Tempered: Book Four of The St. Croix Chronicles

by Karina Cooper

  Perhaps this house was getting to him, as well. All the groans, all the reverberations as the wind battered at its facing, all the creaking floorboards. Ashmore was clearly getting impatient.

  So he took it out on me.

  I grew angrier at that conclusion. I hated this house as much as he did; I despised the moor, I loathed the noises, I was weary and stretched thin from all the fancies painting eyes in the dark. What right did he have to make me feel even worse?

  We hurried to my room, whatever dubious sanctuary that was, and I flung myself upon the bed with a biting series of uncivilities that had Maddie Ruth giggling at the end. Spent, I rolled over to my back, glaring at the ceiling. “It was just a piano.”

  She nodded in the corner of my sight, perching on the edge of the bed side me. “That were a beautiful song, Cherry.”

  Now, jarred from it so suddenly as I was, I couldn’t recall what I’d played. Likely something from the endless hours of practice Fanny had honed into my bones. I shrugged a little. “Apparently not.”

  “It was.” She hummed a few notes, though doing so only gave credence to her father’s judgment of her abilities. The girl didn’t have much ear for tone.

  I turned my head to grin at her. “You really can’t sing, can you?”

  She was too honest to be offended, laughing outright. “Not a note.”

  That made two of us, at least.

  Unless a miracle were to happen—wherein I magically discovered a latent talent for music I had never before displayed—I had no intentions of trying to play again.

  Despite my resolve, I found myself humming softly now and again throughout the day.

  I did not recognize the tune.

  Chapter Sixteen

  Whatever I had done to anger Ashmore, he did not find me to explain. I thought briefly of locating him, but for much of the day, my pride demanded I make him come to me.

  I had not been the one to behave so abominably. I was not the one who had broken that beautiful piano, and it was not I who had yelled at Maddie Ruth.

  Yet as I sat within the library and stared at the half-penned assignment, my thoughts strayed again to the fury twisting his face to such extreme violence.

  What had I done to deserve that?

  I slumped over the desk in the library, allotting a portion of my thoughts to feel relief at the merciful give at my waist. Tea gowns truly were the mark of a freed woman.

  I wondered if my mother had ever contemplated wearing a gown without a corset. Would she relish the freedom, as I did? Or did she prefer the rigid boning and elegant posture it forced?

  I straightened again, gaze sliding up to the portrait hiding behind the white shroud.

  “What do you think, mother?” I asked, though my voice wavered some upon the word I very rarely spoke aloud. Mother was not a term I found reason to use comfortably.

  What would my life have been like, had she not faded?

  I stood, ignoring my assignment in favor of a fit of mischief. Flouting Ashmore’s apparent dislike of the painting, I reached up to tug the cloth free of its anchor, twitching it aside to ensure the material did not fold into the fireplace.

  The startling color painted on that canvas did not fail to hitch my breath.

  In the firelight, Josephine St. Croix was the very epitome of beauty. The artist had truly loved her; there was no doubt he had labored intensely over the contours of her figure in such lovely blue. Every fold of her skirt, every tendril of ruby red hair, even the impish twinkle in her wide green eyes spoke of dedication.

  I looked at the red globe she carried, the astrolabe in the other hand, and thought how shameful it was that I had not benefitted from her teachings.

  My gaze slid to the astrolabe again.

  It was the same as in that macabre portrait shrouded in storage, wasn’t it?

  I wished I could pull the painting from the wall, so that I could study it in greater detail. Craning my neck did not garner much more than the overall view—stunning, to be sure, but lacking in the minute specifics I labored to examine now.

  Lord Banyan had been carrying that astrolabe in his hand, I was sure of it. The globe was the same in shape as that held by Lord Floret, only his had been green, not red.

  Did she hold a show globe? Recognized throughout England as the mark of a pharmacist, they hung in windows to proclaim that medicinal help could be found within. They were often filled with liquid, and the color of that liquid could change based on chemicals applied.

  Did the show globe represent something else for alchemists?

  I stepped back, looking now not at the central figure my mother presented but at her surroundings.

  She stood before bookshelves, though they were the wrong color wood for this library. Just off the canvas—its edge trailing away into the gilt frame—a long emerald curtain posed a distinctive color contrasted against her blue gown. I squinted at a dark shape just by her elbow. It was a tube-like vessel of fire-hardened clay, narrow at the base and then oddly angled as it climbed. The mouth of it would make a triangle shape.

  That one, I recognized. A Hessian crucible, so named for its original creation in the Hesse region of Germany. While long since replaced by more common crucibles, this was a relic out of history. I had seen one displayed before, years ago at an exhibit in the Philosopher’s Square, but I had never before seen it in use.

  I pursed my lips, tapping my thumb against them idly.

  Three paintings, two of a ghoulish subject, each bearing tools of alchemical trade. My mother’s bore the show globe, the astrolabe and a crucible. Lord Floret’s depicted the show globe and an amber jewel upon his stick—I wondered if it was meant to represent anything at all besides wealth.

  Lord Banyan showed off his astrolabe and unusually comfortable informality.

  What else did they have in common?

  I backed away from the painting with slow, measured steps, allowing my gaze to unfocus over the whole as if it might help me see more than what was painted before me.

  Painted.

  Could that be right?

  Frowning, I closed my eyes, called to mind the portraits I’d studied so closely.

  Was it my imagination that they seemed to bear distinctive similarities in bold color and style of stroke?

  A family of artists, then, or a master passing his art to his apprentices. It seemed strange that each painting should be painted with such differences—my mother’s blooming beauty and the desiccated cadavers made of the men—but perhaps that was why those remained in storage.

  My eyes popped open.

  Green cloth.

  It hung as drapery just to my mother’s left, but for Lord Banyan, hadn’t it been more centered behind him?

  Bookshelves, green drapes, alchemical tools.

  Was it possible that I’d stumbled upon the clues to my grandfather’s laboratory? If Lords Banyan and Floret were somehow related to my mother’s line, was it likely that it had been their laboratory in their time?

  Excitement gripped my heart.

  If I could locate these particular bookshelves, or the green drapery depicted, I might be that much closer to locating clues—not just to the laboratory, but possibly to more information about the family Ashmore would not tell me of. A part of me wanted to drag every last iota of information from him, but remembering how such pain had shaped his features, I couldn’t bring myself to try.

  I could learn more without hurting him again.

  Yet as soon as I turned away, I hesitated.

  Didn’t I promise that I would work hard? Didn’t I tell Ashmore I was willing to learn what he taught?

  My gaze slid to the desk, and my half-formed treatise upon it.

  I had already broken down a handful of the Trumps, based on what Ashmore had suggested. To study alchemical science was to seek perfection. Yet I’d noted that a great deal of the information regarding each Trump involved a mental or spiritual aspect, not just a material symbol.

  If perfection was
the goal, then was it possible that alchemy was as much about transmutation of base metals to gold as it was about transmuting the inner self to a greater purpose?

  I wasn’t sure if what I wrote would make any kind of sense. I was a devout believer in this Age of Reason, not of spirit and divinity, yet there was an undeniable thread of self-improvement regarding each Trump I researched.

  It began with Apis—the Fool, whose journey into the unknown was only beginning—and ended with Zodiacus, whose nature mirrored that of the tarot’s World and thus—as near as I could gather in alchemical references—the cosmos. The cosmos was everything, the culmination of all things, and generally the symbol of a journey’s end; to wit, completion and attainment of perfection.

  A veritable journey of the soul, wasn’t it?

  Though I yearned to throw all caution to the wind and sate my thirst for adventure, I did not. I had given my word, encroached upon Ashmore’s time and tolerance far too long. He had done much for me, and he was still affording me the opportunity to better myself.

  Giving this my all was the least I owed him.

  Muttering to myself, I circled the fallen shroud and returned to work. I would turn in this assignment first, and then explore.

  If I felt at all that my mother’s serene smile turned to impatience with my decision, I simply fancied that it was my own eagerness taking shape in my imagination.

  Ignoring her brilliant stare, I completed my treatise with painstaking care.

  Maddie Ruth came by several times to check on me, collecting a few books for her own purposes and delivering dinner—which I ate nearly all of, though I didn’t recall making a point to do so.

  The light outside the library windows had faded to the gray mist of late afternoon by the time I finished. I barely waited for the ink to dry before snatching up the pile of papers and waving them at a surprised Maddie Ruth, who had ensconced herself upon the sofa.

  “Are you done, then?”

  “I am done at last,” I declared. “I’d best deliver it to Ashmore.”

  She grinned at me. “I saw him leave for the stables not long past. Like as not, he’s off to feed his dogs.”

  “Dogs?” I remembered the infrequent baying, and snapped my free fingers. I liked that I could do so without the constant obstruction of gloves. “I forgot about them.”

  “They’re large, friendly beasts.” She waved at me. “Take a shawl, it’s devil cold out.”

  I was half to the door when I hesitated. When I turned, I found her looking back to her book. “Aren’t you worried for me?” I inquired.

  She glanced up once more, obviously puzzled. “Should I be?”

  “Aren’t I an invalid?”

  “You seem healthy enough,” she replied. “Do you feel like an invalid?”

  I thought about it, earning a deepening smile from my companion. “I don’t feel much like one,” I said, but slowly. As I said the words, I felt them out, tested them against my own body’s senses.

  I truly did not feel like an invalid.

  I did not prod at the wounds of my memory too hard, lest I accidentally tear one raw and be forced to remember the smoke’s lure again—to say nothing of all the hurts I had not yet figured a plan to deal with—but I had to admit that I felt rather more whole than I was used to.

  I looked down at my faintly crumpled papers, gripped tightly in one hand.

  Was this the reason?

  The source of this accomplished feeling had to have come from something I’d done.

  When was the last time I’d felt this thrill of completion?

  My smile, when it came, was slow. I felt it tug at my lips first, then spread from ear to ear as I looked back at Maddie Ruth’s patient grin.

  “I feel good,” I admitted. “I truly do.”

  “Good.” She waved, shooing me along as though I were a bothersome child. “Go find Ashmore in the stables. Come back when you’re thoroughly—”

  “Maddie Ruth,” I interjected, half amused and more than a little embarrassed.

  “—graded,” she said, her brown eyes large and shining with such innocence. “That were what you wanted, right?”

  “You’re an awful creature,” I informed her, laughing as I did. “Don’t be so nosy.”

  “As if I would.” She snorted.

  I left her to her book and her amusement, fleeing the warm library for the stables I’d never before visited.

  Allowing me into the frigid winter air was not likely a good idea, nor was I wholly prepared to meet the demonic dogs my imagination had painted with glowing red eyes and fangs the size of my hand, but I needed to share this accomplishment—preferably with the man who would understand what it meant.

  Not simply my completed treatise. This was about so much more than words on parchment, or theories given form.

  How would I frame my thoughts? How could I explain that I had made the choice to see to my responsibilities? The act had left me feeling accomplished.

  I liked it.

  I hurried up the stairs, although I did not take them two at a time as I’d used to do. I may have felt better as a rule, but I was not so reckless that I would test myself on the old staircase.

  I fetched a shawl from my room, left hanging upon a rack, and was hurrying back to the foyer, papers in hand, when a step from the family wing on the other side of the stairs earned my attention.

  I froze, every hair on my neck lifting in visceral awareness. From the black smothering the hall, the floor creaked, another step echoed, and my throat dried to a desiccated rasp. Even if I wanted to cry out, to call for Maddie Ruth, I couldn’t force a sound.

  I’d lowered my guard, and this monstrous house had pounded.

  I backed up one step, eyes so wide as to ache, fists trembling. My heel came down on the edge of the top stair.

  The shape that loomed from the shadows was man-sized, taller than I, and spoke with Ashmore’s voice. “Where are you off to in such a hurry?”

  Panic dissolved to relief—and annoyance. Clutching a hand to my chest, I glared at him as he stepped fully into the fading light trickling through the grimy foyer windows.

  His face was solemn, but I read nothing worrisome within it.

  “I was prepared to find you at the stables,” I managed, plucking at the wrap about my shoulders as though it could bear witness. It was a lovely shade of cream, its weave thick for warmth and fibers soft to the touch.

  My hands trembled against the material.

  He took in the shawl, the papers in my hand, and shook his head. “Not dressed like that, you won’t be. ’Tis bitterly frozen outside. I suspect we’ll see snow by morning. Are you all right?”

  “You scared me near to death,” I said, laughing now at myself even though I was not amused. My heart hammered still, and I wasn’t sure my knees would hold much longer. I frowned. “Will your hounds be all right?”

  “The stables are warm enough for them.” He studied me, rather more intently than I felt I warranted—it caused a flush to heat my cheeks. “Did I really frighten you?”

  Quickly, I thrust the papers out at him. “I wanted to give you this.”

  “Your assignment?”

  I nodded.

  He took them, his fingers brushing mine and causing a tingling warmth to spread up my hand. I found myself pressing that hand to my shawl, as though I might cling to that heat a little longer.

  “Come to my chamber,” he said, his gaze upon mine. “There’s a fire lit and I’ll be able to read clearly.”

  I nodded again, though my heart’s tempo changed to a beat that spoke of wants I had not pursued since before he started to teach me. We walked in silence, his expression difficult to read in the murky light and my own footsteps sounding overloud in the empty corridor.

  When I broke the silence, my voice was huskier than I’d intended, and a little more breathy than the situation warranted. “Why were you in the family wing?”

  A corner of his mouth hiked up as he shot me a sidelong
glance. “That is not what is on your mind, is it?”

  I did not like that he seemed to understand what I thought before I had even decided. I raised my chin. “Were you looking for something?”

  His smile faded. “I was ensuring all the windows were shuttered for the coming snow. The house is drafty enough without adding to it.”

  A reasonable enough explanation, though too mundane for interest; there was not enough material to continue on this subject.

  I grasped for another as we approached his bedroom door. “I believe I’ve figured out that what you were attempting to force me to learn.”

  “Oh?” He opened his door, allowing the warmth accumulated inside to wash over us both. I inhaled the fragrance of charred wood with delight. So much better than musty air. “And what is that, pray tell?”

  “Perfection,” I replied simply, offering an inclination of my head as he gestured me to precede him.

  Had Fanny ever thought that I might enter a bachelor’s bedroom with more comfort—even anticipation—than strictly allowed, I suspect she might have an apoplectic fit.

  It was a wonder she’d survived me these past few years. I was certainly a handful, even when making an effort for propriety’s sake.

  My smile widened despite myself, only to catch when I turned to find him dead still, his eyes pinned to my mouth and the papers clutched tightly in one hand.

  “Ashmore?”

  He shook himself, as though caught in a dream, and gently closed the door behind him. “I apologize. You were saying?” He did not look at me as he said this, but at the papers. He passed me to sit not upon the bed, as a casual lover might, but upon the chair arranged in the corner of the chamber, bathed by the banked fire’s glow.

  I watched him, unsure of what it was he seemed bothered by. Was it me? Had I said something wrong?

  Hardly. Perfection was a word uttered often enough in his teachings.

  I rubbed at my lower lip with my thumb, but when he glanced up once more at the motion, I deliberately lowered it again; that I tucked my thumb in my palm helped make certain I would not nibble upon it. “Perfection,” I said again, “is the goal of alchemical science. Base metals transmuted to gold, the perfect metal, am I right?”