“Ghosts are not common fare for alchemists?”
“Fortunately, no.”
“If you harvested her anima,” I asked slowly, my fingers caught in his sleeve for all I could not wholly understand why, “would her captured appearance take on that of the ghastly corpse in the others?”
His smile tugged at my bruised heart. “Just so.”
“Then I’m glad you didn’t.” At his startled glance, I firmed my grip upon his arm. “I had never seen my mother before, did you know? All I had ever been told was that I resembled her. A kind lie, I realize now.”
“Not kind,” he said, meeting my eyes with such intensity that I flushed beneath the stare. “Not kind at all. Hers was the face of an angel, but yours is something made of flesh and blood. Were I to do it all over again, it would be you I choose.”
I could not help my laughter. It spilled from me, easing the lump in my throat and somehow loosening the knots in my chest. Even Ashmore could not keep a rueful smile in check. “The centuries have refined your silver tongue, Mr. Folsham.”
“If only.” His smile faded. “I was weakened by my sentiment.” Again, for all his pretty words, his gaze could not stray far from the smiling beauty of my mother. “I have been subsiding on the last of the paintings, such as that of your grandfather’s and his mother before him. They are gone, now. All save this one. I have not harvested in some few years.”
“Will you take from it?” I asked.
He shook his head. “This…” The canvas tilted. “This is yours, Cherry. Do with it what you will.”
“What if I wanted you to take from it?” It was only curiosity that fueled the question; an impulse I regretted when he winced. “No, no,” I hastened to add. “I was only wondering.” I studied the tilted portrait for a long moment. “Why did you keep those others for so long?”
“I don’t know.”
Not entirely honest, but I had not the will nor the energy to counter. I suspected that in some, small way, Ashmore wanted to be reminded of all those who had come before.
Perhaps he looked at them when he felt he needed to self-flagellate over his choices.
I could understand that. Like me, Ashmore needed a little bit of help to turn his life—his extraordinarily long life—into something worth living. That’s what this gift meant. He may not say the words, but he didn’t have to.
I gave to him the laudanum I wanted and should not have, and he gave to me the last of the anima taken from his own bloodline. An addiction for an addiction.
Seemed fair.
“Help me stand,” I said.
He rose, offering his free hand. I took it, and he lifted me to my feet with ease. I was still too thin. Truly, I needed to repair this. I did not like being so easy to carry.
When I held out my hands, he passed me the canvas. It was heavier than I expected, nearly pulling me over to plant face-first into the earth.
Ashmore caught me about the waist, steadying with a murmured, “Careful.”
While the action caused my heart to pound, it was not, I decided with a small, sad smile, because of his grip upon me.
“Steady?”
“I am,” I said. “Help me to the fire?”
Though his jaw tensed, he did as I asked. Without needing the invitation, as though he understood exactly that what I required, he held one corner of the canvas.
“One,” I said.
His forearms flexed, the sigils upon his pale skin rippling. “Two.”
“Three.”
We lobbed the canvas into the flame.
Ashmore’s fingers carved a straight line through the air. “Iustitia.”
Sparks shot high, the wood feeding the heart of the fire cracked in half, and a wicked black flame erupted from within. The fire turned blue.
The wind spiraled around the hungry flame, feeding it, pulling it so violently that Ashmore’s arm came around me to sweep me bodily out of reach. Embers scattered in a shower of red and orange. As the gust tore off across the moor, I fancied that I heard a woman’s tortured scream.
“Let the Scales of Balance once more seek harmony,” Ashmore said, his voice almost too low to hear above my head.
I looked up.
This time, when I saw the raw, unfettered anguish he suffered, I did not feel as though I intruded. I laid my head against his chest and allowed myself to take what comfort I could as he did from me.
For a long time, we stood in silent vigil as the canvas turned to ash. The sky turned slowly dark. The fire eased to normal flickers and dancing flames.
I was not so cold wrapped in the blanket and Ashmore’s arms, though my exposed nose and cheeks felt all but frozen. I stirred. “Ashmore?”
“Yes, minx?”
The epithet made me smile. “Why did you call Zodiacus at the end?”
“Why do you suppose?” came his reply, and I huffed some, but gave it the thought he expected.
“As the final Trump, it signifies the completion of a journey.” I did not look up, keeping my cheek against his chest as I spoke. “‘Tis linked to the twins, Castor and Pollux, who each mind the gates to heaven.”
“Good. What does that all mean?”
I took a slow breath, the cold air biting at the sensitive skin within my nose, and buried my face more securely into the warmed fabric of his clothing. “Did you send my mother to heaven?”
His hand cradled the back of my head, as I imagined he might when he comforted his massive hounds. “The truth of immortality lies with the Heavenly Twins. Your mother likely utilized the Gates of Mortals to shed the natural order of death. I simply reversed the process, calling on the Gates of Immortals to right the wrong.”
“That is entirely too abstract,” I said into his chest.
His chuckle vibrated against my cheek. “That is twenty-two Trumps too complex for you to even be bothering with. Patience, minx. We’ll get there.”
I gave him no warning for my next question, asking simply, “Will you paint me, then?”
He hesitated. My spine tensed, and I admit that I prepared to move if I needed to—to tear from his grasp, to put the fire between us. My trust, hard won and deeply wounded, was still too fragile a thing.
Ashmore blew out a sigh over my head. “No.”
That he did not dither eased my wariness. “I don’t know how you feel, not really,” I continued, turning my gaze back now over the heath. “Immortality is beyond my interest. But I would be unhappy if you were to waste away now.” The moon was likely already out, though the winter sky would not reveal it. It smelled fresh and crisp; like the promise of snow.
Perhaps this time, it would stick in a blanket of white.
His heart thudded beneath my head. I though it might be my only answer, until he took a breath. “For all intents and purposes, I remain your guardian. You will need me when you return to London.”
“Yes.” I tucked my hands around his forearms, clasped over my chest. The wind nipped at my fingers. “I’d also like to continue learning from you.”
“Would you?”
“Of course.”
I did not object when Ashmore’s chin settled upon the crown of my head. “It will require staying in Siristine longer. You must be healthy and strong to continue.”
That, I didn’t like. I pulled a face. I don’t know how he knew, but he must have, for I felt him chuckle.
“Only until spring,” he amended. “Wholly dependent upon your progress. We will take the time to ensure you have a strong foundation of health and alchemical application.”
I could live with that. That I lived at all was something I could learn to be grateful for. I tilted my head, forcing him to lift his. “What of you?”
“What of me?”
I raised my eyebrows. “Will you waste away?”
He thought about this, and said, “I hope not. I will use this time to investigate alternative methods of ensuring I stay robust. Perhaps something utilizing your blood—”
When I blanched, he
halted his musing. “There’s time enough to investigate our options,” he amended. “I won’t hurt you, Cherry.”
I would hold him to that for the rest of my hopefully natural life. “Ashmore?”
“What now, minx?”
“Thank you.” I did not have the inclination to verbalize all the reasons why. He knew them.
I only caught the shadow of his smile from above me. “Thank you,” he replied. His hand cupped my cheek. “I will fulfill my obligations to you until you no longer require me.”
That carried the weight of a vow I was not sure I wanted to bear. I stiffened, turning to separate us, but Ashmore did not allow me to draw out of reach.
The firelight painted his face in mingled shades of black and orange—shadows and hellish ferocity. For all that, his voice was soft. “I ask of you nothing, save that what is demanded in a student.”
I shook my head. “All who come to love me are punished. Don’t be one.” I managed calm, but he was too shrewd for the attempt.
He caught my face in his hands, holding it still so that he might look directly into my eyes. “Do you love me, Cherry St. Croix?”
My throat dried. “I do,” I said, my voice made hoarse by anxiety and fear. When surprise shot his eyebrows high, I caught his wrists in both of my hands and gently tugged his palms from my cheeks. “I do love you, but not in that way you loved my mother.”
I recognized my gaffe when his eyes closed, crinkles forming in a painful flinch—as though I’d cut him with my verbal disclaimer.
It was my turn to cup his cheek, though I was forced to reach up to do it. “I did not mean how that sounded. I mean that I have come to love you as I would a dear friend. Even more so,” I admitted, my cheeks flaming. “You have seen things of me that I have shared with almost no one else.”
“Almost,” he repeated. Then, with a low laugh, he added, “Hawke.”
I could not hold his eyes.
Ashmore caught my hand against his cheek and turned it over to lift my knuckles to his mouth. “In truth, while I would rejoice to be loved by you, I can only stand in awe of your resolve. You are right. I loved your mother, and those scars will take time to fade.” He held my hand between his. “Tell me true, Cherry St. Croix. Is there at least some room in your heart to keep me?”
“There is,” I said, finally allowing myself to smile up at him. “You will forever hold a piece of it.”
“Not as large a piece as the Menagerie’s ringmaster, I take it.”
As it was not a question, I did not deliver an answer. I suspected that he needed none, anyhow. As I had come to read the open anguish on his own features, he like as not had learned to read the embarrassment on mine.
“It will do, minx.” Ashmore’s smile, bright where the encroaching night insisted on painting him in shadow, curved wide and unfettered. “I can bear to be inspired by you, if I cannot be loved.”
“Loved in that way,” I amended, and stuck my tongue out at him as the impudent urchin I had once been.
“Loved as that gypsy bastard is.”
I winced, but as had become my wont, I returned his words to him. “Just so.”
“Your taste leaves something to be desired,” he told me, looping his arm once more about my waist to guide me back to the house I detested—even if I detested it a little bit less.
“You are the singular most unsuitable person to ever say that to me,” I replied, lifting my nose into the air.
His laughter echoed over the moor, countering the sorrowful wail of the lonely wind.
Across the estate, a hound bayed in answer.
Chapter Twenty-Five
It was a crisp March morning when we left Siristine for what I resolved would be the last time.
Maddie Ruth sat within the carriage, bundled warmly beside me, her cheeks rosy from the cold. Ashmore sat across from us, a fur tucked around him for added warmth, and hot stones had been provided. The driver—an ancient, earnest fellow named Harrison Pickford—doffed his threadbare cap upon seeing us in.
We had little enough to say. The months had been kind, if a little more strenuous than I had expected. My weight had not wholly returned, due in part to my return to physical conditioning. I had lost much of my dexterity in my months in recovery.
All said and done, I was healthier than I could ever remember being.
The wound on my forearm had sealed to a deep white scar. With my mother’s influence now exorcised, it seemed I no longer healed as quickly. Ashmore posited that the serum my father had initially applied to me had lingered, and my mother’s attachment stemmed from that aborted attempt to fuse us both.
The scar, however, was not all that I carried to remind me of the winter months in neglected Siristine. The soles of my feet ached with every jarring rut we trundled over.
Ashmore allowed me to tuck my feet upon his lap, and his fingers soothed the hurt as best as could be done.
The ink within the alchemical sigils branded upon me was not wholly healed. Unlike Ashmore’s, which scrolled the length of his forearm in neat columns and dedicated designs between, mine were much smaller. There would be room for more, and as I learned more than the two Trumps I’d mastered, I would need them to ground the power that each Trump called upon.
Each alchemist’s tattoos varied, according to the personal needs of the alchemist in question. Ashmore did not explain all of his, but we both carried the sigils that allowed us to draw upon the Trumps with greater ease; it would take less from me now.
Part of learning the art was creating the sigils necessary. I had not formed any of my own yet. I would eventually. As I needed them, as I understood those needs that would affect the progress of my own soul, I would shape the first of my own personal formulae.
Until then, I resolved to ignore the throbbing burn radiating through my feet. After all I had been through, a little bit of an ache here and there was almost laughable.
“I told you we should have waited until we arrived in London,” Ashmore said, keeping his voice down for the sake of Maddie Ruth, who dozed against my shoulder.
“And be bed-ridden first thing?” I wrinkled my nose over the furs. “No, thank you. Bad enough they had to be on my soles.” Not that there had been much choice. Given my plans, we had to choose the location of the ink very carefully. Fashions often bared a woman’s arms, and as I could not guarantee that my back or stomach would not be revealed, we had chosen the sensitive pads of my feet.
After that pain, this lingering ache was a welcome relief.
“I can’t say I approve of this scheme of yours,” he said, sobering. His fingers cupped my heel gently, and while I expected that to hurt, it did not. I let out a sigh. “Better?”
“Yes, much, thank you.” But I picked up the discourse without pause. “Once we get to London, I’ll have a better understanding of events. I promise not to do anything mad until then.”
“What if your ringmaster does not require your help?”
I looked away. My gaze fell upon the window, its draped pushed aside.
All that I had said of the moor in the depths of dreary winter, I took back now. Come sun and more temperate clime, the heath bloomed in a wild cacophony of red and gold and stunning green.
If I would claim one good memory of Siristine, it would be this.
“He will have to tell me himself,” I said softly.
Maddie Ruth murmured something unintelligible against my shoulder. It was no answer. She had fallen asleep like a child rocked into a lull.
“I was afraid you’d say that.” Ashmore hummed a regretful note. “I’ll do what I can.”
We lapsed into a companionable silence, broken only when Ashmore took his leave to ride with his hounds. I watched him pass the window now and again, the sunlight reflecting copper flame from his hair.
If he was lucky, he might gain a bit of color to his milk-white skin. While we had not yet managed to find an ideal alternative to his need for anima by utilizing my blood, we did stumble across a t
emporary solution. He required rather more blood than I was comfortable giving, but it was a temporary concern. I had faith in our combined intellect. As long as he did not suddenly fade on me, I would bear with it.
For the time, he maintained his current degree of ability, and it did nothing at all for his complexion.
I chuckled, pillowing my cheek against Maddie Ruth’s hair.
What I intended to do next would no doubt be dangerous. The Veil likely still wanted my head, Zylphia and Ishmael Communion would do all they could to stop me, and I instinctively knew that Ashmore would be just as stubborn as he was helpful.
With Maddie Ruth to protect, to say nothing of my own skin, I had no doubts that my adventures in London were far from over.
I closed my eyes. As had become the custom of late, I found myself wondering what Micajah Hawke might be doing now.
I was no swooning damsel to await the breaking of a spell. I had hunted vagrants and murderers in the murkiest recesses of London’s foggy drift. I had borne the scars of a friend turned betrayer, and would carry the guilt of an accepted proposal and the subsequent death of my husband for all my life.
I knew what it was to face down the dark—not just that of those around me, but the hungry dark within myself.
Whether the blood was mine or those who challenged me, whether I sacrificed or emerged victorious, I would not wait for Hawke to ask for help. For all the years I had known him, he had been a caged tiger, pacing the confines of his Menagerie and intimidating all in his path to submission. The tiger would never ask. That was the cost of the pride that drove him; that same intensity that beckoned me like a flame.
If there was nothing left of the Hawke I knew in the Midnight Menagerie’s wicked ringmaster, I would see it with my own eyes.
I hoped London had the presence of mind to be prepared.
The St. Croix Chronicles continues with The Mysterious Case of Mr. Strangeway and Corroded—available now!
Tempered: Book Four of The St. Croix Chronicles Page 33
