Until the topic turned to the Queen’s speech that would be held tomorrow.
“Now, it’s very unusual for her to speak!” Mrs. Tuffins said, her kind face a little troubled. “But then … well…” She hesitated, realizing that we had all been at the ball the Queen would be referencing.
“I would like to go see it,” I ventured, taking a long sip of my tea.
“I think we all know that, Evelyn.” Catherine gave me a slightly sour look. Out of everyone, she seemed the most reluctant to stay in London, let alone put ourselves in Captain Goode’s path.
But no one could say much right now with Mrs. Tuffins here. So I pressed the advantage.
“I think some of us, at least, should go and hear her. It might be quite edifying.”
I felt their glares but took a bite of cake instead. It was perfectly light, the jam was perfectly tart, and I decided to enjoy it. Tomorrow we might be able to kill Captain Goode, after all.
“It might be … unsafe. The crowds, you know,” Catherine tried to interject.
“You know I have to. It’s my duty. As a … proud Englishwoman. I’m sure you understand.”
Miss Chen gave me a wry look at that, and Emily snorted.
“I think…” I stopped, wondering how to communicate the next part. We certainly didn’t need Laura or Catherine there, too easy a mark with their lack of powers. And I didn’t want Rose there, either, though that was less of a problem considering I did not think she would be likely to come and no one else would want her in harm’s way.
“I think those of us with more … unusual pride … should go.” Did that work?
Judging by the strange looks, no, it did not.
“Oh dear, I’m afraid I hadn’t considered going; does that make me a terrible Englishwoman?” Mrs. Tuffins was fretting, looking guilty, and I immediately smacked myself—mentally, at least.
“Oh no, not at all!” I gulped, looking around the room for help. But they let me flounder out of my own mess. “I just—well, if she is going to mention the ball, and it seems she will—I think some of us, specifically, have a duty. As people who were … there.” I finished to a solemn silence.
“Oh, my dears. Of course you want to hear your queen speak about that.” Mrs. Tuffins covered my hand with a warm pat and pulled Laura to her on her other side, letting her cuddle in.
“I think we should be safe from … the crowds,” Miss Chen began, “as long as we stay back a bit.”
“Maybe we can find an obliging rooftop,” Mr. Kent said, nodding discreetly toward Emily.
“And if the crowd is too disruptive, we can break through or … float. Away.” Miss Chen frowned and seemed to mentally review what she had said, then looked around to see if we understood her reference to her and Emily’s powers.
“I suppose,” Catherine said finally.
“Though I don’t think all of us could go,” I added. “Rose, maybe you, Catherine, and Mr. Adeoti could stay here with Laura.” A little part of me was disappointed that Laura did not even argue. The others just nodded.
Although no one could voice their discomfort, I could feel it around the room.
Rose stared down at her tea, sipping it slowly and carefully. Catherine was pretending to listen to Mrs. Tuffins, but she kept glancing worriedly at my sister. Emily was subtly trying to slide bits of cake to Laura, who was focusing intently on her needlepoint. Miss Chen, Mr. Kent, and Mr. Adeoti began to speak in lower voices, whispering more concrete plans for tomorrow and compiling a list of necessary supplies.
And Sebastian was, of course, next to me, his leg touching mine, a constant reminder of his power. I snuck another peek at him, hoping to see signs that he was improving, and found myself inexplicably delighted to see him slowly eating a plain bun. That showed some sense of care. Or self-preservation at the very least.
Maybe tomorrow he would allow himself to eat a plum bun. And the day after that even a jelly cake. Perhaps all my Sebastian-pastry fantasies would come true if we found a way to stop Captain Goode tomorrow. We’d stop whatever terrible plan he had in mind, and, while we were there, we might as well stop him for good by stopping his heart.
As we finished our tea and cakes, I took Mr. Kent’s list and added one final item.
Perhaps he would be so obliging as to find me a gun for tomorrow. For safety, of course.
Chapter Six
THE SCENE OUTSIDE Westminster Abbey was a staggering sight. It couldn’t quite be described as crowded. Operas and balls were crowded. This needed an entirely new word.
Thousands of people packed the streets to their very limits, flooding into every open space available. Members of the ton settled into their exclusive and costly spots by the windows of every surrounding building. Nimble children shimmied up gaslights and climbed onto awnings. Policemen lined the street to preserve order. The whole city seemed to be out for the spectacle.
Sebastian, Mr. Kent, Miss Chen, Emily, and I were gathered on the roof of the Westminster Palace Hotel, watching over the abbey’s western entrance across the street from us. We had been fortunate enough to secure our places early in the morning without any trouble. Tuffins had retrieved the Kent carriage and proven himself to be an excellent driver, which surprised exactly no one. He’d let us off as close as possible and no one had recognized Sebastian nor the rest of us along the way, thanks to our disguises.
I had decided it better not to ask Mr. Kent how he came by our elaborate costumes. He’d found simple enough secondhand dresses for Rose, Catherine, and Laura, so they could be comfortable at home in clothing that hadn’t been worn for the three worst days of our lives. But for the rest of us, he’d concocted detailed alternative identities with rather more imagination than was strictly necessary.
For me, he’d decided I would be a world-traversing photographer, wearing a well-worn English traveling coat along with a Chinese silk scarf and Indian-style bracelets. Miss Chen was a pioneer woman from the American West in thick leather boots and a wide-brimmed hat. Emily, wearing multiple layers of blue shawls and a white bonnet wrapped around her thick dark hair, was an Irish milkmaid.
I suspected this was how he thought of each of us.
For himself, Mr. Kent had chosen the humble profession of circus owner, which he decided gave him license to wear a shockingly pink waistcoat under his black coat and an extremely tall hat. And finally, he’d given Sebastian a dark-green coat, a rather ugly orange waistcoat, and poorly matching pin-striped trousers, not to mention a scruffy beard and mustache—all part of his identity as a penniless poet.
“He’s simply too attractive, and it’s not fair,” Mr. Kent had given for his reasoning. Sebastian had just sighed, which admittedly fit his disguise well.
We looked absurd.
But the crowds around us on the roof seemed to be an equally eclectic mix, and we fit right in among the dockworkers swearing up a storm and the delicate ladies gasping in shock. The scents of all sorts of Londoners wound around us, smoke and perfumes, spirits and bread, but the air was mostly thick with anticipation. In the distance, we could hear the roar of the crowds along the Queen’s route. She was getting close. In response, the bodies behind us seemed to push in closer to get a better view.
My hand tightened around Sebastian’s in a steel grip. A crowd was the last place he wanted to be, and we were forcing him into the middle of the biggest one.
“Are you all right?” I asked.
One look from him answered my question. He ruffled his hair and shook his head. “I am trying not to count the people.”
I didn’t ask whether his worry was Captain Goode or himself. “If you do, we’ll be counting them as people saved,” I said, huddling closer to him, watching the stage.
Below us, a wooden platform had been erected in front of the abbey steps for the speakers. Workmen rushed about finishing the setup. Chairs were positioned, a pathway was cleared from the carriage drop-off below us to the stage, and armed guards were standing sentry every step of the way. Guard
s that would be useless against Captain Goode and the entire Society.
This was the closest we could get without putting ourselves in danger. Our best hope was to spot him from up here and stop him before he hurt anyone. Though Mr. Kent, Sebastian, and I were particularly helpless in this situation, Emily and Miss Chen more than made up for it. I knew the power they had over any objects that were in their sight. And Mr. Kent had procured two pairs of opera glasses for them to get a better view of the entire scene.
“Does anyone see him?” Mr. Kent asked.
Our group responded with a series of nos.
My hand fiddled with the pistol in my pocket, waiting for a different answer. Mr. Kent had obtained the revolver for me without any warnings or asking any questions, and I didn’t know if he believed I wouldn’t use it or that I wouldn’t have opportunity. But Captain Goode was down there, somewhere. He would show himself soon, and I would be ready.
“Here they come!” someone yelled.
The crowd grew less dignified and more frenzied as the speakers climbed out of their carriages and gathered up on the stage with the dramatic abbey entrance behind them. The first to take his place was Commissioner Henderson of the London Police, easily distinguishable by his muttonchops and bushy mustache. He was soon followed by the stout Home Secretary, Sir William Harcourt, and behind him, observing the crowd pensively, was our white-haired Prime Minister, William Gladstone.
The greatest roar of all rang out, and Sebastian stiffened at the sound of all these people. We both took in a sharp breath, watching the arriving carriage. It was a black so inky and dark it seemed to have every color shining brilliantly in it, each one waiting for its moment in the sun. The horses, too, were early-hours dark, and so sure of themselves, so perfectly muscled, I felt a betting man would put his life on them in a race. The driver came to a smart stop, and the guards on either side opened the door for the occupant the waiting crowd knew to be inside.
The Queen.
Victoria stepped out daintily, her small figure brimming with import. Her guards smoothly escorted her toward the stage, where she paused, and I could see a flash of indecision flit across her face. It was gone quickly, replaced with sober reflection. She climbed the steps, looked out across the crowd, and gave a small, somber wave. The roar increased, people waving hats and handkerchiefs furiously.
I looked down at the most powerful woman in the world—even more powerful than those I knew with strange abilities. The power to rule an empire spanning the entire globe, to change the course of history.
While the thunderous cheers for her proved her popularity, the silence all those people gave her was even more impressive. The crowd finally quieted. The stillness was eerie. Thousands of people, huddled together, with bated breath, waiting to be reassured about the world.
“A terrible event occurred four days ago.”
The words weren’t exactly discernible, but people turned to whisper them, and so they came back to us in waves, the crowd repeating her like schoolchildren at lessons.
“Make no mistake, those responsible will be arrested and brought to justice.”
People murmured approvingly.
“However, there is a dangerous, vicious rumor I must quash.” The air was brimming, almost vibrating with anticipation.
“This horrible tragedy was perpetrated by men. Not creatures, not something pagan or otherworldly. To believe such nonsense is the height of foolishness, blasphemy, and irrationality.”
The crowd shifted a little as the condemnation was delivered.
“When the persons involved are found, their punishment will be great. They will feel the full weight of the law upon them. But heed me: They are men. Not some fantastical, unnatural concoction of your imaginations.”
The relief rolled back, the Queen’s assurances seeming to bolster the people who had begun to imagine were-men and demons.
So that, of course, was when something strange happened.
It was a rumbling. Faint at first, growing louder and more violent by the second. It seemed to be coming from the abbey. The two towers over the west entrance shook and cracked, and everything around it started to vibrate. The wooden stage rattled. All the scaffolding. Our hotel building, one hundred feet away, even shook.
Two guards didn’t wait to see what would happen. They were halfway up the steps to the stage, heading for the Queen, when a sudden blaze of fire erupted in their path, sending them stumbling and falling back down. Now everyone on the stage leaped to their feet, looking for the threat, looking for help, looking for an escape. But none of those were visible beyond the five-foot-tall flames trapping them in.
The scene seemed to move in slow motion as the crowd behind us crushed me against the roof wall, straining to make out what was happening. I grasped the edges of the stone with one hand and held Sebastian’s hand firm in the other as I leaned out as far as possible, unable to believe my eyes. The crowds below swelled forward as well. Some of the guards struggled to keep them back while the others jumped into action, pulling out swords and rifles to attack the unseen perpetrator. The guards closest to the Queen attempted to put out the fire, but whatever they could find to smother the flames simply got engulfed, too.
Suddenly, a wave of gasps rippled through the crowd as a figure emerged from the smoke, floated above the stage, and set down in front of the abbey entrance. He was large, dressed in an old-fashioned black cloak, and he walked with a familiar, elegant gait. He ran one hand through his sleek, dark hair, and we got a better look at his face.
He looked like every Byronic antihero come to life.
My stomach dropped when I realized what I was looking at.
Another Sebastian Braddock.
“Death will come for you!” he roared for all to hear.
Sebastian’s grip tightened around my hand, sending a surge of his power through my veins and it was the only thing that kept me certain the other was an impostor. The Sebastian below looked a bit bigger and seemed to wear a more sinister expression, but they looked nearly identical. In the corner of my eye, I could see Miss Chen and Emily glancing at our Sebastian to make sure he was still here underneath the bearded disguise. What in God’s name was going on? Was this the work of another shifter like Camille?
Now with a target to focus on, some of the guards hurried past the stage and aimed their rifles at this impostor Sebastian. He did not break his stride. He gave a lazy wave, and the world rumbled around him. More cries of shock went up, and the crowd pointed upward. The top part of the cracked left tower dislodged itself, but it didn’t fall. It teetered. As if someone was holding it on the very edge, keeping it from tipping over.
“Emily,” I said, desperately turning to her. “Can you stop him?”
“I can’t!” she whispered, her face looking especially pale. “Nothing’s working.”
“Miss Chen?”
“I keep trying to break the ground under him,” she answered, looking grim. “And—oh, that filthy little bastard.” Her eyes began to search the crowd.
“Maybe we can just grab the Que—”
“Not one move!” the impostor yelled, his voice echoing more than it should. “Or the tower will drop!”
The shadow of the tower loomed over the stage, threatening to crush the speakers along with my last remaining idea. We watched helplessly as the impostor climbed up the stage and passed through the flames without any injury.
“We have to do something,” I said, trying to pull Sebastian with me.
“No.” Miss Chen blocked me with her arm. “I’ve seen this before.”
That comment gave me pause. “You’ve seen an assassination attempt on the Queen with someone threatening to drop the Westminster Abbey tower on her…?”
“I’ve seen illusions like this.…,” she replied, scrutinizing the scene with her opera glasses.
“Sebastian Braddock, your reign of terror ends today!” a new voice yelled below. Three figures entered the tense standoff. Captain Goode was fully dr
essed in his navy-blue military regalia, looking the part of the hero. He stood intimidatingly tall but with a bit of noticeable bulk, like a former soldier who had only recently settled into a cozy promotion. A wave of revulsion roiled through me, and I snarled without quite meaning to. Behind him stood a tall blond woman and Miss Quinn, who extinguished the flames on their side of the stage as they climbed up.
“Captain Goode!” the impostor Sebastian shouted. “You can’t stop me!”
I covered Miss Chen’s glasses. “What do you mean by illusions?”
“There was a sniveling ass named Pratt at the Society who could create people and objects out of nothing,” Miss Chen said, setting the glasses down. “They look and sound real, but if you try to touch them or attack them, you’d simply go through them like a ghost. There isn’t anything of substance to break.”
“So there’s nothing attacking the Queen right now?” I asked. “What about Captain Goode?”
“He’s defending the Queen from nothing—it’s all a show,” Miss Chen replied, putting the opera glasses back up to her eyes.
Back down on the stage, Captain Goode was putting his hands up in a peaceful gesture to the fake Sebastian, trying to slip closer to the Queen. “What is it that you want? No one has to get hurt.”
“Oh, that’s where you’re wrong,” the impostor replied, lifting his hands up, aiming his palms at the Queen. “More people must die, starting with her!”
A bright blast shot out of the impostor’s hands straight at the Queen, but the surprisingly nimble Captain Goode got there first. He took the stream of attacks in the chest, yelling in pain as he shielded the Queen until the impostor seemed to run out of energy.
Captain Goode raised his chin triumphantly. “I’ve shut down your power, Braddock! It’s over!” he declared triumphantly, nodding at his blond friend.
“No! It cannot be!” the impostor Sebastian cursed, falling to his knees.
My mind was reeling, and I smacked at the railing ineffectually. No, no, no. There were too many absurd sights at once to comprehend. It felt like a dream. The powers being put on full display to the public, Sebastian attacking the Queen—and now, Captain Goode escorting her off the stage, looking as noble as anything. This could not happen. I turned wildly to my friends.
These Vengeful Souls Page 6
