Rise of the Arcane Fire (The Secret Order)

by Bailey, Kristin

  His gaze dropped to the floor as he covered my hand with his. “I thought it was over,” he whispered. “I thought we would finally be free of all this.”

  I nodded, but something about his words troubled me. I didn’t want to feel hunted at every turn, but I wondered what he meant by “free.” Did he mean free to wed? I had to admit a large part of me desperately wanted to be Will’s wife, but there was another part of me. It was like a secret hunger I couldn’t seem to fill. I didn’t wish to be free of the Amusementists.

  Not yet.

  I had too much I needed to know. I longed to find my grandfather. I wanted to know more about the legacy of my family and the things they had helped create. I wanted to be swept away by the wonder and amazement of visions come to life through the skill and craftsmanship of Europe’s most brilliant minds. I felt stuck in a strange dream, one that tended to become a nightmare, but I didn’t want to wake.

  CHAPTER THREE

  AND SO, ONLY TWO DAYS later, I found myself on the single most unnerving carriage ride of my life. Which was saying quite a lot, considering some of my past experiences in a coach.

  When Will told me that Oliver had invited me to attend the Gathering of the Order, I had assumed that the duke would accompany me. Instead he had sent around his coach with a note saying that he and Will had special business to attend to prior to the meeting, and that I should meet them there.

  There were only three problems with this arrangement. The first was that I had absolutely no inkling where I was going. As the neat and affluent streets of Mayfair gave way to the crowded lanes of the heart of London, my apprehension grew. Wide lanes turned into narrow twisting streets as the buildings somehow crowded even closer, their shadowed windows like leering eyes. With the heavy smoke of coal fires, and the stench of human filth, this was not the London I knew. It was another world entirely.

  The second problem had everything to do with the lessons taught me by my Swiss mother. Punctuality was paramount, as she liked to say. An overturned cabbage cart had caught Oliver’s driver in a crush of traffic, which meant I was late. It was not the first impression that I had wished to present to the Order. I needed the Amusementists to listen to me, not discount me as an irresponsible young girl.

  The third reason for my discomfiture was obvious. The bomb was on the seat directly across from me.

  I crossed my ankles beneath the crisp, dark blue fabric of my new dress. Wishing to look mature and respectable in front of the Order, I had tightly braided my hair and knotted it at my nape. My head ached from my severe hairstyle, and the fabric of my dress swallowed my arms. The lace around the collar itched where it touched my skin, and I tried not to wriggle as I stared at the ominous cube on the bench opposite.

  The triggering mechanism still hung limply from the net of wire Will and I had used to trap it, but the incendiary orb remained intact. I had no idea how stable or—more important—unstable the powder was, nor what sort of impact could potentially set it off.

  The carriage wheel bumped, nearly throwing me from my seat. I gasped as I caught the bomb and held it steady on the plush bench. The cold frame cut into my shaking palms.

  I pushed the bomb against the padded back of the seat, then quickly returned to my position, stiffly holding my hands in my lap to keep from gripping my skirts and putting creases in them. Only then did I dare to breathe.

  With each passing moment my nerves grew worse. The carriage ride was either lasting half my life or taking half my life as my fear slowly killed me. Finally the wheels slowed and the footman opened the door. I lifted the bomb, struggling to find a way to hold the thing that would prevent me from dropping it and still give me a hand to hold my skirts so I didn’t trip and throw myself and the blasted thing out onto the street. A fine mess that would make. Tucking the bomb under my arm like a simple parcel, I allowed the footman to help me down.

  I found myself on the worn stone steps of an old monastery. It rose up in the dark before me, its heavy stone walls towering into the sky. Torches burned along the walls, leaving trails of black soot over the weathered stone.

  The foul smell of the Thames mingled with the scent of torches and old stone. We had to be close to the docks, perhaps in the vicinity of the Tower. For a moment I wondered how long the monastery had stood, through fire, through war, as the city of London had grown up around it. Now it only had its formidable walls to keep out a world that, thankfully, seemed content to ignore it completely.

  I ascended the steps, feeling as if I were entering the Tower itself. The heavy wooden doors were closed. I wondered if I was even in the right place. The driver could have been mistaken.

  I struggled to lift the heavy iron knocker with my free hand. It was easily the size of my head and was set in a fearsome lion’s jaws.

  Shifting the bomb, I waited. I had spent hours thinking on what I should say once I was here. My thoughts had turned in my head, as intricate and guarded as the gears in the casing of the bomb. Now that I was here, my thoughts jammed, leaving my mind a blank canvas for the insidious whispers of my own doubt. That’s when I noticed a small spiraling motif etched into the casing of the bomb near the corner. It looked a bit like a ram’s horn, or perhaps a snail’s shell.

  The door to the monastery opened only a crack. “What is your business here?”

  I had been so engrossed in the etching that I startled, then stumbled over my words. “I’m Margaret Anne Whitlock,” I managed to say, though I must have sounded as if I’d had half a bottle of sherry.

  The crack widened, but only enough to allow me to see the appraising look of a man with an impressively cut mustache that swept down along the sides of his heavy mouth and met with his sideburns. He peered at me through a monocle. “It has been a lovely summer in the garden,” he said. I would have dismissed his words as nonsense, but Oliver had already given me the password.

  “Only when the sun shines behind the iris,” I replied.

  He seemed uncertain, as if he were considering turning me away, even though I knew I had uttered the right phrase. I had no recourse should he choose to refuse me entrance. Finally he announced, “Come in, Miss Whitlock.” The door opened and I stepped inside.

  With my eyes downcast, partially due to the embarrassment of arriving late and partially to watch my step on the old stone, the first thing I noticed was light. Hundreds of patches of colored light swirled on the polished marble floor. They moved as if they were in a kaleidoscope, constantly changing patterns and shapes.

  I took a hesitant step forward into the colors, as though they were a pool of water and I didn’t dare disturb the surface. A glint of bright light drew my attention upward.

  I nearly dropped the bomb in my awe.

  Towering before me was a golden figure, as brilliant and terrible as an angel of heaven. Seamless joints formed the feminine body in golden armor. She held a shining silver sword aloft. Black glass eyes watched me from her serene face, and I knew without a doubt those eyes could see me.

  On her forearm perched an owl. It turned its head to stare at me with a second set of enormous black eyes. Gears shone through its feathers, glittering as it clacked its brass beak.

  Two towering panels of stained glass on either side of the statue seemed to break apart as the glass twisted and moved along a web of brass tracks, only to re-form into a new image. Lanterns shone behind the glass, bathing the floor and walls in ever-shifting light.

  Above the head of the figure, the Amusementist seal glittered. The symbol was now so familiar to me, sometimes I could see it even as I closed my eyes. A strange flower with three teardrop petals nestled in a perfect circle, with three sharp spires radiating out from the junctures. In the center a tiny gear marked the heart of the flower. Beneath scrolled three words: Ex scientia pulchritudo.

  If only I had paid more attention to my Latin.

  The man who had let me in stepped past me and addressed the owl. “Miss Whitlock has arrived. She had the password.”

  “
Very well.” I nearly jumped out of my skin when a voice came from the beak of the bird. “The Gathering is in progress. Escort her to the main hall.”

  “This way,” the man said, and I fell into step behind him. I couldn’t seem to tear my gaze from the statue or the stained glass. The owl twisted his head to watch me, and blinked. I quickly snapped my attention to the man I was supposed to follow, as we passed through a narrow corridor.

  We climbed a set of stairs, and out of a narrow window I caught a glimpse of a wide courtyard surrounded by a high wall. For a moment I wondered how large and complex the monastery was, or what might be hidden within it.

  The man with the monocle opened a door, and we entered at the back corner of a large assembly chamber. In front of us was a straight walkway that ended with a door on the far side. To the left the room dropped down at least twenty feet. Staircases divided tiers of seats down to the floor of the hall.

  On the opposite side of the large chamber, an identical rise of seats led up to a second walkway along the far wall. It created a dramatic gallery, where everyone’s focus seemed to be riveted to the floor below.

  The benches were filled with men in black coats with dark red waistcoats. They murmured among themselves as my escort motioned for me to take an empty seat high in the back corner. He continued down the steps and sat by the rail partitioning the gallery of seats from the floor of the hall.

  I scanned the unfamiliar faces of the men. There were easily more than one hundred, some with dark skin and foreign features. There were even two or three who wore headdresses.

  It was as if the entire world had gathered here, and yet my grandfather was nowhere to be found. I did glimpse Oliver sitting in the second row of seats on the other side of the chamber. He spoke to Will, who was sitting next to him.

  Relieved to spy some familiar faces, I focused on them as a hunched man with thin silver hair and a gaunt face stretched by age stepped up behind a large podium on the floor of the hall. His bushy eyebrows twitched as he clanged a metal baton against an oddly shaped bell.

  The room quieted.

  When he spoke, his voice was thin and reedy. I had to strain to hear him, until he moved closer to the contraption on the podium. Suddenly his voice filled the chamber, coming from all corners, much louder than a single man could speak.

  “It is settled, then. We shall no longer condone collaborative experimentation without approval of the council. Furthermore, rogue invention of any device that has purpose or function beyond what has been previously approved by the council shall be forbidden,” he announced.

  A thin man stood. He had a sharp-looking beard and dark blond hair slicked back. It gave him an air of slight superiority that matched the aloof expression on his face. “I must protest once again. Such an action taken out of fear will greatly diminish the potential for innovation from our Order.”

  “If an idea has worth, then such worth will be determined by the council,” the man at the podium said. “The matter has been voted upon and is settled. Now, if we are agreed that the next sanctioned Amusement shall be an automaton ball, we may open the floor. All in favor of an automaton ball to celebrate the rebirth of our Order?”

  The room erupted in “Aye.”

  “All opposed.”

  There was no response. The leader clanged the bell again. “So be it. Anton and Vladimir will arrange the teams. The floor is now open for new business.”

  At that point I tried not to fidget in my seat. I watched Will, who looked as stoic as ever, but I could tell he was nervous too. He was gripping the arms of his chair and didn’t look up as five different men stood to nominate their sons for apprenticeships. Immediately, as if it were an expected formality, another would second the nomination and the man would be seated.

  Finally Oliver stood. My pride in Will mingled with anticipation as Oliver announced in a clear voice, “I wish to nominate my man, Guild member William MacDonald, for an apprenticeship. He already proved his loyalty and worth during the ordeal this spring and would honor the Order. Will anyone second him?”

  Low murmurs rumbled through the room. I held my breath, squeezing my hands tighter on the cold metal frame in my lap. I suddenly remembered that the cube in my lap was a bomb, and flinched. I patted it as if it were a dog, and realized I had lost all sense completely.

  Someone had to second Will. It would ruin everything if they didn’t.

  The voices gave way to an uncomfortable silence.

  Finally another man stood, a big, burly man with an unshaven face and shaggy black hair that seemed to have grown from lack of grooming instead of intent. He wore a red-and-blue kilt, and a black tam with a white rosette slanted over his thick hair. “MacDonald, eh?”

  Will looked up at him. They seemed to appraise one another.

  “He seems a stout young lad. I’d like to offer him a position at the Foundry.” The Scot continued to stand. Several of the old men nodded as if that were the sensible thing to do. It wasn’t sensible at all. Will hadn’t been to Scotland since he was six! He didn’t belong there.

  My heart thundered to life as I felt burning heat rush into my face. The Foundry was the ironworks and smithy for the entire Order. Every part, every gear the Amusementists needed for their inventions came from the Foundry. It was filled with a horde of half-wild ex-Jacobite descendants who needed employment instead of persecution after the defeat at Culloden. In exchange for secrecy the Amusementists had given the Scots freedom to keep their clans and wear their plaid, and a strange but effective partnership had been born.

  In any other regard I found the idea of the Foundry fascinating, but it was located in the Highlands. If no one else spoke to second the apprenticeship to the Order, Will would leave London. What would that do to us? He couldn’t possibly leave. Not now. We were so close to having a future together.

  It wasn’t right to have every hope and dream of my heart smashed to pieces because these damn old Englishmen heard the name MacDonald and figured they could put one more bloody Scot back in his place at the Foundry, instead of nominating him to become an equal here in London.

  I closed my eyes and prayed fervently for someone else, anyone else, to see Will’s potential. I wanted to stand and protest on Will’s behalf. Hell, I wanted Will to stand and protest on his own behalf. Our future was at stake. I opened my eyes and stared at the men, but no one was willing to stand.

  “I’ll second him,” a ginger-haired man stated. He couldn’t have been much older than Oliver. My relief made me dizzy as I watched the man give a friendly nod to Oliver.

  “Then it is settled. All future apprentices have three days to commit to the Academy. Is there anyone who has further business?”

  I waited for Oliver to speak, but he was saying something to Will. The man at the podium lifted his bar, and I panicked. I stood.

  “I have,” I said. Somehow my voice carried over the entire assembly.

  The room fell silent, and hundreds of eyes turned to me.

  Oliver looked at me in shock, then stood quickly. “May I present Miss Margaret Whitlock. She wishes to address the Order concerning the disappearance of her grandfather Henry.”

  I held my chin high and descended the steps until I found myself on the assembly floor, not thirty feet from the podium.

  A bald old man with overly large ears stood, his face turning a blotchy red.

  “This is entirely improper!” he blustered, his heavy jowls flapping. “What business could a little girl possibly have that is worth casting off almost three hundred years of dignity and tradition? If she has a concern, she should bring it to your mother, Oliver, or any of the other Society matrons. She does not belong here.”

  My grip on the bomb tightened as I stiffened and forced myself to look straight ahead at the podium. I would not acknowledge him. If I looked at him, I feared my humiliation and rage would overtake my good sense and I’d say something his floppy ears would not soon forget.

  Oliver shouted, “Now see here. Miss Whit
lock is the last of the Whitlock and Reichlin lines, and out of respect for what her family has done for this Order, we should allow her to speak.”

  The voices grew like a great tide, though I heard a call of “Hear, hear!” from the back of the assembly.

  I advanced, feeling like a soldier under fire. With my head held high I tried to keep my face serene, though everything within me was in turmoil. The bomb felt heavy and awkward in my hands, but I reached the podium.

  The leader of the assembly stared at me quizzically as I set the bomb down. The boom of the casing hitting the podium echoed through the voice projection machine.

  The Amusementists quieted.

  “This is a bomb,” I declared as loudly and as clearly as I could while looking the leader of the Order in the eye. “It is also the second attempt on my life.” I turned from the podium to face the stunned assembly. “I have proof that my grandfather is still alive. The fact that he has not returned leads me to believe he is in some sort of danger. If anyone knows where he may have gone, whom he may have trusted, or the identity of one who would do him harm, I would greatly appreciate speaking with you.”

  Once again the voices rose, but I slid my gaze over the assembly in spite of them. My knees trembled beneath my skirts, and I had to clench my hands in front of me to keep from wringing them. “Please help me find my grandfather. He is one of you, and he needs your aid.”

  The Amusementists leaned heads together, fervently speaking to one another. I looked over at Will, and he gave me an encouraging nod.

  The leader inspected the bomb. “This is most disturbing. It is against the laws of our Order to create a weapon such as this. Do you have any suspicion of who may have created it?”

  I turned to him. “I believe it was a man with a clockwork mask embedded into his face.”

  This time, amid the rumbling voices, I caught hints of patronizing laughter. It made me want to scream. This was not some game, and I was not a child having foolish nightmares. This was real. My life was at stake, and clearly they wished for me to go and discuss it with a bunch of Society women over tea.