Transmuted (3 page)

Booth’s gray eyes, filled with concern behind his stalwart exterior, met mine.

I smiled. “Do let Fanny know that I shall return soon.”

“Yes, my lady,” he said. A minor irritation, that title. One of the many reasons I did not care for Society guests was that of my own comfort. Booth, who had known me since I was a devil child of thirteen, had always called me
miss
or
little miss
in affectionate courtesy.

He could not do so in front of guests.

I bit back a sigh, swept the heavy black material of my skirts aside, and added, “Ensure that all goes smoothly in my absence.”

“Yes, my lady,” he repeated. I had little doubt that he understood my meaning.

If Ashmore—or heaven forfend, Hawke, who did not often visit since his recovery from a near-death sleep last March—were to learn of this dead of night excursion, I could only imagine the result.

Both men considered my well-being their business.

Both had earned a measure of my heart, though in different ways and for different reasons.

Ashmore was as close as family, as dear as the friend who knew all the most terrible, base things about one and valued one anyway. I loved him as I loved the dearest of friends, as I would have loved a brother were I ever gifted one. Once upon a time, I might have even loved him as a woman does a man.

But there was Hawke to contend with. There was
always
Hawke.

Micajah Hawke was something altogether different from any man of my acquaintance. The nature of our relationship was a challenging riddle that we danced around, absenting ourselves from it and each other when we could not find the means to communicate.

Both men were difficult to handle, dangerous alone, and virtually impossible when together.

Poor Booth would have the unhappy task of ensuring neither acted out of turn.

I was perhaps known for the trouble I caused, and for the curiosities that unfolded around me, but I was no helpless miss to require the presence of a man for protection. What alchemy had not taught me—those powers beyond the two Trumps in the journey I’d mastered and the third I was in the midst of learning—my own physical gifts would support.

And, of course, there was Zylphia at my back.

My butler escorted us to the door, the
step-thunk-step
of his pace earning a curious scrutiny from our guest.

When Mr. Darlington caught me watching him, he did not, by word or expression, acknowledge my catching. He merely placed his bowler upon his head, hiding the light chestnut of his hair and causing the darker bush of his chops to stand out in harsh relief.“There is a carriage waiting.”

The man with the unfortunate distinction of falling to Levi’s unorthodox use of pan had promised the same. No crest nor ornamentation decorated it. No indication of wealth colored it, save that it was a closed carriage in a borough where hackneys were the custom.

A footman in the same featureless clothing helped me alight. Within, I found the unconscious men, who had not yet begun to stir.

I sat across from them. Zylphia occupied the seat beside me.

Mr. Darlington remained above.

“Well, now,” said my friend, at a loss for anything else that might sum up the oddness of the situation.

I understood her well. “Well, now, indeed.”

Chapter Three

The transition from carriage to gondola was done with little enough comment. This new mode of transport was enough to strengthen my suspicions.

While there were many ways with which to assure Society of one’s own distinction, one of the most common was that of an estate’s gondola and requisite gondolier. With much of London above the drift broken by vast canals filled with the heavy, swirling fog, the gondola became the primary method of Society travel.

Let the base and below queue for trains, hackneys or tired old carts, we well-to-do claimed that what the advent of Angelicus Finch’s aether engine made possible.

The gondola waiting for us was of dark wood, polished to a gleam and large enough to sit three plus the gondolier. As a footman helped me alight, I studied the delicate curve of its prow and the set of single pipes affixed to the rear.

The aether engine was one of several advances come from the Great Exhibition—a remarkable device that harvested aether from the ambient air and bound it to energy. With such a device, travel by air became possible.

More, it became necessary.

One could tell a great deal about a family by way of their gondola. Many were handcrafted, personalized to each estate, with brass fittings and copper fixtures, and gilt if one felt garish enough to flaunt it. Even the tailpipes might alter from gondola to gondola.

My own—which had no doubt been turned over to the Northampton estate—had only featured a single set of pipes to vent the blue light left by the aether’s consumption. While this gondola waiting bore the same, it was arrayed in an elegant curve that served as much decoration as function.

The gondolier waiting at the rear stood to offer a hand to myself, then one to Zylphia.

We settled into the enclosed seating, remarkably clear of fog thanks to the filter installed within. The seats were soft and smooth, and the interior gently padded by navy velvet.

Quite the posh arrangement.

Mr. Darlington once more remained outside.

When the gondola rose, it did so with the ping of warming engines and a smooth, almost liquid glide.

Aside from the vehicle itself,the most important matter of worth stemmed from one’s gondolier. I did not need to look—and could not, thanks to the covered windows—to know that this cove, whomever’s servant he was, might rival Booth for unparalleled control.

Them what learned how to balance the gondola upon the very top of the fog, as though riding water, were well-prized.

For almost three quarters of an hour, Zylphia and I sat in silence. ’Twasn’t that we had nothing to speak of, only that there was little enough to speculate upon that would net us any degree of resolution. We were summoned at the request of Her Majesty’s agents, whomever they might be, and that was simply that.

Besides, I had enough faith in Zylphia’s abilities—and my own, certainly—that I thought us more than capable of handling whatever circumstance might cross our guided path. We had worked together long before I had been given any inkling of Zylphia’s otherworldly abilities. She was as deft a hand with a weapon as I, and felt no fear at the promise of danger.

If anything, ’twas the nature of her current state that gave me some pause.

I wanted to protect her, but I also knew that she—like I, were I ever in her stead—would resent the coddling. I imagined Ishmael Communion struggling with the truth of Zylphia’s independent nature. He was the sort who protected his own, and she the fierce female likely to give his instincts fits.

What I loved most about Ishmael was that he did not attempt to cage her.

I would do my best to provide the same courtesy.

When the gondola bumped into its final harbor, I expected to be let out. Instead, the whole rocked, as though eased into a berth and locked into place. I heard the sound of hinges creaking, and felt movement of a downward angle.

My eyes widened. “This is quite the procession.”

“Secretive, that’s for sure,” my companion agreed. She tugged vainly at the window, but it did not budge. The covering tied outside it had not so much as flapped during travel.

Soon, the gondola shuddered to a stop.

There was silence, some impression of movement outside, then the door cracked open.

Mr. Darlington bent to survey us both with equal consideration, an act that made me consider his role in this tableau. That he did not dismiss Zylphia out of hand as a mere servant suggested he was quite used to weighing all manner of people, and what their intentions might be.

“I apologize,” Mr. Darlington said, “but your sight must be restrained during this time. Would you prefer to be carried, or can you walk with a blindfold?”

I bristled. “I am quite capable of walking under my own power.”

“As you wish.” He entered into the enclosure, and I thought that it was a very unfortunate choice. Were I not interested in the final party I was to meet, I would have taken this opportunity to overpower and escape him.

Instead, Zylphia and I quietly allowed him to bind our eyes. His hands were deft, lacking the clumsiness I’d have expected from one unused to dealing with matters of mesh veils and fashionably crooked hats.

When I could see nothing through the black material bound at my eyes, I felt his hand take mine. “There is a small step,” he said graciously. “Please take it down now.” I did. “Well done, my lady.”

“You are rather used to guiding the blind,” I noted.

He did not answer me direct. “If you’ll forgive the familiarity,” he said instead, “I am now ceding your hand to a footman who will guide you the rest of the way. Please,” he added, “spare him any trouble. I shall be right behind you.” A courteously phrased warning, that was.

My fingers were pressed into a much larger hand. Shortly, I heard him guide Zylphia in much the same manner.

So it was that I walked through passages unseen, corridors that smelled like dry air and a dusting of lavender, cedar and the sting of kerosene—lamps, no doubt, meant to light the way. The floor felt unaccountably hard beneath my sturdy high-top boots, and the small heel upon them clicked and echoed in a manner expected of a wide space.

We turned this way and that, and though I did my best to remember the corners taken, I suspect that Mr. Darlington or his footmen expected the same, and we were often turned around. I could not be certain that what I recalled was truly correct.

When we arrived into a space that felt to my bound senses as though it were much larger, the footman slowed.

“Ah, Darlington,” came a woman’s voice. Loud, and flanked by echoes that wasted no time in catching up. It was a hearty voice, one used to command, that expected nothing less than obeisance. “Good man. Please unbind our guests.”

I was not entirely certain that my senses had not deceived me.

I knew the voice. Knew the lady to which it belonged.

That it was not Her Majesty barely mattered at all. As the footman who led me untied the blindfold—tugging gracelessly at my veil as he did, with murmured apology—I blinked in the sudden wash of light.

In the haze that was all my sensitive eyes could summon, a large silhouette approached.

“There you are,” boomed the lady whose features now settled into a more comfortable focus. “I apologize for the manner of your invite, but there’s work to do and I want none of your prissing about.”

My mouth gaped rather like a fish’s. Which I suspected she’d indicate, so I closed it briefly, reconsidered, and said rather more sternly than I had the right, “Lady Rutledge, what in the name of all things scientific is going on here?”

Lady Euphemia Rutledge was a Society matron whose ties to the scientific community circumvented the fact that she was a woman, and thus, considered of lesser intellect by popular opinion. She was renowned for her library, and often entertained foreign dignitaries from various countries. Despite the common claptrap that preached otherwise, she was a brilliant woman. I had read many of her theories as reprinted in the periodicals that didn’t shy from a female whose mind lent more to science than fashion or other delicacies.

That she also maintained a salon of various characters, each with an interest in testing the mind and studying the scientific precepts of alchemy, certainly earned her favor in my regard.

It was thanks to Lady Rutledge that I’d solved a series of murders that led to a member of her own salon.

Of course, much had changed since our last meeting. I was
persona non grata
in Society’s eyes, and after a great deal of trouble, I now knew more of alchemy than the lady could begin to suspect.

It was, as it turned out, much more than scientific explanation.

Unfortunately for the lady’s interests, I was forbidden from sharing such knowledge.

Lady Rutledge was not a woman to whom delicate might ever be ascribed. The deep sheen of her sensible bronze day dress did nothing to soften her massive figure, and her impressive bosom tended to rise and fall like a bellows. Her hair was a beautiful shade of brown too dark and too lush to be unenhanced.

Her pink lips curved in welcome beneath a beauty mark I found suspect. For all it was near four in the morning, she appeared fresh as roses—and healthy as the pachyderm I had once likened her to.

At my side, Zylphia shook out her skirt. She said nothing, however, and rightfully so— this was, now that I had the opportunity to search my surroundings, not the place for a servant to speak.

Mr. Darlington circumvented us both to stand behind Lady Rutledge. It was almost deferential, but something of his alert posture suggested to me that he was rather more comfortable outside one’s direct notice than squared within it.

The lady beckoned me forth. “Your companion is one you trust?”

A heavy question, for all it came with her usual bluntness.

“With my life,” I said simply. I studied the large door behind the lady. It was solid, the sort built to keep out the unwelcome, and banded by ornate works of wrought iron.

“Good.” Lady Rutledge turned, the light from the gas lamps affixed along the stone walls gilding her hair and gown. “You may well need such allies. Come then, dear lady.”

She rapped sharply upon one of the double doors.

There was a creak, a series of clatters that sounded like metal and wood, and I imagined the large mechanism that surely barred the way. A complicated barrier, no doubt. The doors opened together, rather grand for all that the hall we stood in was not.

Light streamed from the interior, catching on glass facing and ruby velvet. Bars protected the interior of each narrow window, its patterned glass cut by sturdy black frames.

Behind me, Zylphia breathed, “Cor blimey.” Not the first I’d heard her take on the dialect of them guttersnipes raised within earshot of the Bow Bells.

Whether it came from the understanding of where we stood or the mere appearance of that what waited beyond the door that caused such surprise, Zylphia echoed my own thoughts on the matter.

For the first time in the whole of my life, I stood outside Wakefield Tower’s famous vaults.

Such history had been enacted in this place, such machinations. The blood of kings had been spilt, only to fade away under the tide of records that had once filled this nigh impregnable tower. Shortly after its raising above the soot, the records that had been kept here were moved.

The Crown Jewels had taken their place.

Although it had long been open for viewing to the general public, I had never been interested in viewing the wealth of the British Monarchy. It was, upon reflection, a childish precept.

Such treasures were not like to be seen aught else.

I followed Lady Rutledge into the much cooler interior, my eyes caught on the many and impressive cases that housed the varied treasures. I noted heavy crowns encased in protective glass, scepters laid out, rings and necklaces, circlets and tiaras and no end of other such adornments. The royal pall was not in obvious attendance, though the treasury seemed to fill farther than I could see. There were five jewel-encrusted swords and scabbards, and each had its own name and necessity of use for a monarch’s coronation.

The Ampulla used to anoint Her Majesty gleamed beside its Anointing Spoon, which—if I recalled correctly—was thought to be the oldest of the regalia.

Treasures of priceless value surrounded me, esteemed as much for their sentimentality to the monarchy as for the noble metals and gems that made them.

Lady Rutledge swept through all of this as though it were nothing at all, leaving me dazzled by the sparkle and shine in her wake.

Sentries in the distinctive livery of the Yeomen Warders waited at rigid attention on either side of the door. As Mr. Darlington ushered us forward, a tall, exceptionally thin man unfolded from somewhere beyond the lights to take up nervous position by the imposing woman.

“Now, then,” said Lady Rutledge, waving at the man. “This is Mr. Jodfrey, a representative of Garrard’s.”

Some four decades past, Garrard & Co. had been named Crown Jewelers by Her Majesty’s appointment. It was their purview to maintain the regalia, polish and care for all of the treasures, and to make whatever bits of jewelry the Royal Family requested.

I inclined my head to his uneasy bow. “A pleasure,” I said dutifully.

He said nothing, spindly fingers nervously tapping. Beside him, gems sparkled and shone from pillows of red and gorgeously appointed violet.

I frowned at the lady. “This is all very lovely,” I said when she watched me in silence. “But might I ask why I am here?”

Zylphia bent over a case, studying the interior with eyes gone to narrowed slits.

“First and foremost,” said the lady, gesturing to the sweating man I’d only just met, “I must inform you that as of now, you and your companion are held to the highest silence.” Mr. Jodfrey withdrew several leaves of parchment from a dossier held clamped in one hand. “You do not,” she added bluntly, “have the right to refuse.”

“So I am bound,” I replied with some wryness to the tone. “I shall refrain from asking why me and ask instead what Her Majesty would have of me?”

There were any number of reasons why I should be asked to help Her Majesty. They ranged from the innocent—my current role as pariah might afford this affair with some semblance of discretion—to the outright insidious—my role as a collector had become known to them what had the need for the sort.