Engraved: Book Five of The St. Croix Chronicles (5 page)

The tears that came too easy since the surfeit of my laudanum habit now overflowed, and bless him, Ashmore did not breathe a word of judgment. As he so often did, he simply closed the gap between us and let me cry upon his shoulder.

I knew that alchemy was not the simple solution it seemed, and that the smallest of the Trumps could still demand a great sacrifice. I was sworn to secrecy from those who claimed to study the mechanical aptitude but had not truly been initiated into the exoteric truth by a master such as Ashmore.

I understood that what I possessed was a small edge in a very large conflict, and not a panacea for all ills.

Yet I resented Ashmore’s unwillingness to present me with an alchemical solution. I resented myself for the selfishness that forced me to ask, and the limit of my own ability.

When I had ceased my irritating bout of tears, I blotted at my eyes with Lord Piers’s handkerchief and said with a watery smile, “We’ll think of something new tomorrow.”

“That we will, minx.” Ashmore smoothed back the springy tendrils that had escaped my carefully bound hair. It felt nice; affectionate, but no more. “At least we know more about the Menagerie than we did before.”

“Yes.” A small victory, but one that needed doing. I shuddered. “I would never have imagined that Monsieur Marceaux would be in attendance.”

“Are you certain ’tis him?”

“Indubitably,” I replied, caught once more in grim recollection. The mind was such a fascinating thing. To think that I had not remembered Marceaux’s face, the cadence of his overly French manner of speaking, and yet, simply by looking at him, I knew.

And yes, even more deeply, I was afraid. Yet another new circumstance that I could not mask behind a bit of Turkish tar.

Ashmore stripped off his jacket, as he preferred to be in his shirtsleeves whenever possible. I no longer took note of it, though occasionally the light would catch his sleeves just so that the symbols staining his pale forearms were clearly visible through the fabric.

I bore the same characteristics upon the soles of my feet.

Alchemical formulae, personal to each practitioner. Mine was a fraction compared to his. Given that I was but two steps into a journey of twenty-two Trumps, and he claimed at least four centuries over my limited practicum, it was no surprise that his tattoos were much more intricate.

Ashmore, like all brilliant minds, favored quality over quantity. The basic equation etched on our flesh allowed us to draw upon the alchemical Trumps with slightly less threat to our persons. In time, I would form my own equations, as he had, and build upon the basis already inked in place.

Mine may yet be longer, depending all on the nature of my alchemical calculations.

“We know that ’tis impossible for me to simply stroll the grounds,” I continued, eyes fixed upon his forearms but vision caught in a vague, half-remembered scene of years past. How often had I visited those very grounds without a care? “Marceaux has likely made that circus a living hell, and I am in no particular hurry to see it.”

“I will enjoy tearing that gypsy-blooded bastard out of that cage,” Ashmore said, and I blinked to find him smiling. Genuine sincerity for all the words promised a bit of a roughing.

I made a face at him that softened his somewhat overly enthusiastic resolve. “I am working very hard to rescue that bastard,” I said, tucking the used handkerchief into my bodice with care. “Please don’t maim each other. I’m rather fond of you both.”

“I promise nothing.”

“Bloody bells.”

Ashmore’s laughter lifted the shadows from my fragile heart.

We would find a way. And this time, for the first time in too long, I truly understood that we were a
we
.

And that I was stronger than the lonesome me I had once been.

Chapter Four

Once upon a time, in a world that seemed as though it were centuries past and not the matter of months it had been, I had been considered a member of the Society I had come to loathe. Although I was little more than a would-be heiress—a prospective match for a young man in need of a sturdy dowry to shore his coffers—I was nevertheless held to the same rigorous standards of elegant living.

While the working classes rose at dawn, worked the day away and held supper at the early hours of the evening, the wealthy and well-heeled rose at a more languorous hour on the waning side of noon. They frittered the day away on meaningless and myriad hobbies, attended events held through the Season, then found their beds again near or past dawn.

My convalescence had softened those habits.

Last night’s adventures, poorly concluded though they were, had kept me out later than I was newly accustomed. That I woke closer to noon than dawn was something of a relief, but also not the early afternoon I was previously accustomed to.

I awoke ravenous—a renewed acquaintance with my stomach that had been lacking at the worst of my tar cravings and throughout much of my recovery. I was determined to regain the flesh I had lost, though I still found myself turning away from the sweeter repasts I had once enjoyed.

Strawberry jam no longer whet my palate, while marmalade provided the tartness my tongue newly favored.

The small bedroom did not light as my own Cheyne Walk home had, high above the drift as it had been. I did not know for certain what time it was when I woke from a heavy sleep, but my body was eager to move.

I turned over in my narrow bed, pushing aside the lopsided fall of my hair. The confines of this cramped space were dark but warm, thanks to the fire kept stoked in the small kitchen’s wrought-iron stove directly beneath.

A bit of a bustle below suggested that I was the last to rise.

I shoved aside my sheets, nearly left them before I remembered that I had no maid to fix them for me. I played at this game every morning, and still I could not quite grow accustomed to the fact that I needed to care for myself.

It seemed that for all my meager years among them, it was Society’s workings that left a stronger stamp on my day-to-day functions. Perhaps Fanny’s tutelage had left a much sturdier imprint than Marceaux’s.

I enjoyed that theory immensely.

A clatter from below drew my attention from my hastily straightened bedclothes. I dressed quickly, entirely without care for fashion’s demands. I had little enough clothing suitable for lounging, save two tea gowns of a simple make and a set of trousers and shirtsleeves meant for adventuring.

The tea gown I chose was the simpler of the two available to me; delicate fabric of a pale shade of taupe that hung loosely but with comfort in mind. The other, a rose and lace affair, had been the first tea gown I’d ever been allowed. It had come at Ashmore’s insistence, rather than the unlikely tolerance of my governess turned chaperone. Fanny would have locked me away forever had I gallivanted about in such a scandalously unstructured dress.

When first I’d worn a tea gown, it had been for much of my stay in the abominable manse that had been my mother’s. The memories attached to that frothy spill of rose lace were discomfiting. For me, certainly, but I think for Ashmore, as well.

I combed out the tangles left in my hair, plaited it and wound the thick cord about the crown of my head. Pinning it took some effort, but it always did. I was blessed with heavy curls, though the color earned me no favors.

Fortunately, I’d learned how to be swift with such matters as my hygiene; a feat I’d once needed a maid for.

Like much of my current state, I owed that simple education to Ashmore as well. There was something to be said about the independence earned by achieving one’s own small tasks.

Gloveless because I had never really taken to fashion’s strict adherence to the accessory, I slipped my feet into the only sensible pair of shoes I currently possessed—worn boots better suited to mucking about in muddy streets than a comfortable day at home—and wrapped a plain blue woolen shawl around my shoulders for added warmth.

So attired—braced for a day fraught with planning and, if I were very fortunate indeed, food—I made my way out of the narrow hall and down the small, boxed-in staircase.

Movement beyond the sitting room drew me. I smiled by rote. “Good morning—Oh, ’tis you,” I said to the girl helping herself to a bit of bread and jam at the table. My cheer did not lessen, but edged into good-natured wariness as Maddie Ruth Halbard beamed at me.

“Mornin’!” she replied, full mouth evident. Humor licked at the edges of my hunger as she stuffed the rather large remnant between her lips. “H’ry?”

“You mustn’t speak with your mouth full,” I chastised, tugging the shawl more firmly into place. I waited on no ceremony, seating myself and reaching across the table to pluck the plate from her grasp. “Or eat my repast.”

“S’ry.” She did not, to my critical eye, look the least bit contrite about it.

Maddie Ruth, like Ashmore, had helped me immensely. I owed her a debt of great friendship, although I put stronger limits on what I would do for her than what I might for Ashmore.

After the worst of my withdrawal pains had subsided, and Ashmore had no doubt thought he could trust me to another, it was Maddie Ruth he had plucked from the Menagerie to tend me. I’d known her prior as a girl what maintained the Menagerie’s various infrastructure—the aether-fueled fans, the heaters used for places like the Roman baths and so on. A gifted little thing with devices, she was a bright child of sixteen and all too aware of the ways of the world she lived in.

If I might call her on her greatest foolishness, it was that she had designs upon collecting. I refused to take her on as my apprentice; refused also to allow her to visit the collecting wall where the notices were posted.

A collector’s life was a difficult one. Though the role was given a certain amount of grudging courtesy below the drift, there were them what considered collectors a challenge to triumph over. And a collector who failed in a collection was easy prey for the others to take advantage of.

We did not support one another, as a rule. We also did not get in one another’s way—unless a bounty were hefty enough to be worth the price.

The role demanded blood, pain and sacrifice, and no small amount of hours feeling tired, wet and cold.

Not a life I wished for Maddie Ruth.

She had, for the time being, asserted a type of cease-fire in our ongoing battle. She no longer plagued me with questions of collecting, and I did not threaten to send her back to the Menagerie—with my compliments.

A hollow enough warning, anyway, and well we both knew it. I had no intentions of handing the girl back to the Veil. It would be as good as a death sentence.

I delved into the food upon my plate, ignoring the bit swiped by my sticky-fingered companion.

Toast with marmalade smeared on, black tea, a heaping of cold sausage, and potatoes blackened over flame and salted with a bit of Ashmore’s store of spices provided a delicious meal that went a long way to salving last night’s minor affronts.

Maddie Ruth watched me, her pretty brown eyes bright and her plump cheeks rosy enough for good cheer. I eyed her cautiously as my appetite finally slowed.

She seemed in
remarkable
good cheer.

Once my mouth was properly cleared—a care I took thanks to my erstwhile chaperone’s many years of prompting—I cradled my tea cup in hand and asked, “What has you looking rather like a satisfied feline?”

The freckles upon her cheeks tended to wink when she smiled deeply; a truth I found not only endearing but indicative of the innocence she somehow managed to maintain despite her close confines with prostitutes and indentured servitude.

I did like her. Aggravating thing that she was.

“Mr. Ashmore left early,” was what she said, in a tone that suggested a great deal more remained unspoken.

I glowered at her. “I wasn’t aware.”

“No?”

“No,” I said firmly, and sipped at my still-warm libation. The plate had been cold. Maddie Ruth must have refreshed the pot.

The caution with which I handled this clever girl with a tinker’s hands only heightened.

When her eyes would not leave my face—searching, no doubt, for some sign of Ashmore’s attentions—I clinked my cup loudly against the saucer. “Maddie Ruth, I’ve said this before and I will continue to do so. Our relationship is not the kind you are envisioning. And,” I added firmly, “stop envisioning that sort of thing at all.”

“Have you given him the boot, then?”

I nearly dropped my tea, saucer and all. A sharp hand around the rim saved the rattling porcelain. “Maddie Ruth!”

“You was so fond in the country,” she protested, her smile dimming. “Ain’t you friends?”

“We are mates,” I told her, setting the whole down before some accident of my doing or her verbiage might send the tea over my bodice. I’d had enough of wearing the stuff for a lifetime. “Friends, as you and I. We are not lovers.”
Anymore
.

“Pity.” She crossed her arms, clad in her usual over-large men’s shirt tucked into a sturdy woolen skirt, and braced her weight against the table’s edge.

Fanny would have had a few things to say about that.

I bit my tongue.

“Is he free for the taking, then?”

I bit too hard. Pain seared through my mouth, and it was all I could do to gasp, “Maddie Ruth Halbard!”

“All right, all right,” she said hastily, blinking her sweet calf’s eyes as though she’d done nothing to deserve such a reaction. “I were only asking.”

I covered my eyes with one hand, unsure whether I was meant to laugh or throttle the girl.

Were I stark raving mad, in the grips of the opium I constantly wanted but could not have, I would still not encourage her to chase Ashmore’s coattails. A man of his apparent age was bad enough for a girl of sixteen, but one who was in truth four centuries old was entirely too much.

Even for me.

“Well,” she said, reaching across the small table to wipe a finger down my nearly clean plate and lick the grease, “no matter. He stepped out for a bit and says you aren’t to get in trouble.”

I snorted, an unladylike gesture regardless of location, and pushed the plate closer to her. “Where are you staying, Maddie Ruth?”

“Oh, around.” She grinned and scraped the leavings into a small pile with her fingers. “Don’t you worry about me. I’ve got my own love nest.”

Her emphasis on
own
irritated me. “For the last time—”

She was already sighing. “Aye, aye.”

I threw my hands up in despair.

“Before your ticker takes off,” she said, her smile easing into a serious line, “you going to visit Communion ever?”

This sobered me immensely. Ishmael Communion was a man high in rank of the Brick Street Bakers—if not the leader by now. We had been friends near as long as I’d been collecting, and had helped each other more than a fair few times.

Just as I could warn of collector’s business to earn my way through his turf, Ish had only to tell me, “Baker business,” and I left off on matters that threatened him. I had my ways, he had his, and only on occasion did they meet. I had not often taken a collection for Bakers, unless it were the Menagerie doing the requesting.

Though his gang bore no love for my profession, I’d been given a certain pass for my friendship with Communion—and what I did not earn by right of my own reputation, his towering build and quiet authority bridged.

I also owed him a debt, for it was a Baker man they’d lost when my rival collector shivved one by way of message for me. It was them that put ear to ground for word of the Ripper at work, allowing me to tag the rotter.

When they called, I would answer.

Problem was, if they called, I would have no choice but to answer, no matter what else I was embroiled in. I knew it wasn’t exactly fair of me, but I wanted to wait to announce myself to Communion, wait until I’d solved whatever it was I could solve for Hawke.

Once that was clear, I’d see to the Bakers.

Still, my gaze averted. “I will,” I said. “But I can’t yet.”

“All right.” Simple enough acceptance, which explained a great deal about our friendship. “Ain’t seen him around, but I don’t go into Blackwall all that much, either. What do you want me to say if I see him?”

A good question. One I hesitated in answering, for I did not like the thought of asking Maddie Ruth to lie to the Baker she’d come to respect.

A knock, ponderous and loud, saved me from an answer.

I stood. “Stay here,” I ordered, all else draining but the sudden caution I’d learned at the business end of the devil-fog I’d once hunted in.

Maddie Ruth tensed. She did not remain seated, but came to stand by the narrow wall that would keep her hidden from any view of the door.

By all rights, I should have been the one hiding. I had more to lose for discovery.

Yet I would not risk Maddie Ruth to whatever vagaries awaited upon my tiny stoop.

A repeat knock came.

I did not go unarmed. The knife I had taken—to replace the two I had lost with my collecting corset—had been left for me upon the small stand by the door, and I palmed this, naked blade tucked against my scarred forearm.

I was a decent enough fighter with both hands. One needed to be, for any number of reasons. Primary among these was that few expected a body to switch hands at the drop of a hat. Or, as was rather more likely, at the opportunity of a weakened guard.

The hand observable to my guest would appear unarmed. The other would be ready.

The door featured naught more than a stained bit of smudged glass by way of viewing port, and all I knew was that the figure behind was tall. I positioned myself in such a way that I could open the door just enough to allow for visibility, but utilize it for a shield if I had need.

“How can I—”

“It would be best to negate the pleasantries,” interrupted the rich baritone belonging to Ikenna Osoba’s effortless authority.

My jaw fell open.