“I won’t be going anywhere for quite awhile, jolie Marie,” he said. “But when I can, I promise I will take you to the finest balls in Europe. Then, you will outshine them all.”
“Gads, listen to you,” she grinned. “What’d I do to deserve that?”
“You saved my life.”
He kissed her forehead and Ivy saw the woman blush. She covered quickly however, pulling a letter from the pocket of her skirt and pressing it into Ivy’s hand.
“The post came,” she said. “It’s fer you.”
“It’s from Fanny,” said Ivy. “I’ll read it on board. Thank you, Marie.”
“So,” she grunted. “You goin’ with ‘em, are you?”
“Yes,” said Ivy. “I am.”
“Bad idea, luv.” She scowled at Sebastien. “Rotten apples. Both of ‘em.”
“Enough, ma chère,” said Rupert. “You don’t understand.”
“And she’s gravely mistaken,” said Sebastien. “Christien is, of all things, a good apple. He’s about to renew ties with the young Archduchess of Austria. I am very proud of him.”
“’e’s the London Ripper,” Mary Jane hissed. “’e killed ‘em all with ‘is own ‘and, ‘e did. With ‘is own ‘and.”
She bit her tongue as the object of their debate stepped out into the courtyard from another door. He was dressed entirely in black, from trousers and town coat to the top hat held in gloved hands, presenting a dark contrast to the snow. His porcelain face was pale, his cheeks red and his hair, usually so sleek and shiny, was a rumpled mess.
No, thought Ivy, Christien Jeremie St. John de Lacey had not been himself since Whitechapel.
Or perhaps for the first time he was not someone else.
He paused, ran his blue eyes over the company.
“Are we having a family parlay?”
“Come back soon,” sneered Mary Jane.
“Perhaps I won’t come back at all.”
“That’ll be too soon fer me.”
“Marie, c’est assez!” St. John snapped at her. “I’m sorry, Remy…”
“Nothing personal, uncle,” said Christien, gripping the hat tightly. “One can’t survive on the streets without developing a good sense for liars, murderers and other such villains. And Mary Jane was very good on the streets.”
“Bastard,” she hissed.
“I’ll be waiting on the ship.”
He turned and strode towards the gondola hovering ten feet above the ground, and the gangway steps leading up to it.
“That was bad form, Miss Kelly,” said Sebastien. He turned to the pack of dogs wagging before him. “Fergis, you’re in charge. Clancy, you’re second. Birdie and Jo, take care of Dickie. And Tag…”
He bent down to rub the spaniel’s long ears.
“Don’t worry too much, Tagger, old boy. I’ll be back soon.”
The dog wagged his back end vigorously.
“Be careful please, Laury,” said Rupert and he rapped his chest. “I’m not certain this chunk of tin can take much more.”
“Bad idea, luv,” hissed Mary Jane. “Very bad idea.”
Ivy looked up at the Mad Lord.
“Are you sure of this, Sebastien?”
“Think of it as an adventure, Miss Savage,” he said brightly. “What could possibly go wrong?”
And he surprised her by offering his arm. She took it and together they crossed the snowy cobbles toward the Chevalier.
***
Dearest and most Darling Ivy,
We cannot tell you that we both have finally finished your story, Penny Dreadful and a Burglary in Bulgaria. This is sure to be a fabulous bestseller! It still begs the question to which of her suitors Penny will choose—scholarly yet troubled solicitor, Julian Terrence Hull, or rogue Alexander Dunn/Alexandre Gavriel St. Jacques Lord Durand. You have left us with baited breath, dearest, and while we Helmsly-Wimpoll women have a good nose for a denouement, we must admit we are utterly at our wits’ end regarding this.
On other fronts, Ninny and I have decided on Lasingstoke Hall as venue for our upcoming nuptials. We have spoken with the Scourge himself—a more miserable man we can never hope to meet, but he is looking surprisingly well in the aftermath of his surgeries. A clockwork heart does suit him so, and we all know Victoria has many to spare. We are also made giddy with disbelief that our mother’s sister’s husband’s sister’s cousin’s daughter, Mary Jane, is apparently thriving in his company and it is rumored to be carrying his love child at this very hour! But it is mere rumour and scandal—people do love to gossip so.
Franny has also received a most splendid communication from none other than Albert Victor, Duke of Clarence and Avondale. They apparently share a fascination with these Analytical Engines, and while we all know there is no future in computing machines, it is nevertheless an engaging hobby and he has accepted her invitation to join her as her guest at the wedding. As you well know, it is almost impossible to refuse a Helmsly-Wimpoll woman, once she has set her mind on something.
Alas, dear one, we must end this letter. Mr. and Mrs. Helmsly-Wimpoll are calling us down for dinner. It seems we have only just finished lunch! Adieu, dear heart. We await your next communication on proverbial pins and needles.
Much love and affection,
Fanny Helmsly-Wimpoll
Franny Helsmsly-Wimpoll
***
The three-tone call of the bosun’s whistle rang through the pipes and Ivy breathed deeply, blinking the sleep from her eyes. She was on a settee in the airship’s saloon, holding the letter and an iron pot in her lap. Sebastien had offered her a sleeping compartment but she had declined, preferring to sit alone in the dark with the gaslight, the drone of the propellers and the stars.
It was very early morning now, the first golden haze of dawn outside the round window. Christien was sitting across from her, a cigarette held in the fingers of his clockwork hand. She had never having known him to be a smoker but it was understandable, all things considered. He had disappeared once setting foot on the Chevalier’s wooden deck but here, in the thin sunlight over Austria, she thought he looked like he finally belonged.
He was staring at her.
“Good morning,” she said.
“Ivy.” He drew a long drag on the cigarette and slowly let the smoke slip, all the while his eyes fixed on her. “Don’t you ever tire of it?”
“Of what?”
“Of being a ‘good girl’?”
“I’m not a ‘good girl,’ Christien,” she said.
“Aren’t you? Staying here all night in the saloon rather than take a bed of your own?”
“I was fine last night. The saloon is quite comfortable.”
“Spoken like a true martyr. If a bed of your own is not up your alley, you could of course slip into Sebastien’s.”
Her heart thudded once. She raised her chin.
“Sebastien has not invited me into his bed, Christien.”
“You’re waiting for an invitation?”
“He is a gentleman.”
“He shoots people in the head, Ivy.”
“He’s stopping that.”
“Ah. So you’re training him. Well done. He needs that and you’ve always needed someone to need you.” He blew a thin steam through perfect lips. “That’s why we didn’t work. I never needed you.”
“You’re so bitter, Christien.”
“Call me Remy. Christien de Lacey died a long time ago.”
“You’re still alive, Christien.”
“Remy.”
“Remy.” She sighed. “Is that why you are pursuing this Archduchess? Does she make you feel alive?”
“Mmm.”
“How old is she?”
“Perhaps your age. Perhaps mine.”
“Do you love her?”
He blinked slowly, telling her everything.
“Why didn’t you marry her?”
“She was not allowed to marry me. Not after my father shot his damned head off. Not even before, if I
’m honest. It would have been a morganatic marriage, forbidden for a daughter of the Gilded Empire. Even the youngest and least significant.”
“So you chose me.”
“Someone younger and even less significant, yes.”
He was trying to hurt her. She probably deserved it.
“What is she like, this Valerie?”
“Beautiful,” he answered and raised the cigarette again, the prosthetic whirring softly with the motion. “Beautiful and clever and dangerous and elegant and all too fine for someone like me. But still, she writes and I don’t want to be rude.”
“So you write back.”
“I do.”
He exhaled again and she wondered if they could have made a go of it had they married. Had she actually loved him and he her. Had he not been the London Ripper. Had Sebastien not shot his way onto the scene. Had an entire host of unnatural, otherworldly things not happened.
He turned his face to the window and she followed, seeing a silver river snaking through the white below. Dozens of airships gathering in descent. The haze of dawn over a large city.
The cigarette had burned down to his fingers, causing the black leather to smoke and hiss. He looked down but did not move to snuff it out.
“Sometimes I still feel it,” he said quietly. “My old hand. This can do many things but it doesn’t feel. Not a bloody thing. Not cold, not heat, not softness, not pain. Nothing.”
The three-toned call echoed again as Castlewaite spoke through the pipes.
“Enterin’ Imperial airspace.” His thin voice crackled like paper. “Dockin’ at Südbahnhof in twenty, or thereabouts.”
The saloon fell silent, save the drone of the propellers.
“I’m sorry,” she said.
“You should have let me go,” he said. “That would have been better than this.”
“Christien—”
“Remy,” he said. “Christien was the name my father chose. I hate it. I hate everything to do with him. Call me Remy or nothing at all.”
“I will try,” she sighed. “I do wish we could be friends, Remy. You’re not the only one who is lost.”
He lit another cigarette and they continued to sit in silence watching the sunlight widen over the city, he holding the cigarette, she the iron pot.
With the clanking of boots on metal, Sebastien trotted down the spiral staircase, jumping the last few steps to the saloon’s wooden deck.
“Good morning, Christien! Good morning, Miss Savage! Anyone for tea?”
Before they could answer, he turned to a tarnished old trolley stationed against the saloon’s far wall. He cranked a handle, the machine gurgled and steam billowed like fog from a coiled hose. A silver teapot sat waiting.
And he turned back to them, smiling like the sun.
“We’ll give it four minutes so it’ll be nice and strong but not too strong. We don’t want cabbage soup.”
Ivy sat forward.
“Sebastien?”
“Miss Savage?”
“One of your eyes is green.”
“Is it?” He snatched up the teapot, staring at his distorted reflection. “Gads, you’re right. I wonder why?”
“Bastien,” began Christien. “Why are you here?”
“I’m making tea, Christien.”
“Not Christien. Not anymore. Call me Remy or nothing at all. And you know what I mean. Why are you in Vienna?”
“Oh, that. I told you—”
“Yes, you told me. You drew eagles. But you do many strange things yet never go to cities. You hate cities.”
“I do hate cities. But Arvin has modified my spectacles. Look!” And from his waistcoat pocket, he pulled a pair of spectacles with very large black lenses. He slipped them over his nose. “He thinks they should cut the dead by fifty percent or more. They certainly cut out the living. I can barely see either of you now.”
Christien crushed the cigarette between his fingers, dropped the butt to the wooden floor.
“I shall take them off when I get to the Stallburg, for I dearly wish to see the horses. The Winter School of Lipizzaners is training in—”
“Did you draw Lipizzaners, Bastien? In the snow?”
“No, Christien, I drew eagles.”
“Why would you draw eagles if you wanted to see Lipizzaners?”
“I—”
“And it’s Remy, Bastien. Or nothing at all.”
“I’ll try,” Sebastien sighed. “You know that will be difficult. Father forbade nicknames.”
“Father is dead.”
“I don’t understand.”
“You are not going to the party.”
“I know that. Of course, I know.”
“I doubt you’ll see any Habsburgs at all on this trip. In fact, I’ll make sure you don’t.”
Sebastien cocked his head, looking odd in the large dark lenses and his brother eased back onto the settee. The airship shuddered as they began their descent into Vienna.
“That’s fine, Christien, although I don’t see what any of this has to do with the colour of my eyes.” Sebastien pulled the lenses from his nose, tucked them back into his pocket. “Do we have rooms at the Sacher?”
“I do. I didn’t call about you.”
“Not to worry,” he said, brightening. “We’ll make due, won’t we, Miss Savage?”
Ivy studied him, his childlike manner, his eager smile. Sebastien was brilliant and gifted and unpredictable and raw. Christien had been right. She often found herself wondering what it would be like to slip into his bed. If it would grow them both up and draw them together, or if it would shatter everything that was good and strong and pure between them. It was a grown up thing, part of a world just outside her grasp, a door she was unwilling to step through quite yet.
Nineteen in three weeks, yet she felt like a spinster.
“Well, I believe the tea is ready.” Sebastien turned back to the trolley, began assembling three china cups, a sugar bowl, a creamer. She leaned forward.
“Sebastien?”
“Miss Savage?”
“In the gorse bushes, you said a word…”
“You take milk and sugar, Miss Savage, yes?”
“When Christien started shooting—”
“Remy,” said Remy.
“When Remy started shooting, just before you began speaking in Latin, you said a word.”
“A word?”
“You said ‘Arclight’.”
“Arclight?” said Christien.
“Arclight?” said Sebastien and he turned, spoon in hand.
“Oh god,” said Christien.
“Yes, Sebastien. You did.”
“Oh god,” repeated Christien. “That’s why you’re here.”
“Arclight?” repeated Sebastien.
“Oh god.” Christien placed his human hand over his eyes, rubbed his forehead. Ivy looked over at him.
“Do you know what an Arclight is, Remy?”
“A locket.” Christien rose to his feet. “You came here for a locket, didn’t you?”
For his part, the Mad Lord had frozen in place, the spoon dripping tea onto the wooden planks of the floor.
“Answer me, Bastien,” growled his brother. “You’re here for a bloody locket.”
“Arclight,” Sebastien repeated slowly, the word rolling off his tongue like honey.
“I won’t,” said Christien “I won’t do this again with you, Bastien. I can’t.”
Sebastien cocked his head and Christien leaned in, raised a clockwork finger.
“Ghostlight…”
And another one.
“Arclight…”
And another.
“Lostlight.”
But instead of a finger, this time a dagger sprang up, its blade gleaming like a razor in the morning light. He stared at it, his face draining of colour while his brother’s eyes began changing to brightest blue.
“There are three?” Sebastien breathed.
“God, I hate you.”
C
hristien whirled and left the saloon and the airship shuddered again.
“Batten down the ‘atches,” called Castlewaite through the pipes. “We’ve a bumpy ride this mornin’.”
And Ivy sat, arms wrapped around the iron pot and counted off the bad ideas as the airship began its descent into Vienna.
***
Vienna News
29 January 1889
The Imperial family will be holding a dinner and dance at the Hofburg Palace on the evening of 29 January, to celebrate the birthday of Kaiser Wilhelm II of the Empire of Blood and Iron, Germany and Prussia. Dignitaries from all of Europe will be in attendance, with both political and fashion correspondents camping out at the Hofburg gates.
Unfortunately, Kaiser Wilhelm II is not expected to attend.
Chapter 3
Of Marble Halls, Renaissance Stalls and a Booking at the Hotel Sacher
Winter in Vienna was a study in monochrome. White snow, grey sky, black carriages. Over the skyline, smokestacks puffing coal and steam into the morning sky. All buildings looked as if made from marble or limestone, although given the city’s reputation, Ivy suspected it was concrete. The Gilded Empire was renown for its industry, leading the civilized world in automated factories, shops and agriculture and while it was very proud of its six hundred year history, they were even prouder of their future. Paving the way for the next six hundred was the steel-and-clockwork vision of the young, liberal-thinking Crown Prince.
The Südbahnhof was packed with travellers, the airship docks towering high over the rail yards and Ivy was grateful for the automatons carrying her bags down the many steps. After the conversation in the saloon this morning, she was convinced her heart was heavier than any luggage.
The brothers had not spoken a word to each other since the airship’s mooring and she had lost sight of Christien in the mob outside the station. People were hailing cabs, mechanical porters were hoisting bags, street boys were hawking tickets for a hundred Viennese balls. They were carried along by the crowds toward a row of steamcabs parked along the street, when Ivy spied the flash of a top hat. Christien stepped up into a cab.
Cold Stone & Ivy Book 2: The Crown Prince (The Empire of Steam) Page 3
