Transmuted Page 6

  Oh, yes, I enjoyed it, but I would not so easily submit.

  For many years, Hawke’s usual order was that I should leave—exit the Menagerie, leave him alone, and while I was at it, refrain from meddling in affairs that were not mine. That such an order had become one that bound us together was a fine difference.

  Not altogether welcome. Not entirely unwelcome.

  I was, no doubt about it, a mess. My laughter was as much at myself as it was him.

  Hawke’s jaw locked.

  Ashmore set the whole of cup and saucer down. It clinked delicately. “He is right.”

  My amusement died a sudden death. “What? Are you serious?”

  “Much as I loathe to agree with him,” my tutor added.

  Hawke snarled, for all not a sound escaped.

  Ashmore ignored him with great relish—I was not the only of us who enjoyed baiting the tiger. “Trust in us, minx,” he added. “I understand you cannot refuse an order from Her Majesty, and the clues do seem to point us rather clearly to the Underground, but it won’t be as simple as all that.”

  Eureka. I leaned forward, glowering at both men in turn. “What is it you learned last night?”

  I expected a runaround. To my surprise, and no small amount of gratitude, they barely exchanged a glance—and woe betide them if they had. I’d more than a lifetime of glances exchanged over my head as though I were something to be discussed, handled and otherwise ignored.

  “Poplar and Ratcliff have been quiet of late,” Ashmore said. A good sign, for they had until recently been the haunt of the Black Fish Ferrymen.

  “The request Communion placed,” Hawke continued, “was not for a brawl, but the need for tracking.”

  Now this a lady could get behind. “I could help—”

  “No need,” Hawke cut in.

  Ashmore gentled it. “Near as we can piece it together,” he explained, tone gaining an evenness of serious regard, “the last of the beasts have vanished from the drift.”

  I sat back, one finger tapping against the parchment. “How many are left?”

  Ashmore came ready with an answer. “No more than a handful, if that. Perhaps two, if the surviving Ferrymen are telling true.”

  “No reason to assume they lie.” I was fully confident that few of the mug-hunters had the wherewithal to lie outright to Ishmael Communion. They’d require spines of bloody steel to do it. “The beasts aren’t like to go up. And they aren’t so clever as to vanish.”

  “Which leaves one avenue,” Ashmore agreed.

  That would make everything so much more complicated. “Bloody posies and the Devil’s own,” I swore, pounding my fist into my other hand.

  Ashmore’s mild wince was one that often accompanied my outbursts. While I might be a Society pariah, I was still far better educated than an uncivilized oath as that.

  Hawke did not wait for me to frame the deduction I’d come to. “Rest assured, the last of the Veil’s dogs have slipped into the Underground.”

  “Which means,” my tutor added, staring at me with intensity, “you will not be going without an escort.”

  “Even if,” Hawke said on a curt note, “we must go together.”

  Full circle, then.

  “Goodness,” I managed, a faint smile tugging at my lips despite the ache gathered in my chest. “To think you’d go so far.”

  Hawke was not the sort to tolerate my childish games any further than to a point. He strode from his place at the window, stopped before me and without so much as a by-your-leave, caught the back of my head in one hard hand.

  His fingers thrust taut into my hair, dislodging pins Zylphia had so painstakingly placed.

  To my left, I sensed Ashmore’s stillness—considered that he might be preparing for conflict, but I did not cry out. There was no need.

  This rough handling, this incautious regard, was part of what etched Hawke into my very blood and bone.

  Forced to tip my head up farther than comfortable, I met the gaze of a man whose veneer only barely contained the aggressive creature within. The brown of his eyes was a welcome return after too long a time spent blue—the sign of imbalance, as I’d come to know it, of that powerful other—yet that swatch of blue that cut down his left burned like a brand.

  “Do not,” Hawke said in low tones, every syllable an order—and a plea, though it might never seem so to anyone else, “act on your own. Do not take this as lightly as you do all things.”

  “Hawke,” said Ashmore, his pleasing tenor rife with warning.

  To him, I imagined this looked terribly forceful.

  It was. A potent, deliberate claiming and a line drawn all the same. This far, and no farther.

  The man looming over me bent until his eyes filled my vision and the fragrance of him— spicy and hot and ever so familiar to my shuddering senses—assailed me. “Do not push me more than you already do,” he growled.

  Ashmore stood, a shock of orange over Hawke’s shoulder. Yet before he could say or do anything, Hawke let me go, slanted my tutor a look of unmitigated challenge, and strode from the parlor.

  I lifted a faintly trembling hand to the back of my hair, which was at risk of falling from its remaining pins.

  The front door slammed.

  I winced. It would wake Fanny.

  The shuddering pulse of my heartbeat echoed in my ears.

  Ashmore sighed. He touched my shoulder with a gentle hand. “I often question your affections, you know.”

  It was as near enough to argument over Hawke’s standing as we ever achieved.

  I returned to him a rueful smile. “I know.”

  And still, my heart raced like a virginal maiden’s, and my scalp prickled with the remainder of the heat Hawke’s fingers had impressed upon my skin.

  I never called it love. Love turned so many into traitors, murderers and fools. It laid down demands that only the mad would follow.

  It left scars in its wake.

  Ashmore squeezed my shoulder, as though he knew all too well that what rode me. “Come. Let us see these papers of yours. Perhaps there are further clues to garner.”

  Chapter Six

  Dawn brought with it the bustle of activity, and the first pangs of lost sleep. My limbs felt sluggish, heavier than they should. An ache whispered through my head, and I fought it back.

  Though I hadn’t ever taken entirely to coffee, preferring the panacea of tea instead, I accepted Ashmore’s offering of the bitter Turkish brew to combat my weariness.

  Zylphia had returned to bed already, complaining of a nausea that set in shortly after we had arrived home.

  Pots and pans clattered from the kitchen, and as Ashmore and I pored over the documents afforded me by Lady Rutledge’s demand, I heard Mrs. Booth’s distinctive murmuring as she spoke with Levi.

  The boy had lingered later than usual, sleeping somewhat more soundly into the morning and now devouring his repast. I hoped to give him a note to pass his master that might excuse his tardiness. My house-boy had, after all, saved me.

  Ever since the onset of sobriety—a condition I labored long and hard to maintain, despite the frequency and ease with which laudanum could be acquired—my tastes had run to tart and bitter over sweet. Mrs. Booth had taken to canning marmalade in place of the sweeter strawberry I had once favored, and the teas she acquired at market tended towards black and smoky.

  Fanny, for her part, still favored a strong bergamot, and as that fragrance drifted from the kitchen, I knew it for the warning it was—my companion would be up and about soon.

  Wouldn’t she be tickled to find me already at the table?

  Once Ashmore had committed the documents to memory, he took his leave, stifling a yawn. “Be sure to rest,” he said before he left. “At two this afternoon, we will need to continue your progress.”

  He did not indicate which continuity I was to focus on, but I had no need for the reminder. I was well aware of my own lessons, as the Trumps I struggled to master continued to evade my grasp.


  Ashmore took to his bed with warm apologies to Mrs. Booth, who promised to wrap him a plate for later.

  Left alone in the dining room, parchment spread about me, I plunked both elbows upon the table and frowned most fiercely. Now I would have to bend all my will upon the studies Ashmore tutored me in, and refrain from the distraction of a stolen diamond and a sneakthief with access to the Underground.

  As noteworthy as those concerns were, my studies would not allow for distractions. One misstep and there could be disastrous consequences.

  Among the various truths of alchemy, those things found outside the frame of one’s own self included the matter of the Trumps. Symbolically represented by an old Tarot deck of Italian make, similar to that I’d expect the elucidated Nicholin Folsham to possess in his own time, each Trump was best personified by the Major Arcana that embodied it.

  While I had originally thought it so much claptrap, symbolism as useless as any religion, I had seen for myself its efficacy—and tasted its power thanks to the ghost of my mother, who had bound herself to me in a failed bid for immortality. Doing so had given me access to Trumps then that fair knocked me on my arse when I attempted them now.

  At her final and inarguable demise, much of my so-called skill had fallen with her. That my talent, as I’d come to consider it, had been in thanks to her meddling was not a feeling that sat well. I was determined to master the Trumps of my own ability.

  Of course, the art seemed somewhat determined to foil me.

  As alchemy is the process by which one attains perfection, mirroring that of the Fool’s journey in the Tarot, Ashmore utilized Tarot in order to teach me the symbolic path to that perfection.

  I had mastered two Trumps already. Apis and Bacatus-Typhon were considered fairly straightforward, even by my lowered standards. I had successfully utilized the latter by applying its duality to Hawke himself.

  I was attempting to master the third Trump and having little luck; Caeles-Isis, who corresponded to the number three and represented the divine, proved to be a slippery one. That I struggled with understanding the concept—the place of an Egyptian goddess who raised her slain husband to beget a son, thereby cementing a trinity—no doubt helped nothing.

  Even thinking of the Trump exhausted me. Calling upon it would do worse than that.

  It was more than ignorance that divided the alchemist from any fool who knew the name of the Trumps to call. Ashmore bore upon his pale forearms black symbols of alchemical formulae, many sigils written in such a way as to bolster those things he required of his own spirit and body.

  I had similar symbols etched onto the soles of my feet, though they were much smaller and baser in design. As I improved in my studies, I would combine these foundation formulae with those of my own making. Such was the personal journey of the alchemist. No two would feature the exact same formulae, just as no two spirits were the same.

  Without that alchemical base, the Trumps might very well wreak havoc upon my wellbeing, leaching away my strength until I expired. Or, worse, the power might slip the shackle of my command and wreak bloody havoc.

  This was no game to be played by them what dabbled.

  Which was another reason why I could not share such knowledge with any, much less with the curious Lady Rutledge and her salon. Power corrupted. Sometimes physically, readily at a glance, and sometimes in much less obvious ways.

  One of the lady’s members, an adventurous woman by name of Miss Hensworth, had taken great risks with her limited alchemical know-how, and it had cost her slowly in sanity— and then quickly in body and life.

  I had not been swift enough to save her, nor was I certain she would have chosen safety at the last.

  The bugger of it all was that I’d supported her cause—the equality of women in intellectual fields was as obvious and natural to my way of thinking as oxygen to the lungs.

  Staccato footsteps echoed down the hall, and as Mrs. Booth’s voice rose in mock-dismay, Levi darted into the dining room. He was much more awake than last I’d seen him, with bright eyes and a roll shoved half in his mouth. A second filled one hand, while a small basket hung from his arm.

  I caught him before he slipped past, tugging at his sleeve. “Go fetch me paper and pen, Levi.”

  “Mm,” he replied around the roll, and did just so.

  I did not expect Mrs. Booth to come after the boy; she always made enough repast for his growing body to consume and only played at the indignant housekeeper.

  I penned for Levi a brief note of apology, and included my gratitude to the master glassmaker for his perseverance in teaching my houseboy. I sealed it. “Don’t dawdle,” I warned.

  Mouth having cleared in the interim, Levi smiled broadly at me. He’d always been a cheeky kinchin, and this had only deepened once he’d been made aware of my adventurous proclivities. I didn’t know if he knew of my history as a collector, but he knew enough to fancy me mired in many exploits.

  “I’ve got dis-pen-sation,” he announced, sounding off the word with awkward emphasis but notable pride. “Master has me crossing the drift in search of mercury.” A quick hand tucked the letter into the front of his overalls.

  I cupped my chin in hand and raised my eyebrows. “Mercury? I thought the mirrormakers no longer used it.” Not since a cheaper alternative had been found and made rather more accessible than the antiquated Venetian methods so jealously guarded.

  Levi’s eyes gleamed like the glass he helped shape. Little blighter was too obviously pleased to know something I did not. “Right enough,” he said, “right enough, but it ain’t always for the glass.” He scraped his dark hair back, and not for the first time, I considered how much he’d grown.

  Were I to stand, he would look me direct in the eye.

  I pitied those girls that might turn sweet on the boy. He was pure mischief, almost as bad as a young circus-boy of my acquaintance. If I ever found myself mired in boredom, I might seize the opportunity to introduce the mischievous Flip to my equally impish house-boy.

  No doubt the two would get on smashingly. Flip, after fleeing the Menagerie, had found a home with the Bakers. Ish, bless his abnormally large heart, had taken in many of the pleasure garden’s strays.

  “Master gilds sometimes,” Levi continued, struggling into the lighter jacket Mrs. Booth had mended for him. Even below the drift, a man of a certain distinction wore a jacket. Levi was learning a trade, ergo, it was expected that he do the same. “Mercury’s needed for the washgilding, which comes out shiny and smooth.” A pause. “At least when hedoes it.”

  I chuckled, unable to keep myself from ruffling the boy’s hair. “You’ll get better, right enough. Keep working hard.”

  “Aye, miss,” he replied cheerfully.

  “Good lad. Now be swift,” I added, “or no letter will excuse your tardiness.”

  “Aye!” Fishing another roll from his bulging pockets, he crammed it into his mouth and took his leave.

  I rested a cupped palm over my weary eyes.

  Mercury, aside from its state as a liquid metal used in various trades, also tended to be a common alchemical artifact. Like arsenic, it could be highly dangerous in the wrong hands. Less overtly deadly, of course, but there were no shortage of cautionary tales of alchemists ingesting the stuff and subsequently expiring.

  Whether it was the ingredients themselves, whatever chemical reaction caused by mixing them, or mere coincidence, I was not inclined to favor an explanation of harmlessness.

  To think overly long upon it might be lending too much conspiracy to nothing at all. I was not so far gone as to start looking under every rock for the merest mystery.

  So enmeshed in my thoughts was I that I failed to take note of steps upon the stair, or of the pale blue eyes that surveyed the less than courteous tableau I displayed.

  “Cherry, my dove, have you forgotten where you are?” Fanny’s mild censure slipped through my focus.

  I snapped to attention, back straighter than my corset forced,
and a ready welcome came to my lips. “Good morning, Fanny.”

  Although my chaperone had always been old, it seemed to me as if she wore it more openly these days. Her skin was ghostly pale but for the blue veins dancing beneath, and her hair much more white than the iron it had once displayed. Her hands, gloved now as dictated by the strictures to which she stubbornly ascribed, bore the mottled signs of her age.

  The physician had come and gone once in the past fortnight. Fanny had complained of an inability to breathe fully, and I had thought it best to have her examined. The laudanum he prescribed remained under Ashmore’s care.

  That I was very much aware of that was a matter of course.

  No sooner had Fanny seated herself than Booth appeared to make short works of my strewn papers and the settings of each place. “Thank you,” I said to him.

  As was his rote, he inclined his head and departed for his wife’s company. The food would come soon enough.

  “Did you sleep well?” I asked.

  Fanny slanted me an arch stare. “You needn’t speak to me as though I am made of porcelain. I slept quite well, thank you,” she added before I could protest. “Though some concerns earlier that briefly woke me. A bit of a disturbance, I gather?”

  An understatement, but one I let alone. “Nothing to worry about,” I assured her. “A simple matter easily rectified.” I always trod as lightly as possible when it came to such difficulties as that which I took a hand in. For all that Fanny, once a severe woman of careful distinction, had come to tolerate—if not welcome—my interests, there were still many things that worried her.

  I no longer wished to be a source of worry.

  So I skated over truths, touched on such matters as might make her less nostalgic for the Society functions to which she had been accustomed, and when I could force myself to do so, shared what gossip I gleaned from the periodicals.

  I no more fooled her than I did myself, but she allowed me the attempt. Fanny graciously thanked Booth as he brought out first the tea, then the repast Mrs. Booth had so dedicatedly turned out for us.