A Study in Darkness (57 page)

EVELINA PICKED UP HER KNIFE, RUNNING IT THROUGH THE
flame of the candle at her worktable, first one side of the glistening edge, then the other. The blade gleamed in the theater’s cavernous work space, a scrap of lightning in the late-night dark. The evening show was done, all her repairs complete. The only doll missing was Serafina, who was in the private rooms with Magnus. Evelina had the place to herself.

She should go home, go to sleep, and in the morning Nick would fetch her. Her body ached from her tumble from the waterwheel, and she was as tired as she could be without falling over. And yet she felt a marked reluctance to leave the Magnetorium. The sorcerer was everything she loathed, but he held the secrets to her magical heritage—and so she
lingered, tools packed, coat by the door. She would take her knowledge with her, but like a student proud of her perfect copy book, she attempted the very last spell Magnus had shown her. The theater was the safest place to do so, and she wanted to master everything before she left the place behind. It should take no more than a moment.

She lifted the blade from the flame, blowing on it to cool the metal. Then she pressed the honed, perfect edge to the base of her left thumb, where her hand had the most meat, and pressed it deep. She couldn’t stop a ragged gasp of pain as fire lanced up her nerves and she dropped the knife to the worktable.
This had better work
.

For the span of a few breaths, she couldn’t do anything. Blood welled from the wound, a glorious ruby in the candlelight. It spilled out the gap in her flesh, running into the lines of her palm like water finding dry streambeds, then dribbling onto the scarred wood of the workbench. But then Evelina let her mind fall into the void that Magnus had shown her the day they’d used her Gran Cooper’s wand. Without the wand, it wasn’t quite the same, but it was enough to remember the taste of the lives from the workhouse fire. And from that taste she could find the tiny bit of those lives she’d licked up and stored somewhere deep inside herself. She unspooled it from inside the way one unfurled a length of bandage from a roll, binding herself up in her imagination. It was impossible to say how it all worked, exactly, but as she pressed that bit of life to the cut on her hand, the slash grew back together, knitting as neatly as if the steel had never touched her. In a moment, all that was left was caked, flaking crumbs of blood and a terrible thirst.

It worked
. A grin split her face as she crossed to the washbasin and scrubbed off the blood. All that was left was a thin pink line. Magnus had taught her well.

She picked up the water pitcher, found a tin mug, and drank her fill. Using magic like that always left her dry—and tired. Her limbs felt weak as rubber, and yet she couldn’t control the gallop of her heartbeat. With this spell, she could heal so much better than she ever could before—faster, better,
more completely. And if she could heal herself, there was no reason she couldn’t heal someone else.

A flush of excitement heated her cheeks. She pressed the cool metal of the mug to her face, taking a deep lungful of air to calm herself.
And if I can do this, what else can I do?
Her mind shied away from the question, not wanting to know. This was sorcery, plain and simple. But not so simple. It seemed to have too many ambiguous faces to call it good or evil.

She hadn’t forgotten her desire—no, her
need
—for something to protect herself from Jasper Keating. If a spell could heal, could it not also harm? She recalled that conversation in his study at Maggor’s Close, the way he made it clear that she would cooperate, or he would leave her uncle vulnerable to the Blue King’s assassins. All she would have to do is put a question to Magnus, and she would know exactly how to deal with the Gold King once and for all.

And that chilled her to the marrow. Before she had come here, such a thing would never have crossed her mind.
But I’ve made my choice. I will go with Nick and leave Magnus and his sorcery behind
. She rehearsed the words like a prayer, smoothing the trouble in her soul as if petting a bristling cat. She had skirted a dangerous mire, but she had not sunk in it. She would walk away before some will-o’-the-wisp lured her in.

Calmer now, she set the mug down, suddenly feeling as if she were not alone. Her gaze slid over the basin, then the table where it sat. The light was coming from the worktable behind her, falling on the rough wood in a yellow pool. She kept her gaze within the circumference of the light, not wanting to see beyond it.

They only came after she’d done one of Magnus’s spells. Ghosts, she supposed, and yet they didn’t look like any spirits she’d ever seen. They squatted in the corners, resembling the shadows of the furniture and tools—but if one looked closely, it was obvious that their awkward limbs didn’t mimic any familiar shape. And it was best not to try to count those limbs, because they never added up to four—just a lot of claws and a head like melted wax. One of them hunched by the door to
the alley, crossing and uncrossing its many arms as if it couldn’t get comfortable. Another stretched out on a vacant table, watching her with the empty sockets where eyes should have been.

Go, please, go
, she thought, praying all the while that they would never answer. With a quick, sideways step, she crossed the divide between the washbasin and the worktable. She picked up the candlestick, clutching the light like a shield. They never moved, never tried to grow closer, just watched. If she found a bright place and waited a half hour, they would be gone again. If magic drew them, they went home once the show was over. Or maybe she just stopped seeing them, and they were in truth always there. Now that was a disturbing thought.

She edged toward the stairway that led to Magnus’s rooms. Light poured down the steps, banishing the shadowy figures wherever the bright beams touched. The creatures seemed as allergic to illumination as they were addicted to sorcery. What clearer sign did she need that what Magnus was teaching her wasn’t wholesome?

Tonight, Evelina wasn’t brave enough to wait them out—she wanted light, and lots of it. She picked up the candle and walked carefully to the stairway that led upstairs, anxious lest the flame blow out and leave her alone in the dark with the apparitions. They might not hurt her, but the idea was more than she could bear. Evelina mounted the winding steps, glad of the pool of light falling from above.

She reached the top only to encounter a man outside Serafina’s dressing-room door, buttoning his jacket. Serafina stood by the window, beautiful and blank as ever although she seemed poised, as if she were about to break into another dance. The man was one of the patrons, dressed in evening clothes, but not his best set, she guessed. They had the look of clothes one might use for an illicit night out rather than dinner at the Lord Mayor’s. Evelina stopped in her tracks, recognizing Mr. Jeremy, the odious man on the train that she’d met on the way to Maggor’s Close.
What the blazes is he doing here?

“Hullo there, do I know you?” he said, confusion plain on
his face. He looked sweaty and pale, as if he had just been ill, but that didn’t stop him from ogling the neckline of her dress.

“No, sir,” she said, as meekly as she could manage, and bobbed a curtsey.

“It’s about time Magnus got some servants. Never anyone to fetch a brandy for a generous admirer.” He reached forward, perhaps to give her cheek a pinch.

Evelina raised the candle to intercept his fingers with the flame. He jerked back with a curse. “I’m sure I don’t know what you mean, sir.”

He cursed again, flicking his hand in the air and sucking his forefinger. He gave Evelina a filthy look and stalked toward the stairs. Evelina stared after him, wondering what that was all about.

Now very curious, Evelina turned to the dressing room. The door was open, light spilling out into the hall. It was precisely as she had seen it before, fussy and feminine, but now lamps of delicate blown glass burned low, the soft light mingling with the smoke of burning resins.

A bundle of lilies and roses spilled over the dressing table, a white ribbon tying them together. A long velvet box sat beside them, open to reveal a single perfect pearl pendant from a golden chain. With a prickle of suspicion, Evelina struggled to understand what was going on. “Serafina?”

“Yes, Miss Cooper?” The doll replied. Her voice seemed to thrum, suddenly sounding far more human.

A prickling ran up the back of Evelina’s arms. “What was Mr. Jeremy doing here?”

“He is an admirer. He came to kiss me.”

I’ll bet he did
. Evelina bristled. “And he brings you gifts?”

“Yes. And he tells me that I am lovely.” She stroked the front of her dress, her cleverly articulated fingers fondling the row of buttons between her breasts.

Evelina rounded on the doll, her protective instincts gathering steam. “Is that all he does? There is nothing more than kisses?”

She heard movement behind her. Magnus, and he gripped Evelina’s hand with inarguable firmness and swung her
around. “You should have gone home by now, my little kitten. And yet it seems you desire another lesson.”

“What are you doing to her?” Evelina demanded, as the doctor pulled her into his study and closed the door, leaving Serafina outside.

“It is the perfect arrangement,” he said quietly. “Men everywhere worship ideal beauty. Serafina provides all that and more. It is a guiltless encounter with the virtue of novelty.”

“Guiltless?” Evelina protested, sinking into a chair because she wasn’t sure she could stand. “Is that all they do then, bring flowers and baubles and sing her praises?”

Magnus shrugged. “Sirens the world over know how much favor to grant without giving away too much. I might encourage her to allow a little fawning from time to time.”

Evelina said nothing, outrage mounting. Serafina was childlike, and children should never be subjected to Mr. Jeremy.

“You are censorious,” Magnus said, amused.

“Serafina may not be human, but she’s not without
something
inside.”

He smiled, his dark eyes black in the half-light. “Such a soft-hearted thing you are. I made Serafina for this—fashioned her from a scrap of my own soul. She was made to serve.”

“Serve what? Who? Men?” Evelina shuddered at the memory of Mr. Jeremy’s knuckles casually grazing her skirts, trying to get what he could without being caught.

“Me.” The word was cold.

“How? I don’t understand. What is it you want from all this?” Evelina made a gesture that encompassed the room. “How can her degradation serve it?”

“Degradation. My, my.” Magnus walked to a table that stood against the wall. It held a decanter of wine and a cluster of glasses. He poured himself a measure and drank it, but pointedly offered her nothing—a signal that he was displeased. “My interest is in survival. I want to recover my power. Coming back from the dead is not precisely child’s play, no matter how well prepared one might be. And I
would like revenge on those that put me on the cold marble slab of the police physician.”

Nick
. Evelina felt the blood drain from her face. She pushed the image of him out of her thoughts, just in case Magnus could read her mind. She wasn’t fast enough—or maybe he just guessed by the sudden pallor in her cheeks. “Ah, yes, Nick with no surname, keeper of Athena’s Casket. You know I still want the device, do you not?”

Evelina forced herself not to fidget, to stay focused on Magnus as if he were all that mattered—and most of all, to deflect the sorcerer from talk of Nick himself. She grabbed at a question to keep Magnus talking. “And what would you do with a deva? That isn’t your kind of magic.”

“The casket is a tool and a magnificent specimen worthy of study. I want to mix my kind of magic and yours and make something stronger than either.”

“You want to enslave devas?” And no doubt that was one reason why he wanted her as his pupil. She knew how to command them.

“Enslave is a harsh word. Utilize has softer edges.” He sipped his wine. “I want a means to an end. I’m tired of playing mountebank on the edges of true power, and I want a role at center stage. Most of all, I want an end to this ridiculous Steam Council, however cordial my relations with the Blue King might appear. At the moment it is convenient that King Coal and I both want Keating’s liver baked in a tart. It makes for a convincing alliance, but let me say that Blue is more a puppet than my dancers will ever be. The man is utterly ensnared by his appetites.”

Nick had been right about Magnus’s plans. Curiosity rippled through her, quickly followed by dismay. What if Magnus did achieve a steam baron’s position and influence? She had only seen a flicker of the doctor’s darker side, but that was enough to know he should never be given that much leash.

He fingered his elegantly pointed beard. “I’m fighting to operate with complete freedom, without having to hide who and what I am. I’m sure you can appreciate my position?”

Her skin felt cold, robbed of all comforting warmth, but
she kept her face placid. Or she hoped she did. Her cheeks felt stiff with dismay. “I do.”

“Excellent,” he said, refilling his glass and this time pouring one for her. “And now that you have a glimpse of my motives—for they are relevant to the conversation—let us speak a little of Serafina. I understand that you took her for a walk yesterday afternoon. That was not wise.”