A Study In Ashes Part 34

"No?" Magnus asked, his voice silky.

She pretended a poise she didn't feel. "I don't want your instruction. I don't deny that you taught me well, but your lessons come with a steep price."

"Your innocence, perhaps?" he asked, the sarcasm plain. "By all means, let's preserve that. No doubt the teachings of the Wollaston Academy for Young Ladies have served you better."

"That is hardly a fair comparison."

"But isn't that what you mean?" Magnus made a sweeping gesture with his hand. "Ladies turn the other cheek. But what is the etiquette for a war that threatens to extinguish your very species, not to mention whatever friends and family you call your own? If I sent you home to London, would the Gold King merely pat you on the hand and apologize for nearly exploding your skull with agony?"

Evelina bit her tongue, because he had a point. She'd thought to take vengeance on Keating once, but had let him take her captive to save Nick. She'd based her tactics on a fair bargain, and the Gold King had played her false.

Magnus lowered his voice. "You need what I have to show you, because you're not going to survive out there any other way."

"But is it worth it?" Sudden tears ached behind her eyes. "Every time I learned something from you ..."

"Every time?" Magnus smiled.

"Many times that I learned something from you, my magic grew a little bit darker. And hungrier. I don't want to be a sorcerer, and I don't want to know about death magic."

"Your objections are noted, though I should make it clear that I didn't bring you here at knifepoint for you to learn to crochet. This is your path, Evelina. You're a fighter, and power is your natural weapon."

He was right. Magnus usually was in these arguments-and yet it still might be better to lose than to win on his terms.

"There is the chance," he added, folding his arms and taking a swaggering step forward, "that if you learn what I have to teach you, you might best me at my own game. I told you once that you might be my equal."

Evelina jerked with surprise-and some revulsion-at the idea. Now that she was feeling well enough to move, she swung her feet off the bed. Lying there felt too vulnerable. "I know better than to think you would let me win."

"But the notion intrigues you, does it not? All that dislike you have for me, and finally there is an outlet, something positive you can do about the Magnus problem." His smile would have done Mephistopheles proud.

"You must think I'm an idiot," she shot back, getting to her feet.

And then she noticed a shadowy shape lurking behind Magnus. She started, feeling her eyes going wide. It wasn't quite solid, showing the diamond leading of the mullioned window through its body, but she still could see details of its waistcoat b.u.t.tons. It had too many limbs, though she couldn't quite tell-and didn't want to know-where that extra one attached. Its head bubbled and sagged like melted wax and sightless eyes watched her with empty pits. "What's that?"

Magnus glanced over his shoulder with obvious unconcern. "That's right, you can see them, can't you? Every castle requires a garrison. These don't require feeding in the conventional sense and yet they do an excellent job of carrying out orders. I brought them along when I moved from the Black Kingdom. They have them by the bucketful down there. I think it's the faulty drains."

Evelina swallowed, fear jagged in her throat. Mouse had called those creatures the Others-the opposite of whatever kind of spirit the devas were. "I've only ever seen them after using dark magic."

"Perhaps they are simply stronger here." Magnus gave a shrug, and then another knife-edged smile. "All the more reason to stay safely tucked in bed at night. Unless-and this is merely a suggestion, of course-you bestir yourself to find a way to defend yourself against such creatures?"

He reached over, making a crus.h.i.+ng gesture, and the thing melted into a splotch of dark shadow at his feet. Magnus's hand trembled, as if the thing didn't go easily. Evelina winced, wondering which one of them it had hurt worse.

Magnus looked up, triumphant. "Maybe that is a challenge you can believe in, since you think besting me is so far beyond your reach."

She made an inarticulate growl of rage. He'd clearly revealed the thing right when he wanted her to see it.

"There is the spirit, my kitten." Magnus started for the door, the darkness trailing him along the floor like a tremulous shadow. "I can work with that."

Her sherry gla.s.s smashed against the door as he closed it.

Unknown ANNA HAD BIRD. IT HAD TAKEN A WHILE TO FIGURE OUT where she had constructed her prison, but Imogen and Mouse had found it.

It was below, near the part of the clock where the bizarre, multicolored tubes of bubbling liquid filtered messages from the aether. They rose like gla.s.s pillars all around Imogen, each tube lit from within and shedding a soft light over the surrounding clockwork. The tubes were held within a velvet-lined rack, so for once Imogen had something soft to sit on or, in this case, lie on.

She was stretched out on her stomach looking down and across empty s.p.a.ce to another structure that supported a pump. Bird was there, too, looking frightened despite the fact it was the first lark on record that was the size of a large turkey. But the cause of Bird's distress was clear, because Anna stood there, too.

"It's very strange," she whispered to Mouse. "Watching her is like looking at myself."

Whatever you see, that's not what she is, Mouse replied from its spot near her elbow. She's putting on a show to rattle your nerve.

It was working. Imogen clenched her teeth to keep from raging or screaming or weeping as Anna-wearing Imogen's face and clothes-used a long bit of wire to poke at Bird through the bars of its prison, grinning as if she wanted nothing more than to pluck and roast the clockwork lark for her dinner. The petty cruelty was bad enough, but that wasn't what bothered Imogen the most. It was that Anna made her face look so evil. Am I seeing a piece of something that lives inside me? And then she revisited the fact that Anna had been responsible for the Whitechapel murders. If she had Bird captive, it would only be a matter of time before something very bad happened to the poor beast.

Imogen squeezed her eyes shut, wis.h.i.+ng herself anyplace else. It was too much. She had been stuck in the clock forever, and every step forward she made-figuring out where she was, or confronting Anna, or finding Bird-was accompanied by the discovery of another problem.

But giving up means that Anna wins. And then her twin would wake up in her body, loved and trusted by her family. Who knew what damage Anna could do in Imogen's name?

Imogen forced herself to open her eyes and wriggle forward another inch to see if a slightly different angle improved matters. It didn't. Bird was clearly visible, but she still had no idea how to get to the creature.

The clockwork lark had been confined within the upright frame of the pump that fed air through the tubes of bubbling liquid. Even if Imogen could have jumped or flown across empty s.p.a.ce to the platform holding the apparatus, and even if she could have reached between the bars and dragged Bird back through the too-small gap, there was still no chance of success.

"How did she get Bird in there, anyhow?"

Mouse didn't answer, but crept closer to the edge of the rack, tail snaking to and fro. Imogen sensed the creature's worry.

The biggest obstacle was the mechanism of the pump itself. It was a length of bra.s.s that rocked up and down to operate a bellows, each steam-powered plunge of beam and counterweight forcing air bubbles through the s.h.i.+mmering tubes. The rush of the bellows sounded like rasping lungs, inhaling and exhaling in wheezing harmony with the rest of the clock. But with each gasp, the metal cage around Bird moved with a sweep of clanking, bone-breaking bra.s.s and steel. Anna s.n.a.t.c.hed her wire back with each swing of the pump's arm, but then laughed as time after time the clockwork nearly smashed Bird's snapping beak.

Rage clawed at Imogen, and she dug her fingers into the thick velvet covering the rack of tubes. Bird had been the lookout when she'd crept through her bedroom window to visit Bucky; the clown who flew away with her hair ribbons; the faithful friend who had come here-to this insane place-to help her. "What do we do?" she asked Mouse. "Can we stop the pump at least?"

She didn't think that would do anything drastic to the clock. The purpose of the bubbles, she guessed, was to infuse air into the aether so that it could be scanned for information, and then the choice bits of news coded onto one of the clock's cryptic cards.

The mechanism is magic. We can't stop it, but we can break the spell that put Bird behind those bars.

"How?"

Destroy your sister, Mouse replied. I'm sorry, but that is the only answer I know.

Imogen buried her face in her hands. Her skin was hot with her emotions. "I destroyed her once before. It didn't work."

You destroyed her vessel. She is not in a vessel now.

Frustration made her pragmatic. "So what are the rules of this place? Can I hurt her?"

Mouse's whiskers twitched, tickling her arm. As long as your sister is wearing a face, she is vulnerable.

Imogen thought about that. Although Anna had been a presence throughout Imogen's life, she had always appeared as an unseen force in Imogen's dreams. Furthermore, since Anna had died as a child, she had never possessed the woman's body she was wearing now. She must have had to manufacture what Imogen was seeing now. "How does wearing a face work?"

All her essence is occupied giving herself shape. The longer a mortal has been without a physical body, the more energy it takes to maintain a face.

"So if I hurt the body she's made for herself, I truly weaken her?"

Correct. Mouse curled its tail over Imogen in a comforting gesture. I know it is not a pleasant thing to contemplate, but she can hurt you the same way.

Which meant Mouse and Bird were most likely vulnerable, too. Imogen chewed her thumbnail, her thoughts skittering anxiously.

Anna had given up teasing Bird with the wire and was moving away from the pump, leaping lightly from one foothold to the next across the cavernous gaps. Imogen began to think about moving to a more secure spot, although it would be hard to leave Bird stuck there in a prison too confining even to fluff its feathers.

"I remember one winter Anna learned how to make s...o...b..a.l.l.s. She threw them at me until I learned to make them, too. After I hit her once, she hid."

Do you think striking back will convince her to let you go?

"No, I think if Anna figures out that I might actually hurt her, she'll stop taunting me and hide. The only way I can get a clean strike is if she doesn't think I'll do it. I have to surprise her." Imogen scanned the scene below, wondering what sort of attack was possible. "But how? I don't know magic, and I don't know how to fight."

You use what you have.

"All we have is a lot of clockwork. Maybe Evelina or Tobias could make an aether gun out of spare gears or something but ..." An idea struck her silent for several beats. What she had was imagination, and a lot of faith in her friends. "Mouse, would you recognize the mechanism that types out those cards? I need to send a message."

London, October 8, 1889.

HILLIARD HOUSE.

11:17 a.m. Tuesday.

"SOMETHING IS WRONG," Poppy said to her mother. "Imogen looks unhappy."

They were in her big sister's room. Lady Bancroft visited every day, usually right before the midday meal, and would sit with a vaguely shocked look on her pale face. Today, though, she looked almost resigned. She hadn't taken Tobias's departure well. Nevertheless, what she said next startled Poppy.

"I suppose it is only a matter of time."

Poppy glanced at her sister, who was beautiful as always. But now a single line of tension faintly creased her brow. It was the first change of expression they'd seen, which both rea.s.sured Poppy and made her uneasy. "She doesn't look sicker, she looks worried."

Lady Bancroft shot her a glance bright with a mix of grief and indignation. "Really, Poppy. It is quite inappropriate to make up such things now."

Poppy opened her mouth to reply and then closed it again. There was absolutely no point in trying to explain magic doorways and talking mice to her mother.

"I must go check on luncheon." Lady Bancroft rose. "Your father's been keeping early hours lately to accommodate all the work he's taken on. It's quite provoking."

"Are we eating soon?"

"Shortly. Mr. Penner is speaking to your father at the moment."

That caught Poppy's interest. "Oh?"

"I can't imagine why he's visiting with your father, but I suppose I must ask him to stay. I would appreciate it if you would let me know when he leaves the study."

Bucky wouldn't join them for a meal. That would be painful for all concerned, when Lord Bancroft blamed him for luring Imogen to elope-not that anyone ever lured Imogen somewhere she didn't want to go. But it was true that she had been on her way to join Bucky when Magnus had grabbed her, and Poppy knew Bucky had never forgiven himself. She could see it in the way he walked and heard it in his voice, and it bruised Poppy's heart.

But Bucky would stop to sit by Imogen's bed for a while. He was there every few days, keeping a quiet vigil, as un.o.btrusive as a ghost. Poppy reached over and squeezed her sister's hand. "He still cares for you," she said in a whisper.

And with that, she slipped out of the room and down the stairs to her father's study to watch for Bucky. She walked slowly, wondering what was happening to Imogen, and whether Mouse and Bird had reached her safely. It was too bad she couldn't have gone through whatever doorway the medium had made, or maybe Bucky should have gone, riding that big black horse of his, like some knight from a storybook. Bucky had always been kind and funny and a terrible prankster. It said a lot about him that instead of making guns like his father, he'd opened a toy factory on Threadneedle Street.

As Poppy reached the landing, the clock made a sickly bong. She turned to glance at it, alarmed. It had never made a sound like that before-and then it spat out a card. Poppy eyed the clock suspiciously, remembering how the cook's cat yowled before it spat up a hairball. She gave the clock a pat, hoping it would be all right, and bent to pick up the card before continuing down the stairs. As she folded it and put it into her pocket, she remembered with some satisfaction that Mr. Holmes had sent her the key to the cipher, as well as a copy of his monograph on the subject.

She arrived at the study door and listened a moment, trying to figure out if the conversation sounded like it was winding down. She caught the words "coal" and "airs.h.i.+p," but not much else before it broke off into the usual good-bye noises. Then a chair sc.r.a.ped and she backed away, careful not to look as if she had been listening at the keyhole.

The door to the study opened and Bucky emerged. "Mr. Penner," she said, giving a polite curtsy.

"Miss Penelope," he replied, bowing very correctly, but with a spark of his old mischief in his brown eyes. He'd glued her shoes together once when she'd fallen asleep, and then laughed as she tripped and fell on her nose. Mind you, that was a great many years ago, before he'd fallen in love with her sister. That seemed to have improved him all around.

"My mother wishes to speak to you," Poppy said very correctly. "She is in the small dining room." There was no need to tell Bucky where that was. As Tobias's school friend, he'd stayed at Hilliard House many a holiday, especially since his own family lived all the way up in Yorks.h.i.+re.

"Thank you, Poppy." Bucky bowed again, letting a little of the formality drop. "How are you?"

"Well, thank you," she said in a not-very-convincing tone. "And you?"

"I've learned to fly small dirigibles," he said. "It's bound to come in useful, if only for scaring pigeons."

She bit her lip. "Do you know Tobias is gone?"

"I know he left, yes." His expression grew serious.

Bucky was Tobias's best friend and was utterly trustworthy. The next words tumbled out before Poppy could stop them. "I miss him. He didn't even say good-bye and that worries me. I think something horrible happened."

Bucky leaned very close, speaking softly into her ear. "He's safe. He's at the toy factory. Don't tell anyone. His life may depend on it."

Poppy caught her breath, relieved and surprised, but she was getting used to knowing life-and-death secrets and she gathered herself quickly. She gave a solemn nod. "Thank you."

Bucky's mouth quirked, almost smiling. "I'll go find your mother," he said with a final squeeze of her hand.

As he left, Poppy peered around the corner of her father's doorway. Lord Bancroft was bent over his desk, his head in one hand, reading a piece of correspondence. He didn't look happy about it.

Poppy waited while he finished reading the page, glancing up at the stuffed tiger's head above his desk. The tiger and her father had a certain resemblance-down one fang, but still feisty enough to put on a good snarl. Her father stuffed the page into a file folder. She noticed an unusual decoration on the page that looked like dragons. "Yes?" he snapped. "Whatever it is, Poppy, it will have to wait."

"The meal is almost ready," she said quickly, and then made herself scarce before he could snap at her. She ran back up the stairs to her bedroom to tidy up before she had to present herself in the dining room.

But of course, the moment she pulled the card out of her pocket, she had to have another look at Mr. Holmes's letter, which meant opening the monograph to the page on this kind of cipher, which meant pulling out some notepaper to work on and spreading it all out on her bed so that she could look at it all properly. Poppy flopped onto her stomach, chewing the end of her pencil and not even noticing how badly she was crus.h.i.+ng the skirts of her dress. Even with the key, the puzzle of the cipher was intriguing-it made her brain tingle like something minty was being poured through the top of her head. It was far, far better than any of the stupid problems her schoolteachers had made her do.

She barely noticed when Dora, the upstairs maid, began pounding on the door. "I'll be down in a moment," she called through the door, figuring out the last three letters of the message.

Then she bounced off the bed, hardly believing what she was reading. She gathered up the papers, burst out of her room, and ran down the hall to Imogen's bedchamber.

As she had hoped, Bucky was there, one of the other maids sitting quietly in the corner for the sake of propriety. Even so, it was unusual for a man to visit the sickroom of any female who was not a close relation, but Bucky was an old friend of the family and he had been her fiance.

The sight of him sitting by the bed with his head bowed stopped Poppy in her tracks. His hat dangled from one hand, and the other held Imogen's as tenderly as if they were sitting on a park bench watching the swans. But the look on his face was weary and sad. Poppy turned away, certain she was intruding on a private moment. It suddenly struck her that she wanted a Bucky of her own someday-not exactly the same, but one who would love her this much.