Glad to do it, I finally reply, using sign language. A pleasure.
My voice has returned, but a twisted larynx makes speaking quite painful. I use sign to avoid that discomfort and also because the raspy, whisper-like timbre usually disturbs people. Though not Dr. Noah Kelly. My—in name only, refuses to sign an annulment—husband can’t get enough of my voice.
The smile on my face grows wider as I think about Kelly, but Cordelia interrupts by slipping a plate into my hand. “Only two biscuits left. I think we should have them, don’t you?”
My biscuit feels crisp and buttery, a small disc of homely goodness. Cordelia munches her ginger snap and tells me of the bridal loot she’s accumulated today since I cannot see it for myself. She shares every detail about the tablecloths, handkerchiefs, and blankets. Apparently, a poor girl’s trousseau isn’t about clothes, but far more practical concerns. Yet a few petticoats, shifts, and fancy drawers were made as well, embellished with tatting and embroidery. And a lacy nightgown and peignoir set is in the works for the wedding night.
Cordelia is embarrassed about mentioning the nightgown. Every emotion has a specific scent, and this one is an awkward odor, like over-cooked asparagus.
“The trim is ever so lovely,” she murmurs. “It reminds me of sea shells swirling along the neckline.”
Leaning forward, Cordelia rests her hand on my knee. “Is this really happening, Hester? Am I to be married in a month?”
Darling girl. She’s nervous and shy and thrilled all at once. Beautiful bride, I reply in sign. Lucky Isaac.
My friend has several aunts who are accomplished lace makers at a factory in Stonehenge, but they aren’t exactly spry. Over the course of the afternoon, each of the aunts has complained of aching joints and bones. Their lace is extremely fine. It’s as good as the imported stuff my father once ordered from England and France, before he lost his wealth and good name. Before he squandered my inheritance and sent me to hell.
But why spoil a pleasant day with memories of Ironwood?
My back aches, the healed-over whip marks tight, as I think of the asylum, and I shift in my chair. Determined to recapture my lighter mood, I trace the delicate strands of lace, marveling at the talent required to produce it.
Cordelia goes to the kitchen to replenish the biscuit plate. Oatmeal sultana this time since the ginger ones are gone. The gladsome conversation intensifies in the parlor when Cordie returns with the refreshments and pours new tea. Shortly after, my front door opens, and I hear someone enter my home. A male voice utters a few curse words and the fellow continues through the house to the garden out back.
The retreating figure is Willard Little Hawk, the best handyman in all of Stonehenge. Also the only handyman of my acquaintance, but regardless of that, Willard is a hard, efficient worker. Surly and arthritic, he has been a constant throughout my life. Even when my mother was alive, when I had fine clothes and lived in a mansion, Willard looked out for me in his own irascible way. My parent’s home is nothing but ash now, and I used what was left of my inheritance to purchase this boarding house. At the ripe age of twenty-two, I am a landlady of small but self-sufficient means.
Since Willard saved my life from a crazed killer a few months ago, he boards with me for free and shall as long as he likes. Some debts are impossible to repay. To keep busy, Willard cares for my garden, fruit trees, chickens, and milk cows. He curses often, speaks entire sentences rarely, and usually makes himself scarce.
The clock in the parlor strikes four. My guests put down their needles, add the completed trousseau items to Cordelia’s hope chest upstairs, and head for home. Most of them live within a three block radius—residents of the Welsh borough of Stonehenge. Our borough is but one in a great city of people, where other neighborhoods contain different nationalities huddled together just like us. I stretch my sore back muscles and wish, once again, for relief from my chronic discomfort.
A little opium, perhaps. Just to take the edge off.
Once the tempting thought manifests itself, I slap it away. Sweet blazes, I’d rather die than touch another needle. My husband/doctor/friend Noah Kelly is right, as usual. He’s told me many times that my body will always crave the poison it loves . . . and loathes.
Still, by heaven or hell, I will never go back to that sickness.
Honest pain is better than addiction.
Carefully, I pick up the teapot and place it on a tray. I lift the tray, ignoring the twinge in my back, and hear the dregs swish about in the teacups. I’ve had enough Earl Grey to last a lifetime. A trip to the privy might be in order.
When I enter the kitchen, Cordelia is washing dishes. This is her task for the week while mine is cooking. The word “cooking” might not actually apply to the meals I’ve prepared. My repertoire revolves around our garden vegetables and the cold, smoked meats and different kinds of bread available at a nearby store.
“Almost done,” Cordie says. “Then I’ll be off to my parent’s place. They’re making supper for Isaac and me.”
The motion of the water and her scrub brush soothes like a lullaby. I yawn as I begin putting the leftover biscuits back in the jar. Then the world outside my home detonates like a keg of gunpowder. I’m knocked to my knees by the soundwaves of the explosion, but Cordelia doesn’t register the magnitude of the blast with her all too human senses and continues washing.
Deo favente! But the gods do not show me favor.
I hold my head against the sharp, piercing darts of sound. Damn but they hurt. A few seconds pass and the painful stimulus decreases enough that logic returns to my thick, unfocused mind.
“What’s going on outside, I wonder?” Cordelia asks from the sink. “Did you hear anything unusual, like a boom of some sort?”
My friend hums to herself while untying her apron and turns to hang it on a peg. This is when she notices me on the floor. “Are you all right, Hester? Is that glass? Did you drop something?”
Cordelia kneels beside me, oblivious to the bedlam going on blocks away. I filter out the collateral noise and hone in on Cardiff Avenue. People are screaming, running in all directions. The pounding of their feet echoes across the distance as all hell breaks loose. What the devil happened?
“Your ears are bleeding!” Cordelia cries. “Let me look at them.”
I shake my head and instantly regret it. If this throbbing skull of mine is anything like the after-effects of a drinking binge, I will show greater sympathy to those who imbibe.
She offers to help me up, but I wave her hand away. Still woozy from the explosion, I prefer to stay where I am for the moment.
“Rest then,” Cordie says. “And I’ll get a broom.”
Willard hustles in from the garden. “There’s trouble yonder. Never seen the coppers move so fast.”
He and Cordelia go to the front porch, and I listen to their conversation about the fire department wagons rolling down our street, turning toward Cardiff. Willard leaves to scout out the situation and bring back word. Taking a deep breath, I rise to my feet and step forward, glass crunching under my boot. As Cordelia mentioned, the floor is covered with fragments from the broken biscuit jar. Kelly gave it to me as a house warming gift, and I bumped it off when I fell.
A damn waste of fine crystal, I think to myself. I’ll never be able to replace it.
Surprised that this thought would enter my head at such a time, I feel my way along the wall to the corner pantry. Who cares about the bloody thing now?
Inside the pantry, I spread my fingers and move my hand back and forth, searching, until I find the broom lying askew a few feet away. I grab it and a tin pan and go back to the broken glass. I sweep in small circles, making the arc wider with each pass. Being blind can be rather inconvenient, but I believe the worst of the shards are now inside the pan, out of the way until I can throw them in the bin.
Extending my hearing—still a painful undertaking—I pick up more voices from Cardiff. The lace factory is on fire. Look at those flames! Bring the injure
d over here and fetch the doctor. Please, has anyone seen my wife? She’s a lace maker.
Pro di immortales! So much fear and panic.
Cordelia returns as tears form in my eyes. I already know what she’s going to tell me.
“A b-bomb, Hester!” Cordie is coughing so much she can hardly get the words out. “At the f-factory where my aunts w-work.”
Taking her arm, I gesture toward a chair with my other hand. She sits down at the table and begins to weep. “The smoke’s s-so thick outside, the air isn’t fit to b-breathe. It must be terrible over on Cardiff.”
I touch my own wet face, wipe the moisture away with my knuckles. Though I despise crying jags personally, I love Cordelia so I mourn when she does. It hurts to feel her sorrow—worse than the whip marks on my back or the longing for opium—but there is little I can do to help. Her aunts would have been in that factory if they hadn’t attended the sewing circle for her trousseau. In fact, Cordelia knows each of the lace makers. She grew up with some of them or went to school with their children. Tended their little ones.
“What of the survivors?” she suddenly asks. “They’ll need help.”
Galvanized, Cordelia gets to her feet and goes from room to room, rifling through the cabinets and drawers. “I’ll need salve and bandages. Carbolic solution, too.”
She takes blankets from her very own hope chest and bundles them up with the medical supplies. “Don’t leave the house,” Cordelia calls over her shoulder as she hurries toward the front door. “It’s chaos outside. Promise me you’ll stay here.”
I nod and try to appear innocent, though my fingers are crossed behind my back. Of course I’m not going to stay. There’s a catastrophe afoot, and I must investigate it. Having dealt with me for so long, she probably suspects this.
“I’m not fooling, Hester! Keep to the house.”
Cordelia slams the door and trudges off toward Cardiff Avenue, the center of the Welsh borough. I’m heading that way myself shortly, but a few things must be done first. I take a ceramic pitcher to the pump out back and fill it with clean water. This sprawling, rickety home lacks the indoor plumbing or gaslight used by the upper and middle classes. I pour a little of the water into a basin, wash my hands, and rinse the blood from my ears.
After dumping the dirty water out, I return to the kitchen and open the cold closet. It being August, the waist-height, tin-lined box is barely cool. The ice delivery man comes tomorrow night, thank goodness. Our block has melted quickly and needs to be replaced, if we hope to keep our food from spoiling. I reach inside the cold closet and bring out a small ham, along with a wedge of cheese. The bread box on the table yields half a loaf of good rye given to me by Cordelia’s granny. Running my fingers across the ham, I cautiously use a long, serrated kitchen knife and slice it into thin strips. Relief sweeps through me when the job is done. I’m relatively new to housewifery, and it still requires a great deal of concentration, but I muddle along. The bowl on the windowsill holds several apples, and I add a couple to my collection of food.
In a few hours, Cordelia and her family might need this sustenance to keep up their strength.
Moving out to the porch, I listen for the clamor on Cardiff, noticing that the smoke has lessened and the air is easier to breathe. This is where my third boarder finds me. Entirely different from Willard or Cordelia, Gabriel is a giant of epic proportions. He opens the gate and closes it behind him, calls me by name. I lift my face toward the sound of his voice.
“Miss Hester! Have you any news of the tragedy? I heard about it at the forge.”
Again, I shake my head and feel pain. This time it isn’t for me, but for those killed in the explosion. Thirteen women and two men, to be exact. Traumatized, they call out to my psyche, begging me to help them. I sense the presence of Sir Death. He’s come to help the spirits journey to the other side, but they refuse to cross over.
Chilled at the thought, I shiver and Gabriel puts his hand on my arm, speaking kind words. But there is no solace to be found. Ghosts only linger on earth if they are torn from life prematurely, if murder has been done. Sadly, this is where I come in, where Sir Death and I collaborate. Descended from the goddess Veritas, I am her Visionary, a diviner of hidden truth. It is my calling to reveal murder and bring peace to the dead by exposing their killers. One touch of the corpse, or the perpetrator, and the crime plays out in my mind. I can never forget them—not a single point—though I often wish I could scrub the ugly memories away.
This is why it is so bizarre that I cannot remember what transpired in the orchard a fortnight ago.
Gabriel must assume that my pondering is grief and tries to comfort me by patting my shoulder. I detect his own heartache bubbling under the surface. He has no idea that I am supernatural, none of my friends know this. To Gabriel I am just the blind, near-mute girl he met at Ironwood Lunatic Asylum.
“You look so forlorn, my dear,” he says. “Is there anything I can do?”
Nothing, I sign. Just worried.
Cordelia and I learned the hand language last year from Kelly—to provide me with another option for communicating. But Gabriel is a quick study. He’s picked up a great deal in a short period of time.
“I am as well,” he agrees. “I want to help in some way.”
Gabriel takes his coat and satchel to his room on the second floor. Like Cordelia, he wishes to go to the bomb site and volunteer. This is braver than it seems. It won’t be an easy thing for him to be accepted there. Gabriel is shunned in Stonehenge because of his face. Ruined by a carriage accident, his profile is scarred on one side and wretchedly reconstructed on the other. People act as if he is a monster—calling him Frankenstein or the Beast behind his back.
Since Gabriel is going to the site—and I must do so as well—I collect my cane and check the pocket of my skirt. A smooth, flat object rests within; the size of a fifty cent piece.
Good. My lucky stone.
I carry the stone because it represents a day when the heavens helped me win against my enemy. My older brother. These things rarely happen, even in the supernatural world, so I like to remind myself of it when times are challenging. Like a ritual of sorts, I often take out the stone and roll it from one finger to the next in a fluid motion. It helps me analyze evidence and plot my future course.
As I fill a canteen at the pump, cool water drips onto my hand. It feels wonderful, and I wipe the moisture across my forehead and cheek. Then I gather the ham, apples, and cheese, and drop them into the linen bread sack. Gabriel and I meet on the porch, and I walk with him toward the lace factory.
2
Mors ratio novissima.
Death is the final accounting.
A few people hiss at Gabriel when we arrive at the mouth of Cardiff Avenue, then they make catcalls and jokes at his expense. His pain and humiliation are like strong vinegar, but those emotions soon blend with other scents; the sourness of the crowd’s fear and their distress over the explosion. Such feelings make them want to lash out rather than seek comfort.
Hold fast, Gabriel. Now isn’t the time to show weakness. Not with this bunch.
I assess our surroundings through echolocation and count a dozen or so people in the immediate area. Most of them are men—a mix of the Welsh, Cornish, and Irish communities within Stonehenge.
It’s a rarity to find an American accent in our part of the Rocky Mountains, but none of the nationalities get along. This fact has resulted in quite a few riots over the summer. However, it seems a united loathing of Gabriel has made these men temporarily forget their ill will toward each other.
Freakish, unnatural, ill-favored . . . etcetera, etcetera. I’ve been called the very things they are shouting at Gabriel now. The insults are so unimaginative. Shouldn’t these bullies put more effort into this? Both Gabriel and I are rather remarkable specimens for the sport of mockery, are we not?
Even so, I find nothing worth remembering here, no witticism to recall later with a smile and say, “That was a corker. Well
done!”
Ready to put this lot behind us, I square my shoulders against the hard words, and wipe a drop of spittle from my collar. One of the men who targeted Gabriel was a poor marksman, hitting me with the slimy substance as well. The giant won’t retaliate against this disgusting fellow. He doesn’t have it in him to cause another pain.
I am not so afflicted. I remove my spectacles and tuck them into a pocket. After dropping the bread bag on the ground, I roll my shoulders, warming the scars on my back for movement. The solid metal tip of my cane feels smooth as I tap it against my palm.
“Miss Hester,” Gabriel whispers. “Put the cane down. We don’t want any trouble.”
The man who spit at us laughs. “No trouble, says he, but the woman looks like she wants some, sure enough.”
He’s more accurate with his observations of humankind than he is at spitting. I will fight if I must. Violent acts play out in my mind like a well-choreographed waltz as I choose which parts of his body to decimate. The groin is always effective—males carry-on so with that injury. Then the sternum, I think. Or perhaps his nose and jawbone.
“Stay calm,” Gabriel says. “They’ll grow tired of us and leave.”
Heavy feet move behind Gabriel. I turn in that direction and listen to the approaching man. He’s taller than the rest, though not as big as Gabriel. Fear and anger swirl about him like a dark cyclone. I prepare myself for the battle ahead, but a constable pushes his way through the crowd and the ruffian makes a hasty retreat. It would seem avoiding the police means more to him than his desire to hurt Gabriel.
Exhaling quietly, I lower my cane. It sounds as if the officer is waving his arm. “Clear out!” he says. “On your way!”
I pick up the bread sack, and Gabriel and I walk twenty feet or so before the constable asks us to return. “Come this way, if you please. We’ve need of your good, strong back, sir.”
Spectris: Veritas Book Two Page 2
