Charmed at Christmas (Christmas at Castle Keyvnor Book 1)

by Claire Delacroix

  Yet there was another part of her—the part she listened to now—that longed to share this with someone who might understand. She’d thought Tressa would have been that person, but maybe her friend hadn’t been close enough to Margaret.

  Felicity lit the lanterns scattered about, washing the large laboratory in golden light. She stood back, allowing Nicholas to get a full view of her workspace. There in the middle of the room was the table he’d pushed her up against as they kissed, his hands roving her frame with tenderness—with such want—she’d never expected from him. Warmth pooled in her limbs at the memory, her nipples pebbling as they had from his touch.

  But one glance at him told her that his thoughts were elsewhere. His wary glance skipped from one corner of the laboratory to the next, finally settling on her face questioningly. She nodded, giving him permission to investigate further, though the very thought made the knots in her stomach twist tighter.

  For several minutes, he walked around the laboratory, examining her equipment. Much of it probably looked familiar to him—the scales, the crucible and burner, the many glasses and test tubes, the Culpeper reflecting microscope, the mortar and pestle, and the large equivalents table on the wall listing the masses of known elements. She’d possessed many of those tools during their summers together, and the rest were all expected tools of a scientist.

  Nothing was out of the ordinary.

  Until he got to the jars of organs on her long work table.

  He spun around, gesturing to the jars. She was glad he didn’t voice the obvious question—were those Margaret’s organs? She nodded, wincing as he jumped away from the jars.

  “It was necessary,” she said, defensively. “I couldn’t take the chance that the elixir wouldn’t regrow her organs. To preserve her, I had to dissect her…”

  She paused, swallowing down the lump in her throat. She’d never had any difficulty talking about her experiments before. She’d always been able to summon the proper distance—always been able to remember that what she did was for the good of humanity.

  This wasn’t for an altruistic goal.

  This was personal.

  Her shoulders shook as she sucked in one deep breath, then another, trying to sort out her thoughts. In her mind she was back on that dank night, desperately trying to keep her hand from shaking as she cut into the countess’s flesh. She’d had to stop every few minutes to wipe away the tears streaming down her face.

  Now, she rubbed her hand across her brow, her black sleeve serving as yet another reminder of the loss. How could she justify what she’d done, if she couldn’t bring Margaret back from the darkness of death?

  The one person who had always been there for her, and she’d failed her.

  And now she had to explain it all to the man who had shaken up everything she knew with his passionate kiss.

  She closed her eyes, not wanting to look at him, to see his revulsion over what she’d done. She’d been foolish to think he could ever understand. No one did. Not even Septimus Locke, and he was a fellow scientist.

  “I couldn’t leave her there, alone, in the blackness.” She rested her head in her palms, not brave enough to open her eyes. “I thought—I still think— if I just had more time, I could bring her back. To me. To you.”

  Nicholas was silent for a minute, and she felt that silence close in on her, like the unshakable stillness of the last six months. How could she hate the quiet so much when she’d always claimed it was what she preferred? All those years spent wishing he’d stop pestering her with his endless chatter.

  Then he’d stopped visiting during the summer, giving her what she said she’d wanted.

  And she’d told herself she was fine with that. Because she’d never, ever expected that he’d think of her as anything other than his aunt’s strange, blunt ward.

  Until that kiss.

  “That must have been hard.” He finally spoke, the compassion in his voice daring her to open her eyes and look at him. When she did, he met her gaze with his own steady, thoughtful one—his brown eyes showing no judgment. “Doing that for Margaret, I mean.”

  She notched her chin higher, determined to focus on the present, and not the horrors of the past. “I didn’t have a choice. It’s the only chance she has.”

  “Had, Lissie.” His quiet tone made the appellation sound like an endearment instead of a dreaded nickname. “What makes you think you can bring her back? That you should bring her back?”

  When she met his gaze, she saw the same concern shining in his eyes as he’d had in the atrium, as if he not only cared about her, but worried for her wellbeing. Not in the autocratic, controlling way he’d exhibited when he’d told her she was going to London with him—this was a softer, gentler Nicholas, as he’d been the summer she caught cold from being outside in the rain. He’d brought her chicken soup and stayed by her side, reading to her from a novel, though she’d informed him she could read just fine on her own, and preferred textbooks to novels.

  It caught her off guard, how much she longed for that version. For him to understand—truly understand, not just humor her as Tressa did—why she had to bring back Margaret.

  “Let me show you.” She moved to the table, gesturing for him to take a seat. She sat on the stool next to him, pulling out her folio of notes. “How familiar are you with the alchemical pursuit for the Philosopher’s Stone?”

  Chapter 14

  Nicholas comprehended, at best, half of what she’d told him. He hunched forward, picking up one of the many pieces of parchment strewn across the work table. Mallory’s sketch of the alchemical symbol for the Philosopher’s Stone, which she’d seen in a vision—or so Felicity said.

  His stomach rolled, the sour taste in his mouth returning. From visions to elemental transformations to the dead coming back to life, every bloody part of Felicity’s story had him on edge.

  At this point, he would have preferred it if she’d been involved with Bocka Morrow’s coven—at least Teddy could vouch for them.

  “You must think me mad.” Felicity no longer looked at him, her gaze fastened on her folded hands in her lap.

  “No.” Perhaps that was the only thing he was certain of in all of this.

  “I would understand if you did,” she continued, as if he had never spoken. “Tressa said this isn’t natural—to try and achieve palingenesis. She said she’s worried about me.”

  “As am I.” He reached for her hand, surprised by the relief he felt when she did not pull away. He did not know when it had begun to matter so much to him what this woman thought. What she felt. “But it’s not your sanity I worry for. I worry for your heart.”

  She shook her head, lips pressed in a thin line. “You once told me you didn’t think I had a heart.”

  He flinched. Had he really been that cruel in his youth? Yes, absolutely, for he’d thought nothing could penetrate her stony exterior.

  Sticks and stones may break my bones, but words will never harm.

  He’d shouted this once, to a bully at Eton. That had been how he’d met Teddy—quiet and bookish, the second son of the Earl of Ashbrooke attracted the most malicious brutes, for they knew he wouldn’t fight back.

  So Nicholas had fought for him. He’d used his heir apparent status, and his family’s good name, to protect Teddy.

  All the while, he’d perpetuated those same hurts during his visits to Tetbery.

  He didn’t want to be that man anymore. He felt like a right arse for all the times he’d thought she was cold and distant, when here, staring back at him, was evidence to the contrary. She felt so deeply that it twisted up his insides to know how badly her heart would break.

  He couldn’t save her from the pain of Margaret’s death, no matter how much he wanted to. But he could keep Felicity from being hurt more.

  Squeezing Felicity’s hand, he vowed to be better. The type of man who fought for the innocent. Like he’d tried to do with his Night Watch Bill.

  “I was wrong.” His vehemence—and m
aybe the admission itself, so surprising for a man who had always claimed life was so good—brought Felicity’s head up abruptly.

  She searched his face, as if looking for signs that he was lying. “I don’t understand.”

  “No, I didn’t understand.” He wrapped his other hand around hers, covering her palm. “I didn’t understand so many, many things. How your mind worked. What caused you pain. I should have been fighting by your side, defending you to anyone who dared to insult you. I should have been better, Lissie.”

  She blinked, those green eyes of hers still dark with suspicion. “This doesn’t sound like you, at all. You’ve never, in all the years I’ve known you, admitted you were wrong. Yet this is twice in one week you have done so.”

  “I should have.” He sighed. “I should have done a lot of things, I see.”

  “Margaret always said that hindsight has perfect vision.” Her nose wrinkled, making her look so adorable he almost didn’t note her use of the past tense. “I always thought that was a foolish expression. You can’t see behind you.”

  He grinned. “Somehow I don’t think that’s what she meant.”

  “Perhaps not.” She shrugged. “When I bring her back, I will ask her.”

  “I don’t think this is a good idea.” That was an understatement, for he really thought this was the worst idea of the century. “What do you believe happens when you die, Felicity?”

  “Nothing.” She lifted her chin up, her eyes narrowing, preparing for a fight. “I know that is not the popular view of the times, but it’s what I think, based on science.”

  He was not surprised she believed that. Faith could not be proved rationally, so she’d want no part of it. He, on the other hand, had accepted religion without questioning because Hardings had always been Anglicans.

  “What if Margaret is with Randall now?” he asked. “What if she’s happy, up in Heaven?”

  For a split second, Felicity seemed to consider this. Her hand tightened around his. Then she shook her head, dismissing the idea. “That is too unlikely to consider. Death does not bring life—unless I find a way to make it so.”

  It hit then, the dichotomy of being close to Felicity. Holding her hand, the warmth of her soft skin bolstering him. She was so alive—so vibrant.

  While his aunt was so very, very dead.

  Felicity couldn’t change that, could she? When they were children, he’d jokingly said she’d create a monster someday. He hadn’t believed then that she could actually do it. He swallowed down that rising doubt, sending up a small prayer that for the first time in her life, she’d fail.

  “I want to support you,” he said, tentatively, reluctantly, for he knew she’d pull her hand away, and his words might tear asunder this new intimacy between them. He’d have to take that chance.

  “But you don’t agree with me.” She started to tug her hand back from his grip, but then she stopped. “Because you don’t think I can do it?”

  “No.” He let go of her hand, let his fingers slip from hers, the loss echoing through the depths of his soul. “Because I fear you’ll succeed.”

  Chapter 15

  When Felicity awoke early the next morning, she hurried straight to her laboratory, not wanting to risk running into Nicholas at breakfast. He’d ask how her meeting went yesterday with Septimus Locke, Earl of Carwarren, who had set up his galvanization experiments on Castle Keyvnor’s parapet walk.

  Felicity let out a groan. That was how she knew she was desperate—she’d eaten humble pie and begged Carwarren to put aside his disbelief of alchemy to help her.

  And for nothing, too! Carwarren was useless. He’d cut her off halfway through her explanation, telling her he had no time for her “fool problems.” After attempting to convince him for a solid half hour longer, she’d left. There was only so much disapproval a girl could handle in the space of two days.

  Besides, Carwarren was the fool, not her. He clearly didn’t possess the intelligence needed to transition the stone in the final Red Phase.

  “Already refuted by the greatest philosophers my arse,” she muttered, as she checked her notes one final time.

  At least her trip to the castle hadn’t been an utter waste of time—a chance comment made by Carwarren had reminded her of a comment written in the margins of one of her alchemical manuscripts from the eighteenth century. Three circles of the same size, the middle one having a line drawn through the middle—the Dalton chemical formula for aqua fortis, or nitrous acid.

  Margaret had bought the manuscript for her, years ago, when she first showed an interest in chemistry.

  How poignant it would be if the manuscript was what ended up saving Margaret from eternal blackness.

  She uncapped the burner on her Berzelius lamp. The naphtha supplied from a small reservoir connected with the burner by a long tube would heat to a high degree, which was needed for the White Phase. By adding aqua fortis to her mixture of sophick mercury, she hoped to force the new element into the Red Phase.

  It was the last thing she had to try.

  If this didn’t work, she didn’t know what else to do.

  For though Nicholas claimed Margaret’s body still looked like it had on the day she died, Felicity knew different. Every day, she monitored the signs of degradation.

  Last night, when she’d entered the crypt, Margaret’s body had shown a marked increase in decomposition. She didn’t know if Nicholas had failed to shut the door properly—it had seemed tightly closed when she entered—or if her time was simply running out.

  If the heavy weight sinking in her stomach was any indication, she had no one to blame for her failure but herself.

  She heated the blackened material in her crucible using the Berzelius lamp, watching with bated breath as bubbles appeared on the surface, caused by the gases bursting within. So far, everything looked perfect…but then, she had achieved these results before and not been able to move further.

  White crust formed from the release of the gas, and swiftly thereafter the crust puffed up and a white vapor released into the flask.

  “White Eagle, accomplished,” Felicity murmured, hope burgeoning within her. She’d only got this far three times before—this had to be a good sign.

  Now, she had to take the stone into its final stage, known as the Phoenix because the red coloring appeared to rise from the ashes. As she observed, her stomach roiling and the lump in her throat so large she could barely swallow away her tension, the matter began to bubble again.

  Please, please, rise from the ashes.

  The stone did not abide her plea. For instead of turning red, the stone remained white, the crust gaining a second coat. Then, there was a shattering sound, a crack forming in the glass. Felicity leapt for the cap for the burner, but she was too late.

  The glass shattered completely. Ethanol hit the sophick mercury just as Felicity dove under the table for cover.

  A loud explosion rocked the room. Smoke billowed, beginning to cloak the room in fumes. At the same time, shards of glass flew toward her, but the table kept her relatively safe.

  She could not say the same for her laboratory. The glass, thrown across the room at such a speed, hit the beakers lined up so carefully upon the bookshelf. They too shattered, spilling out more fragments of glass.

  Then there was fire—the lamp must have tilted in the explosion. Orange flames spread across the table, devouring the papers she’d left out. But she couldn’t think of the loss of her research, not now.

  Smoke thickened, making it harder to breathe. She covered her mouth with her sleeve.

  The fire needed to be contained. She forced herself out from under the table, diving for the large bucket of water she kept in front of the table in case of these events. Grabbing hold of the bucket, she flung the water at the flames.

  The water hit its mark, dousing the flames enough that she could pat the rest out with the cap. Yet the smell of smoke was still overpowering—it made her eyes water, and her breath come in uneven pants. Wit
h one last long look at her research, now nothing more than graying ash, she fled into the study.

  The door clicked back in place, hiding the entrance to the laboratory in the floor-to-ceiling bookshelves lining the back wall of the study. Everything looked so normal. Were it not for the acrid smell of burnt sulfur and the faint trace of smoke in the air, she might have believed she’d dreamed the entire explosion.

  But she hadn’t.

  She’d lost six months’ worth of work.

  She’d obliterated any chance she had of ever, ever bringing Margaret back to life.

  Felicity turned, unable to stomach looking at the shelves any longer. Her knees quaked at the effort to hold herself upright when she was so tired—so very tired of wishing and pretending and working and fighting, when it had all been for naught. It was as if six months of sleepless nights had hit her at once, so heavy was this bone-numbing weariness.

  Slowly, she sank to the ground, her back against the bookshelves. She’d always been so cautious in this room, never wanting to upset Randall’s prized collection of antique books. He and Margaret had both loved reading—they’d met at the Royal Colonade Library in Brighton. How sweet she’d found that story as a child, though she’d never imagined she’d find the same sort of love and understanding, that equal partnership.

  But it did not matter now. She could crack the spines on these books, write in the margins, rip out page after page. It wouldn’t make a difference.

  She couldn’t change anything. Death had bested her.

  She was alone. Forever.

  Propping up her elbows on her knees, she rested her head in her outstretched palms. Closed her eyes. Let the darkness engulf her, and reminded herself that this was what Margaret faced for eternity.