Clockwork Blue (The Lumière Chronicles)

by Gloria Harchar

  "Yes, you did! When you said you didn't blame yourself for your brother's death, you did—in so many words. At the cliff, remember? You reconciled yourself to bearing the title in truth and becoming active in the responsibilities it entails."

  "Where did you get that idea?"

  "You said that you forgave yourself, that you're not responsible for William's death. You turned over a new leaf, so you could live the life that you should."

  He ran a hand through his hair. "That doesn't mean I'll go into politics. You expect things I can't give."

  The way his gaze roamed over her, as if she were a bolt of cloth on display, made her heart squeeze. "So, a-are you s-saying that you d-don't I-love me?"

  "I-I can't, Nicola." His expression held a sort of desperate appeal, willingness for her to understand. "Once and for all, believe this—there's absolutely nothing you can do to change the fact that I can't love anyone."

  The bleakness of his Malcolm eyes took her breath away. It pierced her.

  "Now. Do we finally now have an understanding? Make me an heir and that will be the extent of your duties." Swiveling on his heel, he left her alone.

  Her legs suddenly felt like Yorkshire pudding. She plopped down with numbing force, but not hard enough to block the pain that swept over her body. Vaguely she was aware of Ramsey's protests, sounds of scuffling, then the door shut and she was all alone. The pain intensified, like thousands of looms rolling over her prone body. She would move her things to the far side of the manor. No, the thought of Malcolm so near but yet so far would be more torturous than being chained in a dark, dank dungeon. She would leave. Set up a shop in London or in Bath. Anywhere but here. She would leave, now. This evening.

  Darkness. At last, he had swallowed her up in the blackness of his soul. Tonight she would depart on the stage. As she gathered her things in preparation to leave, she wondered bleakly if she would ever see the light again.

  "Have all the ambrosia you want, Glissando," Major C exclaimed with a generous sweep of his arm toward the long table. It was festively decorated with every variety of fruit, pastry and drink one could imagine.

  "Uh, thanks," Glissando replied and sluggishly retrieved one of the delicate ice crystals filled with the heavenly brew. His heart wasn't into the jovial celebration like the rest of the Callers. The allotted time was over, all the missions were through. The Callers gathered to participate in the feast customarily given afterward. Biting into a slice of fruitcake filled with succulent cherries and dates, he couldn't shake the hovering sensation of lurking doom.

  "There you are," Allegro called, fluttering to a halt nearby, his arms laden with food. "Wow, have you noticed that Dulce since she got back from the tropics? I think she's a more vibrant shade of violet than I've ever seen. And I think she likes me," Allegro added, winking at the curvaceous female with Miami-pink wings.

  Glissando barely glanced over, too deep in suffocating worry. He'd thought the Mrasek would exact revenge on him for not doing their bidding. In fact, he'd prepared for it. But nothing had happened. No attacks. No lightning strikes. No airships hovering overhead as they searched for his green light with their magic-enhanced monoculars. His wing flicked again with a premonition of disaster.

  "I see you're still in your funk," Allegro commented.

  "I simply can't let go of the feeling that something isn't right," Glissando muttered, staring moodily at the ocean and lands below.

  "You're concerned about the rebellion that is soon to come. We saw in the crystals at Anthem that the event was to occur and that Nicola would be hurt, but she will be hale and sound. She'll make it through."

  The nagging anxiety wouldn't leave. "I don't care what the crystals indicated. Something bad will happen at the demonstration. We shouldn't have left."

  "Bah, the mission is over, I tell you. It isn't like you to be a worrywart. Come on, snap out of it." Allegro threw him a fierce scowl. "There's nothing wrong."

  "What about the weather change I caused?"

  Allegro popped one of the white fluff balls in his mouth. "There was only a small shower two days ago and that was the extent of the damage."

  "I know," Glissando replied, but in his heart he wasn't convinced.

  "And Malcolm is now over his guilt about his brother's death, and he told Nicola that he loves her."

  "Not in those precise words."

  "In actions, he has. Why do you like to always play devil's advocate? You are vastly irritating, do you know that?"

  "The whole mission just doesn't feel right," Glissando insisted. He wasn't about to tell Allegro about his agreement with the Mrasek, and his subsequent betrayal of them.

  "You're merely suffering from the break of your emotional ties with Nicola. It's natural to feel that way." Allegro patted Glissando on the shoulder. "Now, get some wine and flirt with that pretty little tangerine pixie who keeps blowing pixie dust your way. Hell, you can even flirt with my Dulce, but whatever you do, don't get some hare-brained idea and return to Nicola. You'll be sent to labor in the kitchens for a month and all sorts of other awful punishments, so forget it. The mission is over, and that's that."

  "I won't go back," Glissando replied to Allegro's retreating figure. But he would, knowing that to return was the only thing he could do. True, the mission was over; the allotted time had expired. To return to a completed mission might get him kicked out of the Caller Academy, and one month at the minimum of the backbreaking work that Allegro had mentioned.

  But if the situation with Nicola was as grim as his premonitions told him, he would most likely have to apply magic, which would cause him to lose his powers, he knew for a fact, for at least two months. He didn't know how Nicola and Malcolm's happiness fit into the large scheme of the world, but never mind that. He only cared about Nicola.

  As he caught the ribbon of rainbow to carry him to earth, he knew as well as he knew his musical scales that any sacrifice would be worth the assurance that Nicola and Malcolm would be safe and happy.

  The evening sun slipped behind the clouds as sounds of shouting reached Nicola where she sat inside Toad and Hare Inn. She would stay the night until the stagecoach came the next morning; then she would leave Malcolm and all the heartache he brought. Hollowness echoed in her at the thought, but she couldn't bear to stay with him.

  A woman hustled her children away from the window and the sounds of the growing ruckus outside. Glad for the diversion, Nicola rose from her chair and stepped outside to see the commotion. A mob had gathered a few yards down the street. Shattering glass cut the air. Men with axes splintered looms that had been dragged onto the street.

  "My lady?"

  She turned to see the innkeeper had followed and was wringing his hands. His eyes were round and large behind his spectacles as he looked at her. "I think you should come back inside. There are dangerous rogues out there, and you don't want to get caught in the melee."

  "Just a little while, Mr. Hardegree. I'll be careful."

  He hovered nearby and shuffled his feet as she watched the fracas. Angry bellows mingled with the sounds of cracking wood. Someone lit a stack with a torch and the fire licked the night sky. Alarmed shouts followed the sound of hooves clunking on cobblestones. She turned to see the militia bearing down.

  "Arm yourselves, men!" a familiar voice shouted.

  "Ramsey?" she murmured, jerking her attention back to the mob. Horrified, she saw him, axe in hand, preparing to confront the riders.

  "No, Ramsey!" The clashing of metal and cries of the men drowned out her shout.

  Her cousin dodged flying hooves. A militiaman vaulted from his horse, sideswiping him. As they grappled each other, Nicola ran inside the inn.

  "My lady, please, don't do anything rash!" Mr. Hardegree pleaded, dogging her heels.

  "I've got to help my cousin." She searched for a weapon.

  The rotund man rubbed his balding head. "But what can you do? You'll get hurt!"

  "Not if I can help it," she replied. Anything, she wo
uld do absolutely anything to save Ramsey. She grabbed her umbrella and ran past the beleaguered innkeeper. Heart hammering, she bolted between scuffling men and dodged rearing horses, but where was Ramsey? She had lost him in the fray. Searching the crowd as men fled and chaos was all around her, she saw no sign.

  "Lass!" Glissando yelled.

  She turned to see the green pixie flying toward her. "Thank the heavens you've returned!"

  He approached her, his face wreathed in worry. "What is happening? Why are you here? You're supposed to be enjoying wedded bliss with the Falcon."

  Yawning emptiness threatened to overcome her, but she concentrated on the trouble at hand. "Forget that. What are you doing here? I thought you couldn't stay with me."

  "Never mind me—I'm worried about you. I just knew you were in trouble. I knew things weren't right."

  "Oh, Glissando, now what? What can I do to help Ramsey? I can't find him!"

  "I'll find him and use a flash to guide you," Glissando responded.

  "A what?"

  "Just look for a bright light," he responded and flew down the street.

  Nicola ran after him, dodging men who struggled with each other.

  "Over here, lass!" Glissando yelled. A white light flared.

  She looked in the direction of the beam and saw a uniformed man confronting Ramsey who had a split lip but appeared determined, his fists raised. She ran toward them.

  Suddenly a man ran toward Ramsey's back, club raised.

  "Tom Ryder, no!" Glissando cried before a spray of red embers showered down on him, making him cry out.

  No time to see what happened to the Caller. Nicola crashed into her cousin, knocking him out of the mace's path.

  The weapon hit her instead.

  Bright pain exploded in her head. A dark void surrounded the edges of her vision. As she fell, she knew she would welcome the blackness of unconsciousness. It would be much more bearable than the blackness of a life without Malcolm's love.

  Her wardrobe was practically empty. Malcolm stared at the lonely articles of clothing, dread welling in his throat. He'd been to Yorkshire to look at his mill, unable to stay at Windmere with Nicola the night before because he yearned for her too much. The distance hadn't helped. Nor had he regained his coldness and equilibrium, as he'd been trying.

  When he'd returned from his miserable trip, he hadn't believed the housekeeper when she'd told him Nicola had left with luggage. But he should have. He knew that he'd hurt her by his inability to let go of his guilt. His inability to love her.

  The rebellion had begun. He'd known about the uprising several days ago and that was why he'd arranged for Ramsey to be taken away; however, something was wrong. A deep foreboding clutched his whole being. Now, as the butler cleared his throat behind him, the premonition only increased.

  "My lord, the owner of the Toad and Hare Inn is in the kitchen, asking to speak with you."

  Malcolm didn't say a word, but ran to the back of the mansion.

  "My lord?" A rotund man with spectacles shifted on his feet, his eyes huge, wringing his cap between nervous fingers.

  Fear clutched Malcolm's heart. A menacing sensation raced down his spine. "Have you seen my wife?"

  "Yes, Lady Nicola was at the inn. I tried to stop her from getting involved with the mob, but she saw her cousin and ran into the struggle. I'm worried about her and thought you should know," the innkeeper shouted after Malcolm, who was already running down the hall toward the foyer, the courtyard and the stables.

  "My lord," Gaspar said from the courtyard a few feet away. The blood on his forehead confirmed that Ramsey had gotten away.

  "Stay here. Have Mrs. White bandage your head." He knew where to find Ramsey. And where Ramsey was, he was certain he would find Nicola—if it wasn't too late.

  In the stable, he grabbed Mohammed, not bothering to wait for the stablemen to prepare the stallion, but tacking the horse himself. Mohammed snorted and quivered with excitement. Vaulting onto the black stallion's back, he urged the creature into a gallop. He guided the animal toward town and sounds of glass shattering, stomping hooves and yelling, all the while praying that he made it in time.

  Not bothering to wonder why, he prayed when he hadn't beseeched the heavens in the ten years since William's death. He just knew a deep-seated fear, ten times worse than anything he had recalled ever experiencing. When he reached the village, he urged Mohammed forward between fighting men, even as growing dread rose to suffocate him. He continued to gallop through the streets to the heart of the rebellion.

  The fighting had turned vicious. Gunshots exploded in the air and the smell of smoke permeated his senses. How would he find her in this mob?

  Suddenly, a bright light flashed. In the beam he saw her lying on the ground. Vaulting off Mohammed, he ran to her. Her face was ghostly pale, her breathing shallow as he gathered her in his arms. With gentle fingers, he found the swelling behind her ear, the same spot where William had hit his head when he'd fallen off the cliff. The sensation that he was reliving the same nightmare struck him. William's death was happening all over again—the horror of watching him linger, the unnatural stillness, only to watch him finally succumb to darkness. Only, Malcolm didn't think he could survive the tragedy of losing Nicola.

  "It's my entire fault," Ramsey whispered.

  Malcolm barely realized the boy had knelt next to him. The way Nicola's head bobbed listlessly on his forearm, the limp lifelessness of her body in his arms, made it difficult for him to breathe.

  Reaching out, Ramsey caressed Nicola's forehead.

  "Don't touch her, you bastard," Malcolm growled. "Haven't you done enough?"

  The stricken look in Ramsey's eyes reminded him vaguely of his own old torment. Suddenly he realized how he had been in Ramsey's shoes ten years ago, how his father had spoken those very words that even now haunted his memories. He discovered he couldn't, wouldn't put Ramsey through that same torture.

  "I-I apologize," he choked out. "That was uncalled for. Here, hand her to me after I mount." An unreasonable fear that if he let her go she would die swept through him. Shaking off the feeling, he reluctantly gave her up to Ramsey and swung onto his horse, Mohammed standing as still as a statue, as if he sensed the delicate balance of Nicola's life and her need for care. A moment later, she was in Malcolm's arms again. "Now get a doctor, for God's sake—by gunpoint if you have to. Meet me at the manor."

  "Yes, yes," Ramsey said with a sniff and bolted through the crowd, amazingly swift and agile as he went.

  Nicola stirred in his arms. "Glissando? Where... Glissando? Allegro?" she asked as she looked at Malcolm through droopy lids, her eyes unfocused.

  Relief swelled in his heart so large he thought he would burst with it. "Sweeting, you're back with me. Thank God!"

  "I want the pixies."

  He knew her head must be throbbing. Gently, he brushed her forehead with his lips, savoring her and thanking his lucky stars that his fears didn't come to pass, that she was still alive. "I would summon butterflies for you if I could."

  "Not butterflies, just…the little sprites."

  He cradled her head. "Shhh—now, now, Nicola, my love, you've been knocked on the head. Sweeting, there is no such thing as pixies or pixies or whatever you call them."

  With an uncanny suddenness, her eyes opened as clear and bright as he'd ever seen them. "You don't believe in magic, and you don't believe in love," she declared, then her eyes rolled back in her head and she passed out cold.

  Malcolm rode harder, regretting the chance at happiness that he'd so carelessly thrown away. He might never have the chance to tell her she was wrong. He did believe in love. Only, he believed too late.

  Chapter 24

  It had been three days since the night of the rebellion. Malcolm stared at Nicola's pale face, so peaceful in unnatural sleep. Why didn't she awaken? It seemed as if a slight bloom was in her cheeks. He often wondered as he sat by her bedside these days and nights if by sheer willpower he could
rouse her. Sometimes he would stare at her so long and hard that he thought he saw her lashes flutter. But he only imagined the motion.

  "How is she?"

  Malcolm looked up and was vaguely surprised to see Lady Teresa. "Come to gloat?"

  She stiffened, and then visibly forced her shoulders to relax. "No, I've come to apologize. I'm sorry for all the years of blaming you for William's death. I've been distraught. In truth, I have been wallowing in my own guilt."

  He didn't want to listen, didn't want to concentrate on what she was telling him. Nicola's strength waned, and he wanted to focus on willing his lifeline into his wife. But he found himself drawn into Teresa's conversation. "What guilt?"

  "William and I had a terrible row the night before because I wanted to go to London, but he wanted to stay at Windmere. I wouldn't talk to him the day he left with you to go hunting. That is how he died, with me holding a ridiculous grudge, and I never was able to tell him how much I loved him."