of plants and a half-fallen stone wall, the squished, puffy face of an infant stared back at him.

March 18th, 1835

My second grandchild was born today. William and Jenny have named him Harland after her father. While I would never want another child to be cursed with Laurence, I do wonder why no one thought to name a child after me. Maybe Alexander will when he finally settles down, though he doesn’t seem interested in anything other than books, botany, and riding through the grounds. Anna would have me convince him that now is the time to find a wife and leave off his “childish nonsense,” but I know first-hand that the wanderlust will abate eventually. Even if it doesn’t, women and children are remarkably portable.

March 30th, 1835

Little Randall is besotted with Harland. The child is without siblings or parents, and Harland will probably be his only chance at having a brother. Spending most of his day with a governess and a choleric old man is no way for a child to be raised. Jenny likes him. Maybe she and William will take him in, though Alexander would happily keep him as his own.

Eilian sighed. Alexander would never go on to have a child. His place on the family tree was barren, wedged between Beatrice and William’s families. What had killed the young nobleman? A twinge of pain flashed through Eilian’s arm at the thought of Alexander being killed by wanderlust. Flipping to the end of the journal, he watched his great-grandfather’s handwriting falter. For more than a week, he had transcribed the date and nothing more. Ink splotches had dripped onto the page, leaked by a lingering pen. Finally on August 8th, 1836, he wrote:

My Alexander is dead.

I have avoided this task. Committing it to paper makes it real, and I still am not certain I won’t wake and find him up to his elbows in dirt in the garden. No parent should live long enough to see their children die, and I have seen two. First, my daughter. Now, my son. Anna has taken to her bed and has not left since the accident. I can’t bear to lose her, too. All I can hope is that our grandchildren will give her reason enough to live. Little Randall will not leave her side. Whether he understands death yet, I do not know, but he understands sadness and has spent the day trying to revive her spirits with stories and puppet shows.

We held the funeral without her. Despite my reservations, I know it was for the best. I could barely stand to see another coffin loaded into the family crypt, and I do not know what it would have done to her in her fragile state. Harland cried through the entire service while the vicar glared at him and me. How could he expect me to tell Jenny to hand her babe over to the nurse on a day when all of us felt the sting of a young life lost? Any woman would hold tighter to their child. She looked to me with panic in her eyes as she tried to soothe him, so I took him and we walked around the gardens Alexander loved so much. I did not tell anyone, but I doubt I could have sat through the service. With Beatrice, I was able to say my good-byes and keep a parting gift in little Randall, but I have nothing left of Alexander. He was gone before I could reach him.

Unlike Jenny, William was senseless to the proceedings. Showed up stinking drunk again. If he hadn’t arrived before me, I would have sent him home on the end of my boot. At least his mother was not there to see it.

Hopefully grief is clouding his judgment because if this continues, I will be cutting him off. I do not care that he is to inherit now. My last living child will not kill himself with drink. I must think of a way to do this without causing Jenny or Harland to suffer by my hand. It is not their fault that William can’t resist the bottle. I weep for my family’s future.

It suddenly made sense now, why his father rarely drank even when his guests were rowdy and filled with red-nosed mirth. He couldn’t remember him ever becoming drunk at one of his mother’s parties when he merely could have stumbled up to bed. The habit had inadvertently passed to Eilian. When he did attempt to drink, it was usually under duress or to suppress the little voice in his head from telling him no. Luckily, that voice rarely spoke out of turn.

He was about to set the book aside when he spotted a familiar form peeking through the last few pages of thin parchment. On the back cover, a cage of metal and glass extended from the side of Brasshurst Hall. It was smaller than the monstrosity that existed now, but it was clearly the orangery with its tiny sprouting plants and clusters of trees.

August 31st, 1836

I have decided what I will do to honor my boy. Alexander did not leave me with grandchildren, but he left behind many children in his garden. He tended his plants faithfully, cultivating and breeding them with care. I can’t bear to see them die this winter, so the garden will be encapsulated. Upon surveying the grounds, we discovered that the garden really does abut the ruins of a Roman bath. Alexander had told me about the marble tiles and broken columns, but I had never bothered to look. The builder suggested connecting a new engine and water supply to the old piping running beneath the tiles. If it is done correctly, the orchids and other exotics will never need smoke pots or protection from the chill. I hope to add to his collection, so his legacy can live on.

I also decided to buy one of those steamer contraptions. Lord Newbury and Sir Lisle are resistant to the idea of mechanical coaches, citing that they are unreliable and will surely go out of fashion in a few years. While all that may be true, I can no longer trust horses after what happened to my boy.

A pang of guilt rang through Eilian’s mind. The orangery—the monstrosity—had been a memorial to a young man who was nearly his age when he died. Looking over his shoulder, he stared at the French doors leading out into the murky greenery. His feet carried him out the doors and down the path to the pool. The engine’s pulse thrummed and somewhere beyond bees hummed, drifting from flower to flower. Pulling off his shoes and stockings, he dipped his feet into the water of the pool and closed his eyes. All around him flowers sprang a new. What had begun as a Taj Mahal for a dead boy became a palace of perpetual life.

Chapter Twenty

Unnatural

Hadley rumbled down the cobbled pavement, her hair whipping from her bun as she rounded the corner and narrowly avoided careening into Argus Rhodes. He smiled softly, tipping his hat to her as he continued on toward the market with an empty basket. At the edge of the property, she wedged her heavy bicycle between the stone fence and oak tree before peering through the curtains from across the yard. If she turned her head the right way, she could just make out the edge of Leona Rhodes’s sleeve as she sat on the sofa in the parlor. Tidying her hair and squaring her shoulders, Hadley feigned an amiable smile and rang the bell. When the door opened, she had expected to see Leona or Barnes but was pleasantly surprised to find Nadir Talbot staring back at her.

“Nadir, I thought you had gone back to London,” she said.

A wide smile crossed his lips, revealing a row of straight teeth. “Not quite yet. In a week or so, I will be packing up, but I would like to take in the sea air without worrying about palace intrigue or missed deadlines.” His eyes ran over her tweed riding jacket and breeches, watching the rain darkened her shoulders. “My apologies, please, do come in, Lady Dorset. Are you here to see Leona?”

“Yes, I’m hoping to speak to her if she’s up to it.” Dropping her voice and wiping the moisture from her brow, she asked, “Is she well? I don’t want to intrude if she is trying to rest. I’m sure half of Folkesbury has come to visit.”

“She’s nearly herself now, and I’m sure she would like to see you. She’s right through here.”

Pulling back the curtain, Nadir stuck his head into the room to make sure Leona hadn’t snuck off when she heard the doorbell. His cousin sat with her sewing basket tucked behind her skirts and an embroidery hoop in her hands. She had already heard the countess’s voice and caught a glimpse of her trying to peer into the window. Even if she had slipped upstairs, the noblewoman would have known. If it had been anyone else, she would have had Nadir turn them away anyway, but Lady Dorset had been instrumental in getting her help, or so she had been told the next morning when she was finally coherent enough to understand her situation. It was only proper to see her. As her cousin ducked out, the henna-haired woman entered, the heels of her riding boots clicking on the floor. Her light eyes lingered on Leona’s face, taking in the signs of strain near her eyes and the slight pallor of her cheeks. She seemed to be more tired and drawn than before the party, but her eyes were brighter despite the fatigue.

“Mrs. Rhodes, I am so pleased to see you look well. You gave us quite a fright at the party,” Lady Dorset said, taking the seat across from her. From the corner of her eye, she watched Nadir disappear down the hall out of sight. “I hope you are feeling better now.”

“Much, thank you.” Ringing her bell, the butler appeared and she sent him off to fetch them a tray of tea. “Nadir told me I have you to thank for getting me a physician that night. I hope I didn’t ruin your party.”

“Not at all. You merely added a bit of excitement to the night,” she replied with a measured smile. Despite their best efforts to maintain the atmosphere, most of the guests who had been in the greenhouse at the time of her collapse left soon after and were shortly followed by the rest of the townspeople. At least it hadn’t been her poor party-planning skills that drove them away. “I was more surprised that your husband and cousin had allowed you to come out in that state. Anyone with eyes could see that you were in pain.”

“You can’t blame Argus for it. I hid it from him, and Nadir tried to convince me to stay home. I didn’t listen. I didn’t realize how bad off I was until we were halfway to the party. Then, it seemed too late to turn back. It wasn’t my intention to pass-out in the middle of your party. I hope you can forgive my behavior. It was uncharacteristically reckless.”

The countess’s eyes hardened even as her mouth curled into a smile and she bowed her head in a graceful nod. As Barnes brought in the tea and placed it before them, her gaze never left the dark-haired woman’s face. Leona swallowed hard and kept her head down as she tended to their tea. The woman hadn’t come merely to check on her. Of that she was certain. Something in the way she looked at her said she knew more than she let on. She was waiting. For what, Leona couldn’t be sure.

“So,” she began, clearing her throat, “you road your bicycle all the way from Brasshurst in the rain? I thought your steamer was fixed.”

“It is, but I chose to go by velocipede. It helps clear my mind and burn up some excess energy. On warm days I don’t think I could stand to sit in a cab anymore unless I had to.” Hadley watched as Mrs. Rhodes nodded with a tight smile and took a sip of her tea. There was so much she wanted to ask, but did she dare? Hadley Fenice would never be so imprudent, but Lady Dorset would expect answers. Taking a sip, she added stiffly, “You seem happier than you were last time we spoke, Mrs. Rhodes.”

“Do I?”

“Very much so, if not more nervous. I’m sorry if it’s callous of me to say, but it seems odd for a woman who just lost her baby.” When the woman’s byzantine eyes widened and her hand stopped halfway to her mouth, Hadley whispered, “I know it’s a rumor, but I know what I saw that night. That was much more than... a certain time.”

Leona swallowed hard and wiped her tongue over her teeth, the moisture suddenly evaporating from her mouth. Panic rose in her breast, speeding her heart and raising a cold sweat across her flesh as the other woman stared back at her with calculated impassivity.

Her voice cracked as she replied, “I don’t know what you are talking about, Lady Dorset, but if you are going to berate me, then you should—”

“I know you took the silphium.”

“How?” The word escaped her lips before she could stop herself.

Hadley refilled the cups and repeated what Mrs. Rhodes had done on her own tea. “We should probably discuss this somewhere away from prying ears. Shall we go into the study?”

Nodding, Leona hesitantly stood and led her into the next room. Her hands shook and her abdomen cramped with a spasm as she crossed the threshold. The noose was tightening around her neck, but instead of Nash at the other end, it was Lady Dorset. She should have known it was coming. Noblewomen waltzed but business women pounced. As the door shut behind them, she turned, ready to face the woman with one last stand of strength, and found the redhead leisurely taking in the bookshelves and display cabinet. She snapped to attention as Leona released a stifled groan and sank into the desk chair.

“How— how did you know?” she asked, releasing a slow breath as it passed.

“Mrs. Rhodes, I was not trying to upset—”

“It’s too late for that. Just tell me how you found out. Did Nadir tell you?”

Hadley watched as the other woman’s eyes burned bitterly with betrayal. Despite her tight lips and hard gaze, her breast rapidly rose and fell against her will. She stepped forward and gave Leona’s hand a squeeze. Her gaze traveled between the noblewoman’s face and hand as if trying to discern her intentions. Why would Lady Dorset expose her and then comfort her?

Hadley Sorrell kept her voice low and calm as she explained, “No one told me anything. I haven’t even spoken to Nadir since the party.”

“Then, how did you find out?”

Hadley rested against the edge of the coffee table. “It was fairly easy to put together once I read the rest of Eilian’s notes on silphium. A plant that ‘promotes menstruation’ goes missing days before you have a miscarriage. He had no idea what that truly entailed, but I do, and I don’t believe that is a coincidence.”

“We can pay for the broken window... over time.”

“I don’t care about that. It has already been repaired.”

Leona Rhodes sat very still, her body locking against her will. If Lady Dorset wasn’t after damages, then she had to want something more. “Are you saying you are going to turn me in?”

“No, and I’m not going to tell your husband or Nadir either. I’m sure you had your reasons, but I would have rather you came to me and asked for a piece of silphium. You could have certainly thought up some pretext for getting it instead of breaking in like a common burglar. Do I really seem so unreasonable that you couldn’t speak to me?”

“I didn’t want anyone to find out what I was doing.” Locking eyes with the countess, she straightened and hesitantly asked, “If you don’t want us to pay for the window and you aren’t pressing charges, then why are you here? If there is anything else you want, trust me when I tell you we have nothing left you can take.”

“It isn’t something monetary that I want. Remember when we first met and I said that my cause was helping women? That I wanted to form an artisan guild just for them? You must understand that I’m not a noblewoman, I’m working class, but I was lucky enough to have crossed paths with Eilian in my business dealings. Unlike most men, he lets me do as I please and continue to work on my projects and company without restriction. Not every woman is able to do that after they are married. What I want to know from you is what worked. How did you use the silphium to achieve the desired result?”

She swallowed hard, seeing the blood again in her mind’s eye as her body went into labor. “It’s immoral to do what I did.”

“I disagree, but I don’t care about your reasons and don’t want to know them. I only want to know the mechanism that achieved the result. You must understand, we have so few options that work and don’t cause grave harm. From what I read in Eilian’s notes, the Romans used it faithfully and they were able to regulate their population. Imagine how that would work in London and other cities where the only option is to risk your life in some back alley or commit worse atrocities later. With something like silphium, there would be less poverty and fewer orphans within a decade. Women would be able to even support themselves if they were able to control how many children they had without neglecting other areas of their marriages. I want every woman to have access to a natural method that actually works, and this is obviously effective.”

“What’s the point? They will say it’s unnatural, and put a stop to it. Besides, it’s gone now. I used up the useful parts testing it and burned the rest.”

Hadley winced at the thought of the ancient plant being eaten by flames. “Eilian is growing another one. Luckily, he collected some seeds before you stole it. How could anyone deny that we were meant to have it when it has been provided for us to find? The Romans used it, and they are in fashion right now with scholars.” Hadley leaned closer and met Leona’s tired gaze. “All it takes is the right women finding out and spreading it to others. We could be a force for change with the right information and resources.”

Drawing in an unsteady breath, Leona replied, “I will tell you, but you must promise never to tell anyone what I did.”

***

Nadir watched from the dining room as Barnes passed into the curtained parlor with a tray of tea before ducking out and disappearing up the stairs. A wry smile crossed his lips. The kitchen was unguarded. Slipping down the steps, he hoped the butler wouldn’t interrupt him or make a snide comment on how much money he was costing Argus by purloining bits of cheese or leftovers, but as he crossed the last few steps, he froze and met a set of grey eyes gazing up at him from below. The thin shadow of a woman stood behind the table with her chapped hands resting on an envelope as crisp and white as the starched collar of her uniform. When she realized Nadir was the same man she met before, the edge of raw fear left her eyes.

“And what are you doing here? Another message, I see.”

Her light eyes darted over the steps and over her shoulder toward the door before coming to rest on his rich, velvet jacket. “Yes. I— I have a letter for Mrs. Rhodes, sir. Is she at home?”

“Did Barnes let you in?” he asked with feigned disinterest.

On the final step, he dropped his foot with a thunk, letting it echo in the gloomy kitchen. Rain pattered down from the open door, casting undulating shadows on the cobbled floor. They split and flickered, merging with the edge of the maid’s slight form. Pilcrow stepped back, unconsciously moving toward the door at the question. She should have waited outside.

“No, sir, the door was unlocked. My master said the letter was important, and I didn’t want the ink to run, sir. I would get in trouble for that.”

“You would get in trouble for trespassing, too.” With a sardonic sigh, he held out his hand. “Give it here. Mrs. Rhodes is busy with Lady Dorset, but I can take it up when she’s done.”

Her mouth worked against the words that caught in her throat as she tightened her grip on the missive. “I can wait.”

Nadir pursed his lips. For her size and station, she was a stubborn one. He had expected a woman who followed orders all day to give in. Languidly gliding across the cobbles, Nadir edged closer. The maid matched him step for step in reverse, her eyes never leaving his face. As her back collided with the wall, her face blanched to china white, but the hesitant resolve hardened in her gaze. Her heart pulsed against her ribs at the proximity of his breath and the brush of his hair against her forehead as he towered over her.

“Why not give it to me? Your master will never have to know,” he whispered, his voice sweet and warm.

“But I will know.”

His hand flashed forward, reaching for the corner of the letter, but she had seen him coming. The monochromatic woman spun away from him, facing the wall and twisting against his grip. Instead, his fingers caught the edge of her thin coat. The seam tore at the sudden motion, revealing her dull uniform beneath it. Pilcrow and Nadir stopped mid-step. Their wide eyes met in horror as he released her and took a step back. Still holding the letter tightly in her grasp, she checked her coat. Her mouth contorted into a grimace as she looked from the hole to the almond-skinned gentleman.

“I will pay for that.”

Pilcrow’s face sputtered and twisted until finally she yelled in a voice just loud enough to have an edge, “It doesn’t matter. I’ll still be the one mending it!”

His black brows knit and his eyes brightened at the thought. “If you give me the letter, I will give you twenty pounds. Then, you can buy a new coat.”

Twenty pounds. She turned the figure over in her mind. That would be a year’s worth of wages if the Nashes actually paid her what they promised. A whole year’s salary for simply handing over an envelope that might fall into his hands the moment Mrs. Rhodes laid it down. She could buy a new coat and still have money left or she could save it until she could collect enough to leave and start over, but if Mrs. Nash found it when she rummaged through her room, she would confiscate it and interrogate her about where she got it. The horrid woman would call her a thief and toss her out without pay or references. As the hope drained from her mind, her grip loosened on the thin paper.

Before she could break from her thoughts, a hand clamped down on the other side. Her fingers tightened at the last second as Nadir pulled her forward, trying to tug it from her iron grasp. Even if he ripped it, she would rather have that happen than have him get it in one piece. He yanked her onto her tiptoes as he raised the letter high above her head. Beads of sweat collected on her forehead and the breath caught in her chest as she held it in. If she released it, she would let go. A cry escaped her lips as her fingers slid off and she collided hard with the wooden stool behind her.

Nadir stared triumphantly down at the letter. The envelope bore no name or markings. The back had been sealed with cheap glue and nothing more. Ignoring the maid as she rose on trembling legs and touched the blood seeping from the back of her hand where it scraped the stool, he held the papers up to the light. The few rows of neat script inside were barely visible through the dense paper, and where they could be seen, they overlapped incomprehensibly. With a satisfied smile, he stuffed it into his breast pocket out of sight.

“Give it back! It’s not yours,” the maid demanded.

Bright red blood dripped down her hand as she pointed a finger at him. Color rose in her cheeks, bringing out the russet sheen in her hair that a second earlier had been black. The shadows had condensed to fill-out the specter until her body became whole.

Her grey eyes glowed with rage. “Give it back!”

“My apologies, but it’s mine now,” he replied with a wide smile as he cocked his head and backed toward the steps. “I’m sure you can see yourself out.”

Her hand dropped as he turned and trotted up the steps without looking back. She stood stunned. What could she do? The color drained from her face, landing in a tiny puddle of red at her side. Should she have chased him up into the house and taken it back? It would have surprised him—and her—but it was too late now. She knocked her fist against her forehead.

“Stupid. Stupid,” she repeated as she righted the stool with her other hand. How could she have been so stupid? She should have known the man would have gotten it from her one way or another, and now, Mr. or Mrs. Nash would find out. Then, she would pay dearly for her idiocy and her coat. They would surely make her pay for that, too.

***

Nadir sprinted up the stairs, slamming and locking the basement door when he reached the top. The letter crinkled in his pocket as he passed the empty parlor. He paused at the threshold, but when he heard women’s voices drifting from the study, he continued on. Pretend that nothing is out of the ordinary, he reminded himself as he walked up the creaky, crooked steps with a slow, measured gate. He couldn’t let Barnes see him too pleased with himself unless he wanted Leona to know. The butler was worse than a bloody parrot.

“Mr. Talbot.”

Nadir stopped at the firm, plummy voice that brought him back to his school days of being brought before the headmaster. He turned to find the butler coming out of his bedroom. Spying probably. “Yes, Barnes?”

“Do you still want your shoes polished, sir? I was unsure which pair you meant. You brought so many.”

“All of them,” he replied with a smile as he slithered past and shut the door behind him.

Retreating to his desk, he rearranged his stacks of books and papers to block an unwanted visitor from seeing what he was doing. He shut the curtains before carefully tearing the letter open. If it was something benign, at least he could reseal it and slip it in with the post. As he pulled it halfway out, he hesitated. This was Leona’s business. The letter was meant for her, and he had stolen it without a pang of guilt. There was still time to replace it before Lady Dorset left, but he had to know. Something was going on with her, something he didn’t like.

His cousin hadn’t said anything about her change in circumstances, but it was obvious by the state of her person and house. All of her gowns were several years out of fashion, her staff had been reduced to one, and the steamer she had been so happy to buy after her wedding had been sold even though they obviously needed it. Seeing her sneak out and disappear into the tunnel near the cove proved something was amiss. Then there was the look on Nash’s face when she collapsed and the business with stealing the plant. Someone had to put an end to it. Argus would continue to bumble along unaware while everything went on under his nose, so that only left him. Glancing toward the door, he unfolded the letter.

This has gotten out of hand. We need to speak and finally put a stop to this nonsense. Meet in the usual place tonight at three. Tell no one.

Anger flared in Nadir’s breast as he jammed the letter back into his pocket. No names, no formality, no question of where to go. How many clandestine meetings had they had? Well, Nash would be in for a surprise this time. If he didn’t take him seriously before, he would now.

Chapter Twenty-One

Into the Dark

Sitting in the gloom, Nadir drew on his black coat and soundlessly slipped his feet into his boots. The house had fallen silent long ago, and each sound he made, no matter how small a creak or sigh, seemed to reverberate through the plaster. At the door, he listened for his cousin but heard only her husband’s choking, throaty snores. Nadir opened the door a crack and stepped into the hall, careful not to make the hinge whistle. In the darkness, he could scarcely make out the lantern in his hand, but as he edged toward the stairs, moonlight filtered in through the front windows and shone off the framed portraits hanging across the wallpaper. He stepped over the loose board and padded over to the front door. Taking his walking stick from the umbrella stand, he pulled the ends apart just far enough for the hidden blade to catch the light. He closed it and tucked it under his arm, hoping it wouldn’t come to that. Nash seemed like a man who wouldn’t necessarily listen to reason but wouldn’t take him lightly after a show of steel and coin. The latch’s spring clicked loudly as he pushed open the door and walked into the cool night air.

The moon peeked behind murky clouds as Nadir kept his head down and picked along the deserted paths, keeping an eye and ear out for anyone who might notice his presence. In the village, nearly every house had fallen silent with the only light left to illuminate them coming from the electric globed streetlamps lining the pavement. He kept close to the fences and stone facades. Rounding the corner near the edge of town, he watched as three men in rumpled work clothes and shabby hats stumbled out of the tavern, its electric lamps shining bright and its tinny player-piano still playing at the late hour. Nadir stopped, locking eyes with one who glanced his way with bleary eyes, but when one of his companions made a joke, he laughed and staggered after them. Even if the man remembered him, it would be hard to distinguish what was real from what came from the bottom of a whiskey bottle. He swallowed against the dry knot in his throat and continued down the path toward the shore.

Half-fallen fences and scraggly bushes reached out with budded claws to catch his coat and hair as they drifted in the salty breeze. He stopped a few steps from the tunnel’s entrance and drew in a long breath, savoring the calming tug and pull of the ocean below. With the taste of distant lands on his tongue, he lit the lantern with shaking hands and stepped into the brush. Even with shutter nearly closed, the harsh light gleamed against the dew-soaked rock like a beacon, illuminating the slick lichens growing in the grooves. As he stepped forward, his hand disappeared into the cliff’s face.

Opening his lamp, he raised it ahead of him. The damp air sunk into his clothing, sending a shiver through his body as his feet splashed through the sole-high water. Nadir’s resolve wavered. The endless abyss disappeared into the earth thirty feet beyond the reach of his meager lamp. Panic lanced through him at the thought of losing his way in the catacombs. He had heard tales of tourists becoming lost in Paris’s underground necropolis only to be found months or years later, barely more than the piles of bones around them. Closing his eyes, he tucked the heavy walking stick beneath his arm and ran his free hand along the wall. The cold stone soaked through his glove, but a wave of calm washed over him. If Leona could make it through, so could he.

The peaked roof hovered inches above his head, occasionally tugging at his hair. As he passed rats’ nests and things so decomposed he could no longer discern their forms, his stomach flipped. He had seen worse in London, but there he could cross the street to avoid it; here, he was forced to confront the world’s ugliness. He stared into the darkness beyond his lamp, catching a whiff of a strange smell wafting from the far end of the cistern. Above the murk of stagnant water and centuries of moss, a musky odor rose. He crinkled his nose at the acidic, bitter notes of alcohol and stale sweat competing with spiced cologne. Water rippled over his feet as the smell grew stronger.

Darting to the other side of the tunnel, he scrambled onward. Metal grated against the stone wall behind him, sending his heart into a frantic tattoo. The stench drifted closer, but as he broke into a run, his lantern went out. Nadir heedless flung forward, feeling shafts of fresh air cut through the dankness as he passed under the parlors and drawing rooms of Brasshurst Hall. Ahead, the floor shivered with light, the ripples from his footsteps casting undulating patterns on the wall. Pale green light illuminated the water drifting beneath a half-rotted metal ladder affixed to blocks of staggered stone that formed a makeshift staircase.

At the edge of the shaft, he slowed his pace. In the otherworldly light, he found both sides of the tunnel deserted. His gaze rose to the opening. Another branch of the catacomb had been sealed long ago with massive blocks of marble, but above them, an engine thrummed despite the late hour. He had seen that absinthe glow. Something heavy thudded down the tunnel from where he had just come, echoing through the empty cavern, and the rank smell of sweat burned his nostrils. Nadir placed his light and stick on the top step before pulling himself up with the rusted rails. As he pivoted into the entrance, the catacombs fell away to reveal the vast dome of the orangery rising above him.

The liquid moon reflected off the glass, amplifying what little light could diffuse within the manmade fog. Relighting his lamp and setting it beside him, Nadir closed his dark eyes and slowed his breathing. With his heart pounding in his ears, he could scarcely tell whether it was his pulse or the heart of Brasshurst. Whatever the thing in the catacombs was, it didn’t seem to follow him up. Maybe his imagination had played tricks on him. He pressed his hand to his pocket, feeling the aqua bead beneath it. There was no question in his mind that this was where Leona and Nash met. The tunnel led straight to his house, but no man would bring his untoward dealings so close to home. If they wanted to meet, it would have to be in the once deserted confines of the manor or the tunnel itself. Why else would Leona be so bold as to sneak into the orangery in the dead of night unless she had been there before?

Drawing up to his full height, Nadir clutched his lantern in one hand and his walking stick in the other. It was no wonder the earl and countess hadn’t found the hatch yet. It had been surrounded by tall brush and was blocked on one side by a bull-sized boulder. He inched out of the thick bushes and massive ferns, his eyes sweeping over the slumbering plants for any sign of Randall Nash. A smile crossed Nadir’s lips at the thought of the look on the old man’s face when he realized that Leona had been left at home and what he would face would be far worse than anything she could have done. Even if he couldn’t see or hear him, Nash was in there somewhere, waiting.

Apart from the gurgle of the pond and the hum of its engine, the greenhouse was silent. Nadir’s eyes flickered down the path as he walked past the windows separating the dome from the delicate plasterwork and rich woods of the manor. Keeping the light half-shuttered, he walked toward the pool. He hoped Lord and Lady Dorset would remain fast asleep. Even if he expected that Lady Dorset would be at least somewhat reasonable, explaining his presence in their home at that late hour uninvited was a task he would have preferred to avoid, especially if it meant the possibility of having to reveal Leona’s theft.

As he reached the crest of the trail, a light flickered at the edge of the tiled pond. It caught the light, creating tortured, deformed shadows that writhed around its wick. He squinted at the shuddering flame. Something lay beside it, but it was too dark to see. Following the dirt and cobbled path, Nadir’s body locked at the water’s edge. What he had imagined was a bough of wisteria or a fern dripping into the pool was really a pale hand.

The saliva dried in his mouth as he opened his lantern and stepped closer. A body lay twisted against the tile. A crimson pool surrounded the body, seeping into the tiles and following along the grout until it poured into the water in minute streams, narrow as capillaries. Nadir’s heart pulsed in his temples at the sight of a bloodied hole torn through the fabric of his coat where a bullet had escaped. Walking along the man’s side, he stopped at the grey head. He averted his gaze before he could see his lifeless features. Nash. He didn’t need to flip him over to recognize the fine fabric of his suit and the curled but closely clipped hair on the back of his head. Nash was the one who was supposed to be there, and there could be no other. Laying his walking stick beside him, Nadir reached out and placed his fingers against the man’s neck. The tide of blood inched toward his shoes as the pieces flooded into place. In a moment, all thoughts fled his mind, except one.

He had to get out of there. He had to tell someone what transpired. The smell, the chase, the letter, the body. It would mean waking up the Sorrells, but it would be worth it not to venture into the catacombs again and confront whatever lurked in the darkness. He stared up at the high windows. Would they even hear him if he banged on the windows? Maybe they had left one of the doors unlocked, but if he got in, who would he turn to? Climbing to his feet, he turned toward the path he had just come down.

He had only taken one step on the trail when a shadow slid out of the garden behind him, rustling the low branches of a pomegranate tree. He sensed him before he saw it, but his body didn’t respond quickly enough. The specter raised something high above its head and brought it down hard. Pain thundered through Nadir’s neck and skull, reverberating through his form as he stumbled onto his knees. His lantern skidded across the tile and sputtered out. He staggered. His head swam and his vision tunneled, sending the world into blackness.

***

Calloused hands snaked across Nadir’s face and around his chest. He tried to pry the man’s hand off, but it felt as if he were trapped underwater. The air had thickened around him and his arms moved twice as slowly as he commanded them. Before he could stop him, the man pulled him up by the chest and held him in place like a photographer with a cadaver. Despite being raised to his feet, Nadir’s shoes uselessly slid out from under him on the bloody tiles. His head lolled back against his will, heavy with confusion and throbbing pain. He fought to open one eyelid, which rose halfway before drooping again until a metallic click resounded in the gloom.

At the sound and the burn of cold metal being placed against his palm, his body rallied and stiffened against his attacker. As his senses cleared, his nose burned with the mixture of astringent cologne and sweat that he had smelled in the tunnel. Nadir flailed and struggled to push his shoulders into his attacker and throw him back, but with his weakened legs, he barely moved. The man’s arm tightened around his waist and hand, holding him in place even as he writhed. He arched his back and felt the shorter man teeter backwards. With adrenaline pulsing through his veins in the nearly pitch black orangery, he threw his weight back again. The man stumbled and fell into the dirt beside Nash’s body. Cool soil clung to Nadir’s cheek as he landed hard to his side, his knee banging against a rock. Scrambling to his feet, he pulled out of his assailant’s grasp and tumbled forward.

He took two hesitant steps before his feet slid out from under him, and he landed on hands and knees at the edge of the blood trail. The breath caught in his throat as he knelt frozen in horror at the warmth soaking through his trousers and into the lines of his palms. In an instant, he gathered his wits and ran toward where he believed the house to be. Through the heavy fog and his blurred vision, he could barely see a foot ahead of him, but he could hear the man’s booted feet pounding after him. His body tilted and faltered, recovering as quickly as it staggered. Light glinted off the library windows as he rounded the path, but before he could reach it, a shot erupted behind him.

The boom reverberated through the trees and along the dome, sending leaves and bits of bark scratching across his cheek. Nadir sprinted forward as another shot rang out. By the time the noise finished echoing in his ears, pain seared through his left temple and rang through his skull. He clutched the side of his head and stumbled forward. The strength seeped from his limbs, and he slumped to his knees. Pulling his hand away from the wound, he found his palm nearly as dark as his coat. He strained to keep his thoughts together. Bolts of pain trailed across his scalp and down his neck while bile rose in his throat at the growing pressure in his temples.

He should get up. He should run toward the house and find help. He should move, but his legs refused to budge except to collapse under him. Wetness brimmed from the cut before trickling down the side of his face in slow rivulets. His eyes flickered shut against his will, the lids growing irresistibly heavy. The world grew quiet as the footsteps and smell trailed into the darkness and all that was left was the dull, rhythmic pulse of the engine. Closing his eyes, Nadir sunk to the cool soil and fell into the void.

ACT THREE

“The truth is rarely pure and never simple.”

–Oscar Wilde

Chapter Twenty-Two

A Writer of Little Infamy

“What was that?” Hadley cried as she shot up in bed, the words issuing from her throat before she was even certain she was awake.

“I don’t know.”

Eilian sat up beside her in the darkened room, the only sound their rapid inhalations. His wide eyes traveled the length of the room for the source of the phantom noise but found nothing out of the ordinary. Had she imagined the sound? No, he had heard it too, but the memory was already fading from his mind. As he leaned closer and brushed against her, her pounding pulse rushing against his arm.

A boom echoed through the stillness. Hadley ducked against him as Eilian covered her with his arms. In an instant, it was over. Locking eyes, they slipped out of bed without another word and donned their dressing gowns. As Hadley reached into the bedside table for her derringer, her heart thudded against her breast. She had heard that sound before. The retort ricocheting through the desert plateaus as she emptied a round into Edmund Barrister’s ursine chest. Canvas tents whipped in the wind while blood spurted from the wound, spreading across his khaki jacket. She shut her eyes against the image of his body giving out before falling at her feet. Swallowing the fear tightening her breast, she slipped the gun into her pocket.

At the door, Eilian ran a shaky hand through his sleep-mussed hair and across his tired eyes. “Ready?” When she nodded and smoothed her nightgown, he wrapped his arm around her and whispered, “You needn’t worry, Had. I’m willing to bet it’s Nash again.”

She furrowed her brows and frowned, she wasn’t so sure. Stepping into the hall, they flipped on the gas lamps with each empty room they checked. At the top of the stairs, Patrick stood waiting for them. His white hair was wild from sleep and his pajamas’ buttons were misaligned under his rumpled dressing gown. He yawned behind his hand as he clutched a heavy silk parasol. Hadley suppressed a chuckle at their manservant’s choice of weapon.

“Are the girls somewhere safe?”

“Mrs. Negi is standing guard of them downstairs.”

“Good. Did you find any damage on your way up, Pat?”

“The servants’ quarters are untouched, as are the drawing rooms, parlors, and day rooms. Every door and window is locked.”

Eilian’s spirits sank at the implication. “So that leaves half of the upstairs bedrooms, the dining room, and the orangery?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Of course. Where else would he be?”

They flipped on the light in every room until the manor blazed. No longer did they have to fear what lurked in the darkness or skulk with cudgels raised. Eilian was certain he knew who caused the mischief. Even if he didn’t know what had been done, Randall Nash had to be behind it. No one else caused them any problems or tried to maliciously upset their lives, and the sooner they left, the happier Nash would be. No matter how many passages he read in his great-grandfather’s journals, he still could not reconcile the innocent, loving child with the abhorrent man who did nothing but antagonize them and everyone around him.

At the library door, Patrick released the lock and turned on the auxiliary lights. The green glow from the high lamps and the bright lights from the rooms surrounding the orangery cast stark shadows over the trees and dome. The room stood as still as a picture.

“Nash! Nash, I know you are in here. Come out now, and I won’t call the constabulary!” Eilian yelled at the threshold.

His heart thundered in his ears. Despite the stillness, the room felt charged, as if a battle had stopped the moment he opened the door. When no reply came, he left the shelter of the library and stepped into the stifling humidity of the greenhouse. Even without the sun’s gaze upon him, sweat broke down his back and arms, but as he called again, a chill fell over him. A groan came from the trail just out of sight. He turned back to find Hadley at his elbow with her derringer at the ready. He shifted uncomfortably as they crept forward, his naked prosthesis feeling strangely heavy without its external springs or couter. The irritation died away as his eyes locked on a figure lying at the edge of the path. Before he could react, Hadley ran ahead, dropping her hand and gun.

“Had, wait!”

Eilian trailed behind her. His stomach lurched as vomit rose in his throat at the blood smeared across the man’s face. Rivers of blood trailed over his forehead, across his eyes, and between his full lips as they parted to release a heavy breath. If Nadir Talbot hadn’t been the only man of Egyptian descent in town, it would have been impossible to tell it was him with his dark hair matted and his face painted in blood.

“Mr. Talbot! Good lord, Nadir,” she cried as she dropped to his side and turned him onto his back. Placing a hand on his chest, she jostled him until he released another groan. “Nadir, wake up.”

“Pat, fetch Dr. Sturgis!”

“Should I fetch the police as well?”

“Yes but after. Tell Sturgis a man is gravely wounded.” When the butler disappeared out of sight, he turned his gaze to the shadows beyond the dim glow of the auxiliary lights. The person who attacked Mr. Talbot could still be there, waiting for their chance to finish them off next. He slipped his arm under Nadir’s shoulder, but when he maneuvered his prosthesis to carry him back to the library, his eyes fell upon the bare titanium rod.

Eilian dropped his voice and leaned close. “Had, we need to get him out of here. Grab his left side. I don’t know if we still have company.”

They slipped their arms under his and dragged him toward the library. Nadir’s body thumped along the cobbles as he weakly struggled to shrug off their hands. They laid him down on the rug in front of the hearth, but as Eilian turned from shutting the door, he recoiled at the sight. The amount of blood and torn flesh was worse than he had imagined. Blood dribbled down his face from the wound on his scalp. It cut from behind his ear to an inch from his temple where his flesh had shredded and peeled back to reveal the musculature and bone below. Before he could suppress it, Eilian ran to the desk and vomited into the rubbish bin as quietly as he could muster as not to alert Hadley. His throat burned as he wiped his mouth and rested a steadying hand over his stomach. He had to pull himself together. When he turned back, his wife had Nadir propped up against the sofa and was carefully parting his hair to get a better look at the wound. He averted his gaze as another wave of nausea gurgled through his gut.

“It doesn’t seem too deep. I wish Eliza and James were here; they would know what to do.” She pushed past him to fetch the scissors from his desk, but as she passed the garbage pail, she stopped. Her light eyes darted from the metal can to her husband’s ashen face. “Are you all right? I can do this myself if you can’t stomach it.”

“I can help. I just can’t look at it too much.”

“All right. Hold his shoulder then, so he doesn’t fall over.”

Eilian swallowed hard and averted his gaze as he laid his hand on Nadir’s shoulder. With the scissors, Hadley quickly cut off the bottom six inches off her nightgown and bunched it up against the bleeding wound. Nadir’s eyes opened a crack, but as she pressed her hand to the side of his head, he clenched them shut and drew in a hissed breath.

“Where am I?” he mumbled, his words slurred against his thick tongue.

“Brasshurst Hall. You don’t remember coming here?”

His glazed eyes widened as he looked past her. “No... I don’t know. You’re hurting me, Lee.”

“It’s not Leona; it’s Lady Dorset. I’m sorry I’m hurting you, but I have to.” She ran her hand along the back of his head to feel for injuries when her fingers drifted over a hot lump. “You have an egg on your head. Did someone hit you?”

He stared ahead for a long moment before nodding.

“Do you remember who?”

Images drifted through his mind, dim and just out of reach. It had been dark, and there had been that disgusting smell.

“Was it Mr. Nash?”

The breath caught in his throat. Nadir tried to catch the threads of his mind and draw them together despite the throb of nausea and pain. He had to tell someone. He had to tell. Gathering his wits, he said, “He’s dead.”

Hadley and Eilian locked eyes, their gazes traveling to the fogged window. Turning back to Nadir, Hadley raised his chin until their eyes met. The haze had nearly cleared for the time being, leaving the proud writer to grit his teeth and breathe in shallow gasps against the sear of pain in his temple.

“If you don’t,” Nadir paused to swallow down the pain in his head, “believe me, go check. He’s by the pool.”

Hadley looked toward the window again before returning to the bleeding wound and the growing stain on the cloth. Could she risk leaving him alone?

“I will go. Give me your gun,” Eilian replied as he released Nadir’s arm, happy to escape the sight of his torn scalp.

Reaching into her dressing gown, Hadley handed over her derringer. Her heart thundered in her throat. She watched Eilian fumble to position the gun in his real hand and slip into the orangery without looking back. Even if he ran into the culprit, she knew he wouldn’t be able to protect himself. She reached to sweep her hair behind her ears but stopped short when she remembered they were coated in Nadir’s blood.

“I think he’s gone,” Nadir said when she turned to him, her face blanched with fear.

“Who?”

He raised his hand, which still felt as heavy as his head, and held the rag to his wound. “The murderer.”

“Oh. Did you see his face?”

“No, he hit me from behind. Then, it was dark. He grabbed me, and I ran. I— I dropped my lantern at some point. Not sure when. I should have thrown it at him.” A bitter chuckle escaped his lips, rattling his throbbing head. He squeezed his eyes shut as a wave of pain radiated through his scalp and burned the cartilage of his ear. “Did he shoot me in the head?”

Hadley met his half-glazed eyes and nodded. “You were lucky this time. It isn’t too deep.”

“Lucky,” he repeated under his breath, his fingers trailing into his pocket to retrieve the smooth bead.

“Nadir, I hate to ask, but I need to know before the police get here. Did you kill him?”

His dark eyes shot to her face. “What? Of course not!”

“Then, what were you doing sneaking into the orangery?” she demanded, her voice cracking. “If you got into an altercation with him and things went badly, I don’t know if I could blame you. I need to know the truth before everyone gets here and turns the house into chaos again.”

His bloodstained mouth hung open at the implication. At the rush of emotion, his head swam and the library tilted before righting itself. He swallowed hard and squinted his eyes until they focused.

“Lady Dorset, you must believe me, I did nothing of the sort! I snuck in to confront him, and that is all. All I wanted to do was give him a piece of my mind, maybe— maybe threaten him a little, but not kill him. When I got here, he was already dead or at least I thought he was dead. There was lots of blood.”

“What happened after you found him?”

That part was still fuzzy. In his mind’s eye, he could see Nash beside the pool with his hand dangling into the water. He drew in a ragged breath and closed his eyes to picture the scene, but as soon as he relaxed his body, the countess shook his shoulder, rattling his brain against his skull.

“Wake up!”

“I am! God, you’re as bad as Leona.”

“Don’t you know you are not supposed to let a person who got hit in the head sleep? Now, focus and tell me what happened.”

He groaned. “I don’t know. Someone hit me, that much I remember, but after that, I’m not sure. I could barely see straight; he hit me so hard.”

“How did you get in?”

Nadir swallowed and tried to hold his head still as the subterranean passage floated before his vision. “There’s a tunnel by the beach. It leads under your house, all the way to the dower house. There’s a trap door or loose tile that opens into the orangery. It was open when I got there. It looks like a sewage tunnel or something.”

Hadley suppressed her surprise by busying herself with the bandages. She would have to take a look at that passage later. Cutting another length of fabric from her skirt, she carefully peeled the blood-sodden bandage away from the wound and handed Nadir the new one. As he shifted and repositioned his head, she caught a glimpse of the couch behind him. The cream brocade had wicked up the blood, creating a scarlet halo where his head had once been.

“How bad do you think it is?” he asked, pointing toward the gash.

“Bad enough for stitches. The bleeding is slowing down.”

“I guess I will have to part my hair the other way now. Then again, to the right audience, maybe I could show off my battle scars. A writer has to gain a little infamy after they have been shot in the head and lived to tell the tale... even if it is exaggerated.”

Her light eyes narrowed as she wiped her hands on her gown. “Mr. Talbot, A man has been killed only a few yards away and you’re thinking about showing off to your lady friends. Do you not realize how serious this is? Eilian could be in there with the murderer.”

“Of course I do. I’m just trying to take your mind off it. I know you’re worried about him,” he replied, wincing as a bolt arced across his scalp. “That man would have overpowered you in an instant. Lord Dorset at least looks like he could hold his own. I’m sure he will be fine.”

The anger seeped out of her as she sat back on her heels. In his dark coat free of cut flowers or vibrant colors, Nadir Talbot had lost his dandy’s mask. He sat before her with his head resting against the sofa and the wad of once-white cotton pressed to his head, no pretention or preening left to hide behind. She had never noticed how much intelligence flashed behind his gaze or how his palms were stained with faded blotches of ink. A line of script cut across his thumb on his empty hand where it had rested across his manuscript until the words set in. With the fan of blood surrounding his head, he reminded her even more of his cousin. He could have been one of the Renaissance’s doe-eyed saints, suffering but maintaining his unearthly glow. How had the gravity of his well-sculpted features been hidden so well behind layers of vibrant silk and velvet? For a moment, his brown eyes glazed before snapping back to her face as she brushed a few strands of blood-crusted hair from his forehead.

“I appreciate it, Nadir. How are you feeling?”

“Like I’m going to have a horrid migraine tomorrow.”

“I’m surprised you aren’t more light-headed from the bleeding. Hopefully Patrick will return with the doctor soon.”

“Oh, trust me, I’m light-headed. I’m just trying very hard not to think about it. If I dwell on it, I may vomit.” He drew in a long breath and let it out slowly as he readjusted his blurring eyes again. “I wonder how long it will last.”

Picking up the used rag, she wiped a stream of blood trailing down his neck that had escaped his notice. She frowned when his hand trembled as he readjusted the cloth and shook out his wrist.

“It will probably wear off in a few days. You know, you still haven’t told me why you were in there. How did you know Nash would be there?”

Nadir kept his gaze on the looping vines of the carpet beside them, tracing them with his mind to buy him time until he could figure out what to say. He had Leona to protect. He had failed before, but he wouldn’t now.

“I received a letter.”

Chapter Twenty-Three

Too Late

Through the trees growing beneath the dome, the dusky pink and blue dawn emerged to chase away the shadows lurking in the far corners of the orangery. Eilian held the gun ahead of him as he followed the path past where they had found Mr. Talbot. He had seen Hadley do it several times, but it felt wrong. It wasn’t that her derringer was too small or that it fit awkwardly in his hand, it left him feeling exposed. If someone leapt from the cover of the brush, he knew he wouldn’t fire. He would throw his prosthetic arm in front of him to protect himself before swinging with his real arm. Unhooking his fingers and twisting the gun into his palm, he stopped in the middle of the fern-like trees and listened in the still greenhouse for the assailant. As he expected, the only sound came from the murmur of the water in the pool and the engine behind it. Whoever had broken in was probably long gone now.

Forging ahead, he stopped as his foot collided with the thin metal of a lantern. With a crack, it shot off the path and banged into an unseen tree. The noise reverberated off the dome, shattering the fragile stillness. Before he would have frozen, waiting for the sound to pass, but there was no one left. As the path crested the hill, he sighed as his eyes locked onto the body lying face down at the water’s edge. In the growing dawn light, he could make out the man’s grey hair and long, thin arm, which dangled across the old stones. On his little finger, a gold signet ring glinted. Blood had pooled beneath his narrow chest and dripped into the water beside him. Somehow, this blood didn’t turn his stomach. He should have felt queasy knowing his father’s cousin had bled out while he slept, yet any nausea he should have felt was overpowered by the weight of guilt.

He hadn’t known Randall Nash well. While he had been a nuisance with a miserable disposition, he had been family—practically his father’s brother—and he was gone now. There would be no chance to salvage any semblance of a civil relationship. No one would tell him stories of his father’s childhood or know what Laurence Sorrell was truly like. That entire generation of his family was dead, and now every Sorrell in the family bible would have their lives defined by birth and death. He had hoped to find bits of himself in stories of Laurence or Harland. Randall could have helped things make sense and confirm what he read in Laurence’s journals. He should have done more to mend their relationship.

Swallowing hard, Eilian turned on heel and headed back to the house. He and Dylan were all that tied his family to the Brasshurst and Folkesbury. If either of them were to die— He banished the thought from his mind. Now was not the time for morose ruminations. Dylan and Constance were to have a child, and even if he never did, at least the house and all its history wouldn’t go to seed again; he would make sure of that. At the bend in the path, he paused and watched the sun pierce the misty bluffs. Through the murk, the shadow of a steamer passed down the road to town while three others with their headlamps alight charged across the old bridge toward the house. The light-less steamer fell in behind them, following the caravan.

Inhaling the perfume of water and earth, Eilian braced for the chaos about to descend upon them.

***

“Two bodies, right?” Sergeant Purcell asked when Eilian met him on the front lawn.

The normally sharp policeman’s mustache hung limp at the edge of his lips while his wool uniform, which had been pressed with care, had been thrown over a rumpled, collarless shirt. Behind him, his men looked as if they had rolled out of bed. One still wore a nightshirt under his wrinkled uniform while the other was dressed but looked as if he might fall asleep if left alone.

“No, just one.”

The sergeant’s light eyes sharpened. “Oh? I thought your man told my boys there were two.”

“Randall Nash is dead. Luckily, Nadir Talbot is merely wounded. Dr. Sturgis is already inside tending to him.”

“How fortunate for him. A double murder would have been a record for us.”

When they reached the orangery through the drawing room, Purcell sent his men ahead. Standing before the nobleman, Purcell’s eyes traveled toward where Nash lay as he opened his notepad. He gave the earl a onceover, probing him for any signs of guilt before lingering on the bloodstain on the cuff of his nightshirt where it had grazed Nadir’s bloodied head.

“Lord Dorset, do you know anyone who would have wanted your cousin dead?”

“No, I didn’t know him well.”

“What about Mr. Talbot? Do you have any reason to believe he killed Nash?”

Eilian recoiled at the tang of sweat leaking from beneath the man’s starched collar. Shaking his head, he stepped back, but the sergeant immediately filled the gap.

“I highly doubt it. I don’t know why they were trespassing in the orangery, but I blame Nash for it. He broke in whenever he pleased, so I assume he set up the meeting.” His wife was so fond of Nadir that he hoped what he said was true. “Nadir appears to be the victim of the same assailant who attacked Nash. I don’t think it’s possible that he could have shot himself.”

***

By Purcell’s smug, knowing smile, Eilian should have realized his interrogation wouldn’t end at that. For hours, he, Hadley, and their entire staff were paraded in and out of the morning room, which the sergeant had designated as his makeshift office, all while still in their robes and pajamas. There he sat with his fingers tented in front of his now pomaded mustache, staring down whichever victim had been offered up for questioning. Little Lidia came out in tears followed by Charlotte who returned colorless, and during his turn, Bernard’s rough accent reverberated through the walls. The only one who had escaped his investigation was Nadir Talbot, who had been sent back to his cousin’s to rest at Dr. Sturgis’s furious insistence. With each round of probing, Eilian watched Hadley’s face grow redder while her lips whitened with rage.

“They’re wasting time. This is ridiculous, acting like one of us did it when the real killer is probably halfway to London by now,” she muttered, crossing her arms and storming over to the bay window where she perched on the cushion, away from the others.

Charlotte half-rose to follow her, but Eilian raised his hand to keep her at her younger sister’s side. Crossing the room, he stood behind her and squeezed her shoulder as Patrick was summoned before the sergeant again. Rain pattered against the mullioned windows, casting streaks of grey across her freckled cheeks.

“At least he should be done soon. I can’t imagine that this could go on much longer.”

“Really? Because he asked me the same question four times. Four times.” Her shoulders sagged as she rubbed her eyes and leaned back against him. “We should have just buried him in the garden. I don’t mean to speak ill of the dead, but I don’t know if he is worth all this fuss.”

A small smile played on Eilian’s lips as he leaned closer and whispered, “Sorry, darling, but I can’t blow everyone up to keep the police away.”

“We’re awful,” she chuckled. “I know I’m being cruel, but it would have been easier that way. I can’t imagine there are many murders here, and if he can’t find who robbed us, I doubt he will figure out who killed Nash.” She sighed, hugging Eilian’s arms. “Poor Nadir. He doesn’t know what he’s in for tomorrow.”

“If Purcell doesn’t drag him out of bed tonight, he will be lucky. I don’t think Dr. Sturgis has any say in what he does. Then again, he may not be done with us today.”

Eilian’s head turned to the door as it creaked open and Patrick’s white head peaked out followed by Purcell’s hard features. His light eyes surveyed the tense, careworn faces of the servants sitting on the couches before landing on the earl and countess at the window. As he motioned to his men to leave their posts by the door, Eilian tightened his grip on Hadley’s shoulder.

“That will be all for today. If you are to be questioned further, one of my men will come to summon you. It would be in your best interest to go willingly.”

A communal groan echoed through the room, but the sergeant didn’t appear to notice.

“You may return to your duties, except for you, Lord and Lady Dorset.”

With a nod to the servants, they filed out while their master waited at the window for Purcell to approach. Eilian swallowed hard but stood tall as Hadley rose beside him. The sergeant’s gaze never wavered from his wife’s form. If he could have, he would have kept his arm protectively around her for fear of what the policeman might threaten. Purcell sauntered over, fishing in his pocket for a moment before pulling out a miniature gun. Hadley reached out to snatch it from his palm, but he pulled it back out of reach.

“Yours, I presume, Lady Dorset?” When she nodded, he continued coolly, “We found it near where you said you stumbled upon Nadir Talbot. How did it get there?”

Her lip curled. “Am I being interrogated again?”

“I’m the one asking the questions, your ladyship.”

“I told you, I ran over to help him. It must have fallen out of my hand when we moved him inside. Why did you not ask me this when you were hounding me before?”

“Why are you in possession of a derringer?”

Eilian’s arm tightened around her as she replied sharply, “Because I live in London. If you were a woman, would you walk around unarmed with all sorts of vile creatures lurking about? It’s for protection.”

“Is this really necessary?” Eilian asked, edging between the sergeant and his wife. Even if he was a policeman, he was lucky she didn’t have her derringer.

“It is. Mr. Talbot and Mr. Nash were both shot. Was it possible that you saw Mr. Talbot running in the orangery and shot him by accident?”

“No! I told you, we were awoken by a sound and then heard another gunshot a few moments later.”

“That’s what you say.”

“That’s what we all say because that is what happened. For the tenth and last time, we woke up because there was a loud noise, and as we got out of bed, we heard it again. We went downstairs with Patrick and found Nadir Talbot unconscious and Mr. Nash dead. Whatever you are looking for, Sergeant Purcell, you are looking in the wrong place. Now, if you will excuse me, I have better things to do than repeat myself.”

Dislodging her arm from Eilian’s grasp, Hadley stormed out of the room, her muddied silk slippers slapping against the wooden boards. When he turned back Purcell’s sharp gaze was still locked on the door. Eilian shifted uncomfortably and supported his disarticulated prosthesis with his other arm.

“You should learn to control your wife,” the officer growled as he turned his penetrating glare to the earl.

Eilian bristled. “She’s right, you know. No one on my staff has a motive, and even if we disliked Mr. Nash, Hadley and I were in bed at the time.” He held his hand out expectantly. “You have no right to hold her gun. Give it to me.”

Purcell’s eyes bored into him, challenging the earl to stand down, but when he showed no signs of relenting, he huffed and dropped the gun in the nobleman’s hand. “Only because it hasn’t been fired, but neither of you are to leave town, got it?”

“Well, we will be staying for the funeral, won’t we? Or have you not told his widow yet? You really should. You seem much closer to her than we are.”

Without giving Purcell the opportunity to reply, Eilian left. Passing Patrick at the door, ready to lead the men out, Eilian trudged up the steps and cut across the upper arcades to their bedroom. Anger and sadness welled in his chest, twisting and knotting until all that was left was a clot of misery. They would be stuck in Folkesbury for God knows how long now when all he wanted was to go back to London— to anywhere really. Any place where he would feel useful and no one knew of his earldom.

On top of everything, Nash was dead. Any second chances he thought he had to reconnect with his father were gone now. It had always seemed so easy to fix. His father had loved him and would have welcomed him with open arms if he had changed his ways, but that never happened. It would never happen. Now, there were no more chances, no what-ifs, only what was. Nash’s death had solidified that. Closing the dressing room door, he rested his head on the cool wood. He squeezed his eyes shut until the burning ceased.

Once again, he had acted too late.

Chapter Twenty-Four

The House of Stone and Bones

On the day of the funeral, the turnout was even worse than Eilian imagined. Less than a dozen people showed up to fill the pews in the old stone church, including Mr. Nash. Most would have blamed it on the rain, which pounded against the stained glass windows and beat through the clothing of anyone lingering outdoors for more than a few moments, but Eilian knew that despite living nearly his entire life in Folkesbury, Randall Nash had made few friends. Maybe that was his lot in life, to lose everything he ever thought he could possess: his parents, his home, his reputation, and finally his grandfather and cousin. What affection he had with his wife, Eilian would never know. In the front pew beside Pilcrow, she sat dry-eyed reciting prayers and singing hymns in widow black, paying little heed to the man stretched in the coffin before her or the mourners sitting behind her.

Eilian tried to keep his head down as if in prayer but found it nearly impossible with the coffin sitting only a few yards away. Every time he looked at it, he pictured Nash with the bullet hole in his back lying beside the pool, his grey eyes staring ahead as the blood drained out of him. Eyes so like his father’s and his own. Ripping his gaze from the casket, he studied the elaborately vaulted timber ceiling before trailing to the dingy plaster that coated the church’s ancient stone. What he wouldn’t give to tear it off and examine the building’s underpinnings. From the shape of the arches and the style of the figures in the windows, he guessed it to be from the fourteenth century. Under the pew in front of them, he spotted a flat, engraved stone as long as a man. Surely the dead in Folkesbury must outnumber the living, he thought as the vicar’s droning voice sharpened, breaking his reverie. Now he remembered why he had avoided church since leaving home.

“Heavenly Father, welcome Randall Fitzwilliam Nash into your kingdom and—”

A ragged breath echoed through the stone and timber church. When he looked up expecting to find that his widow finally broke down, he found Mrs. Nash and her lady’s maid reading as if it was a normal service. He glanced at Hadley, itching to look over his shoulder to see who cared enough about Randall Nash to mourn him, but with each shift or squirm, he felt the vicar’s cold gaze upon him and Hadley’s elbow in his ribs. As he put his head down, staring at the metal hand before him, another stifled sob broke from the back of the church. Skirts swished in time with the quick patter of footsteps, but by the time Eilian dared to turn, he could only make out the back of a woman as she slipped between the massive doors. Nadir rose from the last pew and followed her out.

***

At the dismissal of the clergyman, they funneled out of the rows of wooden pews and into the rain, their exit marked by the thwump of umbrellas opening. Most of the attendees drifted down the cobbled path toward town, ignoring the group of hired men raising the casket onto their shoulders. As Eilian and Hadley followed the coffin processing from the church to the family crypt, a familiar face fell in beside them. The handsome Egyptian flashed a roguish smile and tipped his hat, sending a dribble of water over the brim. Peeking from the edge of Nadir’s top hat was a flash of purple silk and a strip of gauze. Hadley’s eyes returned to Rubella Nash at the head of the procession beside the vicar. On her right, Pilcrow held an umbrella over her head, seemingly oblivious to the current of water running along the ribbon of her hat and down the length of her narrow back, while on her left, a man had linked arms with her. From behind, Hadley couldn’t be sure who he was. For all she knew, the woman could have had family nearby, but as he turned his head to speak to her, the manicured curl of a mustache appeared at his lip. Hadley released a silent groan. She had hoped not to see the arrogant fool again for the duration of their stay. Nadir raised a dark brow at her grimace, ready to back away if it was meant for him, but upon seeing him, she grinned and twitched a finger for him to stay at her side.

“What was that about?”

“I hadn’t expected to see the sergeant today. Anyway, how are you feeling, Nadir?” she whispered as he fell into step with them.

“My head has been ringing for days, but I’m much better, thank you. Any leads on Mr. Nash’s killer?”

She shook her head. “Not really. They found shells from three bullets in the garden, all from revolvers, but I don’t expect Purcell and his men to figure out who did it. If Mr. Nash treated others the way he treated us, I can’t imagine he was without enemies.”

“Well, they’re not exactly Scotland Yard, are they? They’re at least thorough interrogators. It felt like I was sitting through the bloody Inquisition. Did you know they have forbidden me from leaving until this whole thing is settled? My publisher is livid. Several of my friends have threatened to come down and raise Cain to get Purcell to back-off. Not that I think it would do any good or that they would actually do it, but no one is pleased.”

“He said the same to us. We may be taking up permanent residency at Brasshurst at this rate.” Leaning in closer, Hadley whispered, “Honestly, I expected a better turnout. Nash was murdered after all, so shouldn’t everyone have come to pay their respects or at least to gawk?”

“I thought the same thing, but then again, Folkesbury isn’t London. They sweep scandals under the rug here, not call the press and print it in the society pages.”

“Still, I expected a journalist or two.”

A wry smile crossed his lips. “Watch what you wish for, Lady Dorset. They will probably be banging down your door tomorrow.”

She watched as Eilian wandered off with the umbrella, his fingers unconsciously rubbing the gold band of his signet ring while his prosthesis held the fabric canopy a foot away from her. Frowning, she stepped back under it, pulling Nadir along with her. When she was certain Eilian was too far in his mind to hear, she asked, “How is your cousin doing?”

“Good as new, thank you. It’s strange; it’s like she’s a new woman or she was until today. She wanted to come to the internment, but she didn’t think she had the strength to get through it or that Mrs. Nash would like her there.”

“I thought I saw her in the back of the church. Why would Mrs. Nash mind her there?”

Nadir shrugged, his brown eyes trailing to the muddied path before rising to Eilian Sorrell. The earl watched trees pass, veiled in his own thoughts. Stepping closer, Nadir said softly in hopes that the Sorrells would be the only ones who could hear, “The thing is, she was recovering so well. She seemed lighter—happier—than she’s been the entire time I’ve been here, but this whole murder thing has upset her. I don’t know if it’s me getting hit over the head, which I doubt is the cause, or that old Nash was killed, but she’s spooked. She started crying at dinner a few days ago over it, and I’m sure you heard her today during the mass, but she won’t tell me what the problem is. Do you think you could talk to her later? I thought maybe she would say something to you.”

***

Brasshurst’s spires and contorted facades appeared through the gaps in the ornamental garden as the Sorrells crunched across the gravel path from the mausoleum. From the drizzle and sea spray, a grey mist rose from the lawns, casting the house in an otherworldly haze and transforming the orangery into a fortuneteller’s ball. Life danced within, splitting into cascades of green and swirls of red before dissolving into clouds of mist. Eilian blinked the drops of rain from his eyelashes as he pulled off his top hat and wiped his face with his sleeve. Drifting from Hadley’s side, he crossed to the edge of the road where oaks and yews twisted together with strangling vines and bulbous fungi. He scoffed as a cockeyed smile crossed his lips. How odd it was to see so much life.

Standing before the mausoleum’s horned minarets and faceless saints, he couldn’t help but wonder how many of them rested within. How many forgotten Sorrells came before him only to crumble to dust? Did anyone care about them once those they loved were dead, too? At the internment, they had followed the casket into the tight space, passing sealed niches carved with names, some so old they were clotted with webs so deep the letters were nearly indiscernible. In his years of traveling through Italy, he had seen miles of catacombs where husked bodies hung mummified from the walls or skeletons lay bedecked in jewels, but he had never felt his stomach sink at the sight of so many bodies. All that separated him from his ancestors were thin panels of stone. With each shift or tap, he feared he would rouse them.

The men from the village raised Nash’s coffin into the vault as the vicar recited a prayer Eilian could no longer remember. He licked his lips, tasting the musty, damp air with each breath, but while the others kept their heads bowed, his grey eyes scanned the familiar names surrounding him. He felt as if he knew them. He could see them going about their lives at Brasshurst. Laurence in his red uniform walking up the gravel drive where Anna waited for him. Alexander bent over with a trowel, his arms encrusted in earth, his concentration never wavering from his plants. His father had escaped—for a time—only to meet the same fate miles away. One day would he, too, be stacked among his ancestors in one of the empty shelves, trapped in a house of stone and bones?

Eilian hoped not. His entire life had been spent running from that death. No, set him aflame like the Vikings of old or on the edge of the Ganges where he could return to the earth he loved. Laurence had been free for a time until the earldom came to collect him. Even after reading two dozen volumes of journals, he still couldn’t imagine how Laurence settled into this life. To go from the battlefield to the house in a silent wood, which was soon filled with the chatter of children and local gentry, seemed impossible to reconcile with the proud soldier. Was that what his life would become? If the signet ring hadn’t bounced beneath the desk to where the journals had been stashed long ago, would he have ever known that others who came before were so much like him?

The clergyman’s words fell on deaf ears until he dismissed them with a solemn amen. When they left, the townsmen would wall his cousin behind a faceless stone. Fingering the worn gold of his family’s ring, Eilian drew in a long breath, the taste of history dry on his tongue. As they processed out, he whispered their names only loud enough for them to hear. Jenny, William, Anna, Laurence, Alexander. He lives whose name is spoken.

“Eilian?”

Hadley’s hand gently squeezed his arm as he came to. Rain pattered against his scalp, dripping through his hair before trailing down his cheek.

“You all right?”

He shrugged. “I guess. I’m just thinking too much.”

“About?”

“Whether I will ever be like them,” he replied, slipping his prosthetic arm into hers, and walking toward the house. “I don’t know if I want to or not. Some days I want to be the nobleman my parents envisioned, but most days it sounds abhorrent, if not impossible.”

Her hand slid over the smooth service of his titanium fingers, the cold metal radiating through her thin leather glove. “Is this about your arm? Replacing a piece of you doesn’t make you lesser; it simply means you have changed. For better or worse is up to you to decide.”

Against his will, his lips curled into a smile but this time without a trace of irony. “If it was merely my arm, it would be simple. I’m as whole as I will ever be in that regard, but this began long before that.”

The rain drummed against the trees as if in time with the gravel crunching beneath their feet. The landscape and sky seemed so grey against the green of the lawn, finally rousing from its invernal slumber. Pink buds blinked from the dull wood along the edge of the road. Looking out across his family’s land, his eyes swept over the meadow grass and out to the sea beyond the bluffs. It was out of sight, but if he stilled his mind, he could hear the swish of the waves against the coast. Soon it would all be alive again, and he would be fleeing before he could ever see it. He turned his gaze back to his wife and found her watching him with her red brows knit in concern.

“My entire life I have been told that nobility comes from blood and that I would become the earl because that’s what I was destined to do as the eldest son. I grew up knowing this would all be my responsibility someday, yet I can’t remember a time I ever relished it. Everyone acted as if I would suddenly understand how to be this earl they always spoke of— that I would grow out of being me. One day you will stop traveling. One day you will settle down. One day you won’t think of any of this foolish nonsense.” His eyes burned as he tightened his lips and flexed away the pain in his prosthesis. “How does one set aside everything they ever worked toward for something they never wanted?”

Hadley watched his face fall, his features all the more thoughtful and comely when softened with emotion. Stepping in front of him, she held his hands in hers. For a long moment, they simply stood there locked hand-in-hand, gaze-to-gaze, one pulse rising in harmony until the world beyond them fell silent. In this world, there was nothing but them. They were deaf to society’s rules and expectations. As his hand trailed up her arm to pull her closer, she rested her palm against his cheek and slid it along his jaw. Her hand cupped the back of his head with her fingers working into his earthen hair while the other hand traveled around his side. Eilian closed his eyes and gave into the reassuring warmth of her lips as they met his. His hands slipped around her waist and back, reveling in the familiarity of her form and her body breathing him. When she began to ease from his grasp, he tightened his embrace and drew her into another kiss. He clenched his eyes against the moisture accumulating behind his lids and pressed harder, hoping it would cease before she could see.

His lips trembled as he relinquished his hold but kept his head down. A gloved hand skimmed across his cheek and wiped the wetness away without a word. Hadley rested her forehead against his, stroking the prickled flesh of his neck and jaw. He swallowed against the lump of emotion in his throat. If he looked up, she would see it too, and he couldn’t bear to say anymore. Her arms tightened around him, holding him together when he no longer could.

“There is nothing wrong with you. There has never been anything wrong with you,” she whispered against his ear, her breath warm against his cheek.

His voice cracked against his will as he replied, “I don’t know how you can say that, Had.”

“None of us will ever be what others want, but we have to please ourselves first, you know that. If it gives you any comfort, you are precisely what I want.”

He let out a soft laugh and sniffed. Still holding her arms, he drew back to plant a reverent kiss on her forehead. “And you’re everything I could have hoped for and more.” The words hung on his lips. Even if she was right, he would never see it. He would never be one of them and no words could change that. After a lifetime of being told he was wrong, how could he believe her? “Come, let’s go home before the rain gets worse.”

The moment they reached the Brasshurst lawn, the heavens opened and rain poured over Folkesbury. As they held their hats to their heads and sprinted the rest of the way home, Eilian wondered what they would do now. Selfishly he hoped Hadley wouldn’t try to make him go further tonight. After the funeral and the unwelcome sadness and fear of the future, all he wanted was to have dinner and settle into bed with his wife and a good book. While he admired Hadley’s ambition and that she always had a plan or an item on her to-do list that needed her attention, tonight he hoped she would cuddle up with him in front of the fire instead. To feel the warmth of life was what he needed most.

Chapter Twenty-Five

The Lady in White

After shedding their soaked funeral attire and enjoying a feast of Turkish chicken and jasmine rice, the Sorrells retired to bed early. With a storm rattling the mullioned windows and the weight of mortality hanging in the air, Eilian removed his jacket and tie in silence. His eyes trailed to the dressing room door, knowing Hadley was just on the other side. What should he have felt when he saw her come out in only her nightgown and caftan with nothing more than a gossamer layer of cotton separating them? Another man’s pulse—Nadir’s probably—would have raced with anticipation while he stood there wondering if she would have been warmer in flannel. He had never understood why people railed against nude sculptures or ancient carvings crying that they were immoral. While he was studying them for technique, comparing them to what he knew of art history, and searching for symbolism, others were staring at them because— A grimace twisted his features at the possibility.

Cutting off his train of thought, Eilian quickly gathered his pajamas and robe. As he removed his shirt and trousers, he stared down at his chest where the skin had thickened in ropy scars or seared to form shiny patches of pink too glossy to be normal. He raised his prosthetic arm and felt his skin tug in protest. If it hadn’t happened, you never would have met her, he reminded himself as the dressing room door squealed open and Hadley appeared in her bright red robe. Her light eyes slipped over his form, a smile gathering on her lips.

Standing behind him, she ran her hands over his firm shoulders before encircling his waist. She nuzzled his back. “Ready for bed? I don’t know about you, but after today, all I want is a good night’s sleep.”

Eilian gave her a quick kiss as she walked back to their bed. Behind him, the coverlet sighed as she collapsed upon it and stretched into a yawn.

“I hate funerals. I’ve been to far too many in my life,” she said, sinking into the blankets. “Are you coming?”

“In a minute. I’m just getting my book.”

At the dresser, Eilian’s eyes ran over the spines of his great-grandfather’s journals, his gaze following the numbers undulating across their covers. He couldn’t believe he was nearly at the end, counting down Laurence Sorrell’s life in pages. Plucking the final book from the stack, he thumbed through on his way to the bed until he found where he had left off.

“Where are you at now?” she asked as he settled in beside her.

“His wife just died. Nash and my father aren’t getting along. Big surprise.”

“Ah, so soon you might find out why your father abandoned this place.”

He nodded. “That’s what I’m hoping.”

As he slid lower and shifted until his body settled into the now familiar grooves of the old mattress, Hadley laid against his side with her head resting on his shoulder. Her calloused hands scratched across his stomach until she let out a drowsy breath and sighed into him. He smiled, wrapping his arm around her, even if it did make it harder to read.

She closed her eyes, and for a moment, he thought she had drifted to sleep, until she asked, “Did you ever find out how your grandfather died?”

“He drank himself to death when my father was ten. Jenny and my father permanently moved in with Laurence. Thank God I don’t like brandy.”

“Oh,” she replied, her voice dropping with disappointment. From his flat reply, it was hard to tell whether he was ashamed or how she should respond. “It must be hard to read some of the entries. I don’t know if I would want to know that much about my family. It must taint how you feel about them.”

“I didn’t think I would either, but reading this actually makes me feel better. It’s the first time I have been able to connect with my family. Maybe it helps that I knew nothing to begin with, so it didn’t change how I felt about anyone.” Except his father, but in that case, he was hoping to find the man behind the tyrant. “I never held any illusions that my family was perfect. I was only interested because my father never said anything about them. He could have been raised by wolves for all I knew. Somehow, I thought we would have talked one day, but we never got around to it.”

Hadley frowned. Even after six months, he was still grieving for the relationship he wished he had with his father. She paused, her finger lightly tapping his stomach as she decided if she should stray off topic and say what was on her mind, but she couldn’t forget the way he squeezed his eyes and bowed against the pain.

“I was surprised to see how much the funeral affected you. I didn’t think you had much affection for Mr. Nash.”

“Nash was a miserable man to us,” he said as he held up the book, “but to Laurence, he was his first grandchild. It’s hard to reconcile the young boy tending to his grandmother to the man who berated us, but that’s who he really was... before the world got to him. Then again, Nash was murdered, and while I can see how he could get on someone’s bad side, he was family—the last one on my father’s side. I would like to see whoever did it brought to justice, as unlikely as that is.”

***

Fire crackled in the grate at the foot of the bed. Hadley’s body had gone lax against him hours ago, her arms limply outstretched across his stomach while her head weighed heavy on his shoulder. As he carefully turned the page, she let out a congested snore and squirmed against him before quieting once again. Eilian smiled and turned his attention back to the journal. This volume had been a bit of a disappointment compared to its predecessors. While it was still filled with sketchy caricatures of big-nosed people alongside drawings of plants and wildlife done with anatomical precision, the subjects of the entries had shifted from his family to the tourists coming to enjoy the summer shores. With his grandsons off attending Cambridge or spending weeks to months visiting other gentry in Bath or London, Laurence’s attention had regrettably turned to the mundane.

Eilian sighed, skimming the gossip until he saw mention of a familiar name.

July 18th, 1856

Harland is apparently smitten with a young woman he met at the beach. One Millicent Holland, daughter of the Earl of Monmouth. She, her parents, and brother are in Dorset on holiday and staying in Poole. I had been wondering why my steamer and my stationary kept disappearing, but it appears that Harland has been using both to woo the young lady in question. I have to wonder what will happen when the Hollands go back to London. I fear my grandson will follow, and the house will finally be empty. Maybe I shall retire to the dower house. If Harland marries, he and his bride should have the hall, but I’m getting ahead of myself, though I would like to see him settled as I am getting up there in years.

I’m not sure how I feel about the Hollands. The daughter passes well enough for pretty or at least fashionable and seems inoffensive. Her brother, the future Earl of Monmouth, is haughty and scornful, scoffing and scowling at Harland at every opportunity. It is probably his age as he is no more than seventeen. He reminds me of myself at that age.

Out of the lot, I think I like him best.

Eilian let out a snort. Well, at least he and Laurence felt the same about Uncle Malcolm. A smirk crossed his lips as he wondered if his great-grandfather had found young Malcolm handsome. He and his uncle were often mistaken for father and son. Maybe Laurence Sorrell would have liked him, too.

July 24th, 1856

The university’s term can’t start soon enough. Harland and Randall have been nearly coming to blows as of late. Since Randall left for Cambridge last year, he has been particularly snappish, especially toward Harland. In front of me they remain civil, but behind closed doors, I hear their voices raised in anger. I wish I knew what was going on, but—

Eilian eagerly turned the page only to find the back blank. He flipped it back and then forward again. Jolting upright, he thumbed through the journal for any loose pages that had been haphazardly stuffed in but found nothing. At his sudden movement, Hadley slumped off his shoulder, her blue eyes opening a crack as she watched him frantically shake the book before trying to pry apart the back cover. With a grunt, she rolled over and tucked the pillow close to her head to block out the glow of the gas lamps and hearth.

“What’s wrong?” she mumbled. “It isn’t another break-in, is it?”

“Have you seen any more of these?”

She squinted through one eye at the book cover, barely legible in her hazy vision. “Hmm? No, why?”

“I think I’m missing one. Maybe I just misplaced it. Stay here, I will be right back.”

Throwing off the covers, Eilian leapt out of bed and darted over to the dresser where his great-grandfather’s journals sat in a row like careworn soldiers. In the mirror, he watched as Hadley reeled in the blanket and hugged it close against the chill of the waning fire. He turned back to ask her again if she had seen it, but by the time he did, her breathing had slowed to drowsy puffs and her arms once again laid limp ahead of her. With a small smile, he turned back to the diaries. As his eyes ran over the numbered spines, he counted off. All of them were there. Flipping to the last entry, he tried to recall the date he had seen scrawled in the family bible. No, his great-grandfather had lived for another four years after the last entry. There was no way the man stopped writing for no reason. He had to have misplaced one.

Without making a sound, Eilian shut the bedroom door behind him and quietly padded down the hall, slipping on his bathrobe as he followed the carpet-runner down the steps to the great hall. Standing on the rug before the hearth, he closed his eyes and felt the machine pulse beneath his bare feet. A wave of fatigue passed over him as the moonlight broke through the midnight fog and fell over him through the mullioned window. It had seemed like such a good idea to journey down to the hidden study to look for the missing journal, but with his hand on the spring that opened the paneling, he considered how easy it would be to turn back and settle into bed beside Hadley, to feel her body rise and fall with sighing snores. He didn’t need the book. He wanted it, knowing that finding it would be the only thing to settle his mind.

He pushed down on the wall with a soft click and swallowed hard. Maybe he wouldn’t want to know what was in it. Maybe his father had done something terrible and Randall Nash could never forgive him. Maybe his great-grandfather had ultimately disowned him, and that’s why he left Brasshurst Hall and never really discussed his childhood. No matter the result, Eilian had to know the truth.

The hidden door popped open beneath his palm. Switching on the lights, he ran his eyes over the shelves of ledgers one at a time, looking for anymore diaries, but among the rows of uniform black spines, it was obvious they weren’t there. With a tired sigh, he dropped to his knees and crawled under the desk. A dull ache throbbed through his shoulder as he leaned forward on his prosthesis to get a better look. In the dim light, it was nearly impossible to make out anything beneath the heavy desk. He reached out with his real hand, feeling along the edges of the hidden shelf for the missing book, but when he withdrew his hand, he found it tangled with cobwebs and coated in dust. Ducking his head under the tabletop, he checked for hidden panels or false walls in the dark before backing out to check the drawers in case he overlooked the missing journal. He sifted through the piles of old letters and sketches, the thick paper stiff in his hand. It wasn’t there. Eilian stood with his hands on his hips, surveying the room’s few contents. Where else could it be hidden? His eyes brightened at the thought. The library.

He turned, ready to run down the hall to the other room, but he leapt back with a yelp. Standing in the doorway, blocking his entry to the parlor, was a figure shrouded in white. It stood so still he couldn’t be sure if he was dreaming or if one of Brasshurst’s ghosts had finally found him. His heart pounded as he backed into the edge of the desk, but when the creature tipped its gaze, he dissolved into laughter. Staring back at him from beneath the pale floral bedspread were his wife’s blue eyes. Her red hair was plastered to the side of her face and gathered around her forehead in sweat-curled clumps.

“Had, you scared me half to death.”

She gave him a dull, sleep-ringed glare. “I scared you? You scared me. I woke up and found the bed empty. After the break-in and murder, you decided it was a good idea to go strolling around the house. Do you realize how irresponsible that is?”

“I told you, but you were asleep. I’m missing one of the journals.”

“So you decided to look for it at this hour?”

He opened his mouth but shut it without speaking. Controlling his impulsivity was not something he was particularly good at, especially when it involved something that interested him. “It sounded like a good idea at the time.”

“You’re ridiculous,” she yawned. “Come on, let’s go check the library.”

“What?”

“You heard me. I know you will end up there anyway as soon as you think I’m asleep again, and I don’t think I can sit upstairs waiting for you to come back. Let’s go, I’m not staying up all night.”

He smiled to himself as she gathered her blanket close and backed out. Shuffling past him, she disappeared down the hall and left him to shut up the old office. By the time he reached the library with its ever thrumming pulse, he found Hadley standing on a stepstool pulling books out of the glass cases one at a time to check their covers. In that moment, he loved her more than she could know.

Chapter Twenty-Six

Pretenses

From the corner of his eye, Nadir watched Leona with her embroidery hoop and needle in her lap. Her hand trembled, but she never stirred, as her mind was far away. She had sent Argus out in Nadir’s steamer to the market, citing residual weakness that Nadir knew was long gone. Glancing down at his book again, he frowned. He missed the vibrant woman—the older cousin—he saw in those few days between her illness and Nash’s murder. Now, she had been replaced by a Leona far more reserved and thoughtful than suited her age. Clearing his throat loudly, she finally looked up.

“Is there anything I can do for you? We could drive up to Poole, get you some new clothes or maybe some fabric for new drapes. I’m sure you could use them, and getting out of the house would do you some good.”

She stared at him for a moment, her gaze drawn, and replied softly, “Thank you, Nadir darling, but I’m fine.”

“You don’t look it. You haven’t been yourself in days, Lee. Now, I know something is wrong. Is it Argus? Did he say something unkind to you about your condition?”

“No.”

“Is it Nash?” he asked as he sat beside her and pushed the embroidery hoop to the side.

Against her will, she winced, her eyes glistening before she could turn back to her work.

“It is, isn’t it?” He reached out and gripped her arms, trying to catch her gaze. “Why won’t you tell me? I thought you and I were becoming close, like before. We had been so dear to each other when we were children, like sister and brother, and now you’ve shut me out again.” He shook his head, feeling the echoing ache from the bullet wound. “You didn’t even tell me about Argus until you invited me to the wedding. Did I wrong you somehow?”

“My God, Nadir, that was five years ago!”

“It still stung! You were practically my sister—you still are my only sister—and you acted as if I didn’t exist. You’re the only family I have besides my parents.”

“I’ve told you already, it was a very short engagement and not anything personal,” she replied, her voice tight. “Anyway, you went to London to have your own life and I got married. What more do you think there is?”

“There has to be something. Why else would you marry so…so beneath you?”

A gasp escaped her lips before he could stop the thought, but he didn’t regret saying it. She ripped her hands from his, and for a moment, he feared she would strike him. Instead, she glared at him and stabbed her needle into her project. Her eyes roamed over her cousin’s face hoping to find the brightness of humor in his eyes but found cold confusion and hurt.

“How dare you say that about Argus! He is a lovely man and a devoted husband. He let you stay here with us, didn’t he?”

“Argus would do whatever you told him. You will be lucky if he doesn’t come back from the market with a handful of magic beans.” Nadir braced himself for the slap he rightfully deserved as five years of holding his tongue tumbled out. “Honestly, I don’t know what you saw in him. His family may have had money, but he certainly doesn’t. Just look at this place. It’s falling down around you!”

“Money may be a bit tight, but I certainly didn’t marry beneath me. His family owns property and he has an inheritance.” Her mind staggered, had an inheritance. Dropping her voice, she added, “If we’re careful, it may last, but that isn’t the worst problem for a marriage, is it?”

Nadir let out a bitter laugh. “It may last. Do you hear yourself, Leona? Our parents didn’t come to England for us to live on mays and what-ifs. They wanted us to make something of ourselves, to do better than them. With your father’s name and reputation, you could have married someone with a decent income and a brain in his head. It doesn’t matter if Argus has a decent personality if he’s a penniless dimwit. I know you do the books. I know he has no idea that you are running out of money and that one day he won’t be able to live off his dead relatives. Does he even know how much he began with? Does he have no concept of money, too? I can’t imagine either of you blew his inheritance on something foolish.”

Leona’s eyes narrowed as she shook her head. “He’s a very sweet man. Maybe he is a little naive, but it’s better than someone like you. You’re always plotting, always suspicious of everyone else because you worry their motives are like your own.”

“Plotting is how you get ahead, Leona.” Nadir jumped up, looming over her with his hand on his hip. “You make plans. You don’t sit on your duff and let the world take care of you, letting your wife write papers for you. What were you hoping to gain by that?”

“I only wrote it be—” Leona froze, her byzantine eyes wide. “Who told you I did that?”

“I’m not stupid. Anyone who knows you or Argus knows you wrote that paper for the Royal Egyptology Society. The man can barely read more than a few sentences of the newspaper at a time before he has to have a lie down.” He put his hands up in defense at her accusatory finger. “It’s through no fault of his own. I know he has problems, and I know for certain he could not and did not write that paper. What will you do if this scheme doesn’t work and the money runs out?”

The words caught in Leona’s throat, tension coiling around her tight-laced ribs until she could scarcely breathe. Nash had said that to her so many times, yet she still didn’t know the answer. She threw her embroidery aside as she stood to face Nadir eye-to-eye. Her lips twisted and strained but no tears reached the surface.

Finally she yelled, “I don’t bloody know. What do you expect me to say, Nadir? You’re right, marrying Argus probably wasn’t the wisest choice and I probably could have ‘done better,’ but I have to live with my choices now and deal with my problems. I’m doing the best I can to keep us afloat. Do you not see that?”

“Why didn’t you go to your parents for help? They would do anything for you.”

“How would that have looked?” She couldn’t mention that her mother wanted nothing to do with her anymore. Her cousin couldn’t know that.

Nadir’s face softened as his lips parted to retort but fell into a sigh. “Why didn’t you come to me, then? I would have given you money or loaned it to you without a word if you needed it. I can do it now. Just tell me— tell me how much it will take to spruce up the place or get you closer to buying another steamer.”

“Nadir,” Leona said, her resolve faltering at the sight of her cousin transforming from a pompous dandy back to the soft-curled boy she knew, “we are nowhere near being able to afford another steamer, even an old one, and we will probably only be able to afford Barnes for four more months. I can’t ask you to help us get out of this hole; it will only drag you in with us. I have brought this on myself, and I must be the one to fix it.”

“But why? Why are you punishing yourself?”

Her gaze swept over the floor as she walked to the front window, checking the road for any sign of the steamer. If she let him speak any longer, she would confess, and she couldn’t lose anyone else.

Against her will, her voice rose in a tight cry, “I have done plenty you don’t know about. I’m not the angel you take me for.”

Picking up her skirts, she hurried out of the room, throwing the curtain back in her cousin’s face.

He swatted the dusty drape away. “Then what is it?”

From the base of the steps, he watched her dart up the creaky treads and disappear. His feet stayed rooted in place while his hand wrapped around the newel post. Frustration and anger climbed up his limbs, squeezing until his teeth ground. All he wanted was to help her. It was all he had ever wanted. He released a trembling breath.

He yelled up, “You have been acting strange since Nash died. You can’t tell me that there isn’t some connection between the two of you. I know that he sent his maid to deliver notes to you. What was it? Did he help you with the paper?”

“Yes, are you satisfied now?”

“No, I’m not. People don’t have clandestine meetings to work on a history paper!” He stopped with his foot on the step. “You think I did it, don’t you?”

Leona appeared at the edge of her bedroom door, her head hung.

“You do! Leona, how could you think I killed him?”

“I don’t think anything, but you were fighting with him, you went to confront him for me,” she said, her voice trailing to barely more than a whisper. “I just hope it isn’t true.”

“Did you happen to forget that I was hit in the head and shot? When did I do it? When I was running for my life?” He took a step to follow her when a booming knock rang through the foyer. With a stiff huff, he turned and opened the door. “Argus, you oaf, how did you not bring a—”

His words dissolved as the officers surged through the door, ripping the knob from his hand and slamming him into the wall. The watercolor hanging over the hall table teetered and fell from its hook, shattering as they rammed him into the plaster. Pain rang through his skull as the world tipped and spun around him. Before he could catch his breath, they yanked his hands behind him and knocked him to the floor. Glass crunched and scratched through his waistcoat as the men pressed their knees into his back and forced his face into the carpet.

He squirmed, arching his back and throwing his weight only to have the constables twist his arms until tears seared his eyes and he feared his shoulder would dislocate. With a tink, his lucky bead dropped from his pocket, rolling toward the open door. Before it could reach the threshold, the sergeant’s polished boot came down on it, crushing the ancient glass to dust.

“What are you doing?” he cried through clenched teeth. “Unhand me at once! I have done nothing wrong.”

At the sounds of men and her cousin’s frantic voice, Leona flew down the stairs. When she reached the bottom, Nadir turned his face away to keep her from seeing the fear and shame etched into his features. Cold metal encircled his hands as the men shackled him from behind and hauled him to his knees.

“What is the meaning of this?”

Sergeant Purcell continued, “Nadir Talbot, you are hereby under arrest for the murder of Randall Nash.”

“What?” he and his cousin cried in unison.

“But he was shot, too! You saw it. He couldn’t have done that to himself.”

“That’s for the court to decide, Mrs. Rhodes,” he replied coolly. “He has an audience with the Justice of the Peace in a few days when he gets back from Weymouth. Until then, he will remain in our custody; to keep him from fleeing to foreign lands. You understand the risk.”

The breath caught in Nadir’s throat at the thought. Even after hours of questioning, he had never expected this. He had seen the murderer and was nearly killed, too, when the man shot at him, missing his brain by the width of his little finger. How could the man deny the wound near his temple that was still held together with thread or the peelings of invisible bells that only rang in his mind? Panic hammered through his heart.

“How?” Leona said, her voice high with fear. “On what evidence?”

“That’s none of your concern.”

One of the constables shoved him hard from behind, causing him to stumble forward and wrench his wrists against their manacles. Drawing in a tight breath, he caught his balance and carefully rose to his feet and finally to his full height. Nadir Talbot wouldn’t leave the house cowering and stumbling like a common criminal. When Purcell reached for his arm, Nadir glared at him and tried to rip it from his iron grasp, but the man was too quick. The sergeant spitefully dragged him closer until his back collided with his gun holster. As he inhaled a mouthful of tangy, stale air, Nadir’s body locked.

The possibilities of his incarceration became horribly clear. The noose dangled before him, the papers printed with headlines about the once-popular Egyptian novelist-turned-murderer being executed at Millbank. All of London would have his name on their lips but for all the wrong reasons. He had expected a scandal involving a nobleman’s wife or daughter, but he had never expected this. With a forceful nudge from the constable’s nightstick, Nadir took a halting step toward the door, avoiding Leona’s tear-reddened eyes and ashen features for fear of reflecting his own.

“Nadir, what should I do?”

His eyes traveled between the stern-faced sergeant and his youngest underling, who looked from the sergeant and fellow constable to their captive as if unsure what to do. Sergeant Purcell glared at him, nodding toward the door, but Lyall kept his eyes on the cousins, refusing to move.

He swallowed hard against the knot in his throat. What could she do? No matter what he did Purcell would ensure he was found guilty. Nadir’s voice caught as he uttered, “I don’t know, but I didn’t do it. You have to believe me, Lee.”

“I know. I will figure something out, I promise.”

As the policemen ushered him out the front door, he shut his eyes against the row of faces standing at the stone fence. Their eyes bored into him, stripping away what little resistance he had left. Upon seeing the grey police steamer, they had come to gawk, to see who would be hauled from the house. He wondered how many had hoped to see Leona handcuffed and head bowed.

What did they see when they looked at him being led from the house with a weapon pressed to his back and blood dripping from a cut on his cheek? In the eyes of those who didn’t know him, he was nothing more than a criminal. A ruffian with shaggy hair and dark skin, a foreigner. Nothing he did mattered now. No facade, real or imagined, would convince them otherwise.

***

Nadir tumbled forward, his hands and knees colliding hard with the rough slate of the jailhouse floor. Before he could stand, the iron door slammed behind him, reverberating through the dim, low room. Scrambling to his feet, Nadir grabbed the bars and pulled with all his strength, but the door barely rattled in its frame.

“Let me out! You have the wrong man!” he yelled, watching the three policemen disappear down the hall. “Purcell, I know what you’re about, and it won’t work. When my lawyer gets a hold of you, you won’t have a cent to your name.”

His body jerked as another door slammed, leaving him in silence. Nadir sank back. His stomach churned as he retreated from the bars. There was nothing left out there for him to pursue. No one would care. Drawing in a steadying breath, he turned to take in his prison cell.

It was worse than anything he had written. Rat droppings dotted the floor while the walls and corners were draped with spider webs. What little light came in through the filmed, barred panes above his head cast the room in a dingy haze. He ran his hands over his arms as a damp chill soaked through his shirt sleeves. They had stripped him of his jacket, his money, and his watch before dumping him into the cell. He had nothing left of his own. His heart thundered in his throat as he ran his eyes over the rickety metal cot with its disgusting, stained mattress. Drawing closer, he dared to hazard a sniff but drew back, immediately regretting it when he couldn’t get the smell of thirty years of piss, sweat, and God knows what from his nostrils.

The impenetrable stone walls rose around him, snuffing out any delusions of returning to his old life. He glanced around for a place to sit but found nothing. Settling on the very edge of the filthy mattress, Nadir held his head in his hands and stared at the floor. This was real. He was trapped. Only a day before he had been strolling beside the earl and countess with a swing in his step, thinking of what he would do when he returned to London. He had even gotten a telegraph from his publisher saying that they loved his tenacious new heroine, that it was one of his best books to date. His hand curled into a fist. When word got to London that he was suspected of murdering a respected member of the gentry, how long would it take for them to terminate his contracts and throw his manuscript in the fire? Maybe someone would save it, add some salacious scenes to it, and publish it while he was in prison as some fictional addendum to his scandal.

He had been so careful. For half a decade, he had strategically chosen friends, seeking those who might take a shine to him and show him off to others. That’s what they always did when they met Nadir Talbot. Their eyes would catch his motley outfits, studying the fine fabric and artful arrangement of line, before moving to his visage. He had been blessed with universally handsome features, straight white teeth and large eyes surrounded by long, dark lashes, made all the more appealing to his British friends by his noble nose and a wide mouth framed with full lips. Through the years, he had studied the exceptionals, the ones who pulled others along in their wake. By following their example, he cultivated his aloof charm and wit. Exclusive and haughty enough to fit in but just different enough to be a novelty that wouldn’t be easily forgotten.

Nadir released a bitter laugh. What good had it done him? None of those men would flock to his side when he needed them. They were just like him: self-serving, driven, prideful. Having an acquaintance in jail wouldn’t open any doors, and he would be swept under the rug as if he never existed. He was nothing more than an Egyptian trinket, like a mummy or bauble, and he had ignored and distanced himself from his family for what? For a few worthless acquaintances and a bit of notoriety. Nadir closed his eyes. Leona wasn’t the only one who could have done better.

Chapter Twenty-Seven

The Earl and the Artificer

The morning sun trickled in through the gap in the heavy curtains, inching along the ancient planks before cutting across the bedspread. As his cheek grew hot, Eilian opened one eye and reached behind him with his prosthetic hand to grab his pocket watch. He brought it close, his eyes unfocused from sleep, but even as the numerals sharpened and fuzzed, he could make out that it was after ten. Dropping it back on the nightstand, he rolled over and buried his head into his pillow. At least Patrick had let them sleep. They had spent most of the night tearing apart the library searching for his great-grandfather’s missing journal only to find that it wasn’t there. By then, the clock was chiming four, and Patrick and the girls were already beginning to prep the fireplaces and their wardrobes for the day. The butler hadn’t said a word when he saw them trudge out of the library empty-handed with only tired wrinkles around their eyes to show for their trouble. Eilian sighed, sinking deeper into the mattress’s folds. The book had to be there somewhere. He would look later.

Keeping his eyes shut, Eilian inched his hand forward until his fingertips brushed against the warm, solid flesh of his wife’s arm. He smiled. Hadley was still asleep. Careful not to disturb her, he slid closer until his prosthetic arm slipped under her side. He wrapped his other arm around her back and settled his head beside hers on the edge of the pillow, inhaling her familiar scent of cinnamon and cog-oil. Her breath came in gentle puffs only broken by the occasional deep sigh.

Leaning back a few inches, Eilian studied his wife. No matter how many times he awoke beside her, it still seemed odd to see her at rest. Her dark red hair clung to her cheeks as it had the previous night when she appeared in the study door, highlighting her strong jaw and soft cheeks. A dusting of freckles trailed across the bridge of her nose and reappeared on the caps of her shoulders and the swell of her breast where they became more diffuse until they were nearly invisible. Her lips, which were usually straight, had molded into a lax pout. If she hadn’t been asleep, he would have lightly run his finger along them, tracing the soft curve of a cupid’s bow.

A thought flashed through his mind. He swallowed hard and checked to make certain Hadley’s breathing was coming in sleepy puffs. Through the coverlet, he could make out the planes and curves of her body. With a hesitant hand, he reached under the blanket and placed his palm on her side where it dipped in beneath her ribs. He waited, expecting her to stir, but she didn’t move. Moving lower, he ran his hand along the firm, fleshy curve of her hip and thigh. It was warmer, softer than he had imagined. When she was awake, he had longed to become acquainted with her form as he would a statue, by touch and sight, but he had been too afraid to ask or act upon his whims. What if she wanted more when all he wanted was to observe? He had never touched or kissed anyone before Hadley, and it felt strange to want to do it and worse to say it aloud. Even thinking this way seemed foreign to him.

Pulling back again, he kept his eyes locked on her face and lightly rubbed the bare flesh of her upper arms. He skimmed his hand along her strong limbs, over the downy red hairs and slightly rough skin from years of working in her studio. With the edge of his hand, he followed the bend of her shoulders as they slid into her neck, feeling the flesh beneath his fingertips change inch by inch. It was times like this that he wished he had both arms. Then, he could close his eyes and burn the image of her form into his mind through touch, but now, he could only create half the picture. When he looked up from rubbing her neck, Hadley’s light eyes were on his face and her mouth curled into a smile.

Eilian froze. He had expected her to get out of bed or give him a strange look for what he had done, but instead she held his hand in hers and pulled it close to her breast. Closing the gap between them, Hadley rested her forehead against his shoulder and shut her eyes. She intertwined her fingers with his and kept it close to her heart. He tensed at the warmth radiating from her body against his balled hand.

“Did I interrupt you?” she murmured drowsily.

He opened his mouth but the words dissolved on his lips as his cheeks burned. Clearing his throat, he whispered, “I’m sorry.”

“For what?”

“For being presumptuous. I should have asked first.”

Her grip on his hand tightened. “It’s fine,” she replied, her lips brushing against the rough stubble on his neck. “I told you I would be here if you ever wanted to try anything. I meant it.”

Rising on her elbow, Hadley pressed her lips to his. His body arched, pressing against her stomach as his foot brushed against hers. Her hand ran through the wayward spikes of his hair while his clamped onto her back. When he began to tip back, she pushed against him, locking her arms around him. She landed on his chest as he rolled back with a smile. Lying on top of him, she kissed his forehead before planting a light kiss on each eyelid. Eilian closed his eyes and held her close. As she moved down his face, he caught her lips, drawing her in with a breath. His hands worked in slow circles over the gauzy fabric of her nightgown, never leaving her back. Swathes of gooseflesh rose over her arms and chest as his lips grazed hers and a soft slip of air blew against her cheek.

Hadley pulled back, licking her lips and inhaling the sandalwood of his skin. Pushing him too far would only make him retreat, but as she released her hold and sank against his chest once more, his arms cinched around her. He shifted beneath her until finally he let out a contented sigh. She smiled to herself. It hadn’t been much, but in his vulnerable, sleep-addled state, Eilian had let his guard down enough to act on his curiosity. A faint pang of pride bloomed in her chest. At least he was making progress or trying to.

Resting her head over his heart, she said softly, “I want you to be comfortable with me, Eilian. I know it will take time.”

“And I’m sorry about that. You probably never thought it would be this way.”

“No, but I know you won’t make me wait forever. I want you to know that I want you to come to me when curiosity strikes. Somehow, I doubt I will ever say no to you.” She looked up in time to watch his eyes grow wide before turning thoughtful. “Do you understand what I’m saying, Eilian?”

“I do. It’s just difficult though... to talk about it. I feel as if I shouldn’t.”

He swallowed hard. Speaking about it wasn’t too difficult, but it left him with the fear of hurting her. Not saying how he felt meant eliminating that possibility. It felt impossible to talk of it though, especially when he lacked the words for how he felt. What did he feel? How could the absence of something be described when he had never felt the alternative?

His face reddened. “No one seems to speak frankly about these things. It feels odd to finally start.”

“Yes, but I have seen the problems not speaking can cause. I don’t want that to happen to us.”

“What do you mean?”

“You know Adam and I weren’t always on the best of terms. Recently, we have tried to talk more, and it works. We don’t fight nearly as much.”

“Really? What did you two—?”

Before he could finish, a knock came at the bedroom door.

“Your ladyship,” Patrick called, “I hate to disturb you and his Lordship, but Mrs. Rhodes is here to speak to you.”

She rolled off Eilian’s chest and dramatically fell back on the mattress. “Can you ask her to come back later?”

“She seems quite distraught, madam. She says she will only speak to you.”

Twisting her lips, Hadley lay with her arms crossed and stared at the gathered swags hanging above their heads. What did that woman want now? Eilian’s hand wrapped around hers and gently squeezed until finally she released a tense breath.

“We had to get up some time,” he whispered with a lopsided smile.

“Yes, but I had hoped it would be for a late breakfast.”

“Your ladyship, what should I tell her?”

Hadley sat up and ran her fingers through her tangled hair. “Tell her I will be down shortly. Make an excuse for me, Patrick.”

“Should I send up Charlotte to help you dress?”

“No, I will take care of it myself.” As much as she liked her, the girl was too cautious when handling her gowns and hair and it took her twice as long to get dressed when she was around. “Eilian, can you help me?”

“Assemble my arm, and I will.”

Sitting up, she picked the springs and leather pieces off the nightstand as her husband slid a clean cotton stocking up his arm. Without hesitation, she slipped on the couter and fed the spring muscles through the metal rings attached to it.

“What do you think Mrs. Rhodes is here for?”

She opened her mouth but then remembered he still didn’t know who stole the Silphium. “I don’t know, but it’s probably nothing. I don’t know what she could be upset about. Why?”

“I thought maybe you would want help.”

“You don’t have to stay while I deal with her. I will be fine.”

He nodded as she affixed the final set of metal coils behind his elbow. “I was thinking of walking up to the dower house to see if Laurence’s journal ended up there. I imagine Nash walked off with them, along with a bottle of wine.”

“I think I’m making out better then,” Hadley replied with a smile as she hopped off the bed and dug through her dresser for clean drawers. “Dealing with Mrs. Nash is the last thing I would want to do.”

“That makes two of us.”

Eilian averted his gaze from his wife’s form as she stepped out of her nightgown. A soft laugh escaped her lips, but he kept his eyes locked on the intricate weave of the Turkish rug.

“What’s so funny?” he asked softly.

“That you still look away. I don’t know whether to be insulted or flattered.”

Eilian’s cheeks burned. “It’s rude to stare. Would you rather have me gawk at you?”

A wry smile crossed her lips as she lingered between shifts. “Sometimes.”

Chapter Twenty-Eight

Obligations

Eilian poked his head out the backdoor of the servants’ quarters. The rainstorm had ended in the early morning, leaving a film of hip-high fog and coating the countryside in a layer of varnish. The earl eyed his bicycle at the bottom of the steps. If he had been going anywhere else, he would have ridden his velocipede there without a care for how his trousers would look when he reached his destination, but he couldn’t do that. Not today. Mrs. Nash would surely notice if the hems of his trousers were splattered with mud and flecked with bits of gravel. His grey eyes ran between the thick forest of yews and oaks surrounding the path and the bicycle. With a defeated sigh, he tucked it back into the house and shut the door behind him.

As he cut across the lawn to reach the dirt and stone path, he remembered that the steamer was parked in the old stables. He exhaled, watching his breath condense into a wil-o’-wisp. He could have taken it, but what if Hadley needed it or Patrick while he was gone? No, the steamer was better served at home. If he came rumbling up the drive, Mrs. Nash would see him coming and turn him away without even hearing what he had come for.

Gravel crunched beneath Eilian’s boots as he followed the trail through his property. A small smile crossed his lips as he drew in a breath and tasted the scent of damp earth and wild flowers. Standing at the edge of the road, he looked back at the house. In the haze, he could make out Brasshurst’s hulking form, complete with spires and bulbous glass protrusions. It still hadn’t sunk in yet that the house and land was his. At any moment, it felt as if his father would appear to take control and send him back to Greenwich. Eilian’s mind faltered before falling silent. That would never happen again.

Shaking off the thought, he continued on. As he rounded the corner of the copse that hid the family crypt, a familiar noise came from down the path. A steamer hurtled down the road, kicking up a hailstorm of gravel as it barreled toward him. Eilian staggered, his back colliding with the marble of the mausoleum. His hand slid against the slick, algal surface as he struggled to stay on his feet. He cried out as he fell to his knees, sinking into the top soil. Mud sprayed against his legs and hands as the cold air whooshed across his cheeks. Without looking back, the driver disappeared around the bend, fading away until all that was left was the faint chug of the engine and the stillness of its absence. Eilian’s chest tightened as he stood on shaking legs. He clutched his remaining hand to his chest and counted his fingers to make sure they were all intact. The cab’s wheels had been inches away from chopping off what digits he had left.

As he sunk onto the stone bench, his eyes trailed to the scholars and saints surrounding the mausoleum’s portal, their all-seeing eyes nearly gone after centuries of rain and sea salt. Touching his signet ring, he let his head fall against the wall. Maybe someone was watching out for him after all. Listening for anymore rogue cabs, Eilian continued down the path toward the dower house. The moment the Georgian manor appeared through the trees, he knew something was amiss.

Where there had once been a walled flower bed stocked with wild flowers and lilies, there now was a smoking pit. Eilian looked for anyone who might stop him before hesitantly stepping closer and peeking inside. Amongst the wood and papers, piles of wool and charred linen appeared through the haze. Grabbing a branch from the garden, he prodded the smoldering pile and pulled out a man’s shirt. The fabric had been all but eaten by the flames, but the sleeve was intact along with a few ribbons of the body. He dropped the shirt and poked around the ash. Spines of books and chunks of leather albums disintegrated at his touch. One lay intact against the edge of the stones. It was charred, but he recognized the book from when he intruded upon Nash in the back parlor. He hoped his great-grandfather’s journal hadn’t made it to the bonfire.

Eilian turned at the squeal of the front door opening behind him. He had expected to find Mrs. Nash glaring at him from the threshold, but instead, her slight lady’s maid stood watching him with wide, grey eyes. Her face had paled even more than the last time he had seen her, and her face was drawn with fatigue. For the life of him, he couldn’t remember her name.

“Is Mrs. Nash at home?”

“You just missed her, sir.” The maid stared at her feet, her mouth tugged into a bitter line. “She’s left for Poole.”

“Do you know when she will return?”

“I don’t know if she intends to return, sir. She left no word.”

Disappointment settled over his shoulders, sinking him further into the mud as he stared up at the house’s ivy-clad face. With an inward sigh, he turned, calling over his shoulder, “Thank you for your help, miss.”

“Wait! Is there anything I can do for you? What did you need from the lady of the house?”

The maid had left the protection of the doorway and stood watching him, studying his open features as he faced her. He was nearly a foot taller than her, which wasn’t unusual considering her short stature, but the urge to cower wasn’t there as it was with most men and women. Her quick eyes flicked to the thick signet ring on his finger. He was the kind lady’s husband.

“You’re the earl, aren’t you? You’re my master’s cousin?”

He nodded. “Perhaps you can help me. If you don’t think your mistress would mind.”

“Even if she did, it’s not as if she would know.”

A smile crossed his lips as the maid wrung her hands and scowled. “I was hoping you could help me find something. It’s a book.”

“That may take a while.”

***

“It’s right this way,” the maid called over her shoulder.

She had led him deep into the house, far from the rooms he had seen during his first visit. The house didn’t seem so large from the outside, but in the winding halls, it was easy to lose his bearings. Drawing an iron key from her apron, Pilcrow unlocked the door. It creaked open, washing the mahogany-paneled hall in sunlight. Eilian stood rooted in the door, his eyes wide as they ran over the endless piles of books and paper that littered Nash’s private study. He had seen a glimpse of the mess when he snuck in to ask him about the silphium plant, but he had never thought it could be worse.

The room was stacked from table to ceiling with books. Some were placed neatly in the shelves as they should, but over the years a new row had sprouted in front and then on top of them. If there was space, a book had been crammed into it. In spare crevices too narrow for a book, papers jutted, yellowed and cracked from the sun. Sitting on every spare surface were notebooks filled with newspaper clippings and scraps of paper. Much like Laurence’s journals, they were labeled by year and series number but appeared to be laid in no particular order. Eilian’s chest tightened as he stepped into the rows of tables and shelves, the piles looming over him, threatening to fall in.

“Are you certain it’s in here? I don’t know how we could even begin to find it.”

“Yes, sir. If it’s something of his grandfather’s you’re looking for, he wouldn’t have kept it where others could find it.”

Eilian cocked a brown brow.

“My master was a very private person.”

Pilcrow watched from the door as the earl carefully walked between the narrow alleys to the desk and pulled out the drawers. With light fingers, he lifted the piles of paper, never looking at their contents. After making quick work of the desk, he moved to the nearest bookshelf, scanning the titles for what he was looking for. She wanted to help him, it seemed like the right thing to do, but she couldn’t imagine laying a hand on her master’s books and papers. A slap of pain rang through the top of her hand as she watched a stick come down over her knuckles. She massaged the sore bones. It had been years since it happened, yet she had never forgotten. Don’t you ever go through my things. Know your place, child. She thought for sure he was going to fire her there and then, but he didn’t. He scolded her, he hit her, then his eyes softened, and he went on like nothing was amiss.

She could never explain the Nashes behavior. His wife hated her most out of all yet kept her closest. He barely paid her any mind, but sometimes he would show her bits of his history in his grandfather’s papers or some piece of embroidery his grandmother created. Each time it was done with a proud grin, as if he were passing something important onto her. Of course these history lessons were always done out of sight when, he knew his wife and the other servants were unlikely to walk in.

Her eyes landed on an oil painting of the manor’s greenhouse hanging on the far wall. She was going to let the earl try to find it, but maybe she should just tell him where her master had hidden his special papers.

“I know I already asked, but will your mistress be cross with you for letting me in?”

“I suppose she might.” The words hung on her lips. They still hadn’t sunken in yet. “That is, if she were coming back.”

The earl stopped pulling books from the shelves and turned to watch the little maid’s thin lips nearly disappear into her face.

“Mrs. Nash won’t be returning from Poole?” He shook his head. “She couldn’t possibly have abandoned this place. She barely packed up. What did she take? Only her clothing?”

Pilcrow shifted uncomfortably. “Would you like any tea or refreshments while you look, your lordship?”

“No, thank you, but I would like it if you would tell me more about Mrs. Nash.”

“I don’t know what to tell you, sir. She’s gone to Poole, and I don’t know when she will be back.”

“I understand that much,” he replied as he set the books aside and drew closer, perching on the edge of a table. “She didn’t tell you how long she thought she would be gone?”

She shook her head, her hands trembling as she stuffed them into her apron pockets. “No, sir.”

“So you’re out of a job now?”

“I don’t know, sir. I’m the only one left.”

“What happened to the others? Did she take them with her?”

With his lax posture and open features, she could nearly forget his station; he spoke to her like the butcher boy did. She made to speak but thought better of it. “I shouldn’t bother you with my problems, sir.”

“Don’t worry about that; I asked you. Anyway, I like a bit of chatter while I look.”

“Very well. If you insist, sir. They left not long after the funeral when she—,” Pilcrow drew in a long breath, “when she said she would no longer need us. Well, most of us. She took the butler, I think.”

“Why didn’t you leave?”

“My mistress hadn’t left yet. She fought with Mr. Nash all the time, always threatening to leave, but she never did. I thought she would back out this time, too. I didn’t think she would leave me behind. I thought she needed me.”

She stared out the tall window at the view of the forest filled with crooked trees. Pilcrow bit her lip and took a step toward the lamp where books sat stacked at its feet. Grabbing a handful, she shuffled the papers into a straight pile and carefully arranged the books by size. Slow boot-treads crossed the boards and lingered only an arm’s length away. Whether it was an arm’s length or a mile, it didn’t matter. The gulf between them would never shorten.

“I hope you don’t mind me prying, but what are you going to do now?”

Pilcrow kept her eyes and head down as she pulled a cloth from her apron and mopped the dusty tabletop.

“Did she give you a reference for when you look for employment? Did she at least tell you where she would be staying?”

She shook her head.

His voice sharpened with a tinge of anger meant for another. “Then how are you to get another job?”

“I wouldn’t know, sir. I’ve never had to get one. I’ve worked here my whole life. I don’t know how to go about it.”

Her thin chest tightened as she raised her hand to her lips. She had said too much. Quickly apologizing, she excused herself and darted down the hall. Rounding the corner, she sunk into a niche that had once contained a vase she broke as an adolescent. After twenty years, it had never been replaced by another but served as the perfect hiding place for a maid who needed a moment of additional invisibility. Closing her eyes, she rested her head against the cool, damp plaster. What was she going to do? Now that she had said it aloud, it all seemed so hopeless. No one in town would take her in after she acted as Nash’s messenger. At first, she had been curious about what her master had written, but upon seeing the volatile reactions of those she delivered them to and the weight of the coins and bills that came in reply, she made up her mind to never read them. She didn’t think she could stomach knowing so many things people longed to keep hidden.

But why hadn’t her mistress taken her with? Her throat tightened as her face and neck grew hot. How could she abandon her to fend for herself after a life spent only in the dower house and its grounds? Over twenty years should have been enough to prove her loyalty, to prove her skill. Maybe she really wasn’t the model maid she took herself to be. Maybe she had only been kept on because her mother used to work for Nash’s grandfather at Brasshurst. When push came to shove, familial loyalty would only carry her so far. Setting Mrs. Nash’s hair, mending her dresses, writing her letters, succumbing to her abuse and rages, it all amounted to nothing in the end. With her master gone, there was nothing left for her.

“Excuse me,” the earl’s soft voice called beside her.

Pilcrow jumped, her back ramming into the wall as her eyes flew open to find the nobleman watching her. He quietly stepped out of the way to let her slip from the niche.

“I would like to propose a solution to your problem. You are under no obligation to accept, but my family deserted you and I want to make it right.”

Her eyes searched his face. “Yes, sir?”

“My wife and I have only been married a few weeks, and she doesn’t have any staff to speak of. She has been putting it off for a while, but she needs a lady’s maid. Would you like to join us?”

She drew in a tight breath, trying to ignore her pulse thundering in her temple. “Thank you, your lordship, that’s very kind of you, but I can find work on my own. You needn’t feel obligated to help me.”

Eilian frowned as the maid shifted her face into a tight grin and moved as if to walk away. “It isn’t merely a sense of family obligation,” he added, hoping she would turn. “We are in desperate need of a lady’s maid. One of our chambermaid’s has been trying to help out when she can, but her skills are limited. Lady Dorset has been mending her own gowns and setting her hair. With the lifestyle she will now be living in London, I don’t quite know how we will manage without a proper lady’s maid. That was your position, wasn’t it?”

“Yes, sir.”

“I thought we might have to go through an agency, but you never know who will turn up at your doorstep when you do that. It would be so much better to find someone who we know did a good job and who was only let go due to unforeseen circumstances. If Mrs. Nash returns, we will happily let you go back, but it would be a job for at least for now.”

The words churned through her mind. Mrs. Nash had never been fond of her, but Lady Dorset had treated her like a person. That hadn’t happened often. “Would I be coming with you when you return to London?”

“Of course.”

Her light eyes brightened at the prospect of a fresh start. London was miles away. Anyone she ever brought a letter to would be nowhere in sight. She could finally go out when she had free time and not feel the cold stares of those who hated her for the task Nash made her perform. But doubt crept into the back of her mind. She had never been so far from Dorset before. Her whole life had been spent in Folkesbury, and London seemed so massive, so grand compared to what she was accustomed to. What if the other staff were better than her or more posh? It didn’t matter. It would still be a fresh start.

“If you think it’s best, your lordship, then I would be honored to serve her ladyship.”

A wide smile spread across his cheeks. “It’s settled then. Now, there’s one condition to your employment.”

“Sir?”

“You must help me find that journal.”

Chapter Twenty-Nine

The Fall

In the alcove at the bottom of the steps, Hadley Sorrell collected herself. Drawing in a deep breath, she exhaled her frustration. She couldn’t let Mrs. Rhodes see the petty anger in her eyes. How was she to know that her call was interrupting a lovely morning? Hadley smoothed a hair behind her ear and straightened her jacket before stepping into the great hall with a measured smile. Her guest stood with her back to her, her hand resting on the lion jutting from the hearth.

“Mrs. Rhodes, to what do I—”

The voice died in her throat as Leona turned. Her eyes were puffy and rimmed in red. Upon seeing the noblewoman enter, she sucked in a breath and bit back her tears. Hadley paused at the sight. Nadir Talbot’s cousin, for all of her cultivated airs in public, had seemed so strong and put together that for a moment she wondered if Patrick had been mistaken about who was there. She had heard what had happened at Nash’s funeral service, but she hadn’t been able to reconcile the two women she knew. A few strands of black hair had come loose from her bun and hung across her full cheeks. With emotion brimming behind her eyes and her blue taffeta dress, she could have been a Renaissance Madonna.

“What’s going on? What happened?” Hadley asked, crossing the room.

Leona Rhodes cleared her throat and straightened her spine as she met Lady Dorset’s concerned gaze. Her voice came pinched and low when she said, “It’s Nadir. He’s been arrested.”

“For what?”

“What do you think? For Murder.”

“Murder? But how? That doesn’t make any sense,” Hadley sputtered, her mind reeling.

Leona left her place at the hearth and stared the countess down with tears in her eyes. “It doesn’t have to make sense. Purcell came and arrested him all the same.”

“But someone shot him! Is the man insane or does this town hire imbeciles?”

“Purcell doesn’t care who really did it. He has Nadir, and that’s all that matters.”

Shaking her head, Hadley looked over her shoulder to confirm her coat was hanging near the door. “We need to do something. Have you spoken to the police? Do you know when the magistrate will be here?”

“Purcell said the trial would begin in a few days, but when I tried to speak to them again, they shut me out. They won’t let me speak to Purcell or even see Nadir. I sent telegraphs to a few names I found in his datebook, but no one has sent a reply. I don’t know what else to do.” Her lips blanched as she bit them and closed her eyes. “I don’t have enough money to afford a lawyer for him, and without speaking to him, I don’t know who else to contact.”

“You think I do?”

“Lady Dorset, you and your husband are the only ones in town who know for certain my cousin is innocent. Isn’t there someone in London you could telegraph? Someone you could contact who would be willing to help him?”

She met Leona’s eyes, red and sore with desperation. If it had been her brother sitting in jail, she would have done the same, but she knew no one of value. “I will see what I can do. My cousin and her husband move in circles with law enforcement. They might know someone. I will telegraph them, but right now, we need to go to that jail. Grab your coat, Mrs. Rhodes.”

Dabbing her eyes with her handkerchief, Leona shook her head. “I don’t think I can do it again. I keep picturing Nadir in there and—”

Leona faltered, her face clenching against the emotion welling threatening to spew out. Releasing a frustrated sigh, Hadley wrapped her arm around the woman’s shoulders and steered her toward the door.

“Now is not the time to fall to pieces, Mrs. Rhodes,” Hadley said as she pulled the bell for Patrick and handed the other woman her coat.

Mrs. Rhodes drew in a ragged breath but resolutely pressed her lips together.

“Your cousin needs you. Have a cry later once this is all sorted, but for now, we must fight.”

***

Leaving Mrs. Rhodes safely deposited on her own sofa with a fire in the grate, Hadley sat in the idling steamer. Parked in front of the tea house, she inhaled the sweet, warm aroma of scones and tarts as Patrick looked down the road at her destination before turning back to his employer with a weary frown.

“Are you sure you don’t want me to accompany you, your ladyship?”

“No, Pat. The less people involved the better.” The image of Eilian’s butler handcuffed and thrown into a cell flashed before her eyes. She couldn’t let that happen. Dipping her hand into her clutch, she withdrew her derringer. “Hold this while I’m gone. If I don’t come back in half an hour, go to Poole and get the authorities.”

Patrick’s eyes widened as she dropped it into his palm. He stared at it, holding it at arm’s length before placing it gingerly on the seat beside him. Before he could ask her why he would need to fetch the authorities, she was out the door and walking toward the police station. She held her head high, fighting the stiffness in her neck and back that might alert the men inside to her true motive. At the haberdashery windows, she stopped, using the reflection to watch the two constables across the street through the windows of the old Georgian building. Purcell was nowhere in sight. Narrowly avoiding an ambling steamer cart, she crossed the road and slipped inside.

“Lovely weather, isn’t it?” she said as the two constables’ eyes locked onto her.

Constable Lyall flashed a smile and gave her a shallow bow from his table.

“May we help you, your ladyship?” Constable Osgood asked flatly from the front desk, his brows furrowed.

“I hope so.” Removing her gloves and leaning against the tall desk, she sighed. “Is Sergeant Purcell in?”

“No, he’s in Poole.”

She smiled inwardly at her luck. “Oh, what a pity. I wanted to ask him if he had any news about Mr. Nash’s murder. Lord Dorset and I will be leaving town in a few days, and we were so hoping to have it all sorted before we left.”

“We arrested the murderer this morning, ma’am,” Lyall piped up from the back corner. “The magistrate will take care of him by the end of next week. What a coincidence that you stopped by today.”

“Yes, that is quite a coincidence,” the other constable murmured.

“Really? Who is it? I hope it wasn’t anyone from around here. That would mean the murderer was probably at my party.”

“You’re right, ma’am, he was at the party. It’s Mr. Talbot.”

“Mr. Talbot? But how? There has to be a misunderstanding. Mr. Talbot seemed so nice.”

“You never know with some people. I saw them fighting not long before, too.”

“Would it be possible to speak with him? I should really like—”

“Nice try, Lady Dorset. I know you and Talbot are friends,” Osgood said, straightening behind the desk as he glared at her.

“I can’t speak with him for just a moment?”

“No. Lyall, show her ladyship out.”

Dropping the act, Hadley waited for the lanky young man to unwrap his legs from the stool and bound over to her. Fighting back would only get her a cell beside Nadir. The constable slipped his arm into hers and gently led her out the door.

“I’m sorry, ma’am, but the Sergeant said not to let anyone speak to Mr. Talbot.”

“But why?” she asked as Lyall’s head swiveled up and down the street, stopping when he noticed her steamer.

He shrugged. “I’m just following orders. Oh, my wife wanted me to tell you how much she enjoyed your party.”

Hadley stopped so quickly Lyall nearly ran into her. “But that doesn’t make sense.”

“I know Mrs. Rhodes fainted and all, but—”

“No, not that. I mean, arresting Nadir Talbot.”

“How do you figure, ma’am? He was the last one to see Mr. Nash, and you found him near the body.”

“Yes, but he had been shot in the head. Someone tried to kill him, too.”

“The sergeant thinks that was self-inflicted. Mr. Talbot’s a clever one. He probably did it to throw us off.”

“But where did he get the gun and where did it go? You didn’t find one on him or in the orangery, did you? How could he have shot himself without a gun? You should ask your sergeant about that before you toy with a man’s life.” As the constable puzzled over the gun problem, Hadley patted his arm and extricated herself from his loose grasp. “If you will excuse me, constable, I need to send a telegraph. Let the sergeant know that I will be finding a suitable lawyer for Nadir Talbot and contacting Scotland Yard.”

***

Hadley drew in a deep breath. If she was to deal with Leona Rhodes again, she would need all of the composure she could muster. When she stepped through the careworn curtain, the woman’s dark eyes locked onto her, pleading for an answer. Shaking her head, Hadley settled into the seat opposite Mrs. Rhodes. Her lip quivered, but she quickly bit down on it and turned back to her needlepoint before the tears could work free.

“I contacted my cousin in London. She or her husband should know someone. They should send a reply by tomorrow. I’m sorry I couldn’t do more for Nadir, Mrs. Rhodes, but they turned me out as well.”

“Thank you for at least trying, Lady Dorset. I don’t know how we can repay you.”

Hadley paused, the words hanging on her lips, unable to be ignored. “I would like you to tell me the whole story. Then, we will be even.”

Leona froze, her heart thundering in her ears. Catching herself, she shook her head and replied, “What do you mean? I told you about the silphium.”

“I think there’s more to it. Nadir told me that the reason he was in the orangery the night of the murder was because he received a letter from Mr. Nash. I think the letter was meant for you, not him. I think Nadir suspected something as well and tried to protect you. If I am to help him, I want to know from what.”

“What if I don’t tell you?”

“Then, I will go to the police and tell them you know more than you’re letting on. If Purcell won’t listen, I will speak to the police in Poole.”

“But I didn’t kill Randall! What happened didn’t cause that.”

“How do I know that your cousin isn’t sacrificing himself for you? How do I know you weren’t there, hiding in the orangery waiting for him? What I do know is that Nadir Talbot didn’t murder Mr. Nash while you have been behaving strangely. It has to be something grave if you aren’t willing to divulge it to save your cousin.”

“Even if I did, it wouldn’t matter,” she cried. “Purcell’s mind is made up.”

Leona looked up from her lap to see the countess staring at her, waiting. The only one who knew was dead. There had been so many times she felt the words on her lips, but at the thought of Nadir abandoning her for good, she stayed silent. Every choice had been hers to make. Any shame she felt came from another’s cold glare or reprobation. Soon, Lady Dorset would pack up and leave for London, and any additional scorn she felt would leave with her.

“If I tell you, you have to promise not to tell anyone else. No one else needs to know. In the end, it won’t help Nadir either.”

“We don’t know that.”

“I do,” she snapped. “Do you promise to keep this between us?”

“I promise.”

“Come, we will discuss it in the study.”

Mrs. Rhodes led her into the next room without ever looking back at the younger woman trailing behind. Motioning for Hadley to sit at Argus’s desk, Leona shut the door and leaned against it as if she feared it would be thrown open at any moment.

“What I’m about to say can’t leave this room. My husband can never know.” Drawing in a deep breath, Leona steeled herself against what she was about to say. It had gone on for years, but to say it, was to acknowledge all of her wrongs. “Randall— Randall Nash and I were involved.”

Hadley cringed. “You were having an affair?”

“Yes,” she replied, gauging the redhead’s reaction, “but you didn’t know him like I did. He didn’t treat me like he did the others.”

“It’s not just that. The age difference alone—”

“I know. He was much older, especially when we met, and married, but he never loved his wife. He had been pressured into marrying her. You wouldn’t understand. It’s never happened to you.”

“But you would know? Surely you and Argus…?”

Leona shook her head, a few loose black curls breaking from her coiffure. “You must understand, Lady Dorset, Argus is a sweet, kind man, but we have nothing in common. He has no ambition or drive. Randall wasn’t like that. He returned to Folkesbury when I was barely seventeen. I went to him because I heard he had gone to Cambridge and I wanted to learn Latin and Greek, so I could read the classics like Nadir. My parents wouldn’t pay for a tutor to teach me. When I asked him, he tossed me out, yelling that he wasn’t the schoolmaster, but I kept coming back, poorly reciting the phrases I had taught myself, and he relented.

“At first, he really did teach me Latin and Greek, but things progressed until it was beyond our control. I knew they wouldn’t approve of him teaching me, so I would tell my parents I was visiting my friend for tea. We met at the dower house when his wife was at her meeting, but as we became closer, he started bringing me to Brasshurst Hall. The house had been boarded up since his grandfather’s death, so we would go through the old aqueducts as not to draw attention. He loved that house. We spent many a happy day there.” She let out a dry chuckle. “It must sound foolish to you, a young woman ruining herself with a married man twice her age.”

Keeping her voice level despite the knot growing in her chest, Hadley said softly, “He seduced you. He should have known better.”

“There was no seduction. His wife was a shrew, and my parents’ control and heritage ensured that I had no suitors. I was never so foolish as to expect him to leave his wife or that we would ever be anything more than lovers, but he made me feel pretty and smart, which was all I ever wanted.” She smiled. “He made me feel like I was worth something.”

Leona’s eyes softened as she pictured Nash’s face fifteen years younger when they would lay across the orangery’s mosaic floor among the cut-glass crustaceans and cephalopods. The cool damp of the tiles soaked into her bare back as she gazed up at the leafy palms soaring high above them, the sun’s rays warm across her cheeks and arms. Without looking, she knew Randall would be no more than an arm’s length away watching her. Those sharp, grey eyes drank her in, and she willingly gave herself over to them.

“And Nadir didn’t know?”

She shook her head, pacing back to the door to listen for any signs of her husband on the other side. “He was long gone by then at boarding school. When he did return, I made sure to cover my tracks better. We went on like that for years. Every few days I would visit ‘my friend.’ Then, my parents found out. I don’t know how they knew, but I think Rubella finally had enough and decided to get her husband back once and for all. Later, I found out I wasn’t the first of his trysts, but I was the last.”

“What happened?”

“My parents reacted as you would expect. I was practically banished from society. They hated me. They hated Nash. Even if they never caught us in the act, I was soiled. If he had been some young cad, they would have simply forced him to marry me, but they couldn’t. Instead, they found the next best thing: a young naive man with an inheritance who would never notice that his bride was soiled.” Leona bit her lip and sucked in a sharp breath. “When Argus arrived in town, they found their solution. He knew nothing of my history or of Nash’s. By then, rumors had begun to circulate. My father spoke to Argus, and suddenly, we were courting and engaged. Please make no mistake, Lady Dorset, Argus is the best person I could have married under the circumstances and he is a good man, but it’s not what I wanted.”

Hadley sat rooted at Argus’s desk. Her heart echoed through her chest, and when she went to speak, she found the moisture had evaporated from her mouth. “What did Nash do?”

“After we were discovered, he left to escape the scandal and lived in France with his wife. I didn’t see him for nearly five years. I thought I would never see him again, but then, last year he turned up out of the blue.”

She had rounded the corner with a basket of groceries hanging on her arm when she looked up and saw him standing in front of the post office. He was older, the lines of his face deeper and the color had finally leeched from his hair, but his eyes were the same. They pinned her where she stood. For a long moment, they simply stared until inch by inch the crowd carried them closer and the questions and lost history poured out. In an instant, it was as if no time had passed.

“I didn’t intend for it to happen again. I hadn’t realized how much I missed him, how alone I really was, and apparently his feelings never changed. My parents had left for Alexandria, though they stopped speaking to me long before that, and Nadir was in London. I had my chance, and I took it.” A faint smile crossed her lips as she stared into the empty hearth. When she turned back to the countess, her eyes burned with waiting tears. “Now, he’s gone.”

“The child was his, wasn’t it? That’s why you needed the silphium.”

Leona nodded.

“But if you loved him, why did you get rid of it?”

“I panicked. We had gotten away with it for so many years only to have that happen.” For a second, she locked eyes with her reflection in the mirror above the fireplace, barely recognizing the woman before her. Refocusing, she looked past herself to Lady Dorset. “When I realized what had happened, I went to him. I knew it could only be his and that he still wouldn’t leave Rubella. He said he wouldn’t do it, that it would create a scandal. I didn’t expect him to, but I wanted for him to either help me leave Argus or take care of his child. Despite all of the money he extorted from others, he wouldn’t help me. He wouldn’t even give me the silphium, so I stopped seeing him.

“You were right though, I loved him, but he forced my hand. For all these years, he had used me. Why else would he refuse to help me and his child? When I ignored him, he started sending notes with his maid begging me to meet him. He even tried to blackmail me. What could he have taken? I mean, just look at this place,” she said gesturing toward the cracks in the ceiling and the faded wallpaper. “We already had to sell the steamer and fire the cook and maids. If he exposed me, he exposed himself, and he had much more to lose than I did. I told him so, but he wouldn’t relent. All I had left to use was his precious silphium. He had to have known what it did, and he still wouldn’t give it to me.”

“He wanted you to have his child,” Hadley replied, the words rushing out the moment they formed in her mind.

“I realized that after a while, but don’t you see? I couldn’t do that and still live here. I would have loved our child, but I couldn’t let Argus go on thinking it was his. That’s why I wanted Randall’s help. He could have put me up in a little house or apartment somewhere that I could be anonymous. I could raise the baby, and he could come visit once in a while. As long as I had his support, I could have done it.” She closed her eyes, banishing the thought with a scoff. “Foolish fantasies. In the end, I knew I wouldn’t be able to live with myself if I had to pretend Argus was the father, that we were a happy family.”

“Would he have known the difference?”

“No, but I would. I would be constantly reminded of my missteps. What if the child had his eyes? Everyone would know. There was no other way for me to have some semblance of a normal life except to rid myself of all traces of Randall once and for all. That’s how it was with him. All or nothing.”

“Did you tell him what you were planning to do?”

She shook her head. “Not about the silphium. He knew I wanted it and still did nothing. After what he did to me, he didn’t deserve to have it.”

“I saw the look on his face when you collapsed at the party. He knew what you had done.”

“Good, I wanted him to. I wanted him to feel the sting of loss, to have him understand that his actions had consequences and that for once he shouldn’t have only thought of his own well-being. Unfortunately, Nadir saw him, too. I still don’t think he’s put it all together, but he realized Randall and I were involved somehow. While I was recovering, Randall came to visit me and Nadir scared him off. I never got to speak to him again.”

Hadley’s eyes brightened with clarity. “Nadir said he snuck into the orangery because he received a letter from Nash. It was yours.”

“Yes, but I don’t know how he got it. When Dr. Sturgis brought him back to us bandaged and drugged with morphine, I knew what Nadir had done. The letter was right on his desk.” She drew in a wet breath and squeezed her eyes and lips shut. “I burned it. I was so afraid he had killed him. I still don’t know how he knew where to go; Randall never said. If it hadn’t been for the wound, I would have thought my own cousin guilty. Who else would want to kill him?”

Hadley could think of a few and the countless others who had been victims of his extortion. There had been times when she was tempted to draw her gun.

Pushing away from the desk, Hadley stood at Leona’s side as she covered her face. Hadley gently patted the dark-haired woman’s shoulder. Everything was so much clearer. Nash’s pallor when she hemorrhaged at the party, Nadir sneaking into the orangery, her strange behavior at the funeral. No one else had been so overcome with emotion, not even Mrs. Nash.

“First, I lost Randall. Now, I’m going to lose Nadir, too.”

“No, you won’t. Not if I have any say in the matter. As soon as I hear from my cousin, I will go back to the police.”

“I’m surprised to hear you say that. After hearing my sordid story, I’m amazed you even want to associate with me. Anyone else would think me a whore or worse. What do you think of me?”

What did she think? What if she had met Eilian after he had become engaged or married to a woman of his parents’ choosing? She would have liked to imagine that she would have been virtuous, that she would have ignored any feelings she had for him and gone back to her lonely life. When she first realized Eilian had feelings for her, she had braced herself for the possibility that he might not want to marry her, but under different circumstances, could she have been his mistress? Knowing him and what being a mistress entailed, she couldn’t imagine it, but if he had been a different man with different needs, would she have allowed herself to be drawn into that role?

“I can’t say. I have never been in your situation, Mrs. Rhodes. If I loved someone very much and they happened to be married, I don’t know what I would have done. It’s possible that I would have done the same, especially if they were in a loveless marriage. It isn’t right, but it happens. Men do it all the time with little guilt.” Hadley watched Leona dab at her eyes and steady her breathing. When she seemed to finally compose herself, she asked, “Do you regret what you did?”

“Which part?”

“Any of it.”

“No,” she replied, keeping her face lax despite the well of pain rising behind her eyes, “I loved Randall. I will never get that back, and I doubt I will ever love another the way I loved him. Without experiencing that, I don’t know where I would be now or who I would be.” Leona looked up to see the countess watching her with a puzzled look. “You must think it strange to hear me say that after all you have heard. You must understand that Randall and I had a long history together. The tumult of two months can’t erase the decades of my life I love the most. My time spent with Randall Nash was some of the best, no matter how brief or covert. I like to think that if circumstances had been different, we could have had a good life together.”

The two women stood in silence. Hadley didn’t want to leave and have Mrs. Rhodes believe she was fleeing her sins. Even if she wanted to, the shock and guilt from forcing her to reveal what she had done weighed heavily on Hadley’s conscience. It was not her secret to know. She knew how easy it could be to fall into the trap of mistresshood. If Leona hadn’t been married to Argus, she could have had more freedom than most married or widowed women. She could have worked, had a lover, and possibly even a marriage, if she chose. It was what men had done for centuries with little retribution.

“I’m very sorry this had to happen to you and to Mr. Nash. I didn’t know him the way you did, but he seemed to have cared a great deal for you. You must have other things to attend to, Mrs. Rhodes, so I will be on my way. I’m sorry if I caused you any pain; that wasn’t my intention.”

“I know,” Leona replied softly as she reached for the door.

The door swung back to reveal Argus’s broad face. He stared at the women within with pleading eyes, his head shaking in time with his mutely working mouth.

“Is it true?” he finally wheezed.

The air squeezed from Hadley’s lungs as Leona held his gaze, unable to speak but free of pain or remorse. With a final nod of her head, he slowly turned and retreated down the hall. Hadley took a step forward, but Leona’s hand locked around her arm.

“Let him go. It’s what I deserve.”

Chapter Thirty

His Eyes

It was dark by the time Hadley arrived back at Brasshurst. The warm spring rain lapped against the panes of the great hall, casting the room in curious shadows and creating a steady din within the ancient walls. Water dripped from her hair and ran down her neck where it was wicked up by her sodden dress. She had lingered on the beach too long. Sitting against the rocks, she had stared out at the boats tossed by the angry waves rolling in with the storm. They clawed at the sand, tearing shells and bits of sea glass from the shore. Wind whipped her hat until she pulled it off and let the sea spray tear the pins from her hair.

For hours, she turned Leona Rhodes’s story over in her mind. She and Nash had been lovers. Part of her was appalled that she had betrayed the docile man she married on so many fronts. Maybe if Argus had been cruel and Nash had been a handsome young suitor, things would have ended differently. The other part of her understood that it was impossible to control attraction. Leona didn’t have to act on her feelings, but she did. Knowing that what happened with Nash hadn’t been a transient infatuation somehow made it easier to stomach yet harder to imagine. Now, the man Mrs. Rhodes loved was dead along with what could have been their child, and her husband had left when he learned the truth. That had been Hadley’s fault. What would Leona do now, especially if Nadir was convicted?

By the time she had given up on sorting through her thoughts, the air had grown heavy with rain and her teeth were coated in salt. Walking through the cobbled streets that soon dissolved into white gravel, Hadley wondered if she had made the right decision in pressing Mrs. Rhodes to tell her more. The woman had been right when she said it wouldn’t help Nadir. Hadley’s curiosity had ruined a marriage and left her with only the hollowness of shame.

“You’re home!” Eilian called behind her as she pushed open the door.

When she turned to see Eilian approaching with his arms wide, her eyes lit up despite herself. Her husband’s arms closed around her, pulling her to his chest. He planted a kiss on her forehead as his arms cinched around her. Hadley shut her eyes, burying her face deep into the folds of his shirt and jacket. The warmth of his body against hers and the pressure of his arms against her back were what she needed most.

“Had, you’re soaked to the bone,” he said, pulling back and gently wiping her cheeks with his sleeve. “What happened? I thought you took the steamer, but then, I came home to find Pat setting up for dinner without you.”

“I did, but I stayed too long at the beach. I needed a bit of time to myself, so I sent Patrick home. You understand.”

As Eilian stepped back, still holding her by the arms, he finally saw her face. In his excitement, he hadn’t noticed the tired sag of her eyes or the heaviness in her countenance. “What happened?”

I botched it.

Hadley smoothed her hair and dress as she bit her lip. Before she could continue, Eilian wrapped his arm around her shoulders and steered her toward the great hall’s stairs. Passing Pilcrow where she leaned into the shadows between the tapestries and woodwork, he motioned for her to follow them. She silently padded ten feet behind them, the countess none the wiser of her husband’s new hire. At the bedroom door, the wisp of a maid slipped into the dressing room out of sight.

“Here, let me help you, Had.”

It took little coaxing to get her into the cushioned chair in front of the vanity. Her eyes darted from her reflection when it fell across the dark circles rimming her eyes and her bedraggled hair, which hung in limp, soggy locks. She couldn’t bear to look at herself. When she finally raised her eyes, she caught her husband smiling behind her as he carefully pulled out the pins that had once held her hat. Putting them aside, he removed her hair pins, dropping them in her palm beside the others.

“So how was your day?” she replied when he began unhooking the buttons running the length of her neck. Closing her eyes, she savored the sensation of his fingertips skimming her neck and the hitch of her breath when the cold pearls brushed her skin. “I hope it was better than mine.”

“I went to the dower house. I was able to find the journals that were—”

A soft knock sounded on the other side of the bedroom door. Thinking it was Patrick, Hadley called for the visitor to come in. Upon noticing the countess at the vanity, the maid’s colorless face brightened with a wide grin.

“I’ll have your dress ready in a few minutes, m’lady. I just wanted to see if you needed anything.”

Hadley’s eyes flicked between her husband and Pilcrow. “No, thank you.”

When the door clicked shut behind her, Hadley turned to Eilian with a questioning look.

He shifted uncomfortably, resting his hands on her shoulders. “I was about to get to that. I found the journals… and Pilcrow at the dower house.”

“Why is she tending to my clothes? I thought she worked for Mrs. Nash.”

“Mrs. Nash has packed her things and gone to Poole without her servants.”

“Are you joking?”

“No, all of the other servants left.” He dropped his voice. “It didn’t seem right to leave her behind. Poor thing didn’t know what to do with herself. She’s never worked anywhere else, and I thought you might need someone to help you get dressed and mend your clothing. I know you aren’t thrilled with Charlotte.”

She released a snort as she slipped from his loose grip and began tugging the dress from her shoulders. “I can dress myself. I have been doing it my entire life.”

“I know, but having her tend to your clothes and hair when you go out is one less thing for you to worry about, which would mean more time to work on your projects. You would also free-up Charlotte and let her resume her usual duties.”

Stepping out of her wet dress, Hadley rubbed her arms and slipped on her robe. She stood at the hearth, watching her husband regard her with a lopsided frown. Having a lady’s maid to do her hair or pick her clothing meant something. It was another long step from her old life where she relied on no one but herself. In marrying Eilian, she had gained the freedom that comes with being a married woman of class and standing, but she had lost her anonymity and the ability to say she did it all on her own. No longer was she merely a craftswoman. Her products no longer spoke for her. Instead, her person came with a name, a vision of what the Countess of Dorset ought to be, and a congregation of helpers. Since her mother died nearly a decade ago, she had prided herself in being the one to get it all done with as little help from others as possible.

As if reading her mind, Eilian said, “I have Patrick to help me with my things. I didn’t mean to spring it on you. I thought she would be a help. We could always have this be on a trial basis. If it doesn’t work out, she can join the other girls as chambermaids.”

“That would be a demotion,” Hadley replied, keeping her voice low so the maid couldn’t hear her through the wall.

“It’s better than no job and no references.”

Hadley rubbed her temples. “I’m not going to turn her out if that’s what you’re worried about. I’m not as cruel as Mrs. Nash. I know what it’s like to not know where your pay will come from.” Drawing in a tight breath, she sat on the edge of the bed and listened to the rain patter against the mullioned panes. If she closed her eyes, she swore she could hear the waves lapping beneath the soft snapping of the fire in the grate. “Tell me more about your day. I want to forget mine.”

The question hung on his lips, but from her dour expression and her peevish plucking of the quilt, it was obvious that she didn’t want to talk about it. When she was ready, the story would pour out.

In the most cheerful voice he could muster, he began, “Well, I found the journals. Nash hid them in a nook in his study behind a painting of the orangery. It seemed funny at the time that he should put them there since he was always popping up in it until I remembered the murder. Anyway, there was also a jar of dried silphium seeds. I’m hoping I can plant them in Greenwich, and give some to a few botanists I know. Pilcrow was actually the one to find—”

He stopped, watching as Hadley bit her lip and stared at the bare planks of the floor. Her nails dug into her arm to staunch the tide of emotion collecting behind her lower lids. Eilian had only seen her cry twice before they came to Brasshurst, once in the desert and once when she called off their engagement, and after the latter happened, he could never erase the image from his mind. Seeing her so vulnerable still startled him. Dropping to his knees beside her, he held her hands in his and tried to catch her downcast gaze. She clamped her lips shut against the hiccupped sobs even as her body rocked in protest.

“Hadley, what is the matter? Please tell me. Was it something I did?”

She shook her head, her breathing coming in tight squeaks. Raising her eyes to meet his, she swallowed against the lump in her throat. His expression was soft with concern as he searched her face for some hint of what had occurred. Her eyes burned. She knew saying it would unleash every thought she had tried to suppress. All she could see was Mr. Rhodes with his eyes full of hurt, before he disappeared out the front door. The pain he must have felt.

“I botched it!”

The words fell heavy from her lips as the torrent of wet sobs escaped with them. Before she could clasp her hands over her face, Eilian wrapped his arms around her. His mechanical arm ran the length of her back as his other hand trailed into her hair to keep her close. Pressing her face into his collar, every frustration poured forth. She could never be a countess. She would never live up to his mother or the women hanging in the portrait gallery. All she could see was Randall Nash snapping at her in the orangery, the vein on his broad forehead pulsing; the void beside the pool where the silphium used to grow standing empty while Leona Rhodes lay bleeding; Nadir locked behind iron bars while Nash’s killer ran free. She was supposed to fix things, that was the natural order, but she couldn’t do anything anymore. How had it all gone so wrong?

Eilian held her close in hopes that it would quiet the cries wracking her body despite her best attempts to stifle them. Rubbing her back with his prosthetic hand, he whispered for her to take deep breaths. When she couldn’t, he hugged her closer and kissed her temple.

“I’m sure you didn’t botch whatever it is.”

“No, I did. I ruined everything,” she replied, her voice rough with tears.

The bedroom door creaked open, but when Eilian’s grey eyes met Pilcrow’s, she nodded and ducked out without a word. Turning back to his wife, he slipped from under her grasp and gently brushed the sweat-soaked hair from her cheeks.

“Don’t say that. Tell me what happened.”

“Nadir Talbot’s in jail. Mr. and Mrs. Rhodes have split up, and that’s all my fault.”

“I’m sure it isn’t—”

“Trust me, it is. She’s the one who stole the silphium plant. She needed it— she needed it because she had an affair with Nash and was with child. Argus overheard us talking and stormed out.”

“What? What are you talking about?”

Using the edge of the quilt, Hadley dabbed her eyes and sniffed as Eilian settled beside her. “I’m sorry I didn’t tell you. You had so much on your mind at the time, and I wasn’t sure about the silphium or Nash until she told me. I— I didn’t mean to keep it from you. It just never came up. I didn’t know the rest of it until now.”

He kept his gaze soft, hoping he wouldn’t add to her pain and guilt. “Tell me everything.”

The whole tale poured out. She told him of how Leona used the aqueduct to break into the orangery in order to steal the plant and how she smashed the window to make it look like a burglary. All the pieces fell into place as she recounted how Leona’s “stomach troubles” at the party had really been a miscarriage. She was about to tell of her affair with Nash when she paused. Damn secrecy, Hadley thought at her momentary hesitation of sharing the details with her husband. Secrets had never helped Nash or Leona, and they certainly hadn’t helped Nadir Talbot.

When she had finished, she sat back on the bed with her knees pulled up to her chest and her robe draped over her legs. Her eyes burned as she watched Eilian shake his head and rub his jaw. He was confused, but at least he wasn’t angry.

“Why didn’t you tell me sooner?”

“I don’t know. Stealing the silphium didn’t really harm anyone, and by the time I put it together, it was too late to do anything about it. She had used up most of the plant when she miscarried. It wasn’t like we could put it back.” She swallowed hard. “She had a good reason for using it, and I didn’t want her to get in trouble with the police, especially after she— she nearly bled out.”

His eyes trailed down to his prosthetic hand before returning to her tearstained face, which had puffed and reddened. “But why didn’t you tell me?”

She averted her gaze from his and rested her chin on her knees. “I didn’t know if you would understand, and I didn’t want you to say anything to Mr. Rhodes. Men don’t deal with these things. You won’t even touch me, so how was I to know how you would react to someone having an affair or choosing to end a pregnancy? I don’t know if any man can understand it.”

Eilian fell silent. How would he have reacted? He knew little of Mrs. Rhodes, and what he knew of Randall Nash made him wonder why anyone would seek to have a close friendship with the man, let alone an intimate relationship. Then there was Argus. Mr. Rhodes seemed to love his wife, but there was no way for Eilian to know what went on behind closed doors. Maybe Argus was negligent. Maybe he treated his wife with the same indifference he treated the news of the silphium, or maybe he was like Eilian and couldn’t do what his wife asked.

“I would have tried to understand.”

“I know, and I’m sorry.”

“Is there anything else I don’t know?”

Hadley shrugged and pawed at her eyes with the heel of her hand. “I don’t think so. I sent a telegraph to Eliza and James. Hopefully they can find a decent lawyer for Nadir. The police wouldn’t let me speak to him or Purcell. I don’t know what else to do.”

Eilian rubbed her shoulders and gave them a gentle squeeze. “You have done all you can. I’m sure Mr. Talbot will be all right. He didn’t kill Nash; a judge will see that. When the magistrate gets here, I will see what I can do. Maybe throwing around the family name will do some good.”

“Thanks.”

As his wife drew in a tremulous breath and cleared her throat, Eilian withdrew a clean handkerchief from his drawer and carried over the wash basin. The water had gone cold, but he dunked the cloth in and wrung it out one-handed. He hated seeing Hadley fall apart. She was the strong one, and while he was never certain what to do, he knew this was something he had to make right for her. Cupping the side of her face with his prosthetic hand, Eilian gently wiped the moisture from her cheeks and eyelashes.

“I promise I will get Mr. Talbot out of trouble. If this lawyer doesn’t come through, I will call in some favors.” When her face brightened into a weak grin, he added, “I’m still shocked Mrs. Rhodes fell for someone as dreadful as Nash. I shouldn’t be; he apparently had a way with women.”

“Oh? What do you mean?”

“While you were out, I started reading great-grandfather’s journals. An illicit affair is what caused the big rift between Nash and my father. Nash was engaged to Rubella when he was caught by my father with one of the maids. Apparently, she found out she was with child after she was sacked, but by then, conveniently, Nash was already married and out of the country. Great-grandfather made sure of that.”

Hadley released a dry laugh. “And history repeats itself.” Clearing her thickened throat, she called, “Pilcrow, you may come in now.”

The moment the words were out, the dressing room door opened and the petite maid bustled in with a clean dress trailing behind her. She flashed the couple a smile before standing at the ready for Hadley to slip into the gown. The countess inwardly sighed but gave herself over to Pilcrow’s careful attention. After buttoning the back with nimble fingers, the maid stood before her to adjust the collar and brush her skirt. As Hadley lowered her gaze to meet Pilcrow’s, the breath caught in her throat.

What if the child had his eyes?

Chapter Thirty-One

Bullets in the Yews

“Get up.”

Nadir jerked awake as the sergeant’s boot collided with the frame of his cot. His head pounded at the sudden exertion and the dank cell tilted and whirled around him. When his vision finally settled, he locked eyes with Purcell, who stood in the doorway with his hands behind his back. A small smile crossed Nadir’s lips as he smoothed his rumpled shirt and brushed the bits of dirt and dust from his trousers.

“So, you finally came to your senses, Sergeant? Better late than never.”

“Lady Dorset hired you a lawyer. He sent a telegraph saying he will be here tomorrow afternoon.”

He turned and raised his eyes to the glowing full-moon peeking through the bars. How long had he been asleep in that stinking rat hole? Pain lanced through his stitches where hair had matted across it during his rest. With his fingertip, he picked at the wound.

“That is very kind of her. I will have to thank her.”

“Yes, it must be nice to have such a benevolent benefactress. Too bad his services won’t be necessary.”

As Nadir finally freed the last bit of hair from the minute knots, the noose slipped over his neck. His arm slammed into his neck as Purcell yanked him backwards, driving the rough knot into his spine. He grabbed the edge of the cot with his free hand, his fingers tearing through the threadbare fabric. Nadir fell back, staggering and falling onto his knees. All that stood between him and strangulation was his hand, which had been inadvertently trapped in the loop of the noose, but when Purcell pulled with all of his strength, his wrist pressed into his throat. Nadir gasped, groping for air. Spots fluttered in front of his eyes as he groped for anything he could use to get Purcell off. The darkness pressed in around him, his hand only meeting the filth-slicked stone. The cell wavered. He gulped down the tang of sweat and cloying cologne. The sergeant’s sweaty hand brushed against his neck where it slipped from the knot. Every sense heightened and flickered as he released a rasped cry. It couldn’t end like this.

Reaching back with his free hand, Nadir clawed at the officer’s face. A holler rose behind him as his fingers dug into the man’s eyes and tore at the soft flesh beneath his mustache. The moment Purcell whipped his head from beneath his grasp, allowing Nadir pushed up on his heels and threw him off balance. The sergeant’s hands groped for the length of rope, but Nadir spun away, his head reeling as he fell into the cot. Tugging the heavy cord from his neck with trembling hands, he drew in a lungful of air.

For a moment, Nadir and Purcell stared at one another. Nadir sat sprawled on the torn mattress, his chest heaving and his throat aching, while Purcell stood between the cot and the iron door. Keeping his eyes locked on the officer, Nadir stood. Purcell’s sharp gaze caught every minute flicker of movement that might betray his next move. He shifted, his hand slipping to the holster hanging at his hip, but before he could reach the leather pouch, the writer was on top of him. Slamming his shoulder into Purcell’s chest, he threw him into the iron bars. The officer reached for his hip and twisted beneath him, but Nadir’s fist plowed into his face before he could slip his hand around the gun. Three rapid blows were all it took. The sergeant’s head bounced off the bars of the cell as Nadir let go and he slid to the floor. His eyelids drooped and blood trickled from his nose onto his well-groomed mustache. Nadir didn’t have much time.

Nadir crept into the deserted front room and looked out the window. The streets were empty. The only noise he could make out was the steady tattoo of rain and the scuff of boots down the hall. Grabbing his confiscated walking stick from behind the desk, Nadir threw open the door and disappeared into the rainy night.

He ran heedlessly down the street, his expensive shoes slipping on the wet stones as he sprinted past shuttered storefronts and darkened homes. The last time he had gotten into a real brawl was during his brief time at Cambridge, but his hands never forgot the technique he had practiced for hours after being jumped one too many times at his first boarding school. His throat ached as he swallowed against the bruised knot where the noose had been. He had to hide. He had to get away from the footsteps pounding behind him.

Through the haze of heavy rain, he could make out where the road divided up ahead. He could follow the bend toward Leona’s house, but there would be no escaping once he was inside and he couldn’t risk Leona getting hurt. Past the house were the rickety path and the aqueduct leading to the dower house. If he could lose Purcell— No, the officer probably knew the tunnel better than he did, and he would be an easy target in the confined space.

Stopping to catch his breath, Nadir’s eyes trailed to the moon glowing through the threatening clouds. His heart thundered in his ears. The other path was a direct route to Brasshurst Hall. Glancing over his shoulder, he could make out a shadow rushing toward him only a few hundred feet away. Nadir locked eyes with the blinking windows of the manor and dove into the brush.

***

Nadir’s head pounded with each footfall, but he couldn’t stop. Sliding down a steep embankment, he closed his eyes against the nausea as dendritic branches scratched his face and tugged at his hair. The leaves and trees behind him snapped under Purcell’s approach as he barreled after him. Nadir had expected to lose him a third of the way to Brasshurst, but he was right on his heels. Swinging his walking stick like a machete, Nadir scrambled through a patch of briars, feeling the pull and snap of his shirt sleeves tearing. The house loomed in the distance, a bulbous beacon. What if Purcell caught up with him before he could get to Brasshurst? What if he did and the Sorrells refused to help? Nadir banished the thought as he vaulted over a fallen tree, his ankle throbbing as he landed hard on an unseen stone. He was nearly there. He could make out the slick edges of the Gothic facade and the camphor trees illuminated within the massive dome. As he tumbled out of the thicket and into the clearing that marked the edge of Brasshurst’s ornamental gardens, the forest fell silent. Nadir turned, staring into the trees for any sign of Purcell. Had he given up?

A crack of light erupted from the top of the hill followed by a familiar retort. Nadir dove for the overgrown hedges, but a searing pain ripped through the flesh of his bicep followed by a hot sluice of blood before he could reach it.

“Shit!” he cried as he staggered, his body reeling against the pain. He clamped his hand over the wound and crawled behind the nearest yew. Shutting his eyes, Nadir gritted his teeth and held his breath as three more shots rang out. Bits of bark and leaves exploded out around him. So this was how it would end: curled up against a tree with his left arm blown open, waiting for his murderer to find him. The paralyzing pain refused to ebb, engulfing his arm in a vicious throb. With his knees, he pulled the scabbard from his cane-sword and listened. Rain pattered against his face, running down his cheeks and over his half-healed stitches in rivulets. For a long moment, he sat in the darkness; the only sound his labored breath and the rustle of leaves. Moonlight glinted along the length of his sword as the sergeant’s footsteps slowly retreated into the brush.

Nadir rose to his feet, tucking his injured arm close as he looked around the gnarled trunk. In the absolute blackness enveloping the woods, it was impossible to tell if Purcell was gone. A shiver passed through him. It didn’t matter; Nadir had to get to Brasshurst whether Purcell was there or not. Holding tight to his cane-sword, he inched his bloodied arm toward the pocket where his talisman had once been. He pulled his hand back, taking his breath away with a sharp pain. His luck had run out. Drawing in a deep breath, he sprinted toward the manor.

He hoped to God they were still awake. He could scarcely make out his hand in front of his face, but the light in the lower windows was clear. Skirting the edge of the orangery, Nadir stared at the thick, murky glass. There was no way he could break it with his injured arm. As he reached the house’s stone facade, he smiled at his fortune. Sitting in his dressing gown only feet from the window was Lord Dorset.

***

Eilian whipped around at the sound of frantic rapping at the drawing room window. Dropping his letter to David Hogarth, he locked eyes with the ashen face peering in through the glass. For a moment, he wondered if he had nodded off. Then, the sodden creature stepped closer, and he could make out Nadir Talbot’s long hair and full lips. He leapt from the sofa and pulled open the mullioned window with a burst of wind that nearly swept his letter into the grate.

“Mr. Talbot, what the devil are you doing here?” Eilian asked, his eyes roaming from the writer’s torn shirt to the twigs and sprigs of thorny leaves entangled in his hair. “What happened? I thought you were in—”

“I was. I will answer any questions, but please, let me in, Lord Dorset.”

He opened his mouth to ask why he hadn’t come to the front door, but upon seeing Nadir’s pleading eyes, he pushed the ottoman in front of the window.

“I’m going to need a little help, I’m afraid.”

Climbing onto the footstool, Eilian held out his hand. Tossing his sword in ahead of him, Nadir wrapped his arm around Lord Dorset’s shoulders and allowed the nobleman to pull him over the high sill. Nadir groaned through clenched teeth as he straightened and stepped into the warm room. Even with his hand clamped over the wound, blood ran down his arm, puddling at the edge of the carpet.

The nobleman’s eyes trailed to the deep tear in Nadir’s sleeve, careful not to look too closely. “Are you all right?”

“I’ve had another run-in with a bullet.”

“I can send Patrick to fetch the doctor.”

“Don’t!” When the earl eyed him suspiciously, he added, “He can’t know I’m here. I just need a place to hide for a little while. I didn’t know where else to go.”

“Mr. Talbot, what is going on?”

Nadir reached for the scrapes across his neck. Standing in front of the fire, his body jerked against the cold where it lingered in his hair and down his back, trapped between layers of fabric. How must he look to the earl? Covered in dirt, bloodied, and wielding a cane-sword like some noble-savage. Why should anyone believe him?

“Sergeant Purcell is trying to kill me.”

“What? Why would he do that?”

“Because he killed Randall Nash and he knows Lady Dorset isn’t going to let this go. Someone told him she was getting a lawyer for me—which I still need to thank her for—and he probably realized the best way to have the case swept under the rug would be to have the only suspect die. I couldn’t have written it better.”

Nadir let out a bitter laugh. It was all so absurd. No wonder the earl was shaking his head. “I know you don’t believe me, but look,” he added as he pulled down his soggy collar to reveal raw rope burns and the beginnings of bruises. “Purcell did that. Tried to string me up right in the cell, so I ran. What else could I do? Then, he shot at me. It nearly hit home, too. Luckily, I turned in time.”

“Good Lord,” the earl whispered, drawing back.

“I know you have no desire to harbor a fugitive, Lord Dorset, but I need a place to stay until I can get out of the country in the morning. After that, I will never darken your door again.”

Eilian nodded and motioned for Nadir to follow him down the hall. “Hadley won’t be pleased to hear that. There is no way she would let you flee the country without clearing your name.”

“What?”

Watching Nadir stop mid-step, a weary smile crossed Eilian’s features. “Mr. Talbot, you must know you have my wife’s unwavering support. There is no way she would let Sergeant Purcell get away with dragging you back to jail or tarnishing your reputation further. When she finds out he did that to you,” he continued, pointing to the hidden wound, “I don’t know if I will be able to keep her from going to the constabulary in Poole until morning. Either way, you have our protection.”

A knot in Nadir’s chest, half from pain and the rest from overwhelming fear, loosened. His own cousin hadn’t fully believed him, but Lady Dorset did. “I don’t know what to say.”

“You can thank her when you see her. I’m sure Hadley will let you stay in one of the guest rooms. In the meantime, you should at least have someone dress your wound. Are you certain you don’t want us to get the doctor?”

“Yes, your lordship. I’m afraid Purcell will find out and—”

Nadir froze at the shrill peel of the doorbell.

Chapter Thirty-Two

Blotting a Stain

The color drained from Nadir Talbot’s face. Swallowing hard, he tightened his grip on the ivory handle of his blade. He licked his dry lips and rasped, “He’s here.”

Eilian’s eyes flicked between the front door and the bloodied man standing behind him, his left arm hanging useless at his side. “Maybe not.”

“Who else could it be? I can’t imagine you have late-night visitors often.”

“Right. Just stay right here while I find Hadley. She doesn’t like surprises.”

Crossing the hall, Eilian spotted his wife racing down the steps to answer the door. The bell rang again, followed by the heavy thunk of a fist.

“For God’s sake.”

“Had! Had, wait!” he cried in a harsh whisper.

Hadley stopped mid-step, raising her henna brows at Eilian’s pallor. “What’s wrong?”

“It’s Purcell. He’s here looking for Nadir.”

“But he’s in jail. That man is a bigger fool than I thought. I will set him straight.”

Catching her wrist, Eilian pulled her close and whispered, “Nadir’s in the hallway.”

She opened her mouth to reprimand him for joking, but her husband’s grave face stayed her tongue. When she looked down the hall, a familiar form solidified in the shadows. Nadir Talbot smiled and gave her a stiff bow.

“How did he get in here?”

“I will tell you later, but we can’t let Purcell find him. He killed Nash and wants to do the same to Nadir. Do you have your derringer?”

“Of course not.” The pounding on the door grew louder as Patrick emerged from the hidden panel and made for the door. “Patrick, wait. Eilian, hide him in the servants’ walk.”

Hadley studied Nadir’s careworn face as he emerged from the hall. His once lustrous hair now hung in snarls, and his Byzantine eyes were ringed with deep creases. He looked more tired than she had ever seen him. What was the scandal doing to him? Then, she noticed that his left hand wasn’t gloved as she first thought; it was coated in dribbles of dried blood. Before she could find the source, Nadir ducked into the panel and pulled it shut behind him.

Sitting with her back to Nadir, Hadley pulled her dressing gown close and plucked a book from Eilian’s research off the end table.

“Eilian, sit down. Act like nothing’s wrong.”

“I don’t know if that’s possible,” he replied as he took up position behind her, blocking the camouflaged panel with his body. “Let him in, Pat.”

Eilian held his breath as the clack of the sergeant’s heels echoed through the great hall. Purcell appeared in the doorway sharp despite his rain-soaked hair and mustache. His light eyes flickered over the shadows just beyond the doorways and down the halls before coming to rest on the lord and lady on the sofa. Stopping before them, he gave a curt bow.

“To what do we owe the honor, sergeant? It seems rather late to be paying social calls,” Hadley said.

“Lady Dorset, I’m here because Nadir Talbot has escaped. I have reason to believe he is headed this way.”

“Really? But I thought you had him under lock and key. No one was even allowed to see him this afternoon, so how did he get out?”

“He overpowered me, your ladyship, when I went to tell him of your kind offer to pay for his representation.”

Eilian swallowed hard. Keeping his eyes on the policeman, he shuffled across the back of the chair to where pale pink splotches of blood had formed on the edge of the rug. A few smaller drips trailed from the carpet to the paneling. With his slippered foot, he blotted the first stain.

“I would like to search the premises.”

“Why? We haven’t seen him.”

Purcell’s lip curled into a sardonic grin. “It isn’t that I don’t believe you, your ladyship, but I think Talbot may be hiding somewhere on the grounds. There are plenty of places to hide in and around a house this large. I promise I will not take too much of your time.”

“That won’t be necessary, Sergeant Purcell. I give you my word as a lady that Mr. Talbot hasn’t been here. Now, please leave. I would like to turn in for the night.”

Inching closer, Eilian put his foot over the second puddle.

“What have we here?”

Eilian’s heart pounded in his ears as the policeman’s gaze swept from the edge of his slipper to the trail of bloody water leading behind the woodwork. At Eilian’s wide eyes, he tutted and shook his head.

“Harboring a fugitive is a serious offense, Lord Dorset.”

Reaching into the holster at his side, Purcell withdrew his revolver and aimed it at the paneling.

“No!” Hadley cried, lunging from the sofa.

Eilian caught her arm and pulled her back as the sergeant turned the gun on her. She stared down the barrel, her chest heaving, her hand still reaching to stop him.

“Sit down, Lady Dorset. This doesn’t concern you.”

“Don’t shoot him,” she said, her voice a ragged whisper. Holding her breath as Purcell reached for the edge of the panel, she felt Eilian’s arm tighten around her.

“Please, just let him go. I’m sure we can all forget this ever happened.”

Ignoring the earl, the sergeant banged on the panel with the butt of his gun. “Talbot, come out!”

As Nadir shifted and scratched behind the wall, a pale face appeared in the shadows of the upper arcade between the vases and statues. The hidden hinge whined, and Nadir stepped out. Dust had settled into the folds of his dark hair and cheeks, making him appear spectral—old even. Nadir clenched his eyes shut as he tugged his injured arm through the narrow gap. Purcell kept his gun pointed at Nadir’s heart as he stepped in front of the massive mantle still clutching his cane-sword. Locking eyes with the sergeant, Nadir threw the blade to the ground with a clatter.

“Sergeant, you know he’s innocent. We all do,” Eilian began, feeling Hadley silently plead for him to do something. “If you let him go now, this can all end peacefully. Isn’t one death enough?”

“Let’s go, Mr. Talbot.”

Nadir met Hadley’s red-rimmed gaze. There was nothing any of them could do. He shook his head, keeping it down so the others couldn’t see his fear, and followed the officer. Hadley’s body tensed beneath Eilian’s hand, resisting the urge to charge after them. Her derringer was upstairs in her dresser drawer. Why had she not kept it on her? But would it have made a difference? Purcell had more experience, more strength. He held all the cards. Hadley shook her head. She couldn’t let him take Nadir. Her eyes traveled to the sword-cane laying just out of reach.

Purcell walked backwards, his eyes sweeping over the nobles, his captive, and the butler, who stood frozen against the grand staircase. When he neared the foyer threshold, a faint chink echoed through the great hall as one of the heavy porcelain vases lifted from its niche. Pilcrow’s grey gaze met Eilian’s, holding it for a long moment before a shadow passed across her features and she released the vase.

With a crash, it collided with the back of the sergeant’s skull and shattered across the wooden floor. Purcell stumbled, grabbing the back of his neck, but before he could catch his balance, Nadir slammed into him. Hadley broke from Eilian’s grasp, snatching the sword, and rushing toward the men as they fell against the wall in a pile of drenched silk and wool. Following close behind, Eilian took up the heavy fireplace poker.

Nadir fought the pain in his injured shoulder as he pressed his forearm into Purcell’s neck. With his free hand, he held the sergeant’s wrist, keeping his gun as far from his face as he could. Leaning against him with all of his weight, Nadir breathed in the tang of Purcell’s sweat and the cheap whiskey on his breath. Nadir stared into the sergeant’s stony eyes. His arms shook from the pain arcing through his shoulder and the strain of hanging onto his waning strength. Purcell grunted, kneeing Nadir in the gut. The moment Nadir recoiled, the sergeant ripped his arm away. As he pulled the trigger, the iron poker collided with his arm. Hadley screamed and ducked at the boom of the gun and the shattering glass of the skylight. When Eilian drew the poker back again, Nadir landed a blow squarely in Purcell’s jaw. The gun dropped from his hand, skittering across the rug. Before the sergeant could recover, Hadley dove for the gun. The metal burned and the barrel smoked as she pointed it at the officer. Purcell glared at her and Eilian, who stood poised to strike if he dared to move.

“Nadir, are you all right?” Hadley asked, never taking her eyes off Purcell.

“Yes, but I should like my cane back.”

Crossing the room on wavering legs, he shook out his hand and inspected the purpled bruises already forming across his knuckles. The sword-cane felt heavy as he took it from Hadley’s outstretched hand and held the blade to the man’s neck. For the first time in days, he could breathe again.

“Pat,” Eilian called. The butler, who hadn’t moved since the fight began, peeled away from the foyer wall. “Go into Poole and fetch the police.”

Purcell sneered at Nadir. “You think they will believe you?”

“I know they will.”

Chapter Thirty-Three

Uncertain Futures

Eilian and Hadley glanced up from the iron tea table at the sound of gravel shifting on the drive. The steamer chugged, letting out a belch of smoke as it stopped before them. Trunks and baskets littered the back bench and the roof where several more had been tied on. Hadley smiled to herself as Leona Rhodes and Nadir Talbot crossed the lawn. In his royal purple suit and gold ascot, he nearly looked like he did the night of the party. The practiced smoldering gaze complete with smudged charcoal around his olive eyes was still there, but in those eyes, he had lost a hint of his devil-may-care attitude. It was the same weary wariness he had when he spoke of the time before success bought him respect. She hoped that, with time, the gleam would return.

“Well, we’re off to London!” Nadir called as he and Leona reached their table.

“So everything’s settled now?” Hadley asked.

“Yes, thanks to both of you. The authorities in Poole have cleared me of any wrongdoing, but I will be back to testify at Sergeant Purcell’s trial in a few months. I rather hope Mrs. Nash is never caught, so at least my life won’t be interrupted again. Have you seen The Times?” When the Sorrells shook their heads, he continued, his left hand sweeping in wide gestures while his right remained stiffly at his side. “‘Novelist Trapped in Web of Murder.’ A ridiculous headline but fairly accurate. My publisher sent it to me demanding to know if it was true and if the whole mess was settled. Luckily, whoever wrote it did so after I was cleared. I still have a publisher, so no harm done.” He lips curled into a rakish grin. “It also mentioned the heroic actions of the Earl and Countess of Dorset. Don’t worry, it was very complimentary.”

Eilian’s cheeks burned. “That would explain the letter from my mother. I wondered how she knew. I was beginning to think she paid Patrick to spy on me.”

“You’re going to London too, Mrs. Rhodes?” Hadley asked, her eyes trailing to the woman beside him. Standing next to her motley cousin, she was nearly invisible in her dove-grey gown.

“Yes, I need some time away from Folkesbury to figure things out.”

Nadir clasped his arm around his cousin’s shoulders. “A little smog and lively company will do wonders. She will be staying with me in Bloomsbury, of course. When are you heading back? You are going back, aren’t you?”

“Oh yes. With our families being there and my business, we can’t stay away too long. We’re still packing and figuring out what to take back with us, but we will be leaving some time tomorrow.”

“I, also, plan on returning in late August to do some digging around the property,” Eilian added as he offered Leona his seat, which she refused with a wave of her hand.

“Really?”

“I have been sending out inquiries to archaeologists who know more about Rome than I do, and a few seem quite interested in Brasshurst.”

Leona opened her mouth to speak, but before she could get the words out, her face darkened and she fell silent.

Spotting the sudden heaviness of her features, Hadley said, “Will you be going to any parties, Mrs. Rhodes? There’s at least another month left of the season. Hopefully, we will bump into one another.”

“I don’t know if I will feel up to it.”

“Of course she will. That reminds me, I plan on throwing a soiree fairly soon to celebrate the completion of The Harem Girl, and you will certainly be receiving an invitation. I know that after reading that ridiculous article, my friends will be lining up for an introduction to the Earl and Countess of Dorset. You would probably like my set; they’re a lively bunch. Writers, poets, adventurers, artists, anarchists, suffragists.”

“I look forward to it. If you ever find yourself in Greenwich, be sure to stop by. Mrs. Rhodes, when you get settled in London, you should send a letter to Mr. James Elwood in Poole. When we inquired about Mr. Nash’s will, your name came up. Apparently, he left you something after all.”

Leona blanched but nodded. “Thank you, Lady Dorset. I will.”

“Oh, before we leave, I must give something to your maid. I wanted to thank her. If it wasn’t for her, I might not be here.”

“That’s very generous of you, Nadir. Patrick,” Hadley called to the waiting butler, “please bring Pilcrow out.”

Walking back to the steamer, Nadir returned with a paper-wrapped package. Pilcrow’s umbral form inched out the door and along the Gothic facade toward the waiting crowd. Her light eyes flickered over their faces, lingering on Mrs. Rhodes and Mr. Talbot for any sign of disgust or anger. Mrs. Rhodes met Pilcrow’s gaze but quickly averted it to her feet.

“You need me, your ladyship?”

“Mr. Talbot has something for you.”

Her eyes widened as he held out the bundle. Keeping her head down, she tore the paper away and shook out the long, wool coat within. She ran her fingers over the soft fabric and shiny black buttons before giving the shoulder seam a tug. It was finer than anything she owned but not so fine as to draw attention. Pilcrow looked up to find the handsome Mr. Talbot regarding her with an apologetic smile.

“After what happened, I couldn’t leave without making good on my promise. I wish you all the best here, Pilcrow. You deserve a chance at a better future.”

Pilcrow lingered on Mrs. Rhodes’ solemn features. “We all do.”

***

Hadley shut the door as the steamer disappeared around the bend and into the trees. Sighing, she gave him a half-hearted smile. “They’re gone now.”

“I’m sure we will see them again,” Eilian replied, squeezing her hand.

“I know. I just enjoyed having a friend who isn’t related to me. Besides you, I haven’t had one in quite some time.”

“Stay in touch with him. It’s easy enough to find his address.”

“I’m sure he has his own friends back in London. Well, I’m going to finish packing. Are you coming?”

“I will be up in a few moments. There’s one thing I still need to do.”

Leaving Hadley at the stairs, Eilian followed the familiar path to the library. He was going to miss Brasshurst. In the month he had been there, he had grown accustomed to the house’s peculiarities, its groans and pulse, its crawling ivies and sculptural yews. Now he saw it as a not another thing to be dealt with but a giant slumbering within its garden. It was that vitality he would miss when he returned to Greenwich.

Passing rooms of white-draped furniture, he entered the library. Eilian slipped through the sliding doors and inhaled the familiar scent of polish and parchment. On the desk sat a stack of books he wanted to incorporate into his own library. Most were by ancient scholars and engineers, but next to them lay the massive family Bible. Carefully lifting the gilt cover, he drew a pen from the desk, traced the curling branches to his father’s name, and drew a forked line. On one side he inscribed, Eilian Sorrell. Born 1864., and on the other, Dylan Sorrell. Born 1866. From them, he added Hadley and Constance along with the years of their births. Eilian stared at the sea of names and hoped he would never have to add the second half to the entries he wrote. Closing the cover, he piled the rest of his books on top of it and lugged them up to the bedroom.

At the end of the portrait hall, he nodded to Laurence. When he returned for the beginnings of the excavation, he would bring a portrait of his father to hang beside his great-grandfather. Maybeone day, when they were ready, he and Hadley would guard the entrance to the library.

About the Author

Kara Jorgensen is an author and professional student from New Jersey who will probably die slumped over a Victorian novel. An anachronistic oddball from birth, she has always had an obsession with the Victorian era, especially the 1890s. Midway through a dissection in a college anatomy class, Kara realized her true passion was writing and decided to marry her love of literature and science through science fiction or, more specifically, steampunk. When she is not writing, she is watching period dramas, going to museums, or babying her beloved dogs.

For more info, please visit KaraJorgensen.com or subscribe to her newsletter to receive news about releases and sales as well as future projects.

Also by the Author

The Earl of Brass (IMD #1)

The Gentleman Devil (IMD #2)

“An Oxford Holiday” (An Ingenious Mechanical Devices Companion Short Story #1)

The Earl and the Artificer (IMD #3)

“The Errant Earl” (An Ingenious Mechanical Devices Short Story #2)

Dead Magic (IMD #4)