“Would you remove all of the spells?” Sam asked. “Perhaps some might be useful.”
Hazel rested her elbows on the table and rubbed her temple. “I’ve no idea. Perhaps none of this is of any consequence. Why is he so interested in magick? Why am I so concerned with what he owns or what he does?”
“Because he is ‘shady,’ as my father would say, and we all recognize it. Your instincts propelled you into action and led you to this.” Sam pointed at her notebook. “I’ve found that the times my brain and instinct are at odds, the best course is to follow my instincts.”
“I would prefer to follow my brain,” Hazel said. “Knowledge is power.”
The corner of Sam’s mouth lifted in a smile. “And you wield it well.”
She rubbed her forehead, frustrated. “I cannot wield it if I do not have it.”
“I can offer details about these items in a matter of hours,” Eugene interjected without looking up. “Assuming they have been documented in professional journals or articles during the past two hundred years. Though, you may be interested to know that my preliminary findings suggest a trend.”
Hazel and Sam looked at each other.
“What sort of trend?” she asked.
“Prolonged life.”
Hazel looked at Sam, baffled. Perhaps her vampire theory had indeed been faulty all along. As a vampire, he would have access to prolonged life and wouldn’t need to find it via magick artifacts.
“He’s looking for prolonged life,” Sam said quietly, “and you are a Healer.”
She shook her head. “My skills are basic, at best. I cannot imagine the two are related. Aside from that, there are artifacts on that list that likely have nothing to do with prolonged life.”
“We all know he has some purpose for you, something he wants from you.” He spoke quietly, his blue eyes holding hers. “I would wager your safety with him will eventually expire.”
“I appreciate your position. You see yourself as my protective faux-relative.”
He leaned both elbows on the table, and with a half-grin, murmured, “Do you honestly believe my inclinations run in the ‘relative’ vein?”
She felt the blush on her cheeks and bit her lip to hide her smile.
“I can affirm his biorhythms do not indicate fraternal affection,” Eugene said, turning a page in Hazel’s notebook and jotting notes as his processors continued to spin.
Sam sighed and pressed the heel of his hand to his eyes.
Hazel smothered a giddy laugh, lovely warmth furling from her abdomen to her extremities. For months, her fondest wish had been for Sam MacInnes to regard her with something other than brotherly affection, and the fates were finally smiling upon her. If not for the fact that they faced unknown peril, life would be rosy and sublime.
She motioned to Sam’s notebook. “What are you working on?”
“Transplant designs.”
“May I see?”
He hesitated, and she tried not to feel hurt. “Yes, but you know my methods are unconventional.” He nudged his notebook toward her, and when she turned it around, she knew the reason for his reluctance. Social convention frowned upon the use of cyborg implants in people, and his drawing of a heartclock included elements that were often fabricated for use in ’tons.
“This is incredible, Sam, and will save lives.”
He lifted a shoulder. “There are many who have moral objections to the notion.”
“Until they have need of such a thing for themselves or a loved one, I imagine.”
He shook his head with a rueful smile. “I once presented at a conference where a potential donor told me she would rather lose her husband or child than have them live as unnatural, fabricated, soulless creatures.”
Hazel’s mouth dropped open. “That is ridiculous.”
“I suppose it speaks to the larger question,” Eugene said, “which is ‘What constitutes a soul?’”
Hazel chuckled, but Eugene looked up from his work without a smile, or even a twitch of one. She cleared her throat and nodded. “Yes. Well, of course. Humans certainly cannot lay proprietary claim to soul ownership.” She glanced at Sam, who merely shook his head.
“In less-philosophical observations, at least our time aboard the Magellan draws to a close in only a few days.” Sam placed his palms together and looked heavenward with gratitude.
Hazel smiled. “It will be cold where we’re going. You may find yourself missing the comfort of this nautical home.”
“I cannot begin to express how poor circumstances will need to be for me to prefer this thing over travel on land. I am glad we are nearly done.”
She nodded wearily. “As am I.” She glanced over her shoulder at the ’tons, who wielded feather dusters but turned their attention intermittently toward her and Sam.
He gathered up his notebook, then paused. “Your telescriber is set to my scribe name? You have only to send the message.”
She nodded. “I will remain in here for a time; I have reading to do. I also need to peruse one more topic.”
“Which is?”
“Psychological illnesses.” She drew a breath. “Madness.”
After a few hours of study, Hazel returned to her cabin to change and freshen up. She was still restless, though, her brain animated, and she desperately wanted to walk.
The beautiful expanse of luxurious carpet stretched down the long corridor outside her cabin. She walked from one end to the other and back again before circling around to the other side of the Main Room that sat like an island in the middle of the deck.
Now and again a ’ton passed by with a nod to her, carrying clean linens and supplies. She was torn between being comforted by their presence and being uneasy at the eerie feel they elicited with their ever-watchful eyes.
She made her way to the kitchen, which housed a quiet hum of activity. The human chef was busy, but his ’ton assistant worked alongside four others.
“Might I trouble you for a cup of tea?” she asked.
“Of course,” the ’ton answered, and another assistant poured her a cup from a pot that steeped on a stove. All four ’tons paused to look at her, processors whirring. She was accustomed to Eugene’s mannerisms and movements, but for some reason the deliberate pause in their activity was unnerving.
She took it with murmured thanks, and left the kitchen, deep in thought.
She wandered to the steps with her cup of warm tea and slowly descended, not thinking about where she was headed until she reached Deck Four and found her way into the Control Room. The Magellan cruised along at its normal quick pace, and she nodded to the ’ton at the controls.
“Hello, Winston,” she said.
“Lady Hazel,” the ’ton answered. “Would you care to have the bright lights switched on?” The other ’tons in the room paused briefly, nodded to her in greeting, and resumed their activities.
“That would be lovely.” She took her tea to the window seat, where she relaxed, sipping the warm beverage. She leaned her head against the window and let herself be mesmerized by the view of marine life blurring past the large window like shooting stars.
She finally finished her tea and stood. Thanking Winston, she wandered out of the Control Room. She collided with a ’ton and dislodged the large load he’d been balancing on his shoulder. It was a garbage sack, made in the same thick, black fabric she’d seen jettisoned from the torpedo chutes.
“Oh!” Hazel gasped. “I apologize! I was not paying attention at all.” She reached down to help, but her fingers just brushed the fabric as he hefted the bag away from her and back onto his shoulder.
“Please do not concern yourself, my lady,” the ’ton said. “No harm done, and at any rate, it is merely some laundry.” He smiled. His load was bent in the middle, one half hanging down his back. “The cleaning machines are just there.” He pointed t
o the next door down the hallway.
She smiled, something nagging at her. “I won’t keep you, then. And again, my apologies.”
“Think nothing of it.” He touched his fingers to an imaginary hat, and they went in opposite directions.
As she reached the stairs, Hazel turned back as the ’ton put his hand on the door handle, effortlessly balancing his bundle of laundry. He paused and looked at her, as though he was waiting for her to leave before opening the door. He smiled and nodded again, door still closed, hand still in place on the handle.
She put one foot on the bottom stair, and returned the smile. She thought she heard a clicking sound amidst the quiet whir of the ’ton’s processing unit. It might have been her imagination, though, because the engine room was also located on that level and provided a steady thrum not as easily discernible on the rest of the ship.
As she finally turned away, she heard the door open, and she peeked around the corner in time to see the door close behind the ’ton. She slowly climbed the stairs, wishing she had taken the lift instead. She couldn’t reason through why the encounter with the ’ton nagged at her, until she reached her room and the realization struck.
The bundle he carried, whatever it was, had not been laundry. It had landed heavily on the floor with an odd thud. Even in memory, the sound made her wince. She was certain that bag had not been full of fabric.
Something else nagged at her, and she checked her timepiece. She had a few minutes left before dinner would be called. With a quick glance through the partially open doors leading to Sally’s room, where she saw Eugene standing guard, she ran out of the room and down the stairs one deck to the infirmary recovery room.
The bedding had been changed, and she chastised herself for not thinking to check the room earlier. She walked around the bed, checked the emptied wastebasket, and finally bent down and lifted the plain, thin bed skirt.
An object lay on the floor directly beneath where Sally’s head had lain. Hazel reached for it with a combination of triumph and dread. It was a small sachet, and she lifted it to her nose. She sniffed and immediately held it away from her face, recognizing the sleeping agent within it. She could also detect traces of eucalyptus oil, a product often used when casting spells.
Someone with an affinity for magick and spells had cast one over Sally, keeping her unconscious since the surgery.
Hazel’s blood ran cold. Who but her uncle would have the knowledge and resources to do such a thing? After all, the man had a room full of magick-infused artifacts only two decks above her. He’d mentioned that his mother had dabbled in Light Magick, and his sister—Hazel’s mother—had as well. He might have learned enough from them to cast spells on his own.
She imagined him touching his finger to the oil on the sachet and then tracing it lightly along Sally’s forehead, murmuring words in Latin as an incantation to complete the spell.
She slowly stood and exhaled, wondering why her uncle had wanted to keep Sally unresponsive.
A quiet bell sounded, signaling dinner, and she considered replacing the item in case Dravor looked for it, but instead she wrapped the sachet in a handkerchief and put it carefully in her pocket.
She thoughtfully climbed the stairs to Deck Two and stopped just outside the Main Room. Harsh, hushed voices sounded within, and she stilled, straining to hear.
The count was angry, speaking rapidly in Romanian, and she looked down the hall, wishing Eugene was available to translate. The corridor was empty, save for Sam, who was just stepping out of his cabin and locking his door. He turned to her cabin door, but she waved her arm at him, capturing his attention. She beckoned him forward.
A second voice chimed in on top of the count’s, and she immediately recognized it as Renton. Part of his response was lost, and to her frustration, all she heard was “—handle the matter!”
Sam drew near, and she put a finger to her lips. The men inside had moved away from the door; however, she still heard a murmur of sound. They must have headed toward the hearth.
She quickly showed Sam the sachet and explained in a whisper the snippet of conversation she had overheard. “Something’s happened,” she finished. “I wish I understood what the count was saying.”
Sam frowned. “All is well with Sally and Eugene?”
“As of ten minutes ago, yes. I saw Eugene as I left my cabin. I was going to put this away in there, but now I want to see what they’re doing.” She motioned to the Main Room with her thumb.
He took the sachet and rewrapped it, tucking it into his trouser pocket. “I am famished,” he said loudly and took Hazel’s arm as they entered the room. “And something smells delicious.” He paused. “Are we ascending?”
The count and Renton stopped talking, but Renton still held the expression of a stampeding bull.
Dravor straightened his lapels and managed a smile. “We are nearing Greece. I have cargo to unload, and then we will immediately dive again. I also must alert the castle to make arrangements for our arrival.” He took a breath, and his shoulders relaxed. “If you wish to go ashore, a small boat can shuttle you back and forth, but we are pressed for time. I am most anxious to return to Marit.” He cleared his throat, turning to his assistant. “That will be all, Renton. See me in my office in an hour.”
Renton offered a light bow to the count, and then to Hazel and Sam. He left the room in quick strides as the others made their way to the dinner table.
The count was once again the consummate host. Hazel could hardly focus on the conversation and did little to hold up her end. Sam spoke with the count in general terms about his time in the military, and they discussed the beauties of Greece. All the while, Hazel envisioned the sachet in Sam’s pocket, and wondered if she could unravel her uncle’s intentions before they reached his castle.
Sam stood atop the Magellan’s deck near the stern of the submersible. The lights of the Grecian shoreline twinkled in the darkness, the only signs of human life amidst the panorama of melded ocean and sky. Stars filled the dome above, and he breathed easier for the first time since boarding the cursed craft.
Hazel had returned to the library immediately following dinner, and he’d have joined her if Petrescu hadn’t announced they’d surfaced. He took another deep breath of the fresh sea air.
Rising from the depths of the abyss was like being reborn, and he loathed the thought of submersing again. Beyond his aversion to dropping into the depths of the ocean, a darkness had settled into the craft since their departure from London. Hazel mentioned again that the ’tons seemed unduly observant, and interaction with human staff had become extremely limited. A sense of eerie disquiet followed him down the long hallways and into each beautifully decorated room.
The door opened behind him, and Hazel joined him on the narrow deck. “Would you like to go ashore? Dravor said his business will take no more than an hour, so we have that long to stretch our legs.” She smiled, but it was tight and strained.
“I need to check for communications from Oliver,” Sam said. “Will you join me?”
She nodded. “I assume the telegraph office operates under late hours.”
“Yes. Petrescu confirmed it.” He glanced at Hazel. “I notice you do not refer to him as your uncle now.”
“Only to his face, to maintain pretenses,” she muttered. “I do not want him to think I believe anything other than what he tells me.”
“Did he and Renton go ashore?”
She nodded. “They used the self-contained capsule docked beside the Control Room and went via the torpedo chute.”
“I told Eugene to lock the cabin door and check the Tesla Room for any communication that may have come directly to the ship.” Sam narrowed his eyes against the wind and scanned the shoreline. “What do you suppose Petrescu’s real motives are?”
“I wish I knew.” She turned to face him. “I must confess, I’ve wondered if we
wouldn’t be better served to get off this thing here in Greece and go back home, but I cannot afford the risk to my sister.” She cleared her throat. “My dreams of her grow darker, and I cannot shake the sense that she is being held against her will in a place haunted by tragedy. I feel her distress so acutely, I begin to wonder if I am also going mad. I do not pretend to assume we will be the best of friends, or even that this journey will end well, but I can’t leave until I know she’s safe.”
She turned back to the water, and the soft breeze blew curls from her forehead.
He looked at her, and a knot tightened in his gut. He wanted a reason to put his arm around her shoulders and pull her close to his side, but he couldn’t use the weather as an excuse. It was balmy and beautiful.
Something had simmered between them since that moment in the library, early in the voyage, when he’d teased her gently about flirting, and she’d ventured beyond her own reservations to place a tentative hand over his heart. They had been interrupted by Sally’s accident, but the sense of intimacy had begun to creep back into their relationship the night he’d found Hazel in the Control Room.
It had taken every ounce of willpower he possessed to refrain from kissing her right there on the floor. She anticipated it, and he felt she would have welcomed it, but he wouldn’t do her the disservice of confusing consolation with intimacy when she was under such stress.
She must have felt him staring, now, because she glanced his way and then back to the shoreline, a light blush staining her cheek, visible even in the semi-dark.
To his knowledge, she’d not entertained serious suitors or seemed to have set her cap for anyone, and he definitely found himself wanting to move into that role. He’d never been shy and had done his share of socializing through the years, but he had never met a woman he wanted to spend a lifetime with.
Hazel interested him, always had. Conversation with her was enlightening and funny, and her subtle sense of humor surprised him constantly. She was reserved, so her wit slipped in unnoticed until he thought for a moment about what she’d said.
The Lady in the Coppergate Tower (Proper Romance) Page 18
