The Double Life of Incorporate Things (Magic Most Foul) (17 page)

I nodded at her and moved quietly into the hall. I remembered what had felt best when anything frightening had been placed in my path, and that was to move around it. To act. Paralysis would kill me. The only thing to fend off any recurrence of the madness that had overtaken me was to again stare the demons down, one by one. The Master’s Society and all its misguided experiments preyed on a mixture of fear and chaos leading to conditions for domination. I had to hope the demons and their agency hadn’t factored in the spirited rebellion of those they crossed. But it did make us marked targets.

I hoped that night I could dream, to pluck details from Jonathon’s innermost mind, wherein I would also see, surely, clues to my own doom. I had to believe those warnings could be avoided. If some increasingly slippery part of this ungodly puzzle would come for me regardless, I might as well meet it in battle...

Lavinia and I had agreed upon a time. We had packed what we could.

In each of our respective rooms, the bedclothes molded under the covers of each bed looked convincingly like a sleeping body.

We thought we were very clever.

We met in the hall at the appointed time, using the soft chime of the grandfather clock at the end of our corridor to mask the sound of the opening doors, the jostle of bags and the hatbox that served to carry far more than a hat, and our careful tread. Sneaking down the staircase as the bell continued to softly toll, we were painfully aware of every creak and slight murmur of the house, wincing at any and every sound.

We reached the downstairs landing. I could feel the tension thick in the air as we turned to each other. This was it. The point of no return. We were going forth unto an unknown world, an uncertain destiny, a future from which there might not be any coming back… And yet neither of us felt we had any other option. That was what the demons had done, propelled us forward on a terrible course that we could not begin to fathom the end of.

And then there was a movement from the shadows, blocking our path.

“Oh, no, you don’t!” Mrs. Northe scowled, turning the gas-lamp key of a front door sconce and throwing us into illumination.

So much for clever.

She placed one arm on either side of the doorframe to block us; the lavish bell sleeves of her thick satin dressing gown trimmed in fine lace spread and unfurled like formidable wings.

Lavinia shrank back, her shoulders falling, and she stammered in an effort to defend us, though her tone was one of distinct guilt. “Mrs. Northe, forgive me, you misunderstand—”

“No, she doesn’t misunderstand,” I murmured gently, ruefully. “She knows
exactly
what’s going on. Clairvoyance, and all…” I set down the hatbox before I went to her. I took one of her hands in mine, moved by the fierce quality upon her face, the face of a mother protecting her brood from leaving the safety of a den to run directly toward predators. “What? What is it that you see that has you so concerned when you know that avoiding the inevitable does us no good?”

“Death,” she choked.

I swallowed hard. “Death if I go, or death if I stay?”

“I...don’t know,” she said, looking at me helplessly. A helpless Mrs. Northe was one of the more terrifying things I’d encountered. Lavinia just looked from one of us to the other worriedly.

“I can’t take the risk of staying behind,” I said finally.

“How can I bear the risk of letting you go? I can’t let you. When I went Chicago to help my Amelia pass onto the next plane, she warned me that death lay ahead. I can’t allow you to doom yourself—”

“But the doom will find me if I am marked for it, you know that. It will find a way, but so will I. You know me—”

She closed her eyes as if the threat that next came out of her mouth was as intolerable to her as it was to me. “I could have you sent to an asylum—”

“You wouldn’t dare,” I said.

“I’d dare anything to protect you—”

“You have.” I fought to keep my words gentle. “You always have protected me. You always will. Just...let us choose our paths.”

“Your father will—”

“Never know, because you’ll make up something brilliantly creative—”

“Natalie, I sense
death
,” she cried. “You’re not prepared—”

“Do you see
my
death? Or simply death?”

“Not precisely, no, I can’t forsee a specific fate, but danger and death is a certainty, I cannot risk you—”

I sighed heavily. Lavinia was ashen pale at my side and yet still resolute. “I’ve faced death awake, I’ve faced it dreaming. I don’t like the idea, but I’ve a strong notion it will come for me regardless. I’d just rather it not be expecting me.”

There was a very long time where Evelyn Northe and I simply stared at each other.

“You realize you’re the bravest girl I’ve ever known,” she said finally. I felt tears threaten to sting my eyes, but I fought them back.

“I learned bravery from the mother who pushed me out of the way of a carriage and was run down instead. I learned bravery from a stepmother who doesn’t flinch at dark magic.”

Mrs. Northe blinked a moment. Then she realized that “stepmother” meant her, and it was then her turn to blink back tears.

But the moment of deep sentiment was short lived. Mrs. Northe’s expressive hazel eyes rolled back entirely, and her tall, slight form began to shake uncontrollably. A voice came from her that was not entirely her own, it was singsong and eerie. “They’ve gone to the house, and it is ashes…ashes…”

“What…what’s going on…” Lavinia said, looking at Mrs. Northe and then to me, terrified.

“I think… She’s channeling something,” I said slowly. “I hope it’s a spirit…”

“Let’s go,” Lavinia said and stormed to the door, blowing past our suddenly incapacitated hostess. “Natalie, come on. This is our chance—”

“But we can’t leave her—”

Lavinia rushed back into the base of the landing to emphatically ring the maid’s bell, picked up my hatbox from where I’d dropped it and shoved it at me, grabbed my hand, hoisting her satchel over her shoulder, and we flew out the door.

`Out the front door, I heard Mrs. Northe cry out: “Beware…all ye who journey there...”

It was hardly the parting words I wanted to hear. I wanted benedictions, not warnings. But then came a telling, shrieking addition.

“Heed the sequence,” Mrs. Northe cried, from whatever forces were utilizing her. “The order. The
book
.”

And that, I knew, was a clue. This was too chilling of a note to leave my mentor and spiritual warrior upon, but as Lavinia was physically dragging me away, I’d take whatever help I could get.

I paused outside just a moment, to see if there was anything else to be gleaned, but the maids had descended about her then; I heard fussing, and I could see the grouped shadow inside the beveled glass of the door. I was confident she’d be taken care of. Hopefully her staff would call Blessing, or maybe that senator, one of her powerful friends—if she didn’t come to after some time entranced.

At least the spirits were trying to help us.

At least I
hoped
it was the spirits speaking through her and not something else…

What happened to get me onto this steamer was an elaborate process that I undertook without pausing for reflection or consideration. Lavinia and I agreed to banish sentiment and second-guessing, like discarding excess ballast from a ship, in order to make ourselves light, efficient, dynamic, and quick. Uninterrupted by fears or beset by counterproductive worry.

She had planned this out on her own, and I was not a hindrance to that plan. Rather, I think my presence emboldened her. Having spent a life without speaking, I was quite used to doing things on my own, and where Lavinia faltered, I stepped up with confidence. Where I was out of my league in the business and details of international travel, Lavinia filled the breach.

We passed the few hours until the next boat out with one of Lavinia’s Association friends down near Pearl Street, a convenient walk from Cunard offices for the tickets. From there, it was a brief jaunt to the pier and then out on the first express steamer possible. I kept looking around for Mrs. Northe, or my father, fully expecting either of them to try to intercept us there—it wasn’t like steamers to England kept their schedules private.

Part of me wanted them to stop me. But the rest of me knew this, just like everything else the dark magic had wrapped us up in, was inevitable. Mrs. Northe was likely still recovering from what had been a somewhat violent-looking channeling, and my father was still asleep. I promised myself I would write and wire him whenever possible. I owed him that much and so much more than my circumstances allowed me to give.

I moved, acted, and reacted as if I were a horse with blinders, staring straight ahead at my next immediate objective, unable to heed my mind’s various cries, denying the sense memory of what it was like to have that dark magic breathing down my neck and prickling upon my skin. Though those discomfiting sensations threatened to overtake me one by one, I beat them back with sheer will. I drove myself like a draft horse pulling weight, moving onward toward a specific task.

It was the second or the third day in—the days began to blur immediately—that I allowed myself to truly pause for breath, staring out over the vast and unfathomable Atlantic Ocean under a brilliantly moonlit sky that I hadn’t seen quite so unhindered in some time, due to Manhattan’s constant gaslight. I permitted a moment to take stock of myself and my state. My anxiety kept pace at a dull thrum to match the steam engines decks below my boots. I had hoped against hope the steamer would make a bit better headway and arrive to port a bit ahead of schedule.

This large, impressive boat made me nervous. While the view above me and around me remained spectacular in theory, the truth of it was terrifying. I had never been this far out on the ocean, and I didn’t realize how much it would unsettle me until it was far too late to turn back. The steamboat was indeed a wonder, but its behemoth engines were also like strange monsters of this modern world that seemed at any moment able to turn into dragons that could eat us all alive. My father was right. My imagination was far too fertile.

Every now and then I felt tears itching at the very back of my eyes like small pixies, emotional imps demanding I pay attention to all the things I refused to face. All the potential realities. All the potential finalities. But I bit everything back. Perhaps the rolling crest of seasick nausea was its own blessing, for it was quite a distraction.

In the pocket of my modest linen pinafore, I palmed my notebook in a trembling hand. That simple action allowed for my tensed shoulders to fall just a fraction. Each of my notebooks through the years always proved such a comfort as they were the infallible way I communicated with the world. On a page, I could converse and present arguments with my inner self that needed to externalize its thoughts. The written word had proved in my life to be far more reliable than speech ever was. I’d had far more years writing and communicating in Standard Sign than I’d had actually speaking. The written word held a power that the ephemeral spoken word did not, and I valued the written word like I would a vow.

I flipped through to the latter pages of the notebook, where I’d managed to write down Mrs. Northe’s final warnings. I knew better than to ignore or disregard anything out of that woman’s mouth, especially if she were in contact with the spirit realm.

A book. A sequence. Whatever had overtaken Mrs. Northe zeroed in on those items. I wondered if any of what had come before, the countercurses we’d learned, the ways of a split soul, beating the Society at their own games and particular experiments would serve us anymore, or if we were instead dealing with another layer of puzzles. The aforementioned clues would crop up, surely, and I hoped I would know them when I saw them and have an instinct as to how to solve their mysteries.

But first, the only sight I was desperate to see was Jonathon Whitby’s beautiful face. I wondered if he missed me. If he’d propose again. I’d not hesitate. I’d say yes. Every moment away from him, every circumstance keeping us apart, proved that I simply didn’t want to live a life without him. Here I was placing myself in danger just like I’d always done for him, because I simply couldn’t take a reactive stance. I had to
do
something, and it was for his sake, because he was
such
a good soul. And I’d seen it, held it, cherished that soul. I’d never met another quite like his. Never would. Never needed to.

Everything around Jonathon had been targeted, as the powers of evil always gravitated toward the brightest lights. And we now sought to control the epicenter of that outbreak.

I wondered if there was yet a reason to be revealed as to why Jonathon and his family had been chosen as an initial point of entry for the Master’s Society, besides Jonathon’s inherent goodness. What of his family? The Denbury lineage? Was it as noble and good as its heir?

The fleeting thought crossed my mind that Jonathon might be dead. I swiftly blocked that from even being a possible reality. Not only did I pray for God’s help but I demanded of God’s will that Jonathon lived. I needed to dream of him again, to keep me going, to remind me why. I needed him to be there when I landed. I needed something solid.