He looked down at the bottle, its contents dark as syrup. He had saved just enough to afford Bastien a second dose of laudanum. Perhaps he would wait, give his brother another shot before sliding the blade home. It would be a quiet way to go, all things considered. According to one of those first stories, Cain offered the wrong sacrifice to a holy God, earning nothing but wrath and condemnation. But with the brothers de Lacey, both sacrifices were steeped in blood and still the wrath came down like brimstone.
He raised the glass, watched the dark contents swirl and slip. Cain had killed Abel, then wandered in exile for the rest of his life. Perhaps he wouldn’t kill himself. Perhaps he would just live a life of exile and debauchery in the streets. Cigars, drink, the occasional prostitute. Perhaps become one. Forget medicine, forget science, even forget England. There was nothing left to keep him elevated and proper and he wondered what Paris would be like in the winter.
He picked up the page he had written, held it up to the light.
Questions that need answering.
- What the deuce is on with Sebastien and these horses? White, Red and Black?
- How can the dead walk? Is there a scientific explanation to explain this? Is there a spiritual premise?
- Who is Mary Vetsera and how was she involved?
- What is Arclight and what does it do? Did it kill Rudolf and if so, how?
- Do I love Valerie von Habsburg?
He stared at the last question on the list. He hadn’t intended to write that, didn’t in fact know where it came from. He was not an emotional man, not in the least inclined to the notions of romance. A love story was simply a quirk of the endocrine system, a mutual attraction to ensure offspring as the end result. He loved Valerie as much as he had loved Ivy, which was to say not at all. Although Valerie was a wicked roll, she was as damaged, if not more so, than himself.
Besides, she was engaged to her cousin, the minor prince from Tuscany. A much better prospect, obviously.
Meticulously, he crossed the last question off the list, turned the paper and his attention was caught by the illustration he had so unceremoniously torn from the book.
Vivid sky, thunderclouds, four horses trampling the world under their hoofs.
He was certain his heart skipped a beat.
Four horses. A white, a red, a black and one that was pale, ashen, barely a colour at all.
He swallowed.
His brother was waiting for horses.
He tossed back the remains of the wine and grabbed the Bible, flipping it open to the very end.
***
“A Black Swan?”
“Impossible,” growled the Archduchess. “Mary was not a Swan.”
Ivy reached into the letterbox, flipped through the jumbled stack. There were at least twenty letters, perhaps more, all stamped with a swan in black wax.
She looked up, locked eyes with the Archduchess.
“I think you should tell me what it means to be a Black Swan.”
“It is forbidden to speak of it.”
“If you don’t, I shall throw all these out into the street. You can tell me or you can tell the people of Vienna.”
“I will kill you before you do that.”
“I don’t think you will. You want to know the truth as much as I.”
The Archduchess looked away, tiny muscles in her jaw twitching and Ivy felt a rush of pride. Not six months ago, she would have cursed her impetuous tongue, derided herself for being so bold. Now she was learning to use her words like swords, to parry and slice, to challenge and measure and test. It felt like iron in her bones.
“The Swans?” she prodded.
“Schwarze Schwäne,” said Valerie. “A loose affiliation of women with training in specific skills.”
“Those being?”
She turned her steely eyes on Ivy.
“Seduction, espionage, sabotage, extortion, procurement of state secrets and the like.”
“Murder?”
“Not usually. Men are easily led once you have been in their bed.”
I wouldn’t know, thought Ivy. The rate she was going, she wasn’t sure it was something she would ever know.
Valerie picked up the framed document from the desk.
“If she were a Swan, she would have been recruited from this place. This Institute for Daughters of the Nobility. A place where these young bourgeoise are trained for lives as aristocratic wives. As such, it is a breeding ground for avarice and greed.”
“It says Mary took Highest Standing.”
“So it says.”
Ivy looked down at the letter in her hand.
“So if Mary Vetsera were a Swan—”
“She wasn’t.”
“But if she was, what did she want from Rudolf?”
“The locket, obviously.”
“But why? It wouldn’t be a matter of stealing the locket for her own gain, surely. She probably didn’t even know what it was. If she were a swan—”
“Which she wasn’t.”
“Then someone would have paid her to steal it.” She glanced back down at the letters. “Edward? But why?”
“He would have known about das Archelicht, surely,” said Valerie. “He was a frequent guest at the Mayerling hunts.”
“Was Wilhelm?”
The Archduchess thought a moment.
“Not as frequent but yes, he was.”
“What if…” Ivy ran her fingers over the wax, traced the raised edges of the swans. “What if Wales tapped Mary to stop Wilhelm from stealing it? No one likes Wilhelm, not even his uncle. What if he wanted to get it before Wilhelm got the chance?”
“So he hired Mary to do it for him. That is possible. Mary had been circling Rudolf for years and thanks to your Prince of Wales, she finally met him at Freudenau. My cousin Marie arranged a separate, more personal introduction later.”
“That is a very long con.”
“It was a very long seduction. We Viennese are careful and circumspect lovers.”
The pocket torch gleamed from the desk and Valerie held a piece of jewelry up to the light. It was an iron ring, engraved with initials on the inside.
“Is that a wedding ring?” asked Ivy and she lifted the candle to peer closer. “What’s this? ILVBIDT.”
Valerie hissed.
“What does it mean?”
“In Liebe vereint bis in den Tod,” she said. “United in love beyond Death.”
“You see?” said Ivy, slipping the ring over her other thumb. “Romeo and Juliet.”
“This Juliet traded a symbol of undying love for a locket that spins rooms into gold.” She took the letter from Ivy’s hand. “I will go through these and see if it is Wales or Wilhelm or someone else who is guilty of this orchestration.”
“You?” said Ivy. “I don’t think that’s a good idea.”
“Well, certainly not you. You can’t read German.”
“These may not all be in German. Besides, you are a Black Swan and a Habsburg. If you take them, they will be erased from your history and we will all be shot for something we didn’t do.”
Slowly, ever-so-slowly, Valerie closed the lid of the letterbox and the gears clicked the lock back into place. Ivy grabbed it and the box hung between them.
“Don’t do this,” she said. “Sebastien is innocent. You know that now. Let us prove it, please.”
“Let it go,” said Valerie.
“Unless there is something to gain from seeing him dead.” Ivy tugged the box her way. “Is there? You’re a Swan too.”
“Let it go, little writer. There are things in this world that are too big for you.”
“Why have you been writing Christien de Lacey? What do you want from him?”
“Let it go and I will speak to my mother. She will relieve the sentence.”
“I don’t believe you.”
“You don’t have the choice.”
And before Ivy could stop herself, her small woman’s pistol was in her hand, swinging up and under the
black corset of the Archduchess, pressing into her heart.
“Apparently I do.”
Valerie smiled. It was as sharp and cold as her eyes
“So naive.”
And her hand sliced down on Ivy’s wrist, knocking the pistol to one side.
Ivy sprang back but an elegant heel lashed out, catching her behind the knee and spinning her around to face the desk. She thrashed but within a heartbeat, Valerie had her pinned, the small pistol firmly pressed into her temple.
First linguistics, Ivy reminded herself, then fisticuffs. If she lived.
“I said,” hissed the Archduchess. “I will speak to my mother.”
“You are a liar and a treacherous creature. What do you want with Christien?”
“It is too big for you.”
“You don’t love him, but you want something. Why? You are a Habsburg. You have everything. What could you possibly need from him?”
Suddenly, there was a click and both women froze. At the door, the skeleton key was turning. Someone was picking the lock.
***
It was not good laudanum.
He knew enough to be able to tell, even from the deep, twisting blackness of the opium. Frankow’s was the best. It was beautiful and quiet and he welcomed its cold dark depths. This, this was a carnival of madness, as terrifying as a house of mirrors with no way out but time.
Thoughts and memories blurred together, watercolour with far too much water and the bed was a rack, pressing his body deeper into the tile even as it spun in dizzying circles across the floor. He could hear his brother turning eyelash-thin pages, the sound magnified to the crack of lightning. His own heartbeat was the boom of cannons, his breathing the roar of thunder. Above him, spiders scuttled along their silk, waiting for the promise of flies after the long winter. He could hear mice in the rafters, rats in the cellar, servants in the halls as they began cleaning the Bergl rooms in a far wing of the palais. The mattress was stuffed with daggers and each blade stuck into his flesh. Skin, he remembered, was supposed to be a beautiful thing. Now he couldn’t wait for it to be gone, for the bones to be free of their prison of flesh.
He wanted to scream but no sound would come. He wanted to run but his legs were gone, lost to the cruelty of the laudanum.
Sophie.
The little white finger in his palm echoed like voices, like her baby bird voice, sweet yet oh-so unnatural.
Sophie sophie sophie.
He knew he could call and the orb would open and he would see the little man with the beard but he was afraid. Afraid of the man and afraid of the horse and afraid of the crowns they would put upon his head. The bed twisted and rushed to the ceiling, stopping just short of the rafters and the spiders. Dropped now, stopping just short of the tile floor and the dust. He had lost his stomach some time ago, wondered if he would ever eat again. Pity, he thought. All he ever wanted was a cup of tea.
A cup of tea but a kiss would not be turned away.
Sisi sitting by a bed, hands folded limply in her lap
His eyes were pressing out of his skull and he wondered how he would see without them. Would his other senses become sharper or would he linger in twilight, waiting for death. Death. His entire world was spent waiting on Death. He would happily trade it for the spiders but the horse had other plans.
Sophie.
On the bed, a bundle wrapped like a loaf of bread, covered in white linen
He had killed a girl, an innocent. He had called the locket and she had come and taken the girl with her. It was on his head, in his soul and yet she hadn’t come for him, hadn’t shewn up to point a pale finger. It was only a matter of time. It was always a dark matter of time.
Because I could not stop for Death, he kindly stopped for me.
He couldn’t fight it, he had told his brother. He didn’t know how, had lost the will long ago so he surrendered and fell into it, the tiny slip of white that was her finger, letting the obscura come. It spun into life, a flashing circle of light and mirror, and he wondered if it were really there or if it were a product of the drug. Still, he reached with hands as he tumbled headlong into it and to the sad quiet room in Hungary where she died.
The Carriage held but just Ourselves and Immortality.
He is waiting for the small bearded man.
He is terrified of the small bearded man, for somehow he knows that seeing him will change everything.
The door opens.
He closes his eyes. He doesn’t want to see the man who has been practicing on orphans in Prague, replacing their limbs with metal, their organs with machines. He doesn’t want to know because he knows, deep in his bones, he knows. Nothing will ever be the same once he knows.
“Your Most Royal Highnesses,” says the little bearded man, and he pulls large reticulating spectacles from his eyes. “My name is Arvin Frankow. I will save your daughter.”
Chapter 19
Of Swans, Crowds, Eyes, Horses and Tears – All Black
The bedroom of Mary Vetsera was plunged into darkness as Ivy blew out the candle and ducked into the shadows of the wall. Silently, the Archduchess stepped away from the desk, slowly raising the pistol to the level of her eyes. Silhouetted darker than the foyer, the figure closed the door and slipped into the room.
It was a woman, lithe and shadowy and she moved like a cat toward the desk. She was dressed entirely in black— long hunt coat, breeches, fine-heeled boots. Her hair was wrapped in black silk, nose and mouth with black lace and Ivy knew she was looking at yet another of the European intelligencers known as Black Swans.
Black gloves reached for the letterbox but the woman paused at the whiff of candle smoke.
“Nicht bewegen,” growled the Archduchess with the cock of the hammer.
The woman lunged, knocking the pistol aside and the two Swans became indistinguishable in a flurry of dark limbs and flashing steel.
“Schwarze Schwäne,” hissed Valerie. “Stop this!”
“Valerie?” The intruder pulled down her scarf. “Was machst du denn hier?”
Immediately, the struggle ceased and the pocket torch flashed on.
“Marie?”
As they began to argue, Ivy slowly reached across the desk, gathered the letterbox into her arms.
This was a very dangerous place, she reckoned and began to inch toward the door when the women turned to face her, little more than silhouettes in the dark room.
“This is my cousin,” said Valerie. “Countess Marie Larisch. Marie, this is—”
“I know who this is,” snapped Marie. “The French anarchist’s woman!”
“I’m not French!”
“You were at the Hofburg that night,” the woman hissed. “You were with the man who shot Rudolf. Valerie, what are you doing with this fugitive?”
“Sebastien didn’t shoot Rudolf!” said Ivy. “Rudolf shot himself!”
“Genug!” barked Valerie.
“What? Is this true?” The Countess released a breath. “I heard rumours. Mein Gott…”
Her remorse lasted but a moment as her gaze flicked to the letterbox. Ivy could see the machinations going on behind those flashing eyes and was entirely prepared for the lunge, ducking out of the way and clutching the box to her chest. Valerie stepped between.
“I need that, Valerie,” the Countess growled causing Ivy to hug the letterbox all the more. “Give it to me.”
“What is it to you?”
“It is worth my life.”
“Why?”
“My patron…” She bit her tongue, stopping her words.
“You?” the Archduchess gasped. “You were her sponsor? Mein Gott, it was you!”
“Yes I was her sponsor! Mary was a brilliant candidate. She could work a room of men like a showgirl. She wasn’t even fifteen when she took down an English colonel in Cairo! Imagine that, Valerie! Fifteen and already an expert!”
“She was common and vulgar.”
“She was effective, Valerie. That is all that matters.”
“So,” began Ivy, inching toward the door. “Am I to understand that Mary Vetsera was indeed a Black Swan?”
Valerie snorted but Marie nodded.
“Indeed, French girl. She had the makings of the best of us.”
“So if you were her sponsor, who was her patron?”
Silence.
“Was it Wales? Wilhelm? Someone else?”
The silence was shattered by a pounding on the door downstairs.
Valerie moved to the window, throwing open the pane to look down on the dark street.
“Gisela.”
Led by Gisela von Habsburg, a squad of Silver Hussars burst into the Vetsera Mansion.
***
The room lurched like a cabin on an ocean freighter. The effects of mixing his wines, he knew. He had drunk the last of the red while reading the damned book and now there was not nearly enough for Bastien’s last laudanum. He sat perfectly still, waiting for the chair to stop its rocking, waiting for the floor to stop its roll. Something had wakened him but he didn’t know what, so he opened his eyes to the first gleam of sun through the window. Morning. It was finally morning. It had been the longest night of his life.
He could hear shouting from the rooms below and he rose to his feet, waiting for the wave of alcohol-induced vertigo to subside. When he looked around the room, he was not surprised to see the bed empty, his brother gone. He turned to the door, still locked with the chair propped under the handle. Impossible. But the impossible was becoming routine and he took a long, deep breath, then another, fixing the mask tight and welcoming the dread calm as it sank deep into his bones.
He crossed the floor, moved the chair and left the room, the remnants of the wine thick as blood in the glass.
***
Ivy’s heart leapt into her throat as boots stomped up the stairs.
Cold Stone & Ivy Book 2: The Crown Prince (The Empire of Steam) Page 23
