The Crimson Shard (21 page)

He escorted them upstairs, musket at his shoulder. Sunni locked her door and collapsed on her bed. As sleep took over, a fading image of the painted door floated above all the worries in her fuzzy brain, farther and farther from reach.

She was still dozing when someone began hammering on her door. She pulled on her shawl and tiptoed close to it. “Who is it?”

“It’s me!” hissed Blaise.

As soon as she unlocked the door, he burst in.

“What time is it?” she asked.

“Morning.”

“What’s so urgent that you have to batter the door down?”

“Sorry. My head’s all over the place.” He looked around her room, agitated. “Are you all right? Did you get any sleep?”

“Some.”

“Okay, good. Me, too.” He scratched his head with a rapid movement. “Come downstairs. You’ve got to help me look at something.”

“What?”

“Just come on, Sunni. It’s doing my head in.”

“What is? I’m not even dressed. . . .”

Blaise threw his hands up. “Then get dressed. Will you just come on?”

“Give me a few minutes then.” She began pushing him out of the door. “Go on. Wait
outside.
”

Sunni struggled into her stays and gown as best she could without Anne’s help. She slipped her shoes on, locked the door behind her, and followed Blaise down the hall.

“Are you going to tell me what’s up or just keep on commanding me?” she said with a sniff.

“You’ll see what’s up in a minute,” he answered. “And you can tell me if I’m nuts or seeing things or what.”

Morning light poured through the windows of the empty gallery. Yesterday’s rain had given way to sun and the room was washed clean of the previous night’s shadows.

The servants had finished sweeping up fragments of plaster from the floor and were nowhere in sight, but they had left a ladder propped against the wall.

“Help me move this ladder over there,” said Blaise, tugging at it. “To that corner.”

“Are you crazy?”

“Maybe.” He began inching the ladder across the room. “Help me, will you? It’s heavy!”

“You’re out of your mind, Blaise. If this falls over, it’ll bring those pictures crashing down!”

“It won’t fall. Grab hold here!”

Somehow, in fits and starts, they pulled the ladder along and leaned it against the wall, nearly nicking the topmost painting’s gilded frame.

“I am not moving that again,” Sunni said. “So don’t ask.”

“You won’t have to.” Blaise began climbing. “Hold on tight.”

He went as high as he could and leaned his whole torso toward a canvas hanging in the corner.

“You’re going to fall if you lean any farther, Blaise!” she shrieked, throwing all her weight onto the ladder’s bottom rung.

“I’ll be all right,” he gasped.

Carefully, he plucked the painting from the wall with both hands. He teetered with the unexpected weight of it, but managed to grab hold of the wire on the back with one hand, while the other grasped the ladder.

Slowly he began descending, clutching the painting to his side.

“You nearly dropped it!” She stood aside for him to jump down onto the floor. “What is it? What’s the matter?”

Blaise’s face was ashen.

“Talk to me. You’re giving me a fright!”

“Look at the painting,” he said shakily. “And tell me I’ve made a mistake.
Please
tell me I’ve made a mistake.”

S
unni was studying the painting when suddenly the door flew open. “What are you doing?” Henry’s booming voice startled Blaise, and he nearly lost his grip on the painting. Luckily, Sunni grabbed hold of the other end.

“So help me, if you two are stealing from us —”

“No, sir!” Blaise called. “We took this down to show you and Miss Featherstone. It’s really important.”

A letter dangled from Henry’s fingers. “And I have news,” he said, waving the sheet of paper at them. “Bring that painting to the library if you must.”

Their host stalked out of the gallery. Sunni and Blaise hurried after him, gingerly carrying the painting through the halls. When they reached the library, Amelia was already waiting there. She managed a smile, but her brother’s expression was stern.

Sunni and Blaise leaned the painting against a chair and sat down side by side.

“I have just handed the housebreaker over to the local magistrate,” said Henry, sitting heavily into his chair. “But I do not think for a moment that our troubles are at an end. The criminal who escaped from my footmen last night will spread the word that you are here. Every scoundrel in London will be beating a path to this door.” His jaw was set. “I cannot risk my household’s safety, and I will not have my property attacked further.”

Blaise half sensed what was coming next and held his breath.

“I had thought this house to be the safest place for you, but in light of last night’s events, I think you will agree that you must move on.”

“Brother,” Amelia started, but he held up his hand.

“This has just come from Wheatley.” Henry opened the letter. “I am to bring Blaise and Sunniva to him as soon as possible.”

Hope began flowering out of Blaise’s anxiety. “Does he say why, sir?”

“Wheatley seldom explains himself.” Henry raised one eyebrow. “But he will have very good reasons.”

“Maybe he’s found a magician for us.”

“Let us hope so,” said Henry.

“But Throgmorton’s spies may catch sight of Blaise and Sunniva on the journey there!” said Amelia.

“Not if they are dressed to go to the Jubilee Masquerade.”

A smile spread over his sister’s face. “Of course! Leave it to me, Brother.”

“You will need to work quickly,” said Henry, getting to his feet and nodding at Sunni and Blaise. “Gather your belongings. We leave as soon as my sister’s work is done.”

“Will you come with us, Miss Featherstone?” asked Blaise.

“I — I do not know.”

“I think not.” Henry frowned. “After we see Wheatley, I shall be in Ranelagh Gardens for supper with the Club.”

“But Miss Featherstone is part of this, too, sir.”

“Brother?” she appealed to Henry, who was stuffing Wheatley’s letter into his coat pocket.

“It is not the usual thing,” he said.

“Sunniva and I aren’t ‘the usual thing’ either,” said Blaise. “I think Miss Featherstone should be allowed to come.”

Sunni nodded vigorously at this.

“Do you wish to, Sister?” Henry asked.

“Oh, yes!”

“It is not ideal. But as we are in extraordinary circumstances, I suppose you may come,” Henry said. “But this time only.”

Sunni had been silent throughout, listening to everything, but now she could barely contain herself. She whispered to Blaise, “We have to show it to them!”

“Mr. Featherstone,” he said, touching the gold frame leaning against his seat. “Miss Featherstone. Does this belong to you? I found it in the picture gallery.”

He and Sunni shifted the painting around to face the Featherstones. It was a portrait of a young woman against a dark background, holding a jeweled silver hand mirror. A high, short ruff framed her chin and set off a blue dress with an impossibly slim bodice and puffed shoulders joined to stiff white sleeves.

Blaise caught his breath again when he examined the face. At first glance she was beautiful, but after a few moments he had seen something beyond that. The painter had made a likeness, but he had also brutally exposed her character. The eyes were hard and knowing, and the lips were tightened into an almost imperceptible sneer.

“Of course it is ours,” said Amelia, puzzled.

Blaise’s head began throbbing again. “It’s a portrait of Livia, Throgmorton’s daughter.”

“The same Throgmorton who is pursuing you? How can that be?” Henry examined the portrait. “And in
our
picture gallery? I have never noticed it before.”

“Never?” Blaise murmured. “It was there, hanging in the top row.”

Henry turned to his sister. “You are certain you know this painting?”

“Yes,” Amelia said. “It has always been there. I have watched the servants dusting it.”

“You were seeking this last night.” Henry peered at Blaise. “The housebreaker caught you there.”

“Yes, sir.” Blaise hung his aching head. “I had to have a closer look at the painting.”

Sunni spoke up. “You don’t know why there is a portrait of Livia in your house, sir?”

“Our grandfather collected the paintings before we were born. They have nothing to do with us.” Henry shrugged. “Besides, how can one be expected to remember them all?”

“Maybe this girl only looks like Throgmorton’s daughter,” Amelia said. “I often see resemblances in paintings.”

“It
is
her, miss,” Sunni said. “If you look carefully, the name
Livia
is painted into the background. There, to the left.”

Amelia blinked. “So it is.”

To Blaise’s relief, she didn’t notice the other name he and Sunni had found on the hand mirror, painted to look as though it was engraved in the silver. It made him shudder every time he read the tiny letters.

“But we don’t know who painted it.” Blaise pointed at the bottom right of the painting. “The artist only signed his initials:
M.B.
”

“Do you have any idea who M.B. is, miss?” asked Sunni. “Sir?”

“I know very little about painters,” Henry said unapologetically.

“Neither do I,” Amelia said.

Blaise’s wound was aching, and he had to sit down.

Sunni turned to him. “Are you all right?”

“Still a bit sore,” he said. “Go on. Show them the date.”

Sunni moved her finger below the artist’s initials, and the Featherstones crowded close to see.

The four numbers were small, so she read them aloud: “This portrait of Livia was made in 1583.”

Amelia put one hand to her cheek, looking perplexed.

“Are you sure you don’t know anything about this?” Blaise asked.

Henry glared at them. “I am telling you, my sister and I know nothing of this person Throgmorton, and even less of his daughter! I have never seen either of them in my life.”

“Sorry, sir, but I had to ask,” said Blaise. “We thought Throgmorton and Livia were from your time, but after seeing this portrait, we don’t know which time they come from.”

“But,” said Sunni, “this painting proves Livia has been in 1583. And she was there long enough to have her portrait done.”

“They move freely into the future
and
the past,” said Amelia, eyes wide.

“I do not know what to make of all this. It is the most puzzling thing I have ever encountered,” Henry said. “But what I do know is this: Throgmorton has put a price on your head, and his blackguards could be waiting on our threshold at this very moment. Go with my sister now and let her do what needs to be done.”

Sunni and Blaise went to remove Livia’s portrait, but Henry waved them away. “Leave that here. I will return it to the gallery myself. Perhaps it is time I learned what else is there.”

Amelia ushered them upstairs. “Sunniva, you come with me. Blaise, gather your belongings and wait in your chamber until I summon you.”

It felt as if hours passed. Blaise lay on his bed, fully clothed, his satchel carefully packed. His head was no longer throbbing, but it was spinning with questions.

When Amelia finally knocked, he had already counted all the carved leaves and birds on the bed’s headboard twice, trying to keep his mind off the name on the mirror in Livia’s portrait.

Amelia led him by the elbow to her sitting room, a comfortable hideaway filled with her books, watercolor sketches, and sewing materials. But he nearly jumped out of his skin at the sight of a black-caped figure at the window, gazing out over the garden.

Amelia laughed and the figure whirled around, revealing a white mask covering the face from forehead to nose. Black fabric hung like a hood from under its three-cornered hat, covering the hair and neck. A long gown poked out from under the floor-length cape.

The figure snapped open a red lacquered fan and twirled around.

“Do you know me?” a voice purred.

“Sunni?”

“What do you think?”

“You look amazing,” said Blaise. “And creepy. All that’s showing is your mouth and hands.”

“And the bottom of a gown,” said Amelia. “Unless they know better, Throgmorton’s men may still be searching for two boys, so dressing as a girl will be a further layer of protection.”

“You’re not getting me to wear a dress, miss.” Blaise shrank back. “There’s no way.”

“Relax,” said Sunni. “You’re getting a cape and a mask like mine.”

“It is simplest and most anonymous. My brother brought these masks from Venice, and they are very effective.” Amelia steered him toward a table piled with fabric and a sewing box. “There is a grand Jubilee Masquerade at Ranelagh Gardens tonight, and both men and women will be wearing costumes exactly like this. No one will look twice at us. We shall be able to move freely to Mr. Wheatley’s.”

“But I’ll wear breeches under the cloak, right?”

“Yeah, with these shoes.” Sunni held up a pair of black shoes with gigantic bows on each buckle. “Have fun.”

“Now, to construct your cloak. It will hide you and your satchel from prying eyes.” Amelia pulled a midnight-blue cape from the jumble on the table. “This was mine, but we shall adapt it for you.” She draped it across Blaise’s shoulders, and he groaned inwardly that he was going to have to wear a woman’s clothes. “I shall add some trim at the bottom to lengthen it for your height.”