“My mother will have been notified,” she said. “She will be here within minutes. You will help me with my buttons, then I will find something for you.”
“Your mother can’t see me,” called Ivy as the woman disappeared into another room. “She knows I was with Sebastien.”
“I will handle my mother. Wait here.”
Ivy sighed and looked around the suite. It was larger than her entire house in Stepney, with chairs of gold, paintings of rural landscapes and draperies that could have made a dozen fancy dresses. There was a writing desk under the window and she crossed the room to study it. The papers and envelopes showed a woman clearly involved in many correspondences. She thought of the Helmsly-Wimpolls and smiled sadly. She hoped she would see them again one day.
On the corner of the desk, a stamp-press and black wax. Black was an unusual colour for letter-wax and she lifted the stamp to study the imprint in the gaslight. It was a swan, she realized, the arched neck and elegant wings unmistakable.
She is a Black Swan, Remy had said, as dangerous as she is clever.
What on earth was a Black Swan?
She returned the press as Valerie swept back into the room, clad now in funeral black. Ivy was certain there was a dagger strapped to her thigh, wondered if the locket around her neck contained poison and if the pins in her coif were secretly needles that could puncture arteries or veins. Her face, it seemed, took care of the hearts.
The woman tossed Ivy a grey frock coat and turned her back, revealing an open bodice in need of buttoning.
“Do this, now. Quickly.”
Ivy shook her head but didn’t argue. Already half-way Habsburg.
“Quickly!”
Ivy growled under her breath. The buttons were tiny black pearls, there were at least thirty and the Archduchess was considerably taller, but finally she finished with a twist of the clasp at the nape. Valerie slapped her hands away and spun, smoothing her clothing and arching her neck, poised like a swan. Like a beautiful black swan.
And with a click and hiss of steam, the door swung open and Empress Elizabeth of Austria strode into the room.
***
The smoking room was moderately less elaborate than the Bergl room, with the paintings restricted to the insides of gold frames. Servants waited discreetly, topping up the wine, refreshing the cigars and in another part of the palais, Christien could imagine a footman standing outside the Bergl door, waiting for Sebastien to be done with the ceiling.
He inhaled the cigar smoke deeply, let it bite inside his lungs like bitter teeth. Franz had been right. It was a good blend, earthy and sharp but he had to admit, his experience was limited to French cigarettes. Cigars waged a peculiar war on his tongue.
“Your clockwork arm is a marvel, yes? Like your own Wales,” said the prince, and he blew out a ring of Havanese smoke. “I’ve heard France’s Bonaparte owes half his body to piston and gear. Since Africa, you see. Too many spears.”
Franz lounged on a green settee, cigar and wine glass poised in the same hand. The bright eyes rested for the most part on the dancing fire, but darted his way from time to time. Christien didn’t care. Life had become entirely too surreal for him.
“You have known Marie-Valérie since you were children, yes?” asked Franz.
“So I’m told,” said Christien, volunteering nothing.
“She is a remarkable woman, so tender, so modest.”
Christien stared into the flames, remembering her modesty.
“She has fallen under the spell of the orphans,” Franz continued. “She has always loved children. Such a tender heart.”
The memory of her mouth on his, brandied peaches, Turkish Delight
“She wishes to found a hospital for children,” he said. “In honour of Sophie and her courageous battle for life over death. She loves her family so very much.”
Her hands under his shirt, pushing him onto the bed
“They protested at first but I knew they would come around. I am, after all, family.”
“Come around?” asked Christien, only vaguely interested. The flames and his memories were much more seductive.
“To our marriage,” said Franz. “We needed their approval but Rudolf would not give it. Not until this Christmas.”
“Marriage?”
“Yes, we were betrothed this December. Of course, she will renounce all claims to the throne to marry me but we will be happy. I am certain of this.”
Christien stared at him. The minor prince from Tuscany raised his glass in a toast.
“You would be fortunate to find a woman like Marie-Valérie, my friend. Perhaps you will be invited to the wedding?”
And he sipped the wine, his moustache wicking the amber like a straw.
For his part, Christien raised his glass and tossed the entire contents back in one go.
In the fire, he could have sworn the flames leapt a little higher.
***
Sebastien rushed to the door, wished he had a skeleton key to lock it. The horse was as big as any he had ever seen, as black as night with mane and tail fairly dragging on the ground. Through the keyhole again, he could see it back up, toss its wild head, paw the air. Could see the flame burning in its eyes and he wondered how no one could hear such a creature in the elegant halls of the palais.
He glanced over his shoulder. Over a hundred dead, hundreds upon hundreds now, crowded and hungry, staring at him with empty eyes, watching, waiting for him to fail. Why did they want him to fail?
“Adiuvate me,” he said.
They stared at him. Did not blink, for most had neither eyes nor lids.
“Adiuvate me,” he repeated. “I need your help!”
Slowly as if immersed in tar, they opened their mouths. Wide and then wider, until they collectively became one large caverning mouth, breathing out the frost like a strong and biting wind. He closed his eyes and spread wide his arms, let them take him to the dark, to the empty, to the frozen, lost himself in their bitter landscape. It was where he belonged, he knew.
He turned and laid his palms on the white-washed wood of the door and soon, it was sealed shut with a thick layer of ice.
The horse struck again and ice splintered across the floor. Sebastien staggered back, knowing it would not hold for long. He needed something else and wondered if the ligaturae spiritus would protect him from such a creature. He had no pen. He had no ink. There was a blade in his boot however, the sliver of metal from the steam trunk he had shattered. He pulled it out and dropped to his knees, whispering prayers as the horse struck the door again.
The dead in the pavilion shrieked and writhed along the walls as he pressed the makeshift blade into his thumb. A pinprick of red popped up. He drew it down now, down his thumb, across his palm and stopped at his wrist, marveling at the immediate welling of red along the line. There wouldn’t be enough blood, he knew. There was never enough blood.
He dipped his finger and began to write.
***
She was dressed in a gown of funeral black, her train at least ten feet long and fashioned from calendared silk. She said nothing, her deep blue eyes flashing between them and Ivy could see the losing battle against the tears. She watched the expressive hands curl into fists, wondered if the tight boning in her corset was to restrict her breathing and thus keep her calm. It was clear she was near her breaking point.
“Maman,” said Valerie and without another word, she rushed into her mother’s arms.
Ivy looked away as the women wept, for Rudolf, for each other, for the fractured state of the Gilded Empire. She couldn’t help but remember her own mother at Lonsdale, taking her first steps after years of catatonia. She remembered the first smile, the first light of recognition in her eyes, that very first hug that could have broken all bones. All because of Sebastien, she remembered. The Mad Lord of Lasingstoke.
Sisi began to speak very quickly to her daughter and Ivy shuddered, hoping it wasn’t a death sentence. Once again, she cursed her lack of ling
uistics. It was a handicap. If she survived, she promised herself, she would learn both French and German and maybe Latin. And then, maybe fisticuffs.
Valerie took her mother’s hand. Together, Empress and Archduchess faced her, Elizabeth clutching her daughter to her side.
Ivy curtsied. It seemed the thing to do.
“My daughter tells me that she has not been kidnapped,” said Sisi in her elegant accent. “But rather, she chose to accompany you and the de Lacey brothers from Strasbourg to Vienna. Is this true?”
“Yes, Your Most Royal Highness,” she said. “Sebastien is being falsely accused. He has nothing to hide.”
“He was under a blanket the last I saw.”
“Hiding from spirits, Your Most Royal Highness. Not people. He has no interest in people.”
“My son is dead,” said Elizabeth. “I saw his body. He was shot in the head and I know what dear Sebastien does for his Empress.”
“Not anymore,” said Ivy. “He’s exploring other methods for bringing villains to justice, but even still, I’m quite certain your son was no villain.”
The blue eyes were heavier than anything she had ever borne, those of a mother grieving the loss of her child. That grief had destroyed her own mother. It was something Ivy understood all too well.
“I wish Sebastien to tell me this himself,” said Sisi after a long moment. “Here, in the Hofburg. Have him come to me and tell me. I will know if he is telling the truth.”
“And if he is shot on the way?”
“Then he will join my son in death.”
“Why would Sebastien shoot Rudolf? What would he have to gain?”
“The locket,” said Sisi. “It was very clear he wanted the locket.”
“But he doesn’t have it.”
The Empress looked at Valerie.
“That would be a very foolish plan, don’t you think?” Ivy added. “Murder a prince to take something, and then not take it? Sebastien is many things, but he is no fool.”
“She is telling the truth,” said Valerie. “Someone on the Stahl Mädchen had der Archelicht. I don’t know whom or why.”
Elizabeth glanced between the two of them.
“You are sure of this?”
Valerie nodded.
“Gisela?”
“We don’t know,” said Ivy. “But whoever has that locket is involved somehow in Rudolf’s death.”
There was silence in the suite and Ivy swallowed, summoning all her courage.
“And we need to know, Your Most Royal Highness…” Valerie shook her head. Ivy ignored her. “We need to know if he was alone.”
Sisi’s eyes flashed. “What are you saying?”
“Was he alone or was the girl Mary with him?”
She watched the battle play out on the Empress’ flawless face. Watched the tears press, watched the nostrils flare but most of all, she watched the chin rise, telling her all she needed to know.
“Right,” Ivy said. “And was she shot in the head as well?”
“How dare you—” snapped Valerie.
“No,” said Sisi and she released her daughter’s hand, stepped forward like the monarch she was. A most remarkable woman, Ivy thought. She wished she could have known her under other circumstances. “Not shot. But a blow, yes. A blow to the back of the head.”
“A murder weapon?”
“None found.”
“So she may have died from a fall down the stair?”
“An accident?”
“Perhaps.”
And Ivy released a deep breath. Death by a firing squad was still a possibility but perhaps with a few less rifles.
“And who had access to the room after their bodies were discovered?”
“Loschek…”
“Loschek?”
“His valet,” said Valerie.
“Loschek and Bratfisch, Count Hoyos, Dr. Widerhofer and Gisela.”
“Gisela?”
“She was seeing to the German hunting party in a neighbouring lodge. Naturally, she was notified immediately.”
Ivy glanced at Valerie. The woman was unreadable.
“Did you see the locket?” asked Ivy.
“Half of my son’s head was missing,” said the Empress. “I was not looking for jewelry.”
Blast.
“Forgive me, Your Most Royal Highness,” said Ivy and she curtsied again. “I have the mind of a detective. I often forget about the feelings. Please accept my apologies.”
“I accept them,” said Sisi. She drew herself up, regal and tall. “The state funeral is in two days. You have until then to tell me why my son died. After that, I am leaving for Corfu. I will not help you if you fail.”
Valerie kissed her mother on the cheek.
“I will not fail you, maman.”
“My only child,” said Sisi and stroked her face, tears welling once again. “Kedvenc.”
“Szeretlek,” said Valerie. She turned to Ivy. “We will go now. Quickly.”
She released her mother and strode from the room, Ivy trotting at her heels. But before they left, Ivy swung back.
“Why he died?” she asked. “We have until the funeral to tell you why your son died?”
“Yes.”
“Not how?”
The most beautiful woman drew a deep breath, gathering all the air in the room.
“I told you. He was shot.”
“From afar?”
Silence for a long moment. Ivy squinted.
“From up close?”
Still nothing.
“From very close?”
And suddenly, all the scandal in the world couldn’t compare to the despair in those most beautiful eyes.
“Blast,” said Ivy.
“Mein Gott,” whispered Valerie. “Maman, nein…”
“But how could you think Sebastien—”
“It was not Rudolf’s pistol!” snapped Sisi. “His pistol is missing. He used a weapon belonging to someone else.”
Her face was a stone, eyes like glittering sapphires, and Ivy felt a wave of dread sweep down from her temples. She swallowed, took a deep breath.
“Have you determined the owner of this pistol?”
“If we had, you and I would not be having this conversation.” She raised her chin. “I have already given the word to the Silver Hussars and the order is being written into law. As of this moment, you – Miss Ivy Savage von Steam, are a marked woman, with the sentence of death upon your head. Sebastien de Lacey, Christien de Lacey and you will find no peace in Europe until I have justice for my son. There is nowhere you can run that the Gilded arm of the Habsburgs cannot reach.”
This would be the time to run, Ivy thought, if only her legs would move.
“There is one chance for you and only one.”
“What is that?” Ivy whispered.
“You say you have the mind of a detective. You have two days to prove it. Find out who made my son put a pistol to his head, or my Silver Hussars will do the same for you.”
Her knees were shaking. She couldn’t move.
“And if I can’t?”
“You will use your influence over Sebastien de Lacey.”
“I don’t…” Her voice, it seemed, had fled. “I don’t understand?”
The tears that had been so threatening, began to spill.
“I’ve lost my son,” the Empress said. “And I want him back.”
Her own mother watching Tobias sink below the Thames, sinking herself in the black waters of despair.
“No,” said Ivy.
Valerie squeezed her mother’s hand, straightened like the swan she was.
“Your Miracle Man can do this. I know he can. I saw it.”
“Please, no,” Ivy said again. “You can’t ask that.”
“Go now,” said Sisi. “And do not fail.”
Without a word, Valerie whirled and swept from the room, Ivy a pale vapor behind her.
***
Austrian wine, Christien mused. Heavy on the sugar, easy o
n the tongue, the alcohol hitting his blood like poison. Had nothing to do with Valerie or the wedding or his miserable, wretched life. Nothing at all.
“Now we’ll have to delay the wedding yet again,” said Franz. “Most unfortunate time for the prince to die, if I may be honest. I wonder what really happened at that hunting lodge? And where on earth is Mary Vetsera? I can’t believe she killed him. She was barely eighteen. Charming girl, if a little vulgar. She had dancing eyes, you know. There was definitely something special in those eyes.”
Franz had been speaking nonstop about the details, but for Christien, it had become a blur of Imperial ritual and church custom. A holy Habsburg blur.
Footsteps across the tile and the valet hurried into the smoking room, moving quickly without appearing rushed. He stopped beside Franz, gave a little bow, leaned in to whisper in his ear.
The prince sat up abruptly, glanced his way.
“Oh god,” Christien rubbed his forehead with his human hand. His left was currently a flint, in the process of lighting another cigar. “What has he done this time?”
“I don’t know, mein Herr,” said the valet. “The Bergl room is on fire but the door is frozen shut.”
“Another miracle?” asked Franz.
Christien sighed and rose to his feet. “By any chance, do you have laudanum?”
“I am a physician,” said the prince. “Laudanum is a god-send.”
Together, the two men accompanied the valet up the short flight of marble stairs and down a series of corridors. Christien could smell the smoke long before they reached the room however, and he was surprised to find the door covered in sheets of silver ice. Servants were hauling at it with axes, shards scattering with each blow while ash floated down from the ceiling like snowflakes. Snowflakes and ash. It was a contrast. Only Sebastien could manage something so unnatural.
“Is he still inside?”
“We do not know,” said the footman. “We cannot open the door.”
Christien strode past him, reached to push on the handles and realized, with an odd detached thought, that one of his fingers was still a flint. It was utterly surreal and not for the first time, he wished Frankow had just let his brother die.
Cold Stone & Ivy Book 2: The Crown Prince (The Empire of Steam) Page 20
