Into the Ether (9 page)

****

No one mentioned anything except the chocolate perfection we devoured until the dishes had been cleared and everyone sat in front of the fire, sated.
My body felt as though I had been washed and sent through a wringer.
All I wanted was my bed and warmth.
Despite my best attempts to “put on a brave face” I still hurt, inside and out.
Cold had trickled into my bones and settled there.
I wasn't sure it would ever leave.

“I think you
'd best be off to bed, Gennie.
You look done in.”
Phillip's voice was kind.

I nodded and stood, careful to keep my hand from bumping into anything.
“Thank you both.
I'll see you in the morning.”

They nodded and I slipped out the door, leaning briefly against the cool
,
wooden slats.
Their voices rumbled behind the closed portal, but they were too low to make out the words.
I was too tired to care what they were talking about.

It took longer than I anticipated to undress, and I had to stop after bumping my hand one too many times while unhooking the dress.
Tangled in my own clothing, I collapsed on the bed, a few stray tears leaking out my puffy, sore eyes.
With a last effort
,
I kicked off my dress and shoes and crawled under the covers.
I clutched a pillow to my chest, stretching the wounded arm above my head.

Terry's note pressed into my thigh, still folded in the pocket of the petticoats I hadn't removed.
It seemed to gain weight the more I thought about it, until I was certain the leaf of paper had really been a
folded
slip of lead.

“
…you
should know that my feelings for you go beyond a friend and the confines of this paper.”

The words echoed in my head, as if he'd whispered the
m
in my ear rather than printing them on paper with a bloodied hand.
I squeezed my eyes shut and struggled to breath
e
, pressing my fist to my mouth.
I didn't want to think.
I shouldn't have had any tears left, but they stung my eyes and burned in my nose, dampening my temples anyway.

I
cried until all that was left was emptiness and dry sobs
that tore at my throat
.
And then I slept.

 

Everyone kept their distance for the next few days.
I appreciated the time to get myself collected.
I worked with Adele, who merely hugged me, handed me a handkerchief and said nothing else.
Even the museum pieces kept their whispered comments and questions to a minimum, offering me sympathy and willing shoulders
,
or whatever they had.

Colonel
Worthington stopped me at breakfast the third day.
“Are you ready for a challenge?”

I drained my cup and tried to remember what it would feel like to be excited again.
A small flicker of the emotion moved in my chest.
“What
kind
of a challenge?”

He smiled, and I thought I might have seen relief breeze through his eyes.
I struggled to keep my cheeks from turning red with shame.
I knew I'd been
moping, but I hadn't thought it
that bad.

“I'
ve got a box of items that came in.
I'd like to see what they say to you.”

My brow furrowed.
“But wouldn't you need scholars to research them?”

He
waved
a hand and shoved his crutch under one arm.
“Of course.
T
hey've already turned in their preliminary reports on the matter.
But I want to know what you see.
Let's say I'm checking up on them.”

The prospect was appealing.
Testing out a bunch of Oxford
scholars'
accuracy?
The idea that such lofty minds might be taken down a peg by someone like me put a bit more spring in my step.

Colonel Worthington led the way into the bowels of the museum, stopping at a
heavy
oak doo
r.
When he pushed it open,
I felt like one
of
Moses
' followers
when he parted the Red Sea.
The wonder at the boxes of treasures had to have been like seeing the ocean floor without water.

Statues slumbered under white sheets
used
to keep off the dust.
Boxes and crates in various stages of unpacking spilled artifacts and wood shavings.
Thick strips of cotton wadding cradled vases and bits older than anything I'd ever seen before.

The
colonel
led me to a well-lit corner where a large crate had been
partially
unloaded onto a table.
A single stool sat behind it with a thick pad of paper and several brass-tipped fountain pens.
I was immensely grateful that the burned hand was not my writing hand.

The objects were from every age and country.
Small
,
gold bands, a canopic jar
from an arid country
,
an age-
pocked bronze sword
, and a slender alabaster figurine of a woman graced the table.
More lay wrapped in cotton
nestled
in the wood chips.
Already I could hear some of their voices.

“Take your time with them
,” the
Colonel said.

I barely heard him.
I'd already moved to the stool
and climbed
up
,
perching there, my good hand hovering over each item.
I wanted to start small and work my way to the more interesting objects.
Sorry
.
I apologized to them.
The ones with the most to say.

The alabaster statue ignored me and pretended indifference.
The sword wanted to know if I'd been injured in a battle.
I didn't fancy addressing
that
question just yet.

“Genevieve.”
The curator's voice rippled with laughter.

I looked up with a grin.
“Sorry.”

He shook his head.
“D
on't forget to come up for air once in a while.
Dinner at
six
.”

I nodded and he hobbled off, chuckling
,
as I picked up the two gold bands
,
rings from an Anglo-Saxon grave.
I
slid the loops over my index finger and
stroked the beaten metal
with my thumb
, feeling each strike of the goldsmith's hammer beneath my fingertips.
They weren't that different than anything else.
Hadn't been worn enough, loved enough, by their owners.
All the same, I was fascinated by the vague glimpses of the life they'd been witness to.
I set them down, patting them one last time and then picked up a fountain pen and a sheet of paper and
wrote
what they had said.

When I'd filled two pages, I sat back and rubbed my
face
with my hand.
I wasn't used to writing so much.
Paper and pen weren't easy to come by, and of all the thieves, I think only Terry and I could actually read and write.
Justin could make out words, but it wasn't his strong suit.

A strange creaking noise had me squinting into the disorganized jumble of crates and artifacts.
Thomason appeared, carrying a tray.
Without actually looking at me, he set the tray down then cradled the teapot in his metal hands.
I sat in dumb shock.
I didn't understand why he was staring at the porcelain so intently.

Then a low popping sound
echoed
inside the belly of the teapot, and a thin wisp of steam curled fr
om the spout.
With a
tiny
nod
, Thomason set
the pot back onto the tray,
pivoted
,
and left the way he'd come.

I had the strange
feeling
I'd just received the automaton equivalent
of
an apology.

The tray
held the pot, cream and sugar, a cup
,
and a plate of biscuits.
Shrugging, I poured the tea, scooped in some sugar
,
and drizzled in a little milk.

That
thing
was hideous.

The alabaster statue had forgotten
she was pouting
.
I snorted and sipped at the hot liquid.
He's definitely different.

The sneer echoed through her voice.
Different?

While I didn't particularly want to leap to Thomason's defense, I decided I didn't like the statue.
A little too vain.
I stretched my legs out.

Shut your mouth, harpy.

The canopic jar surprised both of us.
His voice was deep and reverberated in my head.
He may not have been in human company, well,
live
human company, long, but his importance
had given
him power.

The metal man protects something.
His appearance does its job well.
He has more purpose than you ever did.

The statue snapped something in a language I didn't speak and lapsed into another sullen silence.
I hid my smile behind the rim of the cup.
A translator didn't need to tell me she'd been very rude.

Don't judge him too harshly, young woman.
Everyone has a part to play.
You can't blame him for fulfilling a role he was created to perform.

What do you see,
I asked,
that I can't?

Many things.

Snobbery oozed from every word.
Its silence rang with an air of dismissal.

I wrinkled my nose and picked up the sword.

****

When Colonel Worthington came to fetch me later that evening, I didn't even realize he stood in front of me until my sluggish ears registered his deep peals of laughter.
I rose then looked down at myself.
I was covered in wood shavings, a trail of wadding clung to my sole, and I clutched the slim
,
white statue in one hand.
I set her down with more force than necessary, ending the argument we had been having by ignoring her shrill protests.

“Having fun?”

The grin that
stretched
across my lips couldn't be contained.
“It
'
s been a very productive day.
”

He patted my arm as I brushed off my skirts and moved around the desk.
I longed to get to the older items I'd been setting aside, but the gurgling around my belly button became very prominent and dinner sounded like a delicious idea.

The canopic jar heaved a long-suffering sigh as I moved out of the room with the curator.

“So, you've gotten a lot of information then?”

I shook my head and brushed loose tendrils of hair out of my
face
.
“Sort of.
I've been saving the older pieces.
The ones I did today are certainly interesting, but they aren't very old, and some of them were special occasion items.
Like the rings.
They belonged
to a Saxon noblewoman married off to a Norman lord.
She only wore them a few times.
They were a wedding present from the husband.”
I chuckled.
“She didn't care much for his womanizing habits and told him so often.
They didn't get along, so she only wore the rings at special times.
Audiences, formal events, the odd wedding
,
and funeral.”

Colonel Worthington stopped and watched me, disbelief widening his eyes.
“That's a boring item?”

I nodded.
“Oh yes.
The ones that are older, like the statue, have a mind of their own.
Especially that bloody statue.
She's full of herself like you wouldn't believe.”

He started walking again and snorted.
“Like someone else I know?”

For a moment, I stopped, resentment rising.
When he turned, I saw the humor twisting his features.
I patted his arm, trying to keep a straight face.
“Now, Colonel.
I don't find you the least bit full of yourself.
Full of something, of course
.”

Dinner was a lighthearted affair and I was glad for it.
Guilt threatened to weigh down my spirits, but I took the happiness for what it was.
Depending on how things turned out, who knew how much of it I'd get?

When we finished and cleaned up, I opened the door.
“I thought I might go back down to the store room again for a bit.”

“Suit yourself.
But don't stay down there all night.
There's plenty of time.”

I smiled, but it was more stilted than I would have liked.
“I won't.”

I paused, my fingers worrying a loose thread at my cuff.

“What is it, Gennie?”

The
colonel
sat forward, his hands braced on his lap, watching me closely.

“You said you have contacts.”

He nodded.
“I do.”

I blinked a few times,
and then
looked him in the eye.
“Is there any way they might help me find out what happened to Terry?”

The curator motioned to the other wing chair.
“Sit down.
I thought you already knew.
Y
ou have his hat, and you seemed so certain he was gone
.”

I shook my head.
“The hat has many memories attached to it, but the
damage
had already been done when he put it back on.
The time was too brief.
All I got was the impression of fists and cold metal and blood.
And fear.
There was a great deal more of that than I think Terry would have liked me to know.
I keep looking for more, but…”
I thought back to the hat.
I couldn't bear to touch it more than a few moments.
Once it showed me the fear, it moved to happier times.
I couldn't quite bring myself to relive those just yet.

“I'll see what I can do, but I can't promise you anything.”

I nodded once.
“I appreciate it.”

I moved to the door again, then rushed back, wrapped my arms around his weathered neck
,
and pressed a kiss to his cheek.
I didn't wait to see what his reaction was.
I turned and flew out the door, retracing my steps to the store room.

If I hadn't been so lost in my new, bright moment of hope, I'd have noticed a shadow following me.
But instead, rough hands pulled me to the cold, marble floor and something large and blunt rammed into my head.
I caught a brief glimpse of a familiar face as I fought off the growing darkness devouring my senses.

Justin.