Galvanism and Ghouls

by Tilly Wallace

  He rapped sharply on the door and then pushed it open, not waiting to be invited to enter. His feet needed to move and the library offered more freedom to pace.

  Lady Miles sat at the desk. Images danced before her as they obeyed commands given with the swipe of a hand. “Wycliff.” As she lowered her hands, all the figures fell like marionettes with their strings severed.

  “Lady Miles. There is a matter of some delicacy I would broach with you.” He stopped before the desk and clasped his hands behind his back.

  “Oh?” She looked up, her face hidden behind the thick veil. Today a dark red metal diadem encircled her brow. Small tassels of blood red and gold hung from the main circlet and brushed the linen covering her head.

  “Firstly, I would reinforce that I did not intend that Sir Hugh be arrested and removed from your home. I presented what evidence I had gathered and was given instructions by Sir Manly to continue my enquiries in Chelsea, before any such decision was to be made.”

  The mage dismissed his concerns with another wave of her hand. “Ashburton is a spiteful little man. I have no doubt he rubbed his hands with glee, ignored Sir Manly’s directives, and issued the warrant regardless.”

  He nodded, satisfied that the mage held no ill feelings toward him. Or none that she chose to display. He might still find himself turned into a toad. “Secondly, I wish to discuss the possible implications of Sir Hugh’s arrest—your condition, and the situation of your daughter.”

  Now that he had vocalised the main points he had argued in his head, words failed him. He didn’t need to see the mage’s eyes to know she stripped him bare and examined him from the inside out. His gut churned as though she was stirring him up with a stick.

  “My condition?” She spoke the words in a slow and measured tone, yet they sparked a warning in his brain.

  “The matter I would discuss is connected with your being Afflicted.” He was at risk of losing control of the interview. Perhaps he should state his intention plainly, but he was unsure how the words would sound out loud. To date he had only whispered them in his head.

  He continued his pacing in the hope that movement would restart his stalled thought processes.

  Lady Miles clasped her gloved hands in her lap and tilted her head. The action made the tassels sway and drop to one side. “Tell me, Wycliff, is your objection to the Afflicted merely that they continue to go about their lives after death, or does being near them provoke another reaction you cannot fathom? I suspect you lash out because you do not understand what you have become.”

  He halted in his tracks and, behind his back, dug his nails into his palms. “What I have become? I’m sure I have no idea what you mean.”

  She snorted and the veil drifted out and back. “When will we drop this silly charade you insist upon? You returned from the war a changed man and cannot resume the life you once led. The sooner you reconcile yourself to the change, the better. You need to find an anchor before you are lost for eternity.”

  Lost for eternity. A hollow, bottomless void opened up inside him. He swallowed a dry lump in his throat. The mage saw too much. They danced around the topic of his changed condition, but neither spoke of it outright. Perhaps she was right. Would it not be better to rip off the bandage and press a hot iron to the wound to deal with it once and for all? “I have taken your advice on board about finding an anchor. But I do not see the need to learn anything about my condition.”

  “I took you for an intelligent man, my lord. I hardly think ignorance is the best course of action in your situation.” She wheeled herself to one side of the library shelves that stretched up above their heads. She reached out and one book wriggled free of its space and glided down to her. “Since you are not yet ready to take my advice or instruction, perhaps you will at least read a book I recommend.” She held out the slender volume.

  Curiosity got the better of him and he took the book. The cover was a worn bronze colour and the lettering a faded gold—Selected Greek Myths.

  “I think there is a particular tale in there that may resonate with you, and begin to answer some of the many questions you claim not to have.”

  He grunted. He failed to see how fairy tales and myths would be of any assistance. “This was not the particular matter I wanted to discuss with you.”

  “Then I assume it concerns Hannah, given how you have been glaring at her across the table for weeks.” She wheeled the chair backward until she stopped beside the desk.

  He clutched the book much as a man might cling to a piece of wood when adrift on the ocean. He needed an anchor and one might yet be found in this house. “I will preface my remarks by repeating that I bear no ill will toward Sir Hugh and am cognisant of the favour you do me by allowing me to dwell under this roof.”

  “If I thought you bore any malice, you would not be dwelling under this roof, sir—at least, not in your current form. You follow the evidence, as a good investigator should. I know Hugh is innocent and time will reveal that truth. But Hugh’s arrest has reminded me of the delicate nature of our lives here.” She dropped her hands into her lap.

  “That has also preyed upon my mind. Should anything happen to Sir Hugh, you and your daughter would be two women alone in the world.” It would seem they had both been thinking of their circumstances.

  “Our lives are more complicated than you realise.” Lady Miles fidgeted with the linen of her gown, making little waves in the fabric between her fingers.

  “Complicated in what way?” The lives of a dead mage and a spinster were not complicated, but sad and lonely. Not that he had any issue with solitude; he much preferred his own company to that of anyone else. Society, for whatever reason, had overlooked Miss Miles, in the way a plant that grew in the shade was overlooked by the sunlight.

  Lady Miles smoothed the small ocean of waves she had made, until they lay flat once more. “As you are aware, a mage is awarded a position in society equivalent to that of a duke. That position is not hereditary and is lost upon death. Further, English law states that the dead cannot inherit, hold property, or marry.”

  None of this was new information. For centuries, mages had been elevated to the highest ranks as a reward for making their magic available to the monarch. “I am aware of the Unnaturals Act, under which all Unnaturals are beholden to the same laws as all other Englishmen. I would assume that Sir Hugh inherited your estate on your demise.”

  The red tassels on the diadem swayed in agreement. “Yes. And should Hugh die, Hannah is his only heir.”

  “This all seems straightforward. I am not seeing any complications.” From the surroundings, he assumed the estate to be a modest one. Adequate to keep the family, but they certainly didn’t live a lavish lifestyle. The offer he planned to make was not to secure an heiress, although any contribution to repair his ancestral home would be most welcome. Rather, his offer was a matter of honour, to ensure they were not left without a protector because of his actions.

  Lady Miles rapped her knuckles on the desk and the phantom puppets rose to resume their places. “Why do you think Hugh and I devote all our time and resources to finding a cure for the French curse that created the Afflicted? Do you think parents would invest so much time to cure themselves?”

  Yes, he had assumed they sought to cure the mage and wrest her back from death. Odd that she brought his attention to their being parents. How would that impact their effort—

  A lightning bolt slammed into his brain. A parent would do anything to save a beloved child. Particularly the child who was the sole heir.

  “Impossible,” he whispered. He had spent much time in the company of Miss Miles and could vouch for her being entirely alive. She carried no whiff of decay or sign of rot. He had personally witnessed a most becoming blush to her cheeks on more than one occasion.

  With a slice of the mage’s hand, the puppets dissolved into thin air. “How I wish it were untrue. I love my daughter and would do anything to ensure her a long and happy life. In this instance, to
do that I must first betray her greatest secret.”

  “She is Afflicted?” He swallowed the burst of bile that rose in his throat. He had been about to offer for the woman, but if she were dead, there could never be any marriage.

  “Two years ago, Hannah’s dear friend Lady Elizabeth Loburn thought to cheer her up by giving her a gift. A jar of expensive and much sought-after face powder.”

  His mind still couldn’t process her words. “But Miss Miles is not dead. I see the life in her eyes. She breathes.”

  A new scene took form on the desk top. A tiny diorama of a ghostly bedroom and a young woman lying under the blankets, her parents by her bedside.

  “There are some benefits to being a mage, especially a dead one. When Hannah fell ill and the other ladies died, Hugh and I realised there was only one thing we could do. I used my magic to pause the curse within her, and Hannah became a frozen moment in time. She is the space between heartbeats. A body that has inhaled but does not yet realise it will never exhale. Should my spell fail, the curse will resume its progress throughout Hannah’s body. She would die within a day or two and arise as one of the Afflicted.” Lady Miles’ words were softly spoken and each one was tinged with sadness.

  Now he understood the precarious and complicated nature of the Miles family. “If she dies, she cannot inherit. I assume some distant relative would be named the heir?”

  “Yes. A very distant cousin who is a butcher and, I am informed, has a dim view of the Afflicted in general and of me in particular.” She huffed a soft laugh.

  He appreciated the irony. He had once held the same opinions. But contact with Miss Miles and her mother had rubbed some of his prejudices away. “Without Sir Hugh’s protection, you would both be thrown on the streets. It would seem, Lady Miles, that in this matter we are of one mind. This was the original matter I wished to discuss with you. I came here to offer my name and protection to Miss Miles, and by extension, to you.”

  “You are an honourable man, sir, but consider your offer carefully. In Hannah’s frozen condition she can never conceive. Nor will she ever know motherhood in the event my magic fails and death claims her. There is a strong possibility that there might never be an heir for your title.”

  He curled his hand into a fist. No heir. His line would end with him. Or perhaps that was for the best. What if he passed on more than financial woes, and any children were tainted by what he had become? “I have little enough to offer your daughter, I would not pass the burden of a bankrupt title to any son. It would be a marriage in name only.”

  “If you are certain. I can give no guarantee that we can reverse this most dreadful curse and save Hannah. It may be that time will steal her from us regardless of our efforts. Would you continue to protect a dead barren wife, or would you set her aside once you inherit?” The scene on the desk changed—the bed became a coffin as two figures grieved beside a freshly dug grave.

  His spine locked rigid and he stiffened at the suggestion that he pursued their property. “I may be financially bankrupt, but not morally. If I merely sought a fat purse or a broodmare, I assure you I could have enticed some rich merchant’s plump daughter with my title, if not my person.”

  A third figure joined the ghostly mourners on the desk. “Your offer is altruistic, then…or do you harbour a secret and all-consuming love for my daughter?”

  Love? Wycliff inhaled too sharply, which resulted in a fit of coughs and splutters.

  “No need to choke on the idea,” the mage said tartly. “Hannah is as worthy of love as any woman.”

  The ground seemed to tilt and sway under his feet. He trod dangerous territory and needed to find his balance. “No. I am not consumed by passion for your daughter. She does possess admirable qualities, such as her quiet intelligence. I believe my offer to be the correct course of action and it is not entirely unselfish. You told me to find an anchor, and while I do not understand it completely, something inside of me says that this family, and Miss Miles, may provide that.”

  “Just as I thought,” Lady Miles muttered under her breath.

  Now that he had voiced his offer, the void inside him closed up. He had made a step in the right direction, but still he clung to the book, wondering what answers the stories within would yet provide. “I promise you, Lady Miles, that once given, my loyalty is irrevocable. Dead or alive, with or without children, your daughter shall have the protection of both my name and body. Miss Miles will always have a roof over her head and the sustenance she needs.”

  She made a harumph noise and tapped her gloved hand on the desktop. “There is one other thing. As you know, the dead cannot marry. Hannah must be wed now, before the spell fails.”

  “Very well. I have no objection. I only hope there is a satisfactory conclusion to my investigation that exonerates Sir Hugh.” A little more of the weight holding him down lifted.

  The graveyard on the desk disappeared and was replaced by a tempestuous ocean. A small boat, such as a child might make from paper, was tossed back and forth by the waves. “Perhaps now you will see why it is imperative that you speak to me about the other matter. Understand that, and you will understand the source of the loyalty you would give to Hannah. You are correct—she will be your anchor, but never to hold you back or weigh you down. Hannah will become your safe harbour, and your connection will ensure you never become lost in the eternal night.”

  Her words echoed through him and settled in his bones. He held up the slim volume. “I will read this while I digest all we have discussed. May I speak privately to Miss Miles?”

  “No. Not yet. I must speak with Hugh first and seek his agreement.” She waved her hands and ethereal music filled the library.

  He took that as his cue to leave. As he pushed the door closed, the book fell open in his hands and the title of the myth caught his eye.

  Cerberus.

  21

  All through the night, Hannah tossed and turned in her bed as she made plans and discarded them. She needed to determine whether Doctor Husom, Reverend Jones, or Lord Dunkeith could be responsible, but how? She couldn’t just barge into their houses and demand answers to her questions. But she knew someone who would do exactly that. All she had to do was ask for his assistance.

  The next morning over breakfast, she stared into her cup of tea, working up the courage to ask. While she held the viscount personally responsible for her father’s being in jail, they both had the same ultimate goal—finding the true culprit.

  “Lord Wycliff, I wondered if we might find a quicker resolution to this horrible matter if we joined forces.” Hannah addressed her cup of tea, rather than the man himself. It seemed easier to talk to the silent brew than the silent brooding person.

  From across the table came a quiet clink as he laid his cutlery on the plate. “You wish to assist my investigation?”

  Assist? She wanted to direct his path, not take notes and apologise in his wake. “I spoke to my father yesterday. He had some insight into possible suspects, but I am unsure as to how to proceed.”

  Dark brows shot together. “Do you so easily dismiss the evidence against him?”

  “I have heard my father’s explanations and I intend to pursue other suspects. I trust that you will follow the evidence, which I believe will reveal my father to be innocent of these charges. If not, then that is a consequence I will have to live with.” She suppressed the shudder that wanted to run through her body. No good would come of imagining a future where her father met his end on the gallows, and all the inevitable repercussions that would follow.

  “Let us discuss this further in my study. I have everything there,” Lord Wycliff said.

  Hannah followed him down the hall and into his study with its view over the front garden and to the fields beyond. One wall held scribbled notes and drawings attached to a large map of London and the surrounds. Red thread ran from a drawing to the Royal Hospital and then across to a spot in Chelsea near the Physic Garden.

  “Where Beth Warren was f
ound,” she murmured as she followed another strand. This one led from the docks to Bunhill Fields and then down to Neat House Garden. “This, I assume, is the known path of Barnes. What do these pins mark?” She pointed to pins pushed in around Chelsea.

  He leaned a hip on his desk and watched her, like a hawk perched in a tree. “Three mark the homes of Reverend Jones, Doctor Husom, and Lord Dunkeith. The other pins are sightings of the Chelsea monster.”

  Hannah studied each slip of paper pinned to the wall. With each note she read, calm settled over her. The viscount was nothing if not thorough. He had investigated the background of each man who had performed in the SUSS resurrection challenge and there was nothing targeted at her father.

  A list of names with ages and descriptions caught her attention. Two were circled—Nell Watts and Tabitha Chant. “Who are these women?”

  “They disappeared around the same time as Beth Warren. Nell Watts was a washerwoman and I believe her legs were stitched to Beth’s torso. Tabitha was…a lightskirt and I believe she contributed her arms.” He crossed his own and now appeared more defensive than predatory.

  Hannah turned from the board and caught his profile. The morning light struck the hard angles of his face and cast half in shadow. “How did you deduce that? Have you found their remains?”

  “No, they have not been found. I cannot reveal my source, but I believe the information to be correct.” He uncrossed his arms and clasped his fingers around the edge of the desk.

  Next to the list were several drawings of the unfortunate woman, or women, that made up Beth Warren. Hannah glanced from the sketches to his notes and hastily drawn lines. “Do these strike you as similar? All three appear to be in their twenties, with a similar build and long, dark hair.”

  He pushed off the desk and stood behind her. “I did notice. Almost as though the surgeon was searching for pieces that would fit together.”

  There was a gruesome puzzle—finding bits of different people that appeared the same.