P N Elrod - Barrett 3 - Death Masque

by Death Masque(Lit)

  "I am most sincerely sorry." Jericho started to get up, but Elizabeth's hand shot out and fastened on his arm.

  "No. Don't." For a long moment she did not move. Her breath was short and fast, then she forcibly slowed it. "Elizabeth?" I hardly knew what to say. Her head went down, then she gave herself a shake. "It's all right. I was just surprised. You did nothing wrong, Jericho, I'm just being foolish." "But-"

  "Nothing-wrong," she emphasized. She eased her grip on his arm and patted it. "You stay exactly where you are. Give Jonathan some more if he so desires." "Elizabeth, I think I should-"

  "Well, I don't," she snapped. "It's food to you, is it not? Then it's past time that I got used to the idea. For God's sake, some of our field-workers enjoy eating pigs' brains; I suppose I can stand to watch my brother drink some blood, so sit down with us."

  Taking my own advice, I chose not to argue with her and obediently joined them.

  In silence Jericho gestured inquiringly at the teapot. I cautiously nodded. Elizabeth looked on, saying nothing. She resumed her meal at the same time I did.

  "How did you obtain it, Jericho?" she asked in a carefully chosen tone better suited for parlor talk about the weather.

  He was understandably reluctant to speak. "Er... while the cook was making the tray ready, I excused myself and went down to the stables."

  "There's such a quantity, though. I hope the poor beast is all right."

  "I drew it off from several horses."

  "And just how did you accomplish the task?"

  "I-ah-I've had occasion to give aid to Dr. Beldon when he's found it necessary to bleed a patient. It was easy enough to imitate."

  "The taste is agreeable to you, is it not?" Her bright attention was now focused on me.

  Anything less than an honest answer would insult her intelligence. "Very agreeable," I said, trying not to squirm.

  "How fortunate. What a trial your life would be were it not."

  "Elizabeth..."

  "I was only making an observation. You should have seen your face when Jericho gave you that first cup. Like my cat when there's fish in the kitchen."

  Jericho choked on his egg. I thumped his back until he waved me away.

  We three looked at one another in the ensuing silence. Very heavy it was, too. I wondered just how much of an effect that drop of brandy was having on her.

  Then Elizabeth's face twitched, she made a choking sound of her own, and we suddenly burst out laughing.

  "If anything, I feel cheated," I said sometime later.

  Very much at ease once more, we lounged 'round the table, content to do nothing more than let peaceful digestion take its course.

  "Of the time you lost?" asked Elizabeth.

  "Yes, certainly. It's like that story Father told us about the calendar change that happened a couple years before we were born. They were trying to correct the reckoning of the days and made it so the second of September was followed by the fourteenth. He said people were in riot, protesting that they'd been robbed of two weeks of their lives."

  Jericho, with both his natural and assumed reticence much weakened by the brandy, snickered.

  "How absurd of them," she said. "However, that was a change made on paper, not in actual terms of living. Yours has definitely caused you to miss some time from your life."

  "So instead of two weeks I may have been robbed of two months. Unfair, I say, most unfair."

  "It's just as well that we will be staying in England, since you can expect a similar long sleep whenever you venture out to sea."

  I shook my head and shuddered in a comical manner. "No, thank you. Though I might have to make a channel crossing if Nora is still on the Continent. It won't be pleasant, but it's short enough not to put me to sleep."

  "Providing you can find a ship to take you across at night."

  "I'm sure something can be arranged, but it's all speculation anyway until I can talk to Oliver. Have you sent word to him that we've arrived?"

  "Not yet. I wanted to see if you were going to wake up first."

  "I'll write him a letter if you'll have it sent tomorrow."

  "Why not go over tonight and surprise him?"

  "It's been three years and my memory of the city has faded. I may have his new address, but I don't think I could find it alone. You have the innkeeper find a trusty messenger in the morning."

  "We could send one tonight-"

  "Not without an army to protect him, dear Sister. London is extremely dangerous at night. I don't want either of you ever going out alone after dark. The streets are ruled by thieves, murderers, and worse; even the children here will cut your throat for nothing if it suits their fancy."

  Both bore identical expressions of disgust and horror for the realities of life in the world's most civilized city.

  "What about yourself, sir?" asked Jericho. "Will you not find your activities restricted as well since you're limited to the hours of night?"

  "I suppose so, but I've got that Dublin pistol and the sword cane-and the duelers... but remember, I've also got certain physical advantages because of my change. I should be safe enough if I keep my wits on guard and stay away from the worst places. It's not as though we're imprisoned by the scoundrels, y'know. Once we get settled in and introduced we'll have lots of things to do in good company, parties and such. Oliver's a great one for parties."

  "So you've often told us," Elizabeth murmured. Her eyes were half-closed.

  I rose and pushed my chair under the table, making it clear that our own celebration was concluded. "Bedtime for you, Miss Barrett. You're exhausted."

  "But it's much too early yet." She made an effort to straighten herself.

  "For me perhaps, but you've had some hard going for a very long time. You deserve to recover from it. Besides, I've more than once boasted to Oliver about your beauty; you don't want to make a liar of me by greeting him with circles under your eyes, do you?"

  She looked ready to throw another seedcake at me, but they'd all been eaten.

  "Jericho, is there a maid here who can help her get ready for bed?"

  "I can get ready myself, thank you very much," she said. "Though I might like to have some hot washing water. And soap. And a drying cloth."

  Jericho stood. "I can see to that, miss. There's a likely wench downstairs who's supposed to help the ladies staying here. I'll send her up straightaway."

  Faced with two men determined to see to her comfort, Elizabeth offered no more protest and took my arm as I escorted her across the hall to her room. She did not say good night, but did throw her arms around me in a brief, fierce embrace. I returned it, told her that all was well again, and to take as much rest as she needed. She was snuffling a little when she closed the door, but I knew the worst was over for her. Sometimes tears are the best way to ease a sorely tried soul; hers was on the mend. She'd be fine by the time the hot water arrived.

  I felt in want of a good wash as well, and Jericho troubled himself to provide for me, unasked. He moved more slowly than usual because of the brandy, but his hand was as steady as ever while scraping my chin clean with the razor.

  "Your beard did not grow much during the voyage," he said, wiping soap and bristles on the towel draped over his free arm. "I only had to shave you but once a week. Even then it hardly looked like half a day's growth."

  "Good heavens, really?"

  "It must have been a very deep sleep to do that."

  "Deep, indeed. But never again. Too frightening."

  He quietly agreed.

  Hardly before I knew it, he'd finished my toilet and assisted my dressing for the evening. More than half the night remained to me, and I'd expressed a desperate need for fresh air despite the perils of the streets. Perhaps in my own mind I'd been at sea for only two nights, but that was still two too many. Though over solid ground at last, I badly wanted to feel it under my feet again.

  "But this is my heavy cloak," I said as he dropped it over my shoulders.

  "It's cold now,
Mr. Jonathan, nearly December. The people here say they've had some snow and there's always a chance for more."

  "Oh."

  He put my hat in place and handed me my cane. It was so like the last time on the ship that I had a mad thought that their whole story was some sort of ugly trick. Horrid was indeed the word, this time to describe me for even thinking them capable of such a poor turn. I silently quelled ray unworthy doubts and wished him a good evening.

  "Please be mindful of the time," he said. "You've an hour more of darkness now, but there's no reason to take risks."

  True. If I got caught out at sunrise, a near-stranger again in this huge and hasty city... I gave him my solemn promise to take all care, then exacted one from him to get some rest and not wait up.

  Then I was downstairs and crossing the muddy courtyard of the inn, my stride long and free after the confines of the ship. The hour was early enough-at least for London-not more than eleven of the clock. Being used to the quiet of the country nearly half a world away, I found the continued noise and bustle of the streets hard to take in. My memories of previous visits had to do with the daytime, though; at night it was as if another, more wretched city emerged from some hidden concavity of the earth to do its business with a luckless world.

  That business was of the darker sort, as might be expected. I kept a tight hand on my cane and my head up, alert to everything around me lest some pickpocket try making a profit at my expense. They were bad enough, but almost genteel compared to their wilder cousins, the footpads. Lacking the skill for subtle thievery, such rascals found it easier to simply murder their victims in order to prevent outcry and pursuit.

  My pace brisk and eyes wide, I was well aware of the half-human debris skulking in the black shadows between the buildings. I avoided these by walking close to the street, though that put me to the risk of getting spattered by mud and worse from passing carriages and riders. Most of the thoroughfares were marked out by hundreds of white posts that separated the traffic from the pedestrians. No vehicle would dare cross that barrier, so at least I was safe from getting run over.

  I could have made myself invisible, soared high, and easily floated over these perils, but that could have meant forsaking this glimpse of the city. Dangers aside, I'd missed London and wanted to get reacquainted with every square inch of it.

  With some exceptions, of course. No man who was not drunk or insane would venture into certain streets, but there were myriad others to make up for that questionable lack. As I traveled from one to the next, I marveled anew at the lines of glass-fronted shops with their best wares displayed in an effort to tempt people inside. All were closed now, except for the taverns and coffee shops, but I had no interest in what they had to sell.

  Nor was I particularly eager to sample the goods offered by the dozens of whores I encountered along the way. Most were my age or much younger, some of these desperately proclaiming their virginal state was mine to have if I but paid for it. A few were pretty or had put on enough paint and powder to make themselves so, but I had no desire to stop and bargain for their services or by doing so make myself vulnerable to robbery should they be working with a gang of footpads. I brushed past, ignoring them for the more pressing errand I had in mind.

  I briskly crossed through one neighborhood after another, some fashionable, some so rank as to be a lost cause, and others so elegant that they seemed to have been birthed in another land altogether. It was to a particular one in this latter category that I eagerly headed.

  Though she had moved to Cambridge to live near me while I pursued my studies, Nora Jones often returned to London to enjoy its pleasures. I just as often followed her whenever possible, for those pleasures were doubled, she said, by my company. We'd take her carriage across London Bridge to Vauxhall Gardens and stroll there, listening to the "fairy music" played by an orchestra located underground. Their sweet melodies magically emerged from the foliage by means of an ingenious system of pipes. Sometimes I would take supper in an alcove of the Chinese Pavilion, and later we would content ourselves with a tour of the Grand Walk. She never tired in her admiration of the innumerable glass lamps that made the whole place as bright as day. Other outings might mean taking a box at the theater or opera or going to Vauxhall's more formal rival, Ranelagh, but always would we return to her own beautiful house and in sweet privacy partake of more carnal forms of diversion.

  To this house I now sped, holding a faint spark of hope in my heart that she might now be there.

  Since my change I'd written Oliver many times asking him to find her, but his last missive to me on his lack of success was months old. There was every chance that she could have returned in the meantime.

  Memory and anticipation are a tormenting combination. The familiarity of the streets brought her face and form back to me with the keenness of a new-sharpened knife. I found myself speaking her name under my breath as if it were a prayer, as though she could somehow hear and come to me. Gone was any shred of anger I'd harbored against her for the manner of our parting. It had been a cruel thing to try to make me forget her, cruder still to leave me with no warning or knowledge about the bequest of her blood, but I had no care for that anymore; all I cared about was seeing her again.

  My heart sank as soon as I rounded the last corner and clapped eager eyes on the structure.

  Nora was very careful to keep her homes in good order, and this one, though not at all fallen to ruin, yet exuded an unmistakable air of nonoccupation. Leaves and mud cluttered the dingy steps to the front door; its paint was in need of renewal. The brass knob and knocker were tarnished. All the windows were fast shuttered and undoubtedly locked from within.

  I could hardly have felt worse if the entire building had been a gutted wreckage.

  Slowly completing the last few paces to the door, I knocked, knowing it to be a futile gesture, but needing to do something. No one answered, nor did I hear the least sound from within. I looked 'round the street. It was empty for the moment.

  Then it melted away to a gray mist and vanished.

  I pressed hard against the door, aware of its solidity, but well able to seep past it like fog through a curtain. Grayness again, then shapes and shadows, then muted colors and patterns. I was standing in her foyer and it was very dark.

  Only a few glimmers of illumination from the diffuse winter sky got past the shutters, not enough to really see anything. Opening a window would not be an especially good idea; I saw no advantage advertising my presence to her neighbors. They might come over to investigate the intrusion, and then I'd have to answer questions.... I could also ask some, perhaps obtaining a clue to her whereabouts, but Oliver had already done that, I remembered.

  This much I could see: The furnishings were either gone or draped in dust sheets. No pictures adorned the walls, no books-no candles, either, I discovered. Not until I bumped my way to the kitchen in the very back of the house did I find one, a discarded stump no more than an inch long. Making use of my tinderbox, I got it lighted, but had no stick or dish to place it on. I made do by fixing it to the box with a drop of melted wax.

  The kitchen was not as deserted as the rest of the house. Though clean enough, there were probably still crumbs to be had for the rats and mice. I could hear them scuttling unseen inside and along the walls. Leaving them to their foraging, I went back to the central hall and hurried through the door to her bedroom.

  Emptiness, both in the room and in my heart. The walls were stripped, the curtains gone, even the bed where I'd so wonderingly lost my virginity was taken. The dust coating the floor was such as to indicate things had been in this deserted state for a very long time.

  All the other chambers were echoes of this one. Everything that was important to her-everything that was her- was missing, removed to God knows where. Oliver had said she'd left for the Continent, but he'd not mentioned just how thoroughly she had removed herself.

  Feeling ten times worse than dejected, I came down again, this time to investigate one last
room. Its door was just off the foyer and locked. Untroubled by this barrier, I passed through it; the candle in my hand flickered once, then resumed a steady flame. The tiny light revealed long-unused steps leading down into overwhelming darkness.

  Dank air, more scuttlings; filled with the kind of oppression that's born from morbid imaginings, I'd no desire to be here, but also no choice. I had to see one last thing for myself and not give in to childish trepidations about lurking ghosts. It was a dark cellar and nothing more. The place would be no different if I had a company of soldiers along all armed to the teeth. On the other hand, perhaps it would be. Not so quiet. More light.

  No key or bolt on this side of the door, so I couldn't open it and provide myself with an easy escape. Considering my ability to disappear at the least provocation, I was only being foolish. I forced myself down to the landing.