The Crimson Shard (24 page)

Henry slapped the table. “By heaven, where are the others? I am especially surprised at Martingale.”

“If he does not hurry, he will miss this once-in-a-lifetime occasion,” said Trevelyan with a slight sneer. “And he will welcome in midnight by fending off ignorant oafs in the street.”

“I do hope not,” said Amelia, alarmed.

“Not all Englishmen are celebrating tonight’s event. Some feel cheated and they will be cross. Especially after they have had a drink,” Trevelyan said, spreading butter on bread.

“But why should they feel cheated?” asked Amelia.

“They do not understand why the calendar must be altered and believe that Parliament is stealing time from them,” said Wheatley.

Blaise shifted on his seat, wanting to ask what on earth they were talking about, but it was Sunni who said, “Calendar? Stealing time?”

Everyone looked at her.

“Of course, you would know nothing of this,” Henry said. “It is September second today. The calendar will change at midnight.”

“How?”

“At midnight, England will change to the Gregorian calendar, like other countries,” Amelia explained. “Parliament has decreed it, and the king ordered Ranelagh Gardens to open for this public celebration.”

“We have been told this new calendar must be synchronized with heaven’s planetary cycles, so we must drop eleven days this month,” added Henry. “At midnight, we shall jump past them, as if they never existed.”

“Just like that? Eleven days will disappear?” Sunni asked, bewildered.

“Yes, just like that.”

“No one told us anything in the Academy,” Blaise said in a hushed voice.

“I suppose not,” said Trevelyan, chewing. “No use in child-slaves concerning themselves with the calendar.”

“Quite,” said Henry.

“If I’d stayed there much longer, I wouldn’t have known which day it was anymore, anyway,” Blaise muttered.

Henry lowered his voice again. “You shall not be obliged to go back there, Blaise, unless it is to leave this century. Trevelyan, our visitors need protection in a safe house. I had expected Martingale or Catterwall would take them tonight, but neither is here and time is flying. May I rely upon you instead?”

The poet dropped his shoulders. “I cannot risk it. My children . . . It would be too much.”

Wheatley leaned forward. “I shall take them.”

Blaise could almost smell the stink of the man’s house, and a wave of disgust rose in him.

Henry hesitated. “Thank you, Wheatley, but no. As I said before, you are far too occupied for guests.”

“I shall take them,” Wheatley insisted.

Amelia twisted her body toward her brother as if entreating him to refuse, but she could say nothing aloud. Through the holes in his mask, Blaise made eye contact with Sunni. He could see his worries reflected in her eyes, too.

“If you are certain,” Henry murmured awkwardly. “Only for tonight. Tomorrow, they must go to Martingale. I will send him a message as soon as I am able.”

Wheatley nodded and pushed away his plate. “I have no interest in remaining here. My work calls me.” He nodded to Sunni and Blaise. “If you have eaten enough, we will go.”

“I wish to leave, too, Brother,” said Amelia, her mouth drooping under her white mask.

Trevelyan stuffed a hunk of ham into his mouth and stood up. “Then there is no point in my waiting here alone.”

Blaise followed the others out of the box, moving like a robot and imagining how foul the beds at Wheatley’s house would be. An aching tiredness came over him as he anticipated being shuffled from safe house to safe house, waiting for the elusive elixir to be ready.

On the ground floor, they joined the swarm of unwashed and perfumed revelers. Henry forged ahead with Amelia in tow. Being taller than most people, Blaise could keep them in sight, but chattering herds of people held him back, and he could only watch helplessly as the pair moved farther away. Sunni was right beside him, bracing against bodies bumping into her. He presumed Wheatley and Trevelyan were behind them, but he didn’t bother to look back.

The multitude swirled around them, and Blaise’s heart hammered. He thrust his hand out from under his cloak and whispered to Sunni, “Hold on.”

He was straining forward, about to pull Sunni around a knot of stationary people, when there was a commotion ahead. Over several wigs, he could see a scruffy masked stranger pulling Amelia deeper into the masses, while another grappled with Henry to the shrieks of nearby ladies.

Blaise yanked Sunni close and hissed, “Someone’s jumped Henry and Amelia. Come on!”

His manners disappeared, and he pushed people aside to get forward. The leather satchel slung across his chest made an excellent battering ram. Sunni used her elbows when she had to and even kicked a few ankles to get people moving. They scythed through the mob toward Henry, whose mask now hung around his neck and revealed his livid, shouting face.

“Sunni. Find Amelia,” Blaise urged. “They’ve taken her that way.”

He moved forward, his arms outstretched to grab Henry’s attacker by the back of the neck, but someone came from behind and hauled him aside. Just as he was about to fight back, a familiar voice made him stop.

“Are you mad, boy?” asked the man. “This way.”

A body was pushed hard against Blaise’s side. He could not see who it was, but from the wide skirt brushing his leg, he guessed it was Sunni. The noisy mob parted as powerful hands steered them toward the exit. There they hit a tide of oncoming bodies streaming into the Rotunda and were maneuvered through, gasping and sweating.

Blaise tried to turn, but the voice said, “Face forward.”

They squeezed through the exit and were guided around the curved side of the Rotunda to a place where fewer people milled.

“Stop here,” said the voice, releasing the grip on his arm. Blaise whirled around and faced Wheatley. The man’s other hand was still on Sunni’s shoulder.

“Why did you make us leave, Mr. Wheatley?” he said hoarsely. “We were trying to help the Featherstones!”

“And call attention to yourselves? You would have been taken.”

“Now what?”

The beak nodded up and down. “Trevelyan has gone after Miss Featherstone — who should never have been here in the first place — and no doubt Henry Featherstone is dealing his attacker blows he shall never forget.”

“That’s good news, I guess,” said Sunni, trying to twist gracefully out of Wheatley’s grip. But he would not let go.

“It is, indeed,” Wheatley said. “But we must make haste. It is too dangerous to stay here now.”

“Your hand is hurting —” whispered Sunni.

“Can you let go of her shoulder, please, sir?” Blaise asked as politely as he could.

Several passersby looked curiously at them, and Wheatley said under his breath, “I apologize,” as he dropped his hand to his side.

Sunni sprang away, panting under her mask.

“I do not mean to harm you,” Wheatley said breathily. “Far from it. You know so many things I wish to know. Things I
must
know!”

Blaise took Sunni’s arm, saying nothing.

“I will help you, but you must also help me.” Wheatley held out one hand. “Come, we should leave this place now.”

“How are we to help you?” Sunni asked. Blaise held her arm fast, and they made no move to go anywhere.

“You need my red elixir, but it has a price.”

Blaise’s blood rose. “A
price
?”

“It is little to ask,” said Wheatley, his open hand curling into a fist. “In exchange for my elixir, I demand to go with you to the future.”

“Y
ou can’t come with us!” said Sunni, incredulous. “You belong in our time as much as we belong in this one — not at all!”

“You have nothing without me,” said Wheatley between gritted teeth. “I am taking the trouble to make the elixir, at no small risk to myself.”

“That doesn’t mean you should use it yourself,” said Blaise. “And you won’t be able to if we don’t tell you where the painted door is.”

“Tell me where it is, or I shall not give you my elixir!”

“You said you’d help us, not hold us to ransom,” Sunni said, indignant. “We’re not bargaining.”

“You deny me so much as a glimpse of your world,” Wheatley croaked. “You would keep me chained to this time, when I, more than any man in this century, deserve to go to yours!”

A cool breeze swirled up, catching cloaks and causing a loud rustling in the trees. Sunni’s skin prickled at the sight of a dark shape darting behind a trunk in the distance.

“Blaise,” she mumbled, “we can’t stay here.”

“My home is safe.” Wheatley’s tattered cloak billowed. “Come with me now!”

“No. I want to make sure the Featherstones are all right,” said Blaise. “Let’s go, Sunni.”

Wheatley’s mouth hung open. “You would throw my assistance and hospitality back in my face?”

“Your price is too high.”

Wheatley lunged. “How dare you!”

Another gust rattled the leaves as Sunni and Blaise bolted away toward the network of paths around the Rotunda. Wheatley pursued them briefly, then staggered to a halt and stared after them.

“You shall return!” His voice followed them on the wind. “You have nowhere else to go. And I am the only one who can help you!”

Sunni held her mask tight with one hand and her leather satchel with the other. Her shoulder was rubbed raw from the strap, but she kept pace with Blaise. “What are we going to do now?”

“I think we should head back to the Rotunda,” said Blaise, constantly checking over his shoulder as he slowed down to a rapid walk.

“Then why are we going this way?”

“It’s the long way around. More chance of shaking off Wheatley.”

“What if we can’t find the others?”

Blaise’s voice was gruff. “Don’t worry about that now!”

He and Sunni wove in among strolling guests parading up and down the walkways, watchful that Wheatley had not caught up. Blaise turned into a quieter path leading down toward the river.

“This isn’t taking us back to the Rotunda,” Sunni protested.

“It will eventually. There’ll be a turn.”

“I don’t like it.”

“It’s just for a little bit longer,” he said.

The farther they walked, the more the crowds thinned out, as did the number of twinkling lanterns. The path grew darker and darker. The Thames was a horizontal black stripe ahead of them, bordered above by a starry indigo sky.

“This is creepy,” said Sunni, looking all around her as they came to a junction with another path. “Let’s get out of here.”

“Okay, okay. We want to be heading in that direction,” said Blaise, turning left. “This should take us toward the Rotunda.”

“It looks like a dead end.”

“No — I bet there’s another turn but we can’t see it from here.”

“I don’t know.” Sunni stopped and peered at the solitary path. They were completely alone. “Remember what Henry said.”

“There’s no one here.” Blaise offered his hand. “Come on.”

She followed him, unconvinced, and they walked farther up the new path, chilled by the wind off the river. With every step, the buzzing sounds of the crowds grew fainter and silence surrounded them. She wanted to rip the mask from her face so she could see properly, but she didn’t dare.

“This is a lonely place to find oneself,” said a languid voice behind them.

Sunni gasped as she and Blaise whirled around. Some distance away, farther up the path, stood Throgmorton. He was dressed completely in black except for a gold-embroidered waistcoat that glinted in the light of a nearby lantern.

“You are well disguised,” he said, standing completely still. “But when I noticed two young figures talking with a man-bird about going to the future, the costumes became pointless.”

Blaise took Sunni’s arm and began to move away.

“Corvo’s three magical paintings!” Throgmorton said. “You know where they are, and you will tell me now.”

“We are
not
telling you anything!” Blaise replied angrily.

“Then you have had your last chance. Livia and I are leaving before Starling’s house is destroyed, and with it, the painted door. It is the only way back to your time.”

Destroyed!
The word shot through Sunni’s head. Why should it be destroyed? Once again, she envisioned the blue plaque on the front of Starling House, its words and numbers fuzzy and hard to remember. Had
destroyed
been one of them?

“What are you talking about?” Blaise shouted.

“Even I cannot change destiny, Blaise, much as I would wish to. The Academy was always destined to end in September 1752. I have made the most of it while I could.”

“You’re making this up, like everything else you’ve told us!”

Destroyed.
Sunni’s memory of the blue plaque snapped into focus as if a lens had been adjusted.
Destroyed on 14th September 1752.

“The house will be destroyed at some point in the next few hours. It will be impossible to pass through the painted door, for it will not exist anymore.”

“No, you’re wrong! It won’t be destroyed until September fourteenth,” shouted Sunni, clutching at Blaise’s cloak. “I read it on the blue plaque at Starling House.”

Throgmorton’s laugh rang out. “But the calendar changes at midnight!”