Gilded: The St. Croix Chronicles

by Cooper, Karina

  It was possible that I could be dealing with one of the London above collectors, but none ever engaged in more than a simple shaking of the merchant tree, or so I’d heard. To think of any of the three Society collectors as murderers was to laugh outright.

  I knew all three lordlings, at least in passing. One had offered for my hand in desperate bid for wealth, two pretended I didn’t exist. I could send any one of them pissing his drawers with a calculated word and minimal effort.

  None would dare risk so much as a scrape, much less life or limb, on a dispatch request. And certainly none would dare murder an earl. No, I knew who’d done that; I still shuddered if I so much as fancied the whisper of a whistle in the gloom.

  A part of me hoped he followed me now.

  A part of me craved blood, just as surely as he’d spilled it in my lap.

  I fished in my jacket pocket, fingers wrapping around the small wedge of wax paper I’d stuffed there before I left. I’d forgotten my respirator, but I’d pocketed the tar ball.

  That should have bothered me.

  Yet, rather than dwell on it, just before I stepped into the dark street, I unwrapped the sticky resin from its protective covering, bit a corner and grimaced at the first acrid taste of it on my tongue.

  I would find this man, this monster. I would start with Sweet Tom’s mysterious benefactor.

  God help anyone in my way.

  Which seemed likely, as I crossed out of the collectors’ station and picked my way to Whitechapel. It took time, more than I liked but less than I expected. Not a soul crossed my path, not working girl nor footpad. Not even the shadow of those who spent their evenings trolling the streets for coin or company.

  I floated as formless as the devil-fog that carried me adrift upon it. The opium I’d swallowed turned every sound into a symphony of the night. Where I did not see shadows, I heard voices. Where they lifted, they seemed like a hosanna. I felt uplifted and righteous; I felt guided and sublime.

  I was neither Cherry St. Croix nor Miss Black, but a woman on a path of virtue and justice.

  Opium has always done so much for me. This was simply another step taken, another benefit to a habit that had comforted me through the long nights and difficult times. And yet, as I continued to nibble corners off the tar ball, I failed to understand what would be made all the clearer soon enough: that there would, in time, be a price.

  My sanity had already begun to pay.

  The Westminster bell rang the eleven o’clock warning just as I arrived at the rail yard. It took no time at all to locate the postbox Sweet Tom had indicated, and even less time to find a place in the shadows from whence I could watch. For the next hour, I sat in the cold and damp and inhaled the bitter fog, succored myself with a bit of the Chinese tar when the cold proved too strong, and entertained myself with all the ways I would enact my revenge upon the soon-to-be-surprised collector when he came.

  As Big Ben’s sonorous chime tolled the midnight hour, I did not give up.

  As my skin turned damp and my body began to shiver, I watched the postbox with its crooked, sad little numbers and started now and again when a particularly dense weft of fog rolled past. My fingers twitched from within the gloves I’d pulled on, the index finger of one gnawed off because it’d given me something to do, and allowed for easier access to the paper in my pocket.

  My heart pounded in slow, rhythmic assurance that I, at least, was still where I expected to be, but slowly the fog thickened. Slowly, the tar shrank, little by little, until my tongue burned and my vision was beginning to blur from the hours as they passed. The one o’clock bell, and then two more.

  Pain spiked through my temples; when had I started gritting my teeth?

  By the three o’clock bell, my legs had gone numb, and my heart followed suit. I stared blankly into the yellow-black fog, my working lens highlighting the postbox in a corona that I wasn’t positive actually existed, but who was I to worry? I could see it perfectly. Waiting. Undisturbed. Unapproached.

  I should move. Return home, but I waited.

  What was there for me to find above? A house swathed in black crepe. Fanny watching me with such sorrow in her eyes.

  A dead husband.

  So I stayed. Long after the rain had started and I was soaked to the flesh, long after the five o’clock bells chimed and the fog began to lighten as a cold wind ghosted through.

  I stayed and watched an empty, lonely postbox, because I knew what it was like to feel the same.

  Sometime between one breath and the next, lost in the opium mist swaddling me, I fell asleep.

  “ ’Ey! ’Ey, what about me pay?”

  I startled awake at the shrill demand, found one foot in the air and pitched over. I had a brief glimpse of the yawning void between the gangplank of the Scarlet Philosopher and the dock it berthed beside before I collided with the dock facing. The air slammed out of me, knocking any words I’d intended right out of my head.

  “ ’Ere, now,” bellowed the captain, hurrying across the gangplank. Three large men closed the gap within seconds, their faces a blur as I struggled to stand. “You all righ’, then?”

  “Yes!” I gasped, meaning anything but. The docks swirled around me; the men leered, though when I squinted, I was sure I saw only concern and, rightfully so, anger.

  “Be careful, lad!” one barked, angry at the scare, I imagine, and the wasted time.

  “You sure?” said the captain, grabbing my arm. Did I sway? I must have. He frowned at me, his fleshy jowls wobbling. “Need me t’ whistle down some ’ackney?”

  “Gondola,” I whispered, and shrugged off his hand. I locked my knees with force of will alone, squinted to find myself atop the docks where I usually alighted after a night below.

  How did I get here?

  The men stalked off, cursing, while Captain Abercott grunted. “You didn’t pay me nuffin’,” he accused. “Cough up.”

  “ ’Course.” My throat felt dry and swollen. My mind numb, sluggish. I patted my pockets, found the empty bit of wax paper and a bit of lint. I frowned at it, certain there’d been tar left over only a few hours prior.

  I must have looked utterly pathetic, because for the first time in our acquaintance—possible even in his miserable life—Captain Abercott showed mercy. He took his hands from his rotund hips and sighed a blustery, less-than-gracious sigh. “Get on, then. Guess y’pay well ’nuff fer a spot or two. But no more!” he barked, the effect somewhat ruined by the tufted fringe poking out from around his jaunty sailor’s cap.

  I blinked. “I . . . Right. On, then.”

  “Barmy,” I heard as I turned my back on the mysterious sky ferry I didn’t remember taking.

  Barmy. Crazy, he meant, and perhaps rightfully so. The last I’d known, I’d been studying a postbox. How did I arrive at the Scarlet Philosopher?

  And what time was it?

  Late enough, I realized, that stumbling home on the walkways would net more attention than not. It took a great deal of effort, and my head began to ache fiercely, but I managed to find my way home to Chelsea, and the Cheyne Walk house festooned in the black crepe of mourning.

  I walked as if I’d never left the fog below, found my way through the familiar steps by sheer habit more than attention. I was sure I looked a fright: a street boy from below capped by dirt and soot, likely looking as if I’d more than enough of the hair of the dog even this early. Yet as I approached through the hedgerows, I heard no hue and cry, saw no sign of Fanny waiting.

  Was it possible that it was still early enough that she had not checked upon me in my mourning bed?

  The gray light and chill air wasn’t enough to tell me what time it was, and I’d not thought to bring my pocket watch. A first, for I never left home without.

  The ladder I’d left from my window was still in evidence. I darted through the yard, ready to seize the knotted rungs and begin my climb, exhausted though I was.

  “This is uncivilized!”

  Fanny’s words. Her vo
ice, tight and shrill; icy as I’d ever heard her.

  And outside?

  I stilled, glancing left to right. There were no bodies in sight, no ghosts even. I could not blame my hearing on opium dreams today.

  “Be that as it may,” came a voice I didn’t recognize, “it is all perfectly legitimate.”

  “Legitimate,” spat my once-chaperone. “ ’Tis ungodly, that’s what it is! Turning us out without so much as a warning. You have no right!”

  Turning us out?

  It took me too long, but I realized the voice came from around the house. I should have climbed the ladder, dressed myself in appropriate garb for a morning’s repast interrupted, and gone to see what the fuss was about, but I didn’t. Too much effort. Instead, I trailed across the browning grass, past the windows I marked as the sitting room, the kitchens, and to the corner where I flattened myself against the siding and strained to hear.

  “I assure you,” intoned the snooty, educated voice I decided then and there I didn’t like, “all is perfectly legal and proper. This residence belongs now to the Marquess and Marchioness Northampton to dispose of as they see fit. My lady’s orders are quite concise—”

  “Orders!” Fanny’s impassioned repetition flew in the face of every propriety she’d ever hammered into me. “This home belongs to Miss St. Croix, and no other.”

  “Upon whose marriage to the late earl, God rest him—”

  I closed my eyes.

  “—ensured that all of her estates now belong to his heirs. To wit, my Lord and Lady Northampton. She may stay in residence, as is expected of a lady in mourning, but you, Mrs. Fortescue, and all staff are hereby dismissed.”

  “But what of her well-being?”

  Yes. What of my well-being? I leaned around the corner, hugged it to study the tableau arrayed in front of the once-fashionable Cheyne Walk residence. Oh, if only society could see us now. The Mad St. Croix’s daughter, spying on her staff and once-chaperone as they faced down a perfectly legal magistrate.

  The man squaring off against the very indignant Fanny was dressed as every bureaucratic, pompous official I’d ever met. His tailor was topnotch, certainly, but the colors he chose clashed rather garishly in reds and brilliant yellows. Fanny, in black as befitting a house of mourning, stood in front of Booth, who was very stiff in his shared indignation. Tucked behind his shoulder clung Mrs. Booth, already tearfully expecting the worst.

  An empty cart waited behind the officious mouthpiece of the marchioness, surrounded by four men wearing the Northampton livery.

  “My Lady Northampton will see that Her Ladyship, the countess, receive one servant in her time of mourning,” came the nasal intonation. “She will be well cared for as is expected. Once mourning is adjourned, all living arrangements shall be revisited, with a dower house already set aside in the country for her use.” His beaklike nose lifted into the air. “Now, if you’ll excuse me—”

  I rested my forehead against the siding, squeezed my eyes shut. My throat continued to ache, a vicious burning sinking deeper into my chest with every word. Clever, vicious woman. By all rights, she had the legal authority to do exactly this. With my estate now belonging to the earl’s family, it would be thought nothing at all untoward if I vanished from Society for upward of a year.

  And then retired, the mournful widow, to a reclusive country estate somewhere. Packed away, like a meddlesome object, or a dowager long past her prime.

  I would not be easily forgiven for my lord husband’s death.

  Fair enough. I would not easily forgive myself.

  “Mr. Ashmore will require his things,” Fanny snapped. “Not all inside is yours to claim.”

  “All of Mr. Oliver Ashmore’s things shall be accounted for.” I could hear the pandering smile in every word, even if I didn’t see it. “Truly, you would not wish the countess to be bothered with such a task in her grief?”

  There was a short, charged silence.

  “All servants who leave quietly,” wheedled the man whose tone suggested he was in control and knew it, “will receive excellent letters of recommendation from the marchioness.”

  “We are not hers to let go,” Booth said, so solemnly that was left of my heart shattered into a thousand pieces at my feet. The ache intensified, until I found myself swallowing often and licking my lips.

  I needed something to take the strain off. A bit of laudanum.

  A touch more opium.

  Fanny sighed. “Then we are only guests, and she is free to turn us out. Step aside, Booth. Mrs. Booth, collect your things.”

  “But what of my lady?” demanded Booth, his dear voice now a whisper of pain inside my head.

  How easily Lady Northampton had worked this all out. The marchioness’s mercy.

  I would have none, myself.

  I squeezed my eyes shut tighter as Fanny said softly, “I will wake her and explain. Mr. Ashmore has been summoned, my dear Mrs. Booth, fret not.”

  The door opened. I heard the hinges creak ever so slightly, heard Booth’s step-thunk as he crossed the threshold.

  “Good,” sniffed the mouthpiece of the woman I was coming to loathe almost as much, I was certain, as she loathed me. “Prepare to load the cart. You! Boy!”

  I started at the shrill command, raised my head from the siding and stared at the beady eyes pinned to me.

  My fists clenched.

  “Don’t just stand there,” the magistrate demanded. “Fetch any of your other . . .” His lips twisted. “Staff,” was the best he could garner, “and help load the cart.”

  My jaw shifted. “Sir,” I managed through the lump in my throat. I stepped back into the fragile safety of the yard behind the house, looked up as I crossed under my own window.

  I saw no motion, no movement. Had Fanny garnered the courage to wake me?

  To explain that my home was no longer my own, that I would be deprived of my family and friends? Of my own beloved staff.

  My breath caught in my chest. With feet like lead, I turned to the hedges, pushed through them.

  My things remained behind. My books, my father’s items, my mother’s journal. My respirator.

  As did Fanny, Booth and his wife.

  The home I’d known for seven years, the closest I had ever come to something of my own.

  Yet I would not be a prisoner.

  The pain inside my skin became something very real. Hurting, limping now and hunched around myself, I pushed on.

  No matter what it cost me, no matter what I would give up, I would not be a prisoner. Not until I’d found the murderer; not until I’d forced him to beg for his life, the way I’d begged for the earl’s.

  I had leads to follow. A quarry to chase down. I’d begin with Sweet Tom and assure myself that he had not lied to me, and then I would follow every clue, every path, every last trail until I located the sweet tooth, the murderer.

  I had no more choices left. With an ache in my chest and my throat burning as if on fire, with my head throbbing steadily in time with every footstep, I made my way once more to the docks and awaited the return of the Scarlet Philosopher.

  In all of London, above or below, there was but one place that would take me now.

  For better or for worse, I would become the Karakash Veil’s collector. Their pet. Miss Black, fallen so far. Desperate for sanctuary, desperate for . . . Simply desperate.

  Hawke, of all people, would understand. Yet as I stared down, down, ever so far down into the depths of gloomy London below the drift, I wondered: What would be the price of that understanding?

  What wouldn’t I pay to exact my retribution?

  About the Author

  Born from the genetic mash-up of lesser royalty, storytellers, wanderers, and dreamers, KARINA COOPER was destined to be a creative genius. As a child, she moved all over the country like some kind of waifish blond gypsy and thrived in the new cultures her family settled in. When she (finally) grew up, she skipped the whole genius part and fell in love with writing because, re
ally, who doesn’t love making things up for a living?

  One part romance fanatic, one part total dork, and all imagination, she writes dark and sexy paranormal romance and historical urban fantasy. When she isn’t writing, Karina is an airship captain’s wife and Steampunk fashionista. She lives in the beautiful and rainy Pacific Northwest with a husband, four cats, two rabbits, the fantasy of a dog, and a passel of adopted gamer geeks.

  www.karinacooper.com

  Visit www.AuthorTracker.com for exclusive information on your favorite HarperCollins authors.

  By Karina Cooper

  The St. Croix Chronicles

  Gilded

  Tarnished

  Dark Mission Novels

  Sacrifice the Wicked

  All Things Wicked

  Lure of the Wicked

  Blood of the Wicked

  Dark Mission Novellas

  No Rest for the Witches

  Before the Witches

  Copyright

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously and are not to be construed as real. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, organizations, or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

  GILDED. Copyright © 2013 by Karina Cooper. All rights reserved under International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions. By payment of the required fees, you have been granted the nonexclusive, nontransferable right to access and read the text of this e-book on screen. No part of this text may be reproduced, transmitted, downloaded, decompiled, reverse-engineered, or stored in or introduced into any information storage and retrieval system, in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereinafter invented, without the express written permission of HarperCollins e-books.

  EPub Edition JANUARY 2013 ISBN: 9780062127679

  Print Edition ISBN: 9780062127662

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