“She can’t find you here,” said Valerie and she spun around. “Quickly! The window.”
“I’m not going out the window!” cried Ivy. “It’s all ice and snow!”
“She will kill you!”
“She’s my cousin but she will kill me too,” said the Countess and she bolted across the room, throwing open the drapes and then the pane. Like a cat, she sprang up onto the ledge and disappeared into the early morning darkness. Breeches, thought Ivy. Marvelous handy for Girl Criminologists and Black Swans both.
“I will buy you time,” said Valerie and she rushed to the door, locking it and leaning against it. “Go with Marie. She’ll keep you safe but, on your life, do not give her the letters!”
“What about you?”
“I will deal with my sister. Go!”
Hugging the letterbox to her chest, Ivy took a deep breath, hiked her skirt and stepped up onto the ledge.
The cold rain bit her face as she squeezed through the window frame, clutching the shutters and trying not to look down. The wind was strong, the ledge slick and she pressed her back into the wall as she struggled for a hold. The house’s outer façade was decorated with wide ledges and ornamental sculpting, giving her a narrow but effective path. Still, she was grateful for her very fine boots. Nothing could have afforded her a better grip.
She looked down at the small yard. It was only three stories down – not a long drop but there was a Hussar leaning against the carriages, shako helmet pulled down on his forehead, arms folded tight into his body. She was surprised that he hadn’t seen her at the window but the rain was miserable and he looked as though he wished to be anywhere other than where he was. Still, she would have to pass him at the gate if she jumped and that, she reckoned, would be a predicament.
“French girl! Over here!” hissed a voice and she looked to see Marie Larisch on a neighbouring roof. The houses shared walls and it was obvious that she’d made a substantial leap from the window ledge to the concrete balusters that lined the top.
“Quickly! Just think like a cat.”
Ivy swallowed and edged along, one hand on the letterbox, the other searching out handholds along the house’s façade. She could hear the sisters arguing inside the room, realized Gisela had not seen her sister since Strasbourg and wondered if Valerie would be able to explain her current situation. Gisela was a hard and clever woman. It would not be easy to convince her of something she did not want to believe.
She was as close to the baluster as she could get without a leap. Marie Larisch was pressed onto the roof, flattened as if part of it but she did reach out her hand. Ivy reached back.
“No use,” the Countess said. “Throw me the letterbox so you can climb!”
“Not bloody likely,” Ivy grumbled. She tucked it under her arm and grabbed the edge of the roof. The rain was bitter and her hands were blue. Her boots scrabbled the limestone but with only one hand, it was impossible.
“I will help you, but you must give me the letterbox! Do it or fail!”
There was noise behind her and she glanced over her shoulder to see Gisela and Valerie struggling at the window. Suddenly, a shot cracked the air and concrete shattered beside Ivy’s eyes.
“Verdammt!” barked the Countess and disappeared into the shadows of the roof.
Ivy thrashed in the darkness as shots rang out now from the Hussar on the street. Heart in her throat, she tossed the letterbox over the baluster and leapt, pulling herself up as bullets tore through the fabric of her skirt. The force of them jerked her over and into a puddle of wet slush on the other side. She huddled for a moment, eyes shut tight as lead balls struck the concrete, spraying bits of sharp stone across her arms and face. But with a deep breath, she snatched the box and bolted across the rooftops into the first rays of sunrise.
***
As he moved through the palais, the servants were eager to send him in the direction of the wine cellar. Vienna was a city where most buildings were as deep as they were high. It was said that cellars connected with vaults, storm sewers and church crypts in a vast underground labyrinth that girded the entire city, including the Hofburg itself. Although he refused to believe such fantastical claims, Christien found his heart sinking into the darkness with each step.
At some point the winding stairway had become stone and on the walls, cogwheels spun inside mirrored sconces, creating sparks that illuminated the narrowing steps. He could hear Franz’s voice muffled and echoing off the stone.
Christien followed the voice to a series of wine vaults, housed in brick and hidden behind iron grilles. The ceiling was low and curved, the walls cold and damp. Both Franz and the valet turned at his approach. It was obvious the prince had been recently wakened, for he was wearing a dressing gown over striped Turkish pajamas and his arms were folded across his chest. At the far end of the cellar, Sebastien stood, almost swallowed in blackness.
“I’m sorry,” Christien said. “I don’t know how he got out of the room.”
“He says he is waiting for a horse,” said Franz. “We have horses in the stables if he wishes to see one. He will not find one in a wine cellar.”
He didn’t know what else to say. Nothing in the world could possibly make sense.
He crossed to his brother’s side.
“Bastien,” he said under his breath. “What in hell are you doing down here?”
“Hell. Yes,” echoed Sebastien. “I am in Hell.”
He was facing a tumbledown wall, the bricks and crumbling mortar clearly covering the entrance to a tunnel beyond. An icy breeze blew between the gaps, carrying the scent of mold, decay and death, flapping the greatcoat like an airship’s sails. It was cold but Christien doubted he felt it.
“Bastien? Why are you here?”
“The black horse.”
“There is no black horse. It’s only a story from a very old book.”
“I called him.”
His heart sank.
“Why?”
His brother did not look at him.
“Did you know that Sophie died when she was a child?”
“Sophie? Sophie von Habsburg?”
“She was dead for two days before the doctor got to her. He brought her back to life.”
“What has Sophie got to do with the black horse?”
“He was a great doctor, they said. He had done miracles with orphans in Prague. Had given them lungs of iron and hearts of brass. Legs of copper and arms of steel.” He gazed at the brick wall as if waiting. “He brought them back to life.”
“You can’t bring someone back to life.”
“He did.”
Christien sighed.
“What has any of this got to do with the horse?”
“Upstairs, I looked into an orb.”
“I was there, Bastien. There was no orb. It was the laudanum.”
“Materia obscura. Dark matter. Grey matter. Doesn’t matter. It’s all in the mind. I looked into an orb and saw this doctor. I saw what he did. I know what he did.”
“Bastien…”
“Some of the children could have been saved but he waited. He waited until they died. Then he brought them back to life.”
Christien said nothing. It was impossible yet scientifically plausible, the research unethical but exhilarating. Every surgeon’s dream. Every physician’s nightmare.
“There was no way he could kill a Habsburg but Sophie was already dead so it was perfect.”
“What of it?”
“Later, this doctor left Prague and Hungary and Vienna for work in England, for the royals there.”
Suddenly, he understood.
“He was celebrated, rubbed shoulders with the highest of the high, began to take his experiments further, right up to the very gates of death and beyond.”
That dread calm, which so often served as armor, began to press in on his chest.
“What if you could kill someone, and then bring them back? It’s the question of the age, but he hadn’t the nerve. Or t
he victim. There are still rules against that sort of thing.”
“He wouldn’t. He couldn’t.”
“He was invited into the Ghost Club of London and Cambridge, and there he met our father.”
“Bastien, he didn’t…”
“This man was Arvin Frankow,” said Sebastien. He turned now and Christien realized that, at this moment, his eyes were as silver as a mirror.
“The first and last child he killed was me.”
***
The building code for Vienna was strict – no residences over six stories and here, along this stretch of fine homes, none over four. Ivy was grateful for this simple fact as she dashed from rooftop to rooftop – some flat, others sloped – all the while the letterbox safely tucked under her arm. Now, as the stretch of adjoining homes ended on a roof with a very steep pitch and a set of black-iron chimneys, she slowed to catch her breath and orient herself to the skyline.
It was dawn and the rain had turned to drizzle, the type that was too heavy for fog but too warm for snow. Down below, throngs of people were trudging through this early morning mist, their steps slow, feet heavy, moving in a common direction like a black tide. To the Hofburg, she knew, to mourn their beloved prince as he lay in state. She wondered if the casket were open and if so, if they had bandaged his head. A self-inflicted head wound was a dead-giveaway. She wondered if any of them wanted to know. They didn’t look like they wanted to know. They moved like a dark wave, like tar. Like clay.
Like her heart.
She needed to get to the palais of Franz Salvator and to do that, she needed to get down to the streets. She studied the angle of the roof, the chimneys, the worn pipes in the gutter filled with leaves and soot. She looked about for fire escape when suddenly, there was a black blur and someone grabbed her from behind, pressed a blade into her throat.
“The letterbox now, French girl.”
Ivy felt the rage well up in her chest. She had come too far for this, lost too much, wasn’t about to let an Austrian spy snatch it from her fingers.
She slid the box from under her arm, held it up with both hands.
“You won’t hurt me,” she pleaded. “Just say you won’t hurt me.”
“Stupid girl. All I want is the—”
With a roar, Ivy slammed the box over her shoulder into the masked face of Marie Larisch. The Swan staggered backwards, her blade clattering to the roof. Ivy snatched it and bolted but Marie lunged and with one hand, snagged her skirt. The force jerked Ivy off her feet and the letterbox sailed out of her grip. Both women watched in horror as it slid down the steep angled roof and over the edge.
“Bitch!” snarled the Swan and she kicked, sending the young writer after it.
The tiles were slick as Ivy pitched downwards, scrabbling to catch a grip but finding none. Suddenly the roof was gone, leaving only the dark plummeting expanse and the rushing street, when a gutter pipe caught her hem with a jolt. She swung for a heartbeat, head down, legs swinging, suspended three floors above ground. The world spun and twisted in sickening circles and she could see faces staring up at her and the shattered box, its contents scattered all over the street.
Another jolt as the pipe began to pull away from the roof. She doubled up, fighting the ache in her muscles and reaching with the blade to nick the fabric of her skirt. It gave in a perfect line, ripping a wide ribbon and spinning her like a peeled orange toward the ground. The pipe groaned and fell downwards with her, until they both jerked to a stop mere feet above the street. Like that moment in the Chevalier when the trip-masts engaged, Ivy was light-headed, free yet suspended over the ground. But it was only a moment. The pipe cracked and she hit the slushy cobbles with a thud, the pipe landing inches from her head.
She opened her eyes to crowds of people, moving in, pressing in, closing off the morning sky, grey to charcoal to blackness.
***
It made sense, thought Christien. Odd, twisted, sickening sense.
“I’m sorry, Bastien,” he said. “I know how much he means to you.”
“I trusted him. I trusted him with everything but he’s done something to me that I have no control over.”
“Perhaps he simply fixed your skull.”
“Then why metal? I have always assumed it was aluminium but I doubt it very much now. Father took him to Seventh where they could experiment to their heart’s content. They killed me over and over and brought me back. That’s why I see what I see. That’s why I can control the orbs. That’s what Sophie meant by, ‘Our Father’. He brought us both back to life.”
Christien shuddered. Just thinking of his father made him sick. But the thought of Frankow bringing the dead to life was exhilarating. Every surgeon’s dream. Every physician’s nightmare.
“You don’t know that, Bastien. He loves you.”
“He killed me.”
“You need to talk to him.”
“It doesn’t matter. He’s coming.”
“Who’s coming? Frankow?”
“The horse.”
“Bastien…”
He threw a look over his shoulder to see Franz and the valet still waiting. Franz had lit up a cigarette but the valet was watching everything as if trying to understand. Good man, he reckoned and for the first time in months, he thought of Pomfrey.
Christien sighed. The cellar was as black as night, save for the glow of the cogwheeled lights along the walls. His brother had not moved. It was almost as if he were a part of the stone. A statue perhaps, like the ones from cemeteries and graveyard and churches. A fitting image, he thought. If only his brother stayed dead.
“Let’s go up for some tea, shall we? The black horse will surely wait for that?”
“No tea now. Maybe not ever.”
“Bastien,” Christien groaned, gripping his brother’s arm and leaning in close. “I know what you’re thinking. These are just stories in a very old book.”
“I belong in Hell, like you said.”
“Listen, I was angry—”
“Stand back, please. The horse is moving rather fast.”
“Dammit Bastien—”
The silver eyes rolled back into his skull as Sebastien raised his arms, palms up. One hand burst into flame and snowflakes began to circle around the other and Christien staggered back. Both Franz and the valet exclaimed in German, shrunk toward the stair.
“Kai hote enoixe ten sphragida ten triten, ekousa tou tritou zoou legontos, “Erkhou!” Kai eidon, kai idou, hippos melas!”
“That’s not Latin,” growled Christien. “That’s Greek.”
“Khoinix sitou denariou, kai treis khoinikes krithon denariou, kai to elaion kai ton oinon me adikeses!
“When the bloody hell did you learn Greek?”
From the gaps in the brick, shapes were swirling. At first, they seemed like ripples of heat above a chimney but soon, they began to take on the appearance of soot, of fine black powder caught on the breeze. The deadwind picked up then, causing the flames to leap and the snow to swirl in his brother’s hands. The coglights flickered and the winds roared as the soot began to congeal into a solid form.
Behind them, Franz began to pray in Italian.
Sebastien closed his eyes and the coglights died, plunging the cellar into darkness.
“Don’t, Bastien,” said Christien. “Please don’t.”
Suddenly the wall boomed like a cannon, exploding inwards and Christien was flung back into an iron grille as bricks, soot and mortar sprayed in all directions. He covered his head to avoid flying stone and cursed his luck at the shattering of many bottles of fine Austrian wine behind him.
Slowly, both wind and roar died away and his knees buckled beneath him, leaving him slack against the base of the iron grille. Soon, the cogwheels groaned and flickered to life but there was a black cloud like London’s industrial fog hovering over the cellar floor. It was near impossible to see anything.
“Mein herr?” called the valet. Christien felt the man fumble through the rubble towards him. “Ge
ht es dir gut?”
“Ja,” said Christien and he shook his head, bricks and dust falling from his shoulders as he pushed to his knees. “Bastien?”
The valet left his side for at the end of the cellar there was a new tunnel darker than dark, and at the entrance, darker than this – Sebastien.
“Don’t touch me,” Sebastien snapped as the valet rushed to his side. “Don’t touch me!”
It was too late. At the brush of his fingers, the valet froze in place, mouth gaping in a silent scream. Christien watched with dread as, within a matter of seconds, the man’s flesh withered like a dying tree. Cheeks sunk into hollows, fingers dried to skin-covered bones, lips cracked as they stretched too tightly over yellowed teeth. Without a sound, the valet sank to his knees, shins splintering as they hit the stony floor.
Christien staggered to his feet and stumbled to the man’s side. He was alive, but barely and the young physician looked up at his brother, knowing there could be no rational explanation for this.
Soot drifted from Sebastien’s fingers and rained from his hair. In fact, soot floated from his mouth with every breath and his eyes – silver just moments before – were as black as the night. Irises and sclera both, like ink spreading across a parchment, streaking down his cheeks in the form of black tears.
In his hand was a set of scales, weigh scales like those found in markets to measure wheat or fish. After a long moment, they too disintegrated to rise up to the ceiling as flies.
Behind them, the minor prince of Austria, Hungary, Croatia and Bohemia made the sign of the cross, before whirling and bolting up the stairs.
Under his hand the valet moaned, breaths like crackling tinder.
“Bastien?” Christien groaned. “What in hell is going on?”
“Hell,” Sebastien said, voice hollow and echoing. “Hell is going on and war is coming on iron feet. Blood and iron rains from the skies.”
Christien knew that if Hell did exist, it couldn’t be much worse than this.
He gathered the dying valet into his arms and carried him up the stair, leaving the Mad Lord of Lasingstoke to the cellar and the soot.
Cold Stone & Ivy Book 2: The Crown Prince (The Empire of Steam) Page 24
