Maelstrom (9 page)

Father scowled. “Yes, yes. My point is,
there are many reasons someone might be interested in these ruins.
And the Brotherhood was far from the only source of knowledge about
them. Our lore held that Blackbyrne himself learned such things
from the Man in the Woods.”

A shudder ran through me.
“Nyarlathotep.”

“If you prefer.” Father shrugged. “I’ve
little interest in religion.”

“Perhaps if you did, you would have removed
yourself from the Brotherhood,” I said. “Nyarlathotep was a god of
chaos. I’ve seen his temple amidst the wastes of Egypt. The
faceless statues and blasphemous carvings.” He’d been worshipped by
the heretical pharaoh Nephren-ka, until the pharaoh’s death. After,
the priests of the other gods had done their best to expunge both
from the record. But traces had remained, and against all odds,
Nyarlathotep’s name reappeared in the Middle Ages as the Man in the
Woods, who tutored witches and sorcerers in the black arts.

“It’s only a story,” Father said crossly.
“Look at you—you wield great power, but you discovered it on your
own, through study. Not by selling your soul to the Devil, or
whatever foolishness men like Blackbyrne spread about in order to
enhance their reputations.”

“I have power because I’m an Endicott,” I
replied, as much as I hated it. “And I’m not at all certain there’s
no truth behind the legends. Nitocris was all too real.”

Father looked skeptical, but then, he hated
to imagine anything might be out of his control. Even he would find
it hard to bully an immortal creature with vast sorcerous
knowledge.

I changed tactics. “This symbol,” I said,
pointing to the odd swirl on the photograph of the altar. “Do you
recognize it?”

“Not particularly.”

Curse it. If the man had to be steeped in an
evil cult, at least he might have had the decency to learn
something useful. I drew out the Wisborg Codex and laid it before
him. “What about the script in here?”

He perused it. “No. I don’t...”

His voice faded away, as he paused on the
image of the ketoi. An odd expression passed over his face. If I
hadn’t known better, I would have thought it sorrow, or even
loneliness. But that was absurd.

“At least the Brotherhood isn’t involved
directly,” I said. “What of the others who survived? Might one of
them be behind this?”

He seemed to recall himself, closing the
codex gently. “It’s certainly possible. I’ll make discreet
inquiries.”

“Thank you. But be careful,” I added
awkwardly, the memory of Lambert all too fresh in my mind.
“Whatever was sent to kill Lambert...well, presumably it might be
turned against others.”

To my surprise, a small smile creased his
lips. “I’ll be cautious.”

“I don’t suppose you have any ideas what
might have murdered Lambert in his cell like that?” I asked without
much hope.

“A few.” He sat back, tapping his chin
thoughtfully. “From time to time the Brotherhood needed
persons...removed. We tried to keep it as discreet as possible,
which Lambert’s death most certainly was not. But at times we
needed to send a warning.”

“Is that what you think this is?” I asked.
“Could someone be warning Griffin off the case?”

“Or you.” Father didn’t look pleased at the
thought. “As for what might have killed him, there are many
possibilities. Hounds of tindalos, nightgaunts, shamblers...”

It was a depressing litany. “How did you
ever think any of that was justifiable?”

His frown deepened, but now it was turned on
me. As usual. “Look around you, Percival. Do you think this house
just grew up out of the ground? I worked for it, and my father
before me, and his father before him. Sacrifices must be made.”

“Funny how it was always
other people making those sacrifices,” I said bitterly. “Or should
I say
being
sacrificed on the Brotherhood’s altar.”

“Don’t play the saint with me,” he growled.
“Our willingness to get our hands dirty ensured you grew up in
comfort. Do you imagine you’d have been happier born in the
tenements? You would never have survived infancy amidst the
disease-ridden rabble there. And if you had, do you imagine you’d
be where you are now? Of course not—you’d be laboring in the
cannery, or driving a nightsoil cart, or mucking out a livery
stable. So I’ve had quite enough of you looking down your nose at
those whose actions you’ve reaped the benefits of.”

I wanted to argue. Griffin’s life had begun
in the tenements of New York, hadn’t it? And look how well he’d
done for himself.

But I wasn’t Griffin. I slumped back in my
chair. “I didn’t come here to fight. Thank you for your help. I
should return to the museum—Christine has an appointment at the
florist’s this afternoon.”

He gave me a smile that I didn’t trust for a
moment. “I’m glad your friends accepted my offer,” he said. “Before
you go, however, I have a request.”

“A request?”

“A favor, more like.”

I bit back a curse. Of course he hadn’t just
offered Whyborne House to Iskander and Christine out of the
goodness of his heart. Certainly not because he wished to make me
happy by helping my friends. I should have guessed there would be a
price from the start. “What is it?”

“I want you to bring your sister to
dinner.”

I blinked, uncertain I’d heard him
correctly. “You want me to bring Persephone to...dinner? Here?”

“Of course,” Father said. “She’s a Whyborne.
She ought to know where she comes from.”

I stared at him blankly. “You do realize
Persephone can’t just wish herself human, don’t you? Once the
change is made, it’s permanent. She belongs to the sea.”

“Don’t patronize me,” Father snapped. “I’ll
send a closed carriage for her. No one else will be here save for
you and Griffin.”

“You’re inviting us?”

“Of course.” He frowned. “Although I suppose
you might as well bring Dr. Putnam and Mr. Barnett with you, too,
as they know Persephone already. I also want you to accompany me to
see Stanford.”

Silence followed his pronouncement.
Eventually I gathered my wits enough to say, “You want me to visit
Stanford. At the asylum.”

He looked irritated. “I don’t believe I
stuttered.”

“Are you insane?” I exclaimed. “Stanford
tried to kill me! He would have killed Griffin if he were a better
shot! Why the devil would I want to visit him?”

“Because he asked for you,” Father
replied.

This was absurd. Father had clearly lost his
wits. “Asked for me how? In chains? My head on a platter?”

“Your brother regrets his actions.”

“I’m sure he does!” I would have laughed,
could I have found the humor in it. “After all, he ended up locked
in an asylum, instead of the uncontested ruler of Widdershins with
an army of ketoi at his back, ready to spread his reign across the
eastern seaboard. I imagine he very much regrets not murdering me
the way he murdered Guinevere.”

Father flinched, and I almost regretted my
own words. But Stanford had killed our oldest sister to keep her
from telling Persephone and me his plans. She died in my arms. “I
won’t forgive him,” I said savagely. “Not for that. Not for
Guinevere, or for Miss Emily, or for hurting Griffin. There’s
nothing he could ever do or say that would change my mind.”

“No one is asking you to forgive him,”
Father said. “Stanford wishes to make amends, for the sake of his
own conscience.”

“I’m under no obligation to make anything
easier for Stanford’s conscience.”

“Percival. You’re being churlish.” His
glower made me feel as though I were ten years old again.

If I refused, would he rescind his offer to
host Christine’s wedding at Whyborne House? Had he finally realized
that browbeating me would never bring me under his thumb, and so
found a new way to force me to comply with his wishes?

Probably. “Very well,” I
said stiffly. “I will
ask
Persephone if she’ll come. I can’t order her to do
so. And I’ll go with you to visit Stanford at the
asylum.

He nodded graciously. “I’m glad you decided
to be reasonable.”

“Since when has reason ever
had anything to do with
this
family?” I muttered, rising to my feet. “Don’t
bother Fenton. I can see myself out.”

Whyborne

“This is so exciting!” Miss Parkhurst
gushed. “I just love weddings, don’t you, Dr. Putnam?”

I was still in a foul temper from my visit
with father when we climbed out of a cab in front of the florist’s
shop. The large windows showed an explosion of color within:
scarlet roses, blushing lilies, vibrant violets, and golden
sunflowers. I felt as though I ought to shield my eyes from the
rainbow assault.

“Not at all,” Christine replied, her hands
on her hips as she surveyed the shop like a general prepared for
battle. “Given the current state of our laws and society, they far
too often mark a woman surrendering what little independence she
has to the whims of a man.”

“I...oh.” Miss Parkhurst cast me a pained
glance.

“I, er,” I said. “That is, that can often be
true, I am aware.” Griffin’s tales of murderous husbands from his
days in the Pinkertons had opened my eyes to various realities. And
if they hadn’t, Daphne’s sorry history certainly would have. I
couldn’t say I approved of her solution, but desperation often
drives people to do things they wouldn’t consider otherwise. “But
Iskander is a fine fellow.”

“Indeed.” Christine nodded her head once,
sharply. “You’ll note I waited quite a while after meeting him
before marriage, Miss Parkhurst. One must be absolutely sure of
compatibility on all matters.” She nodded again, and a small smile
touched her mouth. “All matters.”

Miss Parkhurst blushed. “Yes, well, we
should go inside.”

I shot Christine a dark look behind Miss
Parkhurst’s back. Christine ignored me, of course, and instead
started for the door. “We’d best get this over with. Come along,
Whyborne.”

The mingled scent of a dozen different
species of flower struck us as soon as we stepped within. My nose
tingled, and I sneezed.

A plump woman beamed at us from behind the
counter. “Can I help you...oh! Mr. Whyborne?”

“Dr. Whyborne,” Christine and I
chorused.

“Oh, I’m so sorry.” She bustled out, her
cheerful smile fixed in place. “May I say I’m so pleased the
Whyborne family chose to patronize my humble shop?”

I ground my teeth. I’d spent my entire life
fleeing Father’s legacy, and yet, here I was, “Mr.” Whyborne, all
the humble progress I’d made on my own superseded by Father’s
money.

“Yes,” I said, as civilly as I could manage.
Her expression suggested I’d taken on...how had Griffin described
my aspect? Cold? Haughty? Aloof?

I turned to Miss Parkhurst and Christine,
and gave them a bow. “Ladies. Do as you will.”

Which ultimately amounted to the shopkeeper
and Miss Parkhurst doing as they would. I lurked in a corner,
mopping at my running nose and trying not to sneeze. They discussed
colors with great enthusiasm, while Christine nodded along, her
expression that of a hunted animal.

“What will your bridesmaids wear?” the
florist asked.

“Er...” Christine’s eyes widened in panic.
“I don’t...that is I forgot...”

I barely managed to restrain myself from
clapping my hand across my eyes in despair. Of course she had.

“That is...Miss Parkhurst!” Christine turned
to my secretary, a bit frantically. “Will you be my maid of
honor?”

Miss Parkhurst’s eyes widened. “Are you
certain?”

“Why not?”

I cringed, certain I’d spend the next six
months trying to make up for Christine’s rudeness. But Miss
Parkhurst’s expression bloomed like one of the flowers. “Oh...yes!
Thank you so much, Dr. Putnam! I’d love to!”

She hugged Christine. Christine looked
horrified and patted her lightly on the shoulder. “Er, yes, you’re
quite welcome.”

After, there was no curbing Miss Parkhurst’s
enthusiasm. “That was exhilarating,” Miss Parkhurst said as we
climbed back into our cab, which Father’s money had paid to keep
waiting for us. “Oh, it will all be so beautiful!”

As she’d ultimately chosen a combination of
violently purple lilacs, paired with scarlet roses, I could only
say, “It will certainly be something to see.”

Whyborne

“I still can’t believe Father,” I said that
evening. “Asking me to visit Stanford, as though our shared blood
somehow matters more than all the horrible things he did.”

“I’m certain Niles appreciates your
cooperation,” Griffin said. He’d purchased a bathing costume at the
beginning of the summer, for when we went to the coast to visit
Persephone and Mother. I perched on the edge of the bed, watching
him change into it. I’d tried to coax Saul up for petting, but he
was more interested in the corner of the room. He sat on the floor,
ears forward, occasionally sniffing and pawing at the
baseboard.

“You have met Father, haven’t you? The man
doesn’t appreciate my cooperation, he sees it as his due.” I
gestured to Saul. “And now mice are trying to chew our house
apart.”

“Saul will take care of it,” Griffin said.
“As for your father, why do you think he wants you to go to the
asylum with him? Simply because Stanford asked?”

“Oh, who knows,” I muttered. “He probably
wishes there were some way to combine the two of us. Stanford’s
personality with my sorcery. He’d have the perfect son.”

Griffin bent to brush a kiss over my brow.
“Stanford imprisoned and beat him. Hardly the perfect son.”

“Still preferable to the one he has left, no
doubt.” I held up my hands at Griffin’s protest. “It hardly
matters. I will give Persephone her invitation. If she wishes to
satisfy her curiosity, I suppose I’ll have no choice but to
accompany her.”