Surely, I was right about one simple duck egg.
Chapter Five
If Ben Franklin had told me that the bath had been carved out of a Roman villa from two thousand years ago and deposited in this quaint little colonial house, I would have believed him. Instead, he’d told me a tale worthy of the bard himself.
The bathroom had only one door and no windows. It existed at the center of the house, as its heart. Tiles covered the floor, ceiling, and walls. Each one was a tiny azure scale, like a piece of the ocean frozen in time, except for a mosaic of some watery god on the ceiling that reminded me of Neptune, though I knew it could not be him. I'd never seen tiles like them anywhere in my travels. Ben claimed they'd come from an old man in gray robes, a traveling merchant with a donkey pulling his wagon and the donkey wore a hat with wings on it. It was a ridiculous story that had come with a wink and a smile.
The walls of the bath came up to my chest, and stairs led one up and over the walls to descend luxuriously into its depths. A multitude of brass pipes stuck from the wall like the pipe organ in Notre Dame, each one with its own knob, each knob formed into a unique shape. In the time that I'd lived here, I'd used eleven of the eighteen knobs. Ben had warned me not to turn the last one, the one shaped like a star, and tempted as I was, I'd followed his advice thus far.
Water flowed into the space with thundering grace. Standing outside the bath, peeling the clothes from my body, I shivered in anticipation of stepping into its warm embrace. Steam lifted from the surface of the rising water in spritely eddies and bursts of pale tendrils.
Naked, I climbed over the stairs, running my hand along the tiled ceiling slick with moisture as I went. With a pointed toe, I tested the water, finding it warm, but not scalding. Stepping in as slowly as possible, I let the water caress my skin, the surface tension forming a slight depression around my calves, as I succumbed to its embrace.
When the water passed my midsection, I gasped slightly. The surface of the water tickled my belly button as I waded towards the pipes. Turning a handle shaped like a flower brought a surge from the leftmost pipe and then my nose was nearly overwhelmed with the scent of jasmine.
I let the corners of my lips tug upward, content that the flower shaped handle had not disappointed. Each time I turned it, I didn't know what flower I would smell. Mostly, it brought pleasing scents like lavender or lilac. Jasmine was a common visitor to my bath. But once last year, I'd been subjected to the carob flower and had to drain the bath. My skin had absorbed enough of the carob essence that I'd stayed in my house until the next day, when I could return to the bath.
I turned a different handle, this time one that looked like the letter S placed on top of its twin, and released a kelp-like substance. The kelp-but-not-kelp swirled through the bath, undulating like eels, wrapping around my legs and giving brief squeezes before releasing. They felt like silken ribbons massaging my limbs. The first time I'd turned the S-shaped handle, I'd crawled out of the bath in horror. Eventually, they'd dissolved into the water, and after refilling the tub, I tried pulling one out, only to have it melt through my fingers. Now, I greeted the kelp-things with the anticipation of a familiar lover.
I prepared to slide into the water up to my neck when I heard the cellar door click and wheeze open. With a quick spin of the round handle, I stopped the water from falling into the bath.
The silence after the last drip was painful. Something moved down the steps. The patient swish-swish of fabric moving against itself filled my ears. I had heard neither the breaking of the front door, or a smashing of glass, so entry into my house confused me. The only other person who had the code for the front door was Ben, and I was certain it was not him sneaking down my stairs.
With water sluicing off my naked body, I stepped out of the bath, cringing at each deafening drip of water. Grabbing a towel I'd left folded near the tiled steps, I wrapped it around my body and went to investigate.
The front door was open. It was neither broken nor circumvented. Ben Franklin's name leapt to my lips, though I swallowed it back before I gave it voice. My lips parted a second time when I heard a sound coming from the cellar, a sound that went right past my ears and into my chest like a cold knife.
The air condensed around my body, constricting it until I breathed in shallow breaths. My muscles twitched like a condemned man's feet at the end of a long rope.
The loaded pistol on the oaken end table was a mile away. I took a hundred steps across the room, until the heavy pearl grip was in my hand. My rapier was behind the door. I advanced on the cellar door with my weapons held before me like dual shields.
The door stood open. The lantern at the bottom of the stairs choked on greasy, black smoke that stained the glass, fighting to get out. The whirling piston on the steam engine chugged through its paces, oblivious to whatever was down there.
Logically, the only person who could have entered the house without breaking the door was Ben Franklin. Only he and I knew the code, but I also knew he would never come in without permission, and he certainly wouldn't rush downstairs while the water ran in the bathroom.
I heard the sound a second time. Except this time it registered in my eardrums like bones breaking. I heard a voice in that rattling noise, as if each snap of femur and vertebrae were a word.
Whatever was in the cellar was standing near my alchemy table. Without knowing why, I knew it had picked up the duck egg.
When the first slap of boot against stone echoed up like the scattering of dark wings, I thought I'd have time to aim. The figure moved like a marionette, limbs twitching through each motion, except impossibly quick, a flash and it was halfway up the stairs.
The pistol shot sent a flash of light in my eyes. The hiss of water spray followed. The man, and I knew it was a man by the battle-worn hussar coat he wore, avoided my outstretched rapier and slammed into me.
I flew against the far wall, the oaken end table breaking upon impact and tearing a chunk out of my shoulder, the towel undone by violence. Miraculously, I still held the rapier, though I was too stunned to use it.
This man—this creature, I hastily revised based on its unnatural movement–stood in the center of my room, his neck bent so his head didn't bump against the ceiling. The coat looked like something stolen from a battlefield, old blood marring the once bright yellow threads, turning them rust brown. It was open, its buttons long lost, or burst when the coat was ripped from its previous owner. Beneath the dingy black hussar jacket was a coat of mail, not silvery, but pale and translucent like old teeth. His gaunt face contained a shadowy darkness that I could not penetrate, and in his long curled fingers, he held the duck egg as if it were a priceless jewel.
I climbed unsteadily to my feet, rapier in hand. It was one thing to do battle with a creature that moved with such alacrity as it had, but to do so naked seemed worse. Though I would never have believed it had you told me beforehand, it was not fear that coursed through my veins like molten lead. It was embarrassment. Yet I did not succumb to foolishness, though my cheeks warmed as if I stood by a hot, winter fire.
I held the sword out in prima guardie and prepared to defend myself, keeping my right hand at my hip in proper form. My feet stood firm against the wooden floor, while blood ran down my shoulder from the wound.
He coiled against the ceiling, preparing to strike from above like a viper at a trapped mouse. His lips peeled back against his yellowed teeth, and I heard that rattle voice grind out of his mouth.
I was certain that I would die there and prepared to strike back like a bee losing its stinger upon death, when a faint hiss made the bony hussar react as if he'd been slapped with a hot iron. A second hiss curled his shoulders inward, and I caught a wisp of white smoke coming from the duck egg, where I'd swabbed on the lye.
The bony hussar cradled the egg within his hands, forming a cage around it, and burst out the front door like an arrow shot from a bow.
With the creature gone, I stumbled to the door and slammed it, check
ing twice to make sure I'd triggered the lock. Then the shock of the encounter faded and the pain from being thrown across the room roared back into my head like a train.
Hunched over, I found the towel and pressed it against the gaping wound on my shoulder. Every movement sent a shard of pain into my head. I collapsed against the wall, clutching the bloody towel, and sank my head against my knees.
The sound of water spraying returned to my ears, so I staggered to my feet and moved to the cellar door. I'd missed the shot and hit the pipe that pumped water to the bath. A pool of water stretched across the floor. I turned the lever, silencing the hiss of water spray, and switched off the steam engine.
The ticking of cooling brass pipes accompanied me as I climbed back up to my front room. I was dizzy from the bath and battle. I wanted nothing more than to sink into my bed, but I remembered the piece of chocolate that Morwen Hightower gave me. At least I could enjoy that as a consolation prize to a disastrous day.
When I found the treat amid the broken pieces of the end table, I couldn't help but laugh. I laughed until my shoulder jerked, which only left me whimpering in a grimacing chuckle. The carefully wrapped treat had been smashed when I was thrown across the room, its contents smeared across the wooden pieces like the blood of a chocolate god.
Chapter Six
Morning hit me like a steam tank. A light as bright as a virgin's vestments cut through my window pane, slicing the thread of dreams from my head.
A bloody rag nestled against my pillow like a darkling crimson rose. Testing fingertips came away wet; the wound had reopened as I pulled away from the pillow. The pale cotton sheets were covered in blotches of dried blood, as if it were my first woman's day.
As I staggered to my feet, the world swayed around me. I clutched at the armoire, until I could open my eyes again. A haggard woman, with dark hair thrown about her head like it had been caught in the cotton mill, stared back from the mirror on the wall.
Crow's feet were stamped into the corners of my eyes. I plucked a gray hair from the nest, only to see dozens more.
"Damn you, Voltaire," I muttered.
Those gray hairs hadn't been there the day before. Even though I knew it not to be true, it felt like it was Voltaire's fault that the powder was finally wearing off. Either that or the previous day had taken years off my life, amounting to the same thing.
I peeled my lips back with the length of my finger. My gums had receded away from my teeth. I pinched my cheeks, and the skin took a long time to snap back into place.
Judging by Voltaire's experience, I expected that my head would be covered in gray by the end of the next week. After that, I couldn't know.
A drip of blood on the floor reminded me I needed to patch my shoulder. Grabbing the bloody rag from the feather bed, I smashed it against the wound, sucking in air between my teeth from the sharp pain. Right then, someone rapped their knuckles against my door.
"You'll have to wait, I'm naked and injured," I muttered to myself.
The knocking came again, this time more insistent, and a male voice called out.
"I'm not taking visitors at this time," I shouted down the stairs.
A familiar voice responded. "I must speak to you at once, Miss Carmontelle. These matters require you to open your door."
Warden Snyder. My confused nipples grew hard.
"Oh, grow up," I said to them, and searched around for my nightgown.
"Just a moment," I shouted. "I'm not properly dressed."
He banged again, as if he hadn't heard me. Throwing my nightgown over my head, I tried to keep it from getting stained, but the wound oozed faster than I could cover it up and a bright spot of crimson formed on my shoulder.
Shoving the bloody rag inside my nightgown through the neck hole and holding it against my shoulder, I marched down the stairs. When I pulled the door wide, his fist was swinging towards the door.
"This rudeness should not be tolerated so early in the morning," I told him.
His mustache wriggled and his brow knotted. "Early in the morning? It's nearly mid-afternoon. And as the Warden of Philadelphia, I can be rude if I want, especially when apprehending one with criminal intent."
"Criminal intent? Warden Snyder, are you addled?" I asked.
My response set him back on his heels. He pulled his tricorn hat off, wiped his forehead, and glanced both ways.
"Miss Carmontelle," he said quietly through gritted teeth, "I would prefer to have this conversation quietly."
"Not likely," I said, trying to slam the door closed.
Simon jammed his foot into the gap and pushed his way in. "Now a bit of rudeness from you I can expect, but as Warden of the city…" His eyes grew wide, finally seeing me, and a hint of concern threaded into his voice. "Why, Miss Carmontelle, you look like an owl in an ivy bush. What happened?"
I certainly couldn't tell him the truth. "My congress is closed," I told him.
His jaw pulsed with anger. "I've already told you..."
Seeing the destruction of my front room seemed to take the gas out of his fire.
"It looks like a battle's been fought here." His eyes narrowed. "And you're wounded. As Warden I suggest you come clean. I won't have pilfery in my city."
Still holding the rag against my shoulder, I gave him a withering stare, as if he were a tinker trying to sell me flying pigs. "What happened here is none of your business. But may I ask why you're here bothering me on a workday?"
He snorted. "Workday? If you truly were one of Franklin's fellows, you'd be at your printer at the crowing dawn. And as for bothering you, I'm only here because I had an unexpected visitor of my own this morning."
"Ben?" I asked.
"No, you ninny," he said. "The Lady Anne Bingham. I have no use for Federalists, but I damn well listen when it's the wife of one of the most important men in our city, William Bingham. I see by the look on your face that you know her."
"Know?" I shot up an eyebrow. "She came to my printer last evening, right before I saw you at the Franklin Estate. You ran by both of us on your way up the street. What does that woman want?"
"Your head on a silver platter," he said with a sigh. "She claims you stole something from her."
My stomach tightened like a vise, while I kept my face placid. "Stole something from her? What madness is this?"
His handsome face ticked through a couple of movements, appearing to be wrestling with something. He seemed almost embarrassed, and as soon as he spoke, I knew why. He feigned at dusting something from his leather hide overcoat so he didn't have to look me in the eye.
"She claims you stole something that looks like a duck egg," he said, wincing.
"Looks like a duck egg?" I repeated. "I'm afraid I don't understand."
He cleared his throat and shuffled his feet, scuffing his boots against the wooden floor. "That's all. She said it looked like a duck egg, but it wasn't, and that it is very valuable and she wants it returned."
I still hadn't come to terms with what had happened the night before, let alone figured out why the object had been in Mrs. Bingham's possession.
"I certainly never took her duck egg," I said putting a mocking emphasis on the last two words. "Nor am I a thief."
He swallowed and knocked his whisky brown hair from his eyes as they creased with thought. "Looked like a duck egg, and need I remind you of our previous interactions that would strongly suggest otherwise about your ill-advised acquisition of other people's possessions."
"An unfortunate misunderstanding," I said, and jammed my lips together.
My arm ached from holding it across my chest, so I pulled the rag away. It appeared the bleeding had stopped.
His gaze fell upon the bloody rag. He sighed. "Are you certain you cannot tell me what transpired here?"
"I tripped."
He speared me in his sights.
"Miss Carmontelle, you understand that the Lady Bingham doesn't want me to question you. She wants me to drag you down to the jailhouse and depo
sit you there for all eternity. If you return her duck egg, I might be able to get her to forget this transgression," he said.
Smoothing my unruly hair back upon my head, I said to Simon with as much sincerity as I could muster under the situation, "Warden Simon, I am ever your obedient servant, and if I had this fabled duck egg, I would certainly give it to you."
Simon slapped his tricorn hat against his leg. "By my eyes, it doesn't appear as much. Now, I don't know what this duck egg nonsense is, but yesterday, I found your pewter button in the presence of a dead thief and a cauldron of unknown origins in the parlor of Ben Franklin. Today, I find you injured of body and your front room destroyed, claiming no knowledge of pilfering a duck egg from Lady Bingham. If I had to swear on the Constitution at this moment, I'd guess that you and your band of thieves had a falling out, and they trashed the place before leaving. Maybe you've hidden the treasures you acquired, and they seek compensation."
Feeling like a woman thrown off a wild horse, I pointed my finger at him. "Warden Snyder, I assure you I am not a thief and that I did not have a meeting of the black arts last eve, nor a falling out. I am a printer, not a very good one, but a printer nonetheless, and it is my intention to get back to work this afternoon."
"A lazy printer, getting up after midday. Rather your untimely waking indicates a night spent creeping around with a glim and a pair of lock picks," he said, crossing his arms. "And Lady Bingham reminded me of your Russian origins, which doesn't speak too kindly to your person in this political climate."
He'd called me a thief and a liar and other things in between, but his last statement sent a geyser of rage from my lips.
"You're an immigrant just like me, you German boy. And I've pledged myself to this country as if I'd been born here. So don't lecture me about being Russian."
"There's a lot of us Germans here," he said, firing right back, "but not so many Russians. Lady Bingham suggested you might be a spy and that if I wasn't willing to take care of you, she'd ask the President through Lady Washington. Remember, those Russians have been doing lots of saber-rattling lately and claiming land that isn't theirs."
A Cauldron of Secrets (The Dashkova Memoirs Book 2) Page 4
