Into the Dim (28 page)

Eleanor stared hard at Hectare for a long time before she nodded.

“Rachel,” the queen called, though her voice sounded shaken. “I believe I hear boots in the hallway. That would be Captain Lucie, with word of the girls' brother. Would you kindly allow him entry?”

Rachel's hand tightened around a lump of coal. When she opened the door, the longing on her face was so plain, I wondered that no one else noticed. William Lucie stared down at her for a long time. Then, remembering himself, he hurried to present himself to his queen. He brought the smell of outdoors with him. Smoke and winter air.

“You found where the brother is kept?” Eleanor asked without preamble.

“Yes, Your Grace.” William bowed low to his queen, then turned to Phoebe and me. “The city watch took the prisoner to one of the lower cells. They will allow no visitors.”

Eleanor grimaced. “I wish I could assist, but even I cannot be seen supporting a thief who stole from the king.”

Next to me, I felt Phoebe bridle at the word “thief.” I reached for her hand, squeezing to keep her quiet as fear, sharp as shattered glass, raked my insides. When Eleanor and Hectare began speaking in low voices, I gestured William and Phoebe to a spot near the wall, so the queen couldn't overhear.

“There's no chance we can see him?” I asked William in a hushed voice.

“I'm afraid not.”

“Will—Captain Lucie?” Rachel joined us. “Are these the cells on the south wall, by chance? The ones with the window at ground level?”

William braced himself before he looked at Rachel. A charged moment passed between them as he stared into her eyes. “Yes. I believe so.”

“Mistress”—Rachel turned to me, excited—“I know of these cells. My cousin was held there before he died. There is a small, barred window where you may kneel down and speak with your brother.” She frowned then. “Though I doubt the guards would allow you access to the grounds.”

She bit her lip in thought, then took William's arm and escorted him to the door. They spoke quietly together. He shook his head, but Rachel persisted. After a moment, he sighed and stared at her, drinking her in as though she was the last cup of water on earth. My mind began to sift through all the sketches I'd ever seen of the medieval Tower of London.

When Rachel returned, she was grinning. “Be near the southwestern corner of the Tower walls at dawn. There is a small gate there, little used. Captain Lucie will let you in.”

As Phoebe thanked her profusely, my mind raced. “Rachel, how big is this window? Could a man get through it?”

“Well . . . yes, I think so.” In seconds, she saw what I wanted to do. But then she shook her head, sadly. “But there are iron bars set across the opening. It would be impossible.”

I gnawed at a cuticle, glancing across the room to where the queen sat, still holding Hectare's hand. Eleanor's head was bowed, and her lips moved in silent prayer.

Iron bars. Iron bars.

Chemical formulas wrote themselves in the air before my eyes. My fingers twitched as I discarded one after the other, growling with irritation.

Not invented yet. Too weak. Too volatile.
I hesitated, calculating the odds.

“What are you thinking, Hope?” Phoebe whispered.

I looked to Aaron, who was adding a handful of herbs to his pot on the fire. “Rachel, does your grandfather's apothecary shop carry oil of vitriol by any chance?”

Rachel's brow wrinkled. “Yes, he makes it, then cuts it with water to clean his steel tools. If he makes an excess, he sells it to the blacksmith.”

My lips struggled to form the words fast enough. “Does he have any now? Uncut? And could you get some and bring it to the side gate at the Tower?”

The confusion on Rachel's face cleared. “Oh! I see. Yes, of course. Of course I can.”

“Would someone please tell me what you're talking about?” Phoebe said. “Because I'm about to pop my bloody—” She broke off, clearing her throat as she glanced at Rachel. “Er . . . I am soon to become quite angered.”

I shushed her as Eleanor called for us to join her at Hectare's bedside. “Later,” I whispered as we obeyed.

“We shall speak more of this on the morrow,” Hectare was telling Eleanor, cutting off her queen's protest. “I give you my solemn vow that I shall still be in the land of the living. Go back to your husband. And for the babe's sake, if not your own, get some rest. In any case, I wish to speak with these girls alone.”

When Eleanor sighed in defeat, Hectare placed a hand on her cheek in a sweet blessing that stung my eyes. We both dropped into a curtsy as the queen stood. Eleanor's eyes were bloodshot. She stared down at Phoebe and me as if we were ghosts.

“There is to be a masque at Westminster Palace tomorrow night, after the coronation. I will take chambers there. Come to me before it begins, and I will see that Lady Babcock attends me. And I . . . I would speak with you.”

She's going to help us! Mom will have to obey a summons from the queen. She'll have no choice. Then I'll move heaven and earth to get her out, whether she wants me to or not.

“Thank you,” I breathed. “Thank you, Your Grace.”

The queen crossed to where Phoebe and I knelt, surrounding us with her unique smell. Roses laced with a spice I didn't recognize.

“Rise.”

Her intelligent green eyes scanned back and forth between us. “I trust Hectare with my life.” She paused, licking dry lips. “But this?” She took a step closer and looked deep into my eyes. Her voice husky with emotion, Eleanor whispered, “I wonder . . . will this world always belong solely to men?”

Slowly, carefully, without taking my eyes from hers, I shook my head. “No, Your Grace. Not always.”

Eleanor's eyes closed. A smile edged her mouth as she sighed. “I shall, of course, not live to witness such a thing. But perhaps . . . to help sow the seeds of that glorious harvest?”

I didn't answer, though I knew that in the years to come Eleanor of Aquitaine would endow convents and be as much of a champion for female education and rights as was possible in her era. A thought startled me as I wondered how much of that was due to this moment in time.

Smiling, I allowed all the admiration I felt for the brave queen to shine through.

The queen of England nodded to herself. “Yes,” she whispered as she departed. “Perhaps.”

“What was that all about?” Phoebe said.

“Dear physician,” Hectare called. Aaron hurried toward the bed and bowed low. “I thank you for your efforts,” the nun said. “But like me, I believe you'd as soon rest those old bones of yours? If you will but allow your granddaughter to stay? She comforts me.”

“Of course, learned sister,” the apothecary said. “I shall return on the morrow.”

Aaron left, and Sister Hectare asked Rachel to see about getting Phoebe and me a place to sleep for the night. When Rachel shut the door behind her, the nun patted the side of her bed. “Come, come, we haven't much time.”

Hectare spoke in a voice like crinkling paper. “One of the few advantages to being very old is that one has seen so many mysteries, one can pick and choose which to believe.”

“Sister?” I paused, but my gut was telling me to speak truth to this woman. “You . . . you know who we are, don't you?”

Phoebe's sharp elbow jabbed into my back.
What are you doing?

“More than fifty years ago, when I was but an eager young novice at the abbey at Saint Evre,” Hectare went on as though I'd not spoken, “I met a woman who had come to view one of our reliquaries.” The nun's watery blue eyes studied us from behind her veined nose. “I was called to speak to her, as the woman's accent was difficult to understand and the saints had blessed me with an ear for languages.”

Despite the overheated chamber, a chill skated up and down my spine. I asked in a quaky voice. “Was this reliquary decorated with a great opal, by any chance?”

I heard Phoebe's sharp intake of breath, but I couldn't move. Every muscle in my body strained for Hectare's answer.

“Yes.” She nodded proudly, as if I were her student and I had come up with the correct cipher. “A stone of some repute, if the rumors were true.”

Swallowing, I pressed on. “Do you happen to remember what the woman looked like?”

Hectare's grin showed her pale pink gums and creased her cheeks into a hundred wrinkles. “How could I forget?” she answered. “Considering I saw the same woman this very night at the feast. Black hair. Eyes that pierce. A haughty manner. And a face that had aged but little in over fifty years.”

“Celia.” Phoebe breathed the name.

“Just so,” the nun nodded. “That was her name then as it is now. She wanted that stone very much. I could see it in her eyes. To be truthful, the woman frightened me. I recommended the sisters not allow her access.”

“Bet she didn't like that much,” I muttered.

Hectare chuckled. “No, no she did not.”

“Sister,” Phoebe asked, “do you know what happened to the opal? Is it still there?”

A flare of hope fired through me. We thought the opal in the Jews' dagger was the Nonius Stone, but what if we were wrong? What if it was still safe in a French abbey?

As if she could read my thoughts, Hectare shook her head. “No, child. The stone was sold off many years ago, before I was even called upon to help care for Eleanor and her sister, Petronilla. I've tried to keep track of it, however. All these years. There was something . . . odd about it. I—I needed to know where it had gone. I think we both know where it is right now: secure in the king's counting chamber.”

Phoebe and I sat immobile, stunned. Recently—at least in our own timeline—Celia had traveled back fifty years before this time and tried to buy or steal the Nonius Stone from the nuns. She'd failed, thanks to this amazing little woman before us. I felt an enormous tenderness and grief wash over me. Hectare was fading, and the world would be a sadder place without her.

“Sister.” I choked against the lump in my throat. “Why are you helping us?”

Hectare leaned forward and touched first my face, then Phoebe's. “The two of you,” she said, “have a light around you that is so bright, I can barely see your features at times. It is a lavender shade that dances and flares from your skin. The black-haired woman also glows with this same light.” The wise, ancient eyes turned to me. She laid a too-cold hand on top of mine. “Like this Celia, you do not belong here.” Hectare's scratchy voice dropped. “Or am I simply being fanciful in my old age?”

“No,” I whispered. Her dear, homely features blurred. “You're not being fanciful.”

Hectare let out a deep sigh, and her eyes closed. “Then we must help you to get home.”

T
HE SNOW HAD STOPPED DURING THE NIGHT
. Outside in the predawn, the London streets glowed oddly bright as a new coating of sugary snow reflected the expanse of stars above. Phoebe's black horse and my bay slogged through knee-high drifts toward the Tower of London. I couldn't quit staring up as the horses whuffed clouds of steam into the brittle air.

With no earthly light to compete against, a trillion stars glittered like tiny holes punched into a field of velvet, allowing an unearthly light to filter through.

Twenty-four hours. It's all we have left. Then the Dim will come. And if we aren't there . . . poof.

“Okay. My brain was too fashed when we went to bed, so explain it to me again.” Phoebe jounced at my side. “The stuff Rachel's bringing.”

“Oil of vitriol,” I told her, “is basically sulfuric acid. I had a hunch Aaron might use it. It's common for apothecaries and blacksmiths during this time to keep a diluted form to clean their tools. We are going to use a full-strength version to melt those iron bars and get Collum the hell out of that cell.”

“Will it really work?”

“It . . . it has to.”

The streets were mostly empty, though we had to duck around a corner when a city guard stomped by, muttering to himself as he pushed through the pristine snow.

“I've been to the Tower before,” Phoebe said. “On a school trip to London. There used to be a moat encircling the walls. How will we get over?”

I grinned. “The moat hasn't been built yet. Richard the Lionheart had it constructed. And at the moment, he's not even a gleam in Henry's eye.”

Phoebe snickered as our horses ambled along, patiently wading through the powder. I patted my mare's neck. She tossed her head in answer, harness jingling in the stillness.

On the ride over, the crisp air cleaned most of the cobwebs out of my head, and I was able to mull over everything we'd learned. The Timeslippers were after the Nonius Stone. That was clear enough. And who knew what they might do once they had it.

Yet Celia's motives were murkier. I didn't know what had happened between my mom, Celia, and Michael MacPherson, but I was convinced it was key. Why go to all the trouble and risk of trapping my mother here? Of selling her out to the brutal Babcock? That took planning and foresight. No. Something else had occurred that night. Something besides Michael choosing to stay behind.

“There they are.” Lost in the puzzle of what could've happened twelve years ago, I startled at Phoebe's alert.

“Yeah.” I nodded, shaking it off to concentrate on the task at hand. “Good.”

William and Rachel hadn't heard our approach, locked as they were in each other's arms. My heart squirmed as William pulled back and gently clasped Rachel's face between his palms.

“I cannot bear it,” he was saying. “Please, do not go to him.”

Rachel's face crumpled in agony. “You know I must. My father, he—”

“Damn your father.” William seized her arms. “All he cares for is the contract he'll gain if you marry into that family. Tell me it isn't so.”