A Snowflake at Midnight

by Anne Renwick

  Though they were far from safe.

  “A ridiculous clockwork contraption,” she said. “A curiosity purchased from a gypsy.”

  “It was not there a minute ago.” Suspicion tinged Bracken’s comment.

  “On the contrary, it’s been there the entire evening.” A certain impishness filled Evie’s voice. She’d warmed to the idea of sending the waistcoat-wearing squirrel after Bracken, and there would be no stopping her now. Did her chin lift?

  There was a long silence.

  “Lies are unbecoming,” Bracken replied. Ash imagined his baleful stare. “Why do its eyes glow red?”

  “An excellent question.” Her skirts rustled. “Perhaps it helps the creature see in the dark?”

  Ash needed to create a distraction, anything to present Evie with an opening to reach her coat. He knocked again on the underside of the desk, just beneath the squirrel.

  “Who’s there?”

  The chemist wasn’t stupid. He’d figure things out soon enough. Footsteps approached. Stopped.

  Bracken was so close. So very close.

  There was a faint thunk followed by a rattle. Did the chemist set down his weapon to lift the malicious clockwork squirrel, to turn it over in his hands?

  Distracted, possibly disarmed, Bracken would not be prepared for an attack.

  Moreover, he was nowhere near Evie.

  Impossible to ignore the chance to catch the man unaware.

  Snatching up a heavy tome from a cart stacked with books, Ash crept around the edge of the desk. Still crouching, he lifted the book and caught Evie’s gaze.

  She glanced at her coat and gave him a slow nod.

  “Go!” he mouthed.

  Evie reached for her coat.

  “What are you doing, Miss Brown?” Bracken dropped the squirrel with a clatter, and Ash heard the scrape of a pistol being snatched up.

  “I’ve chosen the London streets,” she responded, her voice quivering.

  “Really,” Bracken growled, suspicious. He brandished the weapon at her. “Don’t think there will be any help for you there.”

  Unacceptable.

  Ash rose and heaved the book at Bracken, smacking him hard upon the back. Thud. As he ducked, Bracken spun, pointed the pistol and fired.

  Bang!

  Ash’s heart rate spiked. The hair above his ear had registered the bullet’s trajectory as it passed. Far too close for comfort. The man’s aim was surprisingly good.

  Evie had used the moment to dash for the relative safety of the stacks and crouched, half-hidden behind shelves of books. Relief swept over him.

  “Lockwood?” Ash could hear the sneer as it crept onto Bracken’s face. “Another silly gift. I should have guessed.” Bracken sighed. “It appears I shall have two bodies to dispose of instead of one. Stand up!”

  And die like a man? No, thank you.

  Evie lifted the tin whistle to her lips.

  “Such an onerous task,” Ash agreed, keeping Bracken distracted from his crouched position. “You’ve grown spoiled, what with the Queen’s agents arriving to scrape up Dr. Wilson’s remains on your behalf.”

  “You can prove nothing,” Bracken hissed.

  “Unnecessary. The Queen’s agents have all they need. You won’t get far,” Ash warned. “Mr. Black is looking for you even now. He’s spoken with your mother and is well aware of your interest in Miss Brown. Mr. Black is known for his tracking skills, and I expect him to arrive at any moment.”

  “I don’t believe it.” But his voice had lost some of its bluster.

  Across the room, Evie’s fingers found the top three holes. A single, clear piercing note sounded, just as the gypsy had instructed.

  Bracken gave a shout. “What—”

  “Mengri!” Evie yelled. “Attack!”

  Screech. Chit. Chit. Chit. The clockwork squirrel scurried across the surface of the desk on needle-like nails, directing his attention at the one individual present who had not been recorded on the internally embedded cribiform wick. Screech. Chit. Chit. Chit.

  “Meet Mengri,” Ash called, relieved to relinquish the role of prey to a more worthy individual. “Miss Brown’s most persistent and sharp guardian.”

  Bang! Bracken took aim at the contraption and missed. Bang!

  Abandoning the small moving target with a curse, the chemist backed away.

  Screech. Chit. Chit. Chit. Mengri leapt to the floor, chittering as he advanced upon Bracken, eyes flashing. Red. White. Red. White.

  How many bullets did such a weapon hold? Five? Six?

  “Attempting to hide, Miss Brown? Only natural, I suppose.” Bracken pointed the weapon in her direction, keeping a close eye on Ash’s position. All while Mengri stalked him, chiding as he darted behind table legs and chairs, scurrying ever closer while taking the measure of his target. “Do you think to keep me occupied with this sinister gypsy’s toy? It won’t work.” He crossed to the table and scooped up Hardwicke’s Leechbook. “Agents are in pursuit, are they? Then it is time to take drastic action. Sadly, it appears they won’t arrive in time to preserve your discovery.”

  “Don’t!” Pain strangled Evie’s cry.

  “No?” His voice mocked. “Let’s examine your values.” Bracken held the manuscript above the flames, threatening a treasure trove of lost knowledge. Hidden in private libraries for centuries, safely gathering dust, only to be destroyed at the hands of a raving egomaniac. “What are you willing to do to stop me, Miss Brown? Will you give your life to save a piece of history?”

  Shit.

  Ash had watched her caress its time-worn cover, turn its pages with awe and reverence, soaking in words of wisdom written in a dead language. Such an ancient text offered far more than a possible cure for her father. In her hands, the translation and subsequent study of such a book would garner far more than academic accolades, it promised to tease the minds of countless biologists by hinting at unknown medical remedies.

  He could not—would not—let a grasping, vindictive murderer destroy it.

  Gripping the sides of the library cart, Ash crouched behind it and ran forward, pushing it across the reading room. Mengri leapt aboard, screeching his displeasure as the two of them advanced upon the chemist. Screech. Chit. Chit. Chit.

  “No answer, Miss Brown? Well then.” Bracken dropped the leather-bound manuscript into the fire.

  “No!” Evie yelled.

  Ash prayed she would not rush forth from her hiding spot before he had a chance to—

  “Stop!” Bracken yelled.

  Bang!

  Bits of paper and leather flew through the air above Ash’s head as another bullet passed far too close. He increased his speed, running now.

  Bang!

  An intense, hot pain exploded across the top of his shoulder. Shit. He’d been hit.

  At full speed, Ash slammed the cart into Bracken.

  Crash!

  A heartbeat later, the clockwork squirrel leapt, sinking razor-sharp incisors into the man’s arm.

  Bracken screamed, flinging the pistol aside, clawing at the contraption that attacked without mercy.

  Evie appeared from behind the bookcase at a full sprint, diving for Hardwicke’s Leechbook, shoving her bare hands into the flames to yank its fragile parchment pages free. With a pained cry, she dropped the book upon the marble hearth and smothered the flames with her woolen coat, beating the tome to extinguish the last of the flickering flames.

  Bracken bellowed as he staggered about the room, smacking at the squirrel who refused to relinquish its grip.

  Holding one hand to his shoulder to stem the flow of blood, Ash snatched up the pistol—now empty of bullets—and ran to her side at the moment she flipped back the corner of her coat.

  The rare text bore scorch marks but had survived relatively unharmed.

  He dropped beside her, catching her frantic hands one at a time, checking them for burns but finding nothing too serious. A tear ran down her stricken face. “Don’t cry, Evie. The damage to the m
anuscript is minimal. And our notebook is safe.”

  “You came.” Distress contorted her face. “I thought after our— You’re bleeding!”

  She pushed at his hand until he lifted it away. The wound stung something awful, but—he peered downward—the gash did not appear too deep. “Five bullets and only one managed to graze my shoulder. I’ll be fine.” Eventually. He glanced across the library.

  Not so Bracken, who was having no success at dislodging Mengri. Rivulets of blood now streaked his once-handsome visage.

  Ash turned back to Evie. “I’m sorry.” He brushed away a tear. “Can you ever forgive me?”

  She’d torn away a portion of her petticoat and, frowning, pressed it against the bleeding gash. “You realize I’ve no interest in a title, don’t you? Nor any of the responsibilities or social ridiculousness that accompanies such status? I’m not Mary.”

  The vicar’s daughter, a woman who had set her sights on climbing the social ladder by any means available to her.

  “Jealousy,” he drew in a deep breath, “is an ugly emotion. My words were harsh, resentful, and should never have been spoken.” Would she give him a second chance?

  “It was wrong, what she did.” Evie’s lips pressed into a thin line, but her expression softened ever so slightly. “But you can’t paint all women with the same brush. I’m not her.”

  “I know that. I do.” He kissed her soot-stained hand. “And I’m very sorry. I had such plans for Christmas Day, for us. I thought after we—” He closed his eyes for a moment. “I assumed too much, then leapt to an unwarranted conclusion.”

  She nodded. “Apology accepted.” Her face warned him that there’d better not be a next time. “It was wrong of me not to tell you of the letter, of my plans to attend Oxford. Can you forgive me as well?”

  “Of course.” Did this mean he still had a chance to win her heart? His heart gave a great thud. “Dare I hope you want me to wait for you? That there’s a hope your future plans might still include me?”

  Screaming filled the cavernous reading room as Bracken raged, trying—and failing—to dislodge the devilish clockwork squirrel. Ash was satisfied to note he was losing the battle. With wild eyes and tangled hair, Bracken spun in drunken circles, swatting at the vicious creature as it scurried across his shoulders, sinking teeth and claws into vulnerable flesh.

  “The scholarship encompasses two full terms.” Evie avoided the question, pulling away. “But offers no promises of a future at Oxford. After? I’ve no idea what my future holds.” Her face sagged. “It might be best that I decline their offer. Working at the Lister Institute is a privilege few ever win.”

  Hope ignited. “But you want it, those Oxford terms.”

  “Who wouldn’t?” Another tear ran down her cheek.

  “The Lister Institute would be foolish not to hold your position for you,” he said. “And I don’t want to be the reason you decline. But neither do I want to lose you.” He drew in a deep breath. A relationship ought not require constant proximity. “Trains travel to Oxford. Both ways. Daily.”

  “So they do.” Was that encouragement he saw in her eyes?

  He took a deep breath. “I gather the offer from Oxford is to study medieval manuscripts?”

  The chemist howled. “Get! It! Off!”

  Clang. Crash. Clunk. The battle raged on. Screech. Chit. Chit. Chit.

  Neither Ash nor Evie were inclined to provide aid, for the question of their new, fragile relationship held the entirety of their focus.

  “It is. I plan to study the connections between modern medicine, chemistry, and its origins in alchemy.” She gave him a tremulous smile and held out an olive branch. “However, as I will have no library duties to which I must attend, there’s another manuscript to which I could devote a fraction of my time. Ashmole 1505. A copy of Bernard de Gordon’s Lilium medicinae in Middle English—as yet untranslated—describing the causes and treatments of diseases such as plague, tuberculosis, and leprosy. Sections of it will contain herbal formulae that fit within the overarching goal of our proposal to the Lister Institute.”

  He brightened. “Are you suggesting—”

  “That we continue our collaboration.” Why had such a thought not already occurred to her? Because, in the time since she’d received the acceptance letter, she’d done nothing but worry about how Ash might react. With some justification.

  But he’d made amends and quickly.

  Why not, then, see what they might make of this growing romance?

  She wanted him. She also wanted all the possibilities that her time at Oxford would offer. Greedy? She didn’t care.

  “As the Bodleian Library is notorious for refusing to allow a text to be removed from its halls,” Evie ventured, “we could propose that my time at Oxford be used, in part, to compile a more comprehensive overview of the uses of various native plants in medicine.”

  “Brilliant.” Ash pressed a kiss to her lips, one she returned with equal ardor. “If it’s what you want, I’ll do everything I can to support a leave of absence, followed by a return to your position here in the Library. No, a different position—one where you might devote more of your time to scholarly activities.”

  “We’ll see how much latitude the board is willing to allow,” Evie said, beaming. Was it possible she would be invited to return, that Ash would wait for her?

  He swallowed. “I’ll miss you, Evie Brown.”

  There was a loud crash—and yet more screaming—as Dr. Bracken overturned a cart filled with books.

  Screech. Chit. Chit. Chit.

  They ought to subdue the murderer. Drag him bound, hand and foot, to Mr. Black, but the rift between her and Ash was not yet fully repaired.

  “Any chance we might find the posey ring?” she asked, stomach fluttering. Was she truly about to do this, to promise herself to a man?

  “This, you mean?” Ash produced the gold medieval band from deep within his pocket.

  “Ask me again,” she prompted.

  “Will you,” Ash caught up her hand, “Miss Evangeline Brown, promise yourself to me and no other while we explore the possibilities of what we might build together?”

  She took the ring from him, began to slide it onto her finger, but paused. “A prolonged engagement, in which we might visit each other, taking advantage of each and every unchaperoned garden path and arbor?”

  His smile left her breathless. “If you insist.”

  “I do.” She slipped the circlet onto her finger, then caught the sides of his face, dragging his mouth down to hers.

  You have my hart. He did indeed.

  Weapon drawn, Black kicked open the library door.

  Screech. Chit. Chit. Chit.

  Strewn across the ground was a confusion of books, Dr. Bracken’s mewling, bleeding and prostrate form—arms wrapped about his head in self-preservation—and the blur of a familiar bristle-tailed, waistcoat-wearing, clockwork squirrel. One mounting a relentless and vicious attack upon a suspected murderer.

  Across the room, a pistol lay upon the carpet beside the fire beside an upended tea table—and Miss Brown and Mr. Lockwood. A pair who, at his arrival, struggled to extricate themselves from each other’s arms and rise to their feet.

  Black sighed. Lovers and villains.

  Of late, such was his lot.

  To save himself trouble, he took aim, firing a single TTX dart into Dr. Bracken’s sorry arse, indulging in a grim smile as his form fell limp. Then, slipping two fingers into his mouth, he gave a sharp whistle. “Rúkkersaméngri! ‘Chavaia!”

  The mechanical rodent froze.

  Black turned to the lovers. “Start explaining.” He lifted a hand, eyeing Miss Brown’s tousled hair and the gold band about her finger. Much, it appeared, had passed between them since their midnight interview. “Leaving out anything you do not wish recorded in my official report.”

  Epilogue

  December 25, 1885.

  This year, to celebrate the new beginnings signified by Evie’s re
cent marriage, the Yule log her family had chosen was birch.

  She leaned her head on Ash’s shoulder and smiled, more content than she’d thought possible. Though it was cozy here before the fire, they needed to depart soon. Tomorrow, weather permitting, she and her new husband traveled north to Boroughbridge where they would spend the remainder of the year with his family.

  Christmas Day had been spent with her own, but the hour now grew late.

  While Beatrix and her husband struggled to settle their six young, overstimulated, over-fed children in their beds, Papa—rum in hand—expounded upon the many merits of his next voyage. A final attempt to convince them to float with him across the Atlantic. Few airships did so, as the crossing was long and not without its perils. Among the many irritants to airship captains was the requirement of a water-bound, steamer escort that would carry the necessary coal supplies to power them over the ocean.

  “Are you certain you’re not interested in speaking with the Mayans about their plants?” Papa lifted an eyebrow, directing his question at the newlyweds. He and Davy, still as thick as thieves, were set to pilot an airship to British Honduras. “An entire wing could be added, all aimed at growing the medicinal plants of the New World. Certainly the Lister Institute would approve such a working honeymoon? Come with me.”

  The past year had passed in a happy blur.

  Living in Oxford and spending her days inside the Bodleian Library surrounded by ancient books had been a rare privilege she would cherish always—with Ash’s frequent visits the highlight of many a weekend. Not that she’d let thoughts of him distract her. Well, not much. During the days and weeks they were apart, she’d managed to not only complete her monograph, but to compose two more.

  Ash too had been productive. After the review committee had enthusiastically approved their joint project, he’d thrown himself into its oversight, gathering and planting every flower, herb, shrub or weed they’d deemed of interest—all while successfully luring scientists into the greenhouse to discuss the project’s research potential.