The Skin Map (25 page)

“I did, yes—but you will not find yourself ill used,
Fräulein
. This is just the beginning,” he told her, spreading his arms to take in the whole city. “You have helped me, my friend, and you will not regret it. That I promise you. Our fortunes are on the rise.”

“Well and good,” replied Wilhelmina, casting a more critical eye around the premises. “We will need a fair-size fortune if we are to furnish this place in a suitable manner.”

“Do not worry,” chortled Arnostovi, delighted with himself and the world. “Leave everything to me.”

Back in the coffeehouse, Englebert was dubious. “It is a very great sum of money,” he pointed out.

“Worth every little silver
Groschen
. Wait ’til you see it, Etzel. We will be the talk of the town. It is truly
wunderbar
!”

He nodded, but remained unconvinced.

She paused, considering how best to reassure him. “Think of it, Etzel—the archduke’s property. It will be the perfect place to show off all the wonderful pastries you shall make. People will come from miles around to see and be seen in our beautiful new
Kaffeehaus
. And,” she concluded, “they will all leave with a loaf of your heavenly bread.”

“A good location makes all the difference,” Englebert conceded, warming to the idea.

“And this is the best location in the whole city—better even than the palace.”

“You have done well for us,
Liebchen
.”

The word made Mina’s heart swell; it seemed a lifetime since she’d heard it. She smiled all day.

At the end of the week, they closed the little shop on the narrow side street, telling their increasingly loyal clientele that they would reopen very soon in a splendid new shop on the square. The next morning, a messenger from the shipping company came to say that the delivery of coffee beans was secured and the ship was on its way home. Upon receiving this news, Englebert and Wilhelmina sat down and, over steaming cups of coffee, began planning their new coffeehouse and bakery.

There would be round tables of three sizes, and a generous
Eckbank
in one corner near the
Kachelofen
; the chairs would be well made and comfortable to allow patrons to linger and enjoy their daily cup—which would be served up in pewter pots with polished wooden handles and drunk from cups of the finest crockery they could find. In addition to coffee there would be a new line in pastries and cakes specially created by Wilhelmina for the new shop, and never before seen in Bohemia. “Don’t worry,” she told Etzel when he wondered where they would find the recipes for these new pastries. “I have enough for three or four new shops right here,” she said, tapping her temple with a finger. Then she added in a slightly wistful tone, “If we only had chocolate . . . but never mind. We’ll make do with almond paste and kirsch.”

“What about the kitchen help?” he asked.

“We will have four extra staff to begin,” she decided. “Two to work the tables—serving and clearing the dishes and making the coffee—and two to help you in the kitchen with the baking. And they shall all wear matching uniforms—green jackets and aprons, and little white caps.”

Englebert was thrilled with the idea. “Like servants in the fine houses.”

“Yes, just like servants in the great houses. We want our customers to feel like highborn lords and ladies—as if they have arrived at the emperor’s court.”

“Maybe Archduke Mattias will come,
ja
?”

“I would not be at all surprised if Emperor Rudolf himself comes to buy Englebert’s Special Stollen.”

Etzel beamed at the thought. “Do you think so?”

Wilhelmina nodded solemnly. “Why not? We are climbing up in the world, Etzel. Things are going to change.”

CHAPTER 22
In Which Confidences Are Frankly Exchanged

W
hy did you not tell me at once?” demanded Lady Fayth. “Did you not think that a most necessary and pertinent detail to have omitted?”

“I do assure you I am sorry, my lady—most heartily sorry,” answered Kit. “But you must concede that I was not afforded ample opportunity to explain until just this moment. Even so, the fault, I own, is entirely mine.”

The revelation that Kit was the grandson of Cosimo Livingstone had thawed the frosty opinion of Lady Fayth somewhat, but she was still wary, and far from mollified. “It would have saved me considerable distress, I do assure you.”

“Again, I can but throw myself on the mercy of the court,” he told her.

“The
mercy
of the court?” She smiled suddenly, brightening the room and Kit’s heart with a glow of happiness. “I do like that. Did you invent it?”

“Alas, no. It is a well-known saying where I come from.”

“Oh. I see.” She frowned, and the glad radiance vanished. “Now you are mocking me.”

“Not at all.” Eager to change the subject, Kit glanced down at his soup plate. “This broth looks good.” He pulled his apostle spoon from the pocket of his waistcoat. “Shall we dig in?”

“How oddly you speak,” she observed, picking up her spoon.

They ladled savoury beef broth into their mouths, and Kit was glad for a moment’s respite from the task of having to converse in the obtuse tongue of the seventeenth century—difficult enough at the best of times. And tilting with Lady Fayth was demanding and exhausting; he was happy for a chance to regroup. Silence, broken only by the occasional slurp, stretched between them. When the extended pause began to grow awkward, Kit entered the lists once more. “Do you live in London?” he asked.

“Good heavens, no!” she exclaimed. Setting down her bowl, she took a bit of dried bread, crumbled it into what remained in the bottom of the bowl, and began spooning up the sops. “What about yourself ?”

“London born and bred,” he replied, then quickly amended his assertion. “Well, in truth, I was born in Weston-super-Mare. My family has moved around somewhat, but I’ve lived in London a long time.”

“Weston-super-Mare?” wondered Lady Fayth.

“It’s in Somerset, I believe.”

“Is it, indeed?” She sniffed. “My home is in Somerset—Clarivaux, our family’s estate. Do you know it?” Without waiting for a reply, she continued. “My father is Edward, Henry’s older brother. I had a brother, Richard, who sadly died when he was three. I never knew him.” She nibbled daintily from the edge of the spoon, raising her head slightly. The candlelight caressed the curve of her throat and made her fair skin glow. The sight of such transcendent beauty within stroking distance made Kit feel a little dizzy. “Do you have family?” she asked.

“Well, there’s Cosimo, I suppose.”

“What do you mean, you suppose? Either he is your grandfather, as you claim, or he is not. There can be no supposition about it.”

“We
are
related,” Kit assured her. “There is no doubt about that. But he is not, strictly speaking, my grandfather.”

“No?” The spoon halted, hovering in midair. “Then who, pray, is he?”

“He is my
great
-grandfather.” At her disbelieving glance he added, “I know, I know—it seems unlikely. In fact, I had trouble believing it myself. But it is the honest truth. Cosimo is my great-grandfather.”

“Upon my word. You do surprise me.”

“It’s all to do with their, um—secret experiments.”

“Leaping.”

“Pardon?”

“Ley leaping—that’s what
I
call it. When one jumps from one place to another. . . .” She favoured him with a superior smile. “Leaping.”

“A good word for it,” granted Kit. “Anyway, all this leaping about from one place to another seems to interfere with the natural process of aging in some way. Cosimo should be a whole lot older than he seems to be.”

“Is that so?” She spooned up another sop, then pushed the dish away. “Am I to understand that you have been allowed to leap?”

“Oh, yes. Several times. And you?”

“No,” she replied. Servants appeared to clear away the dishes and prepare the table for the main course. “It is thought to be too dangerous—though I cannot imagine why—and so, of course, being a woman, I am not allowed.”

“Well, I’m not very good at it,” Kit said, by way of mitigating her disappointment. “And I don’t pretend to understand much about it. But I do agree it could be very dangerous. I mean, what if you leapt and found yourself in the middle of the sea, or a tiger-infested jungle, or an exploding volcano. . . .”

“That is why you need the map.”

“Pardon?”

“The Skin Map.”

“You know about that too?” said Kit, wondering what else she knew.

A platter of sliced mutton in gravy, mashed turnips, and carrots was placed on the table, and china plates efficiently filled. The servants topped up the wineglasses and retreated once more.

“My uncle trusts very few people with his secrets,” she confided, reaching for a clean spoon. “Happily, I am one of that select number. My father thinks it all wool and nonsense. He refuses to allow even the merest mention of leaping—or any of Henry’s other theories, come to that—in his presence. In consequence, they have not spoken in years. Thus”—her smile turned sweetly satisfied—“
I
have become the sole repository of my uncle’s scientific investigations.”

“I see.” Kit took her at her word, but there was something in what she said that niggled even as it sought to explain.

“Indeed, that is why I have come up to London,” she continued, slicing her meat nicely. “It goes without saying that much of his work is complicated and extremely esoteric. Uncle has promised to show me his journals and teach me some of his more abstruse theories. In time, I may be allowed to make a leap myself.”

“His journals,” repeated Kit, glancing up from his plate. “Wait! You mean he writes it down!”

“Certainly, he does. He keeps it all in little books,” she explained. “All his thoughts and theories, and also the results of his various experiments. It all goes into the books. Sir Henry is nothing if not scrupulous.”

“How very admirable,” declared Kit, “About these journals—I suppose you know where they are?”

“Where? In his study I should think—where else should they be?”

Kit felt the sense of helplessness that had dogged him since leaving Black Mixen begin to recede. He had only to get his hands on Sir Henry’s books and all would be well. At least this was the track his mind ran along at the moment. In a few days he would discover just how wrong he truly was, but by then this train of thought would have reached a wholly unexpected destination.

Laying aside his spoon, he placed both hands flat on the table. “Lady Fayth,” he said, adopting a solemn tone to better communicate the sense of gravity he felt, “I don’t mean to frighten you, but Sir Henry and Cosimo are in serious trouble. I think it imperative that we find his notes at once.”

“Trouble, you say? What sort of trouble?” she asked, cocking one perfect eyebrow. At his hesitation, she pounced. “Come, sir! If we are to get on, we must of necessity agree to a full exchange of confidences. We must keep nothing back.” He saw the defiance leap up in her eyes. “Lest you harbour any misguided sense of chivalric duty to protect a poor weak woman, I do assure you I am fully able and prepared to protect myself.”

The idea of protecting this fiery spirit had not remotely occurred to Kit. Once suggested, however, he was caught in a proposition of powerful allure, the mere suggestion of which filled him with a sudden pleasure.

“Speak, sir!” she demanded.

He shook himself from his caveman reverie. “Yes,” he allowed, “a full and frank exchange of confidences. It is precisely what I was about to suggest myself.”

“Then, as we are in agreement . . .” She patted her mouth primly with the edge of her napkin, then tossed the cloth aside. “Let us begin the search.”

Kit looked longingly at the mutton slowly congealing on his plate. “After supper, perhaps—”

“That will not do, sir!” She pushed back her chair and stood. “If finding his journals is as important as you claim, then we have not a moment to lose.” She strode from the room and into the corridor.

Kit snatched a last bite of the mutton, then hurried after. She led him to the room where he had first met her: Sir Henry’s library. Kit caught up with her at the wall of books. “Do you know what they look like?”

“I do not, for I have never seen them.”

“Well, it should not take long to find them in any case. You start there”—he pointed to the top left side of the bookcase—“and I’ll start on the opposite end. We’ll meet in the middle.”

Kit began at his end. The books were all big, heavy tomes bound in thick, dark leather, darker still in the flickering candlelight; he had great difficulty reading the titles hand-lettered in black ink on the spines, which, as he had noted before, were mostly in Latin. Giving this up as a bad job, he began pulling books off the shelf, one by one, and leafing through them. Some were handwritten on parchment, others printed on paper; occasionally, he came across one that contained a block print or etching—usually of some sort of machine or curious scientific apparatus; mostly, however, the pages were covered with small words crowded on pages with tight margins.

After examining a number of these volumes, Kit began to suspect that Sir Henry’s journals, if they did indeed exist, would not be among the large and dense folios he was examining. He turned his eye instead to the smaller, more portable books he saw. These were fewer and more easily handled, and he had soon worked his way through all within reach. He moved a couple paces closer to Lady Fayth and became aware that she was humming; although he did not know the tune, the melody was charming.

He was soon entranced by the lovely, lilting quality of her voice and no longer paying attention to what he was doing. He stood transfixed, a book unopened in his hand.

“What have you got there?”

“Hmm?” He glanced down at the small volume in his hand. It had a green cover and was closed by a leather strap that wrapped around a little brass boss; beyond that there were no other markings of any kind. “I don’t know.”

“Open it,” she instructed.

His fingers fumbled with the leather strap, and he cracked open the cover to reveal a page densely covered with a script of such eccentric nature he could not make out what language it might be written in, much less what it said.