Church steeples rose from the city fogs like ship masts stripped of their crosspieces. Some were tall and thin, others short and thin, and overtopping them all in terms of magnificence was the great dome of St. Paul's. It was this monument in particular that I used as a landmark to guide me toward the one house I sought in the smoky murks below.
Upon leaving the inn, I lost no time in quitting a solid form in order to float high and let the wind carry me over street and rooftop alike. And mansion and hovel did look alike at first, because of the thick air pouring from the city's countless chimneys. The limitation this form put on my vision added to the illusion, and I'd despaired of reaching my goal until spying the dome. With this friendly milepost fixed in my mind, I varied my direction, wafting along at a considerable pace, far faster than I could have accomplished even on horseback. I was free of the confusing turns otherwise necessary to the navigation of London, able to hold a straight line right across the clustered buildings and trees.
Free was I also of the squalor and danger of the streets, though I was not immune to risk. Anyone chancing to look up or peer from his window at the wrong time might see ray ghostly form soaring past, but I trusted that the miserable weather would avert such a possibility. What windows I saw were firmly shuttered, and any denizens out at this hour were likely to be in a state of inebriation. Then might the sight of a ghost be explained away as being a bottle-inspired phantasm and easily discounted.
The time and distance passed without incident until I reached a recognizable neighborhood, though I could not be sure from this lofty angle. To be certain, I materialized on the roof of one of the buildings for a good scout around.
The house I wanted was but a hundred yards distant. I felt quite absurdly pleased at this accurate bit of navigation, but did not long indulge myself in congratulation. The coal dust was thick on my perch, and needle sharp sleet had begun to fall in earnest. Fixing my eye on one window from the many overlooking the street, I made myself light and pushed toward it. Upon arrival, the glass panes proved to be only a minor check. Once fully incorporeal I had but to press forward a little more until their cold brittle barrier was behind me, and I floated free in the still air of the room beyond.
By slow degrees I resumed form, alert to the least movement so as to vanish again if necessary. But nothing moved, not even when I was fully solid and listening with all my attention.
Quite a lot came to me-the small shiftings of the structure itself, the hiss and pop of fires in other rooms, tardy servants finishing their final labors for the night-but I discounted all for the sound of soft breathing very close by. Quietly pulling back the window curtains to avail myself of the outside light that allowed me to see so well in an otherwise pitchy night, I discerned a shape huddled beneath the blankets of a large bed. From the size, it was a man, and he was alone. As I softly came closer, I recognized the wan and wasted features of Tony Warburton.
He was older, of course, but I hadn't expected him to have aged quite so much in the last four years. I hoped that it was but a trick of the pale light that grayed his hair and put so many lines on his slack face.
But no matter. I could not allow myself to feel sorry for him, any more than I could have compassion for Caroline. But for the chances of fate both of them would have murdered me and others in their madness. Another kind of madness had visited them, overwhelmed them, left them in the care of others with more kindness of heart than I could summon. Though I sponsored Caroline's care with quarterly bequests of money, I did so only because it was expected of me. I'd have sooner provided for a starving dog in the gutter than succor one of the monsters who had tried to murder Elizabeth.
Enough of that, old lad, I thought. Put away your anger or you'll get nothing done here.
I gently shook Warburton's shoulder, calling his name.
His sleep must have been very light. His eyes opened right away and looked without curiosity at this post-midnight intruder. He gave not the least start or any hint that he might shout for help. That was no small relief. I'd been prepared for a violent reaction and was most grateful that he'd chosen to be quiescent.
"Do you remember me, Tony?" I kept my voice low, putting on the manner I used when calming a restive horse.
He nodded after a moment.
"I have to talk to you."
Without a word he slowly sat up, slipped from his bed, and reached toward the bell cord hanging next to it.
I threw my hand out to catch his. "No, no. Don't do that."
"No tea?" he asked. The expression he wore had a kind of infantile innocence, and on a face as aged as his, it was a terrible thing to see.
"No, thank you," I managed to get out. "Let's just sit down a moment."
He removed himself to a chair before the fireplace and settled in as though nothing at all were amiss. The room must have been cold after the warmth of the bed; I noticed gooseftesh on the bare legs emerging from his nightshirt, but he gave no complaint or sign of discomfort. The fire had been banked for the night; I stirred it up again and added more coal.
"Is that better?" I asked as the heat began to build.
No answer. He wasn't even looking at me. His eyes had wandered elsewhere, as though he were alone.
"Tony?"
"What?" Same fiat voice. I recalled how animated he'd once been.
"Do you remember Nora Jones?"
He blinked once. Twice. Nodded.
"Where is she?"
He drew his right hand up to his chest, cradling and rubbing the crooked wrist with his left. It had never healed properly since that awful night of his attack on myself and Nora.
"Nora has come to visit you, has she not?"
His eyes wandered first to the door, then to the window. He had to turn slightly in his chair to see.
"She's visited you in the late hours? Coming through the window?"
A slow nod. He continued to stare at the window and something like hope flickered over his face. "Nora?"
"When was she last here?" I had to repeat this question several times, after first getting his attention.
"Don't know," he said. "A long time."
A subjective judgment, that. God knows what he meant by it. "Was it this week? This month?"
"A long time," he said mournfully. Then his face sharpened and he sat up a little straighten A spark of his old manner and mind flared in his eyes. "She doesn't love you. She loves me. I'm the one she cares for. No one else."
"Where is she?"
"Only me."
"Where, Tony? Where is she?"
"Me."
I gave up for the moment and paced the room. Should I attempt to influence him? Might it not upset whatever progress Nora had made for his recovery? Would it even work?
One way to find out.
I knelt before him, got his attention, and tried to force my will upon him. We were silent for a time, then he turned away to look at the fire. I might as well have tried to grasp its smoke as influence Tony.
"Is she even in England?" I demanded, not bothering to keep my voice low.
He shrugged.
"But she's been here. Has she been here since your return from Italy?"
Nothing.
"Tony, have you seen her since Italy?"
He blinked several times. "She... was ill."
"What do you mean? How was she ill?"
A shrug.
"Tell me!" I held his shoulders and shook him. "What illness?"
His head wobbled, but he would or could not answer.
I broke away, flooded with rage and the futile, icy emptiness of worry. Warburton was focused full upon me, his mouth set and hard as though with anger, but none of it reached his eyes. He reached forth with his left hand, and his fingers dragged at my neckcloth. I started to push him away, but he was swift and had the knot open in an instant. Then he pulled the cloth down to reveal my neck. Unresisting now, I let him have a close look. It was the first sign of interest he'd shown in me.
He smiled, twice
tapping a spot under my right ear. "There. Told you. She doesn't love you. Only me. Now look you upon the marks of her love." He craned his head from one side to another to show his own bared throat. "See? There and there. You see how she loves. I'm the only one."
His skin was wholly innocent of any mark or scar.
He continued smiling. "The only one. Me."
The smile of a contented and happy man.
A man in love.
Elizabeth looked up from the household records book she'd been grimacing over to regard me with an equal sobriety. "Is it our new surroundings or is something else plaguing your spirits?"
"You know it's the same trouble as before." "I was hoping for a change, little brother."
"Sorry I can't accommodate you," I snapped, launching from my chair to stalk from Oliver's parlor.
"Jonathan!"
I stopped just at the door, back to her. "What?"
"You are-"
Anticipating her, I snarled, "What? A rude and testy ass?"
"If that's what you think of yourself, then yes. You're going through this torture for nothing, and by that you're putting the rest of us through it as well, which is hardly considerate."
She was entirely right; since my frustrating interview with Warburton last night, I'd been in the foulest of moods. Not even the move from the inn to the comforts of Oliver's big house had lifted my black spirits to any degree. Oliver had noticed my distraction, but had received only a cool rebuff from me when he made inquiry about it. I had spoken to Elizabeth about what I'd done-briefly-so she knew something of the reason for my boorishness. She also wasn't about to excuse it. Unfortunately, I was still held fast in its grip and was perversely loath to escape.
"Then what am I supposed to do? Act as though nothing was wrong?"
"Use the mind God gave you to understand that you can't do anything about it right now. Oliver and all his friends are doing their best. If Miss Jones is in England, they'll find her for you."
And if she was not in England or lying ill and dying or even dead? I turned to thrust these bitter questions at her, but never got that far. One look at Elizabeth's face and the words withered on my tongue. She sat braced in her chair as though for a storm, her expression as grim and guarded as it had ever been in the days following Norwood's death. By that I saw the extent of my selfishness. The hot anger I'd harbored in my heart now seemed to cool and drain away. My fists relaxed into mere hands and I tentatively raised, then dropped them.
"Forgive me. I've been a perfect fool. A block. A clot. A toad."
Her mouth twitched. With amusement perhaps? "I'll not disagree with you. Are you finished?"
"With my penance?"
"With the behavior that led you to it."
"I hope so. But what am I to do?" I repeated, wincing at the childish tone invading my voice. "To wait and wait and wait like this will soon make me as mad as Warburton."
She patiently listened as I poured out my distress for the situation, only occasionally putting forth a question to clarify a point. Most of my mind had focused upon the one truly worrisome aspect of the whole business: that Nora had fallen ill.
"What could it be?" I asked, full knowing that Elizabeth had no more answer than I'd been able to provide for myself.
"Anything," she said unhelpfully. "But when was the last time you were sick?"
"On the crossing, of course."
"And since your change, nothing. Not even a chill after that time you were buried all day in the snow. And remember how everyone in the house was abed with that catarrh last spring? You were the only one who did not suffer from it. Not natural was what poor Dr. Beldon said, so I am inclined to connect your healthful escape to your condition. Perhaps it's because you don't breathe all the time that you are less likely to succumb to the noxious vapors of illness."
"Meaning that Nora could be just as hardy?"
"Yes, and you might also consider that Mr. Warburton may have last seen Nora when they were crossing the Channel. To him she might appear to be very poorly, if her reaction to sea travel is anything like yours. She could have even told him she was ill so as to gracefully quit his company for some reason."
"It's possible. But Tony's mother said she hadn't seen Nora since Italy."
"There is that, but Nora could have wished to cross incognito to avoid questions on her whereabouts during the day. However, we are straying much too far into speculation. All I intended was to provide you with some comforting alternatives to the dark thoughts that have kept you company all this time."
"I do appreciate it, Sister. Truly I do." God, why hadn't
I talked to her before like this? Like the anger, my worries and fears were draining away, but not all, alas. A goodly sized block still remained impervious to Elizabeth's logic, though it was of a size I could manage. "I've been such an oaf. I'm very sorry for-"
She waved a hand. "Oh, never mind. Just assure me that you're back to being your own self again. And Oliver, too. The dear fellow thinks you're angry at him for some reason."
"I'd better go make amends. Is he home yet? Where is he?"
"Gone to his consulting room with the day's post."
"Right, I'll just-"
Before I could do more than even take a step in the door's direction, it burst open. Oliver strode in, face flushed and jaw set. He had a somewhat crumpled piece of paper in one nervous hand.
"Oliver, I've been uncommonly rude to you lately and I-"
"Oh, bother that," he said dismissively. "You're allowed to be peevish around here, it's certainly my natural state."
"You are not."
"Well, I am now and with good reason. We're in for it, Cousins," he announced. "Prepare yourselves for the worst."
"What is it? The Bolyns haven't canceled their party, have they?"
We had hardly been in town long enough to know what to do with ourselves, when the festive Bolyn tribe had yesterday sent along our invitation to their annual masqued ball. It had been the one bright point for me in my self-imposed darkness, for it was at one of their past events where I'd first met Nora. I had a pale hope that she might be in attendance at this coming revel.
"No, nothing like that," he answered.
"More war news?" I'd thought we'd left behind the conflicts of that wretched disturbance forever.
"Oh, no, it's much worse." He shook the paper in his hand, which I perceived to be a letter. "Mother has sent us a formal summons for an audience at Fonteyn House. We dare not ignore it."
Elizabeth's face fell, and I mirrored her reaction.
"It was an inevitability," he pronounced with a morbid air. "She'll want to look the both of you over and pass judgment down like Grandfather Fonteyn used to do."
"I'm sure we can survive it," said Elizabeth.
"God, but I wish I had your optimism, Coz."
"Is she really that bad?"
Oliver's mobile features gave ample evidence of his struggle to provide an accurate answer. "Yes," he finally concluded, nearly choking.
She looked at me. I nodded a quick and unhappy agreement. "When are we expected?" I asked.
"At two o'clock tomorrow. God, she'll want us to stay for dinner." He was groaning, actually groaning, at the prospect. Not without good cause, though.
I frowned, but for a somewhat different cause. "Ridiculous! I've other business to occupy me then and so do you. We'll have to change the time."
Oliver's mouth flapped. "But we couldn't possibly-"
"Of course we can. You are a most busy physician with many important calls to make that day. I have my own errands, and Elizabeth is only just getting the house organized and requires that time as much as we do to accomplish what's needed. Why should we interrupt ourselves and all our important work to accommodate the whims of one disagreeable person? Good heavens, she didn't even have the courtesy to ask first if we were even free to attend the engagement."
Elizabeth's eyes were a little wide, but she continued to listen, obviously interested to see wh
at other nonsense I could spout. Full in the path of this wave, Oliver closed his mouth. His expression might well have belonged to a damned soul who had unexpectedly been offered an open door out of hell and a fast horse. All he needed was an additional push to get him moving in the right direction.
So I pushed. Lightly, though. "Just send 'round a note to tell her it will have to be six o'clock instead. That way we can avoid the torture of eating with her and make our escape well before supper." Desperation to avoid anything to do with daylight had inspired me mightily.
P N Elrod - Barrett 3 - Death Masque Page 13
