The Crimson Shard (23 page)

Amelia sat down on the chair and, from behind her handkerchief, asked, “Mr. Wheatley, did this alchemist — Peregrin — succeed in making his red elixir?”

“I have found no proof that he did.” Wheatley wobbled slightly on his feet. “And he died, poisoned by his own experiments, in 1583.”

“1583!” Amelia blinked. “That is the second time today we have heard that date.”

“How so?” asked Wheatley.

“A date on a painting in our gallery.” Henry coughed loudly. “Wheatley, I think you should beware or you will also poison yourself. Now the most important question: when will this red elixir of yours be ready?”

“According to Peregrin’s recipe, in forty days. The work must incubate like an egg, and no one may interfere with it as it does so.”

Forty days! He might as well have said forty years.
Sunni nearly fell over with the heat, putrid air, and her own disappointment. And there was no guarantee that it would even work.

“Is that not hopeful news?” Amelia asked Sunni and Blaise.

“Very hopeful, ma’am,” Blaise muttered, and Sunni knew that he was as crushed as she was.

With a determined look, Amelia whispered something into Henry’s ear. He listened, poker-faced, and nodded.

“Excellent work, sir. We shall await your results,” he said. “In the meantime, Sunniva and Blaise shall have to stay with other members of the Pell Mell Club. I will explain later, but it is too dangerous for them to reside with us. You are far too occupied with work, Wheatley, so we will ask Martingale to take them after our meeting at the masquerade tonight.”

“I see,” said Wheatley.

Henry smiled. “Come, now, sir, enough work for today. You must ready yourself for the masquerade. Time is flying.”

Wheatley burst into wheezing laughter at the mention of time.

“Have you a costume, Mr. Wheatley?” asked Amelia.

“Yes, yes.”

“We shall wait for you in the dining room.” Henry offered his arm to his sister and they quickly made for the door.

Shielding their noses, Sunni and Blaise followed.

“Wait,” Wheatley called to them in a hushed tone. “What do you make of my news?”

“Very good, sir,” said Sunni, trying to keep moving out of the foul laboratory.

“Excellent,” Blaise agreed. “If the elixir works.”

“It shall work,” said Wheatley. “I will see to it. No matter how long it takes.”

The oddness of his voice made Sunni glance back at him again.

Wheatley’s eyes were unnaturally round and glittery, riveted upon the sealed glass vessel. “And it will be a work of
genius.
”

W
hen Wheatley finally appeared in the dining parlor, he wore a tattered cloak, a white wig, and a three-cornered hat above a startling mask with a long pointed bird’s beak.

His mouth was set in a thin line. “I am ready.”

Masks back on, they left the shuttered house, setting off in the direction of the river Thames. They had to pick their way around discarded animal bones, horse manure, and other unmentionables. For Sunni, this meant having to hold her dress and cloak up the whole time, while getting used to her high-heeled ladies’ shoes. Blaise was not much better off, contending with the oversize bows on his shoes, which thwacked against his ankles.

“Look at that traffic jam,” he whispered to Sunni as they turned into the main road leading toward the sprawling Royal Hospital. “I thought our traffic was bad.”

There was a cacophony of clattering hooves, bellowing coachmen, and irate pedestrians all the way to Ranelagh Gardens, where the carriages stood three deep at the entrance. They had to thread their way through the chaos, even resorting to crawling under the bellies of horses and stepping over railings to join the costumed revelers streaming into the masquerade.

“We shall make for the Rotunda building and secure a private box in which to have supper. There is one we Pell Mells particularly like,” said Henry. “From there we shall have a good view of the entertainment.”

“Make sure you stay close to us,” Amelia said to Sunni and Blaise. “It will be easy to become separated.”

“Yes, I strongly suggest you do not become lost.” Henry held up a finger in warning. “The Rotunda is surrounded by tree-lined paths. That is all well and good in daytime, but at night you must keep your wits about you, even though the paths will be well lit. Anyone may attend Ranelagh Gardens, including pickpockets, and all will be masked until midnight. Perfect conditions for anonymous mischief.”

“But you will have no reason to be wandering about the gardens. And we shall be gone by midnight, I hope,” said Amelia, shivering. “I wish to be well away from Chelsea before then.”

Where will Sunni and I be at midnight?
Blaise wondered as they arrived at the Gardens.

“Yes,” Henry agreed. “I do not want to be away from home for long. Blaise and Sunniva, you should refrain from speaking. Keep your voices low at the very least.”

By the time everyone had squeezed through the entrance, paying their few shillings for tickets, the sky was bloodred over the darkening lines of trees leading down toward the Thames. A thousand lanterns twinkled in the branches, and strains of music came from a huge round building with three levels of windows.

Blaise swung his head back and forth as they headed toward it, trying to take in everything — and everyone — through his narrow eyeholes. Unsettled by the strangeness of people’s costumes lit only by flickering candles, he concentrated on following Henry and Amelia and keeping Sunni by his side. Wheatley trailed behind them.

They filed through the Rotunda’s high-arched entrance, where a costumed orchestra played under huge chandeliers. Blaise looked around at the strolling guests smiling under their eye masks and elaborate headwear, sweeping their wide gowns and capes behind them and causing little breezes in the stuffy air. Some wore no masks but were dressed as Turkish pashas, country shepherdesses, or other extravagant characters. Others were covered head to toe like he was, wearing similar Venetian masks that startled him every time he caught sight of one.
I look just as creepy as they do.
He let out a breath and tried to relax behind his camouflage.

Three floors of small candlelit rooms, like boxes in a theater, overlooked the round hall. Henry led them to the second floor, and they snaked along a corridor until they came to a particular box whose table was spread with a supper of sliced ham, bread and butter, and a pot of tea.

The lone man seated in the box turned his nightmarish masked face toward them. Blaise shrank back against the wall, disconcerted.

“I am sorry, this box is occupied,” said the masked man, adjusting his giant red papier-mâché nose.

Henry ignored him and swept inside. “Good evening, Trevelyan. Your voice gives you away. Where are the others?”

Trevelyan got up and bowed. “Ah, good evening, Featherstone. The streets are a pretty tangle of carriages and revelers intent upon ale and mischief, so I am not surprised they are delayed.” He stared at the two sets of ladies’ shoes on the newcomers’ feet, but said nothing. “I ordered supper in the hope you would all arrive soon. I see we have unusual company this evening.”

They settled themselves, and Amelia began pouring tea and handing around platters of meat.

“Yes, the Club must welcome ladies for tonight only.” Henry lowered his voice. “Throgmorton has put a price on our visitors’ heads. Villains broke in during the night and nearly took one of them, but did not succeed.”

“Good heavens,” Trevelyan murmured. Wheatley flexed his hands on the table and mumbled something.

Henry went on. “Our visitors will travel incognito tonight and find refuge elsewhere until a way is found to return them home.”

“Yes, yes, I see.”

“Since we met yesterday, Wheatley has begun concocting an elixir that may transform matter and ether. He believes it could open up the fabric of time.”

Trevelyan turned his large nose toward Wheatley’s beak. “Extraordinary work, sir! If it succeeds, it will bring you the recognition you well deserve.” He paused. “Have you deduced anything concerning the mark of nine that Throgmorton scrawls on the door?”

“I cannot think of everything at once,” Wheatley muttered. “The elixir itself has occupied every moment of my time. One must first possess the substance before one can make a mark with it.”

“How long will your work take?”

Too long,
Blaise thought. The warmth of his costume and the din of the orchestra were making his heartbeat quicken and his head throb.

“Where is Catterwall?” Henry peered down at the crowd on the Rotunda floor. “He is meant to be seeking out magical signs and ciphers.”

“Perhaps Beelzebub has made away with him,” Trevelyan scoffed.

“I shall be very annoyed if he has.”

“Well,” said the poet, “I myself have been pondering signs and symbols since yesterday. England’s greatest poets and playwrights played with numbers. Words were made into numbers and numbers made into words using ancient Greek and Hebrew numerology. It is said that Mr. Shakespeare’s and Mr. Marlowe’s plays were rife with secret codes.”

“To what end?” asked Henry.

“’Twas the so-called art of mystical writing,” Trevelyan whispered, “meant to rouse hidden powers.”

Like the powers of the painted door?
Blaise knew he was not supposed to speak, but he could not help whispering, “How did they make their codes?”

Trevelyan hunched over the table, and the others bent closer. “The simplest way is this: assign a number to each letter of the alphabet. Therefore, A is 1, B is 2, C is 3 — and so on,” he said. “Using this method, the letters in TREVELYAN add up to 122. We add 1+2+2 and get 5. Therefore, 5 is my numerical name-symbol. Though I doubt it shall open any magical doors.”

“Maybe it would if you used the red elixir,” said Sunni in a small voice.

“Do you think Throgmorton has to write his personal number every time he goes through?” he whispered to Sunni. “Like a password. Maybe we’d have to do that, too.”

“Since Throgmorton isn’t a nine, he must use another name,” she replied under her breath.

In his head, Blaise began transforming the name THROGMORTON into a number. It added up to ten. But the other name painted onto the silver mirror in Livia’s portrait was a nine. His own name, Doran, was a seven.

Wheatley stuffed a piece of bread into his mouth. “The nine must awaken the inert, and once it is active, it may be transmuted. But for this, one will need the elixir.”

Blaise watched his thin lips move under the monumental beak. He knew this guy was helping them, but it didn’t mean he had to like him or enjoy being around him.

“Explain, sir,” said Trevelyan. “That is all Greek to me.”

“I think he means that the painted door has magic embedded in it,” said Blaise. “When Throgmorton draws a nine on it with his elixir, he makes the door materialize and open.”

“Why could you not just say so, Wheatley? Inertia and transmutation, indeed.” Trevelyan’s outlandish red nose bobbed up and down, and Blaise had to look away. He watched the swirling cloaks and masked faces below on the Rotunda floor and imagined elbowing his way through them to get to the fresh air outside.