Watching the burly guard, a peculiar pressure formed in my head, like a light shining from the deep recesses of my mind. It seemed I would be able to call my fledgling magic if I needed it, but it would bring the Empty Men. A chance I decided I would have to take.
I flew through the window of Brassy's room with the memory of Catherine's gaze firmly in my mind, hitting the lever with my knee to jump into the room.
A surprised intake of breath from Brassy warned the guard when the cauldron appeared. I leapt over the edge of the cauldron as if it were a barnyard fence and closed the distance as he pulled a pistol. The pressure in my head surged outward like a migraine suddenly relenting, right as my palm touched the guard's greasy hair.
His knees snapped out from under him, and he dropped the lead pistol to the wooden floor. I captured the weapon and silently prayed that Brassy wouldn't scream.
She had dainty lips that pursed up like a bow and her gaze barely acknowledged that I'd felled her guardian. That she didn't react said much about her bruised past.
"What have I done? Madam Maria won't tell me," she said, hands dancing in her lap.
Once more, the miracle of her glass and geared mechanical arm sobered me to the possibilities of science. I wondered how Brassy and Aught would get along should they ever be introduced.
"I'm so sorry. This isn't about you," I said, trying to figure out how to tell someone they were one little gear in a larger machine of death.
"Then...?"
The word hung in the air, draped with fear and doubt. Guilt made an appearance when she glanced into her restless hands.
I threw the folded parchment onto the table. It tumbled against her plate, one edge dipping into the lumpy gravy.
Brassy took once glance before speaking with her head still down.
"I never wanted to spy," she said at the same time I caught a flash of light from the street reflected in the window.
I hurried to look, keeping my back against the wall, glancing down at an angle.
A cloaked figured moved purposely towards the front door. I knew it was an Empty Man by his jerky stride.
"It doesn't matter about the spying," I said, as the Empty Man disappeared from view under the portico. "I just need to know who your contact was. Who did you tell your secrets?"
"Mrs. Sully," said Brassy. "She was my contact."
"Who else? Who else did you tell?" I asked.
Screams erupted from below. Through the floor, I felt a vibration, and moments later there was an explosion. Scantily dressed women in corsets and men in tailcoats scattered from the front like mice from a barn. Gunfire barked angrily.
"No one else," she said. "I don't understand."
"This is important." I practically shouted at her. "Who else do you know? I need the names. The city is in danger."
"What's going on down there?" asked Brassy.
"Don't worry about that. Are there any other names? How did they contact you? Tell me now, Brassy. Tell me."
She grabbed the sides of her hair with one hand of flesh, one hand of glass. Her face was a mess of emotions.
"I'm telling the truth," she said with wet eyes. "Make them stop. People are dying down there. I can hear it."
I couldn't stay any longer. I had to lure the Empty Man away from the Magdelen House.
Before I flew the cauldron out, I turned to Brassy.
"Whatever you do, stay in the city. Don't leave. It's too dangerous," I said, hoping I was right.
I didn't know if Brassy was telling the truth and if she knew about the Gamayun, but I liked her and didn't want to see the girl get hurt.
She nodded rapidly, as if the faster she answered, the quicker things would go back to normal. But it never worked like that.
I skipped into the street, flying the cauldron away to draw the Empty Man out. Flame shone through the doors. More patrons fled the bawdy house, though no one saw me. Shrill whistles from distant quarters converged, the volunteer firemen hurrying to Ram Cat Alley.
The Empty Man continued his assault. I followed the path of his destruction through the windows. A window blew out in one of the rooms near Brassy's.
That was when I realized my mistake. I thought the Empty Man would follow me, but how could it since I hadn't performed magic again?
It came when I called, this magic I possessed. The pressure formed in the void. It was like staring into a bright light without squinting.
As the pressure built, I realized I had no way of releasing it. Previously, I'd touched someone to release it, either to knock them unconscious or heal them, like the girl's case at the Bone House.
A hundred feet in the air I couldn't easily find a victim to release my magic, nor did I want to injure some innocent bystander. Even worse was that I couldn't focus enough to find someone. The pressure was building, blinding me to the world. I staggered against the cold shell of the cauldron and tried not to vomit.
A whimper formed on my lips like bubbles of pain. I wanted release. Now and now and now. I thought my head would explode like a melon in the hot sun.
Reaching out with a fitful claw, I triggered a release. A crackle of sparks shot from my fingertips into the low clouds, the ache of release like jamming them against a hot pan.
Leaning over the edge of my flying cauldron, I sensed the presence of the Empty Man shift. He was headed back out. Before it could reach the street, I gripped the control rod of the cauldron with my undamaged hand and flew away, feeling like a piece of wood pulp after it'd been crushed.
Once I had returned to my home, I stumbled into the bedroom and collapsed on the bed, not even bothering to remove my clothing. Sleep came like a fist to the head.
Chapter Seventeen
It was two days until the Winter Solstice. Tomorrow, if the prophecy was true, Benjamin Franklin would kill me.
I rubbed my temples with the meat of my palms. Since the incident with the Empty Man and the sparked magic, I'd been having frequent headaches. The ends of my fingertips on the left hand were blackened and they were as tender as new flesh.
The artifacts of my printing press were spread around the front room. Aught was sorting movable type into long rows. I tried to determine the pattern, alphabetically or font, but the same letters in the same font existed in different rows. Whatever logic he followed was nothing I understood.
"Aught," I said softly.
It looked up at me with its golden eyes, the mechanical irises contracting and expanding as it regarded me, nimble fingers still sorting. Aught reminded me of a raccoon caught in a rubbage pile.
"Wish, what does Katerina?" asked the automaton pangolin.
"What would you do if I were no longer here?" I asked.
Head tilted curiously. "Here, not?"
"Yes...if I left Philadelphia and didn't come back," I said.
I hadn't told it anything about the prophecies, nor about my impending death.
"Sad, I would be," it replied in a silky voice like two coins rubbing together.
"I didn't mean how you would feel. What would you do if I weren't here?"
Normally, Aught was in perpetual motion, tiny movements relaying an industry of being. In this moment, it stilled, and my heart worried that its consciousness had somehow fled the metal shell.
Then its pointed face looked up to me, eyes wide with sorrow.
"I'm sorry, Aught. It's a terrible question. I just worry about what's going to happen," I said.
"Help, can I?" asked Aught.
"Do you know anything about the Gamayun?" I asked.
Aught shook his head.
"Oh," I said, crestfallen. "It was worth a shot."
"Gamayun, what are?" Aught asked.
"Bird-women that give prophecies. They gave me a terrible prediction and I don't know how to get out of it," I said.
"Ask, can you?"
"Can I ask what?" I asked, perplexed.
Aught rubbed its hands together. "Prophecy, how to get out of."
A short laugh exited my
lips.
"I suppose it’s worth a shot. It's not like I have a better idea. Thank you, my little bogatyr. I shall take your sage advice," I said.
As if nothing had been said, Aught went back to sorting the movable type. I watched for a moment before readying myself to visit the Gamayun.
A light snow had fallen on the city, so I wore my woolen riding outfit with a heavy verdant cloak thrown overtop for warmth and to hide my traveling armory. I brought with me the repeating pistol liberated from Brassy's guard and a long belt knife.
Breath mist floated around my face as I readied the steam carriage for travel. I dared leaving my home in daylight since I'd met with less harassment since I'd snuck into Myna's home, which was for the better. Despite our differing opinions, I sensed a tragic discord in the woman and wished her no harm, assuming she did not make another attempt to interrupt me.
Mine was one of the few vehicles on the streets as I made my way into the countryside. The iron-wrapped wheels slipped across the snow laden cobblestones, but I managed to avoid catastrophe.
After crossing the Schuylkill River, I spied a familiar bone-white carriage at a farm across the fields. Since the first time I'd met Rowan Blade, I'd not seen her outside the Bone House. I wondered if she was practicing her healing art and would accept my help.
In truth, my heart was still wounded from our previous visit, and while I could not make myself visit the Bone House, seeing her horse-drawn carriage by chance felt like fortune's favor. I resolved to apologize for my behavior and repair our friendship.
There was no obvious road to reach the farmhouse, so I left the steam carriage idling and my weapons in the vehicle, since it was still midday. The snow crunched as I strode across the field.
I had to climb over a wooden fence near where a few workhorses milled, pale breath exiting their nostrils in occasional snorts as they tromped around the snow covered field amid fresh piles of steaming manure.
When Rowan appeared at the front of the house, rather than shout her name, I reflexively ducked. She was dressed in a bloodred gown that was a shock of color against the whites and browns of winter. She carried a heavy bag. Hanging over her shoulder was a device I'd not seen on the walls of the Bone House. It was made of leather tubes no wider than a finger. It looked like a spindly spider draping its legs across her front.
I watched as she hurried to the carriage, frequently glancing over her shoulder. Her behavior struck me as odd—not the satisfied demeanor of someone who'd just healed the ill, but rather a conspirator having practiced the black arts.
Rowan threw her implements into the carriage hastily and climbed aboard the driver's bench, snapping the reins angrily to spur her beasts forward.
Her carriage sped across the snow in the other direction. I watched from my hidden location, heart beating in fear though I had no reason to feel that way.
Once I could no longer see the bone-white carriage, I crept across the last length to the farmhouse. Smoke trailed from the chimney and lights flickered inside.
I almost turned the handle, but knocked instead. Footsteps approached from inside.
The door swung open, revealing an older, puffy-eyed woman in a black dress. The sounds of a child crying reached the entryway.
"Have you no decency?" said the woman.
By her bloodshot eyes and dark attire, it appeared she was in mourning.
"My apologies," I said, searching for words.
The woman blinked, as if realizing I wasn't someone else, Rowan I assumed.
"Who are you?" she asked.
"Yeka," I said, tapping my chest. "I was looking for the Hanson farm, but it appears I am lost."
The woman looked over my shoulder. "How did you get here?"
I indicated the steam carriage across the field. It was hard to see from this location due to a gentle rise, but she craned her head.
"Forgive my ignorance, but I don't know any Hansons," she said, squinting.
"Well, I was supposed to take the Gray Bridge and then go another mile—"
She held up her hand. "The root of your error lies there. The bridge over yonder is the Middle Bridge. The Gray is further south on Baltimore Road."
"I am in your debt," I said with a curtsey. "My apologies for disturbing you."
She seemed relieved that the exchange was over. Before she closed the door, I saw her glance down the road that led to the farm.
The woman's emotions were so strong it was hard to decant them into separate vials for careful examination. Grief was the base.
There was also fear. It tainted her glances and movements. It was the iron taste in the back of the throat.
If Rowan had failed in a healing, it would explain the hurried way she'd left the farmhouse. But why would the woman inside be wearing black already—unless she knew the person would die?
Rather than trek across the snow, I crept around the house so I might learn more. I felt exposed by the daylight.
A back window revealed the contents of the kitchen. Curtains covered the others. Standing on my toes, boots sinking into the snow, I looked inside.
It was a functional farmhouse kitchen filled with cast iron pots. Jars of pickled foods sat on a shelf along the wall.
I was about to end my spying, thinking there was nothing to be seen, when I noticed the doorway going into the main room. Though I could only see a sliver of the other room, what I saw made me put a hand to my mouth in horror.
A body had been lain out in the next room on a table. Only the feet were visible, but it was enough to send waves of revulsion through me. The feet weren't the blackened limbs of the recently deceased, but the withered shells of the ancient dead. They'd been desiccated so thoroughly that the arches of the feet were bent at an unnatural angle.
Before I could be discovered, I hurried back towards my waiting steam carriage with the implications of the farmhouse swirling through my mind. Oh, Rowan, are you not the woman I think you are?
My instinct was to condemn her, since villainy seemed the likely cause, though many things about the encounter contradicted. Why hadn't the mourning woman attacked Rowan before she left? Who was the dead man on the table? What had Rowan done with the leather tubes?
The more I thought about it, the more confused I became. I was missing something fundamental about what had happened in the Bone House. Or feelings for Rowan tainted my appraisal, a dangerous path should I have misjudged her.
Eventually I decided my concern was projected onto Rowan, born of the rapidly decaying calendar of my life, like brittle leaves released from the trees to rejoin the soil. I had spent the autumn at Rowan's side in her Bone House caring for the ill and injured. It was not fair to condemn her over something I didn't fully understand.
The likely explanation was that something had gone wrong in trying to repair the man on the table and she had hastened his death rather than preventing it. There were other explanations that suggested themselves, but rather than speculate, I decided I would wait until I could ask Rowan.
Further thoughts ceased when I slid into the steam carriage, prepared to continue on my journey to the forest of the Gamayun. I placed the lever into the forward position and was struck by a curious sight.
On the snow crusted road ahead, a lone speckled gray horse with a saddle and riding blanket stomped its feet, white plumes exiting its flaring nostrils and the vehicle lurched forward.
My confusion ended abruptly when the cold iron of a pistol was set against my neck.
An aristocratic male voice, the wielder of the pistol, spoke from the back of the carriage.
"Take me to the birds."
Chapter Eighteen
"Dr. Nottinghouse," I said. "We are not well met."
"I would say the same about you since you have decimated my friends," he said.
"I've done nothing of the sort," I said.
He snorted derisively. "At the death of each of my compatriots your presence was noted. A beautiful raven-haired woman does not make a good spy,
especially when she speaks with a French accent. Are you that daft to think we would not notice?"
"I did not kill them," I said. "Like you, I've been trying to figure out who's killing your friends."
He pressed the pistol against my neck, jarring my head painfully forward.
"Do not lie to me," he said.
I slowed the vehicle until it stopped.
"It is the truth. At request of the Warden of the city, I was investigating these deaths, starting with Albert Hold," I said.
"Lies. You were seen at Fale's and Constance's homes before their deaths," he said.
"Constance? Oh, Mrs. Sully."
A breath exited his lips, almost a cry.
"She was a good woman," he said eventually.
"Why are you spying for England?" I asked.
A fateful pause was followed by a forceful question.
"Who else knows?" he asked. "Tell me, or I'll leave your body in the snow."
"Don't threaten what you cannot carry out," I said.
It wasn't the prophecy that told me he wouldn't kill me, since it was meant for Ben's hand, but the tone of his voice. I'd heard many a killer speak and I did not hear that steel in him. What I heard was fear and sadness.
Dr. Nottinghouse might be a spy for England, but he was not a hardened killer. Though anyone pushed enough could carry out the deed, and it'd be satisfying to learn that the prophecy was wrong, I wouldn't get to enjoy it while dead.
"Take me to the birds," he said again, softer.
"Tell me why you're spying for England?" I asked, wishing I could see his face.
"Make this steam carriage move and I'll tell you," he said.
We lurched forward, steam from the engine washing over the vehicle so I was momentarily blinded. When we came out, I barely avoided a fence post before returning to the tracked road.
The cold pistol released from my neck, though it still hung in my hair. Dr. Nottinghouse was probably thinking about what to say.
"I spy for England to prevent war," he said.
Birds of Prophecy (The Dashkova Memoirs Book 3) Page 12
