Light Fantastique (23 page)

Edward found a dark set of work clothes and put on his cloak, which had a hood he could pull over his head. Patrick nodded approval, and they set off into the dusk.

“Are you all right with a bit of a walk?” Patrick asked.

“That's fine.” The idea of sneaking around after dark exhilarated Edward. “As long as we can talk.”

“We work together all day, and you barely say anything outside of what's needed for the system. Why the urgency now?”

“You have a point, and it has something to do with the E.E. Do you remember last summer when we were in the carriage on the way to the train to Rome, and Iris and Marie were telling us about what had happened at the marquis's chateau?”

“Aye.”

“And Doctor Radcliffe told you there's no such thing as magic, just things that science hasn't explained yet.”

“Aye. What's your point?”

“Well, we don't know much about the science of how the mind works.” Walking through an icy Parisian night was a far cry from the lecture halls Edward had been accustomed to, but it was easier to talk about such things when he couldn't see his audience's face. Patrick walked ahead of him but obviously could hear him.

“Yes, that's why we've gotten sucked into this strange predicament,” Patrick said. “Chad wants to know how to fix Claire's mind.”

“And there are electric treatments that have helped melancholics in asylums.”

“Right, but they don't help anyone else. Believe me, he's pursued that line of thinking. It's a dead end.”

“Well, since we've been working with the E.E., what have you noticed about your own emotions and experiences? Mentally, I mean.”

Patrick walked so long without answering that Edward thought the Irishman hadn't heard the question or had been offended by it.

“I'm sorry,” Edward said. “I'm always saying the wrong things these days. Forget I asked.”

Patrick wheeled around so suddenly Edward stepped back.

“No, that's it. You're brilliant.” He grabbed Edward by the shoulders. “I thought it was that I wasn't sleeping, but I couldn't sleep, and I've felt things that didn't make sense, always when we had been running the system. Oh, thank God, I'm not going insane with this crazy situation!”

Edward's hood slipped off, and he pulled it back on, hopefully before anyone saw his face.

“Don't you see?” Patrick clapped him on the back. “That means you're not crazy, either. That melancholia over what happened in Rome—it's not you. You don't have to feel so guilty over what happened.”

Edward coughed and shook his head. “I have to take responsibility for what I did, even if some of my feelings about it aren't my own. But maybe…”

“What is it?” Patrick asked. He started walking again, and Edward trotted to catch up.

“Maybe in that moment when I made the decision to destabilize the E.E. and injure Scott—I didn't want to kill him, just make sure he wouldn't hurt Iris again—maybe I wasn't thinking like myself but was under the influence of Eros.”

“You have a point.”

“But what does this mean for our project? We can't have people in the theatre feeling illogical things.”

“How much theatre have you seen? Of course we can. That's what the arts are about, helping people feel things they might not otherwise.”

“I don't want it to be dangerous. It won't do Madame St. Jean any good if audience members start trying to kill each other.”

“Then we need to adjust the frequency.”

“No, we need to stop the experiment, take time to get our own heads on straight.”

Patrick held up a hand. “We need to be quiet now. We're getting close.”

Edward wondered if there was a true need for silence or if Patrick wanted to stop the conversation. Either way, he knew they still had things to discuss. If use of the Eros Element was potentially dangerous, they needed to know how to deal with it.

Why does every answer come with a host of new questions?

Chapter Twenty-Five

Roma Camp, 4 December 1870

“What do you mean you're my uncle?” Marie stood and caught Saphira's bowl—now empty—before it shattered on the ground. She straightened and looked Zokar in the face, searching for some sort of clue. “Why didn't you tell me?”

Saphira took the bowl, and the look she gave her husband said that she, too, thought the revelation ill-timed, but Marie didn't know if it was because she wanted Marie to know all along or if she still wanted Marie to be ignorant of the fact they were family.

Family!

All along, since childhood, Marie had wanted a normal life and to be part of a family, and here hers was, hiding below the surface like the roles that overtook her that lived below her skin.

Or was this another role? No, the betrayal that welled up from the center of her chest was all too real.

“Why did you keep this a secret?” Marie asked, interrupting whatever silent communication occurred between her aunt and uncle.

My aunt and uncle. How could I not have known?

“Lucille asked it of me,” Zokar said. “But the time for secrets is over. Once the siege ends, we are moving on to a safer place. There are already murmurings of violence to come to the city even if the Prussians do not conquer it. And if they do, it will likely go badly for us.”

A warm hand on Marie's arm made her stop and take a breath before speaking. She sorted through her thoughts to choose which would be best to express. “But why didn't
Maman
want me to know about you? Why did she keep me from you?”

Zokar's face blurred like the painting she'd seen from one of the avant garde artists, where images were hinted at through a haze that reminded her of a rained-on windowpane, and she rubbed the tears from her eyes.

Johann tugged her to sit beside him, and she leaned against him. Something crackled in his waistcoat.

“She wanted to raise you as a Parisian girl, not as Roma, although she couldn't completely escape her heritage,” Zokar said. “And as I said, I made mistakes. I allowed her to be exiled from the camp for becoming pregnant by an outsider.”

“She said she chose Marie's father and that it was some sort of arrangement,” Iris said. “She made it sound intentional.”

“As you've probably noticed, Mademoiselle, Lucille creates her own reality, her own memories, to suit how she thinks things should have been.”

So what does she think of me, then?
Marie accepted a cup of wine from Saphira, who motioned for her to drink it. It had an herbal taste skimming along the top of the typical fruit and alcohol flavors.

“Are you medicating me?” she asked.

“It is an old remedy to calm a fussy child, but with an adult enhancement,” Zokar said. “This must be quite a shock for you. She is only trying to help.”

Marie put the cup beside her. She needed to keep her wits about her, and now wonder replaced betrayal and gave her a sense of deep peace and calm.
She had family!
It wasn't normal family, but what about her life was typical? Not much.

“So do you know who my father is?” Marie asked. She had often wondered, often suspected different men in her mother's life, including Maestro Fouré, but her mother was tight-lipped about that part of her past.

“That is a question for your mother. Perhaps now that you know about us, she will tell you about him. She may act like she forgets her heritage beyond what it takes away from her, but she must feel the flow of time changing and know that secrets between friends and family are not helpful.”

“Speaking of which,” Radcliffe said. He picked up Marie's cup and sniffed it. “May I have the recipe for this? I work with soldiers and am always looking for calming remedies that do not involve opium.”

Saphira nodded vigorously.

“She would have been a doctor like you had her tongue not been cut out,” Zokar said.

“How did you know I'm a physician?”

“We know about all of you at the theatre and that the professor and the Irishman are doing something to the lighting system. We also know that the violinist here is hiding from someone and that Mademoiselle needs to learn that the best education is in the field and away from greedy administrators.”

“Well, then.” Iris stood, and Marie was surprised to see the shimmering in her eyes from fought-back tears. “You don't know everything. You don't know I won't be able to go back.”

“You have a tremendous gift. You will find a use for it that will help others as well as yourself.”

“Why can't you go back?” Marie asked at the same time Radcliffe inquired, “What gift?”

A commotion interrupted the conversation, and the guards brought in another person.

“
Merde,
” Marie whispered. It was Inspector Davidson.

* * * * *

Edward pulled his cloak around him and slipped through the darkness behind Patrick toward the airfield, which was near the now unused Gare du Nord. The streets had an empty feel, possibly due to being in an industrial section filled with factories that had been converted to manufacture munitions and which ran shortened hours due to lack of materials. Warehouses surrounded the large field, one of a dozen in the city.

A bird call floated through the night, and it took Edward a minute to remember that all the birds had flown for the winter or had ended up on Parisian plates as pigeons replaced chickens. Patrick stopped and whistled back.

“What does it mean?” Edward whispered.

Patrick held up a hand—quiet.

Edward shifted from foot to foot. The damp cold made him wish for Madame St. Jean's hearth, although the townhouse fires would be out tonight with everyone in the theatre. But surely the Prussians wouldn't shell at night, would they? He guessed it didn't matter what they hit—or when—as long as they knew they were destroying something along with Parisian morale.

Another bird call came from a different direction. It didn't sound all that different from the first one, but Patrick headed toward one of the warehouses, and another man joined them. They didn't say anything, just nodded to each other. Edward couldn't see the newcomer's face, but a silent conversation of facial expressions and head-jerks ensued. He guessed Patrick vouched for him, although he certainly didn't know why or what use he would be. His weeks working in the atelier had atrophied the muscle he had, and he was already feeling the exhaustion of over-exerting himself.

They slipped into one of the warehouses, which was empty. A fire burned in the middle, and a group of men huddled around it.

“Who's he?” one of them asked.

“The professor,” Patrick said. He shook hands all around, as did Edward, although no one gave their names.

“What's the load tonight?” Patrick asked.

“Not food,” one of the men said. His wiriness spoke of a high metabolism.

“Too bad, I was looking forward to some frites with my rat,” one of the others said.

“There's an outgoing,” the first man, the one who'd asked Edward's identity, said. “Some hoity toity with his mistress.”

“Hopefully she doesn't have too much padding in her—” One of the others held his hands in front of him to indicate large breasts. “There's a big load of mail tonight.”

Edward kept silent. He'd learned long before to not say anything when men talked about women. His lack of experience made him useless in such conversations, and displaying his ignorance would only get him mocked. Unfortunately sometimes staying quiet drew as much attention as saying stupid things.

“So what's the professor think?” the first man to speak asked. “If he's a professor, he should be able to figure out how to manage the load, see if the lady needs some help with balance.” He made an underhand grabbing motion. “There are some things that need hands-on adjustment, not math, eh Professor?”

The other men roared, and Edward squirmed. He knew he should say something witty, prove himself in this hierarchy, but he found the banter disgusting. Sure, Iris didn't have a huge décolletage, but he couldn't imagine treating her so crudely, even in her absence.

“I prefer calculations with a gentle touch,” Edward said.

“No reason to bruise the goods,” Patrick jumped in.

The man's grin folded into a scowl, but the other men laughed, and the one Edward had identified as the leader clapped Edward on the back.

“Oh, this one's a charmer.”

The light tinging of a bell made the smiles disappear, and roughened hands drew caps down over serious expressions. Patrick gestured for Edward to follow him.

“Just stay out of the way,” he said. “And watch Louis, the one you put in his place. I won't say he didn't have it coming, but he's known for his slow-burn temper and ability to wait for revenge.”

“I will.”

The foreman joined them and held up a hand before they exited the warehouse. “Since the professor here has demonstrated he knows how to handle the lady, he can help her board the airship. Red, watch him.”

“Aye,” Patrick said. “He's getting you out of the way,” he told Edward.

When they walked into the night, the cold air smacked Edward in the face. The temperature must have dropped ten degrees during the brief time they were in the warehouse. Then he noticed the carriage, an understated affair, but he'd seen it when he emerged earlier from the theatre.

“Is that Monceau's?” he asked Patrick. “It looks familiar.”

“Yes. Remember, focus on the lady and stay out of the way.”

The driver and footman assisted the two passengers out of the carriage and unloaded the luggage. Then they all stood aside while the foreman drove the carriage and horses away.

“Is he storing them?” Edward asked.

“No, they're using them to pay for passage and airfield fees. The servants will go with them.”

“Then why do they need my help?”

“They don't, but stay near them in case they do.”

A change in air pressure and wind tone heralded the arrival of the all-black airship. Edward lost track of his charges as he watched it, or tried to—it was hard to make out where its outlines blurred into the night beyond in the darkness. It landed with a less than graceful bump.

The marquis, dressed uncharacteristically somberly from what Edward recalled of Johann's descriptions of the man, turned to Edward.

“You're with the group at the Bohème,” he said.

Edward didn't know what to say. He wasn't going to lie, but Patrick's warnings of secrecy and the enforced anonymity he'd observed among the others came to mind.

“That's fine, I understand if you don't want to speak to me. Just please give my apologies to Maestro Bledsoe but tell him the captain of this ship and her sister vessel are aware of my promise to him.”

“I will,” Edward said.

Edward followed the servants, the marquis and his friend, a woman sheathed in several veils, to the airship but did not board because a steward, also dressed all in black, met them at the gangplank. Being near the ship made him queasy as he remembered their not-so-gentle exit from the last one he'd been on.

The crew, including Patrick, carried boxes and bags up and down a different gangplank, and the whole loading and unloading operation was over in a very efficient manner. Patrick's hand on Edward's shoulder drew him back as the walkways were drawn back into the hull and the ropes loosed. The airship lifted straight up and disappeared into the moonless dark.

“Now what?” Edward asked.

“Tonight the crew splits up the liquor and disappears back where they came. And we have our tubing.”

A bright light overhead seared Edward's vision, and he rubbed his eyes. Patrick grabbed him and dragged him back into the warehouse.

“What—?” He blinked to clear the afterimage. “What happened? What was that?”

But he remembered Marie's warning from their first airship trip, that a small flame could ignite the hydrogen in the balloon and cause disaster. Objects landed on the asphalt and grass outside with sickening thuds, and the cool air took on a serrated smoky feel.

Patrick's normally ruddy face had lost all color, confirming Edward's suspicions.

“Go back to the theatre,” Patrick said. “You're in no shape for rescue and salvage.”

The door opened, letting in a plume of smoke, and the foreman stumbled in. “Won't be any rescue from that,” he said and took off his cap. The others did likewise.

“Take your friend back to the theatre,” Louis told Patrick. “I can tell he doesn't have the stomach for what we'll have to do.”

The foreman took charge. “Louis, Henri, make sure the burning is confined to the field and not spreading. Then we'll figure out what we can save.”

Edward noted his words—what, not who.

“We don't need you,” the foreman told Patrick and shoved a box of something that clinked at him. Edward suspected the Frenchman wasn't telling the truth, but Patrick didn't argue. He nodded, put his cap back on his head, and gestured for Edward to follow him out of the back of the warehouse.

“The crew on the ship was French,” he said. “Let them mourn them and their nobleman.”

Edward looked up at the sky when they reached the wide boulevard. The moon split the clouds for a moment, but it was long enough for him to see some sort of device with a white canopy floating down from the sky. The moonlight disappeared before he could point it out to Patrick, but he suspected there had been at least one survivor from the airship disaster.