Part 12 (1/2)

See enclosed report. I'm terribly sorry. I wanted you to know before you heard elsewhere. S.

London, September 25, 1889.

LADIES' COLLEGE OF LONDON.

3:55 p.m. Wednesday.

EVELINA HAD READ THE NOTE SHE'D PULLED FROM THE LIBRARY wall several times already. She had been expecting something else-a request for information, or an opinion about something from the magical realm. Sometimes it was a question Holmes wanted her to slide into a conversation she had with Keating, never letting on who wanted the answer. She'd become her uncle's direct line to the Steam Council-or at least one of them-since she'd become the Gold King's prisoner. Keating liked dropping ominous bits of news, presumably to keep her afraid. Anything credible she pa.s.sed on via the library wall. Playing informant gave her a sense of purpose beyond her life as a caged pet.

But this time the note was different. Her uncle didn't pepper his letters-or any other communication-with expressions of emotion, so if he said he was terribly sorry, it had to be awful. Evelina had left the report folded shut since she had pried it from its hiding place yesterday, terrified of what it might contain. This morning, she had imprisoned the unread thing underneath a heavy book about scientific weights and measures.

Now hours had pa.s.sed and shadows crept from the edges of the room, eating into the pool of light cast by the gaslit chandelier. A few wall sconces joined the combat against the gloom, but it felt as if the air itself was growing gray with the gathering dusk. It mirrored Evelina's burgeoning sense of unease.

So she forced herself to get to work, focusing hard on the tasks she had set for herself. Moriarty had sent her the a.s.signments the male students had to complete, as well as the supplies to work through them herself. It was the first real help she'd had since arriving there.

Briskly she gathered the chemicals, cleared the worktable, and began to measure and pour. All she had to do was perform the steps, observe, and take notes-it was as simple as following a recipe. Except that every time she read the instructions she was supposed to follow, her mind darted back to the folded paper her uncle had sent, the unread set of words imposed over the others like a ghost determined to haunt her. She was going to accomplish nothing until she knew what it said.

With a curse, she fished the tightly creased sc.r.a.p of paper out from under its imprisoning tome and fumbled it open. She stood as she smoothed it out on the table, as if towering above the words gave her power over their message. The report was a single handwritten page, marked up as if an editor had gone at it with a pencil. It was the draft of a story to be printed in a newspaper; her uncle had contacts at the Prattler, so it probably came from there.

REMAINS OF PIRATE s.h.i.+P LOCATED AT LAST.

After months of speculation as to the final fate of the pirate vessel the Red Jack, sources report the charred remnants of an airs.h.i.+p matching the size and configuration of the notorious craft have been found on a farmer's property due south of London at the Willington crossroads, along with the bodies of the crew. Londoners will not soon forget the air battle last November, when the rebel pirates met their end. Nor will the populace soon forget the supplies the brave outlaws ran through the barricades of the Steam Council, enabling those who cannot afford the heat and light due to the cupidity of the so-called steam barons ...

”Cupidity” had been struck out and ”greed” written above, and then the rest was barely readable, crossed out and reworded in a cramped handwriting Evelina couldn't decipher. That part wasn't important to her anyway. What did matter was the fact that Nick had been captain of that s.h.i.+p. Imogen hadn't been the only one struck down that day. Oh, Nick.

She'd offered Jasper Keating access to her magical talents in return for the Red Jack's safety. He'd intervened too late to save the s.h.i.+p, but had taken her captive anyway. The devil's bargain she'd made with the Gold King might have been worth it if only Nick had lived. But the article confirmed one more time that he hadn't.

Shaken, she braced her elbows on the table and leaned her forehead on her clenched fists. She feared the sorrow pounding through her, hollowing out what little courage she had left.

She'd searched for Nick at first, hunting for him in the spirit realms as she had hunted Imogen, but there had never been a sign. Admittedly, Nick's magic was tied to the air the way hers was tied to earth and woodland. They were opposites, two halves of a magnet, and sometimes that made them blind to each other. But still ... no, there was no reason to think he lived. Not after that crash. Not after those cold words in some reporter's scrawl.

The pain of loss came in hot, salty tears tracking over her cheeks. Until now, until this fresh slice, Nick's absence had grown familiar, thumbed through like a diary written end to end with the story of her guilt. Evelina had asked him to help in Imogen's rescue, and he'd done it at the cost of his own life. It was her fault he'd been there at the battle. Yes, she had tried to save him, but she'd failed. She made a strange, gasping sound, and started to sob silently, clenching her teeth so she didn't make any noise. She didn't want anyone pa.s.sing by her rooms to hear.

If only. Her life had been a string of if onlys, but the real question was what now? She had been numb and then furious at her fate. The anger had risen like a fever, but like a fever it had eventually broken. It had to, or she would have burned to death in the fires of her own outrage.

She had felt empty ever since. Most days she could keep the chasm inside hidden even from herself-but not after news like this.

The shuddering stopped, and Evelina wiped her eyes with the heels of her hands. Mechanically, she rose and went to her bedchamber to wash her face. The room was pleasant, but had little that marked it hers. The only familiar object was the black leather train case her Grandmamma Holmes had given her, sitting on her dresser.

She poured water into the basin and splashed her face, her bracelets clinking against the china washbasin. Normally she avoided the mirror, but she couldn't help catching a glimpse of herself in the oval gla.s.s that hung above the washstand. Why are you here, when Imogen and Nick are gone? There was no good answer to that. She wasn't even sure it was true. Her dark hair was neatly pulled back, her features as they had always been-but today she seemed a stranger, as if somehow she'd walked into the wrong life.

The disorientation was nothing new. She'd felt it often since arriving at the college, as if this was all someone else's nightmare. Maybe too much had happened. Maybe she spent too much time alone. Or maybe it was that everything she'd hoped to find here had been a false promise. Perhaps Deirdre, simply looking for a husband, had the right of it-except that there would never be anyone else for Evelina. All she could do was endure.

She pulled a towel from the hook beside the washstand and dried her face, scrubbing until her cheeks lost their bloodless hue. Then she went back to work.

This time the words on the page behaved themselves, and she began making progress. She measured and mixed carefully, her mind as carefully calm and light-footed as someone venturing across a fresh-frozen pond. This was the same experiment that had blown up the laboratory-Moriarty was taking a risk by giving her the materials for it-and she refused to contemplate anything except what was right before her nose. She turned on her small gas burner and picked up a beaker with a pair of long-handled tongs.

A noise outside the door made Evelina jump, and the beaker in her hand wavered. A drop of liquid spilled from the lip, splas.h.i.+ng to the burner below. She s.h.i.+ed away just in time to avoid a rush of bright green flame that fountained upward.

She barely had time to suck in a breath before the flame vanished, the destabilized aether distillate consumed in a flash. Evelina's hand shook slightly as she placed the beaker back on the table and turned down the flame. Only then did she have the nerve to look upward and see yet another nasty scorch mark on the ceiling, joining the other two she'd already made so far since setting up her own equipment.

”b.u.g.g.e.r,” she said quietly, and then hastened to open the window before the matron detected the odor of her handiwork. The quadrangle lay steeped in semidarkness. As predicted, the skies had opened up. The brown stone buildings had a.s.sumed a dour air, as if they disapproved of the sensibly dressed young females hurrying through the pelting rain.

Then the noise came again, and what remained of her concentration scattered. At first she'd thought it was another student cras.h.i.+ng about-give a girl a hockey stick, and bid the walls farewell-but it was someone knocking on the door. d.a.m.n and blast on toast with cheese. The last thing she wanted was to face a visitor. Irritably, she went to answer the door.

”Who is it?” she asked, half expecting the matron. The stern-faced woman checked on her daily, no doubt to make sure she didn't perish from a nasty chemical accident.

The Clock Tower blearily announced five o'clock, its bongs sounding forlorn through the steady patter of the downpour. Evelina opened the door, heard the familiar creak of the hinges, and stopped cold. For a moment, her mind lagged behind her senses, failing to process obvious data.

”Tobias,” she said stupidly. ”Why are you here?”

The look in his gray eyes was impossible to read. He'd always been tall and fair, handsome as a fallen angel. That was still true, but there was no denying he had changed. The lines of his face were sharper, the set of his mouth devoid of any laughter. Tobias Roth looked like a man who rarely slept.

”Are you that shocked to see me?” he said, his voice flat.

”Frankly, yes.” The last time they'd been alone together, all kinds of disaster had followed.

”Then we are of a single mind. I'm astonished to find myself here.” He took off his hat. ”The matron knows of my presence. You needn't worry about being thrown out for entertaining unauthorized visitors.”

He clearly expected an invitation into her rooms, but Evelina balked. Once Tobias had been her best friend's das.h.i.+ng brother, and she had loved him with the innocent fervor of a schoolgirl. Then he had been the man she'd wanted to marry, and he had all but proposed. Now he was a husband and father, and he had no business standing on her threshold.

A thread of anger, and anguish, tightened her throat. ”You didn't answer my question. Why are you here?”

The corners of his mouth twitched down. ”It wasn't my idea. Keating sent me.”

That made her fall back a step. He took the opportunity to push past, the folds of his coat swirling behind him. Evelina smelled the rain and a waft of his cologne. Once that alone might have made her weak, but she'd learned the hard way it never paid to be too soft when it came to Tobias. The man had a way of obliterating her good judgment.

But that wasn't her only worry. ”Is there news of Imogen?”

”Nothing new. Nothing new with anyone.”

He was still using that flat tone, and it raked her already raw nerves. She was still teetering on the edge of weeping, and that was the last thing she wanted. Not in front of Tobias. ”Then to what do I owe the honor?” she asked dryly. ”I thought it was Keating's wish that we stayed apart. I seem to recall you marrying his daughter.”

”That's old history.”

The offhand remark smarted. ”You must be close to your first wedding anniversary.”

Tobias didn't reply. Instead, he stood uneasily in the middle of the room, looking around at the bookshelves and stuffed furniture.

”Things have changed.” Tobias set his tall hat on the table. It looked elegantly out of place beside the explosion of her books and papers. ”I'll be the one checking on you from now on. Once a week.”

Evelina's face went numb with surprise. She'd thought things couldn't get worse. ”What? Every week?”

His brow furrowed. ”For pity's sake, I'm not a leper.”

No, you're a knife to the heart. ”It's always been Keating, or his man of business. Why you?”