The Crimson Shard (16 page)

“Nobody’s paying attention. Come on!”

They hurried forward, hunched over, and slipped into a block of empty seats. Almost immediately, a young, well-dressed couple slid into the seats in front of them. The man looked right and left and announced to the woman, “I might have known they would be late. We came from farthest away and arrived first.”

“Wait, Henry,” said the woman. “I see them coming now.”

Half a dozen men, chatting and guffawing, descended upon the seats around Sunni and Blaise, crowding them as they leaned backward and forward to talk to each other. They were a motley assortment, from a young man who had the upright look of a soldier to a ruddy-faced one who talked continuously to another who was hawk-nosed and solemn.

“How do you do, Miss Featherstone? A good evening to you, Featherstone.” The newcomers’ confident voices rang out as they bowed their heads to the lady and then leaned over each other to shake hands with the man she called Henry.

“Monsieur Farlowe promises quite a spectacle,” Henry said loudly. “Will this be the night we see real wonders and not the usual trickery? What do you think, Wheatley?”

The gaunt, solemn man next to Sunni said, “Judging by the ludicrousness of his program, I rather doubt this Monsieur Farlowe is the sorcerer he claims to be. I have met enough genuine magicians to know within five minutes whether he is one or not.”

Sunni sat up straight and nudged Blaise.

“If he is not,” said the ruddy-faced man, “I shall heckle him abominably.”

“Oh, Mr. Trevelyan!” Miss Featherstone laughed and shook her head. “You will have us ejected.”

A sweating, chubby man appeared in the aisle next to them.

“Good evening, gentlemen.” He bowed to Miss Featherstone. “Madam.”

“Mr. Smythe, isn’t it?” asked Henry. “How do you do?”

“Very well, sir,” he said, glancing at the pit, where the orchestra was still wheezing through its prelude to the spectacle. “The program begins in a moment. I hope very much that you gentlemen will refrain from shouting insults at my performers this evening. I ask this every time you attend, but you never oblige me.”

“Why, Smythe,” said Trevelyan, “if you gave us a quality program, we would be as quiet as church mice. But as you never do, and as we continue to buy tickets anyway, we shall express our opinions as we see fit.”

Smythe puffed out his chest. “If you do not enjoy the program, gentlemen, why do you come?”

“We hope a diamond shall one day appear from amongst your lumps of coal,” said Henry, smirking. The others laughed, and an animated argument followed between Trevelyan and Smythe.

Sunni leaned in close to Blaise. “Did you hear what the guy next to me said? He’s met real magicians.”

“Ask him who they are. Go on. What do we have to lose?”

Sunni steeled herself to face the solemn Mr. Wheatley. “Sir?”

Wheatley turned and scrutinized her. “Yes?”

She nearly faltered but forced herself to speak. “I didn’t mean to listen, but . . . you’ve met genuine magicians?”

Wheatley peered even harder at her and then at Blaise. “What is it to you?”

“My friend and I need to find one,” Sunni said. “It’s a matter of life and death.”

Miss Featherstone turned her ear toward them, listening discreetly.

“I see.” Wheatley’s eyes never left Sunni’s. “What sort of life-and-death matter is it? A sick relative you wish to be cured, a treasure you wish to find, or someone you wish to lay a curse upon? Those are the usual problems for which ordinary persons seek magicians.”

“N-no, sir, nothing like that.”

Miss Featherstone turned all the way around, watching with curiosity.

“What then?” asked Wheatley.

Sunni’s mind went blank. All she could see was doubt in the man’s eyes.

Blaise leaned across her and said in a hushed tone, “If we don’t find a real magician, we’ll stay trapped here. Forever.”

Wheatley did not flinch at this, nor did he laugh out loud. “Explain.”

“We were kidnapped and brought here,” said Blaise. “The man who lured us here will kill us if he finds us.”

Wheatley exchanged an incredulous look with Miss Featherstone just as the orchestra finished playing.

“It’s the truth,” said Sunni, putting her hand on her heart.

The man squinted down at her. “You have my attention. We will speak further in the interval.”

Sunni nodded, a flicker of hope rising inside her.

A weedy man in a tall wig and an ostentatious coat appeared from behind the curtain and bowed to sporadic applause. At the sight of him, Smythe hurried away and the gentlemen settled into their seats. Miss Featherstone reluctantly turned to face the stage.

“I am Monsieur
Farlowe,
” the weedy man announced, his arms outspread and chin lifted as though he were about to burst into song. “I bid you welcome to the most astonishing spectacle seen in London for many a year. What you shall witness has thrilled the crown heads of Europe and enthralled men of learning. I, and I alone, have succeeded in convincing such elusive beings as mermaids and centaurs to travel the world with me and prove to you that they
exist
! By nature these beings are of a sensitive disposition, and I ask that audience members refrain from approaching them, shouting, or throwing objects to catch their attention. Thank you. And now, I present to you, dear ladies and gentlemen,
Neptune’s Grotto.
”

As Monsieur Farlowe vanished behind the curtain, the eerie music began again. Slowly the sea of red fabric parted to reveal a jeweled undersea grotto. The audience gasped at a fish-tailed woman reclining on a large scallop-shell seat, admiring herself in a mirror. A huge squidlike creature rolled past above her head, against a backdrop of billowing cloth meant to look like water.

Trevelyan laughed out loud, and his companions tittered.

“This is totally fake,” Sunni whispered to Blaise. “You can see the wire holding up that squid — if that’s what it’s supposed to be.”

“Wait, who’s that?” Blaise pointed at a centaur strolling in and catching sight of the mermaid. “Hey, it’s love at first sight between a mythical land creature and a mythical sea creature. Will it work out? Can he hold his breath long enough underwater?”

Henry and his companions suppressed laughter at the centaur’s rear legs dragging behind him as he walked — and so did Sunni. Their merriment made her feel lighter than she had in some time.

The centaur mimed a profession of true love to the mermaid, and dancing starfish dropped from above.

“This passes for magic?” Blaise sniggered as a jealous-looking merman was lowered to the stage on the back of Pegasus the flying horse, and the dancing starfish vanished back into the rafters. “Oh, this gets better and better.”

“People are lapping it up,” said Sunni, looking around them. “I can’t believe they think any of this is for real. It’s a farce.”

“And Monsieur Farlowe is more like a ringmaster than a magician.”

From the corner of her eye, Sunni caught sight of two thuggish men walking slowly around the far side of the theater, studying each row with grim expressions.

Onstage, the merman squared up to the centaur, jabbing his finger into his adversary’s chest.

“Oh, wow, merman versus horse-man!” Blaise laughed out loud, not caring now, since no one else was quiet.

Suddenly someone threw a half-eaten pie at the merman, and Trevelyan shouted, “Let the centaur have her!”

A second gruff voice yelled, “No! Fight, fight!”

Another pie flew toward the mermaid. The centaur dragged himself and his lame hind legs to center stage, where he shouted, “Please desist! We centaurs are sensitive creatures!”

“You are no more a centaur than I!” called Trevelyan. A projectile hit the centaur square in the forehead.

Sunni couldn’t take her eyes from the two men searching the benches. But when a third man appeared, strolling purposefully into the theater, and nodding toward one of the men, she froze.
Throgmorton.

“Blaise.” She clutched Blaise’s arm. “Throgmorton! He’s at the exit.”

“Oh, man, no! Sneak toward the stage. Maybe there’s another way out at the back!”

Sunni stumbled toward the aisle, getting tangled up in Wheatley’s legs.

“What game is this?” he declared as she fell onto Trevelyan.

“Those men — that man — he’ll kill us. We have to get out.”

Trevelyan pulled her to standing, and Blaise pushed her into the aisle.

“He’s seen us,” he hissed into her ear. “They’ve split up. They’re coming at us from all sides!”

As more pies and balled-up playbills sailed through the air, Sunni and Blaise scurried toward the orchestra pit, where the musicians were trying to play calming music. They had to climb over people and instruments, knocking off wigs and getting hit by missiles themselves. The music groaned to a halt as the crowd roared its approval.

Sunni scrambled onto the stage, with Blaise right behind her. She studied the audience, trying to locate their three adversaries, but all she could see were flying objects and a mass of bodies intending to join her stage invasion.

“Halt!” Monsieur Farlowe’s voice boomed just before a laughing young man took him down. Someone else ripped off the centaur’s false hind legs and threw them to the mob.

Blaise exclaimed, “Sunni, there!”

Throgmorton was about to pull himself onto the stage, his eyes riveted on them.

“You will not escape me again!” he seethed.

The mermaid tore off her own tail and ran backstage bare-legged, with the merman hobbling after her, his tail still wrapped around one leg. Hooting boys tore down the aqua backdrop and threw it over the musicians in the orchestra pit. Just as the fabric covered Throgmorton, Sunni scooped up a dancing starfish that had fallen down, its wire snapped.

Her heart thundering, she swung the plaster star backward. Then, with a mighty lunge forward, she brought it down on Throgmorton’s head. The star shattered over him and he slumped under a wave of blue-green cloth, but it stunned him only briefly. He pushed out from under the cloth and elbowed his way after them, nodding at someone else onstage. Even when the giant squid crashed down onto Neptune’s Grotto, crushing Pegasus and sending a hailstorm of plaster shards over the crowd, the man never blinked. His sights were locked onto Sunni and Blaise.

They bolted toward the other side of the stage.

“Jump off,” Blaise panted. “Make for the exit.”

Sunni sized up the sea of shouting people below the stage, but she had no chance to do anything. A rough sack came down over her, catching her like a butterfly in a net. Shrieking, she tried to twist and break away, but her captor’s hands were too strong. Kicking didn’t work. Her damp shoes flew off in seconds.

Throgmorton’s voice hissed close to her ear. “You are finished, Jack Sunniver.”

Her captor began dragging her but did not get far before something hit him hard. He grunted and fell away, releasing her. Feet kicked and tripped over her as Sunni lay on the ground amid a scuffle. She managed to roll away, her leather satchel digging into her side, and tore at the sack.

Just as she was finally about to extricate herself from it, a low voice commanded, “Keep this on. I promise you will be safe,” and tugged it back down. Someone lifted her and hastily carried her away. Cool air on her legs told her she was moving out of the stifling theater, and the sounds of the human clash faded into the clatter of horses and carts.

Sunni was handed through a narrow door and onto a hard seat. Something else was dragged in and touched her feet. It was solid but soft at the same time — like flesh and blood.

A man slammed the door shut, shouting, “Away now, Rowley!”

They rolled forward to the sound of a whip on horses’ backs. Hands began pulling the sack off her, and she strained away from them.

“You’re all right, lad. You’re safe,” insisted a soothing voice. When the sack was removed, she saw it belonged to Henry Featherstone’s friend, the one with the soldierlike bearing. He collapsed into the opposite seat, the sack across his knees like the captured flag of a vanquished enemy. His hair was a tangled mess and one sleeve was torn open at the shoulder, but he grinned at her. “I shall not make you wear this any longer.”

“Thank heaven you are not seriously injured, Mr. Martingale.” Miss Featherstone was next to him on the carriage seat, her face pinched with concern. “But what about this boy, Brother?”

A bruised Henry Featherstone crouched on the carriage floor. Blaise lay beside him, white as a bone and bloodied. “He took a heavy blow, but he is alive.”

Sunni lowered herself to the floor and found a space to kneel next to her friend, her hands shaking. She took the sack from her rescuer and arranged it under Blaise’s head, protecting him somewhat from the carriage’s rattling lurches. Laying her hand on his chest, she waited for the reassuring thump of his heart and nearly broke down with relief when she felt it.

“Our doctor will see to your friend,” Henry said. “We are taking you to safety in our home. There was no time to ask whether this was to your liking. Your pursuers were about to carry you off.”

“W-who are you?” Sunni could not stop her voice from quaking.

“I am Henry Featherstone, and the lady is my sister, Miss Amelia Featherstone. That gentleman is Mr. Martingale. Rest easy — we mean you no harm.”

“Why did you take us? We’re nothing to you.”

“I do not usually rescue runaways,” said Henry. “There is often a good reason they are being chased. But my sister convinced me otherwise.”

“I heard what you told Mr. Wheatley. He took you seriously, and he does not do that lightly,” said Amelia. “Do not disappoint me by telling me it was a lie to gain his sympathy.”

“It was no lie, miss.”

“We shall determine that later,” said Henry, heaving himself up onto a seat. The carriage jolted over uneven ground, and he let out a cry. Martingale laughed but had to press one hand to his own sore ribs.

“So you were not left unscathed either. I am disappointed, Martingale. You did not fight them all off with one hand,” said Henry. He looked down at Sunni. “What is your name?”

“Sunniver, sir. My friend is Blaise.”