Tempered: Book Four of The St. Croix Chronicles

by Karina Cooper

  I sat, though on admittedly wobbly knees, and held my journal to my chest. “You mean there’s more to what you’re teaching me than the names of Trumps?”

  He sighed. “You are remarkably impatient. Yes,” he added before I could answer that. “There is more, but you are attempting to sprint when you’ve not even mastered the crawl. Patience.”

  I leaned forward. “So there will be scientific experimentation later?”

  “Much later,” he said firmly. He lifted another card. “Now, if you’ve no other outbursts, let us return to ensuring your grasp of the foundation is impeccable, shall we?” When I nodded, he continued his list.

  Twenty-two Trumps in all, each with a number and letter associated, and a symbolic meaning I dutifully recorded. At the end, when he questioned me on the list, I was fortunate enough that I’d detailed exactly that which he required of me.

  “Well done,” he said, sliding the cards back into the pouch. “Your assignment today is to utilize the library and find for me the reason why each Trump bears the name it does.”

  What little elation I’d garnered sizzled into outright challenge. “That’s rather vague,” I pointed out.

  “Then I wish you luck.” He withdrew a gold pocket watch from his waistcoat—brown again, surprising me not at all—and checked the time. “You have until morning. I suggest you start now.”

  I muttered about his bloody assignments all the way back to the library.

  They did not leave me alone for very long. By some unspoken agreement I did not hear them make, either Ashmore or Maddie Ruth remained nearby every moment. While I appreciated that it made the house I remained in seem less gloomy and oppressive, it also did not afford me any opportunity to investigate any more clues regarding my grandfather’s laboratory.

  I did not want to traverse the halls in the dead of night, but it was likely my only prospect. Maddie Ruth needed to sleep, and I had been rather well-behaved of late, keeping to my room to study.

  If I could find the laboratory, I would have a wonderful surprise for Ashmore—and the tools with which to advance my knowledge.

  The mysteries regarding my grandfather’s proposed conspiracy to murder him only piqued my interest on the matter.

  Denied the opportunity for the moment, I dutifully remained in the library, taking my dinner and supper there, and worked to learn that what Ashmore wanted me to learn.

  I must admit that in the end, I was inordinately pleased to find that I was capable of deducing what it was I was to show him. My revelation started first by happenstance—a reference to Orcus in Roman writings. This was also the name of the thirteenth Trump. I learned that Orcus was the Roman god of the netherworld, which corresponded to the Greek Hades, whose helmet allowed for invisibility so that one may enter and exit the realm of the dead without trouble.

  Once I suspected the theme, I began to study on all the Trumps. Kronos, whose symbolism focused on the correspondence between letters and numbers, was also the god of Time. In Greek mythology, he swallowed his offspring, which suggested that all things were taken by Time.

  Oh, how clever these alchemists were.

  Hamaxa intrigued me greatly, for its symbolic meaning was that of a crystal sphere, yet the Latin word itself was indicative of a chariot, which lead me to references of Athena, who was credited with devising the chariot in her mythologies.

  Once I started finding connections, I could not stop, until my journal resembled little more than a series of lines and arrows leading back through the pages to reference things written prior.

  I muttered often as I worked, and sometimes I would look up when a fresh pot of tea was set nearby, to find Ashmore looking rather more pleased than I would have thought possible. The expression would quickly shutter to stern taskmaster once more, and I returned to my efforts.

  As I read of Noxa, the Trump who was closely associated with the symbolic “human being,” I could not repress a moment of unease. The word in Latin meant harm, and I could not quite get the image—a man hanging by his ankle with his hands bound, like a sacrifice—from my mind.

  Later that evening, when I’d ensconced myself upon my bed with a night’s store of candles and an armful of books, I was still considering what Noxa might mean by its literal translation and alchemical symbolism.

  “Good night, Cherry,” Maddie Ruth said from the door of my bedroom.

  “Sleep well,” I said absently, and only waited until I heard the door to her own room close beside mine.

  Abandoning the books I brought, I found my mother’s journal from underneath the bed where I’d stored it—beside the crumpled ball gown I could not bear to pull from its dusty hiding place and my grandfather’s journal.

  Leafing through the pages, I allowed my gaze to skim over the elegant script until a word caught my eyes.

  Pluvia.

  The fifteenth Trump, corresponding with water and flow.

  So my mother had been aware of these principles. It made perfect sense, really, for if she was a gifted alchemical student, then she would be given the same foundation Ashmore was attempting to teach me.

  The pages regarding my mother’s use of Pluvia did not make a great deal of sense. Many of the symbols following reference to the Trump were indecipherable—I suspected they were alchemical symbols meaning very specific things. I recognized a few, mostly because of what little I’d learned from Miss Hensworth’s formula of October last.

  It seemed, looking back, as though I had only been given the barest of tools before each of those willing to teach me were taken so abruptly—often by mortal mischief.

  Despite that, I had faith that Ashmore would not be so easily stolen.

  I closed my eyes, allowing my mother’s diary to fall to my chest. The candlelight flickered madly behind my eyelids, painting all that I visualized in orange and red.

  Hamaxa! Ashmore’s voice rang out with uncanny clarity in my memory, accompanied by a purple shine I thought had been formed from opium dreams.

  Had Ashmore utilized alchemical means to rescue me from Hawke’s Chinese sorcery?

  Creak. A floorboard’s complaint shattered my deliberations, forcing me upright in startled bewilderment.

  Though I expected to find one of my eternal busybody watchers in my room, perhaps coming to blow out the candle upon finding me apparently asleep, there was nobody in view.

  Shadows filled the corners, as was often the case come nightfall. My single candle was enough to read by, but not so strong that it would illuminate all. Even in the darkest edges, nothing in the room was unfamiliar by now, and yet I found myself watching those corners with unease.

  Was it the house settling, as I often thought?

  Did someone walk by my room and trod upon a loose floorboard?

  When there came no tap upon my door, and no following step to suggest a body had turned away, I reached for the chamberstick my candle valiantly fought the gloom from and slid my feet into waiting slippers.

  All thoughts of assignment fled. Of the lessons Ashmore hoped I would learn, the hardest was that of belief. Whether magic was magic or science, whether alchemy was science or fool’s hope—whether I was the fool I thought myself to be or simply a victim of my own choices as everyone else—a singular warning ran through it all: I couldn’t believe myself to be all-knowing.

  This house had bothered me from the start, and I was tired of being made the missish waif startling at every creak. There were secrets here, and if they came by way of bolt holes traveled by large and clumsy mice or something much more ominous, I would find out.

  At the very least, I might face this bloody manor head-on and come out the victor for it.

  I hurried to my door, turned the knob ever so slowly and was rewarded by quiet instead of abject complaint from the hinges. When I cracked upon the portico, nothing but shadow and a faint glow from my own candle filled the seam.

  I slipped out into the corridor, raising the light high.

  There was no silhouette to sug
gest company, and no noise to indicate that either of my companions were anything but asleep.

  For all of a breath, I contemplated returning to my room.

  Then I remembered I had been hoping for just this moment. Would I allow wayward imaginings to halt my progress?

  “Bollocks,” I declared, a breath of denial, and turned instead for the junction connected to the grand staircase.

  Chapter Fifteen

  There was something terribly wrong with this house.

  Every step made me feel as though I were being watched—some dark and vengeful shape in the gloom waiting for the perfect moment to strike.

  It was a foolish fear, one like as not fueled by my own overactive thoughts, but I could not help peering behind me every few steps as the occasional groan followed in my wake.

  This estate was not in good repair. It was obviously a case of old timber and the howling wind beyond the walls, wailing over the moor.

  Still, I glanced around me in wary regard, braced for any shape or sound of ghostly danger.

  These are the lonesome and fearful thoughts of a mind left in the dark to dream. Were it daylight, I was sure I’d hear such creaks and groans and attribute them to where they belonged, but in the quiet hours of the night, I was afraid.

  For that reason, I continued forward. Of all the circumstances that had conspired to end me, I would not give in to an empty house.

  I gripped the bannister tight as I proceeded down the steps. More than once, I froze and clutched the rail as though I might be thrown from it; searching the black behind me revealed nothing reaching to do so.

  My skin crawled. Hysteria welled. My heart thudded so loudly that it should have deafened me to all else, yet the whistle I was certain must be wind still filled my ears. In it, I fancied I heard the tuneless melody of the murderer out for my heart—and in the dark hall I stumbled through, I imagined that it was not my love he demanded but the pounding organ within my breast—ugly and black and so fragile.

  Such fitful fancies, malignant and hungry, filled me that panic clawed at my shivering flesh. I wanted to run; I needed to flee.

  Still, I refused. I needed to be stronger than this. For myself, first.

  For those who counted on me second.

  Ashmore, who trusted me, and Maddie Ruth who had risked much to come this far from the Veil’s command.

  I had plans, did I not? They did not include falling to hysterical imaginings.

  Raising my chin, I thrust the candle in front of me and marched to the library.

  I was surprised to find the door ajar.

  Less so when I saw Ashmore’s shoulders and the bright gleam of his copper hair above the sofa’s carved wooden back.

  The door whined as I pushed it gently open.

  He stirred, looking away from the mantle. He had removed his waistcoat, leaving him in his trousers and shirtsleeves, boots upon his feet.

  It was a remarkably attractive whole.

  He frowned at me. “Can you not sleep still?”

  I shook my head, even as relief filled me from toes to crown. All of my fancies, all of my fears, mocked me now. I must have heard Ashmore’s step beyond my door, and simply missed his passing when I’d looked.

  He beckoned, and I wasted no time in blowing out the candle upon the chamberstick and obeying.

  “You forgot your wrapper,” he observed when I rounded the sofa. “Come here.” He looped both arms about me, tugged me into his lap.

  “Are you all right?” was all I could think to ask.

  Settling me into place, his chin came to rest upon my head, and I felt him take a deep breath. “How go your studies?”

  It wasn’t an answer. Still, I felt his body give somewhat beneath mine, as though my presence allowed him to relax some.

  I’d wager that Ashmore spent a great deal of his time worrying what I was up to.

  Worthless, really. It would serve him best to assume I was always up to something, and all he needed to ensure was that I could not find his valise.

  The lure of the tar was not entirely gone. I simply kept it occupied.

  “They go well,” I said, “I think. I’ve discovered all manner of connections to the Trumps.”

  His arms folded about my waist, hands tucking with intimate confidence at my hips. I was still too thin, for all I was working on that as quick and comfortably as I could. I could not yet eat enough to replenish what I lost.

  Ashmore did not seem to mind. “What sorts of connections?”

  “Well.” I cautiously allowed my hands to settle over his, an act he did not deny me, to my relief. I was not entirely sure where I stood with him—somewhere between lover and student—and had not yet considered where I might go from there. “Take Trina, for example.”

  “The nineteenth Trump.”

  I nodded, though carefully as his chin still rested companionably atop my head. “The meaning is that of the moon, and also of Hekate, but trina in Latin means three. I mean,” I amended, “triple.”

  “Or threefold.”

  Another gentle nod. “Did you know that every nineteen years, the full moon occurs on the same day of the year?” I asked.

  “Oh, ho.” A surprised chuckle, but one in which I heard approval. "Found that bit of wisdom, did you?”

  I opened my mouth to say where I had, then realized it was within my mother’s diary. Quickly, I amended my thoughts to, “As the nineteenth Trump, it reflects those nineteen years.”

  “That’s called Enneadecaeteris.”

  “The world abhors a know-it-all,” I told him, good-natured enough that there could be no sting. “’Tis more commonly known as the Metonic cycle, thank you.”

  I could feel the way his jaw moved when he grinned. “What else?”

  I shifted, content when he opened his legs a bit to allow me comfortable purchase between them. “Hekate’s purview was that of birth, life and death. I wondered what might distinguish Trina from Diana,” I continued, “and found it mostly in the mythology offered. Hekate was associated with Artemis, or Diana, and Selene, which helps round out the triple goddess aspect with the virginal, maternal and the wise crone.”

  “Good,” he said.

  “She was a chthonic deity, which allowed her governance of magic, prophecy and necromancy.”

  “Are you a believer, then?” he teased, and I tilted my head back to scowl into his laughing eyes.

  “I’m simply stating the accounting,” I assured him, digging my elbow some into his ribs as I deliberately shifted. He grunted a laugh, easing my elbow aside. “My point is that she was called the Queen of the Ghostworld, Hekate Trevia.”

  “Hekate of the Three-Ways.”

  I held my hands up in the shape of Trina’s capital letter. “The Trump’s letter is made of two paths which create a crossroads of three, you see?”

  “Clever girl.” It wasn’t too much, but even that praise made me feel warm and accomplished. “Do you understand why it matters?”

  I turned, so that I could better study Ashmore’s features. Mine remained serious. “I don’t think so.”

  When he tilted his head, the fire caught within his hazel eyes, mirrored brightly in the messy corona of his short hair. “Where are you confused?”

  I looked down at my hands. “All of it, really. I see where the connections are, such as Trina or Diana’s relevance to the four elements, but I don’t understand what it means. Like Pluvia,” I added, looking up to see his own gaze lift above my head. “Or Hamaxa. What do they matter?”

  “Pluvia is associated with Cybele, whose name was derived from Kubaba, which means something like ‘hollow vessel.’”

  I had followed these traces of lore already, but it told me nothing at all. “What of Hamaxa? Why is it associated with a crystal sphere if it’s to be a chariot?”

  Ashmore’s mouth quirked, and he finally looked at me with a small shake of his head. “As the eighth Trump, it corresponds with the eighth heaven.”

  “What is that?”
>
  “Usually thought to be a crystal sphere,” he said with a shrug. “It separates the spiritual realm from the material.”

  That made unusual sense. I turned so that I could wholly study Ashmore, placing a hand upon his chest. “Do you believe in all this talk of heavens and gods?”

  “No.” The word came without thought or heat. It surprised me how calmly he denied it. “What I believe in is the symbol, and that what it calls forth. They are tools.”

  Frustration filled me. I wriggled off his lap, out of his hold, and stood before the mantle with my fists clenched at my sides. “I don’t understand,” I said tightly, glowering into the flame. “Why learn all this if ’tis nothing more than dressing?”

  “The mind requires symbols.”

  “But to what purpose?”

  “Always,” he said calmly behind me, “always to the base purpose of the whole. Perfection.”

  I groaned. “But what perfection does Trina pursue?” I turned, planting my hands upon my hips. “Or Diana?”

  His gaze slid from mine, to trail over the ghost-like vision I must have made in my too-long nightshift. When they lifted again, amusement touched them. “You’re looking for finite rubrics, Cherry. Therein lies disappointment.”

  He spoke my name so easily.

  To my chagrin, it felt nice.

  I wasn’t certain I should feel so. Not when I struggled so badly with that what he attempted to teach.

  My thumb slid between my teeth and I gnawed on it as I contemplated what he’d said. If the mind required symbols to attach meaning to, then did that mean science, comprised of symbols intellectual men applied to concepts to create a formula, used the same theory of understanding as alchemy?

  Which suddenly made a great deal more sense to me.

  “So,” I said around my thumb.

  With lanky grace, Ashmore rose from the sofa and reached out to lace his fingers with mine, removing my hand from my mouth. “Don’t do that,” he cautioned. “Concentrate on me. What strikes you?”

  My hand twitched in his. I frowned at our entwined fingers. “So,” I repeated again, slower. “If I were to think of the images and concepts applied to each Trump as a formula, it would be the same as scientific formula comprised of letters and mathematical variants.”