“No, thank you, but I would enjoy some conversation.” She smiled. “In fact, I have a question. I am curious why you would employ a human servant or assistant when ’ton programming can produce something more efficient.”
“Ah, there are some duties best performed by an actual living, breathing person. I could never utilize an impersonal machine as my personal assistant.”
She wondered if that was a subtle dig at Sam, but didn’t comment on it.
“Tell me more about my mother,” she said impulsively.
His brows lifted in surprise. “Your mother? Hmm. Your mother was a beautiful woman, truly striking. She was kind and generous, even as she lay dying.”
It was an odd thing to remark upon, and Hazel felt a sudden chill.
A ’ton quietly appeared at the count’s side with a drink. Dravor took a sip, his eyes closing in pleasure. “When one goes for a time without simple pleasures, experiencing them again is all the sweeter.”
She shook her head. “Have you known times of destitution or loss, then?”
He smiled and swirled the liquid in his glass. “I simply mean when away from home. I did not bring an adequate supply of my creature comforts from the Magellan to my new London house.” He took another sip. “You are the very image of your mother, and it haunts me.”
Hazel hoped she managed an appropriately sympathetic expression at his declaration, but her heart skipped a beat. There was a ring of truth to his words, and Hazel had no doubt that, if nothing else, she reminded Dravor of someone he’d lost. “You were fond of her, then?”
“I was. Her death was untimely and cruel.”
“It would be natural, I suppose, to hold some level of resentment toward me or my sister because of it.”
He frowned. “Why would I do that?”
“She died due to complications in childbirth, yes?”
He dipped his head in acknowledgment. “I certainly would never blame you and Marit. You were innocent victims. If anyone is to be held accountable, it would be the midwife.”
“Do you suspect nefarious intent?”
“Ineptitude.”
“What happened to her? The midwife?”
“She met with a mysterious illness not long after your mother passed. Strange thing that circulated through the village. It took her husband, as well.” He spoke with no inflection, no overt malice, but Hazel still shivered with unease. There was simply no emotion in his voice at all.
“You expect I should feel some remorse, I suppose?” His mouth lifted in a half-smile.
Hazel realized her guard was down, and her thoughts were likely written on her face. “I would assume not, as you hold her responsible for both my mother’s death and the abduction.”
He nodded.
“Tell me about your parents.”
He seemed surprised. “What do you wish to know about them?”
“They are my grandparents, after all. Unless they’re still living, I’ll never meet them.”
He chuckled. “No, they are most definitely not still living.”
“Did they succumb to the same illness that swept the village?”
“No.” He set his glass of brandy aside. “My father murdered my mother.”
Hazel swallowed.
“He then met with his own violent end. Eastern tradition would define it as ‘karma.’”
“How long ago did this occur?”
“Long before you were born.”
“And you and my mother were the only children?”
He inclined his head.
Hazel was digging for information but had no idea what she was looking for. He shared only bits and pieces, threads, and they were barely connected. Far from giving her a satisfactory picture, she had nothing even resembling a discernible image. Mulling over the things he’d just shared, she wondered if she had the stomach to hear much more. Her family history was not shaping up very prettily. Life with Rowena was taking on a rather rosy hue.
She regarded him with what she hoped would pass for sympathy. “You’ve been alone for some time, as an adult, at least.”
“I do not mind solitude.”
“You’ve never been tempted to marry?”
He smiled. “I was unable to find a woman who shared my interests and passions.”
“Surely in the village or countryside there existed a woman who wouldn’t have minded the title of countess?” She smiled, wanting him to believe she was only making small talk but feeling like a mouse darting in front of a cat.
“Ah, again,” he said, steepeling his fingers, “there has never been a creature noble enough for that lofty title. In fact, there has not been a countess at Castle Petrescu since my mother.”
A possible chink in the armor? “You loved her very much.”
“I did. She was a gifted Light Magick witch who was much too gentle for someone like my father.
“She protected you from him,” Hazel guessed.
He smiled and picked up his glass of brandy, swirling the liquid. “Are you painting a portrait of me in your head, my dear?”
“You must grant me some level of inquisitiveness. I’ve only just discovered my true ancestry and have much to learn.”
“And learning is your forte.” He tipped his head. “I wonder if that, perhaps, is the most significant of your gifts.”
She smiled tightly. She was not prepared to discuss her talents with him. “It is my only gift.”
“Ah, I disagree. You forget, I observed your actions in the infirmary. Miss Tucker would certainly have died if not for your help.”
“Sam had the situation well in hand.”
He raised his brows. “‘Sam.’ Not ‘Dr. MacInnes,’ as you would have had me believe at first.”
“Of course. I did not know you, was not familiar with you in the least. The level of my friendship with anyone was none of your concern.” Hazel decided to add “Antagonistic Back Talk with Frightening Man” to her list of brave accomplishments.
“What is the level of your friendship with the good doctor?”
She smiled. “Are you perhaps painting a mental portrait of me?”
He chuckled. “Oh, I had obtained a fairly complete portrait of you before we ever met. I am merely now finding levels I did not expect.”
Her heart thumped hard again. “And how did you paint this portrait of me before we met?”
“My dear, I have helpers everywhere.”
Sam returned, and Hazel was glad for a natural end to the conversation. Dinner progressed formally, stiffly, and the count was pensive, less conversant than usual. They finished quickly and said their good nights.
Sam had also been quiet, and she turned to him as they left the Main Room.
“What is it?”
He frowned and led her by the elbow to the stairs. “I’ve had two ’ton medical assistants sitting with Sally when I’ve not been there. They insisted they never left the room, but a bruise has appeared on Sally’s throat, and they claim ignorance of it.”
Hazel’s heart skipped a beat. She lifted her skirt and followed Sam quickly down the stairs. “Have you seen anything like it? Bruises that spontaneously appear?”
He shook his head. Eugene stood outside the infirmary but moved aside as they approached. “Has anyone attempted to enter?”
“No. It has been quiet.” Eugene opened the door to reveal Sally, still sleeping.
Hazel entered and turned up the lamp next to the bed. Sally’s beautiful red hair reflected the light and was a stark contrast to her skin.
Sam wiped his hands on a clean cloth and gently turned Sally’s chin to the side. “Here.” He pointed to a faint smudge on the young woman’s neck.
Hazel frowned and leaned closer. “There are several bruises, rather like—” She sucked in a breath, and her heart beat hard, once, and t
hen raced. “Like this.” She demonstrated with her hand, hovering over Sally’s throat. “Fingers. They are finger marks.”
Sam’s jaw clenched, and he moved to her side. He pulled the lamp closer and illuminated the dark stains against the pale throat. He held his fingers next to the marks, and Hazel saw his line of thought. She held hers open next to his.
“Someone with small hands did this.” She paused. “There are very few women aboard. I might suspect one of the medical ’tons, but their strength is immense. Her throat would have been instantly crushed.”
“Unless she was interrupted.”
Hazel looked again at her own hands. She backed up, horrified, and held her hands out from her, examining them as though outside herself. “Did I do this? Did I walk in my sleep, last night, perhaps?” She looked up at Sam, who straightened and shook his head.
“No, Hazel, no.”
“You cannot know that! I didn’t dream last night, but that doesn’t mean I didn’t wander, didn’t come down here—”
“Hazel, I instructed Eugene to stand watch in the hallway outside your door all night.”
She stopped, her mouth falling open. “You did?”
He nodded. “If you left the cabin, I wanted to know. Everything was quiet. You didn’t leave, didn’t make a sound. Besides, these marks were not here earlier in the day. They didn’t appear until just before dinner, so it must have happened fairly recently.”
Sam removed the infirmary telescriber from the wall and punched in a message. “I want the medical ’tons’ tins immediately.”
“Are you requesting it from Dravor?”
“Yes.”
“Whoever tried to kill her doesn’t want her to awaken.” She bit her lip and looked at Sally’s inert form. “What if the initial accident had nothing to do with an attempt on her life?”
Sam looked at her.
“What if someone was looking to steal a kiss? Or worse?”
He rubbed the back of his neck. “And she ran. Fell or was shoved, landed on the spear.”
“Renton.” Hazel bit the name out and felt a surge of anger. “He was there, he stammered all over himself when we appeared, and then he blamed Eugene.”
“The count wasn’t far behind.” Sam raised a brow.
She shook her head. “I don’t believe he’s guilty—of the initial attack, I mean. He seemed wary, and then furious.” She frowned. “I don’t wish to defend him, but he was . . . he wasn’t surprised.”
“Renton would have access to the ’ton programming tins. Does he possess enough knowledge to use one of the nurses to kill her?”
“I don’t know. I find him boorish, but that doesn’t mean he can’t punch in a simple code.”
“Doctor, shall I check the Tesla Room records to see who programmed tins today?” Eugene waited for Sam’s reply.
“Yes, and check yesterday, also.”
Hazel frowned and used the connecting door to enter the operating room. She crossed to the equipment and looked at the ether delivery machine.
Sam joined her by her side. “What are you thinking?”
“I am wishing we had a method of determining whether this has been used on Sally since the surgery.”
Sam sighed lightly. “Too many of us have handled it since. After I finished, Eugene handed it to one of the medical ’tons, and they were tasked with cleaning and storing the machine and mask . . .” He shrugged.
Hazel looked over her shoulder at the other room. “Who else besides the ’tons would know how to operate it?” she asked quietly. “Renton? Doubtful, but possible. My uncle? I would think so.”
“We do not even know if this happened.”
“Why else would she have never regained consciousness? She is still asleep!”
“I haven’t a clue.” Sam shook his head, his brows drawn. “We must move her tonight.”
His telescriber pinged, and Sam rolled over in bed. After two unsuccessful attempts to grab the thing, he finally made contact and closed his fingers around it. He squinted and read the message from Eugene.
Miss Hazel is leaving the cabin. I cannot stop her. I must remain with Miss Tucker.
Sam cursed and sat upright. He shoved his legs into the trousers he’d discarded only an hour before and searched for a shirt. He’d had trouble falling asleep, and now he figured he shouldn’t have even bothered.
He abandoned the search for yesterday’s shirt and instead yanked a fresh one hanging in the wardrobe. His gut was in knots, and he wondered if he wouldn’t be mad himself before too long.
His worry for Hazel had reached new heights. The night he’d interrupted her nightmare and broken her odd connection to her twin, he’d been afraid. Afraid he wouldn’t be there soon enough next time, afraid that if her trancelike sleep repeated itself, it might be worse. He’d given Eugene instructions to alert him to any unusual activity concerning Hazel during the night, and was grateful for the foresight.
He managed a few buttons on his shirt, and shoving his feet into his shoes, pulled open the door.
The hall was dimly lit; the sconces had been turned down for the night. The Magellan’s engines remained a steady, constant hum, but otherwise, all was still. Hazel was nowhere in sight. He tried her door and found it unlocked, but when he entered and saw only Eugene and Sally, realized she must have moved quickly.
Where would she go? If she were dreaming, connecting somehow with a woman who was locked in a room, whether literal or figurative, what would she want to see?
He knew a moment’s panic. Marit considered herself trapped, captive. She would want to escape. There were mechanisms in place that would prevent Hazel from opening the submersible’s top hatch, but would she have the capacity to instruct a ’ton to do so?
He could only hope Petrescu’s programming safeguarded against it. To be safe, he ran up the stairs to Deck One and then the length of the corridor to the short series of steps to the top tier and the hatch that opened to the outside world.
Which was empty except for one ’ton who stood guard.
He turned and sprinted for the Tesla Room. He didn’t know how much of Hazel was present when Marit visited her dreams. Marit might not know how to code tins for automatons, but Hazel certainly did.
To his relief, the Tesla Room was also empty of human activity, with only two ’tons on guard and three others against the wall, charging. He ignored one who asked if he needed assistance and made his way down the hall, checking the library and the conservatory. He even tried the count’s door, which was locked.
He descended to Deck Two, glanced in the Main Room, which was eerily empty and dimly lit. Perhaps she might have gone to the infirmary? He jogged down the steps to the next level and checked each open door.
Frustrated, he stopped long enough to plug into the scriber attachment in the infirmary and asked Eugene if Hazel had returned to her cabin. When he received a response in the negative, he took a deep breath and made for the bottom deck.
“Hazel, where in blazes are you?” he muttered under his breath.
He checked the maintenance room, which was locked, and the engine room, which contained only ’tons. That left the Control Room. If she wasn’t there, he would awaken the count and instigate a search.
He held his breath and opened one of the two adjoining doors. The room inside was dim, lit only by the instrumentation readings glowing in greens and yellows. The exterior lights had been switched on, illuminating the depths outside the window, and before the glass panels stood a figure in a white gown, curls hanging down her shoulders and back.
Her hands pressed against the glass, and she had rested one knee atop the cushioned window seat.
He leaned against the doorframe, weak with relief.
He lifted a hand in greeting to Winston, the ’ton at the controls, and quietly crossed the room to the windows. He sat on the cu
shions near Hazel and looked at her face, which glowed a pale green from the reflected lights.
Her eyes were huge, and her smile was one of pure joy. His throat suddenly ached, and he swallowed past the lump that formed there.
She murmured something, and he leaned closer, trying to hear. It was an odd smattering of English and what he assumed was Romanian.
“ . . . seen all of these in my books . . . the most beautiful sight . . .”
She occasionally shook her head as if confused, and then a pained expression crossed her face. She leaned her forehead against the glass and closed her eyes. When a tear slid down her cheek, he decided he’d seen enough.
“Hazel,” he whispered. “Hazel, love, can you hear me?”
She turned her head, and her eyes flew open. She stumbled away from him with a string of Romanian and fell to the floor.
“No, Hazel, I’ll not hurt you—” He reached for her, crouched down on the floor, but she scooted backward until she was up against the window seat.
She whispered incoherently, terrified, and looked at him with blank eyes.
“Marit?” he whispered. He tried again, using the rolled R he’d heard the count use.
She stilled, her posture relaxed. She continued watching him, wary, but calmer.
He wished Eugene were there—he was programmed with a multitude of languages.
“Marit, I need Hazel.” He doubted she understood, but took a spark of hope from a flicker of recognition in her eyes.
“Hazel? Will you awaken? I need you here.”
She blinked repeatedly, then cried out softly again in Romanian and rubbed her forehead. She pushed the heels of her palms into her eyes and shuddered. With a quiet gasp, she lifted her face and stared at him.
“Hazel? Please, please be Hazel.”
She looked around and slowly sat up straight. She shoved her hair back from her face and gathered it at the nape of her neck, holding it in place as she twisted around and looked at the windows.
She released a shuddering sigh and looked back at him. “Sam, what is happening?”
Hazel looked around the Control Room with a strange sense of knowing she’d gone there but unable to remember how. Bits of images flashed through her mind, combinations of Marit’s room and the Magellan. She’d been driven to explore, had known what Marit would like to see, but the rest was a muddle until she heard Sam.
The Lady in the Coppergate Tower (Proper Romance) Page 15
