Tempered: Book Four of The St. Croix Chronicles

by Karina Cooper

  The skin at Ashmore’s nape flushed red. He grunted with effort.

  I stumbled away, unwilling to see this tryst, but the world moved to suit my direction. No matter where I turned, there they were before me, uncaring of any who might see through the window or come through the door.

  I dug my fingers into my eyes to break the dream, and when the noises stopped, I breathed a sigh of relief.

  What wicked dreams I had.

  “Oliver!”

  I jerked my head up, startled into looking, then was forced to clap my fingers over my mouth.

  My mother was nude, her hair unbound like a fire trapped within a brilliant ruby. She was perfect, her back slender, her body that slim contour so favored by Society’s exacting standards. She rose and fell upon Ashmore’s lap, his trousers pushed half down his legs and a look of such sublime peace upon his face; jealousy seized my heart.

  She was divine in every way. I truly was nothing but a weak imitation.

  His fingers bit into her waist. Her skin glistened with sweat, and I fisted my hands.

  Was this what I was meant to learn? Would I be forced to witness the truth of my mother’s love for the man who would betray her?

  Kronos. The Trump bequeathed to the number ten, represented by an X in Roman numerals, which was then associated with Chronos—the God of Time.

  Was this a door I’d stumbled through? I must have called upon it, but I did not know how, or how to break it. I should not have even been able to do this much, unable even to call upon a single Trump alone, yet here I stood, witnessing what surely must be the past.

  I couldn’t bear it.

  Ashmore’s hand tangled in her hair, clutching it as though he might never let go. Josephine’s back arched, her throat bared as she cried her release.

  Even in such a blissful, strenuous moment as that, she was radiant.

  She slumped against his chest, gasped for breath. He continued to drive into her, nearing his own climax.

  I shuddered, wrapping my arms about myself. I wanted this to stop. I didn’t want to see anymore.

  Josephine’s head turned. Bracing her cheek upon Ashmore’s shoulder, she focused on something to her right—though she continued to gasp and moan as expected. Her expression was not as it should have been for a woman caught in the thrall of pleasure.

  Frowning, I leaned to the side to see what it was she might be viewing.

  A man with gray hair peered inside the door. It hung ajar, as though only hastily closed. From the narrow divide, I recognized the wheeling chair he sat within.

  I gasped. Why did her own father look in upon her in such a manner?

  As Ashmore’s breath came faster, as he clung to the woman who made all the right noises to goad him, the man leaned over to grasp the door. The smile he bestowed upon his daughter was eerily satisfied.

  She nodded in return.

  The door creaked shut as Josephine cupped Ashmore’s head and drew his mouth to hers.

  The scene turned black.

  My heart beat in my chest as conflicted emotions roiled within me. What had I witnessed? Was something terrible going on between mother and father?

  Had Josephine been given permission to lay with Ashmore?

  I turned, but everywhere I looked, it was only darkness.

  Metal clanked from somewhere beyond me. Gears shifted, familiar only in that I’d heard it not that long ago. I looked up.

  Blue-white light formed in the show globes overhead.

  Jade green silk rustled as Josephine threaded her way through the work tables. It was cleaner than I remembered, lacking in the dust and grime that had accumulated over years of neglect.

  She held in her hands the astrolabe I recalled from her painting. Unlike before, her hair was bound into a soft coil, secured by the same comb I’d found in my possession when I’d woken in her clothing.

  Were these items she cherished? Is that why I gravitated to them?

  A step behind me forced me to turn, but the world juddered about until I was once more facing Josephine. Ashmore strode through me, a surreal sensation that left me feeling as though he’d scattered parts of me in his wake. Though I yelped from the sensation of the unwitting assault, he did not slow.

  Neither turned.

  “Your father is dead,” was Ashmore’s ungentle greeting.

  I frowned at his back, which was clad in a style reminiscent of that what he favored, but cut in the fashion of some decades ago.

  Not, I noted, brown. He wore an elegant blue, and his trousers were dark gray.

  A strange thing, to see him in color.

  Josephine did not turn from her task, sliding the astrolabe into place on a shelf. “So it would seem.” There was nothing kind about her voice, either.

  Were they not lovers?

  I followed in Ashmore’s wake, but halted when he did. “Did you murder your own father, Josephine?”

  She laughed. “And if I did?”

  My jaw dropped.

  “Patricide is not an alchemical precept,” Ashmore replied dryly, though by the inflexible set of his shoulders and the rigidity of his spine, I did not believe he took the suggestion so lightly.

  I watched my mother’s face as she turned to smile upon us both—though she did not know I was there. She approached with delicate grace, her skirts dragging upon the floor. Unlike me, she did not seem in danger of tripping over them. “You are so unbending, Oliver.” When she was close enough for the attempt, she lifted a hand to stroke his cheek. “A lady could spend decades unraveling you.”

  He caught her wrist before it could touch his face. “I suspect that is your notion.”

  Surprise halted her in place for a moment. Her eyelashes lowered, sultry lines softening her features. “Come now, my love. Don’t be cross. I was only testing a theory of mine.”

  “Your theory killed your father,” he replied tightly.

  In a flash, the seductive appeal of her smile was gone, something harder and much more cruel replacing it. It aged her face, drew deep lines of severity.

  She pulled her wrist from his grasp. “Don’t lecture me. What do you care? ’Tis your fault he’s dead.”

  “Own your actions, Josephine.”

  “Own yours.” She presented to him her back, tossing her head. “It was you who showed me your deceit. How can you expect me to watch my father fade away before my eyes while you grow ever stronger?”

  I didn’t understand what was being said here. My mother had murdered my grandfather? I thought he’d died of the disease—of Ashmore’s meddling?

  Ashmore speared both hands into his hair in a familiar gesture, but I could not see his face to know what it was he felt as he exhaled hard.

  When he closed the distance between them, I couldn’t be sure he did not reach for her to throttle the slender column of her throat.

  His hands slid over her set shoulders.

  He bent, folding in on himself, until his forehead rested against her nape.

  It was such a humble posture—a needy one—that my throat ached with it.

  “I am sorry, Jo.”

  She made a small hmph! sound, as if to indicate these words were not enough.

  Ashmore’s chuckle sounded more pained than not. “I never expected that my line would ever produce something as brilliant as you.”

  My mind reeled at the implications. Before I could wrap my intellect fully about it, Josephine spun in his arms, catching his hands in hers. Her face had transformed once more, a sunny smile all but brightening the room she occupied. “Do you mean it?”

  “I do,” he replied, brushing a kiss over her knuckles. “Your father’s fate was already sealed, long before I…” Pained determination flitted behind his eyes. “I am sorry for that, Jo. You will never know how much.” Another kiss. “I will refrain from pursuing my purpose anymore.”

  Her eyes widened, shimmering pools of green adoration. “But, Oliver, what of your vow?”

  “Sod the vow. I will wither and die be
fore I harm one hair on your head.”

  I held my breath.

  Josephine searched his face, such delight upon hers. “You say the most delightful things.” She stepped back, clutching his hands in hers, until they were arm’s reach apart. For a moment, they stood in such sweet balance; dancers preparing for the orchestra.

  Her smile hardened. “You fool.”

  Surprise caused me to take some steps forward—a mistake, for the scene jarred itself back into place around me. Vertigo slithered through my head, forcing me to shake it clear before I could see properly again.

  She dropped his hands, and now faced him with her fingers laced by her waist. “You hold the key to immortality in your grasp,” she spat, venom now clear in her demeanor, “and you would squander it for what? Love?” She scoffed. “What has love ever achieved?”

  “Josephine.”

  “Don’t speak to me.” She swept aside, her skirts trailing the floor with a harsh echo. “You’re weak. You always have been.”

  He reached out, but a flare of violet shattered the air before his fingers. An answering light sparked from the ground, and we both looked down to find Ashmore caught squarely in the patterned circles.

  Josephine’s laughter sent fingers of remembered fear through me.

  I knew that sound. It had haunted me all these long months; laughter in my dreams, chasing me through my nightmares.

  Ashmore’s hand left the barrier. “You cannot hope to mirror what I’ve accomplished.” He turned as Josephine circled him, mindful of the symbols before her feet. Now I saw him fully, the harsh lines of his pale features, his eyes glittering green and brown.

  This was not the bearing of the love-blinded. This was the fury of a man scorned.

  “Free me from this circle, Jo.”

  She scoffed again, flicking her fingers in a gesture eerily similar to one I employed. “Stay within and rot. I will prise the secrets of your immortality from you.”

  “You cannot hold me.”

  “I have labored to ensure I can,” she replied.

  Ashmore studied the circle at his feet. His lips curved into a sad smile. “You have failed.” With no more preamble, he flung one hand against the barrier. It sparked, flashed so brightly that Josephine turned away as violet cracks rippled through the barrier.

  She slashed an H into the air. “Hamaxa,” she cried out as the air in the laboratory shuddered.

  Ashmore’s fingers splayed in the wash of light. “Not enough.”

  What came of that, I was not to see, for the vision changed, dragging me along with it. Exhaustion plumbed my body and mind.

  Bloody bells and damn it all, I had only wanted to sleep.

  As though I were nothing more than a ghost myself, I watched as the music room long since abandoned coalesced into view. Josephine leaned over the keys, her fingers plucking a harmony so familiar, I clutched my hands to my chest.

  I had played this. This stunning melody filled the room, battered at the shadows. She drove at the keys, as if she might force all her emotion through the notes.

  The door slammed open. The music abruptly shuddered to a silence, though Josephine did not turn.

  Ashmore did not enter. “Your carriage to London is here. Are your things packed?”

  “I am prepared.” She turned, gathering her elegant violet skirts from around her feet, and rose. Fury scalded the air in her wake as she walked with undying dignity to where he waited. “Are you?”

  His eyes narrowed. “Your fate is sealed, Josephine. The portrait is completed. You know the conditions.”

  Her mouth twisted. When she made to pass him, his fingers curled around her nape, halting her progress.

  “Never think to betray me again.” It was not a kind warning, for all he spoke it in soft reminder.

  She did not look at him. “I will think nothing else until the end of my days.”

  His fingers tightened. “And if I murder you here?”

  Her chin lowered, hands tight at her waist. Her lips curved, but her smile was not kind, for all it seemed directed to Ashmore’s feet. “By your own foolish vow, you cannot. You would not risk so much of your self-worth on a moment’s satisfaction.”

  Stark pain registered upon his face. For a breathless moment, I was not certain that her jibing reminder would be enough. I reached out, his name on my lips; not that I could affect anything here in my imprisoned theater.

  His hand dropped. “So it would seem.”

  Her smile turned to the satisfied curve of a woman who knew she had won. “Honor will get a man of your standing killed, you know.”

  “If you truly want to see me dead,” he told the crown of her head, “all you need to do is refrain from conceiving a child.”

  She looked up. “Why?” I saw in his face that he had an answer to that, but he did not reply. She frowned. “Why would you put your fate in my hands?”

  Still, he said nothing; he did not need to. The way he searched her face was hungry, yet terribly restrained.

  Her frown eased. “Why, Oliver,” she said, a purr of sweet mockery. “Do you mean to suggest that after all that, you still love me?”

  His smile lacked humor. “Love is not so easily purged. I assure you, I will spend a great deal of time trying.”

  She blinked. Then, with a sigh, she told him, “You truly are a fool.” Leaving no opportunity to draw out a farewell, my mother brushed past.

  Strands of her hair clung to his shoulder as she did. A look of such pain filled his eyes, I clutched at my heart.

  I knew such loneliness.

  The ache within his gaze only banked when he closed his eyes against it.

  For a long moment, he did not move.

  I wanted to go to him, to wrap my arms about him in an embrace that would assure him that he was not so alone as he felt—yet, I could not bring myself to do more than think it.

  Ashmore’s secrets were too weighty to bear alone, and too incomprehensible to me to understand. All I knew for certain was that my mother had betrayed him, as he had betrayed me.

  What tangled webs had been woven in this house long before my birth?

  Only once he was certain was she gone, when silence filled the house and left nothing but the whispering wind in its wake, did Ashmore bow his head.

  I braced for another scene to come, another thing too intimate for my comfort, but the large library revealed by the fading black divulged no occupants. I took a breath, prepared to endure whatever it was I would be shown, and smelled the fragrance of old parchment, books and dust, and the last gasp of a fire dying to embers.

  My nose twitched.

  The night pressed in against the windows.

  I looked up, saw the white cloth masking my mother’s portrait, and swayed. Relief filled me; it found no purchase beside the doubts slogging through my haze. I was once more myself, though I had no recollection of how I came here. I felt rattled, jarred out of place, as alien in my skin as I often felt in the Society soirees I’d hated.

  My body ached as it had not in ages, worse still than anything else I had suffered once sobriety had become my normality.

  I turned, lace swirling about my ankles. Feeling returned to my limbs, and as my fingers cramped against hard edges, I looked down to find myself clutching the scorched book my mother had shown me within the laboratory.

  Black soot from the charred cover appeared like bruises against the bright yellow silk I wore. This gown was eerily similar to that my mother had worn when she’d come to me in the lab, designed to fit across the bodice and high-waisted in the style of her time. Like the blue dress I’d woken once to find myself wearing, it did not fit as it should.

  It was not my choice to put it on.

  Had I any more choices truly my own? The dreams I endured, the need for the laudanum, these did not allow me the choice—they chose for me. I was forced to crave, forced to watch, forced to wear the things I did not want to wear. The forces puppeting me at my most vulnerable were determined to turn m
e into the woman I did not want to be.

  I was tired. I was so tired of being anything but myself.

  Yet I could not fathom who I was to be.

  I had spent my life in the fog of opium, and now I lived as the puppet of a woman I had—for a mere fraction of a time—thought to be the loving mother I’d never realized that I’d needed. Not only through manipulations, but so literally as to be nearly impossible to believe.

  I understood now what it was I’d failed to note prior.

  The red threads that had haunted my dreams, the laughter I’d first heard on my father’s laboratory table. How long had the spirit of my mother been haunting me?

  How often had she taken over my body?

  I recalled now the sight of the world stripped of mortal limitation, Eon’s ability revealing the threads of quintessence, of aether, as it shaped the world. Within me, within my hand, there had been a crimson skein.

  My mother’s influence. Red as blood; red as rubies—red as the color of the hair we both shared.

  How stupid I was to discount the reality that had so haunted my opium-fueled existence.

  In that willful ignorance, I had hurt my friends.

  A glimpse of Maddie Ruth’s plaintive features slipped into my thoughts. My knees buckled. I sank to the floor, hunched over the book I hugged to my chest and squeezed my eyes closed. Breathing deeply brought a faint fragrance of lilies to the whole, and I buried my face against my knees before it caused my nose to run.

  It did nothing to change my circumstances.

  I was alone. In the depths of the house I despised, I heard the measured groan of a structure whose foundation was as immersed in lies as it was in the harsh English heath it resided upon.

  So much betrayal in one place.

  Within one family.

  And I had only added my hand to the lot.

  The book trapped between my chest and upraised knees smelled like old coal and dusty pages; almost enough to mask the perfume causing my nose to burn and itch.

  Lifting my head, I turned the tome over in my hands. The parts scarred and bubbled by flame were rough against my fingers, leaving soot to turn my skin gray. A familiar enough sight. I had spent long nights covered in the stuff as I tended to my collections in London low.