Ashes To Ashes: A Ministry of Curiosities Novella (The Ministry of Curiosities Book 5)

by C. J. Archer

  She had cried. A lot. He'd almost given in and changed his mind, on numerous occasions, but somehow he'd stood firm. He'd focused on being calm, on shutting himself off, piece by piece. When he'd first learned the calming technique as a child, he'd thought of himself as a canal filled with dozens of locks. Each gated lock would close and shut off the water flow, leaving the downstream water level low. It wasn't until he was older and saw a working lock that he'd realized the gates reopened eventually. The technique still worked, however, and he'd perfected it over the years so that he could shut himself off and let nothing through. Not even Charlie's tears.

  He'd stood in this same position and watched her raise her hand to the cab's rear window in either a wave or plea. She'd seen him in that moment, watching her, and he'd stepped quickly out of her line of sight. But he'd still been able to see the coach, all the way to the front gate. He'd stayed in that room for hours afterward and stared out the window, just like he was now.

  But there'd been no sickening feeling in his gut then, and no ache in his chest. No pounding in his head and certainly no regrets. He had done the right thing, and that mattered most. He must remember why he'd sent her to the School for Wayward Girls in the first place.

  To keep her safe.

  So he could focus on his work.

  So she could have a normal future.

  Damn his employees and Lady Vickers for making him doubt his decision. They were wrong to want Charlie back.

  He lowered his hand from the pane. His palm left a mark on the frosty glass. He pushed off from the windowsill and strode out of the tower room. The house was too quiet. When he'd first arrived at Lichfield Towers, he'd wandered through the halls and rooms, lifting dust covers, checking the plans for the hidden nooks and corridors. He'd learned every inch of every wall, cupboard, and floorboard. It was a grander residence than General Eastbrooke's house and it was all his, according to the property documents. Yet it was nothing more than a pile of bricks and tiles. If it had burned down, he wouldn't have cared.

  Until Charlie came. She'd filled it with her small frame and her big eyes, and a spirit that not even the walls could contain. Without her, Lichfield was just bricks and tiles again.

  He strode on, unaware of his whereabouts until he found himself outside Charlie's door. It had been locked since her departure, the key kept in his desk drawer. Every time he'd opened the drawer it had reminded him of what he'd done. Sometimes he even remembered why he'd sent her away.

  He dug the key from his pocket, having collected it the day before for a reason he could no longer recall. He pushed open her door and drew in a deep breath. Then another.

  No one had been inside since Charlie left, not even Doyle. Ashes clogged the grate in the sitting room, and a book lay open on the table by the window. She'd forgotten to pack it. He placed the ribbon marker inside and closed it. He tucked it against his chest and, with another deep breath, headed through to her bedroom.

  The dresser drawers stood open, and a few hairpins lay scattered atop the dressing table. All of her clothes were gone except for the boys' trousers and shirt she'd worn that first day she'd come to Lichfield. Everything had changed that day. In a way, he'd known it too. Instinct had told him that the scrawny lad with the lice-ridden hair and bad attitude would be an important part of his life from that day onward. He could never have fathomed in what manner, however. Not then. Even if he'd known she was a girl, he wouldn't have guessed that he would want to marry her within a few short months.

  His gut twisted. Nausea rose to his throat. He sat on the unmade bed, suddenly dizzy. From the memories? The misery? No, that couldn't have caused this physical response.

  He tried to shut it off, tried to close the lock gates, but no matter how hard he tried, he couldn't. The ability to shut himself off had vanished along with Charlie.

  So he allowed the gates to swing wide open. Dizziness swamped him. The room spun around him, unbalancing him. He tilted to the side and fell onto the bed, his cheek on Charlie's pillow. He closed his eyes and reached for the seer's senses he usually kept in check.

  He sat bolt upright. His heart pounded a single, loud thud then stopped. He suddenly understood—the sickening feeling in his gut and the dizziness weren't from sadness or regret. They were caused by dread.

  Charlie was in danger.

  Lincoln had made a monumental mistake.

  THE END

  Coming soon:

  FROM THE ASHES

  The 6th book in the Ministry of Curiosities series by C.J. Archer

  What will happen when Lincoln and Charlie meet again?

  Sign up to C.J.'s newsletter through her website to be notified when she releases FROM THE ASHES.

  In the mean time, turn the page to read an extended excerpt of THE WATCHMAKER’S DAUGHTER, the 1st book in the Glass and Steele series, a new historical fantasy from C.J. Archer.

  Excerpt of THE WATCHMAKER'S DAUGHTER (Glass and Steele, Book #1)

  by C.J. Archer

  About THE WATCHMAKER'S DAUGHTER

  India Steele is desperate. Her father is dead, her fiancé took her inheritance, and no one will employ her, despite years working for her watchmaker father. Indeed, the other London watchmakers seem frightened of her. Alone, poor, and at the end of her tether, India takes employment with the only person who'll accept her - an enigmatic and mysterious man from America. A man who possesses a strange watch that rejuvenates him when he's ill.

  Matthew Glass must find a particular watchmaker, but he won't tell India why any old one won't do. Nor will he tell her what he does back home, and how he can afford to stay in a house in one of London's best streets. So when she reads about an American outlaw known as the Dark Rider arriving in England, she suspects Mr. Glass is the fugitive. When danger comes to their door, she's certain of it. But if she notifies the authorities, she'll find herself unemployed and homeless again - and she will have betrayed the man who saved her life.

  With a cast of quirky characters, an intriguing mystery, and romance, THE WATCHMAKER'S DAUGHTER is the start of a thrilling new historical fantasy series from the author of the bestselling Ministry of Curiosities, Freak House, and Emily Chambers Spirit Medium books.

  CHAPTER 1 (London, Spring 1890)

  There were several reasons why I fell in love with Eddie Hardacre, but seeing a painter put the finishing touches to “E. HARDACRE, WATCHMAKER” on the shop front that had been in my family's hands for over a century, I couldn't remember any of them. My former fiancé was worse than a pirate. At least pirates were loyal to their crew. Loyalty was a bartering tool Eddie employed whenever he needed to gain someone's trust. Someone like my poor, foolish dead father. And me.

  It was time to tell Eddie what I thought of him. I'd kept my anger bottled inside for long enough, and if I didn't let it out, I would never heal. Besides, now was the perfect time, as a customer inspected one of Father's watches. Eddie loathed public displays of emotion.

  I would give him the most public of emotional displays that I could.

  I tugged on my jacket lapels, threw back my shoulders, and marched past the gentleman's shiny black coach and into the shop that should have been mine.

  The entrance was as far as I got. The familiarity of my surroundings pinched my heart. The rich scent of polished wood mingled with the subtle tang of metal. The myriad tick tocks, which irritated so many customers after mere minutes inside, summoned a well of memories. The individual rhythms sounded chaotic when placed in one room together but they reassured me that all would be well, that I had come home. It had been two weeks since I'd heard their song. Two weeks since I'd stepped inside the shop. Two weeks since Father died.

  It was time.

  Nothing had changed inside. The counter top stretched across the back, as sleek as ever. Behind it, the door to the workshop was closed. I recognized every clock hanging on the walls and set out on the tables, and all the glass display cabinets seemed to be filled with the same watches, from the inexpensive open face
d variety to those with elaborately designed silver cases, known as hunters. Even Father's ancient tortoiseshell and ormolu still ticked to its unique rhythm, but no one had bothered to correct it. It was three minutes slow.

  "I'll be with you in a moment," Eddie said without looking up from the watch he was showing the gentleman. Such poor shop-keeping! One should always make eye contact with every customer. A warm smile and pleasant greeting never went amiss, either.

  I was, however, glad that he hadn’t seen me immediately. "Excuse me, sir." I addressed the back of the customer's dark head. He did not turn around, but I didn't let that stop me. "Excuse me, sir, but unless you wish to finance a liar and swindler, you should not purchase a thing from this man."

  Eddie glanced up with a gasp. The color leached from his face. "India!" He spluttered a hasty, "Excuse me," to his customer and rounded the counter. Arm out to usher me to the door, the color flooded his face as quickly as it had left it. "How lovely of you to visit me here, but as you can see, I'm rather busy. I'll call on you later, my dear."

  I ducked beneath his arm, turned so that I could keep him in my sight, and backed toward the counter. I wanted to see Eddie's face turn ruby red as I informed his customer of his despicable behavior. "I am not your dear anymore, and I cannot believe that I ever wanted to be." I used to consider him handsome, with his blond curls and blue eyes, and I'd once thought myself fortunate that he'd chosen me as his bride. My gratitude had been smashed to pieces, along with my future, two weeks ago. Now I thought him one of the ugliest men I'd ever seen .

  "India!" He lunged for me, but I was ready for him and stepped behind the table holding the collection of small mantel clocks. "Come here at once." When I didn't, he stomped his foot on the floor like a spoiled child not getting his way.

  I gave him a tight-lipped smile. "If you want me to leave, you will have to catch me first."

  He glanced past me to the gentleman who must have been quite stunned by my shocking behavior. I didn't care what he thought. I had always been known as the prim and proper daughter of Elliot Steele, but recent events had changed me. Let the dusty old men gossip about me at the guild's dining table. It no longer mattered, since I was not connected to the guild through Father or the shop anymore.

  Eddie suddenly dodged to the left. I swerved and moved farther around the table. He growled in frustration.

  I laughed and inched closer, daring him to try again. Part of me wanted him to catch me, so that I could force him to act like the overbearing brute I knew him to be in front of a customer.

  "You're making a scene," Eddie hissed.

  "Good."

  He licked his lips and his gaze flicked to the gentleman behind me again. He cleared his throat and squared his shoulders, attempting to look as if he were in control. "Come now, India, be a good girl and leave this gentleman in peace. He doesn't wish to witness your hysterics."

  "I'm a little too old to be called a girl, Eddie, don't you think?"

  "Quite," he said, his tone grating. "Twenty-seven is definitely past the flush of youth."

  He might as well have announced that I was too old to wed. I was surprised he hadn't used it as an excuse to end our engagement, but then again, he'd known my age before he proposed. "Nor am I hysterical," I added.

  Eddie smiled. It was all twisted cruelty. I braced myself for his next words. "India and I were once engaged," he said to the gentleman who had remained silent behind me. "Alas, her rather fanciful and forthright nature only became evident after our betrothal. I suppose I ought to be thankful that she didn't hide her true self until after it was too late." His laugh was as insipid as his pale blue eyes. "I had to end our engagement or risk our children becoming afflicted."

  "You ended our engagement because you got what you wanted, and what you wanted wasn't me. It was Father's shop."

  I only just heard the gentleman behind me clear his throat over the pounding of blood between my ears. Eddie must have heard it too, and he collected himself. He licked his lips again, a habit that I now despised.

  "Sir, I do apologize." Eddie bobbed his head in imitation of the little automated bird that emerged on the hour from the cuckoo clocks. He looked as ridiculous as he was pathetic. "India," he snapped at me. "Leave! Now!"

  I thrust my hand on my hip, smiled, and spun round to speak to the gentleman and make an even bigger scene. An extremely tanned man with dark brown eyes, striking cheekbones and thick lashes stood there. If it weren't for his scowl, and the signs of exhaustion around his mouth and eyes, he would be handsome. He was everything Eddie was not—tall and dark and broad across the shoulders. He wore a well-tailored black suit, untroubled by his impressive frame, a silk hat and gray silk tie. While his clothing screamed gentleman, his stance did not. He leaned one elbow on the counter as if he were half drunk and needed propping up. A gentleman would have straightened in the presence of a woman, but this man didn't. Perhaps he wasn't English. The deep tan would suggest not.

  It took me a moment to remember what I'd been about to say, and in that moment, he spoke first. "I have business to conduct with Mr. Hardacre," he said in a flawed upper class English accent. It was plummy enough, but the crispness had been sliced off and replaced by a slight drawl. "Please take your argument with you when you leave." He held his hand out, showing me the door.

  I remembered what I wanted to say all of a sudden. "Mr. Hardacre is a liar and a scoundrel."

  Eddie made a strangled choking sound.

  "So you already pointed out," the customer said. He sounded bored, but that could have been a result of his accent.

  "Is that the man you want to give your custom to?" I pressed.

  "At the present time, yes."

  Eddie chuckled. My hand slid off my hip and fisted at my side. I swallowed down the sense of hopelessness that threatened to overwhelm me. My scheme to discredit Eddie was quickly unraveling before my eyes. "Then you're aiding and abetting a man with the morals of a rat. He doesn't care who he ruins to get what he wants, only that he gets it in the end, by whatever means necessary." I heard how pathetic and desperate I sounded, yet I couldn't stop the words from spilling forth anyway. I was tired of holding them in, of smiling and telling acquaintances that I would be all right. I wasn't all right. I was pathetic and desperate. I had no employment, no money, and no home. I'd lost my fiancé and my father, within days of one another, although I'd never really had the fiancé, as it turned out. Our engagement had been a ruse, a way to get Father to sign over the shop to Eddie.

  "I am sorry, miss," the gentleman said, sounding genuinely sympathetic.

  "I'm sure you are now. Eddie is no better than the muck on your boots."

  He sighed and the tiny lines at the corners of his eyes deepened. "No, I mean I'm sorry for doing this."

  Two long strides brought him to me so that I got to admire his impressive height and frame. But not for long. Two large hands clamped around my waist, lifted me, and tossed me over one of those brawny shoulders I'd been admiring.

  "What are you doing?" I cried. "This is outrageous! Let me down at once!"

  He did not. With one arm clamped over the backs of my thighs, he strode to the door as if I were nothing more than a sack of flour. The blood rushed to my head. My hat hung by its pins. I pounded his back with my fists, but it had no effect. I was utterly helpless and I did not like being so, one little bit.

  Behind me, Eddie roared with laughter. I felt the gentleman's muscles tense and heard a sharp intake of breath. He didn't slow, however, but merely pushed open the door and deposited me on the pavement. I stumbled and he clasped my shoulders until I regained my balance, then he let me go.

  "My apologies, miss," he said with a curt nod. "But your conversation was taking too long, and I'm a busy man."

  I fixed my hat and straightened my spine, mustering as much dignity as I could. It wasn't easy with all the shopkeepers and their customers looking out of doors and windows to see what had caused the commotion. "I don't care!" To my horror, m
y voice cracked. I did not want to cry. Not anymore. I'd shed enough tears over Eddie and the things I'd lost. "I don't care if I make you late for an appointment, or if I cost Eddie your custom. You are a brute! A fiend! You may look like a gentleman, but you most certainly are not one!"

  "Cyclops," the man said to someone over my shoulder.

  I glanced around to see a giant figure with a black patch over one eye jump nimbly down from the coachman's perch and advance on me. I swallowed a scream and shrank away, but he caught my arm. I tried to pull free but he caught my other arm and his grip tightened. The red, lumpy scar dripping from beneath his patch stood out against his charcoal skin, the white of his teeth even more so as he bared them in a snarl.

  "Let me go!" I screamed, pulling harder. "Mr. Macklefield! Help!"

  Mr. Macklefield, the neighboring tailor, took one look at the giant and fled back inside his shop. Up and down the street, shopkeepers shut their doors. Folk I'd known my entire life cowered inside. Even the painter went very still on the top of his ladder, as if he hoped no one would notice him there. No one came to my rescue. I'd never felt more alone or so vulnerable.

  I glanced up at the giant who held both my wrists and blinked back hot tears. "Please let me go," I whispered.

  "Can't, miss," he said in a booming voice with an accent similar to the gentleman's but from the gutters rather than the townhouse. "You just stay out here with me and let Mr. Glass finish his chat."

  I sniffed. "So you won't let me go, even if I promise not to go back inside?"

  He shook his head.

  "I won't be long," the gentleman behind me said.

  "I see." I drew in a breath, let it out, and stomped my heel into the giant's boot.