by Candace Camp
“Oh, my. He said he had to tell...someone. I thought it would be the people at his laboratory.”
“Did he say a name? Or where he was going?”
“No, neither. Let me think.” Symington furrowed his brow. “He became quite agitated when I told him. I was alarmed—he looked as if he might fall down in a fit. He jumped and paced a bit, muttering to himself. I was at a loss for what to say. He said something like ‘I have to tell him’ or ‘he must know.’ Then he rushed out the door without even taking his leave.” Symington seemed more astounded by that than he had been about seeing the legendary Eye.
“Do you remember which day he came to see you?” Desmond asked.
“It must have been Wednesday—I remember because I have bell ringing rehearsal every Wednesday, and I was a bit afraid his visit might run into that.”
“But it didn’t, I assume, since he left so abruptly.”
“That’s right. It wasn’t quite teatime when he departed.”
They continued to chat politely for a few minutes before they, too, took their leave, though Thisbe would have liked to rush off as quickly as Mr. Gordon had. As soon as they were out the door, Thisbe turned to Desmond and said, “He was going to see Wallace, don’t you think? Who else would he feel he must tell about it?”
“I don’t know. I suppose he could have some other partner in the crime—perhaps one of the other men at the laboratory. Carson, for instance.”
“You just don’t like Carson.”
“That’s not true. I like Carson. I just...” Desmond stuck his hands in his pockets, studying his feet. “I just don’t like him around you.” He sighed. “I’m sorry. I know it’s very dog-in-the-manger of me, but I can’t help it.”
Thisbe smiled. “I don’t mind.” She linked her arm through his, then leaned close and whispered, “I think I wouldn’t like to have some female scientist working at your laboratory, either. So if that’s horrid, we’ll be horrid together.”
“I’d like that.” A look of longing flickered in Desmond’s eyes for an instant, then was gone. Desmond cleared his throat. “I agree that Professor Gordon went off to tell Wallace. If the Eye has been useless to Gordon—which I suspect it is for anyone. Not being Anne’s descendant is merely a handy excuse—then Wallace already knows that Gordon has failed or will soon know it. The odds are—”
“He’ll cut off Professor Gordon’s funding,” Thisbe said, finishing his thought.
“Exactly. But if Gordon could offer him a reason for the failure other than that it simply doesn’t work, Wallace might continue to supply the professor with money while Gordon searches for a descendant of Anne Ballew to operate the Eye.”
“He has you.”
“I doubt he thinks I’m her descendant. I don’t think I’m her descendant. You’re the one she’s been visiting. It would seem more likely that you are the heir to her powers.” Desmond frowned. “In fact...they might think that very thing. After all, the Eye was in the possession of your family.”
“They’d be out of luck there, given that they’ve stolen the Eye from us.”
“That only means they might resort to force. You’re still in danger.”
“My grandmother is the one who claims to be able to use the thing.”
Desmond’s lips twitched up at the corners. “I’d take the dowager duchess over any opponent. But I think even she would surrender if your safety was at stake.”
“Well, whatever danger there is, all we have to do to end it is recover the Eye. Now that we know Gordon has it in his possession and he’s gone off to tell Wallace, all we have to do is find out where his estate is.”
“I have an idea how to do that.”
“How?”
“We know what time Gordon would have returned to the train station. As agitated as he was, he might have taken a train to Wallace’s instead of returning home. After all, he clearly is trying to avoid his usual haunts. I’m going to ask the ticket agent what he bought.”
“You think he will remember Gordon?”
He shrugged. “It’s worth a try. It’s a small place, not like Paddington, so my guess is they only have one or two ticket agents. Not that many people go through the station, and they might notice someone who isn’t local. He’s fairly noticeable—a rotund middle-aged man with red hair.”
Desmond’s theory proved right, for in the midst of Desmond’s description of date, time and physical appearance, the agent began to nod. “Aye, I remember him right enough.”
“Do you remember his destination?”
The man nodded. “Went to London.”
“Oh.” Desmond sighed.
“That’s why I remembered him,” the man went on. “He came up and asked about a ticket north, but he bought a ticket to London.”
“North?” Desmond asked.
“Do you remember where in the north?” Thisbe quickly said.
“Aye, I’ll think of it in a second. Was past Manchester.” He tapped his forefinger against his lips. “Ha! Preston!” He beamed. “That’s it.”
“Preston still leaves a good deal missing,” Desmond pointed out on the train home. “Is Wallace’s home in Preston? Or is that just the closest one can get by train?”
“It gives Smeggars and Grandmother much more to work with. Now they’ll know whom to ask. And even if they don’t, when we get to Preston, we can ask about. I suspect someone will know of Mr. Wallace. A wealthy widower never goes unnoticed.”
Thisbe was proven to be correct. Within two hours of relaying the news to the butler, Smeggars entered the room where Thisbe and Desmond were discussing their findings with Olivia and Uncle Bellard, and announced, somewhat smugly, “Mr. Wallace’s country estate is Groveton Manor, a rather splendid house just east of Preston.”
“Thank you, Smeggars. You are a jewel.”
Smeggars almost let a smile escape. “I took the liberty of inquiring as to the train schedules to Preston. It leaves rather late in the day, as it is an all-night journey, and one must change trains in Manchester. Would you like me to make the arrangements?”
“Yes. For tomorrow evening,” Thisbe told him. Desmond had checked the train schedules when they came back to Paddington earlier, but they agreed not to buy tickets until they had more information from Smeggars or her grandmother. “For Mr. Harrison and myself.”
“As you wish. Separate compartments, of course.”
“Of course,” Thisbe responded blandly, though she had little intention of using both. After Smeggars bowed and left, she turned to Desmond. “Though the train doesn’t leave until evening, perhaps we should meet earlier to, um—” she cast about for a reason “—discuss matters.”
He nodded. “We should probably make another round of searching the usual places. After all, we don’t know for certain that he has gone to see Mr. Wallace.”
Thisbe was pleased that Desmond seemed as eager as she to extend their time together. But all too soon, he rose to take his leave. Thisbe wanted to say an intimate goodbye to him, but it was impossible in this setting, with her uncle and sister there. If she walked with him to the front door, they would be in full view of Smeggars or a footman. Following him outside would be odd, and, anyway, they would be in full view of the street, which even in the darkness was lit by the lamps beside the door.
So she walked with him downstairs to the large entry hall, where a footman jumped to get Desmond’s coat. After giving him her hand and offering a formal goodbye, she turned away and walked quickly to the music room. There, she darted across the room to a smaller door on the other side, which emptied into the narrow back hall, and to the side door of the house.
Desmond, with his long strides, was already walking past the pathway beside the house, and Thisbe called his name softly and ran toward him. He turned to look down the alleyway, already dim in the evening light.
“Thisbe!” He
loped over to her. “What are you doing? And without a coat on!”
He started to take off his own jacket to give her, but Thisbe shook her head. “No, don’t. I’m fine.”
Desmond opened his coat and wrapped the sides around her, enclosing her in his arms. Thisbe, curling her arms around him beneath the coat, decided that this was a very fine way to get warm.
“I wanted to say a proper goodbye to you,” she told him and stretched up to kiss him.
After a long moment, Desmond broke their kiss and said, “We shouldn’t.” But even as he said it, he was bending his head to kiss her again. Finally, with a groan, he released her and stepped back. “I must leave or—” He shook his head. “I shall see you tomorrow.”
As he moved back, Thisbe started to offer to slip out of the house tonight and go to him, as she had yesterday, but she held back the words. She would not throw herself at him, no matter how much she wanted to. She held back, too, the words of love and longing that burned inside her. Desmond must come to the decision that he loved her enough to risk everything; she could not push him into it.
Desmond took another reluctant step backward, but then he rushed forward, closing the space between them in a single stride. He wrapped his arms around her, lifting her up into his kiss. With another step, they were up against the wall of the house. His body pressed into hers, and Thisbe reveled in the evidence of just how much he wanted her. Clearly, his reluctance didn’t spring from lack of desire.
He kissed her lips, her face, her throat, then murmured, “I cannot bear to leave you.” He straightened, gazing down into her face. “Every minute I’m with you makes it harder to leave.”
“I know.” Thisbe reached up to caress his hair. “I feel the same.”
“Thisbe...” He leaned his forehead against hers, his eyes closing, his voice harsh with longing and pain. “I’m a bastard to hold on to you. I am the weakest of men.”
She would have protested his words, but he kissed her again, hard and quick, then swung away and loped off into the night. Thisbe watched him go. The problem wasn’t his weakness. The problem was his strength.
Fortunately, persistence was her best quality.
* * *
SHE WAS FLOATING in a cold and terrible void, darkness closing around her. The dream was familiar now, but that made it no less frightening. She had no sense of time or space, no sense of anything except the penetrating cold.
“Save him.” The voice was harsh, straining. “It is thy duty. Thou art bound for all time.”
Thisbe opened her eyes to see Anne Ballew, clouded by smoke, flames licking at her feet. She was not standing before the fireplace. She was inside it; she was of the fire. Thisbe’s throat closed; she felt a terrible weight on her chest.
“I created the evil, and I stand eternally condemned,” the vision rasped out, stretching her hands toward Thisbe, her eyes no longer black but dancing with flames. “But he is innocent.”
“Who?” Thisbe asked, forcing out the word.
“My child...my son...”
“Desmond?” Every word required great effort.
“It consumes his will. His mind. It will eat his soul, piece by piece, until there is none left in him. Thou must save him.”
Each time Thisbe spoke, it sapped her strength; she could feel herself weakening, failing. Desperately, she finally asked, “How?”
Anne Ballew flung out her arms to the side, her entire body fiery, sparks spilling into the air around her as her image began to dissolve at the edges. Her words came out in a scream: “Thou shalt die.”
CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE
THISBE GASPED, the air rushing into her lungs, and sat up. There was no sign of Anne Ballew. Nor were there any sparks littering the room. The house was hushed and still around her—no cries of alarm from sleepers awakened by a scream, no sound of feet running to investigate. Clearly, she had been the only one to witness it. Thisbe wasn’t even sure whether she had been awake or dreaming.
But she remembered the important thing clearly. Thou shalt die.
She didn’t spring from the bed to run to Desmond as she had the night before. Whatever danger her nightmare visitor threatened, it was broad and vague, not a call to arms. Consuming his mind and will—that sounded ongoing and more subtle than an immediate attack.
What danger was Anne Ballew warning her about? Rising, Thisbe wrapped her dressing gown around her and went to the fireplace to stab the coals with the poker and rouse the flames. She was still freezing. Indeed, she felt as if she might never be warm again. After feeding the fire a few more lumps of coal from the hod beside the fireplace, she pulled the cover from the bed and wrapped herself in it, then curled up in a chair beside the fire.
Anne Ballew said she had created evil; surely she must mean her Eye. It followed that the Eye was what threatened Desmond. The other day Anne had claimed it called to him; tonight she said it drained his will and mind. But Thisbe had seen no sign of either thing in Desmond. He seemed the same as always and motivated more by a desire to help her than any need to have the device.
Could Anne have meant Gordon? Or Wallace? They certainly satisfied the obsession aspect. The apparition had never actually said Desmond’s name, only “he” and “him.” But if Gordon were Anne’s heir, he would have been able to use the Eye, which he had told Mr. Symington he could not. That left Zachary Wallace.
Then there were the woman’s final words of doom to consider. Did Anne mean that Thisbe had to die in order for Anne’s descendant to be saved? If so, that fit with her grandmother’s premonition that Desmond was a danger for Thisbe. That would indicate it was Desmond who was in danger. Perhaps the indications of obsession in Desmond were too subtle for Thisbe to notice. After all, Kyria often told Thisbe that she utterly missed the nuances of flirtation.
Whether the man who must be saved was Wallace or Desmond, why would Thisbe have to sacrifice herself in order to save him? If it meant saving Desmond, then, of course, she would do it. She was not, however, particularly moved to sacrifice her own life for Zachary Wallace’s.
But how would her death free Desmond from the influence of the Eye? Couldn’t it be accomplished without anyone having to die? Thisbe could restore the status quo by finding the Eye and returning it to her grandmother. It seemed to her that it would resolve the issue. But if that would end the danger, why was Anne Ballew plaguing her about it? Thisbe already intended to retrieve the Eye.
Perhaps Anne’s words hadn’t been an indication of how Thisbe could save Anne’s kin, but a threat of what would happen to her if she didn’t.
Still pondering the issue, Thisbe began to brush out her hair. According to the clock on the mantel, it was almost dawn. She might as well get dressed and go down to breakfast. She was eager to discuss her nightmare with Desmond, and dressing and eating would at least pass the time while she waited for him.
Even her toilette and a lengthy breakfast—made longer by her father and her great-uncle carrying on a discussion of the Peloponnesian War—did not last long enough for Desmond to arrive. Thisbe whiled away more time checking over the traveling bag the maid had packed, then distracted herself for a few minutes with one of Olivia’s novels, and finally simply sat in the red salon and watched the minutes tick by on the grandfather clock.
Desmond was late. It was not an unusual occurrence, as he tended to become wrapped up in things, so at first Thisbe was not bothered by his tardiness. After twenty minutes, she began to pace the room. Desmond wasn’t usually late when it came to her. An hour passed. She checked with the footman twice, but there had been no message from Desmond.
Of course, they weren’t doing anything important that day, and he did have to pack and... Oh, bother, it couldn’t take him this long to throw a few clothes in a bag. Thisbe rang for the carriage.
She fidgeted all the way to Desmond’s flat, telling herself it was foolish to feel this coldness
growing in her chest. She would discover that he had overslept or...well, something else that was perfectly innocuous. When they reached his flat, she ran up the stairs and pounded on the door, waiting for only a few seconds before she flung it open. The room was empty. That spot in her chest turned to ice.
Thisbe tried the laboratory next, but found it locked tight, and no one answered her knock. She even visited the optical shop, where Desmond had worked earlier, but the owner shook his head when she asked about him.
She returned home. Perhaps Desmond had come while she was out crazily running about searching for him. He would explain why he was late, and they would have a chuckle over it, and everything would be all right.
But when she walked into the house, the footman informed her that Mr. Harrison had not come to call. He looked at her with some concern. No doubt he thought she was about to faint. Because that was exactly how she felt. Thisbe plopped down on the bench in the entry hall. She could no longer deny it.
Desmond had vanished.
* * *
DESMOND OPENED HIS eyes slowly. The world was spinning and his jaw hurt. He was lying in a very cramped space on a hard floor that bounced and rumbled and smelled of dust. He felt as if he were about to retch.
Swallowing back the bile, he closed his eyes again. He was much too sleepy to think. He would do that later. The next thing he knew he was jolted awake by a bounce of the carriage. That was it; he was in a carriage. On the floor. What the devil had happened?
He’d drunk a good deal last night with Thisbe’s brothers and they’d wound up in a brawl. No, wait, that wasn’t last night. That was the day before...or maybe the day before that. Why was it so difficult to think? He moved his jaw tentatively.
He had a vague memory of a huge hand smashing into his face. Again! Naturally it would land on a spot that was already sore. He hadn’t been in a fight since he was a lad, and now he’d had three of them in the space of a few weeks. Maybe Thisbe was right; being with her was dangerous for him.
