“Well, you see…” He rocked on the heels of his wet shoes. “You see…”
“Yes, my son?”
“Well, I’m not exactly a priest.”
“I knew that.” The man’s lips quirked as if to a private joke. “It was painfully obvious but I am a patient man and curious. What are you then, my son?”
Christien slid his eyes to the Hussar. It was staring at him with its inhuman face.
He grinned.
“A French Anarchist.”
The dagger sprang out like clockwork and he swung a savage arc at the Hussar, severing the cables at its throat. The automaton lurched but Christien grabbed its silver dome, yanking it from the shoulders and swinging it into the side of the Holy Father’s head. The man staggered into the wall as two hundred years of Imperial Holiness were sent crashing to the floor.
Even headless, the Hussar came, sabre flashing and the black cassock tore at the waist, spraying a thin spatter of blood across the wall. Christien was quick and rolled with the machine to duck behind its back. The crypt echoed as the Hussar’s torso began twisting one hundred and eighty degrees. The sabre came with it but Christien rammed the head down onto the blade like an impaling pike. Sparks rained over the tarnished silver on the floor.
Swiftly he scooped the brightest urn, locking eyes for one brief moment with the Holy Father as he pushed himself to his knees.
“You will rot in Hell,” the priest growled, wiping blood from his lip.
“Where I belong.”
And he whirled towards the iron door, only to see MARCUS’s mirrored head through the grille and the lock bolt slid home.
There was a moment, a long terrifying moment, and he realized that he had miscalculated, overestimated, undervalued, this situation and that he would likely die for this mistake. After all the atrocities committed by his hand in London, he would die for trying to steal a bloody heart. It was ironic, to say the least.
Suddenly, MARCUS’ silver dome struck the grille and disappeared. The lock clicked and the door swung open on a woman in black, a bolt of lace over her mouth and nose.
“Come now,” snapped Valerie and he rushed out, urn in hand. She peered into the crypt, at the Holy Father struggling to stand.
“Forgive me, Father, for I have sinned.”
She closed the door, locking it on him and the two hundred years of Imperial Holiness.
***
Ivy’s world had grown very small very quickly, as Edward Prince of Wales reached across to take Ghostlight from her hand. He held it up, rings spinning like a mad top.
“If Laury can do this, little Cymry, he will be released from the debt he owes the Crown and will be made an Earl in the House. But I won’t make him sit, with or without his damned blanket. Ah ha! Ah ha!”
Colours flashed all across the room, across faces, across walls, across empires.
“Remy will be reinstated into the medical program at the Royal with full honours and all his Ripper nonsense will be purged from his record.”
“Ripper?” asked Gisela.
“And as for you, little Cymry, and your family in Stepney, name it. If you want an island in the Hebrides, if you want a house in Knightsbridge, if you want your mum and dad to spend weekends at Sandringham playing croquet with dear old Mummie, name it. It will be yours.”
She stared at him, his intelligent eyes, his silvering chops, his big loveable bear persona. And suddenly she understood. He was just like Christien, just like all of these rabid royals for that matter, shaped by forces outside their control and simply wanting to find their way through the mire of life. Not so different from herself, really. Not if she stopped to think about it.
She took the locket from his fingers, remembered the day Christien had given it to her, a sweet and innocent gift from a loving fiancé. It was a lifetime ago.
“When we do this,” she said. “We will ask one thing and one thing alone. That you and all the heads of state angling for points and all the broadsheets angling for scandals, that all of you do this one simple thing.”
Ghostlight glittered like a star.
“You leave us alone.”
With that, she slipped it over her own head and it nestled between her breasts, home.
Chapter 24
Of Window Forts at One Hundred Feet, Court Chapels Dressed in Black and a Reluctant Crown Prince Comes Home
He’d always known the Hofburg was a labyrinth. Now he was getting Pan’s tour.
Out of the church into the Augustinian Wing, down a hidden stairway and through a narrow courtyard. They had even squeezed through a false wall into an abandoned storeroom with statues covered in cobwebs, and furniture stacked in piles against the walls. Christien wondered if they were awaiting the closing up of an empire rather than the funeral of a Crown Prince.
Before he knew it, they were on the roof. Below them, hundreds of people crushed together in the many courtyards waiting for a chance to view the body, pay their respects. Above them, at least seven airships including the Stahl Mädchen and Bertie’s HMS Royal Carolina and he wondered how long it would be before they were spied and a cannonball sent down on their heads. Valerie crossed the roof like a cat, leading him to a very large dome with eight round windows. She lifted a latch and they both ducked inside. The casing itself was two feet wide, with a copper railing that had seen better days but even with a sack of urns, the pair of them fit easily. They were also very high up, at least one hundred feet above the floor, and he looked down over a vast sea of shelves and balconies filled with books. No one could see them and better yet, no one could reach them. It was perfect.
Valerie pulled him to sit on that ledge so high above the world, began to unbutton the bloody cassock and peel it from the clothes beneath.
“What is this place?”
“The Imperial Library. We would sneak in here as children, Rudy, Gigi and I. We would read the old texts and spy on the nobles and eat chocolates we had stolen from the kitchen.”
He tried to imagine it. Gisela in a playfort.
“Then Gisela was too old and it was just Rudy and I, and then…” Carefully now, she folded the shirt away from wound. “Then, just me. High above everyone else, alone.”
“I’m sorry.”
“Don’t talk.”
“Why? It’s only a… Oh.”
A gash as wide as his thumb and as long as his forearm, sticky and red across his belly.
“Oh damn,” he said, fighting a rush of light-headedness. “You can be certain there is no suture needle or cat gut in the prosthetic. Perhaps you could use the fountain pen.”
“Hush.”
“Valerie, stop it. I’m fine.”
“No.” She was dabbing at the wound with her black lace, succeeding only in smearing the blood across his skin. “No, this is not acceptable. This should not have happened. It was supposed to be easy, a simple in and out, but—”
Her chin was trembling and he puzzled at the tears gathering behind her lashes.
“But now, you are hurt and Rudolf is dead and Maman will leave once again and I’ll be left alone in this horrible place for months, maybe for years by myself. All by myself…”
She glanced up, tears spilling.
“I was not playing you, Remy. I am not a Black Swan. I wanted to be but I failed. I failed every task they put before me. I was supposed to seduce you to get the other locket but I even failed at that because I love you and I don’t care about the lockets anymore.”
“You were supposed to seduce me?”
She nodded.
“Maman encouraged it. She wanted the other locket, your Geisterlicht. She knew you had it.”
“Geisterlicht,” he said, heart sinking like a stone. “Ghostlight.”
“She wanted to give it to Rudy so he could be king of the Hungarians as well as emperor of Austria.” She dabbed at the wound. It was a sticky mess. “But I don’t care about it anymore. I am not a Swan. I am just a silly, foolish girl who loves you.”
H
e studied her clinically, for he was, after all, a clinical man. She looked sincere but then again, her looks were a weapon, much like his. He wanted to believe her because deep down, Gisela had been right. He did hope. He hoped that there might be someone who might not find a better prospect, someone who might see something buried so deep inside him that was worth the trouble spent digging it out. He wanted to be more than a pretty face or a prestigious address or a future Baron. And he wanted to know that forgiveness could be offered to the London Ripper, and that perhaps he would not have to die with the blood of so many women on his hands.
But neither life, nor Sebastien, worked that way.
His heart had been cut out long ago so there was nothing left but the scars.
And the mask that he had worn most of his life was still a good fit.
“Where is Rudolf’s body?” he asked. “I still have work to do.”
She wiped her cheeks with her palms.
“In the Court Chapel,” she said.
“And where is that?”
“Here. In the very heart of the Hofburg.”
“Naturally. Will it be empty?”
“Maman is going to pray. It will be empty.”
“You have it all orchestrated, don’t you? Are the tears on cue as well?”
She said nothing.
“Right,” he said and rolled to his feet, began the process of removing the cassock and collar, doing up the buttons on his shirt, waistcoat and jacket. “May I keep the gloves? A souvenir of my wonderful time in Vienna.”
She nodded woodenly.
“Shall we go? I have a patient to attend.”
She rose to her feet, twisted the latch, pushed open the round window. The cold wind struck them like a fist.
Together, they climbed through and out onto the roof.
***
For some reason, her hand kept going to the locket as it hung around her neck. It was strangely comforting, as if it belonged. Odd, she had never felt that before, not in all the time she had worn it back at Lasingstoke.
It was growing dark, as it did on winter afternoons. Ivy was in another private carriage racing toward the Hofburg. Gisela sat across from her, watching the streets rush by with sharp Habsburg eyes.
“You have this all arranged?” Ivy asked.
“Completely,” said Gisela.
“How? I mean, how can this possibly work? You hope Remy can steal the viscera. You hope he can steal the heart. You hope he will be able to put them all back into a man who has already been embalmed and is lying in state in a public chapel.”
“Court chapel.”
“Court chapel,” said Ivy. “Not only that, you hope that Sebastien will in fact do what Sophie asks and show up at that same chapel to work a miracle that he might not be able to work.”
“Yes,” said Gisela. “I hope all these things. Hope is an obstinate thing to kill.”
Echoes of Renaud Jacobe St. John de Lacey that night in Whitechapel. That night. It always came down to That Night.
She swallowed.
“Why didn’t you just ask then before you shot us out of the sky? Why threaten us at every turn, with Hussars, with sabres, with pistols. Why behave like that, then wonder why we run?”
The Archduchess looked out the window and at that moment, Ivy saw the likeness of Valerie in her – the same profile, the same eyes, the same Imperial mask sliding into place.
“Have you ever loved someone,” Gisela began, “So much that you would die for them? That you would not only die but sacrifice everything you are and had just to please them, to ensure their happiness?”
“Wilhelm?”
“Wilhelm is an Arsch. I meant Pappa. I love my Pappa. I love him so much. He works so hard for the good of the Empire. People have no idea how hard he works. I would do anything to help him.”
Ivy thought of her mother, how she had stopped living after Tobias’ death, and as a result in order to tend her, Ivy had stopped living as well.
“Life as a Gilded princess changes you,” Gisela went on. “It molds you from what you were naturally meant to be, into something that is useful to the Empire. Rudolf was a clever, progressive scholar but he did not become the military leader Pappa had hoped for, so…”
She turned back to look at Ivy.
“So I did.”
“Life is funny that way,” Ivy said finally.
“Yes.”
“Do you love Wilhelm?”
She smiled sadly.
“I did. Once. He was a wild young man, so different from anyone in the Gilded court. He was proud and passionate and funny. And a very impressive soldier. We fit.”
“But?”
“But he was told to marry whom he was told to marry, and I was told to marry whom I was told to marry. A Habsburg does not marry for love.”
Ivy was beginning to believe it.
“We must get to the Court Chapel before he does. Maman will have it emptied so she can pray. There, your Christien de Lacey will put the heart and viscera back into Rudolf’s body and stitch him up. Then, we will wait for Sophie and your Sebastien. Your Sebastien will say the words and bring him back to life. All of Europe will be astounded at the miracle that is Rudolf Franz Karl Joseph von Habsburg and we will move from glory to glory.”
She looked out the window once again.
“And there will be peace in Europe for a very long time.”
Ivy reached up to stroke the locket, wondering if peace was ever in the cards if Ghostlight and Arclight were part of the game.
***
It was impossible for him to breathe, and he paused, reaching a hand to steady himself against a cold damp wall.
“We are here now,” said Sophie and she looked at him, her infant-face sickly pale in the darkness. “The Augustinian cellars will lead us to the Chapel.”
He closed his eyes, concentrating on the moving of air into and out of his lungs. Not just air anymore. Smaller than air, particles spinning like the rings of the lockets, like tiny solar systems revolving around even tinier suns. The obscura moved around those suns, slipped between them like heavy water. He could see it all with his new eyes.
“Of course, it will not be a good idea to go through the Hofburg. Not like this. I’m quite certain I look more terrifying than you.”
She laughed, her voice like a baby bird.
“But you must be strong, Bruder. Just for a few moments longer.”
“Why?” he panted, not caring for the answer.
“Because you must. Because the world is waiting for you. Can you see Rudolf now, Bruder?”
“I can’t see Rudolf. I’ve told you that a thousand times.”
“Use the orbs,” she said. “You can see him. You will.”
“Give me the locket.”
“Soon. Soon all will be yours. Just look.”
He turned, pressed his back into the wall.
“She’s mine. Give her to me.”
“Call her.”
He reached out his hand and the locket rose from her chest, spinning wildly at the end of its chain. Suddenly, a large orb sprung up between them, spinning like a coin, flashing like running water. In the mirrored surface, he could make out a face, a man’s face with thick moustache and large sad eyes.
“Look and see,” said Sophie. “Rudolf is waiting for you to see him. Do you see him?”
“I see him.”
Sophie squealed.
“What have I done?” His voice was hollow, echoing. “Mary…”
“Yes!”
“Mary, what have I done?”
“Yes, yes!” and Sophie clapped her clockwork hands.
What had he done?
Mary at the bottom of the step, staring up with empty eyes
“Yes, yes, you see him! I know you do!”
Blood seeping from her mat of midnight hair, Arclight rolling through the red, leaving tracks on the lodge’s cold floor
“We will use the orb to go directly to Rudolf,” said Sophie. “Go deeper, Br
uder. You must! The Crown is calling.”
“No,” he gasped. He was underwater and it was heavy. Heavy, heavy water. He didn’t know which way was up.
“Archelicht will help.”
“No, please. I want it to stop. I want to go home.”
“You are going home, Bruder.”
The orb was flashing now, hypnotic and wild, and his head spun with the music of it all. The dead pressed in, an audience of thousands, as Sophie stepped forward. She raised the locket and there was a hush as the music fell silent and the world grew strangely still. He was certain his heart had ceased its rhythm minutes ago.
He was going home.
He closed his eyes, held his breath as she slipped the locket over his head.
“Prince of Hades, Sheol, Nifilheim, Alvilág, and Duzakh,” she said. “You, Sebastien de Lacey, are the Crown Prince of Death.”
On her serpentine chain of brilliant gold, Arclight fell to the centre of his chest.
Home.
***
The sight below was both warm and eerie, as the Gilded Empress Elizabeth sat vigil over the casket of her dead son.
Christien leaned over a marble balcony, his eyes taking in the scene below. Other than three immense windows and the chandeliers of gold – all else was black. The floor was carpeted black, the pews draped in black, the oratory, the walls, the altar. Even the statues of saints, draped in black. The funeral gown of the Empress was a study in ebony with obsidian pearls twinkling like stars in the train. The only thing not black in the entire room was the military uniform on the dead man himself, whitest of white, with medals of all colours across his chest. It reclined in its coffin on a pedestal of roses, seven feet above the floor.
He looked over at Valerie.
“And now, I must climb that, remove all that military rubbish, open his stitched body, replace the organs, sew them in and correctly I might add and close him back up before I faint of blood loss myself. Speaking of which, have his bodily fluids been removed as well? I would imagine so, if he has been embalmed.”
She stared at him, blinking.
“God,” he moaned. “I liked you better when you were a Swan.”
Cold Stone & Ivy Book 2: The Crown Prince (The Empire of Steam) Page 30
