Flights and Chimes and Mysterious Times (2 page)

A new wave of people brushed past, tickets clutched in their hands. It was easy to tell the ones who made regular journeys by their surefooted trots to the correct platforms, papers tucked under their arms, corners of leather satchels worn from use. Others were tentative, slow as they read their tickets over and over, or else looked to the uniformed station inspector for help. This, he gave, pointing meaty arms in the right direction, brass buttons gleaming and strained on his chest. His eye caught Lorcan’s and he smiled affably, seemingly assuming Lorcan was waiting to greet someone off the two-seventeen.

Which was true, in its way.

Two minutes.

One.

He heard it before he saw it, the
chug-chug
of the engine. If there’d been a normal heart in his chest, it would have changed to match the pace exactly, but he did not have a normal heart. Here, it could be said, he barely had a thing that could be termed a heart, simply a dead, useless lump in its place.

The train crawled into view, slowly swallowing the tracks as if it were tired and hungry from its long journey and, after it had eaten, could rest with its black nose nudged up to the
end of the platform. It gave a great, wheezy sigh, steam filling the station as the doors clanked open. Ghostly shapes of gentlemen helped ladies step down without turning an ankle.

He moved closer.

“Hurry up, Jack,” said a woman.

“Yes, Mother.”

Lorcan cared nothing for what this would do to the woman, who was a fool. Sending her son away to school, fetching him only for holidays that interfered with the lavish parties she threw for trivial reasons.

Not like the Lady, who would keep the boy Jack close, spoiling him with love and trinkets and cake, for all children enjoy cake.

It was inconvenient to do it this way, but Lorcan’s feet had sunk into the mud outside the high walls of the school, toes curled in frustration that there was no way to lure the boy out. No way to tell him he would be taken to a better place, to the Lady, to be the next son of the Empire of Clouds. And this way did have some benefits.

There he was.

Jack looked like the Lady, the same dark hair and eyes, the same smooth skin, though his had a smattering of freckles across the nose, which Lorcan knew would delight her. He was slightly short for his age, but healthy otherwise, a robust pinkness to his cheeks. Suit creased in
the way of all young boys, the tail of a black- and blue-striped tie peeking from his satchel, the toes of his shoes shined to mirror-glass.

A perfect choice, and Lorcan had put in too much effort to stop now. Months, it had taken him. Months of watching, deciding, waiting, and the time he had been given was nearly up.

If Lorcan was reduced to parlor tricks and a few well-placed lies to obtain him, so be it. It was a small sacrifice, and there was none too large to please the Lady.

“Stay here while I see to your things and arrange for a hansom. Your father needed Wilson and the carriage today,” said the fool, her elegant green dress fluttering as she left him—left him!—alone. Lorcan smiled, holding his breath until she was arranging for a porter to carry those possessions the boy felt he couldn’t do without for a short time.

Well, those could be replaced. He wouldn’t need them, in any case, not where he was going.

Lorcan’s hands twitched again. Tempting, so tempting, simply to grab the boy and run, but he had not gotten this far without patience. There was always the chance he would be caught, however small, and were that to happen, he would never make it home to the Lady.

Anything for the Lady. Nothing and nobody mattered more.

He gritted his teeth. He must do this; he had no choice.

The fool returned. She and Jack followed a trolley containing two small trunks, pushed by a uniformed man thin as a fiend. Lorcan let them get ahead, but not too far.

No, not too far.

He watched them climb into a cab, the fool’s nose wrinkled, the boy’s eyes alight with this rare adventure. The driver snapped the reins against a scrubby nag, which whinnied and snorted before pulling away.

A distasteful mode of transport, to be sure, but it could not be avoided. Lorcan hailed one of his own, giving an address in Mayfair he’d known for some time now.

The great clock tower at Westminster boomed across the city, marking the half hour. Lorcan jumped. It shouldn’t—Then he remembered.

It was a beautiful tower, brown stone and iron, an enormous, lovely clock. They had a name for the bell here. Big Ben, they called it. Ridiculous. He’d stolen every detail of the tower except that one.

He patted his pockets again, leaned back against the filthy cushions, and smiled.

Oh, the Lady would be so pleased.

J
ACK FOSTER SAT
on the grass in the garden, beyond the creeping reach of the house’s shadow, wishing he were somewhere else. Anywhere would be less dull than this house to which he was confined for the summer holidays.

It was an old house and very grand. The sort kept like a precious jewel, polished when necessary, and worn—comfortably or not—on the shoulders of the sons and daughters who inherited it. Ivy climbed the facade, hacked away from the windows by the gardener with a pair of wickedly sharp shears Jack had been forbidden ever to touch. Little boys had lost fingers, said Mrs. Pond. However much Jack bristled at being called a little boy, for he was nearly eleven, the thought
made him shiver. The blood, and a thing squirming wormlike on the ground.

In his imagination, they could always still move.

The clock in the hall chimed, loud enough to be heard outdoors. Jack opened his mouth as if to speak, and waited, an eye on the kitchen window.

“Come inside, Jack, and have some cake.”

Mrs. Pond was very punctual. Jack did not want cake. He wanted the rich, brown food at school, with its mysterious pieces of meat swimming in murky sludge, but he’d not dare say such a thing to Mrs. Pond. She was allowed to punish him, after all, and she wouldn’t understand why he was homesick for such an unappetizing meal.

“All right,” he called, loud enough that she’d hear him through the open kitchen window, not so loud as to disturb his mother and her guests.

He got to his feet, dragging them through the short grass as if they were forged from the metals that made his father so wealthy. Closer to the house, the scent of roasting lamb washed over him, almost a shadow in itself, dark and thick, and it made him cold to stand in.
Little boys
would be in bed by the time it was served to guests at the long table, the new electric lights bouncing off diamonds and feathers. Laughter would climb the stairs, tiptoe down the hallway to slither through the crack beneath his bedroom door. Later still, when the plates
were cleared away, shoes would trample between the dining room and the conservatory, where Jack’s mother would play the piano he’d once gotten into so much trouble for trying to take apart, just to see how it worked.

A knock sounded. Another visitor. Servants and tradesmen came in around the back, pressing a bell for entrance. Jack flattened himself to the wall, out of sight, as the maid hurried into the corridor that ran the length of the house, down the middle, widening to a large hall at the front door. Laughter came from the parlor set off to one side. Clumsy, stupid fingers fumbled with the locks. Jack hadn’t bothered to learn this one’s name. She’d be gone soon, as fast as the others, just as soon as she upset Mother over some tiny thing. Mother was quite in the habit of sending people away.

“A very good afternoon to you,” said the man at the door. Weak sunlight spread around him, so to Jack he was just a shadow, a dark outline, face featureless. Leaves blew in with him, curled like feathers, though it was summer and the trees should not be shedding yet.

And when Jack had been outside, there’d been no wind. A trick, then.

His voice was odd, though Jack couldn’t describe, precisely, what made it so. “I have been invited by the . . .” The man paused. The parlor door opened.

“You’ll be Mr. Havelock, of whom we’ve heard such
marvelous things,” said Jack’s mother. “Do come in. We’re gathered in the parlor. Your correspondence said no more than a half dozen, and I assure you, they are all sympathetic. Verity, please see to the gentleman’s coat. The parlor is dreadfully warm today.”

“Thank you, madam,” said Mr. Havelock. The door snapped shut. His shoes clicked on the floor, which was laid out like a checkerboard. Years earlier, Jack had tried to play a proper game of chess on it, but he had only normal-sized pieces, and one of Mrs. Pond’s sturdy shoes had sent two crucial pawns skittering as she carried a tray full of tea things into the parlor.

Mr. Havelock stood on a black tile, with his suit and fine leather case to match. Not like a king, thought Jack, but a rook, perhaps, tall and straight-shouldered. He was young—thirty at most—and his face was very smooth, with just a neat little mustache and beard to mar it. A small pair of spectacles covered his eyes, the oddest thing. Possibly he had some kind of ailment that called for the darkened lenses. Possibly he just wished to appear mysterious.

Verity moved to take Mr. Havelock’s thin coat. His arms were just free of the sleeves, a silk waistcoat revealed, when his hands jerked violently, making to grab the coat back. In shock, the maid dropped the thing, a half-dozen
small bits of metal tumbling from the pockets to spill and roll over the floor.

One hit the toe of Jack’s shoe in his hiding place, and he picked it up. It was nothing, a small bolt, filmed with rust. But it seemed of some import to Mr. Havelock, who was busy gathering up the others as Mrs. Foster scolded Verity for her clumsiness.

“Apologies,” said Mr. Havelock tightly. “Tools of the trade. I must keep them with me. Metal is essential. For its grounding properties, you understand.”

“Of course,” said Mrs. Foster, who clearly did
not
understand. “You’ve found them all?”

Mr. Havelock nodded. A smile flashed, quick and cold. “The child has one.”

Jack started, disturbing the shadows. From behind the smoky glass, Mr. Havelock stared right at him. His spine tingled.

“Jack?” his mother said, following Mr. Havelock’s gaze. He stepped out into the light, safe from her sharp tongue while there was a guest present. “What
are
you doing, sneaking around like that? Do they not teach manners at that school of yours? And do give Mr. Havelock back his . . . whatever it is.”

Or not so safe.

“Now, now, nothing wrong with curiosity! Come,
young man. Jack, you say?” His mother nodded. “Lorcan Havelock, at your service.”

Jack still could not see his eyes. His smile, though wide, pressed his lips to whiteness between the beard and mustache. His fingers twitched, as if reaching for the pocket watch that hung from a thick golden chain on his vest, but he let them fall to his side without checking the hour.

“Nice to meet you, sir,” said Jack. A proper greeting to please his mother. He held out the bolt.

“Yes.” A whisper, barely heard. The spectacles were like black, black eyes, staring at Jack. “Yes,” said Mr. Havelock, louder now, taking the bolt with cold fingers.

“You’re a magician,” said Jack.

The man’s other hand curled, crushing the brim of his hat. He smiled that thin-lipped smile again, and then it widened into something real. “But of course,” said Mr. Havelock, casting about until his eyes lit upon a vase filled with flowers picked by Mrs. Pond just that morning. He plucked one out, a big, fresh, yellow daisy, and Jack watched as, at Mr. Havelock’s touch, it wilted in seconds, petals falling dry and brown onto the floor. Jack gasped, but oh, that wasn’t the best of it. At a snap of the magician’s fingers, the petals rose, rejoined, bloomed back into brightness, and Jack stumbled backward.

“Do excuse him,” Mrs. Foster said. “His education is
dreadfully mundane. His father’s choice, you know. Mr. Havelock is our new
spiritualist
,” she said to Jack. “Highly recommended by the Society. And we simply must get started. Run along, and tell Mrs. Pond not to oversalt the meat.”