Tempered: Book Four of The St. Croix Chronicles

by Karina Cooper

  A flash of pride sparked in his hazel eyes. “There, you’ve gotten it. If each Trump is comprised of symbols, and some Trumps share symbols, then what happens next?”

  I tilted my head. “Experimentation?”

  His teeth flashed in a grin here and gone so quick, I wasn’t sure I hadn’t imagined it. “A good attempt, minx.” He tugged on my hand, leading me not to the sofa but to the desk and its stocked parchment. “Theoretical application.”

  “You mean writing about it,” I translated dryly.

  “Exactly so.” Ashmore pushed me gently down into the chair behind the desk, and tugged the inkwell and pens closer to hand. “If alchemy is the art of perfection, then what are the Trumps in accordance to that?”

  “You ask for miracles,” I muttered.

  “No, I ask for intellect and understanding.” Leaving me to it, he retired once more to the sofa, a book balanced upon his knee. He did not have to look up to be in the right when he added, “Do stop making that face. If you’re going to avoid sleeping, you might as well put your mind to work.”

  I pulled my tongue back inside my mouth and sighed deeply. “Did my mother have to do all this?”

  “No.” An idle tone, too focused on his own reading to pay much mind to me. “By virtue of being raised in this house, she was all but weaned on the precepts of alchemy.”

  “That’s bloody unfair,” I muttered.

  His humming noise was little more than acknowledgement of my speaking.

  I tapped the edge of the pen I used against the margin I wrote upon. “Ashmore?” When he made another such sound, I leaned against the desk to study him. “Did my grandfather ever mention to you that he was being poisoned?”

  The book lowered, his gaze lifting to clash with mine so quickly that I was a bit taken aback by its intensity. “What on earth are you asking me?”

  I hesitated. It was possible, given my grandfather’s age and what I assumed to be Ashmore’s, that my grandfather kept that secret to his journals. According to the writings I had gleaned, my grandfather despised weakness. He like as not would have kept it from my mother and anyone else who might be close to him.

  I shrugged a little, uncomfortable with the feeling that I trod too close to a wound Ashmore might still be nursing. I wondered if he’d mourned my grandfather’s passing—and my mother’s. My gaze flicked to the mantle’s shrouded painting.

  Was it possible that he had?

  “I was just thinking aloud,” I said, rather more lamely than I’d intended.

  “Leave that be,” he replied, leaving me certain that I’d hurt him.

  “I’m sorry,” I said quietly. “I meant no harm.”

  “No need.” That he used such words to discard my sincerity rankled.

  “’Tis obvious my family meant a great deal to you,” I replied, frowning. “I only want to know a bit about the family I never knew.”

  He lifted his book again, clear dismissal. “I did not know them all that well.”

  “But you said—”

  The book snapped close with a sound like thunder, silencing me. “If you aren’t intent on learning these precepts, then you are wasting my time,” he said tightly, eying me as though discerning if I were worth the effort of even saying that much.

  Chastened, caught between remorse at my well-intentioned goading and irritation at being treated so callously, I turned again to my assignment and tried not to think that there was something wrong with him that he would reject all attempts to speak.

  He did not like to talk of my family. Why?

  I looked up again. “Ashmore.”

  This time, he blew out a breath as he selected a new tome from the small stack beside him. “What is it now?”

  “Do thoughts of my grandfather pain you?”

  His eyes closed, as though he fought for patience. “He was taken by a wasting disease before his time, as was your mother. Does it seem so unlikely that I might wish to avoid speaking of them?”

  A fair point. “No,” I admitted. “I’m sorry you’re hurting.”

  That earned me a startled glance. Then, curtly, “Do your work, Miss St. Croix.”

  I did. It was not the exploratory effort I had hoped for, but there was nothing for it.

  For some few hours, I applied myself to the task with only the occasional rustle of turned pages and the snapping accompaniment of the fireplace to keep me company. Ashmore said nothing, leaving me to work as he had instructed, his attention upon whatever book caught his fancy.

  If occasionally I looked up to find his gaze lifted to the cloth drape obscuring my mother’s portrait, I did not interrupt his reverie.

  The more I learned of this symbol-rich methodology, as I worked out my thoughts on parchment, the more excitement built within me. As I slotted pieces of the puzzle into place, tucking each new fact with the others, I felt as though I grasped a greater truth.

  For the first in a very long time, I felt as if I might accomplish something truly remarkable. Something that did not require blood spilled or lies to get by. Something that would not cloud my mind or put my friends in harm’s way.

  I hovered on the brink of understanding, and exulted in the feeling of accomplishment this brought me.

  I could do this. All I would have to do was learn.

  * * *

  It was mid-morning before I could summon the courage to resume my search for my grandfather’s laboratory or any other stored journals. That Maddie Ruth was with me when I suggested the adventure only helped salve my pride.

  With her at my side, I would be less likely to allow my imagination to run away with me again. Empty as it was, harmless as a shadow, I truly despised this manor. I couldn’t help but feel as if it were a living creature, a taunting entity in the dark jealously guarding its secrets. I wanted to be the one to tap those secrets, and if that meant I swallow my pride and ask for help, I would.

  Maddie Ruth was the least likely to offer resistance.

  “Are you feeling up to it?” she asked me, tying off my waist-length plait with a simple band. She had given up on wasting any more pins, applying only a few to keep errant curls from my face.

  I was. More than up to it, I was feeling quite inspired. So much so that I felt not only capable of confiding in the girl, but quite excited to do so. I turned upon the vanity seat, smiling up at her with a bit of manic delight. “It shall be an adventure.”

  Her nose wrinkled. “Compared to them other adventures, this one seems better.”

  I laughed. “That’s almost the spirit.”

  “We’re only after some books?”

  “And,” I drew out, so deliberately that she put her hands on her rounded hips and bent enough that she could meet me eye to eye.

  “I knew it,” she informed me. “You’re up to something. Confess.”

  My smile deepened. “We’re searching for a secret laboratory.”

  She stared at me as though I had admitted to cultivating a collection of human heads for science.

  I pressed my advantage. “In my grandfather’s journal, he speaks of a laboratory in this very house. ’Tis the only reference I have, as my mother’s diary speaks of theory and bears fragments of formula I can’t decipher yet.”

  Maddie Ruth finally closed her mouth. Then opened it again to say with dry comprehension, “You’re trying to skip ahead in the lessons with Mr. Ashmore, ain’t you?”

  “Just so,” I intoned, channeling the man at his most stern.

  She grinned, her brown eyes earning a sparkle that matched my own excitement. “Will this laboratory help you do that?”

  “’Tis bound to have more information within it, don’t you think?” I rose, shaking out the newly laundered tea gown with some care. The bodice still did not fit quite right, but the draped lace at the waist did much to soften the obvious gap. “At the least, I might learn more of my family’s history.”

  “At the best?” she inquired, knowing me rather too well for our minimal acquaintance.


  I gestured rather more emphatically than the question required. “I shall find all I ever needed to know in a precise format regarding the principles and execution of alchemical sciences.”

  “And then conquer all of the world, aye?”

  I laughed outright at that. “I’ll acquire an airship to explore it, but hang ruling it.”

  Maddie Ruth was still giggling as we exited the bedroom together.

  I wasn’t quite sure when it had happened, but I really was feeling more the thing. I hadn’t felt overt fatigue in a few days, and I found my thoughts straying more and more to alchemical workings and my family’s secrets than to the tar I used to devour.

  I wondered if this meant I was on the mend.

  “Is it true your grand-da got sick?” Maddie Ruth asked, breaking into my thoughts with the lack of tact I’d long since grown used to from her. She meant nothing by it, usually.

  I found it a great deal more refreshing than the verbal dueling Society preferred.

  I nodded, stepping aside so that she could walk beside me rather than behind. We were of a similar height, which made for companionable discourse requiring neither of us to strain to see the other. “Ashmore says that my grandfather and mother both suffered the same illness.”

  She studied my face intently. “Doesn’t that mean you’ll get it too?”

  “He says not.”

  “How would he know?” she asked, and I had no answer to that, so I shrugged. “Maybe it strikes young?”

  “Possible,” I replied, “though my grandfather seemed surprised at the start of his journal when he first fell ill.”

  This time, Maddie Ruth held the chamberstick, allowing me to walk with care by holding up my skirts. Fortunately, due in part to Maddie Ruth’s hasty alterations, they were not nearly so long as my mother’s borrowed clothing had been.

  “Did your mother speak of any illness?”

  I shook my head. “Not in the thin diary you brought back for me.” I glanced at her. “Thank you, Maddie Ruth.”

  Companionably, she linked her arm through mine. “Thank Communion for remembering.”

  I would, just as soon as I made my way back to London.

  That was another conversation I had not quite figured out how to have. Ashmore had touched upon it—I’d all but admitted to it—but the details seemed too complex to decipher now. I could barely think ahead a few days, much less the weeks, perhaps even months required of me to mend.

  I knew I needed to be well, that I needed to be stronger, but if I put my return off too long, would there be anything to go back to? Maddie Ruth spoke of blood spilled in the Menagerie, of a war between Ferrymen and Bakers. The Ripper had killed again; would there be more women slain before I returned?

  So many concerns haunted me, joining my retinue of guilt and responsibility with remarkable ease. I wanted to hie off to London now, to rattle my metaphorical saber at the gates, but I couldn’t. I simply could not take the risk—and I was finally sober enough, dry enough, to know that as the truth it was.

  Mend, first. A mantra I had taken to repeating. I could help nobody, rescue nobody, until I was stronger.

  We walked in silence, our footsteps stirring the floor to creaks and groans as though we were elephants on march. As we entered the wing where the bookshelves had been, I hesitated for a moment, seized with a sudden desire to show Maddie Ruth the music room long abandoned.

  I tugged on her arm. “Follow me.”

  Perhaps it really was the company. With another body beside me, I did not think the gloom to be so thick, or the dust so dour. We both endeavored to avoid touching the walls, for the cobwebs still clustered thick and gray along the panels, but it did not seem so oppressive as I’d remembered it being.

  I led Maddie Ruth into the music room, giving a flourish as I did.

  She surveyed the cloth-wrapped interior with raised eyebrows. “It looks like a haunted ballroom.”

  “’Tisn’t nearly so big as to dance in,” I said, “though I’ll admit to feeling it haunted in the gloom. This is a music parlor, where guests might gather for a small soiree.”

  She looked uncertain. “And you played in places like this?”

  “Not I,” I admitted, more than a little wry. “My mother was quite good on a handful of instruments, but I lack that particular talent.”

  She bent to peer beneath a cloth, then tugged it up so that she could pluck a harp’s string. It sounded flat to my ear, but nevertheless sang delicately. “I always wanted to learn how to play something.”

  This was said with such wistful regard that I couldn’t help but touch her shoulder. “Would you like if I should teach you?”

  I admit to being a little relieved when she laughed that away. “No, no. My da always said I had an ear for a gear set wrong, but none at all for music. I’ll leave it to better hands.”

  “Your hands are better,” I said, stung to loyalty on her behalf.

  It was no compliment at all to note a strength in compensation for an abject failure. How many times had I been told that at least I had my mother’s face, if I could not have her talent?

  Too bloody often.

  She gave me a smile, then wandered ahead to lift the cloth from the piano. She trailed her fingers over the lid that protected the keys. “This is beautiful.”

  I stared at the wood she touched, my hands settling to my hips as I struggled to remember if I’d put the housing down or not.

  I must have. I’d been rather surprised to find the keys left unprotected when I’d seen the instrument last.

  While I thought it over, Maddie Ruth lifted the protective lid and could not avoid the same lure I had given in to before. She touched a key, a lower note than I had, which filled the room with a soft note.

  “It’s not very loud, is it?” she asked.

  I passed her to twitch aside the rest of the cover, leaving it folded over the housing. “That’s because this surface is down,” I explained. I wrestled the lid open, propping it in place and baring the hammers, keys and strings to the air. “Try now.”

  She touched another key, a higher one, and the much louder plink it created made us both smile.

  “Do you remember anything?”

  “How to play?” I frowned at the keys. “I’m not sure.” She stepped aside, leaving room for me to bend and place my fingers upon the keys. For a moment’s effort, I froze.

  Could I remember the music I had once been taught?

  I struck the keys with halting effort, occasionally pressing down on the wrong one. After the third such error, I snatched my hands from the piano and tucked them behind my back, wrinkling my nose.

  “Don’t stop,” Maddie Ruth said quickly, ushering me to sit before the keys I could not master. “That were lovely.”

  “It were awful,” I replied, deliberately utilizing her vernacular to do it. “Don’t lie to me, Maddie Ruth.”

  “It were better than me,” she retorted. “Play something, won’t you? Play it through, I want to hear.”

  So goaded, I allowed myself to be seated, to look down at the array of white and black that had once been my bane. I had no sheet music to read from, but as I delicately placed my hands upon the keys, a song sprang to memory.

  I touched the notes gently at first, eking out note after note without due consideration of what would come next. Behind me, I heard Maddie Ruth take in a delighted breath at the first time I hit three at once. The lovely harmony rang through the room.

  The melody I played was not simple, but as I allowed the music to soar, and as my toes came down upon a pedal to turn some notes longer, the room faded around me.

  It was as if I watched myself from a distance, my fingers ghosting over the keyboard like they belonged to someone else.

  The musty air, the filtered light streaming from behind dusty drapes, even the ache within my joints unused to such practice turned into the lush sound of the music as it filled my heart like I’d always known it.

  I don’t know how long I
played. Torn from time and thought, it was all I could do to keep up with my own fingers.

  Crash!

  The piano shuddered. My hands spasmed, and they came down on the keys so hard that the jangling note tore through the music room and slapped me into waking awareness.

  I looked up to find Ashmore poised beside the piano, eyes flashing with a rage I could not comprehend. The lid propped open to allow the music to soar now trembled in the aftershocks of its closing, the remains of the brace that held it open splintered upon the floor.

  He breathed heavily, as though he’d run all the way across the estate, and his grip was white-knuckled upon the sealed wood.

  I leapt up from the seat. “What is—”

  “Don’t,” he said over me, the word a barely restrained growl. “Do not ever play that again.”

  To my left, I could hear Maddie Ruth sucking in a breath—but she remained silent. Wisely so.

  I was not so wise.

  “What is wrong with you?” I demanded.

  His lips peeled back. “Get out of this room.”

  I leaned away when he reached across me to slam the protective lid down over the keys. Had I not moved my hands, my fingers would have been crushed beneath.

  “Out,” he snarled. “Get out, this is off-limits to the both of you.”

  I could not argue in the face of such unreasonable childishness. Trembling with resentment, I clutched Maddie Ruth’s arm and dragged her from the room.

  “I think we made him angry,” she whispered.

  “I’ll make him angrier yet,” I snapped, though I had no real plans for it. It made me feel better to imagine myself poking at all the places that would irritate him again—starting with that bloody piano.

  I could not believe he’d broken an heirloom instrument so casually. Was he insane? Even at my worst, I’d never brought harm to an innocent, beautiful instrument.

  Only to living, breathing human beings.

  I squeezed my eyes shut, allowing Maddie Ruth to take the lead, hand laced tightly in mine.