by Geonn Cannon
After their first dinner together, Desmond offered to walk her home. She tempted scandal by inviting him inside to see her library. He, unable to resist the urge to take a peek, instantly agreed. Once they were inside she led him upstairs. When the lights came on he gazed awestruck at the collection as she explained that she was only supplementing the collection left to her by her grandmother.
“In many ways, I am stepping into her shoes to carry on the work she left unfinished.”
“Remarkable,” he said.
Dorothy smiled. “That’s not the only remarkable thing here, Professor Tindall. I spend a delightful evening with a man, a man with whom I share a great many interests, and I invite him upstairs without a chaperone. Most men in that situation wouldn’t be interested in these covers.”
Desmond appeared flustered. “Ah. Yes, well, one... does not wish to be thought presumptuous.”
Dorothy smiled. “Professor, I’ve never been an ordinary woman. I’ve never exactly been what someone might call traditional. I’m an outsider. We can recognize our own kind when we’ve spotted them in the wild.”
He stared at her nervously.
“My mother told me I was fortunate to live in the age of women’s rights. My grandmother was only allowed to own this house because it was bought in the name of my long-dead grandfather, while I am allowed to own it because I inherited it from her. And yet there are still institutions in this town, in this bastion of forward thinking, where I am denied access simply because I don’t have a man on my arm. I’m sure you have the same issues with the University. A single man of a certain age may raise a few eyebrows or invite comment.”
Desmond sneered. “There have been whispers.”
“Confirmed bachelor,” Dorothy said, and he nodded. “It seems we have a solution staring us in the face. We enjoy one another’s company, we share a variety of interests, and we can help each other professionally. I never have to worry about you wanting more out of the relationship, and you never have to worry about me, either.”
“You? Oh. You...”
She smiled. “In my journals and letters home I referred to my first love as Charles. But the name I whispered in bed was Charlotte.”
“I see. Perhaps we can come to an arrangement after all.”
To the public, they became an item. She attended his work functions and he occasionally spent a night in her spare bedroom. There was a bit of scandal, of course, an unmarried couple spending the evening under the same roof, but it was the sort of controversy that came with a wink and an elbow in the ribs rather than cruel investigations and ruined reputations. They did share a deep affection for one another. Dorothy appreciated his ability to argue and concede when he’d been beaten, and he was greatly enamored with the depth of her intelligence and loved to hear reports of her various adventures.
As far as romance went, on the other hand, they were completely oblivious to one another. So Dorothy rubbed her own tired feet while Desmond stared into the fire and twisted an unlit cigar between his fingers. The house seemed quiet after the bustle of the afternoon, the violence and the threats from all corners. She reached up and touched her neck where Mr. Keeping’s sword had rested, well aware that if he hadn’t planned to interrogate her the situation could have turned bloody with just a little bit of pressure.
“Dot?”
She looked at him. “Yes, Des?”
“I asked if you were all right. You looked haunted.”
“It’s been a very busy day, which ended with me offering tea to a woman I’ve considered my nemesis for half a decade. I’m simply overtired.” She stretched where she sat, lifting both arms over her head and rocking her head one way and then the other. “I believe I shall take a bath and retire. You’re more than welcome to stay if you wish.”
“I believe I will.”
She hesitated after she stood. “Are you merely staying here to act as my protector?”
“And if I am?”
“I will be offended at your machismo and touched by your concern. I’m sure the two will balance enough to cancel each other out.” She walked to his armchair and bent down to kiss the top of his head. “Pleasant dreams, Professor.”
“And to you, Lady Boone.”
She smiled and left him to brood. On her way upstairs she passed through the sitting room. The exploded package which would have killed her remained on the table, and the stink of cordite hung in the air. She wished she had thought to ask Beatrice to try cleaning it up but it was too late in the evening for a chore of that magnitude. Instead she opened two windows just enough to create a cross breeze in the hopes the fresh air would dilute or push out the tainted air of the house. Even with the attempted murder she wasn’t overly concerned by the idea anyone would take advantage of the opening. If someone wanted to kill her they wouldn’t climb her gate and traipse through the bushes in the hopes of finding the windows open. There would be easier and more direct ways to get into the house for a determined murderer, and she would have ample warning if someone did try to break in.
Dorothy returned to the box and picked it up to examine the mechanics of the bomb. It was incredibly intricate work, skillfully done. She brushed her thumb over the woodwork, to the brass latch, and something clicked in her mind. She realized where she had seen work of this caliber before and she cursed quietly at how long it had taken her to put the pieces together.
“Threnody.”
If Quintel required elaborate gadgets to use as weapons, there was one place in London he would go for quality work. Threnody had no qualms about working on opposite sides of a conflict. She provided weapons to whoever had the clout to find her in the first place as long as they had the coin to pay her once the job was done. She wasn’t cheap but Quintel had proven he wasn’t skint. Anyone who could afford to buy and maintain a house and surround it with guards could definitely afford to hire Threnody.
“I shall have to have a discussion with our masked tinkerer,” she muttered to herself as she put the device back down on the table.
Upstairs she drew herself a bath and disrobed. She lifted her arms over her head and examined her body in the mirror. No new scars, no scrapes or bruises that would color themselves in come morning. She let her hair down and stepped into the bathtub, sinking down to relax against the smooth curve of the porcelain. Her bag was resting against the corner of the tub, and once she was settled in she opened it to retrieve the journal they had taken from Quintel’s home.
She flipped through the crowded pages in the hopes she would find some rhyme or reason. She wasn’t expecting to find anything resembling a key or a legend so she focused on the sketches. Artifacts rendered in intricate detail, some of which she knew from her own research and a few that were in her attic and storeroom. She paused to examine full-page landscapes of pyramids and interiors of tombs. “Peru,” she said softly, identifying one page before moving to the next. “Ecuador. Egypt. Hm. Don’t know that one.”
Near the end of the book she was startled to see Trafalgar looking out at her. After the initial surprise faded she realized it was a drawing of Trafalgar as a child. Her hair was cut short over her ears, and her lips were slightly parted as her wide eyes stared forward. There was a challenge in the expression, despite the slender neck and without doubt equally small arms, this was a girl who was prepared to fight. Dorothy wasn’t surprised Solomon had been inspired to sketch her so quickly after meeting her, nor that this child had grown to be such a vexing woman.
When the drawings no longer held her interest, she closed the book and put it aside on the ledge with her soaps and creams so she wouldn’t drop it into her bath. She stretched her arms along the edge of her tub fell into a light sleep, aware of movement in the house - Desmond retiring to the library so he could read before bed, Beatrice arriving home and cleaning in the parlor even though she hadn’t been asked. Dorothy made a note to thank her for taking the initiative, sinking lower into the seductive embrace of the water as her mind drifted off into oblivion.
Chapter Nine
At some point during the night, Beatrice woke Dorothy by trailing cold water from the bath down the side of her neck. Dorothy shivered and opened her eyes, her protest cut off by a quick peck on the lips. She allowed Beatrice to help her out of the bath and towel her off, and showed her gratitude by taking Beatrice into her own bedroom. As she undid the buttons of Beatrice’s blouse she whispered in her ear that they would have to be quiet since Desmond was in the house. Beatrice whispered that she would try, then put her lips on Dorothy’s neck and put their silence to the test.
In the morning Dorothy woke when she felt the mattress shift under Beatrice’s movements. She rolled over and looked at the other woman’s bare back, once again amazed by the intricate tattoo which covered the olive skin. Her spine provided the trunk of a tree, its roots spreading along a thin horizontal line at her waist but the branches were the truly impressive thing. Starting just below the middle of her back they spread out to cover both scapulae in a spiders-web of various thickness. Large branches split off into smaller ones which forked into hair-thin tendrils, and thicker branches twisted and curled around her sides without ever crossing the hemisphere of her body.
The first time Dorothy had seen it she traced the branches and asked who had done it.
“I don’t know.”
“A tattoo like this and you just don’t remember?”
“I’ve told you before, I don’t remember the first few years of my life. I have no memory before waking up on the boat with the old man.”
Dorothy frowned. “But you were a child. If you received this tattoo as a child, it wouldn’t have... there would be indications. Tattoos do not grow with you.”
Beatrice said, “No. I would say you’re right.”
“How many branches are there?”
“Four hundred and twenty-six.”
“And the significance of that?”
Beatrice shook her head. “I haven’t the slightest clue.”
Dorothy had wanted to pursue the mystery further, but Beatrice’s tone brooked no further questioning. In the years since the curiosity would now and again reassert itself, but Dorothy fought the urge to ask. She had made her interest known, and Beatrice would tell her more if and when she was ready. For the time being she was willing to simply accept it for a beautiful piece of art on an exceptionally gorgeous canvas.
Beatrice looked over her shoulder and saw Dorothy watching her. She smiled, stretched, and then pulled on her blouse to block her view of the ink.
“Shall I make breakfast?”
Dorothy sat up and shoved her fingers through the wild tangle of her hair. “Yes, please. Would you ask Desmond if he’ll be joining us?”
“I heard him leaving fifteen minutes ago.”
“Ah. And any messages from Ivy or Leola?”
Beatrice said, “A runner brought a note last night. No sign of movement from the house, but they were going to stay until mid-morning.”
Dorothy nodded. She stood up and wrapped herself in a dressing gown. “It’s been hours since Ivy applied her makeup. She’ll need to go home and shower before she reapplies it. I’ll send a message back to let her know it’s okay to put the surveillance on hold for the time being. We may have another angle we can take to find Quintel.”
“Oh?”
“Think about the bomb he used on me. Think of the other devices he created for this damned plan. Then think about where he might have gotten them.”
Beatrice understood almost immediately. “Bloody hell. Threnody.”
“I think we’ll be paying the Crafter a visit this morning. After breakfast.”
“Of course.”
Beatrice left and went to her own room to dress for the day. Dorothy went to her own wardrobe to choose her own outfit. She didn’t know if she should anticipate as much brawling as the day before, but she was willing to be safer than sorry. She dressed in trousers and a long-sleeved shirt, both of which had a myriad of hidden pockets sewn in to hold her weaponry. She added suspenders and a necktie and tied her hair into a single plait that ran down to the middle of her back. She chose her shoes for comfort more than style, tying the laces as the doorbell rang downstairs. She put on a jacket over her ensemble and went down to see who their guest was. She was surprised to see the woman standing with Beatrice in the foyer, wearing in the same coat she’d worn the day before.
“Miss Trafalgar! What a surprise to see you here.”
Trafalgar seemed anxious at the false joviality, but she nodded a greeting. “I was thinking about the means by which Quintel attacked our peers yesterday and I have a theory. The Crafter, Threnody...”
Dorothy nodded. “Great minds think alike. I made the same connection yesterday when I was examining the bomb he sent to us. I was planning to pay her a visit later this morning. First we were going to have breakfast. Would...” She hesitated. “Would you care to join us?”
“I couldn’t impose.”
“You’re here now, and you’re going to accompany us to Threnody’s shop, correct? It would be incredibly rude to make you wait outside while Trix and I eat. Please, it’s no trouble.”
Trafalgar seemed to be searching for a way to refuse, but finally she nodded. “Very well. It would be my pleasure to join you for your meal.”
Dorothy nodded. “Trix, if you wouldn’t mind?”
Beatrice kept her eyes on Trafalgar. “Of course not. Lady Boone, may I have a word in private?”
“Of course.” They moved into the dining room, Dorothy’s cheerful demeanor fading once they were out of sight. “I know what you’re going to say.”
“That woman is the enemy,” Beatrice said. “We’ve gone against her time and again. Sometimes she won, sometimes we did, but I am finding it very difficult to understand why you’re trusting her.”
“Quintel targeted both of us. He killed Dubourne, Mummery, Whitmore... whether we like it or not, he has allied us together against him. He has resources beyond most men, and he was able to sow this confusion mainly because we work in a very fractured profession. He won yesterday because we don’t trust one another. If sitting down to a meal with Trafalgar and working with her to unravel this mess helps take away some of his power, then I am definitely willing to take that step.”
Beatrice took a deep breath and looked back toward the foyer. “You make a compelling argument. All right. If you say she’s on our side then I’ll go along with it for now.” She smoothed her hands down the sleeves of her jacket and looked at Dorothy again. “What shall I prepare?”
“Nothing fancy. We shouldn’t take long to eat. I’d like to speak with Threnody before she has a chance to prepare for our arrival. Word may have reached Quintel by now that some of his traps failed. She may be expecting us to come after her.”
“I’ll get started on a fry-up.”
Dorothy nodded and went to retrieve Trafalgar. She had drifted into the parlor to inspect the remnants of the bomb. She looked up when Dorothy joined her, but there was no guilt in her eyes despite being caught snooping. She held up the bomb.
“This could have caused quite a bit of damage. You’re fortunate you realized what it was before it detonated.”
“Caution is what’s kept me alive this long. I see no reason to start being foolish now.” She clasped her hands behind her back and chose her next words carefully. “Beatrice wanted to know if I thought it was wise to join forces with you on this endeavor. I told her that our very lives may depend on trust. If we were a bit less wary of one another, Quintel’s plan would have had a much smaller chance of succeeding. I told her that I can put aside everything that’s happened between us in view of the larger picture. I hope you’re able to do the same. I know I’ve caused you a fair amount of headaches over the years, and it might not be easy for you to overlook that.”
Trafalgar tilted her head to the side. “Headaches?”
“The submarine in Turkey, for instance. Canceling your train reservations in France, stranding you at the sta
tion.”
“Oh... yes, I remember now.”
Dorothy narrowed her eyes. “I have been a major inconvenience to your plans for the past four years. You can’t tell me it didn’t even register.”
Trafalgar smiled and put down the bomb. “Well. Perhaps a nuisance...”
“A nuisance? I...” Dorothy stopped. “You’re trying to wind me up.”
“Perhaps a bit.” Trafalgar’s smile widened slightly. “You have been a pest to me, Lady Boone.”
“I told you yesterday. For the time being, we are partners. Perhaps you can see yourself to call me Dorothy.”
She thought about it and said, “I shall try.”
“For now, help me clean off the table so we can eat. I’d prefer not to pick pieces of burnt paper out of my beans.”
#
After they’d eaten, Dorothy went upstairs to retrieve “a few items” from her armory before they left. She offered to loan something to Trafalgar, who demurred and said she had her own weapons if the situation came to that. When they departed Dorothy placed a bowler had over her hair and covered her eyes with blue-lensed pince-nez.
It was early enough that the rising sun was still flooding London with a mixture of yellow, orange, and pink that reflected from the windows of Threadneedle Street. Dorothy blended with the bankers and stockbrokers on their way to work at the various financial institutions with whom she shared her street, but Trafalgar was an anomaly. She wore the same much-mended coat she stole from Solomon so long ago, and underneath her beige cotton wool shirt had also seen the needle far too often to blend with the finery all around them. The two of them cut quite a dashing pair as they stepped out of the house, and they drew more than a few sidelong stares as they made their way down to the car.
