The Payment

by Michelle E Lowe

  “This is no toy,” Diana said unexpectedly as though she were catching his thoughts.

  Pierce hiked his eyebrows up. “Eh?”

  “It’s alive,” she stated, holding it up.

  He moved closer to have a look. He was completely taken aback by its craftsmanship. The type of insect was something he recognized from living on Maui.

  “Is that a mantis?” he guessed.

  “It is,” Diana confirmed. “I learned about praying mantises in the An Introduction to Entomology or Elements of the Natural History of Insects encyclopedia.”

  Diana allowed him to hold it.

  “Astonishing,” he whispered as the metal creature jerked its sights over to him. “Alive, you say?”

  “In a way. I merely drew in living particles from the things around us without harming them and consolidated them into the mantis. A little trick I was able to carry over with me from my previous life.”

  “Is it possible to do so with people?”

  Diana shook her head. “Nothing so big, no. Only someone with great, otherworldly gifts can create a life without conception, and only if they use the Life-bringing Spell.”

  Like Eilidh, he thought.

  “There are those trying to capture souls and return them to their bodies,” the girl said. “I’m curious to see if people will ever achieve such a thing.”

  He remembered the Great Cosmas Circus, where he’d witnessed Professor Raphael Brooke’s attempt to bring back a dead sheep inside his cryo chamber.

  Pierce stared at the mechanical mantis, utterly fascinated by it. Its glass eyes and bullet body sparked a recollection.

  “I think we’ve met before,” he uttered.

  Diana showed him her small workshop inside her family’s wagon, where she had been building mechanical insects out of scrap metal and other material for years. She had all the tools for the job, including a portable melting furnace to melt copper pennies to form the head of her mantis. Instead of keeping them, she set them loose to do whatever artificial insects do.

  * * *

  They traveled east, where the blissful sun was eventually stolen away by grey clouds that brought a gusty breeze; one that cut straight to the bone. Kolt and Clover walked beside the wagon. Landcross sat on the driver’s box next to Abram, who drove the wagon.

  Whenever Kolt was near Clover, it was difficult to think straight. She smelled of lilies, the same fragrance she wore when she had rushed past him at the Norwiches’s cabin. He truly believed he might be falling in love for the first time. It made him feel confused and scared. He had done his best not to show his emotions, for although they had shared a lengthy conversation the night before, he had no idea if she felt the same way toward him.

  “Did you and Pierce have a good time this morning?” she asked him.

  “I suppose,” he answered as casually as he could manage. “He, um . . . he is interesting.”

  Clover laughed. He could listen to her laughter for the rest of his days. It wasn’t her beauty alone that attracted him. Clover Norwich was full of spirit and had direction—a quality he secretly admired, yet had never cared for in himself. He enjoyed exploring many areas of study, unlike his mother, who knew exactly what she wanted to do in life—as did Clover with her writing.

  “I’m glad you came with us,” she admitted.

  “You are?”

  “It gives me the chance to see you in this outfit,” she quipped.

  He glanced down at the long grey vest, white shirt with patches sewn at the elbows and baggy slacks with patches at the knees.

  “Oh. It is becoming, yes?”

  “You look very fetching in it,” she complimented him with amusement.

  “Danke. You look beautiful in your dress, too.”

  “You think?”

  For a moment, he admired her quilted skirt and the blouse and overbust she wore. With every step, the chime of tiny bells, strapped to her ankle, sounded. She’d also been given a red tailcoat and a wide-brimmed hat.

  “Ja,” he said softly. He cleared his throat. His palms were sweaty. “Clover.”

  “Yes?”

  “Would you do me the honor of accompanying me to my mother’s play tomorrow night?”

  He hadn’t the courage to look at her as he asked. His trepidation surprised him. He had always gone into new skills without hesitation, and yet, speaking to this young woman left his knees buckling.

  And then she responded with, “I’d love to join you, Kolt.”

  He finally raised his head to her. The thrill of her answer overwhelmed him until he caught Landcross grinning at him from the driver’s box. Kolt scowled up at him. Landcross chuckled and turned away. The moment he did, a throng of red-uniformed soldiers appeared on the road ahead, riding toward them.

  Clover looked up worriedly at Landcross and whispered, “Pierce?”

  “It’s all right, lass,” he whispered. “Keep your head about you when they stop us, eh?”

  Kolt knew, like Landcross, that the soldiers would stop them. However, being prepared for it did little to keep his nervousness at bay when the armada reached them.

  “Halt!” a black-skinned officer commanded. “Halt in the name of the Queen!”

  The caravan came to a halt, and in moments, soldiers surrounded them. The black man, presumably the leader, demanded that everyone line up on the edge of the road. Those who resisted were forced to obey.

  “You, too, old cocker,” a guard ordered Landcross. “C’mon.”

  “My uncle doesn’t speak English, sir,” said Abram as he climbed down.

  “Just get ’im over there with the others.”

  The troupe was a large group, about thirty or so souls, and it took time to assemble everyone. Kolt and Clover stood next to each other with Landcross situated between Lada and Abram some yards down. The distance made it difficult to determine how Landcross was holding up. He appeared to be in character. He kept his posture slightly hunched, with an arm bent behind his back and a hand on the top of his cane. Kolt kept his fingers crossed that Lada’s work would hold up and fool the soldiers.

  The soldiers’ leader dismounted and proceeded to walk by everyone while half of his fleet searched the wagons. The soldier held himself in a military pose, hands clasped behind his perfectly straight spine.

  “Who’s in charge here?” he demanded.

  His tone was direct and just loud enough for the entire troupe to hear him. Kolt sensed he was not a man to be crossed.

  An Indian man broke from the line. “We have no one in charge here, sir.”

  The lead soldier whipped around to face him. “That’s sergeant to you, you dirty cocker!” he snapped.

  The foreigner said nothing in return and remained where he was as the sergeant marched over to him. “Where did you leave from?”

  “Basingstoke. And before that, Winchester.”

  “Where are you heading?”

  “To London, Sergeant.”

  “Why?”

  “To perform,” the nomad answered while twirling his arms overhead as if he were about to dance. “To tell fortunes. To sell our trinkets. It is what we do.”

  It appeared the Indian man was making the sergeant uneasy. He placed a hand on the Gypsy’s chest and slowly pushed him back into his place.

  “Right!” the sergeant yelled to everyone. “Listen up, all of you! We’re on the hunt for an individual named Pierce Landcross.”

  He reached under his coat and produced a folded-up piece of paper. He unfolded the poster-sized sheet and held it in front of the Gypsies’ faces.

  “Have you seen this man?” the officer asked, slowly walking by the line of nomads with the poster outstretched for each person to study. “He is the most wanted fugitive in England. Anyone caught helping him in any way will suffer greatly for it. So, take a good, long look. Tell me if you can place him anywhere . . . anywhere at all.”

  As the officer showed the poster around, he also studied those he stepped past, especially the men. Whe
n he came to Landcross, Kolt ceased to breathe. At first, the sergeant went by him as though he meant to keep going, but then, as if Landcross had called to him, he abruptly halted and turned around. He stepped closer and stood before him.

  “What about you, old bugger?” He lifted the poster up. “Seen this chap?”

  Landcross gave the man a perplexed expression as if he didn’t understand.

  “My brother doesn’t speak or understand English,” Lada explained.

  “Oh? He’s Russian, eh?” the sergeant commented, noting her accent. “Well, then, translate what I said to him.”

  Lada translated something to him in Russian. Landcross tilted his head sideways at her as if he had bad hearing and listened.

  “Nyet, ya ne videl etogo cheloveka,” Landcross replied in a gruff sounding voice.

  The sergeant’s cocky grin dropped. Landcross was known to speak French and German, but not many knew he had learned to speak fluent Russian. At least, Kolt hoped not.

  “He has not seen this person you seek,” Lada relayed to the sergeant.

  The officer seemed unsatisfied. “Is that so?”

  He reached over to pull Landcross’s shirt collar down.

  When he did, it sparked a protest from Lada and Abram.

  “What are you doing?” Lada demanded. “Remove your hands from him!”

  Landcross snatched the officer’s forearm, prompting the pair of guards, standing beside their leader, to aim their rifles at them.

  “Take it easy,” the sergeant ordered.

  Kolt began reaching for Landcross’s pistol, tucked under his belt in the small of his back. Clover grabbed him by the wrist.

  “Don’t,” she commanded just above a whisper.

  He realized his error. There were many soldiers surrounding them, and there were only a few bullets left in Landcross’s revolver. In drawing the pistol, the only thing he’d accomplish would be a few missed shots. He’d be endangering everyone else. More than likely, Landcross would be arrested or killed, as would Kolt, and then the entire camp would suffer a terrible fate.

  Clover slid her grip off his wrist and slipped it into his hand, holding it firmly to her side. Even in this dangerous moment, he enjoyed her touch.

  Lada and Abram had thankfully ceased their shouting and quieted down. Landcross unhanded the officer and raised a shaky hand. The other shook against the cane. Kolt wondered if his trembling was entirely for show.

  “You’re scaring him,” Lada argued. “Is this how the British conduct their investigations?”

  “Shut your mouth, slag,” the sergeant seethed.

  He returned his focus to Landcross and inspected him more closely. Landcross muttered to Lada in Russian.

  “He wants to know what it is you’re searching for,” she said to the officer.

  “You will find out if I see it,” the sergeant retorted.

  Kolt knew he was looking for the scar on his neck and the figure-eight brand under Landcross’s shirt lapel. He hoped the makeup held up as well as it had that morning.

  “You’re looking for Pierce Landcross?” Diana shouted down the way.

  The officer turned to her. “Aye.”

  “And you want us to tell you if we can place him anywhere?”

  The sergeant stepped away from Landcross and walked past Kolt and Clover. He stopped in front of the girl who had stepped out of the line.

  “Do you have something to say, girl?” he demanded. “C’mon now, speak up.”

  She seemed tentative a moment before holding up the book with the daguerreotype of Landcross in it. It was the same photo depicted on the wanted poster.

  “I have seen him, Sergeant. Here. We all have. It is the closest we have been to having ever set eyes on him. We believe him dead or simply gone forever.”

  The sergeant eyed the photograph and then glanced around, expressing uncertainty. Whether it was out of shame for manhandling an elderly man or frightening a child, he appeared to be losing his stamina.

  He turned sharply to his men, still rummaging through the wagons. “Find anything?”

  “Nothing, Sergeant,” a soldier reported. “Nothing at all.”

  The sergeant marched off. “Mount up!”

  As he passed by Kolt, he stopped short and twisted around to face him. He took a long look at the boy’s face and then looked back at the poster. The sergeant raised his chin and snarled. “Too bloody young.”

  The soldiers mounted up and rode west. The Gypsies gathered their belongings, strewn all over the road, and pushed on.

  Chapter Four

  Plotting

  Orenda took the first locomotive to Southampton, where she then rented a horse and rode south past Exbury. She had told Archie—the husband of her vessel—that she wanted to visit the Toymaker, Indigo Peachtree, to discuss having a toy made for Jeneal for her birthday next month. Orenda knew the child’s day of birth only because the child had revealed it to her. Archie seemed more than inclined to let her go alone. She sensed he suspected the woman in his house wasn’t his wife at all.

  Orenda created her vessels solely to have a safe place to rest until the body died. By using the Life-bringing Spell, Orenda had manifested substantial living chambers to use whenever she needed them. For all she knew, her previous two vessels may have shared the same personalities—or they may have had completely different ones. Eilidh was her third. Since Eilidh’s marriage to Archie, however, Orenda has barely gotten any sleep.

  Now Archie had doubts. To prevent any unpleasant conventions—which she had no time for—she delicately brought up Clover and the risk she was taking in going to London with Pierce. That altered his concerns. So far, the guards hadn’t noticed Clover’s absence. A guard had questioned Orenda about it, and she told him she had been in her room since returning with her brother from the railway station, and that Clover was writing her next book. The guard was satisfied with that, but she knew it wouldn’t last long. Soon, they, too, would grow suspicious, and that would endanger Eilidh’s entire family. Orenda couldn’t allow it to happen, especially when she had to leave for London.

  All of this had brought her to the mysterious tree at the Beaulieu River.

  The tree had become a popular attraction since a farmer discovered it years ago. No one, not even scientists, knew what to make of it. The trunk—thick enough that a full-grown man could barely wrap his arms around it—had cherry-colored bark. It had grown out of the moist earth of the riverbank. For a tree so young, it had already sprouted up tall, and yet, those weren’t even the most fascinating elements about it. The tree constantly bloomed in all four seasons. One section of the leaves bore the radiance of fall, while another side sported the lush green of summer. Besides those lively leaves were bare branches without a single leaf to be found, while bright pink blossoms dominated the rest. Scientists had named it Omnia Tempora, which was Latin for “all seasons.”

  Since it was so unique, Queen Victoria had ordered protection for the tree that prevented anyone from conducting any further studies on it. The crude hacking on the branches and the stripping of bark was killing it, and after seeing the beauty for herself, Victoria stated that it would be a terrible travesty to lose one of the rarest things on Earth. Orenda had learned this the last time she had awakened. The law prohibited spectators from touching the tree, and a simple wooden fence had been placed around it with a guard stationed there at all times.

  This didn’t stop Orenda from finding her way up into the branches, where the seasonal leaves surrounded her. She cast an illusion spell over herself that fooled anyone who saw her into believing she was merely a bird or a squirrel. Perching on the branch, she placed her hands on the trunk. The bark appeared smooth, but it was rough to the touch. She bowed her head and concentrated, focusing hard on what she wanted. After a few moments, a black liquid began oozing from the bark. Orenda produced a vial and filled it with the fluid. She admired the demon blood.

  Considering how the tree came to be, it was a wonder somethi
ng much worse hadn’t risen from the ground. When Élie planted the blood in the earth years ago, she’d understood the danger and had cast a spell to alter any horrors that might grow from it.

  Having obtained what she had come for, Orenda left for Southampton to catch her train to Reading.

  When she arrived at the cottage, she found a woman in the den with the children.

  “Who are you?” she demanded.

  The stranger stood from the armchair she sat in. “Eilidh. It is I, Kathy Sumter. Your neighbor, remember?”

  Of course she did not, for she had never met her.

  “Your husband asked me to watch your children until you returned.”

  “Where is Archie?”

  “He left for London. He didn’t say why, only that it was a family emergency.”

  Archie had no doubt gone to fetch his sister.

  “Oh,” Orenda said with a lilt in her voice. “That explains a lot, then.”

  * * *

  By late afternoon, the Gypsies had reached Fitzroy Square in London.

  “I can’t thank you enough,” Pierce told them.

  “You can thank us by surviving,” Diana stated.

  “Good luck, young man.” Lada gave him a kiss on the cheek.

  “Cheers, love. I won’t forget any of you. Well, maybe you.” He pointed to a man he didn’t remember meeting. That man only shrugged.

  Pierce bid everyone goodbye and he, Clover, and Kolt left on foot for Gough Square.

  “Did Mr. Blackbird tell you which townhome is his?” Clover asked when they arrived.

  “I’m not sure if he’s still in London or if he has already sailed for the States,” Pierce admitted over his shoulder.

  “Wonderful,” she grumbled.

  Pierce needed to figure out how to find Robert without knocking on every single door. Then he saw a garbage buggy parked on the side of the street. It was filled with bags of rubbish the trash collectors had picked up.