Spectris

by Quinn Coleridge

  “Is that Lenore Grayson’s daughter?” I hear a passerby whisper. “Look at her muddy clothes. It’s a disgrace!”

  This is only the start. I hear similar observations as I walk the remaining blocks to Black Swan. Stonehenge does love a family scandal. My heiress mother whom society pretended to like while she was alive because of her wealth and the father who barely escaped litigation after stealing from his partners. People look at us as a cautionary tale, one that could be repeated in their own lives if they aren’t careful. For the aristocracy of Stonehenge does not possess blue blood; they achieve their elevated status from their bank balances. Gold and silver mines are the kingmakers and once the money’s gone, so is their social standing.

  These people visited my parents often, attending balls and dinner parties at my home for years, but they give me the cut direct now. To be honest, I was always shunned by them. It’s just more obvious at present.

  Bless their souls, as Pearl would say, and spit in their eyes afterward.

  Trees dance in the wind, and I feel slightly less disgusting in the shade of their swaying branches. I’m almost to Kelly’s office, just a block to go. Deo volente. Let me make it there without collapsing in a heap.

  Fifty yards. Twenty. Ten.

  The tip of my cane brushes against the straw bristles of the boot-scraper at the side of the medical building’s door. I enter the lobby, and it’s a relief to be in a non-threatening atmosphere for a change. With papers rustling on her desk, Kelly’s secretary says hello and asks about my walking stick.

  “Isn’t that from our lost and found? The one with the acorns and oak leaves carved on the staff?”

  I smile, lifting the cane for her inspection. Kelly did take it from his lost and found box and gave it to me since no one had claimed it in months, and I was in need of a new cane. The previous owner must have been the adventurous sort, one accustomed to hiking alpine trails, given its sturdy dimensions and nicks and gouges.

  “The doctor’s in,” says the secretary. “Go right through to the office, but be brief. He’s had a hard day.”

  I really must learn this woman’s name. We’re polite with one another, but I have the sneaking suspicion she believes I somehow compromised or finagled Kelly into marrying me. Smiling my thanks, I walk into the office. It smells of dusty papers, fresh coffee, and sandalwood. My heart picks up speed in anticipation of hearing Kelly’s voice.

  “Why, Hester,” he says. “To what do I owe this unexpected visit?”

  The secretary is right. He sounds weary and discouraged. The day has indeed taken a toll on him. Stepping forward, I reach for the chair in front of Kelly’s desk and prop my cane against it. “I was in the neighborhood,” I rasp.

  “A little closer,” he says, with that dark whiskey tone. “Didn’t catch that.”

  I’m no babe in the woods. I know from the come-hither inflection of his voice that he heard, but I sidle around the desk anyway. Kelly swings me down into his lap.

  Always mindful of my lash marks, the doctor takes care to be gentle, knowing exactly where they are on my body. He was the one who washed and stitched the wounds, warding off fever and infection for weeks after I was rescued from the asylum.

  Kelly has always been a good friend—well, except for that brief stretch near the beginning of our acquaintance when I resented the hell out of him for shaking up my life—yet it was in the hospital that I knew I loved him as something more. I realized this on twelfth night. Not the Bard’s play or the Christian celebration but the twelfth night Kelly had slept in a chair next to my bedside. He didn’t go to a hotel or the rooms reserved for the doctors to rest in between shifts, worrying that I would need him. My nightmares were worse then and only Kelly could soothe me. Or perhaps my feelings blossomed when he deloused my head and trimmed my roughly cut hair so the ends were even. He brought biscuits without me having to tell him they were my favorite, at a time when my wounds were especially sore. When I couldn’t sleep, he read A Midsummer Night’s Dream aloud into the early morning hours.

  All of those experiences and more built a magic deeper than Puck or Titania or Oberon possessed, far stronger than paranormal power, binding us together in a way that cannot be explained.

  Kelly runs his fingers through my hair. His breath smells like cool mints and hot coffee. “Now I have you here, what will you do, I wonder?”

  “That depends,” I say, my throat burning after two words.

  “On what?”

  I smile, feeling warm and cherished for the first time in many hours. “On whether I wish to escape.”

  Summoning Kelly’s image from a past vision, I feel my skin flush. Dark gold hair, laughing hazel eyes, and a face I could dream about for eternity.

  He brushes my cheek, bringing my attention back to the present. “Dare I ask why you are covered in mud? And is that a bruise on your chin?”

  The doctor often spoils moments like these with questions I do not wish to answer. “Hester, why do you smell of gunpowder?” “Your knuckles are bloody, have you been in another fight?” “How did your boots get so scuffed?” Etcetera, etcetera.

  Shrugging, I try to get up off his lap. His arms are like steel, but he doesn’t hurt me. I turn my face away, fiddling with something on his desk; a pen nib, I believe. How can I lie to this man? His first wife was devious and chronically unfaithful, telling him that he’d been cuckolded as she packed her bags. Kelly is every bit Alice’s father and a very good one at that. Just not biologically.

  This experience has made the truth a valuable commodity to Kelly. He cannot abide falsehoods, but I cannot always disclose everything. It is a tricky thing to balance. If I told him about my supernatural gifts, that I am descended from a Roman goddess and speak with Sir Death regularly, he would think me mad. And how would I show him otherwise? Pull a ghost out of my pocket?

  It’s a sad fact that good men do wrong things with the best of intentions—like recommitting someone to a mental hospital or insisting she have treatment. The risk of complete candor is too great, so I wrinkle my brow and pretend to be confused over the dirt that covers me. He can’t prove I didn’t slip and fall while walking, bumping my chin and splattering myself with mud in the process. It’s happened before.

  “Hester?”

  I rub my throat, reminding him that it hurts and he should take pity on someone born with a twisted larynx. I’m not above such tactics. “Frankly, my good doctor—”

  Kelly must know I’m going to evade his questions because he interrupts. “Frank Lee, did you say? Do I know the man?”

  Sighing, I shake my head. “Not Frank Lee, the person, frankly, the state of being frank.”

  “Does he have a brother named Earnest?”

  I tilt my head up as he begins to nuzzle my neck. “Ernest Lee? Very clever.”

  My sort-of husband enjoys puns on occasion, so I play along. To get his mind off my disheveled state and his discouraging work. “What of the black sheep of the clan?

  Kelly laughs, soft and low. “That would be, Bad Lee.”

  “No,” I rasp. “The black sheep is Shameless.”

  “How could I forget? She’s the best of them all.”

  Touching his face, I find that sweet mouth and move in slow, pressing my lips to his with a scorching kiss. But the whole thing backfires. I’m the one who’s stupefied when we pull apart. I can’t remember my own name, let alone a pun.

  A little out of breath, Kelly swivels the chair we’re sitting on and reaches around me for something in a desk drawer. His lips glide across the side of my jaw as he sits back and drops the object on top of the desk.

  “Go ahead and touch,” he says, referring to the mysterious object. “It belongs to you, I think.”

  What kind of game is the man playing? I turn and reach toward the desk. My fingers connect with a metal handle and a buttoned leather flap. My reticule!

  “You’ll be happy to know I found it at the police station, of all places. In the gutter out front.”
/>   I bite my lip. He sounds unconcerned, easy going almost. This is not good.

  “How do you suppose it got there, Hester? So many blocks from your home?”

  My brain whirs, searching for a likely solution, but Kelly doesn’t wait for a reply.

  He taps the top of my hand as though he already knows the answer. “A robber might have stolen it from you and hidden it in his pocket. Then it fell out when the police marched him from the paddy wagon.”

  Cat and mouse questioning. No one does it better than Kelly. Lifting my eyebrows, I act as though I’m considering his ridiculous supposition. The doctor takes the pen nib from me and tosses it in a drawer. I wish I could hold the lucky stone in my pocket, for help in winning this exchange. As usual, Kelly seems to be ahead.

  “Better yet, you might have left the bag at the tailor shop next to the police station. Obviously the button is coming loose and the flap needs re-stitching. The tailor could have knocked it out of the window while searching for a matching thread, thereby allowing the reticule to fall into the street.”

  We both know this didn’t happen either. My shoulders slump, and I shake my head in defeat. This can’t end well. He hates when I put myself at risk.

  “Not the tailor then?” Kelly asks. “Well, there’s some fruit inside the bag—a few nectarines and an ugly apple. Though the stand next to the police station is pitiful at best. You wouldn’t travel so far just to buy that produce. ”

  He runs his thumb across my lower lip. So gently, it is my undoing. I can tolerate pain and violence to amazingly high levels, but kindness is my Achilles’ heel.

  “Be honest, sweetheart. Have you been riding Jupiter by yourself again? You really shouldn’t, you know. It’s dangerous, and I’d take you out any time you like. We could go into the mountains. I know of some nice flat meadows where Jupiter could gallop, if the poor old boy still has it in him.”

  A scowl forms on my face. He knows about my riding blind on Jupiter? Curses. When did that happen? Did Cordelia tell? Of course, it could have been Willard or Gabriel, the stool pigeons. They probably all spy for the doctor.

  “I had a hunch about the explosion,” I say at last, my embarrassment over getting caught out by Kelly still bitter.

  He shifts me on his lap, puts his ear close to my mouth. “What hunch?”

  I can’t tell him about the vision, of seeing the bombing through Willa Holloway’s eyes. Kelly wouldn’t believe it for a minute. “Constable Drown came to the house. To pick up Isaac for the crime.”

  “Isaac Baker? Cordelia’s Isaac? That’s absurd. He can barely light a house lamp, let alone create a bomb of that magnitude.”

  I begin sharing half-truths at this point. What Kelly doesn’t know won’t hurt him—or rather it won’t damage our sometimes tempestuous relationship. “I wanted to talk with Drown. So I went to the station, to discourage him from pursuing Isaac.”

  “You wanted to talk to him, eh? Hester darling, you rarely ‘talk’ to anyone but me.”

  Maybe I overdid that excuse. I really do mostly speak only to Kelly. “I’m thinking of branching out. Using speech more.”

  He pushes my glasses up until they sit atop my head. His skepticism is palpable. “Really? Branching out, are you? It’s getting easier to speak then?”

  “Very much so,” I croak.

  Kelly pats my reticule as if to support his point. “You went to the station, all right. I’m not sure of the reason, however. I doubt it was to talk with Sergeant Drown.”

  How do I respond without upsetting him? It’s impossible. Therefore, I tell the truth about a different topic. “My back hurts. May I sit in a chair?”

  After climbing off his lap, I stretch my back briefly and take the chair across from his desk, where I left my cane. To change the subject again, I ask him if he knows James Scarlett’s address. He has no idea we are related in any way or that we’re enemies with an ancient, magical vendetta.

  “The owner of Griffin House? I don’t know where the man lives. He’s been away convalescing—ever since that tornado, with the eclipse and the fog. I’ve never treated such a traumatic compound fracture. And his poor face.”

  His comment makes me think of Pearl, my brother’s dove at Griffin House. How will his disfigured appearance make her feel? Did she see him before he left for his convalescence? I don’t especially regret injuring Scarlett, but I do hope that Pearl won’t suffer for it.

  Kelly is going on about the storm and the injuries my half-brother sustained. I smile, having successfully diverted his mind away from my lost reticule. It was no real storm or eclipse that day, just elemental conjuring as Scarlett and I tried to kill each other.

  “Why do you ask about him, Hester?”

  Damn. Hoist with my own petard. He’s wondering what I’m up to again. Why can’t Kelly leave well enough alone? As I formulate a vague reply, my voice disappears. It needs to rest after so much use.

  No reason, I reply with sign. His family lives here?

  “In a manner of speaking. Both of his parents are buried in the cemetery off High Street,” Kelly answers. “As I recall, the stepfather had another son back east, but not a blood relative to Scarlett. Can’t remember more than that from town gossip, I’m afraid.”

  Truth vibrates through my bones, both fiery and cold, and I know that Kelly is referring to Sam Lennox. Thank you. Must get home. Supper.

  “You’re not going to tell me what this is about, are you?” he asks.

  Maybe.

  “I know how you look when you’re sleuthing—you can’t fool me. The bomber is still at large, and you’re trying to root him out.” He exhales and stands. I can almost hear him counting—one, two, three, four—hoping to regain his patience. “You’re a bit of a hellion, Hester, do you know that? You’ll be the death of me one day.”

  This chills my insides. I can think of nothing worse than causing Kelly harm.

  Touching people is difficult for me—I never know when a vision will crop up and tell me something awful about them. I reach out to Kelly despite my fear. I’ve seen his past—hard, challenging times as he grew from boy to man—but it’s only increased my admiration.

  The doctor moves around his desk, organizing this and that. He ignores my outstretched hand and slams something down, cursing softly. “I’ve spent the entire day putting bodies back together—a finger, a leg, pieces of skull—like a macabre puzzle. When one body was identified, I started on another. Afterwards, I signed a stack of death certificates and told the families the very thing they feared most. Do you know what that feels like, Hester? Those bones I reassembled were human beings who once loved and dreamed and felt joy. Now they’re dead, gone in the blink of an eye.”

  I rise to my feet and try to locate my reticule, but Kelly leaves his desk and steps in front of me. “Do you know what I asked myself, each time I looked into the eyes of another weeping family member?”

  Stop, I sign. Don’t want to know.

  “Oh, you need to, Hester. You really need to give the people who care for you some consideration.” Kelly lifts my chin and turns my face toward his. “I asked myself, what if my little Alice lay under that rubble. But deep down, I know that would never happen. I keep Alice safe, protected. She wouldn’t end up in a situation like that. Then I thought of you . . . and began to worry once more. Where is Hester? Is she well? In danger?”

  No reason for concern.

  “Blast it, there’s every reason, but you won’t let me help. Always so independent and stubborn.”

  You work too hard, Kelly. Need to relax.

  Kelly lets out a gusty breath. “My stress is work related? That’s what you’re saying?” He releases me and counts under his breath before resuming our argument. “I admit I’ve had a hard day, and maybe I do need a break. But this isn’t about the job. You know I respect that wild, brave spirit inside you, Hester. Every other person in my acquaintance is washed-out and boring by comparison.”

  Thank you, I guess—

 
“God help me, I love you—heart, soul, and body. But it isn’t a comfortable thing.”

  His words bite and make me want to hurt him as I hurt. Never asked you to care.

  “You didn’t have to ask, you goose,” he replies. “I just did one day, and I couldn’t undo it. Nor would I do so if it were possible.”

  I soften a bit and swipe at my eyes. I hate arguing with Kelly—it’s like losing the rock upon which one builds. He walks to the door and opens it. A hot breeze from the lobby gusts across the floor.

  “Promise me you’ll stay safe, be smart. It isn’t your job to solve every crime in the world.”

  He must think sleuthing is an eccentric hobby of mine, that I enjoy solving puzzles for the fun of it. I push my glasses down over my eyes and sign. Not every crime. Just this one.

  I tuck my reticule under my arm, and we walk out to Kelly’s buggy. His anger smells sharp, like an incense of black tea and nettle. Regardless of his disapproval, I won’t let him control what I do. I make my own choices, no one else. And it saddens me that for a man who knows me so well, he still understands so little.

  We drive to the boarding house without a word exchanged between us. Kelly helps me down, and we walk together into the house. The smell of barley soup greets us as we make our way to the kitchen. I set my cane in an umbrella stand, and Kelly takes a surprised breath as we enter the room together.

  What has startled him?

  Willard and Gabriel are eating at the kitchen table. I hear them chew and swallow heartily, clanking their utensils against the insides of the soup bowls. Someone else is there as well. I can’t identify the visitor immediately, but a telepathic voice begins speaking in my head. As familiar as my own, but one I didn’t expect to hear again in this life.

  Salve, Visionary. You look good, even with the muddy clothes. Have you missed me?

  Stumbling back, I careen into Kelly’s hard chest. “Well, I’ll be damned,” the doctor says. “Tom Craddock.”