A Clockwork Heart (20 page)

Elle gritted her teeth and moved out of the woman's grip. “Not before I'm told where this man went,” she said, pointing to the photograph.

Georgie sighed. “If he was taken by the man you seek, then he is lost to the world.” Georgie narrowed her eyes. “The fairies told me one more thing. They told me that you should be wary of making wagers with crafty old men like Jack. He will come to collect his debts and there will be much weeping when he does. Beware and find a way to undo the contract or you will be the one who does weeping!”

Elle felt a cold shiver run over her skin and suddenly the air was full of the whispers of fairies.

Georgie leaned forward even further. “There are wagons by the river. They like to camp under the bridges this time of year. Go and ask if anyone knows the man with the peacock feather. I believe his name is Emilian. They may help you or they may not. But it's dangerous, so be careful!” Georgie whispered fiercely. “Now go! I can tell you no more.”

“Thank you,” Elle said with no small measure of gratitude. She turned and walked out of the pub, leaving her untouched pint behind on the table.

CHAPTER 27

Outside the pub, Elle stopped in the pool of light of a street lamp. She rested her forearm against the cold iron and took a few deep breaths to calm herself. The freezing air stung her nostrils and made her lungs ache, but it was better than the claustrophobia of the Black Stag.

Around her, people went about their nightly business. Tired men were trudging home from work. A few determined costers were still about, trying to sell their wares. Here and there a barrow gave off wisps of steam as dinners wrapped in paper were sold to passers-by. It was a typical evening, but Elle could feel eyes on her. As is the case in almost any city in the world, the locals can always tell if you don't belong. And this part of London was as foreign as any strange city Elle had been in. Those gin fairies were right. She did not belong here.

But this was no time to show weakness, and she straightened up. She was being a complete ninny. She had to see this through. Marsh would do the same for her.

Suddenly a little yellow light appeared in front of her face. Elle stepped away from the iron street lamp and as the influence of the iron lessened, one of the gin fairies materialized. It hovered before her, slowly blinking at her.

“I'm sorry if I offended you earlier,” she said.

The fairy shook its head and shrugged. Elle peered a little more closely at the fairy. Its hair was shorter and its wings oddly more muscular than she had observed on Adele. With a small burst of surprise, Elle realized that the fairy was male, which was odd, because she had never thought about male fairies before. It was usually only the female of the species that ended up in the tragic life of magical prostitution that can only be found at the bottom of a bottle.

The fairy pointed into the darkness and made a gesture with his hands that looked a bit like an hourglass. He put his hand on his hip in an effeminate gesture and closed his eyes.

“A girl?” Elle asked, slightly amused.

The fairy seemed to be concentrating. His face, scrunched up with the effort and slowly his yellow light changed to flickering green. He held the pose for a moment before the effort almost made him drop from mid-air.

Elle held out her palm to stop him from falling as he righted himself.

“Absinthe? Is that it?” The fairy nodded.

“Did you see an absinthe fairy?”

The fairy nodded again and pointed in the same direction again.

Elle bit her lip. There were quite possibly hundreds of absinthe fairies in London, but it was worth a try.

“Why are you telling me this? Is this a trick?” Gin fairies were terrible creatures, worse than absinthe fairies, so it was wise not to be too trusting.

The fairy hugged himself.

“You took a fancy her and you want me to bring her back here. Is that it?”

The fairy nodded. Then he looked up as if he heard a noise.

“Where is she?” Elle said.

The fairy looked a bit agitated and pointed at the same dark alley. Then his light blinked out and he disappeared.

“Wait! Hang on a moment,” Elle said. But there was only silence around her now. The gin fairy was gone.

She sighed and unclipped the little spark light projector she had brought with her. The answers she sought waited, whether good or bad, were somewhere down that dark mucky alley.

The alley led into a winding maze of passageways between the haphazard buildings. One lane fed off onto another with no rhyme or reason to them. The only landmark was the distinctive smell of mud and sewers that came off the Thames. Its putrid odor wafted toward her on the night air.

Her light cast an eerie blue beam over the clapboard buildings that rose up around her. Above her, despite the lateness of the hour, hollow-eyed children watched from plank walkways that spanned between the buildings. Gray rags of laundry that no one had bothered to pull in from the night damp flapped forlornly in the chilly air as if they had resigned themselves to the fact that they would never be dry.

Elle's breath steamed as she walked along and the sound of her boots echoed against the wooden planks that were laid out for people to walk on.

The buildings thinned a little as the graceful arch of one of London's many bridges rose up.

The girl in the pub had told her that the travelling folk favored bridges to camp under when the weather turned cold. And so Elle made her way toward the bridge. She turned a corner and a fallow piece of land opened up before her. Elle felt her spirits rise, because in the shadow, she saw the flicker of yellow light of a wagon.

As she approached, fine images of flowers and animals became visible in the light of her lamp and even in the blue light from her spark projector, Elle could see that the wagon was beautifully painted in bright hues of yellow, red, blue and green.

As she approached, she felt the soft shimmer of the Shadow ripple over her skin. It made the hairs on her arms prickle, warning her to proceed with caution. She slid her stiletto out and slipped it into the deep pocket of her leather coat, ready but hidden if she needed it for close combat.

She turned off her lamp and slowly she made her way up to the wagon with its ornately curved stepladder.

Everything was silent. The curtains were drawn and apart from the single yellow light on the porch there was no sign of life.

Elle waited in silence as long silent moments ticked by. No one moved. Carefully she balanced the tip of her boot on the center of one of the large spokes of the wheel beside her and hoisted herself up, for the windows were too high for her to peer through from the ground. Inside, she could just make out the fuzzy shapes of furniture, but nothing more.

“Don't move.” A woman's soft voice came from behind her.

Elle heard the fine shuck of metal on metal that could only be the sound of a shotgun gun being cocked and did as she was told. Slowly, she jumped off the wheel, raised her free hand in the air and turned to face the double barrels pointed at her.

“Drop it,” the woman holding the gun said.

Elle let go of the stiletto and it fell, blade first, into to the ground.

“A blade in the ground is powerful magic,” the woman said. Without taking her eyes off Elle, the woman retrieved the blade and slipped it into one of the pockets of her ample skirts.

“I don't want any trouble. I am only looking for a little information,” Elle said. “I am looking for a man named Emilian.”

The woman's face was hard to make out in the dark, but Elle noticed the barrel dip ever so slightly in hesitation. There were a few other wagons within running distance, but she had no guarantee that she would meet friendly faces.

“Inside,” the woman said as she gestured toward the steps.

With the shotgun at her back, Elle climbed the steps and stepped through the door. The inside of the caravan smelled like cinnamon and incense. A small cast-iron stove glowed warmly in the one end in what was a surprisingly spacious interior.

“Sit,” the woman gestured to one of the little benches. Elle did not argue.

The woman moved with easy grace and sat down on the other side of the wagon opposite her. In the soft light Elle noticed that she was very young and rather pretty. Her light brown hair escaped in ringlets from under the scarf that held it in place and her nose was dusted with a fine pattern of pretty freckles. This was definitely not one of the crones that nannies told stories of to frighten children to bed.

The girl said nothing but stared at her with eyes that were as hard and dark as a magpie's.

It was then that Elle noticed the sound of frantic buzzing. She felt the shimmer of the Shadow Realm pass over again. Something very strange was afoot in this caravan.

The girl stamped her foot on the floorboard and the buzzing ceased, but only for a few moments before starting up again.

“My name is Elle,” Elle said in an attempt to start the conversation.

“Why are you sneaking around my home in the dark, lady?” the girl said.

“I'm sorry. I meant no offense. I should have knocked on the door,” Elle said, suddenly embarrassed for being so rude.

“That's an apology, not a reason,” the woman said.

“I am looking for information and I was told that you might be able to help.”

The girl eyed her suspiciously. “Who told you that?”

“Someone at the Black Stag.”

“Did they now? I trust no one at the Black Stag. And neither should you.” The girl stomped her foot again to make the buzzing stop, which had started up again a few moments before. The motion made the shotgun that was resting on her lap tilt dangerously in Elle's direction.

“I'm not going to argue with you on that count. The Black Stag is certainly not one of the better establishments in the city. But they did send me in your direction.”

“And why did they do that?” the girl asked.

“I am looking for someone. They say there is a man here who might have seen him. Emilian is his name.”

The girl's expression softened ever so slightly and Elle lowered her hands that she had keeping in the air.

“Where I can see them,” the girl said motioning with the shotgun.

Elle raised her hands again. “I am looking for a missing person. The last person who saw him was a man named Emilian. I only want to ask this Emilian about it.”

The girl said nothing.

“I have a portrait of the person who is missing. It's in my coat pocket. May I show you?”

The girl nodded once. “I will shoot if you try anything,” she said in a matter-of-fact way that suggested she meant it.

Carefully, Elle reached into her coat and drew out the photograph of Marsh. It was her favorite, because unlike most photographic portraits, Marsh had smiled when the shutter was opened. The corners of the portrait were slightly curled from travelling in her pocket. She laid it out on the table between them, smoothing the edges gently with her fingers.

The girl lifted the photograph up and stared at it for a few moments. Her only reaction was a tiny furrow in her brow that disappeared almost as quickly as it appeared. Then she dropped the photograph onto the table and shrugged.

“They say Emilian is a man who wears a peacock feather in his hat. They say he knows about the missing people. And the ticking hearts.”

The girl's gaze shot up and her face grew hard. “I know nothing of this man. Never seen that one either.” She gestured at the photograph. “Who tells you these things?”

Elle took a long slow breath. “As I said, the little people at the Black Stag told me.”

At that, the girl grew angry and raised the shotgun at Elle. “It's time for you to go.”

Elle picked up the photograph and slipped it into her coat pocket. She wasn't going to get anything more out of the girl, that much was clear. With a heavy heart, she rose carefully from the bench. “Look, the man in the photograph is my husband. He went out a few nights ago and disappeared. He came back to me … different to what he was when he left. Time is running out and I am beside myself with worry. If you have any information—even the slightest clue that might help save him—then I would be eternally grateful. Please. I am begging you.”

The girl hesitated for a moment, but the buzzing sound had started up again and had increased in intensity until it was now almost a frantic whine. Elle watched her last hope disappear as the girl's face hardened.

“Well, then, I thank you for your time. And please accept my apologies again for barging into your home—”

Elle did not finish her sentence, because in a flash of light an absinthe fairy burst out of the woodwork. She darted to and fro in movements that were most unfairylike and it took Elle a moment to realize that the fairy was tethered to the wagon with a strand of bright red silk.

“Adele!” Elle exclaimed as she recognized her friend.

The fairy stopped struggling and hovered before her in a gesture that seemed to say, “Finally!”

“You know one another?” the girl said, looking at Elle and the fairy in turn.

“Yes, this fairy is my friend. What have you done with her? I demand that you release her at once!” She looked at Adele. “Oh my little friend, I'm so pleased to see you. We thought we had lost you for good.”

Adele did a little twirl but the strand of silk stopped her short and she fell back to the ground.

“She stays with me now,” the girl said.

“No she does not. Not if you are going to tie her to the wagon like that. Adele is a free agent. She is a person and you have no right to hold her here against her will. What did you say your name was?”

“Florica,” the girl said looking flustered.

Elle sat back down on the bench. “Well, Florica, we don't know one another very well, but you have both my friend Adele and my blade. And the fairy had instructions to stay close to my husband, so if she is here it means that he was too.” Elle folded her arms. “So I think you had better put the kettle on, because I am not leaving this wagon until you and I have had a little chat.”

Florica stared at Elle, slightly nonplussed, but Adele rose up and hovered before her. Elle wasn't sure but it looked like they were having a conversation. Adele was gesticulating wildly with her arms and wings.

Florica blanched and looked over at Elle.

The fairy nodded in an I-told-you-so gesture.

Florica sighed as if she was very tired. With great care, she breached the shotgun and placed it on the table, within reach. Then she pulled the stiletto out of her pocket and laid it out on the table next to the gun.

“Very well. This Fey tells me who you are, my lady.” She bowed her head in reverence. “You must forgive me, but I did not know that you are the Oracle. My people live on the fringes of the Shadow and we do not meddle in matters of high power. But if this Fey is right, then what you are saying is the truth and so I will listen.”

Elle opened and closed her mouth in surprise. She had no idea the word Oracle meant so much.

Adele gestured for her to do something.