The vision passes, and I return to my senses. I push Mary Arden’s hand from my arm. No dark magic.
Her laugh is more like a soft cackle. Can’t blame me for trying, though. Haven’t got a lot of time before Scarlett returns, and I need to get that book. I’d steal it from the club myself, but he’s blocked me from it with a spell.
He can do that?
Yes. Just as I’ve blocked him out of my cabin in the woods.
I really must have Mary show me how this is done. I’ve practiced only one spell, and I feel at a disadvantage. Tell me about the book, Aunt.
Mary Arden retreats, her movements little more than a breeze. Merely the teachings of a Russian mystic. A young wanderer named Rasputin.
Why is he so important?
Never one to give straight answers, my aunt’s voice grows softer, and she begins to fade away. Ask your brother . . .
Sleep evades me for hours as I mull over Mary Arden’s words. I hold the book and touch the vellum pages. Written by a Russian mystic, eh? Rasputin? His name makes me shiver on a warm summer night. The book begins to hum faintly, but it doesn’t stick to my hand or call to me like a siren this time.
Where can I hide it? I get out of bed and walk to my wardrobe. There’s a sewing basket inside—I could put the book under the sampler I started a few years ago. I’d never look there if I were a villain.
Or I might cover it with the laundry pile. Once more, not a place I would search.
In the end, I slip the book within the hidden pocket of my winter coat. The garment has a canvas cover for seasonal storage and stinks of mothballs. I doubt it would attract the attention of my thieving aunt or brother should they come for the book. After I am free of it, relaxation settles over me all at once, and I return to my bed. Within seconds, I fall asleep.
Dark woods haunt my dreams. I run through the snowy night from something I cannot name, until I am awakened by a pounding. My sore ears protest, but the pounding goes on.
“Let’s go,” Tom calls. “Rise and shine.”
Cease that infernal noise, I lash out telepathically, or I will kill you!
Temper, temper. Feeling rough?
I nod, though Tom can’t see it. Not that it’s any of your business, but Mary Arden showed up in my room last night and watched me sleep for who-knows how long.
Waking up with your aunt would make me cranky as well. What did she want?
Not on an empty stomach. Breakfast first.
Tom’s already walking away. See you in the kitchen, slowpoke.
I doze off for a while, but Tom begins singing in the distance, drawing me from an enchanting fantasy where I lived alone and had my peaceful, near-silent house all to myself. The aroma of sliced peaches and honey gets me moving. It’s usually first come, first served at mealtime, and fruit is a favorite with everyone. Particularly Willard, who tends to sneak extra spoonsful from the serving dish. Gabriel doesn’t sneak at all, he just adds mounds to his plate of whatever we’re supposed to share. And no one begrudges him. The giant’s built like a mighty sycamore, he needs sustenance. If only Cordelia would listen when I tell her to make too much food by her standards and then add a third extra at least.
While unbuttoning the collar of my filthy dress, I tilt my head one way and then another; my ears aren’t as painful as they were a few hours ago. I push the bodice down and slip the dress off. It’s added to the top of the ever-increasing laundry pile by the wardrobe. Next I brush my hair, braid it, and twist the length into a coronet, shoving hairpins into the side to hold it in place. I wash and put fresh clothes on, thinking how easy it would be in the light of day to imagine that the visit from Mary Arden was nothing but a dream. It’s what she must wish, for me to subconsciously retain her request without dwelling on the whys and wherefores involved.
Who might this Rasputin really be, to have Mary Arden and James Scarlett both want his book?
Tom gives a surprised whistle when I enter the kitchen. Your shiner’s going to be a pretty purple. No. It’s more blue with traces of pink and yellow. How’d you get it?
I arch the brow above the shiner. I’d rather not discuss my eye, but thank you for your felicitations.
Does this mean we’re not discussing the bruises on your cheek and jaw, too?
Them as well.
While dishing up my food, I realize that Tom and I are the only ones in the kitchen. Has everyone else gone to work? Did I really sleep so late? I manage a stagger/stumble two step, reach the table, and take a seat. Each bite of the fruit bolsters my depleted system, giving me a renewed optimism for the day ahead. Ah, the power of the peach and our sweet Molly’s cream! Tom brings me a cup of coffee and sits down. Without preamble, I share what I found in the Griffin House storage closet with him, excluding Rasputin’s book. This I keep to myself. Tom may say that he wants to help in the investigation, but trust has to be earned. He scares me a little bit, makes me uncomfortable in an undefinable way which has nothing to do with the past. But much to do with the unknown. He is a mystery.
Tom rinses the breakfast dishes and tells me about his second visit to the circus. I listen and finish my bowl of peaches. Evidently he made friends with a boy who attempted to steal his billfold. Called Finn, the pint-sized criminal begged him not to divulge the offense to the coppers. Tom agreed to the request if Fin acted as his eyes and ears at the circus. Sealing their new partnership, Tom gave Fin a nickel and asked a few questions.
In essence, he learned that the circus leaves Stonehenge and travels to New Orleans, where it stays for a fortnight and then turns around and comes back to Stonehenge. After two weeks here, it’s on to San Francisco. The locations are always the same—Louisiana, Colorado, California—and only one wagon is off limits. It’s decorated with blue and yellow tulips, and Mr. Bloom once threatened Finn with violence when he went near it.
I push my cup aside. Interesting conversation. If this is a smuggling ring of some kind, why use a circus instead of a train?
Tom wipes off the table, and I get out of his way, standing up and gathering my dishes. Faster but a lot more visible, he says. Regulations on shipments, manifestos to fill out.
At the sink, I rinse out my cup and bowl and pour some clean water over my sticky, peach-scented hands, then dry them on a tea towel. Tom fetches his hat. He returns to the kitchen and makes a sliding, snapping noise. What is he doing?
You look stumped, Hester. Surely you recognize the sound of a man strapping on his gun holster. I didn’t think it would hurt to have a weapon.
I nod, glad of the knives on my thigh. Always better to be prepared.
After taking my cane from the umbrella stand, I search for my hat on the coat tree, but I can’t find it anywhere. So I borrow Cordelia’s, with its wide rim and ribbons trailing down the back. I pin the hat in place and walk to the parlor. Inside the room, I hear a chair squeak under heavy weight and the sound of writing. Must be Gabriel. Letter writing in the parlor is all he does lately, between shifts at the forge. When I walk into the room, he shoves whatever project he’s working on to the side. I smell embarrassment all over Gabriel. He’s usually not a secretive person, and it isn’t as though I can read his correspondence.
Good morning, I sign. Sorry for interruption. Need help.
Gabriel immediately expresses concern over my battered face, but I hold up my hand, asking him to stop. “Tell me then, Miss Hester. What can I do?”
I point at the hat on my head and then at my dress. Does it clash?
“The colors, you mean?”
Yes.
“Well, the dress is a light blue and the hat has red ribbons. You remind me of a French school girl.”
I dip into a quick curtsy. Magnifique! I have put worse combinations together than that of a French school girl.
“Is zat all mademoiselle wishes?” Gabriel asks in a bad French accent. “Le wardrobe consultation?”
Laughing, I remember what I actually needed. Would you write a letter? Deliver it for me.
&
nbsp; “Oh, of course. I can do that.”
Papers rustle on the escritoire as Gabriel takes down my words. He covers his surprise well and barely seems shocked as I have him address the letter to Miss Pearl, care of Griffin House. Gabriel reads the letter back, and I thank him. It’s just right, everything I wished to say to Pearl. Now if only she’ll believe me and heed the advice inside the letter.
“I’ll drop it off at the club on my way to work. Will that suffice?”
Yes. It’s important.
“I see that it is, Miss Hester. Take care of yourself, will you?”
Stopping at the parlor door, I turn around and go back to Gabriel. Rasputin’s journal is probably written in Russian or some Slavic variation. There’s a chance my giant friend could find out what it says.
One more thing, Gabriel.
He sits back in his chair. “Just one?”
I have a book. Would you look at it? Tell me what you see?
Gabriel may not be able to actually translate the journal, but he can give me his impression of it. And perhaps find someone in Stonehenge who could read the words. We have a community of Russians in the Little Odessa section of the city.
“Absolutely,” Gabriel says. “Any time you ask.”
Thank you. I touch the brim of my hat before leaving the parlor.
Tom saunters down the hall and pulls the front door open. He says goodbye to Gabriel who responds in kind. We exit the house and decide to walk to the circus, saving hansom cab fees in favor of admission. While we walk, Tom shares another discovery from the big top. A tiny, perfectly-formed dwarf named Louella. He noticed her under a canopy in front of the wagon with the blue and yellow tulips. She must have a will of iron, since Tom watched her for over an hour and the lady didn’t move once from her post, foregoing even a stretch or a yawn in all that time. The dwarf dresses like a princess, says Tom, with a feather in her curly hair and a beaded satin gown.
Tarnation! Corsets and heavy layers of material make me fidgety—I could no more sit still for an hour than spin on my head.
Why trust such a job to the dwarf? How frightful can the frilly miss be?
17
Iter spem et metum.
Between hope and fear.
When we arrive at the circus, the grounds sound fairly empty with a few groupings of people scattered here and there. I inhale briskly, disappointed that the food vendors are not yet in full swing. It smells only of livestock and wet hay.
A man staggers into me, deep in his cups. Perhaps he is a straggler from the night before. I wonder for a moment if Tom notices the gin on the fellow’s breath and if it bothers him. “Where’s an outhouse?” the man asks. “I’m fit to burst.”
Tom takes my arm and pushes past him. We turn north but another body collides with me soon after, smaller this time. “Finn,” Tom says. “Mind your manners. You can’t go barreling into ladies like that.”
“Sorry ma’am,” the boy says.
So this is Finn? He can’t be much older than Kelly’s Alice. His voice is deep for a child, sharing some notes with the lower range of a croaking bullfrog.
Coins rattle as Tom takes money from his pocket. “Anything new happen here since we last talked?”
Finn kicks the ground. “Nope.”
“I’ll give you this nickel, with another one to follow for your trouble.”
“Yes, sir. What do you want for it? Me to steal something, maybe?”
“No, Finn. Tell me about the dwarf who sits across from the blue and yellow wagon.”
“Miss Louella?” The child’s voice brightens.
“Why does she keep watch there all day?”
“She’s the human alarm, at least that’s what Mr. Desmond calls her.”
“A human alarm?”
“She’s little but when she screams, it sounds like a train whistle. Carries throughout the whole circus.”
I dull my hearing and touch my ears protectively. Learning that a ‘human alarm’ exists is terrifying. It is a harbinger of doom, an eastern wind upon my soul. With Louella near, a worse headache and bloody ears can’t be far behind.
“See the drunkard over there?” Tom asks the boy. “He’s looking for an outhouse.”
“Yes siree, so what?”
“Be a sport and play a prank on him for us. Tell him the outhouse is in the wagon with the tulips.”
“The one Louella watches? She’ll scream the place down.”
“Another nickel’s at stake, Finn.”
He pauses briefly, weighing whatever ethics a thief possesses. “Right, then. I’ll do it.”
Finn turns away but Tom catches his arm. “Hold up. Give Miss Grayson her money back.”
I grab at my reticule, only to find it unclasped. Why, the dirty little pickpocket!
“No hard feelings, miss,” Finn says, laughing as he returns my change. “It was all in good fun.”
In a flash, Finn is off. He approaches the poor drunk and gives him directions to Louella’s wagon. My heart sinks as the man turns and stumbles away. I subdue my ears to near deafness, dreading this demonstration of Louella’s screaming ability. Tom takes my arm and we follow the drunkard at a distance, until he reaches the wagon and Louella.
All goes black after that.
Someone is patting my face, shaking my shoulders. “Wake up, Hester,” Tom calls. “The loud noises are over.”
What? I am sprawled upon the ground, and Tom has his arms about me. Did I faint?
I take his hand, and he helps me to my feet. Speak with your mind, for heaven’s sake. What happened?
Tom brushes the side of my skirt, as though there’s hay or mud stuck to it. In a nutshell? The drunk loosened his trousers and tried to open the wagon door. Louella screamed like a train whistle, you keeled over, and the drunk wet himself.
She knocked me out? With my hearing on low?
He laughs as I gingerly rub my ears. She did indeed, as well as making quite a few dogs howl and a flock of starlings take flight.
I punch Tom in the arm. He’s enjoying this far too much.
You’ll be fine, Hettie, and now we know what happens when Louella sounds the alarm.
More than the howling dogs and starlings on the wing?
Much more. A group of men ran over to the wagon—husky, well-armed thugs. They nearly ripped the drunk apart until they saw his condition. He was tossed out before any real harm was done.
Tom pats my shoulder and tells me I look peaked, worried, and sad. Some shade might do me good. At first, I think the buffoon is just insulting me, but then I realize he has a plan afoot and play along.
I am rather ill. A rest might be just the thing.
All right then, love. Keep Louella occupied while I sneak into the wagon.
Don’t call me love. How do you suggest I entertain her?
Follow your gut. You can manage that, can’t you?
Of course I can, you dolt.
He puts his arm around my shoulders and pulls me forward. We walk five yards or so and stop. “Excuse me, ma’am. May I ask a favor? My wife and I have become separated from our son. Could she wait here with you while I look for him?”
“I suppose so,” a woman’s voice replies. “Is she ill? Her cheeks look pasty. Except for those awful bruises.”
Louella has a mid-western accent—a rarity, even among the Americans in Stonehenge—and she doesn’t sound anything like a train whistle when she speaks, thank goodness. Instead Louella seems rather concerned and kind.
“Very, very pasty cheeks,” Tom agrees. “Junior means the world to her.”
She clicks her tongue. “Oh, you mustn’t wait another moment. Go and find him. We’ll be fine here.”
With the guidance of Tom’s hand, I sink down onto something thick and velvety. A carpet. “And your name, kind lady?” he asks.
“Louella.”
“You are an angel of mercy.”
Once Tom is gone, I am unsure how to improvise. At a loss, I take a handkerchief from my reticule
and cover my face with it, pretending to blow my nose. My shoulders shake with artificial sobs. Will Louella fall for this or call me out? My head might split if she lets loose with one of her train whistle screams.
“Don’t worry, dear. He’ll find Junior.” Something snaps together. Maybe a fan being shut. “You’ll forgive me for asking, but did your husband do that to your face? The bruises?”
I must look shocked at this question, and I shake my head in denial, dabbing at my eyes again with the handkerchief. “You don’t have to tell me,” Louella murmurs. “I understand all too well, dear. Women hardly stand a chance in this world.”
Nodding at her from behind the handkerchief, I track the sound of Tom’s footsteps as he slips around the wagon across from Louella and me, the one she’s supposed to watch. How can I prevent her from noticing him? Louella pats my arm, and I gauge the distance between us. While petite myself, I could engulf her tiny frame with ease.
“Do you have other children?” she asks.
Acting miserable, I blow my nose again and then throw myself at Louella, though not with any great force. I don’t wish to break the woman but to pull her into an embrace. I must keep Louella’s back to the wagon Tom hopes to enter. Rigid at first, she softens after a few seconds and hugs me in return.
“Junior is a lucky boy to have such a loving mother.”
I feel brief guilt at the tone of her voice. She genuinely cares about the fake family Tom and I have created. That’s it, Louella. Don’t turn away.
Tom tiptoes up the stairs to the wagon as Louella tells me her life story. How her own mother, a regular-sized person, sold her to the circus when she was ten. Forgetting Tom and train whistle screams, I truly listen to Louella, and my embrace becomes real. Like me, she understands what it is to be rejected, although her experience exceeds anything I have known. My mother may have hidden me, but I was never sold.
Almost there, Tom whispers in my mind. The wagon has a German lock. Tricky to open.
I hardly pay attention to him, so focused am I on Louella’s pain. Magic stirs inside me, and I see what she endured, experience all of it. As we both weep, warmth surges through my heart, until I believe I will combust. Not with the fire of vengeance like the ghosts bring, but something more akin to love. The kind that begs to help another and spare her at all costs. I feel this for Louella, though we are strangers, and I am with her under false pretenses.
Spectris: Veritas Book Two Page 20
