Light Fantastique (18 page)

Iris sat and buried her face in her hands.
What am I doing here? Am I here because I want to be or because I can't go home? Sometimes dreams don't come true the way you want or expect them to.

She wiped her eyes with the heels of her hands and sniffled the last of her sorrow away. Whatever her feelings, she had a job to do, and she felt that there was some sort of significance to the manuscript on Monsieur Firmin's desk. Whatever her emotional outburst meant, it was good she'd at least had the space for it here. She never knew when she might be interrupted at the townhouse, and it was typically never by who she wanted to disturb her. Perhaps Edward would be more accessible now that he'd solved the aether light problem, and she'd help him get to the next step however she could.

Iris locked the door and removed her gloves. One of the coals in the fireplace shifted. The crunch, hiss and shower of sparks made her jump, but she was determined to proceed no matter how spooked she felt. With a deep breath, she sat and filled and emptied her lungs a few times. She inhaled focus to her fingertips and mentally placed barriers on the exhale, trying to find the balance she needed to best approach actually touching the manuscript.

When she felt as prepared as possible, she closed her eyes and touched the ends of her thumbs, index fingers, and third fingers to the parchment. She had the sensation of spinning, or at least the dizzy feeling that comes after, and for a minute all she could see was smoke. Then she smelled the burning, and her vision cleared to show her a series of fires in a grain storehouse. She clutched the manuscript with both hands and detected a voice in her ear.

“Run, flee now! They mustn't find it. If they do, they'll use the eternal flame for the perverted aims of their gods. At least they are burning the key, the fools.”

Hands shoved her, and her feet skidded along water-covered flagstones before finding purchase. Bucket brigades had formed, but one by one they gave up and fell away, following Iris—or whoever she inhabited—out of the building. She held the rolled up parchment to her heart but could still feel its pounding through her thin breastbone and the scroll in her fingers. Now outside, she attempted to clear the after-images from her eyes and found herself in a temple courtyard.

A giant stepped in her way, and Iris recognized the armor of a Varangian guard. From the perspective she looked at him, she guessed she was small, child-sized. But why would such an important document be entrusted to a child?

“What do you have there, little one?” the guard said and held out a hand the size of a ham hock.

Iris ducked around his arm, but he caught her by the hair. A vigorous shake of her head left him with a chunk of it and her free but with blood running down her neck. She ran and ran until her lungs and heart felt like one organ desperate for air and tight with terror that they wouldn't get enough. Her eyes stung, and the insides of her nose and mouth had a bitter taste that drove her to crave water, but she dared not stop. No one detained her, although crowds gathered at corners or wherever they could see the flames and then the glow of the temple.

Finally, in an area with narrow streets the perfect size for her and the rats, she slowed and made her way to a house just below the city gates.

An older woman opened the door and pulled the child in. “I heard your footsteps. What is happening?”

“The temple is burning. They set fire to the granary.” They moved to sit at a table, but the child wouldn't release the scroll even when the woman reached for it. Giving it up would mean letting go of the life she'd known to that point, which although it was harsh, was at least familiar. Iris couldn't blame her.

The older woman shook her head and sucked her teeth, or at least the few she had left. Iris knew that was a sign of disrespect toward whoever would commit such sacrilege, but her eyes were drawn to an almost faded tattoo on the woman's wrist rather than her interesting face. The symbol was a square inside a circle, and her heart resumed its hummingbird thrumming. Her modern aware self noted it, that it was a Pythagorean symbol. She waited for the woman to speak, to give her further instructions.

“They are getting desperate,” she finally said and opened her hands.

“But why are the granary records so important?” Iris asked. She cheered the child on, happy that the trauma of the fire hadn't dampened her curiosity and had increased her caution. “Especially with the grain burned and the temple next to go.”

“Because they are more than they seem, little one. The scholars are very close to finding what they seek, and the emperor knows. He wants to snatch it away before they can use it against them to make a fire that will not burn out.”

“There is no such thing.” The child's certainty came through with a sense of wonder. Could the scrolls with the long lists of numbers really give a clue to such things?

“Not yet, there isn't. And when there is, Constantinople will be the first to burn.” Now her teeth showed their rot when she cackled.

Iris backed away. She didn't want Constantinople to burn—she had family there. That was where she'd lived before the priests had come and snatched her up to become a page destined to be a temple concubine. She wasn't sure what a concubine was, exactly, only that they ate better food than the priests, slept late and ordered the pages around.

The woman lunged for her, but Iris slipped away easier than she had from the guard and ran outside. She was soon lost in the maze of streets.

Iris lifted her fingers from the pages, which she now knew had once been a scroll, and opened her eyes. It took her a moment to recognize her surroundings, but Monsieur Firmin's voice jolted her back to the present.

“I knew your father, Mademoiselle McTavish. He had a very unusual talent, and I suspect you do as well.”

Chapter Twenty

Théâtre Bohème, 4 December 1870

“It's getting stuck somewhere around here,” Patrick O'Connell said.

Edward looked up from the main console. “Let me see.” He wiped his hands on the rag he kept nearby, not because he'd soiled his hands, but due to needing to feel like he didn't have any oily residue on his fingers. Even the smallest amount could interfere with the flow of aether through the various chambers. It was yet one more fascinating thing about the substance, but he felt no closer to figuring out how to turn it to a power source, which had been their original mission.

He walked to where O'Connell stood and mentally mapped out the connections between the central console, which looked like the top part of an organ with its various stops plus levers and dials, and the place where the flow of the aether gas had stopped.

“It looks like it's clear, but it won't pass through.” O'Connell pressed his lips in a tight line, and his eyes were red-rimmed. Of all of them, he seemed most affected by being stuck in Paris. Strangely, being vigilant to the Irishman's moods made Edward less conscious of his own doubts, which plagued him at night especially.

Edward put a jeweler's scope to his eye and bent to the glass tube that carried the gas. He could barely see into the brass fitting, which was at a corner, but it did look as though there was ample space for it to pass through.

“Is the hydrogen passing?”

“Aye.”

Edward stepped back and surveyed the area. One of the things he loved and hated about aether was how unpredictable it could be. Working with O'Connell had given him a new respect for the nuts-and-bolts of producing and directing the substance as well as the equipment they used and the need to look at the whole picture. If he'd done that in Rome, stepped back to look at the whole situation before he acted…

He pressed his hand to the wall to force himself to stay in the present and felt a slight vibration.

“The orchestra isn't rehearsing, but something is causing this. Perhaps the vibration of life in the city?” he mused. “And there's something about the vibrations, particularly how they're moving through this corner. Do we have any buffering material for the joint?”

O'Connell handed him a plug of putty, which Edward molded between the brass joint and the wall.

“That seems to have done it.” O'Connell shook his head and rubbed his eyes. “That's the strangest stuff I've ever dealt with, Professor.”

“It definitely has its quirks. How far does it go now? This might be the key to having it spread throughout the theatre system. I wish the siege would lift so we could get the rubber tubing. The glass and brass are too sensitive to outside noise.”

They worked methodically to find areas that needed buffering. When the vibration in the walls ceased, they had to as well.

“How far did we get?” Edward asked. There seemed to be miles and miles of tubing. Some of it had been replaced with rubber, but not nearly enough.

“About a fifth of the way, I estimate.” O'Connell's jaw cracked with a large yawn.

“What have you been doing?” Edward asked. “At night, I mean.”

O'Connell gave him a measuring look. “I'm doing my part to supplement our income so Madame doesn't have to cover all our expenses while we get this set up. Don't worry about the tubing, I've got some coming.”

Edward almost asked, “But how?” Some of O'Connell's absences clicked into place. “You're helping the privateers, the ones with the airships.”

O'Connell grinned. “A brawny lad like me can always get work unloading, especially since I know how to work quickly, and making emergency repairs.”

“So that's why you're always so tired.” Edward paused. “And how you're getting first crack at the beer and liquor. That's brilliant.” He didn't drink alcohol, well, not much, but he appreciated the benefits for those who did, as long as they didn't go overboard. And with supplies running low, every sip was appreciated.

“We do what we need to survive.” This time O'Connell caught Edward's eye and held his gaze. “Even if sometimes we go farther than we mean to.”

Edward looked down at the eyepiece he turned over in his hands, and his stomach made turns that echoed the motion of the instrument. “I don't want to talk about what happened in Rome.”

“You need to talk to Chadwick about it. You need to know what your brain is trying to do to deal with it. Besides throwing you off.”

The eyepiece dropped from Edward's trembling fingers, and he caught it with his shoe to keep the lenses from shattering. It rolled into a corner, and O'Connell picked it up before Edward could reach for it. Edward knelt on the floor, his skin tingling with the memory of the aether burns, which had somehow been healed in that moment through Iris's intervention. He'd never believed in any deities, but he knew they exacted a price. Perhaps he was paying his.

“Is it my brain or Fate trying to punish me for what I caused to happen, what I did to another man?”

“At least you didn't call him innocent. You saw the bruises on Iris's arm—he wasn't going to be gentle with her.”

O'Connell helped Edward to stand.

“Haven't you done anything you regret, that you'll regret forever?” Edward asked.

“Aye. But you can't dwell on it. We do what we need to do and then move on. Iris loves you. Focus on her.” Patrick gestured to the console and the tubing. “And what you're doing for the theatre.”

Edward nodded, but doubt still sat like a heavy fog in his middle. It seemed that everyone was doing something useful but him, even if he was trying to help with the theatre's lighting.

No, he was selfishly experimenting while the others contributed to lessening the burden on Madame St. Jean, who had taken them all in.

He knew his true self now, that he was a ruthless charlatan undeserving of love. When he had converted the theatre system and had taken the next step toward converting aether to energy, he would do them all a favor and step off the stage.

Permanently.

* * * * *

Johann approached Davidson and the Cinsault butler. When the man saw Johann, he tried to run, but Davidson thought quickly and tripped him.

“I won't say anything, I won't,” he mumbled and looked around him as though there were spy devices on the ground. Davidson reached down to haul him to his feet, but he shuddered and lay still, his mouth foaming.

“
Merde,
” Davidson said and rolled the man over. “He must have had a poison capsule in his mouth.”

Part of the butler's wrist showed between his sleeve and glove, and the inspector frowned. He knelt and separated the two items of clothing, revealing a tattoo of a square inside a circle.

“The sign of the neo-Pythagoreans,” Johann said. “There was one on the office window too, and a threat toward Madame Cinsault.”

“What did Madame say to you? Did she give you anything?”

Before Johann could answer, a steamcart driven by a gendarme rolled up, and two more got out from inside.

“You're needed at the station, Inspector,” the tallest one said. “Do we need to arrest this man?” He looked Johann up and down like he was a suspicious person.

And perhaps I am, considering I stand here with a dead man at my feet.

“No, but your timing is fortuitous. You're needed here. This poor gentleman should be taken to the morgue, and I have to talk to the maestro. I will take him back to the Théâtre Bohème and then return to headquarters.”

The gendarme tipped his hat, and Davidson and Johann climbed into his carriage.

“What did the butler say to you?” Johann asked. “I'm guessing he wasn't asking for the time.”

“No, he was telling me to watch out for you because you had stolen something from Madame Cinsault.” Davidson held out a hand.

Johann handed over the letters. “Here. If they're going to get people killed, I don't want to have anything to do with them.”

Davidson took them and flipped through, looking at the return addresses. With each one that passed, his left eyebrow crawled higher on his forehead. “I know these names, all prominent merchants.”

“It wouldn't be the first time rich men have gotten entangled in a cult.”

“And it appears Cinsault was the ringleader. I will need to study these more carefully, and I'll let you know if I need anything further from you.”

So you use me and then you cut me out? I don't think so.

“Now wait a minute. That's not why I agreed to cooperate with you.” Johann reached to snatch the letters back, but Davidson moved too quickly, and all Johann could grab was one. He put it in his overcoat pocket.

“Return that immediately. You agreed to cooperate with me for protection from the Clockwork Guild.”

“And for information to protect my friends. Give me the rest of the letters.”

“Now Maestro Bledsoe, be reasonable. This is a police investigation. You need to cooperate with it even if we do find your friends are involved somehow.”

“Only if you promise not to do anything to Lucille St. Jean or her daughter, regardless of what you find.”

Now both Davidson's eyebrows made a run for his hairline. “If they are in any way culpable for the crimes around the theatre, I cannot promise their immunity.”

“My friends are not involved. I promise you that. In fact, they're in danger. You probably have a report somewhere showing the theatre was vandalized.”

“I've heard no such thing. Your Madame St. Jean involves us as little as possible. She must have friends in high places for the Théâtre Bohème to not be used as a hospital as the others are.”

“Regardless, you keep me apprised of the investigation, and I'll give you the letter.”

“What if that is the one with the clue that will solve the case?”

Johann crossed his arms. “You'll have to look at the others first.”

“Fine.” Davidson sat back with a huff. “You're incorrigible. If there's another murder because of your antics and the delay they're causing, I will prosecute you as well as the one who wields the knife.”

“Go ahead.” The carriage slowed. “Oh, and if the Clockwork Guild has anything to do with this, I count on you letting me know.”

“I will return later for the letter, and I will have a warrant for its seizure.”

The carriage stopped in front of the theatre, and Johann climbed out. He'd barely set foot on the ground when the door slammed behind him, and the carriage huffed away. Johann patted his pocket.

“Now let's see what you're going to tell us before the good inspector returns for you.”

A motion in the sky made him look up, and he saw an airship floating high above the city.

What in the…? I thought those were only flying at night.

He walked into the townhouse and straight into Marie. He held her to keep her from falling and felt a jolt to his core.

Marie ran through the kitchen and into the front hall, where she smacked into something that was both hard and soft. Hands on her waist steadied her.

“Easy now.”

Damn. It was Maestro Bledsoe. She stepped back, but he didn't release her.

Relief at seeing him safe collided with the memory that she was still angry with him and made the questions spill out of her. “What are you doing here? Where have you been? Did you see the airship? What does it mean?”

She took a breath to ask him something else, and he effectively shut her up by drawing her in and fastening his mouth on hers. She closed her eyes and melted into his embrace. His tongue met hers, and her anxieties ran out of her, leaving her clinging to him for support. He broke the kiss first but didn't let her go.

“Now, one at a time. Yes, I saw the airship. I don't know what it means, but I have on good authority the French are pushing the Prussians back, and we should be prepared for anything in case they rally. Perhaps it was doing reconnaissance?”

Marie half-heard what he said and half-processed the kiss. Her mind flipped through the roles she could/should be playing at the moment, but panic over seeing the airship and knowing what was happening overwhelmed her. Yes, she wanted the siege to end, but after having seen what was in the church…

“Hey,” Johann said and tilted her chin up so her gaze met his. “What's wrong?”

“The church next door, it's full of—”

“Guns and gunpowder. Yes, I know. So do the people in the neighborhood. That's why it's being guarded.”

“One careless mistake and the theatre and we could be destroyed.”

He gave her a searching look. “I've been around Edward enough to know when someone's using anxiety over one thing to cover up another. What are you really afraid of, Marie?”

Her mouth dropped open, and she stepped completely away from him. “How dare you? I've already told you. Do you think I'm lying?”

“No, I think you're afraid to admit something.”

“And why should I trust you?” She drew her cloak around her to make up for the warmth lost when she moved away from him. Part of her wanted to confide in him—artist to artist, of course—but the ghost's admonishments and Frederic's warnings played in her head.

It's too big a risk.

“I've learned from my mistakes,” he said, his expression serious. “Please believe me when I tell you that I'm trying to help you because I…” He trailed off, his gaze focused behind her.

Marie turned to see her mother standing on the landing.

“Madame,” he said.

Lucille inclined her head. “Please excuse us, Monsieur. I need to talk to my daughter.”