Gilded Lily (13 page)

Another time, she'd nearly set the empty wing on fire when she set her lantern on a chair that was too rickety to take even that slight weight. The whole thing had toppled over, and the candle had tumbled from the lantern and ignited the cobwebs between the chair legs. She'd barely managed to stamp out the flames with her feet before they spread.

“It is lucky,” she agreed. “But it wasn't terrible. I learned a great deal.”

“With the clockwork pieces?”

“Those too. At the time my father still liked my propensity for tinkering, and he let me bring the menagerie to his workshop. I would study what the masters and journeymen did, and apply everything I saw to repairing the toys until they were all running again. But really, what I learned from the whole experience is that I can sometimes create options where none seem to exist.” And she'd learned not to let her father hear her talk of a desire to become a makesmith herself. That sort of talk had gotten her banned from even visiting the factory, much less spending time on the workshop floor. Her father wouldn't hear of Freddie sullying herself by taking up a trade.

“Is that what you were trying to teach Lady Sophronia? The lock-picking was just a metaphor?”

She reminded herself yet again to be patient. To remember that Barnabas had never truly been circumscribed in his life and simply couldn't grasp what it really meant to have no options available. To even have to create one's own alternatives. “Sophie's parents were more desperate for money than anyone but their creditors knew. She was their one hope of resolving their financial difficulties in a single swoop, and they weren't going to waste her. They polished her until she shone, they gave her everything she needed to be successful on the marriage mart, but they were more about the stick than the carrot. Not the literal stick,” she hastened to assure him. “She had this aunt, you see. Her aunt Elizabeth. She'd only known her for a short time, back when she was a little girl and Elizabeth was about to make her debut. Something bad happened, Sophie never knew exactly what, and one day Elizabeth was gone. The official story was that she'd suffered from a nervous condition, and had to move to the country for her health. That her constitution was too delicate for marriage. For years, that's what Sophie believed.”

“And the truth?”

“Because of her nervous condition, she'd refused to marry the man her family chose for her. She refused to marry at all. After they'd failed to convince her, they had her declared insane and committed to an asylum. And before they sent Sophie to France—which they only did to delay her debut for a year, giving them more time to come up with the money to fund it—they told her the truth. A little cautionary tale, with her ‘bon voyage.' It was not entirely a lie, of course. The asylum
is
in the country. A sanitarium, really.”

Barnabas was shaking his head. “That doesn't really happen in this day and age. Surely Lady Sophie must have misunderstood, or . . . perhaps the woman was simply genuinely ill. If she weren't, they never would have kept her at the sanitarium once it was clear she didn't need their care.”

“You think so? An overdose of laudanum. A suicide note, in what appeared to be her handwriting. A devoted family claiming a history of such attempts. And a patient who denies these very clear proofs, and also demonstrates paranoia by implicating her family in a conspiracy to make her appear a lunatic. There's really no way to know who's telling the truth; even Sophie says the family truly believes the woman is mad. But even if she isn't, the presumption favors the people doing the committing, not the patient. Sophie's parents also made it very clear to her that a family history of insanity would only make it easier for them to repeat the process. For her own good, of course. Because she would have to be a lunatic to deny a reasonable proposal.”

“Good God.”

“I suspect God abandoned the case years ago. The locks weren't a metaphor for Sophie. Learning to pick them was a survival skill. In case she ever truly needed to escape. Fortunately for her, it didn't come to that.” Freddie pulled her feet up beneath her, squirming to make herself more comfortable on the seat.

“Because she accepted Wallingford.” Barnabas sounded dubious, still.

“He seemed by far the best alternative.”

“I suppose he was.”

“How magnanimous of you to allow for such a possibility.”

He looked at her, clearly bruised by the touch of sarcasm evident in her tone. “I can't pretend to know what the ordeal was like for Lady Sophronia. However, I can still feel for my brother. He was a reserved and steady man, not given to dramatics. If the affair affected him as deeply as it seems to have done, caused such an upheaval that he turned to narcotics to forget, he must have been truly in love with the lady. The circumstances were unfortunate for him too, not her alone.”

She nodded, ashamed of herself. Of course Barnabas thought of his brother first, as was only right. Sophie herself was inclined to remark on all the various extenuating circumstances surrounding that time in her life, giving credit wherever she possibly could. It was easy for Freddie, on the outside, to take an extreme view. It didn't really impact her directly.

“My turn to ask you a question.”

Barnabas stifled a yawn. “All right.”

“What will you do if you find your brother and he really is an opium addict, and a smuggler?”

“He isn't.”

“But if he is?”

Barnabas's profile was impassive, stern. “If he is, at least I'll
know
. It's the uncertainty I can't live with. I don't know how anybody can.”

“Will you club him over the head and try to drag him back to civilization?”

“No. I don't think so, at least. In the moment, perhaps I'd feel differently. I might make the attempt. But I still don't believe it of him. There's something else going on.”

“It's nice. That you believe in him like that.”

Freddie had no siblings, no close cousins, very few true friends. Even her connection with Sophie was only of ten years' duration or so. A lifelong attachment, like that between two brothers, was beyond her imagining. Who would look for her that way, live only for her to be found, believe in her despite all reason, if she became lost to the world? Nobody. Her father had his work. Her mother had her friends. Even Sophie, Freddie knew, had an occasional gentleman caller whose identity she never revealed.

Freddie had a passing acquaintance with dozens of tradesfolk and scores of the gentility, her sometimes strained friendships with Dan and Sophie, and a few stolen hours with a man she shouldn't trust as well as she did. Her body still remembered his, as though he'd imprinted on her in some secret code of touch and yearning. She was attuned to him, like it or not. She had no idea whether she liked it, but she planned to experiment further if the opportunity arose. Because he was safe and had no choice but to be discreet. And because she couldn't seem to help herself.

The wind on their faces was drying and unpleasant, inclining both of them to close their eyes a good deal. That in turn led to the inevitable sleep, which at least alleviated the boredom of the long ride under the channel.

A shrill ringing woke Freddie from a convoluted dream involving her father, a cannon, and a transparent, tentacled sea creature that seemed bent on pulling the top off St. Paul's Cathedral. As it was on land, she wasn't sure how she knew the creature was from the sea. But it was, and her father was bent on destroying it. In the dream it had seemed imperative that she stop him, but the instant she woke she wondered why, as one would think a monument-destroying amphibious sea monster would be less than desirable to keep around.

Barnabas stirred beneath her, mumbling something about the bell. Freddie realized her face was pressed into his shoulder. Sitting upright abruptly, she felt her cheek, where it was clear she had an impression from his epaulet.

“Damn.”

“What's that noise?”

“Oh.” The bell was trilling from the control panel, and one glance shot Freddie into immediate action. “It's a proximity alarm, I think. We must be nearly there!” She flipped switches, praying she understood the sequence correctly, and crossed her fingers waiting to see if the carriage would slow in time. If she was in error, they might be flung head over heels when the cart reached the end of its track. If that happened, it would surely draw unwanted attention, and their injuries would become the least of their worries.

To her vast relief, the carriage bled speed, losing velocity until they could see the individual green lights blip by once more. They spotted the end of the tunnel and watched it loom close, at a speed slightly greater than Freddie was comfortable with. They still had some momentum at the end of the tracks, enough to bump the carriage up in a frightful bounce. If they hadn't been clinging to the sides, they'd have been jolted loose from the seat. But the bump was enough to stop the cart, and it slid back down onto the tracks to settle quietly as the engine wound down.

“Are you all right?” Barnabas asked, raising a hand to Freddie's cheek.

She felt herself blushing as she pulled away. “I'm fine. That happened . . . before. When we were asleep. It's from your shoulder. It should fade soon.”

“Oh, I see.”

“Are you hurt?”

“No, I'm quite well. So. Shall we?”

The vestibule on this end was empty, as Freddie had hoped. Construction appeared complete, and a double door of glossy dark wood graced the end of the chamber instead of a lift cage. They paused before the doors, gathering themselves. She wished there were a hope of finding a water closet beyond the portal, and wondered that she hadn't considered such a fundamental concern before embarking on a several-hour trip into the unknown. Still, there was nothing to be done about it now save exercising self-control and hoping for the best.

“Remember to look terribly interested in your documents,” she reminded Barnabas, straightening his collar. He, in turn, adjusted her cap, tucking up a stray wisp of hair and letting his hand linger at her earlobe until she blushed and looked away.

“Don't forget to salute if anyone stops us,” he said, breaking the tension. “And let me do the talking.”

“Aye, sir!” She snapped to attention and cocked her arm sharply, and Barnabas returned the salute with a cheeky grin.

He really did look quite handsome in that uniform.

“All right. On we go.”

She turned the knob, opened the door . . . and was nearly deafened as a klaxon started to sound.

H
IS FIRST INSTINCT
was to close the door and run back to the cart. Freddie was already inside, however, so Barnabas could only hover in the doorway and try to restrain his panic.

“Get back,” he whispered frantically. She either couldn't hear or chose to ignore him. She seemed to be observing the apparent chaos in front of them.

Not chaos, Barnabas realized after a moment. It was order, urgently executed. Officers in uniforms dashed from one console to another in the large, circular depression that seemed to house the station's command center. He couldn't begin to guess what all the machines did, what the printed tapes meant, where the tangle of copper tubes and conduits led. But clearly, the men and women of the station did know and were operating in some state of high alarm. He didn't blame them, as his own heart was beating at a hazardous pace.

“Echo Alert,” a voice blasted over a loudspeaker, tinny and distorted from the high volume. “Echo Alert. All hands commence quake protocol one-A. This is not a drill.”

“The alarm wasn't because of us,” Freddie exclaimed, backing toward the door and speaking over the din. “It's an earthquake. They're preparing for another earthquake. Look, I think they're planning to evacuate.”

Indeed, the Navy personnel were peeling off and disappearing through various exits at an increasing rate. Soon the chamber would be empty.

“Let's go back.”

“Excellent idea.” He held the door for her but was dismayed when she stopped immediately on the other side of it once it was closed, instead of proceeding to the carriage.

“I can't believe our luck!” she shouted. The shrill alarm was no quieter on this side of the door.

Flabbergasted, Barnabas gestured toward the tracks. “I thought we were
going
.”

“Don't be silly. This is perfect. Nobody should be exiting this way; they expect the carriage to be at the other end. Did you notice most of them were heading for the doorway to the right of this one? That must be the direction of the submersible docks. We can wait right here for the room to empty out, and then follow them down that hallway. They'll all be distracted. Then they'll be gone and we'll have the run of the place to find what we need.”

“In an earthquake.”

“It won't last long.”

“But . . . an earthquake. They all seem to feel it's worth abandoning ship immediately—or station, rather—for this. Shouldn't we do likewise?”

“By what means?” She gave a philosophical shrug. “We can't go back the way we came; the tunnel probably isn't any safer than the station itself, and even if it doesn't collapse entirely we could end up trapped halfway with no provisions. And we'd be spotted as impostors in no time if we tried to join the rest on one of the subs they're using.”

“It doesn't seem sensible to stay,” he insisted. He knew he was fighting a losing battle. He was fairly certain he couldn't deny this woman anything, that he would follow even her most outrageous whims. Worse, he suspected that Freddie could also sense this about him.

“It wasn't sensible to come in the first place,” she reminded him. “But as we're here, we might as well try to get what we came for. If the earthquake makes that possible, well . . . so now we wait for that big control room to clear out.”

As one, they pressed their ears to the door, listening for any remaining hint of activity as if they might actually hear anything over the alarm bell. Freddie finally risked a peek, cracking the door open a fraction of an inch for a few seconds before closing it again.

“I didn't see anyone left. I couldn't see the whole room, though. Do you suppose they're all leaving by submersible, or by the other underground tunnel, the France one?” she asked.

“If the other side is like this one, I'd imagine submersible. There seemed to be dozens of crew members inside, and those were only the ones we could see. The carriage in the tunnel wouldn't be large enough to transport more than a few, and they'd be at risk in the tunnel the entire time. It seems as though a submersible would carry more of them and be safer. I wonder how much advance warning the—”

The ground bumped beneath their feet, a palpable and unnerving bounce. Then another, accompanied by a vibration that rattled their teeth in their heads as they tried to keep their footing.

“This seems worse than the last one,” Freddie cried out, clinging to the doorknob.

Barnabas fully expected the tunnel to collapse on them at any moment. “It is worse! Let's get inside the station.” He jerked his side of the door open and hurried her inside, only to stop and stare with horror at the now-unoccupied chamber. He hadn't seen much else than the scurrying officers on his first glance. Now that the vast room was vacant, Barnabas could appreciate the magnitude of the space, and the majestic proportions of its ceiling which vaulted in a framework of metal, wood and glass up into the waters of the channel itself. A seascape, directly over their heads, held off only by some shards of glass that seemed absurdly fragile from his point of view. In a delicate frame that was currently receiving sharp jolts to its base in the bedrock.

“God, that's beautiful,” was Freddie's assessment.

She was correct, but only in a certain sense. “Yes, hemlock flowers are lovely too, but they're still likely to kill you if you're not careful.”

“Everyone's gone, at least. I wonder for how long? The quake's already subsiding.”

He started to disagree with her, then realized she was right about that. The ground gave another fitful shrug, then settled into a broody stillness. Having felt it shudder, Barnabas no longer trusted it to remain solid. A queasy uncertainty lingered with him, convincing him that he simply wasn't meant for high adventure. The rippling, water-filtered light throughout the room, while beautiful, only added to his sense of unsteadiness.

“I would hazard a guess that they're gone until after the risk of aftershocks has lessened to an acceptable degree. Of course that could mean any number of things. They could be headed back already.”

The klaxon stopped sounding as he spoke, leaving him to shout the last few words into the suddenly still room. Freddie lifted her eyebrows, clearly amused.

“We should get to exploring, then.” She sounded more excited than frightened, but there was an edge to her voice that hinted at bravado.

“There's no shame in preferring to hide under a sturdy table, you know.”

“Don't be silly. A table won't help us one bit if that ceiling collapses. I want to find the
Gilded Lily
so we can use it to beat a hasty retreat. You didn't think I meant us to stay down here indefinitely, did you? They are coming back eventually. Besides, it's an earthquake, for heaven's sake, Barnabas. We need to get out before the aftershocks.”

That. That exact instant, those precise words, were what Barnabas would always remember as the moment he knew he was in love with Freddie Murcheson. That he would follow her into certain death if it came to that. But he thought if anyone could find a way to prevent that death, it would almost certainly be Freddie.

“Down that corridor, then.”

They nearly came up on the heels of the last few evacuating crew, and another handful of junior officers jogged past them in the passageway, but nobody seemed to pay them any mind. The Navy personnel were too preoccupied with following their evacuation protocols and with vacating the station in the quickest, most orderly fashion possible.

“They must all presume we know what we're doing too,” Freddie murmured. She ducked into a side passage and tugged Barnabas with her, glancing up and down the main hall to ensure nobody saw them. “They seemed to be heading down to the end, so I assume that's where the larger submersibles are docked. We can wait another moment or two to be sure the coast is clear, then look at some of the closer docks.”

Barnabas registered her words, but only vaguely. He was too busy staring into the chamber next to them, whose door had been left ajar.

The room itself was unremarkable—small, carved stone walls, the same marble and wood and brass trim they'd seen throughout the station. The three wheeled chairs inside were pushed close together, a tight fit for the trio of crew who must operate the machinery that held Barnabas's attention. The equipment took up the entirety of the room's widest wall, with a bewildering array of small lamps, switches, and flat panels that somehow displayed lighted text and numbers. In the center of the wall was a larger brass panel, embossed with elaborate, fluid, concentric shapes and studded with lights. Some of them glowed red, some green. A larger green bulb occupied the approximate center of the design. It took Barnabas some time to realize he was looking at a topographical map.

He tugged on Freddie's arm, drawing her attention away from the adjacent hall and the faint noise of voices raised over clanking metal on metal. “If that's a representation of the ocean floor, and the big light is the station, what are those other lights?”

“Good
God
, that's fancy!”

“But what
is
it?”

“I have no idea, but oh, I'd love to take that thing apart.”

The look on her face hovered between awe and lust.

“No time for that.”

“I know, I know. Well, let's see.” She ventured into the chamber, studying the panels and running her fingers over some of the myriad switches as though she could read the machine's intent that way. “The lights on the chart are in fixed locations, so they can't be submersibles. Other geographical features? That seems more likely, but the pattern seems too regular. And these lines from the station to each light look almost like spokes on a wheel.”

“Or arms on an octopus,” he suggested. He'd thought of a spider, first, but an octopus seemed more fitting for their current setting.

“There are a good many more than eight, however.” She pointed to one of the longer lines, tracing it out to its terminus in a tiny red glimmer. “This is a fresher mark in the brass. See, it hasn't darkened yet. The eight heavier lines, the ones along the main compass directions, must have been the original ones. More were added later.”

“Some sort of beacons, perhaps? Part of the system they use to surveil the channel?”

“No . . .” Her curious gaze traveled on, landing on a row of shelves at the side of the room. More than a dozen small devices were lined up, each with a band of slowly scrolling paper tape and an inked needle scratching over the surface. Some were mostly quiescent, but a few bounced to and fro at a fervent pace, scrawling peaks and valleys on the tape in scarlet ink. “I think it's a seismograph.”

“A what?”

“For detecting earthquakes. Remember? I
told
you, they have a way to do that. Except Father said it was all but useless in several quadrants,” she murmured. “Those must be the red lights, the ones that aren't working. Oh, what else did he say? Something about warnings for tremors, needing more data but the glass octopus is being sabotaged. Barnabas, I think this is what my father was talking about. I think
this
is the glass octopus. Not an actual cephalopod, a giant seismograph.”

“This is how they know when to evacuate.” He eyed the machine with new wonder. “If that map is to be believed, this thing spans most of the channel. It must be the largest of its kind in the world.”

“Even with parts of it out of commission. And from what Father said, it sounds as though it can not only detect but predict earthquake activity, when it's not damaged. It
predicts
.”

She sounded angry now, not awed as she had been, as he still was. “Why does that not sound like a benefit when you say it?”

Freddie turned on him, fury turning her lovely face into the visage of an avenging angel. “It certainly is a benefit to the Navy. To the people in this station who know to get to safety. But what about the people on shore, the civilians? Three men died in the last quake. And that's just in London, where we hear the news almost immediately—who knows about the smaller ports, the fishing villages? Not to mention the French side. How much advance warning might they have all had, if the Navy saw fit to share what they're learning down here? How much senseless tragedy might have already been averted? From what I overheard, they think an even bigger quake may be coming, which means more people might be hurt. And my father seems to be in a position to change things and he hasn't, because he doesn't care.”

“You don't know that.”

“I can deduce that from what I do know. I can't figure out how this is all related to the problems with the fish being depleted, but it all comes down to the same thing. Father playing God.”

“Why do you despise him?”

“Why do you defend him?”

A stalemate. And Barnabas wasn't even sure why they were fighting to begin with. It had all gone sour so suddenly.