Rook's Rose, page 15
I should be more severe. She didn’t quite have the heart to. “A single turn about a ballroom.”
“A ballroom, a rooftop, what’s the difference? Don’t worry,” he hastened to add. “My intentions are eminently respectable.”
Dear gods. “Nothing about you is respectable, sir.”
“I know.” Perhaps he found the entire conversation risible, for laughter rode under the words. “Think of the fun you’ll have teaching me manners.”
“Right now I am thinking of going home. It’s been rather a long day, and last night . . .” Gemma could not help herself. She glanced about, a silly measure since the fog was so thick.
“Tell me you didn’t go wandering last night.” Mr Black stilled as if he had just spotted more of those ‘zealots,’ and his arm turned to steel instead of flesh under the too-large sleeve and layers beneath. “By Jove, you’re a menace; I should—”
“Will you listen to me, or shall I simply leave you here uttering empty threats to the lamp-post?” It would not take much effort—she could wrap her fingers about his thumb, force his hand away, and with two steps be safe in a cloud like Jove fleeing an irate Juno.
“Not empty, witch.” He scowled like one of her boys faced with a slight but entirely deserved punishment. “But do go on, what happened last night?”
“A resurrection man visited Rexton’s house with a cart, and collected the body of a young woman.”
“And how do you know this?” The Kaledonian accent was far more prominent now. For better or worse, she had the Rook’s full attention.
“I saw it, how else?” Blast it all, the strange sense of unwilling comfort in his presence would not abate. It was a deep relief to tell someone, anyone, of what she had witnessed. “And now I—”
“You were at Rexton’s?” He did not quite shout, but Gemma could not help glancing about again, as if they were in a temporarily quiet corner of a drawing room instead of under an Acre streetlamp.
“Lower your voice,” she hissed. “Naturally I was not seen, but if you persist in screaming I shall leave you to your bumbling and find other quarters before dawn.”
“You’ll be the death of me,” Mr Black muttered. “I can already tell. Come, let’s walk, and give me every detail.”
She did not move. “Not if you persist in treating me as a child, sir.”
“A child I could give to a nursemaid. With you, I’ll be forced to other methods.” His glower was exceedingly ferocious. He sounded much like Sampson at the moment, and though her conscience pinched the resemblance was most welcome. “And it’s not sir, or any of that. My name’s Avery.”
“I thought it was Sebastian Price.” She gave her best impression of the accent he’d used at Lady Cassel’s ball, and found it reasonably creditable. “Or you’d find another to suit.”
“I’ll answer to whichever you like better.” Now he sounded thoughtful, and his gloved hand, still over hers, pressed just a fraction more tightly. “What were you doing at Rexton’s?”
“They call it reconnaissance, in Gaul. Will you listen?”
“All day, if you like.” He tugged at her arm. “Tell me as we go; I said I’d see you home.”
She decided she could allow as much, and as they strolled, she poured out the story in an undertone. The sensation of a burden being lifted was immense, and blessedly comforting.
Until, that was, they reached Widow Rudrill’s.
Well and Truly Caught
THE GIRL WAS absolutely going to be his undoing. Avery’s heart turned to ice and the rest of him had a fever by the time she exhaled, somewhat shakily, and finished her tale.
“Then I returned home.” Her hand on his arm didn’t quite tremble, but a fine hum went through her, rather like a hawser stretched to the limit.
You should never have left. “Sevring’s his man. A valet, and somewhat more.” Long years of dissimulation were paying in prime now, for Avery found he could speak quite normally, though his throat felt oddly constricted. “You’re lucky he didn’t catch you.”
“I can avoid being seen, especially at night. You should know as much.” A cobble threatened to turn under Miss Dove’s boot and she leaned into him for a moment, the fleeting weight upon his arm sending a hot flush of quite different character up to his shoulder, spreading through him in a haze.
“I should chain you in Rudrill’s bloody basement,” he muttered, stepping onto the boards before the Acre’s lone sweet shop—closed up tight at this hour, since the proprietor was a temple-going man. She followed suit, another brief pressure against his arm. It was a fine thing to walk with a girl who trusted you, Avery found, especially when her skirt sometimes touched your knee. “In fact, I’m not altogether certain I won’t.”
“I discourage you from trying, sir.” Did she think it an idle threat? There was no earthly reason for her to sound so amused, otherwise.
“You’ve been dead lucky until now, Gemma. It won’t last.”
“Luck? I have been training for this since childhood, thank you. And you really are too familiar. Our acquaintance is hardly intimate.”
Just give it time. But she had to remain alive long enough for him to do something in that direction. Avery needed a plan, but he was too occupied with what could have happened to this impossibly vexing witch upon his arm. And he had other business tonight, by the gods. “I’ve been at this a shade longer than you.” Thousands of words crowded his throat; none of them could be given freedom yet. “And if I have to put off my plans for Rexton’s demise to keep you from folly he might just survive a few more months, which neither of us want. Do not test me, girleen. Please.”
“Perhaps we should join forces as you suggested. It might be a far more efficient strategy.”
“If I could trust that won’t go haring off in the middle of the night, wrapped up in that costume and searching out trouble, I might consider the notion.” Rudrill’s was fast approaching, so he slowed. This needed thrashing out before he let her escape into the widow’s. “He’s killed more than one woman who thought herself safe. I don’t want you added to the list.”
In fact, he was distinctly queasy at the notion.
His witch drew aside to the very edge of the sidewalk, and halted. She was silent for a long moment, and Avery couldn’t tell if she was turning over his offer inside that pretty head of hers or planning yet more mischief. And the Rooks called him unpredictable; even a Hellion was nothing to this slip of a girl.
“I cannot stop thinking about it, you know.” The words were scarcely audible, and she looked away, gazing into the fog as if she could see the scene painted on its canvas. “Her face. Who do you think she is?”
“A she-wolf or frail, most likely. He does tend to go through them; I wondered how he disposed of the aftereffects. Sevring no doubt knows more than one resurrection man and the medical colleges are always in want of . . .” He realized just whom he was addressing, and let out a sharp, frustrated breath.
“It is a relief.” Still in that soft, distracted voice, with her head turned away. Perhaps she couldn’t bear to look at him, even in this dimness. “I . . . I can speak to no-one else about this, you see. Or about the childcatcher. That was the first time I . . . it’s quite different than training.”
She had to mean Portius. Her first kill? Avery could once more hardly believe his ears. “That it is,” he managed. His throat had gone dry. “You needn’t worry. I took care o’that, savvy?”
“Yes.” The witch’s cool reserve returned, and she nodded, once, as if something had been agreed between them. “That . . . thank you, Mr Black.”
“Avery,” he corrected. “Might as well, seeing what we’re discussing.”
But she pressed onward, as if she hadn’t heard. “You must understand, I made a vow. Either I must be the author of Rexton’s demise, or I must contribute to it in whatever fashion possible. I am willing to join forces, but not to be commanded like an errant child.”
Then don’t behave like one. But that was unfair. If this was what she could accomplish right out the gate, there was no telling what she would eventually be capable of. He rather wanted to be in the vicinity to witness the event.
Yet Rexton had even brought down a Hellion or two in his time. And if the rest of the Priory knew about Miss Dove’s abilities, she would never be safe. A woman of her talents and training would be brought in, ruthlessly used, and sooner or later destroyed.
“I’ve a few vows of my own.” Be careful, Rook. She wasn’t a flash boyo to be ordered about or thumped on the pate when rowdy, no matter how he might be tempted. “I’ll not overlook your help, girleen, but I will ask for a little more discretion. I’m a Hellion; let me do what I do best.”
“And what is that?” Finally she turned in his direction again, her head tipping up, and studied him earnestly. Her hat was gemmed with fog-drops, her eyes were wide and dark, and Avery Black realized he was well and truly caught.
Not only that, but he had no desire to escape, or even to thrash.
Later he wondered what might have happened, but there was a flurry of knocks nearby. Widow Rudrill’s door, he thought, and the Rook had the sudden, entirely irrational notion that it was a Priory agent in search of the woman leaning upon his arm.
At this hour, many of the widow’s lodgers were returning from a day’s work; the door opened with a creak-groan, and Gemma stiffened next to him. She could hear, as plainly as he, the resultant conversation.
“Yes?” It was Rudrill herself, and the single word carried a weight of suspicion quite appropriate to a woman of her age, station, and calling.
“I do beg your pardon,” a deep voice said, somewhat breathlessly. “I am from Taurrock Abbey, mum, and I bear an urgent message. Please, is Miss Gemma Dove here? It is quite important.”
Most Irregular
IT WAS ONE THING to temporarily leave his post when certain words were uttered and signs given by a visitor, which after all only drew him further into Taurrock’s comforting bulk. It was quite another, Brother Jacob thought, to be sent out into the wicked, damnable fog.
Perhaps the fog was not strictly evil, though it did mask Mithras’s solar eye. The fact remained that New Rome needed no help from coal or daemon; all the nastiness in the world walked about on two legs, collected in the city’s begging-bowl. At least inside the Temple Jacob’s vexations were from Brother Astrix who ate garlic raw and snored with his mouth open, or the lay deacon Bentwhistle who did not wish to take the cloth but had plenty of ideas about what those who had suffered to become Mithras’s chosen should do during services.
The man didn’t even plainchant, but had the temerity to criticise vespers at the highest Mithraic Temple in Albion. It was enough to anger a chosen saint.
“From Taurrock?” The lady in the door—at least he had found the right house—was having a spot of trouble with the notion. “But . . . it’s dark.”
“Bit of an emergency, mum.” How was he supposed to speak to such a matronly creature? Mithraic brothers did not truck with females. Yet ever since the young woman had arrived with her secret password, the Abbey had been like a pot of porridge on a too-hot stove.
Things weren’t a-boil, but it felt wrong, and as if the crust at the top might break at any moment as well.
“The Greatfather himself?” Now the good dame was deeply dubious. “But priests don’t leave the Temple after sunset. You’re very foolish to think you can—”
“Brother Jacobus?” A sweet low voice, crisp with self-possession and familiar for all he’d heard so little of it. “Good heavens, is that you? What are you doing out of the Temple?”
An indistinct shadow melded out of the fog and resolved into a pale young lady, her hat bearing one dispirited feather and her brown pelisse starred with tiny dots of damp. Her great, grave dark eyes were just the same, but there was a slight flush to her cheek which had not been there before—probably the result of exertion, walking home quickly through twilit fog.
“Miss Dove.” He did not quite squeak with relief, but it was close and he hurried to dig in his robe’s largest pocket, his fingers brushing keys, a bit of wrapped cheese for guilty nibbling later tonight, and a half-empty box of lucifers. “Thank Mithras.”
“Miss Dove?” The matron at the door had a haughty air, widow’s weeds, and a hand-knitted shawl; a bit of gaslamp shine from inside the brownstone touched her greying hair. “You are acquainted with this person?”
“He is from Taurrock, Mrs Rudrill, and if he is here at this hour something dire is afoot indeed.” How did the young lady sound so blasted calm? She mounted the steps, moving into what little light could escape past the Kerberos-guard in the doorway. “I presume you have a message, sir?”
“Oh yes. Quite.” Thankfully, Jacob’s fingers found what they sought, and he drew out the lead medallion with its brightly coloured ribbon. A scrap of heavy paper—parchment had been used in the old days, but no longer—accompanied the bulla, and he presented it with somewhat less of a flourish than was customary.
But by the Bull, he was no herald, nor was he the Greatfather’s secretary. He was merely a priest and sometimes a doorkeeper, even if the Greatfather had especially selected him from the novitiate for . . . certain tasks. At first he’d been deeply eager, both to prove himself and to bear the responsibility such an august personage felt him suited to, but now he was unnerved.
Not to mention just slightly dyspeptic.
“It is a summons from the Greatfather himself,” Jacob continued, reciting not in a stentorian thunder but rather a wheeze. The fog smelled dreadful tonight. “Your uncle is poorly, Miss Dove, and I’ve been sent to fetch you.”
“A summons from the . . .” The matron in the doorway gasped, but a sparkle had lit in her faded hazel eyes, rather like in Brother Timothée Sun’s Grace when he had news of a particularly interesting visitor to the Abbot’s office. In fact, the beldam reached for the bulla and message with an alacrity that belied her age and staid appearance, clearly in the grip of a most intense curiousity.
Miss Dove’s gloved hand arrived first, however, and nicked the rolled paper from Jacob’s grasp. He almost dropped the heavy, highly figured lead disc despite its braided ribbon-strap; the matron had to be content with snatching her fingers back as if singed.
“I say.” The landlady—for such she had to be, Jacob had read enough sliverpence-dreadfuls to recognise such a beast—settled her shawl more firmly about her shoulders. “This is most irregular. It is past dark, and a man upon my doorstep? This is a Respectable House, Miss Dove. Mr Breakbridge gave you quite a good character, but this is somewhat—”
“The good Director gave me a recommendation upon the strength of my uncle’s word, Mrs Rudrill, and my uncle is ill in the Temple.” Miss Dove studied the unrolled paper in what little light reached the step, and the feather upon her hat bobbed as she nodded once, sharply. There was a smaller note enclosed as well, which she glanced over, and her eyebrows rose. “He is my only family left in the world, and I shall be visiting him immediately.”
“But . . .” Mrs Rudrill searched mightily for an objection. “At this hour, Miss Dove? It is hardly safe.”
“Mithras shall guard this good brother upon his return to the Temple, madame, and also myself. A summons from one of the Bull’s Greatfathers cannot be disregarded.” And, just that quickly, Miss Dove rolled the paper tightly and slipped it into her rather deflated reticule. “I am certain you agree, being a Respectable and religious woman.”
“But, but the Temple . . .” Mrs Rudrill’s leaned out over the step, inspecting the bulla most closely. Grudgingly satisfied as to its provenance, she next gave Jacob a good going-over, which he minded but could not prevent. “Well, I shan’t answer the door past the usual time tonight, Miss Dove. You’d best return before then. This is most irregular.”
“No doubt my uncle’s illness will respect your convenience, m’dame.” Now the young miss sounded positively frosty, and Jacob had the dubious pleasure of seeing the landlady’s jaw drop, her mouth opening slightly and the rest of her expression a study in surprise. “If it does not, I shall perhaps visit my friend Lady Cassel and beg a night’s lodging of her.”
“Ah . . . well.” The mention of that lady, whoever she was, seemed to remind Mrs Rudrill that visiting a sick relative was quite the charitable thing to do, especially when one had been summoned by a priest of the Greatfather’s stature. “Well, I suppose Albert can wait by the door tonight, Miss. ’Tis no trouble at all. I can send him for a hansom, or—”
“No need. It is a brisk walk, but a short one. Come, Brother Jacobus, you may tell me every detail along the way. Thank you, Mrs Rudrill; I wish you a pleasant evening.”
And, just like that, the young woman turned on her heel, hopped light as a linnet down the steps, and was near to vanishing into the fog before Brother Jacob found enough of his wits to hurry after her, jamming the bulla back into his pocket.
THOUGH HE MUST stretch his legs to keep up, Miss Dove simply glided along. He had not been near very many young ladies, especially once he took his vows, but Jacob was entirely certain most of them did not act like this. At least they were away from the harridan at the door, and now he only had to worry about returning to the Temple unseen.
Or at least, so Jacob thought before he realized they were being followed. The fog pressed close, the consciousness of pursuit raised the hairs upon his nape, and he was suddenly faced with the chilling prospect of having to defend a young woman against a footpad—or worse.
Bring Miss Dove, the Greatfather had said, deadly pale and clasping his wounded shoulder. And by Mithras, Jacobus, do not let any harm come to her. Quickly, now.
“Well?” The girl slowed a fraction, enough to let him catch up. “Tell me. What on earth has happened?”
