Cold Stone & Ivy Book 2: The Crown Prince (The Empire of Steam)

by H. Leighton Dickson

  “Bastien!”

  It was a voice from far, far away and she was happy to ignore it. She was an explorer and Sebastien an undiscovered country. Her hands were eager as they slipped under his coat, his fingers clumsy as they tangled into her hair.

  “Bastien! Ivy? What the deuce?”

  She looked up. Tattered, torn and still attached by the clockwork grip, Christien and Valerie stood in the drifts above them. The young physician raised a brow.

  “Did someone go into the drink?”

  “I haven’t had a drink in days,” said Sebastien, pushing up onto his elbows. “I would love a Scotch.”

  “The Danube,” growled Ivy. “I nearly drowned.”

  “Ah,” said Christien. “So is this resuscitation, then?”

  She scowled at him.

  Valerie raised her free hand to point to the hillside towering above.

  “Melk,” she said. “We go to Melk.”

  They followed her point to a treed bluff where spires of gold and towers of ivory rose up to the skies. Fortress, castle and cathedral, the Abbey of Melk perched like a war crown high on the banks of the Danube.

  Chapter 13

  Of Hot Baths, Cold Banter and the Man of Jewels and Bone

  London Times

  EMPIRES ON ALERT

  International leaders from the Empires of Steam, Blood and Iron and Steel will be joining the Gilded Empire of Austro-Hungary on Feb 6 for a summit of the Three Empires League, in Vienna, Austria. On the agenda will be the rise of the French Anarchist movement in certain sectors of high society, including and most prominently their suspected involvement in the death of Crown Prince Rudolf of Austro-Hungary, whose funeral is to be held Feb. 5. Heads of state expected to attend include Kaiser Wilhelm II, Chancellor Otto von Bismark, Tsar Alexander III of Russia and Edward Prince of Wales. The Empire of Steam is not officially a member of the League but has been known to consult from time to time on matters of international importance.

  French President Bonaparte IV has refused to comment on the summit, saying the Industrial Republic of France has no ties in anarchy and is an independent government, having strong diplomatic relations with both the Empire of Steam and the Empire of Steel. To show his confidence, President Bonaparte will be visiting his godmother, Queen Victoria, for a tour of London whilst Edward Prince of Wales attends the summit as the representative of the Empire of Steam.

  It is not known whether Umberto I, King of the Empire of the Sun, Italy, is expected to attend or if, according to accounts, he has even been invited. The Italian Prime Minister has assured this reporter that the Triple Alliance is still in effect and that Chancellor von Bismark often consults King Umberto on the matters of international politics, anarchy and Tuscan wine.

  For the French Anarchist suspected in the death of Crown Prince Rudolf, the hunt is still on and police are continuing to investigate.

  ***

  A hot bath was a beautiful thing. A hot bath with water deeper than six inches was heaven. Hot water had been a rare treat growing up in London’s East End. Even at Lasingstoke where she was spoiled with the luxuries of a northern barony, Rupert St. John had kept such a hold on finances that a hot bath was a hard fight. She wondered how long that would last when Mary Jane Kelly became the woman of the house.

  She sighed and sank deeper into the water, barely even noticing the splendor of the water closet. Although it was splendid. Incredible. Magnificent. Golden, just like the abbey itself. The Abbey of Melk was huge, a Benedictine monastery clearly not known for austerity or poverty. She could soak in this claw-foot tub of pure gold forever, she reckoned, just staring at the curved ceiling with cherubim and seraphim painted in Raphaelite detail above her. She could have soaked forever, had not her heart been racing.

  Sebastien had kissed her.

  He had kissed her.

  He had saved her life and he had kissed her. Two weeks before her nineteenth birthday, Ivy Savage had been well and truly kissed. And what was more, she had kissed him back.

  She lifted a foot out of the water and curled her toes, not even seeing the bruises along her shins. She ran the bar of glycerin along her arms, equally black and blue, not remembering how she’d even come by them. She couldn’t imagine her back or hips or ribs. She didn’t care. It had been worth it. The taste of him had made her toes curl in entirely different ways. On the snowy banks of the Danube, she had flung open a forbidden door and ran headlong through it.

  Sebastien, it seemed, had been quite happy to follow.

  She sank deeper ‘til only her eyes and nose were above the steam, remembering Christien’s words on the fields of Reichsland. She was not a romantic girl, never had been, but she had been hard pressed to stop with just kisses. The memory of his hands in her hair made her wonder what they would feel like along the rest of her.

  The cherubs were watching from the ceiling and she wondered what God might think of a girl who had such thoughts. She had never been religious but she had always considered herself a good girl. Did good girls kiss Mad Lords? Could good girls do more? What of Valerie and Christien? Of Mary Jane and Christien, of Mary Jane and Rupert? She knew so little the ways of women, but even less the ways of men. She’d always believed her dad had loved only her mother but she had been young, preoccupied and willingly blind. Seven years was a long time. Surely, he’d been lonely and even good women were cheap in Whitechapel.

  She blew little bubbles in the water as she sighed.

  And what of Sebastien himself? Christien had once called him a child, a wild child who needed to be protected from the world and the world protected from him. Surely he’d had as much experience with women as she’d had with men, or less so if his brother were to be believed. Was she more than simply the first girl to take the time, or was that a delusion of her heart?

  “He’s had many things broken,” said Rupert in the courtyard at Lasingstoke. “But never his heart.”

  And his eyes, first white then mirrored then, this morning, red as flames. He was being pursued by ghost horses and it made no sense. But then again, he rarely made sense. He was the Mad Lord for a reason. She was only beginning to see with the eyes of a cat.

  Suddenly, the deep hot bath was suffocating, drowning her thoughts and damping her energy. She rose up from under its steamy depths, stepped onto cold marble and reached for a robe.

  ***

  It was the most beautiful church he had ever visited, more beautiful than St. Paul’s, more beautiful than Notre Dame. In fact, it’s beauty was overwhelming and he sank to his knees in a pew near the High Altar to take it all in.

  Carved marble pillars held up a ceiling frescoed with baroque cherubs, fiery seraphim and lions pulling celestial chariots, all drawing his eyes to heaven once again. A massive pipe organ towered over the pews and he wondered if he might be allowed to play. The pulpit was hammered gold and the cupola above the central altar rose easily three stories with a tiny window at the top, where the skies opened to the realms of heaven.

  There was a smattering of worshippers in the pews, praying through the stations of the cross, twisting strings of beads through their fingers. He watched with fascination as they went through rituals that were foreign to him but obviously meaningful. Physical reminders, he thought, of a spirit world unseen by most.

  His own faith was entirely different.

  Non coronabitur nisi certaverit. The motto of the abbey inscribed above the High Altar. ‘There is no victory without a battle.’ Life was a battle, he reckoned. Everyone knew that. But so was death. Most people never fully understood the battle of death. He couldn’t remember a moment without it.

  Unlike most churches, there were dead here. Some sitting in pews, some moving through the alcoves high above. They had noticed him but, since Ghostlight, they simply noticed. They weren’t asking, weren’t seeking him out. These, like all the others of late, just stared at him as if waiting. In a small way, he was grateful. It was easier to tell the dead from the living, for in his general ex
perience, the living ignored him altogether.

  There were two altars in alcoves on either end of the transept but he realized they weren’t ordinary altars. They were actually sarcophagi of ebony, marble and chiseled gold. He watched with curiosity as a woman bowed before one, touching the stones and bringing her fingers to her forehead, lips and heart. There was a whisper of wind and he knew it. The deadwind, he had taken to calling it. Being a writer with entirely too much imagination, Ivy Savage had approved of the name. He rose to his feet to follow.

  Each sarcophagus was holding a ‘relic’ – a holy skeleton of a saint or martyr. Common in older churches, he knew, but he had never seen the likes of these before. These two, on either side of the transept, were encrusted in more jewels than Victoria on a holiday. Ribs ornamented with gold filigree and rubies, arm bones laden with sapphires and emeralds. Skulls crowned with diadems of diamonds and pearls. Cuffs of lace circling the wrists, brocade covering the loins. The faces were covered in sheer linen but the empty hollows of eyes, nose and teeth were visible as through a window fogged with steam.

  Just like in Strasbourg, Death had found him in a church and breath frosted from his mouth at the memory. He reached up to touch his cheeks, his eyebrows, his lips. Flesh still, but it was only a matter of time.

  He remembered the white horse – bringer of arrows. He remembered the red – flame and fiery swords. The woman on her knees gasped and he looked down at her.

  “Was ist das?” she moaned and struggled to her feet, pointing at his hands. “Was bist du?”

  In the palm of one hand, snowflakes were circling and in the other, tongues of fire.

  Another worshiper moved toward him and then another but Sebastien didn’t care. The deadwind was blowing now and he looked to the first skeleton in its jewels and fine brocade. It wasn’t a martyr. It wasn’t a saint. It was just a man and he closed his eyes to see better. A man with dark hair and a large nose. Tall and thin with the hands of an artisan. Antonio Figliomeni, a cabinet maker from Milan. And with eyes still closed, he turned to see the other. Short, stout with thinning hair and a kind face. A family man from Italy who had died of the plague years ago, years upon years, centuries ago and he did not wonder how he knew anymore. The lockets had changed everything.

  He opened his eyes.

  The dead in the church were crowding in on him but this time, the living had surrounded him too. Six months ago, he would have been terrified. Six months ago, he would have been mad. Now, standing in the place between the living and the dead, he was home.

  Behind him, there was a sound. A ruby dropped to the floor and rolled past his boot.

  The woman screamed as the man of jewels and bone began to move.

  ***

  “Another, if you please,” said Christien and a third magnifying lens was added to the goggles strapped to his head.

  “You look like a verrückte Wissenschaftler,” said Valerie.

  “A mad scientist?” he grunted. “You have no idea.”

  They were sitting at a small table in the abbey’s kitchen, working on the prosthetic to release her wrist. He had rolled up his shirtsleeves to expose the brace and was currently holding a tiny brass chisel in one of the cogs like a surgical instrument. It was delicate work and not for the first time, he found himself cursing the loss of his left hand. Even penmanship was a bugger with his right.

  “Another?” asked Matthias Johannes Phillip, Abbot of Melk. He was not at all what Christien had expected, being a plucky man with an intelligent face, a simple set of black robes and comfortable shoes. It was clear he recognized the Archduchess but was saying nothing about her current situation. Rather, he was eagerly helping with coffee, carpentry tools and magnifying lenses and had given them license to use the abbey as they needed.

  “Er ist ein Mechaniker?” he asked as he hovered over the operation.

  “A machinist? Nein,” said Valerie. “Ein Chirurg.”

  “A surgeon once,” said Christien. “No longer.”

  He changed the angle of the chisel. She hissed but did not pull her arm.

  “Sorry.”

  “Work,” she said. “Don’t worry.”

  “You haven’t got that done yet?” came another voice and he threw a glance over his shoulder as Ivy strolled into the room. She was wearing a plain dark skirt that swept the floor, a white blouse and woolen shawl.

  “Good lord,” he muttered. “You’re a girl.”

  She grinned.

  “My clothes are drying,” she said. “Apparently, the monks don’t approve of a woman wearing breeches.”

  “They are men of the cloth,” growled the Archduchess. “You should respect that.”

  “Oh, I do,” she said. “But the respect isn’t mutual, is it?”

  “You are clean, warm and dry. Be thankful.”

  “Spoken like a member of an Imperial family.”

  “Warum hast du sie heiraten wollen?”

  “Hush, Valerie,” he said. “Almost…there.”

  Inside his arm, a gear clicked, the fingers sprang open and Valerie sank back with a sigh. He pulled the goggles from his forehead and flexed his clockwork fingers as bowls of warm water, cloths and astringent were brought to the table. Valerie’s wrist was raw from the metallic grip and he reached for it, began to dab with the astringent and cloths. Ivy stepped forward, watching the procedure with interest.

  “Have you seen Sebastien?”

  “This is an abbey, Ivy,” he said, wrapping the wrist now with strips of linen. “He could be lost for days.”

  “We need to talk about our plan once we get to Vienna. I have some ideas.”

  “Of course you do. Let us freshen up a bit first, then we can plan Vienna.”

  He sat back, looked up at the abbot. “Können Sie für ein heißes Bad zu arrangieren?”

  “Ja,” said Matthias, and he spoke to the monks. They moved to the door but the Archduchess did not. She looked at him.

  “Thank you,” she purred. “You have bound the wing of the swan.”

  And she leaned across the table, placed a slow, lingering kiss on his lips that he was hard pressed to break. Ivy had never kissed him like that, not even when she was his fiancée.

  Finally, Valerie rose to her feet and followed the monks but at the door, she turned back.

  “You. Writer girl. You like books?”

  “Very much,” said Ivy.

  “Gerhardt will take you to the Library. There are twelve rooms and over eighty thousand books.” She arched a brow. “Perhaps you could be lost for days.”

  And she left the room, taking most of the air with it.

  “Charming,” said Ivy after a moment. “You two are well suited.”

  He smiled to himself, knowing it to be true.

  “You should see this place,” she said. “I never knew there was this much gold in all the world. There’s an entire room made of marble!”

  “I don’t spend much time in churches.”

  “I never have, either. This is grander than St. Paul’s. It is…it is… Oh what’s the word? It is sheer resplendence.”

  “Sheer resplendence,” he said, flexing his fingers one last time. “Puts you in the kissing mood, does it? I should have thought it would be a morgue.”

  “Hush,” she grumbled and threw a glance at the abbot, looking like an ordinary monk as he wiped the table, the counters, the floors.

  “I doubt he speaks English, Ivy,” said Christien. “He can’t hear your confession.”

  “Remy, please don’t be cruel.” She bit her lip. “I don’t know what to do.”

  “Looked to me like you were doing quite fine on the riverbank.”

  “But it’s not the same.”

  He said nothing, began to roll down his sleeves.

  “I mean, a man shouldn’t… but he can. But a woman shouldn’t and she can’t.”

  “She can, Ivy.”

  “But don’t you think—”

  “All the time. Is that what this is about? I t
hought you were tired of being a good girl?”

  “I am! I mean—”

  “Well then, what is it, Ivy? What are you afraid of?”

  She swallowed.

  He rose to his feet, snatched his jacket from the back of the chair.

  “Do you love him? You can say it. I don’t care. Probably didn’t back when I was supposed to.”

  “I think I do. In fact I’m quite certain I do. It’s just…”

  “Yes?”

  She leaned against the table, hands wringing like damp dishcloths.

  “I’m not certain it’s what I want.”

  “What you want?”

  “Yes. Is it what I want?”

  He harrumphed.

  “Well, you’re not going to find someone better suited to you, in my opinion. Nor will he ever find anyone who can put up with him the way you do. Like Valerie and I, you two are quite well suited in that regard.”

  “No, I know that. But…” She looked up at him now. “I’m not certain I want a husband at all. Not now. I mean, I’ve never lived on my own. Ever. I’ve always looked after someone, taken care of everyone’s wants and needs. My mum, my tad, Davis. I’ve never thought about myself. Never ever.”

  “Has Bastien proposed, Ivy?” He slipped the jacket on, rolled his shoulders, smoothed the creases. “Has he offered to take you as a wife?”

  “Well, no. But—”

  “You don’t want a husband. Bastien will never take a wife. I think you both can be as selfish as you please.”

  She stared at him for several seconds, her eyes large, round and wondering and he prided himself on such a small victory. Corrupting the incorruptible. Perhaps he had a purpose in life after all.

  Suddenly, a monk burst back into the kitchen and from the hall there was the sound of panic. In fact, he was certain he could hear screams as the abbot hurried from the room.

  “Good lord,” Christien groaned. “Five minutes? He couldn’t even give me five bloody minutes?”