by C. J. Archer
How extraordinary, and rather intriguing, too. It made me think of old fairytales with curses, prophecies and evil witches. It even had a knight in shining armor—Lincoln. The story only lacked a princess.
"And so you were brought up in the general's home, trained from birth to be the leader."
He nodded. "He was the eldest member. He had no family of his own and so was considered the ideal candidate."
"But he was never home."
"Precisely. It was deemed best if I didn't become attached to anyone."
I blinked at him. Not become attached? But little children needed to feel a sense of belonging and nurturing. I'd seen it in the gangs, with the youngest members. They often attached themselves to a champion who took care of them and provided for them, even loved them. It was human instinct. "Were the servants like a family to you?"
"They were often moved along before I could make friends."
"Oh, Lincoln."
His hands balled into fists on his knees. His lips flattened and I decided not to tell him that I thought his childhood sounded desolate. He would hate my pity. So I asked a more impersonal question instead. "Wouldn't a seer be considered a supernatural and therefore a target of the caretaker committee?"
"That's the irony. Her prophecy not only kept the order dormant for so long, but it perhaps had a hand in changing the position of the caretakers. I couldn't find any reference in the archives to her being punished for her prophecy. It stated the new leader would even use magic to defeat dark forces that want to bring the realm to its knees."
"Good lord. Do you think she meant Frankenstein?"
"Perhaps. He certainly could have caused great harm if he'd managed to build an army of strong corpses."
"And if my necromancy is considered magic, then that fits too." I waited for him to add more, but he didn't. It seemed I would have to broach the subject instead. "Did your mother let you go freely?"
"I don't know. The general has told me so little about her."
"What do you know?"
"That she fell pregnant at a young age and wasn't married. That removing me from her was a blessing, for both her and me. She couldn't have afforded to raise me, apparently, and I would have lived a life of squalor."
I wondered if the general could be believed. Lincoln seemed to, although he spoke stiffly, formally, as if he didn't want to think too much about it. If he'd led a lonely, unhappy childhood, it was no wonder he had difficulty expressing himself and showing kindness.
"You were raised to be a killing machine, weren't you?" I hedged.
He looked at me with wide eyes that quickly narrowed again. "Among other things," he snapped.
"I…I'm sorry. I didn't mean to offend. I just meant that you're supposed to save the world from dark forces, so you must have been prepared accordingly."
"I speak a dozen languages fluently and another dozen moderately well. I've memorized entire books, know advanced mathematics, and can put together an engine as efficiently as any engineer. I can create poisons and antidotes, have a thorough understanding of medicine and the workings of the human body. I've traveled across Europe and through parts of Asia and America. I can dance as well as any gentleman, recite poetry, and play the violin. Do you want me to go on?" It wasn't boastful, but matter of fact; as if he wanted me to know that he was more than a killing machine, more than his nickname of Death. As if he needed me to know. That only made me ache for him more.
"Your catalog of skills is very impressive," I whispered. "I feel rather provincial now."
He clicked his tongue and unclenched his fists. "That wasn't my intention. Forgive me."
"It's all right." I wanted to smile to let him know it didn't matter, but he wouldn't look at me. It was best to return to the topic of the ministry again. Safer. "The committee are still wary of magic and the supernatural, on the whole," I said. "But you don't seem to be. Why is that?"
He cleared his throat. "I mentioned before that I've observed some people who possess powers. They were all harmless, good folk, and I had no reason to fear them or worry that they wanted to take over the country."
"They were not the dark forces the seer spoke of?"
"Not in the least."
I rose and bobbed my head. "Thank you, Mr. Fitzroy. I appreciate your candor. I won't tell a soul what you've told me."
"I know you won't." He rose too. "Gus and Seth will be busy tonight," he added. "So there's something I need you to do for me."
"Would you like me to clean your rooms?"
"Nothing like that. Can you check my tailcoat to see that it's in good order? It's been some time since I wore it. My formal shirt will need starching too."
It took a few moments for my dull brain to realize he was talking about the clothes he would wear to the ball. "You're accepting Lady Harcourt's friend's invitation?"
"You seem surprised."
"I didn't think it your sort of thing."
"It's not."
"Then why are you going?"
"The answer matters to you," he said flatly.
"Yes. No!" I sighed. "I'm curious as to why you would go if you think you'll hate it. Is it because Lady Harcourt wishes it?"
One dark brow lifted slowly then lowered again. "No," he said as he walked away. "Because people I want to see will be there."
"Your family," I murmured, surprising myself. My mind was leaping in all directions, and I wasn't entirely sure if I believed what I'd said or was merely throwing it into the mix to gauge is reaction.
And he did react. He stopped suddenly and turned to face me. I gulped.
"I…I'm sorry." I waved the polishing cloth in dismissal. "You're a gentleman, so I assume your family must be gently bred too and would perhaps attend balls. That's all I meant."
"I told you my mother was a pauper."
"And your father?"
"I was never informed who he was." With his hands clasped behind him, he strolled out of the parlor.
I watched him go, a curious feeling in my chest. It was partly sorrow for the little, lonely boy he'd once been, but it was mostly a sense of triumph. I'd realized something during our exchange—I'd begun to decipher the small cues he sometimes gave away without realizing it. It might be a twist of his mouth, a quirk of his eyebrow, or hardening of the muscles in his jaw. Or it could be an abrupt stop and a defiant, challenging glare—as he'd just given me. A glare that dared me to tell him what I suspected. What I did know now from those minute cues was that I'd been right—his family would be at the ball tomorrow night. His father's side of the family, that was. Just because Lincoln claimed never to have been told who'd fathered him didn't mean he hadn't found out by some other means. He was resourceful. If he wanted to discover something, I had no doubt that he could.
I wondered which noble family he belonged to, and who else knew. The committee must. Lord Gillingham had once alluded to knowing secrets about Lincoln, and Lady Harcourt had said he was protective of his family. She could have meant his mother, but I somehow suspected she meant his father. She'd also known precisely which ball to invite him to, one where his family would be in attendance, therefore increasing the chances of him going.
He must like to keep his eye on them from time to time, perhaps even talk to them. I could understand the allure.
I wondered if his father knew that Lincoln was his son.
***
The only mending Lincoln's formal tailcoat required was for a loose button to be removed and sewn back on. I ironed his best shirt and made a note to send the collar out to a nearby laundry for starching into a circular shape on their special steam iron. In the evening, I read in the library for a little but grew lonely and went in search of Cook. Everyone else had gone out to make inquiries at opium dens.
I found Cook stropping a knife blade on a cleaning board at the kitchen table. I must have startled him because he glanced up quickly. The moment's inattention caused him to cut his thumb.
He swore like a sailor and swiped up a cloth,
wrapping it around his thumb. Blood soon seeped through.
"Are you all right?" I dropped the sewing I'd brought with me on the table and tried to get a look at his thumb, but he wouldn't unwrap it. "Let me see."
"It bloody hurts."
"I'm sure it does. Is it still attached?"
He gingerly unwrapped the cloth. The cut oozed blood, but after a close inspection, I was satisfied the thumb wasn't going to come off. The cut was deep, however, and required stitching. Fortunately I knew where the medical kit was kept, and how to suture a wound. Lincoln had shown me soon after we'd met. I'd not done it since, and not without supervision, but I was sure I could manage.
Cook wasn't quite so certain. It took some convincing, and half a bottle of Lincoln's best brandy, before he would unwrap it for me again. He couldn't bear to watch as I threaded the sterile needle and sewed up the cut. He whimpered like a child the entire time.
"And here I thought you were a big, strong beast of a man," I told him as I tied the thread ends. "You're nothing but a baby."
"It bloody hurts!"
I kissed the top of his bald head. "I know. You cradle your hand while I make you some hot chocolate."
He sat there while I packed away the kit and he didn't get up as I broke the chocolate pieces into the saucepan. I made a cup for him and one for me, and I tried to get him to return to his usual gruff self by getting him to talk about the carnivals his father used to take him to as a child, but it was no use. I sent him to bed when he finished his chocolate.
I cleaned his knives and washed the saucepan and cups then sat down to my sewing. I pulled the lamp in close so I could see the dark blue ribbon against the pale blue fabric of the dress. It was the only dress I owned that wasn't a uniform. I'd only worn it once, preferring to keep it for special occasions. Unfortunately, there'd been no special occasions. I'd worn it one time when I went out, merely to get some use out of it. I resolved to wear it more now that I'd sewn Lincoln's ribbon into the waistline.
I was packing my pins away when I heard a brisk knock at the back door. It must have been almost eleven o'clock; far too late for callers or deliveries. I thought about fetching Cook, but whoever it was might have given up by then. The knock came again, more urgent this time.
"Who is it?" I called out.
"I come from Mr. Lee," came a small voice. It belonged to either a child or a woman, but I still didn't open the door.
"What do you want?"
"Mr. Lee sends a message for Mr. Fitzroy."
"What about?"
The person hesitated, perhaps considering if he or she should deliver the message to someone who wasn't the intended recipient. "Mr. Fitzroy wanted to be told if the captain returned."
I unlocked the door and opened it. A boy no older than fourteen stood there, shivering in clothes too small for his growing limbs. I ushered him inside and through to the kitchen, and he immediately went to stand by the warm range, like a moth attracted to a flame.
"Has the captain returned to Mr. Lee's?" I asked him.
He peered at me through his long, dirty hair. He had Oriental eyes, but he wasn't a full-blooded Chinese. "Mr. Lee sent me here to tell Mr. Fitzroy."
"Thank you. Mr. Fitzroy will be very satisfied. I'll inform him shortly. Did you get a look at the captain?"
The boy shook his head.
"What is the captain doing now?" I asked.
"Watching someone."
"Watching one of Mr. Lee's…customers?"
He nodded again and rubbed his hands more vigorously. They were dirty and red raw, and the boy's clothes were so thin. He at least wore shoes, but his toes poked through.
"Stay here. Don't steal anything." I hurried out of the kitchen and up the stairs. I found a spare coat and pair of gloves in Seth's room and ran back down to the kitchen again. The boy was exactly where I'd left him. I handed over the garments then asked him to wait. I found some bread and cheese in the pantry and handed the lot to him.
"Thank you for reporting in," I said to the lad, who now stared back at me as if he'd seen a remarkable vision. "You may go now. Be careful. It's dark out and the streets are dangerous."
"Thank you, miss." He scooped up the food and his new possessions and dashed for the door as if he were afraid I'd change my mind.
I locked the door behind him and considered what to do. I didn't know where Seth, Gus and Lincoln were, precisely. They could be anywhere in the city. And Cook was in no state to head out. It was up to me.
Lincoln would be furious if I went alone. So I wouldn't go alone. I'd find myself a bodyguard. And I knew just the place where hundreds, if not thousands, could be found, if one were a necromancer.
CHAPTER 10
The glow of my lantern wasn't bright enough to penetrate the fog that blanketed the cemetery grounds. Its ghostly form swirled about my trouser legs as I padded over the dense layer of fallen leaves and picked my way between graves. It wasn't easy to avoid tree roots and headstones, which seemed to emerge from nowhere, but I managed not to fall over or get lost. I knew my way to my mother's grave, and Gordon Thackery's wasn't too far from there.
It wasn't so much the lack of visibility that stretched my nerves to breaking point but the silence. There was no wind, and the fog dampened all sounds. If anyone followed me, I wouldn't be able to hear them. Even my own footsteps were deadened by the fog and damp leaves.
Before I'd become fully aware of my powers as a necromancer, I would never have ventured into a cemetery at night for fear of ghouls and demons, but now that I knew I could control spirits, that fear had vanished. I was perhaps safer in a place where I could call up the dead than I was anywhere else. All I needed was a name and a body, and I was surrounded by names on headstones and bodies in graves.
But I only wanted one. Gordon had proved himself to be a good soul, and he'd offered to help again if we needed him. I hoped he hadn't changed his mind.
I recognized the large tree that the grounds keeper had sat under. Gordon's gravestone was nearby, the earth still bare from his reburial.
"Gordon Moreland Thackery's spirit, can you hear me?" My voice was swallowed by the fog. I cleared my throat and tried again, louder. "I summon Gordon Thackery here to speak to me."
A smoky wisp shot out of the fog, straight at me. I dropped the lantern and fell backward with a yelp.
"Are you all right?" the ghostly figure asked. "I am sorry, Miss Charlie, I have no control over my speed when I arrive."
"Gordon! It's so nice to see you again."
He smiled. "I would help you up…"
I stood and picked up my lantern. "Are you, er, well?"
He chuckled. "My afterlife goes well, yes. And you?" He looked me up and down. "How long has it been since I was last here?"
"A few days. I need your help again, but only if you're up to it. I don't like disturbing you like this."
"I would be glad to help if I can." The misty spirit spun round. "Where is your man?"
"Don't let Mr. Fitzroy hear you call him my man. He's my employer. He's not here tonight, which is why I need you. I want you to act as a sort of guard for me. I have to visit Mr. Lee's opium den. The captain is there, and this might be our only chance to find him. Unfortunately, Mr. Fitzroy and his men are out looking for him elsewhere, and I only got the message from Mr. Lee now. I'm afraid if I miss this opportunity, it could be some time before we find him again."
"It's rather brave of you to undertake the task alone."
"I won't be alone, I'll have you."
He frowned. "Lee's is not a place for ladies."
"Thank you, Gordon, but I'm not a lady and I've been in far more disreputable places, I'm sure. I lived on the streets for five years."
His lips formed an O. He nodded. "Very well. If you're up for an adventure then so am I."
"Excellent! Shall we get started?"
We both glanced at his grave. Last time, his body had already been above ground. This time it had to break free of a coffin and dig through se
veral feet of earth. "I wish I'd thought it through a little more," I said. "Do you think you can manage?"
"Let's see." The mist swirled and dove down into the grave, disturbing nothing, not even the nearby leaves at my feet.
I waited. Nothing happened. I set the lantern down near the head of the grave and flipped the hood of my old cloak back. Still nothing happened. It must be too much of a task. He had to somehow push off the coffin lid with all that soil pressing down on it. He might have superior strength, but—
The earth pulsed. I rested a hand on the headstone and leaned closer to get a better look. The soil was definitely moving, as if something underneath pushed it up. Come on, Gordon, you can do it.
Dirt trickled down from the center of the grave as it rose upward to form a mound. Then a hand punched through. For the second time that night, I yelped and fell backward. I scrambled to my feet again and watched, fascinated, as Gordon pulled himself free of his grave. Any innocent bystanders would have run screaming from the cemetery, but I was transfixed.
When he finally stepped free, he smiled at me. "I'm a little filthier," he said, inspecting himself. "How do I look otherwise?"
Like he'd decayed more in the short space of time since I'd last seen him. His eyes and cheeks had sunken further and his skin now sported a tinge of green, although to be fair, it was difficult to see in the poor light. "Er…like a dead man."
"That bad?" He screwed up his face. "I suppose it's inevitable. I wonder how long it will be before I'm nothing but bones."
"A little while longer, yet." I don't know why I wanted to reassure him. He was very matter-of-fact about his decay; I, on the other hand, was somewhat saddened by it. "Are you ready?"
He dusted off some of the dirt from his suit, but he was still covered in it. His hands in particular were filthy. "I'd offer you my arm, but I don't want to sicken you."
"I'm not sickened," I said, holding out my hand.
He hesitated then with a smile, offered his elbow. I slipped my hand into it, picked up the lantern, and headed out of the cemetery with him like an ordinary couple going for a stroll. I giggled at the macabre image we cut, earning a smile from Gordon in return. Unfortunately, one of his teeth fell out, and he shut his mouth again.
