Spectris

by Quinn Coleridge

  Move the pawn forward! You’re cheating again, Shaw.

  That’s a knight, Pilgrim, not a pawn.

  Or is it the bishop? Which one moves at an angle?

  Be quiet, I tell them, although no one can hear the ruckus but Willa and me.

  We hurry to the other door, the one located just beyond Pilgrim and Shaw. Willa walks ahead, but I catch up with her and turn the doorknob. Locked rooms are for lesser mortals than Scarlett or Lennox. They reside at the top of the criminal hierarchy. A would-be thief would never risk stealing from them—if caught, he’d be drawn and quartered, his whole family annihilated at one stroke.

  I push the door open and Willa steps into the room first. Crates of varying sizes are stacked everywhere—each one separated from its neighbor, nothing on top. I point to the nearest crate, and Willa stands over it. I give the lid a yank, but it’s nailed down. Damn. I didn’t think to bring a crowbar.

  Going from crate to crate, I find them all securely shut. Double-damn. What I wouldn’t give for one of my knives. I could use it to pry the tops off.

  Willa sounds as frustrated as I feel. Blast it all! What will we do?

  Under her deathly pallor, she blushes. Kindly grandmothers of her age don’t use the word “blast” where others might hear them. Swearing makes them a bad example to posterity.

  Smiling at Willa, I wonder about the crates. Would a letter opener work as well as a throwing knife? We go back to father’s desk and search for the tool. Father said the little knife was made of pewter and called it Excalibur. At last! We’ve found it!

  I brandish Excalibur, like the Lady of the Lake, and follow Willa to the storage room. Excalibur’s thin blade slides under the top of the nearest crate. I jerk the letter opener several times and then there’s a cracking sound. Huzzah!

  Broken wood snaps under my hands, and I throw it behind me. Then I reach inside the crate and come out with a . . . vase? The shape is smooth and simple, the color a dull greenish blue. It looks very old, and I carefully set it on the floor, a good distance from my knee, where I am less likely to knock it over. Next out of the crate is an unframed canvas. A beautiful girl smiles softly up at me. How charming she is with her dimpled cheek and red hair. Have I heard of the artist? Willa looks closer at the signature and reads the name aloud. Renoir? Stunned, I quickly place the canvas on the floor beside the vase.

  Careful, Hester. Don’t destroy either one!

  Several of the crates yield artwork and ancient religious artifacts. All obviously precious. My headache makes my eyes water, and I feel an overwhelming urge to abandon my search. Still, I can’t ignore a loud humming sound within the room, almost like a hive of bees.

  Is the noise coming from that corner? Willa shouts. Let’s check, Visionary.

  She’s right. The sound waves pulse from a box in the corner. Nine inches by six and humming to wake the dead.

  Wary of what I’ll find inside, I pick up the box and the lid pops off, without any help from Excalibur’s blade. Snugly resting inside, sits a book. I reach forward, worried it will be difficult to remove from the box, but the book shoots out like a ball from a cannon, landing on the palm of my left hand. The cover is a deep red and bold, black writing suggests a title at the top. What language is it? The symbols are unlike any alphabet I know.

  Confound it! The book begins to hum against my hand. It whispers in a strange tongue, and draws me like a siren call. Dark magic. Put it away, Hester.

  When I turn my hand over, the book does not fall to the floor. It remains stuck to my palm as though gravity does not exist. I shake and shake my hand. I try to rip the book away, pry at it with Excalibur. Nothing works.

  Footsteps interrupt my concentration. They move steadily up the stairs and strike my ears like a death knell. A man? Yes, I think so. He walks with such purpose and confidence. I do not think this person will pass the office as the others did.

  Willa looks fearful. Hurry, Visionary. He’s coming.

  She must mean Lennox. Her cheeks pale further as she watches the door. Shaw and Pilgrim, who were once so assertive in life, enter the storage room and cower behind Willa.

  She rushes out, with me at her heels, the book still stuck to my palm.

  Lennox stops outside the office and engages a passing female in a brief conversation about dusting the rooms better. At the sound of his voice, the ghosts disappear, and I lose spiritual sight. I’m blind again. No, don’t leave now, I call to them. Come back!

  They either do not hear or choose to disobey me. What shall I do? Where can I hide? Tripping over my mother’s prized rug, I fall to my knees and bump my forehead against a table. My left hand is useless with the book stuck to it, so I use my right to slip Excalibur into the pocket of my dress. I feel a soft bulge beneath the letter opener’s blade. Of course, Fannie’s dishcloth!

  The mysterious book releases my palm a moment later, and I shove it into the bottom of the other pocket. Hell’s bells! What kind of magic is this?

  I don’t have the time or ability to answer. I grab Fannie’s dishcloth and polish the life out of a table leg as Lennox enters the office. He wanted better dusting, and he shall have it!

  “Who? What?” Charcoal Suit Lennox asks. He grunts in dismay. “There’s been a mistake. Only the upstairs maids work in here.”

  Praying he doesn’t notice my pounding heart, I clear my features of tension and keep dusting. Lennox stomps closer and leans down. He enunciates each word and speaks so loud it hurts my head. “Stop. You’re too dirty to be in this room.”

  The killer grabs my arm, and I turn toward his hand, hoping to appear startled. Lifting my iridescent eyes to his face, I allow fear to show. Does he see me as an impaired fool? One who begs for food on the street? Air swirls around my face. So many people think waving at a blind person is the only way to tell if she’s faking.

  Lennox wears an overabundance of bay rum, and it irritates my nose. I want to sneeze so badly that my eyes water. His hand closes around my wrist. “You come with me. Downstairs.”

  I do my best to seem feeble and confused as we take the stairs to the kitchen. “Look what I found in my office, Fannie! Just look!”

  The usual scullery din of scrubbing and gossiping stops, but the girls don’t say a word.

  “Fannie!” Lennox yells, turning a half-circle, still holding my wrist. “Fannie, where are you?”

  A scrambling sound from the pantry, and she emerges like a thoroughbred out of the starting gate. Fred the footman remains hidden. “Yes, Mr. Lennox? What can I help you with?”

  He lifts his arm, and mine, since he hasn’t released me. “Who is this? She was in my office.”

  “I’m so sorry, sir. I can’t imagine why. She’s a beggar, not the usual staff.”

  Fannie steps forward, and something hits me. Shock registers first, then agony. I stagger back and nearly drop to my knees, but Lennox doesn’t let go. My ears sting like they’ve been cut off at the skull.

  “Stepping above your station, leaving your kitchen work!” she says and hits me again. Is she using a wooden spoon? A paddle?

  No, I want to scream at her. No more!

  Lennox leaves me to take my penance and goes back upstairs. Fannie lectures and continues to strike me, grinding the words out as I crouch with my hands over my head. She begins to huff with exertion.

  Please stop. Sweet, blessed heaven, stop.

  “I won’t have it, gutter filth. You’ve taken advantage of my soft heart one time too many.”

  Soft heart? Gutter filth? Her words are like a tonic. They galvanize what little strength remains in my body. I surge up from the floor and punch toward the area of her mouth, the place that’s shouting. I connect with something soft and fleshy. Her cheek, perhaps? And then I punch lower. I’m sure it’s the jaw.

  Fannie wheezes and chokes, cursing like a fishwife. She comes at me again, but I’m ready. The air whizzes as she swings her arm, and I block the blow, knock the spoon from her hand. I kick it across the kitchen.
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  The English voice begins to blur with that of my father, when he told me I was stupid, worthless, unlovable, until I don’t know who it is I’m fighting. Maybe both of them, maybe all the cruel people I met at the asylum and anyone who has ever done me wrong.

  Don’t call me those things. I’ve never been what you say.

  Three more times Fannie tries to hit me and never lands a punch. This would upset any tyrant so she calls for Fred. He hustles into the room. His boots make a great deal of noise on the floorboards, and a sound picture forms in my head.

  Six feet away. He’s stopped to see what’s going on. I grab a dish from the counter and throw it at him with all my might. Then another and another. Fred yelps and runs back to the pantry.

  The scullery girls have been silent throughout the fight, but one claps a few times, saying, “Good for you.”

  Blood trickles from my forehead into my swollen eye. I wipe it away, and keep my hands up, ready to block the next strike. Kelly once described the proper stance of a boxer and how he holds his body in a fight. He positioned my hands, playfully batting away my punches. I imitate what he taught me and back toward the door. Stepping lightly on the balls of my feet, I try to take stock of my injuries, but it is impossible to get past my swollen bottom lip and the blood stinging my eye. It burns and my ears grow hypersensitive, causing the planet to swim. I stagger a little as fatigue replaces strength. Fannie must see this as her opportunity to regain her honor in front of the scullery girls and moves in again to attack.

  She is nearly upon me when I decide against Kelly’s pugilism and pull out Excalibur. The pewter blade is sharp enough to injure an eye or pierce a throat. Fannie comes to a dead stop.

  “Step back,” I rasp.

  “Go on then,” Fannie murmurs, while moving away. “Or I’ll call the coppers.”

  I exit the kitchen with Excalibur in my hand.

  Somehow I make it to Kelly’s buggy out on the street, but the details of the trip elude me. Did I close the garden gate? Get blood on the paving stones? The doctor jumps down to the sidewalk when I call his name. I am surprised he heard my voice with the carriage traffic. Kelly puts his hands on each side of my pounding skull and examines my injuries quickly.

  “I knew I shouldn’t have let you go in alone,” he says. “Why do I listen?”

  I smile at him and he wipes some of the blood away with a soft square of material, like a handkerchief. It smells of lavender water. His housekeeper does such a nice job with ironing the linens . . .

  All goes insensible for a time and then I resurface, held close in Kelly’s arms. Where did I go? How long was I away? It can’t have been more than a few minutes. My body heals faster than that of a normal human, but at the moment, it feels broken and weak. I huddle against Kelly as we drive home, tucking my head near the side of his neck. He holds me with one arm and speaks random words. It’s only when we are almost to the house that I realize he’s swearing. I’m unsure of the exact meaning behind the rather florid terms, but I know Willard would admire them.

  Cordelia runs out to the buggy when Kelly and I arrive at the boarding house. “What happened? What did you do this time, Hester?”

  How rude. Things are not always my fault.

  Kelly climbs partway out of the buggy and reaches back for me. He’s silent as he carries me inside. For a tall man, he walks with smooth, economical movements, and I plaster myself against his steady strength, lulled by the warmth of his body. We pass the parlor and proceed to my bedroom.

  “Would you fetch me some water and clean towels, Miss Collins? Liniment and ice as well, if you’ve got them.”

  Cordelia sounds as though she’s about to scold, but Kelly stops her. “I think she’s had enough correction for one day, don’t you? Kindness might be the better medicine at the moment.”

  My heart grows soft as warm candle wax, and I fall a little further into dangerous emotional territory. It’s frightening and exciting and unwelcome all at the same time.

  Kelly lays me on my bed and sits down beside me. He doesn’t say anything, just holds my hand until the water arrives. I picture his dark gold hair gleaming in the candlelight, his hazel eyes watchful and serious.

  Cordelia arrives with the items Kelly requested and then he excuses her. It amazes me that he can do this, and she actually obeys. Perhaps the doctor should give Isaac some advice on how to handle women, especially one who thinks she knows everything like his fiancée.

  Despite the pain involved, I enjoy Kelly’s gentle touch as he cleans my face, neck, and ears. This isn’t the first time he’s done this and most likely won’t be the last. If Kelly can endure, that is. Most men would have thrown up their hands and left by now.

  Once my broken skin is washed and treated with a foul-smelling liniment, he stretches out beside me on the mattress, and holds an ice pack to my head. “Who hit you? Give me a name.”

  Hearing the casual note in Kelly’s voice, I shake my head and nearly pass out. Beneath his carefully controlled demeanor, I smell rage and a desire to do violence upon my attacker. Good thing it was a woman. A man would have sealed his fate the moment he raised a hand to me.

  “Just Fannie,” I rasp.

  “Just Fannie? The Amazon who works in the kitchens?”

  “Very same.”

  “She’s easily twice your size, Hester. The woman could take out Craddock and me both with her backhand. Shall I challenge her to pistols at dawn? Tom could be my second.”

  Beneath the engaging words, Kelly’s voice is rather flat, as though the good humor requires every ounce of patience at his disposal when he’d rather berate me for my life choices. The doctor sets it aside for now, but hard words will come, after I’ve had time to recover.

  “Was it worth it?” he asks, tilting my head and applying the ice to a new bruise. “Did you learn anything to justify this beating?”

  Snuggling closer, I inhale Kelly’s sandalwood cologne. An urge to kiss every inch of his face rises within me, but I’m too blasted tired. “Yes,” I whisper. “Talk tomorrow.”

  His jaw clenches. “I would advise most people to remain awake in case of concussion, but you have an especially hard head.”

  I smile at the doctor’s dry tone. He drops the ice into a basin Cordelia brought him and sighs as I drift off to sleep.

  There are no dreams, only deep rest until I sense a presence that I do not recognize. Not Kelly or Cordelia or Willard. I jerk out of slumber, disoriented and shivering. Rolling over on my side, I run my hand across the mattress. It feels cold, as though Kelly left hours ago. And my room smells different, like chimney smoke and brimstone.

  Glad you’re awake, ducky. I’ve been watching you sleep for some time.

  The voice in my head only makes me shiver more. Mary Arden?

  It’s me, all right.

  I sit up too fast and the world tilts back and forth, then settles. Holding my skull, I listen to Mary Arden’s breathing and place her in the chair by the window. She probably climbed in that way. Or flew down the chimney on her broomstick.

  Where have you been? I’ve had Willard looking for you everywhere.

  Mary Arden laughs. I wasn’t in the mood to be found, sweeting.

  You promised to teach me more magic, how to shield my friends against Scarlett.

  At the mention of my half-brother’s name, there is a spitting sound—a wet splotchy puddle settling on the floor. Sergeant Drown and now Mary Arden? Have these people never been taught to use a spittoon?

  And I will, Hester. Old Mary doesn’t forget a promise. Do you?

  My addled brain doesn’t grasp her meaning at first, and then I remember clearly. She saved me in a round-about way when I was buried alive in a sarcophagus, across from my mother’s matching tomb. Carver, our mutual, gambler-ghost friend notified Mary when I was growing short on oxygen. My aunt used Compulsion on my father and forced him to do me a good turn, a first in my life as his daughter. Father freed me from the sarcophagus with a sledgehammer and si
nce then, Mary Arden insists I’m in her debt.

  I suppose I’m equally obliged to Carver. Whether he follows me around as a self-appointed guardian angel or as an informant, I do not know. Likely a little of each. He might even enjoy popping into my life for a visit just because he can. Manifesting is one of the few perks of being a ghost.

  I cross my arms and glare with blind eyes at my aunt. What do you want?

  Her voice rumbles through my psyche. Word is you’ve been in Scarlett’s storage room.

  How does my aunt know this? Where does she get her information, the supernatural gossip circuit? Is Carver shadowing me again?

  I wasn’t there long. Why do you ask?

  Mary Arden is suddenly no longer near the window but at my bedside. I try not to shrink from her unsettling presence. That’s fine, dearie. What I’m looking for is simple, just a skinny old book with a red cover.

  My mind instantly goes to the one in my right pocket. The weird, magical book that refused to let go of me. I panic for a second, worried that it will begin humming again. Must be special if Mary wants it so bad. I can taste her desire for it.

  Sorry. I didn’t notice a book before being accosted by the spoon-wielding Amazon.

  No?

  Not a one. But what is Scarlett keeping in there? What’s his connection with the circus?

  She pats my arm, and I feel very, very small, as though I am nothing compared to her. Blazes, she’s using Compulsion.

  Briefly, I see an image in my mind of James Scarlett sitting by a campfire, Mary Arden not far away. Darkness surrounds them but for the light of the fire. Snow covers the ground, and I watch from the forest. As the details of the scene become clearer, my head feels as though a blade is being driven through it. Such pain.

  Bloody hell. What can it mean? I have no memory of the event, but somehow I know it happened.