by Anne Renwick
But they would be closed tomorrow. By the time another oak tree hosting mistletoe was located, her father would have floated away.
“I’ve.” Slash. “Almost.” Slash. “Got him.”
“Best attempt yet,” a voice spoke from below. A gypsy man leaned casually against a nearby lamp post. A peddler returning to his Kensington camp, unsold ivy wreaths dangling from a stick over his shoulder. “You seem rather set on stealing my mistletoe.”
Leash a mink! Evie nearly jumped out of her skin. She’d been far too focused on hitting that miserable clockwork beast and not minding the shadows that skulked through the dark of night. Her heart pounded as she stared at one that had emerged to materialize in a pool of lamplight beside her.
“Yours?” Evie cried. “How can it be yours?”
“Because I planted it, of course.” The gypsy man squinted upward. “Admittedly, I planted them for an old healer woman. But it’s hard to get mistletoe to take to an oak tree. Five years ago, I cut more than fifty of those sticky seeds into its bark, and only one grew. So, yes. Mine.”
Screech. Chit. Chit. Chit.
“Make it stop!” Evie pitched more chestnuts at the beast. She was fast running out, but anger mixed with worry, and she couldn’t bring herself to stop.
The gypsy clicked his tongue. “A shameful waste.”
“Excuse me!” Ash yelled down. “Is there an off switch?”
Evie shot the gypsy a hard look, but he only lifted a shoulder. “Of a sort. For a price.”
“How much?” she demanded, then pitched another chestnut.
Crunch! Ash’s booted toe connected with the clockwork squirrel, knocking it to the ground.
As it sat amidst the litter of nuts and shells, Evie ripped off her coat and lunged, flinging the heavy fabric at the squirrel. A failed attempt at netting the creature. Even now it spiraled back up the oak tree, chattering its irritation.
The gypsy man only laughed. “Make me an offer,” he countered.
“A shilling,” she answered without the slightest flinch. Some might find it tough to focus on bartering with shouts raining down as the clockwork squirrel attacked Ash again. But how many times had she negotiated peace terms for her nephews with all of them screaming at once? Still, this needed to be quick, and there was no time for the finer points of deliberation. She’d pay any price to keep Ash safe. The gypsy’s attack squirrel could do very real harm.
The gypsy grinned. “Twenty pounds.”
“What!”
He lifted his chin. “That oak mistletoe is valuable. I’m not giving it away.”
She altered her approach. “How much to stop the squirrel while we discuss the plant’s value?”
“One pound.”
Evie yanked off her mitten and dug into her purse to produce a sovereign. She held it between her fingers. “Make it stop.”
Setting aside his wreaths, the man pulled a tin whistle from his pocket, laid his fingers atop the holes, then gave it a blow. Its pitch was almost as piercing as the squirrel’s screams. “Rúkkersaméngri! ‘Chavaia! Stop.”
Ah, so that was where the creature’s name originated.
The clockwork beast froze upon the outstretched branch, its eyes blinking in the dark night.
Ash tugged free his glove, sucked blood from a wound on his hand, then stood, as if to climb once more.
“No climbing up,” the gypsy yelled. “Only down. She has only paid for a safe retreat.” He turned a mischievous look in Evie’s direction. “Unless you wish to purchase the mistletoe?”
“I’ll give you two pounds more.”
He grinned, clearly enjoying their exchange. “No. Why do you want my mistletoe so badly? No need to cut it down to steal a kiss beneath it.”
“There’s a medicine I wish to make.”
His eyes lit with interest. “Ah, you know something of the secrets of the oak tree. Not so many do. Even I was not made privy to the specifics of its healing powers, though Nadya often crafted it into a drink for childless couples.”
Evie crossed her arms and set her mouth into a stubborn line. She said nothing. To agree would only drive the price up.
“That crazy man must love you very much, to take on my Rúkkersaméngri.” The gypsy lifted an eyebrow, letting his gaze rake down her form. “But you’re young. Too soon for fertility problems. The problem probably lies with him. Choose another man.”
“It’s not for us. Me.” Her face flushed. “Three pounds.”
The gypsy laughed. “Ten.”
Evie unclipped her purse from the chain about her waist. “Four. It’s all I have.”
“Mmm.” The man looked pained at the choices she presented. He tapped his fingers against the tin whistle. What mattered more, the plant or her money? “Only if you leave the roots. It grows back, but slowly. Someday, the healer might return and have questions for me.”
“Fair enough. Provided you keep that clockwork squirrel sitting still while he harvests the plant.”
“Done.” A grin split his face. “Rúkkersaméngri!” He blew into the whistle. “Av akai! Come here.”
The mechanical creature scurried down the trunk and across the ground, scrambling up the gypsy’s coat to perch upon his shoulder. The tiny waistcoat the squirrel wore would have made it look harmless, save for the glowing red eyes and the blood dripping from its incisors.
“There, no more worries.” He turned and yelled into the tree. “Climb. The mistletoe is now yours, but leave the roots. I’ll stay, watch, and keep your woman company. With all that loose, windblown hair of hers, I might need to discourage other interested parties.” He winked and dropped his voice. “I’m warm too, if you’d like to step closer?”
Not liking the speculative look in his eyes, she tossed him the purse from a distance. “I’m warm enough.” She wasn’t, but she’d manage. To distract him, she nodded to the clockwork creature. “His name?”
“Rúkkersaméngri,” he said. “Squirrel in Romani. But he also answers to English if you play the right notes. I’m quite proud of him. Your man is the first to present my creature with a right proper battle.” He scooped up her coat and held it out to her on a hooked finger. “Most foppish gentlemen turn tail and run after the first tiny nip.”
Eyes narrowed and doing her best not to shiver from the cold, she snatched it from his hands and pulled it on. “Lovely. I suppose you mean that as a compliment.”
“I do. Better a man with a spine than one without.” He winked. “I’d say the same of a woman. What did you say your name was?”
“I didn’t.” A firm answer, if not quite a polite one.
She turned away to keep an eye on Ash, but the gypsy’s flattery had found its mark. A faint smile crept onto her face.
With the manic squirrel removed, Ash finally ascended to the top branches of the oak some thirty feet off the ground. Not as quickly as he might have, were he not—with every stop to throw his climbing rope higher—hurling barbed glares at the much-amused gypsy man beneath. With Ash’s every glance, the man seemed a foot closer to Evie.
The mistletoe belonged to them, but only after Evie was relieved of her entire purse. Ash eyed the clockwork creature as it sat quietly upon the gypsy’s shoulder, then worked quickly, reluctantly impressed by the usefulness of the contraption.
With one blast of his tin whistle and a command, the squirrel could become a blur of sharp teeth and claws. An effective, yet not quite deadly, deterrent. As it was, Ash needed several sticking plasters to cover the multitude of tiny gashes carved into his skin.
With the hand sickle, he sliced off all but a few branches of the mistletoe, tying them into bunches and hanging them from his belt. There would be no admiring how the city lay blanketed by dark snow clouds, not with the gypsy making advances.
Ten minutes later, his feet once again touched the ground.
“Thank you!” Evie launched herself at him, pressing a kiss to his cheek.
Pushing the bundle of mistletoe onto one hip, Ash cau
ght her with his arm, pulling her to his side. Bells began to ring, announcing the midnight hour and the arrival of Christmas. A snowflake lazily drifted downward, landing upon the tips of her eyelashes.
Tempted to kiss it away, he was reminded of their audience by an amused half-cough.
The gypsy man’s lips twisted as he eyed the bunches—and Ash’s future bride. “You’re a lucky man.”
“I am,” Ash replied, eyes narrowed in warning. Their deal was done, and he wished to be on his way without further interference.
“On account of the holidays, your injuries, and your lovely companion, a gift.” The gypsy fussed with bolt on the contraption’s side, drawing out a metal bar with braided cotton fabric protruding from one end. “A cribiform wick, designed to register all manner of odors.” He drew the soft cotton across Ash’s cheek, then Evie’s. He replaced the braided string and refastened the bolt back. “Now he has your scent and will, provided the wick remains in place, never attack either of you again.” He held the tin whistle out to Evie. “Cover the top hole for ‘stop’. The top two holes for ‘come’. And the top three for ‘attack’.”
“And the last three?” she asked, leaning forward to accept the gift.
The gypsy shrugged a shoulder and winked. “Silliness and antics.”
Evie rolled her eyes, but pressed fingertips to the top holes and blew. “Come,” she ordered the clockwork squirrel.
Ash winced as Mengri leapt from the gypsy’s shoulder onto his own.
A gift? More likely a curse.
Then again, if the mistletoe concoction worked, then they might wish to set the clockwork squirrel back on its watch. Not that there would be enough mistletoe growth to guard until late spring at the earliest.
“Ah, he has a favorite,” the man laughed. Then, with a tip of his hat, he hoisted his rack of wreaths and strolled away. “Happy Christmas!”
Chapter Eight
“I’m so sorry. I’d no idea a clockwork squirrel could be so very vicious!” Evie side-eyed the motionless contraption. Frowned at the dark stain upon its incisors. Then angled Ash’s chin away, directing the fall of lamplight onto his ear. Dried blood trailed down the side of his neck. “Aether, its bite pierced your ear!”
“And other bits, not to mention my pride.” He plucked Mengri from his shoulder and stuffed it into his coat pocket. “I may have lost the battle, but your ransom won us the spoils of war.” He dipped his head and captured her lips with his.
A celebratory kiss that breathed pure oxygen onto banked coals. She parted her lips to let him slip inside. He groaned, kissing her harder, with a hunger that left her in no doubt that he too had replayed their earlier kiss in his mind and also wanted so, so much more. Flames rose to lick at her body, and she wrapped her arms about his waist, running her hands up his back beneath his coat, over the linen covering strong muscle, higher—
Wet and sticky cloth met her fingertips.
Aghast, she pulled away. “Your shirt is torn! How bad is it?” Circling him, she took in the long slash the mechanical animal’s teeth—or claws—had torn in his overcoat with a gasp. “Let’s go. These lacerations need to be cleaned.”
“In a moment.” Ash caught her hand and spun her about, pulling her to his chest. “The pain is manageable. How often will we have a chance like this? Unless, of course, you’re cold?”
Snowflakes swirled about as he walked her backward, until she felt the rough bite of bark at her back as he pinned her to the oak tree with his delightfully solid weight. The hunger in his eyes shot a new rush of heat straight to her frozen toes. “Cold?” She stroked the close-cropped beard at the edge of his jaw with her thumb. Not with such a thrilling heat source raising the temperature. “Is it winter?”
His laugh was almost a low growl as he unwound the thick muffler from about her neck, letting it drape about her shoulders. “Hard to say. It feels like midsummer.” With one hand he popped free the first button of her coat, then ran a fingertip along the edge of her collar, tracing the pattern of embroidery. “What with vines running rampant, twisting in invitation.”
She dropped her head back against the tree trunk. Cold air nipped at her neck, but it was anticipation that sent a shiver across her skin. “As was intended.”
“Good.” Warm lips brushed over the soft skin beneath her ear. Pop. Another fastening came undone, this time the one that held her collar closed.
“Ash.” Her whisper was a plea. She slid her fingers once more beneath his jacket to grip the waistband of his trousers.
His kisses fell along the edge of her jaw, then trailed downward, stopping to nip and suck at the curve of her neck. With each bite, an aching warmth between her legs grew, and only the frosty night air kept her from melting into a puddle at his feet. This was the delicious danger of secluded gardens, a danger that made girls far more innocent than her willing to risk their reputations.
Lips met hers again. A hard kiss, one demanding she answer in kind. She tipped her head back delighting in the rough scrape of bark across her scalp as if she were a dryad, at one with the great tree at her back.
Opening her mouth, she groaned at the warm, slick slide of his tongue over hers. A deep, drugging kiss driving her mad, pushing all awareness from her mind. Save for where their bodies met. Her world reduced to the flick of his tongue, to the crush of her breasts, to the frustration of their hips, separated by an exasperating thickness of wool, cotton and linen. Cloth foiling any hope of further explorations.
Chit. Chit. Chit. A muffled complaint from Mengri emerged from the depths of Ash’s pocket.
He tore his mouth away with a curse. “That damn squirrel. It needs to be stuffed away in a locked box.” His voice was thick and gruff, and his next words touched a match to the smoldering need his kisses had sparked. “Might I escort you directly to the greenhouse for a tour? We’ll set the mistletoe to steep, then I’ve wonders to show you.”
“That confident, are you?” She laughed softly.
His eyes flashed. “Would a man dare to make such midnight promises and fail to deliver?”
She bit her lip, pretending to consider the question. “It is Christmas. And I can’t help but wonder what you have in mind.” Her voice was a husky whisper, for there was little breath left in her lungs. Amidst all those plants in the greenhouse, there would be warmth, privacy, and more than enough oxygen. Plenty to fuel the combustion that threatened between them. She brushed a dusting of snow off his hair. “I’d like nothing better than to pass the small hours beneath the fronds of tropical plants while snow falls upon the glass above us.”
As they gathered up the rope and hand sickle to leave the park, Evie sent a silent thank you to Mengri, for sending them on their way.
By the time they crossed back onto city streets, now all but deserted, a fine coat of snow covered the pavement. Ash kept an arm about her waist to protect her from the slippery surface while keeping a careful hand atop the bundle of precious mistletoe tied to his belt.
A faint unease crept up her spine, as they rounded a corner and approached one of Lister Institute’s lesser known entrances. One that led to the morgue. Inside, Dr. Wilson’s remains would await a final verdict as to the precise nature of the blast that killed him and injured several others.
Ash stiffened as they approached the door. “The guard is rather more bright-eyed than one might expect for such an hour. Something is afoot.”
Ash pressed a hand to the security pad, held still as the pectin coagulator verified his identity. Click. A green light flashed, and the door popped open. They started inside.
“Stop, please.” The guard turned suspicious eyes upon them, barely giving the mistletoe a glance. “I’ll need the lady to verify her authorization as well.”
Evie pressed her hand to the pad. The green light flashed.
“Thank you.” The guard held out his hand. “I’ll also need to see your identification cards.”
With the slightest hesitation, Ash produced his identity card. “An
unusual request,” he commented. “Palm identification is quite rigorous. What’s going on?”
The guard recorded Ash’s name and time of entry. “Standard procedure for holiday entry.” As he handed the card back, the guard lifted an eyebrow. “Any particular reason you ask, Mr. Lockwood?”
“None.”
Evie fumbled with the buttons of her coat, slid her hand into her pocket. Was the guard recording names? If so, why? She’d never been told not to work after hours, but should Mr. Davies be informed of her unusual late arrival, would he demand an explanation? Remove her from the joint project with Ash? Her corset felt overly tight. Bells and blazes, would it jeopardize her offer from Oxford?
Only now did she realize how badly she wished to accept the scholarship. She also wanted this night with Ash. She straightened, putting some starch in her spine. This mistletoe experiment was important. Doubly so. For if it succeeded, it would benefit both her father and others. Her presence was important, as much so as those rare female agents who freely came and went from Lister at all hours. Why not her?
Both men looked to Evie. Unless she wished to turn about and return home, there was no choice but to comply. Cowardice would win her nothing. She must count on Mr. Davies being unable to resist the lure of academic grandeur for the library.
She held out her card.
The guard picked up his pen but hesitated as he wrote down her name. “If you’ll wait here a moment, Miss Brown.” He did not return her card. Instead, he marched down the hall and rapped upon a closed door.
Evie rose onto her toes and whispered, “What’s going on?” The guard conversed with someone inside a room. “Are those interrogation rooms?”
“They are. This is most unusual.” Ash gave her hand a quick squeeze, dropping it when a man emerged.
“Mr. Lockwood. Miss Brown. How utterly convenient.” The sardonic voice belonged to a dark-haired gentleman. Not one she recalled ever visiting the library, but as he knew her.
“Have we…” Recognition struck. “You’re Mr. Black. From the… explosion.”
