The Timeseer's Gambit (The Faraday Files Book 2) (13 page)

“Rosemary would give up twenty ponies, all with horns, to see
you
, Mister Buckley,” Miss Albany said quietly. “Just for one short day.”

His heart gave a sharp pang and continued with a dull, throbbing ache. It felt like a million years since he’d put Rosemary on that train and watched it disappear into the distance. She used to be such a basic part of his daily life, and it had been forever since he’d given her a hug, felt her tug at his hand, watched with his heart in his throat as she played with elementals the way most girls her age played with dolls. And yet… “There was another man on the bench, today,” Chris said. “The fellow who feeds the birds. He always litters the walk with shells.”

Miss Albany closed her eyes, her face creasing. “Combs’s men haven’t given up,” she murmured.

“Once,” Chris continued, “one of Rosemary’s letters had been opened when I received it. Thanks to that clever post relay Olivia and Missus Faraday set up, I assume that they couldn’t find the original sent address, so they thought they’d read my little sister’s letters to see if there were any hints.”

“But there weren’t,” Miss Albany said. “I always check her letters before they’re sent. I know what to look for.”

“I know,” Chris said. “But do you think you could stop them from following me right to the orchard in Summergrove, if I decided to come and see my sister for her birthday?”

Miss Albany paused, and then shook her head sadly. “No. I don’t think so. I think you would lead them right to her.”

Then why did you say anything to begin with?
She knew better than anyone what the traditionalists were capable of. And the reformists, for that matter. Chris wasn’t even certain that his afternoon visitors weren’t affiliated with
them.
Doctor Livingstone’s movement had fractured just as he’d predicted, but one name had come up more often than others in the papers.
New Reformist Leader Garrett Albany Advises Taking the Battle to Vernella
. Miss Albany had said more than enough about her brother for Chris to know that she avoided contact with him at best, and was genuinely afraid of him at worst.

It was impossible for them to see one another.

Chris sighed and folded his lips. He had to ask. “If you’ve said anything about this to Rosemary…”

“No!” Miss Albany protested. “Goodness, Mister Buckley, no. I would never. Miss Rosemary has a difficult enough time missing you without my giving her false hope. I swear. I haven’t breathed it.”

Chris was swept a surge of relief―and frustration. The amount of power that Miss Albany had over his sister was occasionally terrifying. She was a private woman and had never offered information about her upbringing, family, or much of anything, really. He knew she was a heartreader, that her politics were reformist even though she was not a part of the actual movement, and that her brother Garrett was some sort of monster. Beyond that, he was too polite to ask. And yet, she was becoming as much a parent to his sister as Chris himself was.

Abruptly, he was deeply weary with the conversation, and with the thread of tension that flowed between Miss Albany and himself. He was so frustratingly aware of it and she didn’t have a clue and it didn’t seem fair. “I have so much work to do,” he said.

A cloud crossed Miss Albany’s face, and then was gone as quick as it had appeared. “Of course,” she said, all prim politeness. “I appreciate the time you’ve taken to talk with me, Mister Buckley.”

“Think nothing of it,” Chris said because it was polite. “I’ll mirror again on Eadday? Two nights from now?”

“We’ll be waiting, of course.” Miss Albany paused, and Chris could tell she wanted to say something else. She looked at him and for a moment, he thought―she knows, somehow. About the invisible line between us. About the kiss-that-wasn’t. And then she nodded once. Very proper. “Good evening, Mister Buckley.”

“Good evening, Miss Albany.”

He heard the first notes of the chimes on her side being rung all at once, disrupting the frequency connection between the gnome in Summergrove and the one in his foyer. The mirror faded into cloud and Chris stared at it sadly.

Instantly, another face with chestnut hair and expressive eyes came to mind.

He shook it off, staring down at his page, but Will’s face wouldn’t leave him be. Olivia had been right about one thing: he needed to apologize. He’d ordered William out of his house in a petty rage on Eadday, four days ago, now. There had been no contact since.

He flipped a few pages and recorded relevant names. But the near-miss with Eleanor Wardingham had taken the wind out of his sails and he found himself weaving swirls on his page instead of transcribing. He wouldn’t get Olivia’s work done with Will’s wounded face running through his head like a particularly catchy tune. He left the stack of papers and the portable mirror on the table and his boots and socks under it. He tapped salamander-bound lights as he passed them and the baleful little lizards inside awoke one by one all the way down the stairs to the foyer. He tapped the lamp on the front table. The salamander inside was gorgeous, rainbow-scaled and playful-looking. It swirled in excited circles inside the globe, happy to be working. The cheery little elemental was one of few that Rosemary had called and bound herself. He had to admit, her touch certainly resulted in a different temperament of spirit, though he never for a moment trusted the thing’s attitude.

Chris tapped out the notes on the chimes in front of the mirror and his reflection vanished, swirling into cloud. For a long, long time the surface simply continued to whirl in little eddies of mist, and he thought the gnome would bounce back without making the connection. And then the surface cleared.

William stared back at him. His eyes were hard and his jaw was set. He had his arms folded in front of him. “What do you want?” he asked. Stone cold.

Chris deserved it, but he still flinched. He had behaved so
badly
. He tried to remember the exact things he’d said, but his mind shied from his own mistakes in embarrassment. When he opened his mouth to say that he was sorry, so, so sorry, it didn’t seem right. William was standing there ready for a fight and Chris was in his foyer with no socks on. “Do you want to come over?” he asked. He sounded very pathetic.

“Oh,” William snorted. “Is it not
inappropriate
, anymore?”

Chris winced. Had he said that? Probably. He shook his head. What a mess he’d made. “I’m an idiot,” he said. “I’m a sodding idiot, Will.”

The words had apparently been well-chosen. Chris watched some tension melt out of Will’s shoulders. “Yes,” he agreed. “You are. I don’t know why I put up with you.”

“Because you’re a good friend,” Chris answered honestly. “And I’m a pill.”

“Very much so.”

“A right prig.”

“Fine, I admit it, this is endearing you to me.” Something that may have been a smile creased Will’s lips and then faded. “But I can’t come.”

“Oh.” Hope died a sad and lonely death in Chris’s heart, and his own growing smile fell off his face gracelessly. “I suppose that’s reasonable, considering what an arse I’ve been.”

“Don’t be dramatic,” Will scoffed, which was a very ironic thing for him to say. He glanced over his shoulder. “I just can’t leave right now. I need to―that is, I’m taking care of something here.”

Quickly, Chris weighed options in his mind. There was a clear winner. He cleared his throat. “Well,” he said. He flushed. Inviting oneself into a home for the first time was extremely impolite, but it was worse to attack your only friend and turn him out of yours. It seemed to balance itself. “That is, if it’s fine with you, and it’s perfectly all right if it’s not, I could… meet you somewhere?”

That seemed a fair way to suggest without saying.

A smile cracked William’s icy face. He shook his head. “You are very ridiculous.”

“I―” Chris flushed.

“I live at 412C Black Canning Street,” William said. Chris blinked. That was a very rough neighbourhood. Had he heard right? “It’s not close to the Buckley manor, and you won’t be able to get a hackney back home later than 11 o’clock. And I won’t let you walk in these streets after dark, looking like you do. You’ll get mugged at best. So you’d best come quickly if you’re set on it.”

He’d apparently heard right, after all. Still― “I’m very set on it,” Chris asserted.

“Ridiculous,” William said again, but he was grinning when he cut the connection.

Quickly, Chris mirrored the taxi service.

The person who answered the door was not William.

Chris had tried to make himself look both tough and poor, the collar of his greatcoat pulled all the way up and the front buttoned to hide his fine waistcoat and the arrow collar Olivia had talked him into. The door to 412C was scuffed and needed a new coat of paint, and the floral-themed doorknocker was badly tarnished. Chris had banged with increasing ferocity, aware of eyes peering interestedly out of alleys at his back, noting his well-made boots and the fact that he could afford spectacles.

The door flew open, Chris sighed with relief, and the person standing there was a stranger.

A petite and suspicious-looking woman of middle age stared up at him. It took him less than a second to notice a flicker of orange light and realize that the lady had a firepistol tucked into her belt. Had Will given him directions to a bad neighbourhood out of revenge? He didn’t think so. Will was as petty as they came, but he’d never hurt anyone. The glaring woman, on the other hand, looked like she knew how to use that thing.

“H-hello,” Chris stammered.

“Who are you?” She was extremely pretty, Chris realized. She had delicate features and was slender as a willow switch. She wore the plain white blouse and high-waisted, belted skirt of a woman of little means, but her hair was done up becomingly and the fingers that fell to her gun were incredibly small and dainty. She had chestnut hair, luminous dark green eyes, and lips that had a distinct natural pout…

Chris connected the dots. “Missus… Cartwright?” he asked.

“I have the rent,” she responded. “It isn’t due for two days, and you know it. You tell Mister Rivets, I have the rent. We pay on time, now. My boy has a good job.”

“Mother?” Chris definitely recognized the voice that called from inside the house. A moment later, the pretty woman was being pushed to one side, and William was standing beside her in the door. Standing next to each other, the resemblance went from evident to remarkable. William looked Chris up and down and then shook his head and sighed. “You look like a tough.” He snorted. “Why are you wearing that awful coat? Have you looked in a mirror? You’d be appalled at yourself. Come in, come in. Step aside, Mother.”

Chris was hurried inside. The door shut behind them, and there were three sliding locks in addition to the puzzle key Will fitted into the keyhole.

Their front door opened to a parlour. No foyer, but the room was considerably nicer than Chris would have imagined from the exterior. All the furniture looked new, and it was well-upholstered with fine materials. The hearth was cold in the heat of the summer evening, but it glowed a faint orange―salamander-fueled, not kindling. He glanced about, impressed. Will followed his gaze. “It’s mostly new,” William said. “I thought I’d replace all the things before we bought a house uptown. No use getting a new place and filling it with rubbish.”

A hand grabbed Chris’s arm and he jumped and looked down. Missus Cartwright had completely changed. The suspicion was gone, and she was smiling. She might have been the most beautiful woman Chris had ever seen. “Are you one of William’s friends?” she asked.

“Mother, this is Christopher,” William said, and Chris noticed that he was blushing. “Chris, this is my mother, Agnes Cartwright.”

“Christopher,” Missus Cartwright said. She smiled widely, all sweetness and light. Her resemblance to her son made the expression seem very strange. “Oh, William always brings home the most handsome friends.”

“
Mother
,” William said warningly, and she sighed and dropped Chris’s arm.

“Are you here to visit? Oh, do visit. Sit! Sit. I’ll make a tea and have it brought out right away. Sit down!” She all but forced him into a chair and then swept off, her legs bustling under her well-made, serviceable woolen skirts.

Will sighed and settled in across the way. “She’s… troubled,” he said, after a long silence punctuated only by the sound of china clattering in the kitchen. “It’s not her fault. She was perfectly lovely, until my father…” His gaze slid away from Chris’s. Chris followed it.

Over the mantle, there was a worldcaught portrait of a strapping gentleman. He had broad shoulders that seemed to pull at the stitches of his coat, large hands, and features as masculine and perfectly chiseled as a marble statue of Calhoun the Father. His suit was well-tailored, and he wore a silk top hat in the style that had been popular twenty years ago. A warm smile played at his lips, fading and then returning, marring the gravity of the painting and giving some hint as to the personality of the man pictured.

If he hadn’t had it pointed out, he never would have seen any similarity with the slender, pretty William. But knowing they were father and son, Chris could see it around the eyes, in the shape of the ears, the width of the forehead. And William wore his hair exactly like his father’s, long and usually tied back with a silk ribbon, in defiance of style.