Selkie Cove (The Ingenious Mechanical Devices Book 5)

by Kara Jorgensen

  “Thanks,” he replied tartly as he stood on tiptoe to pull the plant down. Hugging the orchid to his chest, he turned on heel at the door. “Oh, Sir William wants to see you in the loading dock, and may I suggest you put your papers away before you go.”

  The moment Peregrine shut the door behind him, Immanuel released a slow breath. Carefully moving the drying pages behind his desk, he blocked them from sight with a stack of books and darted down the hall, hoping to god Sir William hadn’t been waiting long. The last time he did, he became the liaison between the director and the British Museum, which really meant a month of being a glorified errand boy. At the bottom of the steps, Immanuel nodded to the archivists at the front desk before slipping into the storeroom’s maze of dusty wooden shelves. His heart thundered in his throat as he crossed the boards, focusing his attention on the shelves of specimens and bones. It had been months since he was attacked between the stacks by Lord Rose, but each time he ventured into the vast storeroom alone, he found his mind grasping to relive those dark moments. More than anything, Immanuel wished he knew how to make it stop.

  Near the loading docks, an unintelligible mix of accented voices rose through the stillness. Ahead, a crane swung, dangling a long box the size of a coffin. Sir William stood near the controls, watching the crate with an eagle eye as he fed its operator directions. As Immanuel stepped from the shadows, Sir William stared down his patrician nose at the lanky young man, his gaze lingering on Immanuel’s scar and blotted eye. Immanuel shifted beneath his gaze before clasping his hands behind his back to stop from fidgeting.

  “I beg your pardon, sir. I got caught up helping Peregrine.”

  Without a word, Sir William turned and gestured for Immanuel to follow him the he way came. “A specimen has arrived that I need you to examine. I know it to be the work of a mountebank, but it came from a well-respected benefactor who claims it to be genuine. I will not tolerate forgeries in the collection, which is why I would like you to give it the time and attention it deserves. Very little. But make the report detailed, so I can present it to them with little conflict. Do you understand what I’m asking of you, Winter?”

  “Yes, sir. I believe so, but what is it?”

  “A charlatan’s creation.” Stopping beside a man-sized crate hidden beneath a canvas sheet, Sir William scowled. “Here it is. Put the report on my desk when you’re finished, so I can review it. No matter how foolish this is, we must take care not to offend our donors.”

  The breath hitched in Immanuel’s throat as the director tossed back the sheet. Floating within the glass-walled case was a seal-like beast. While the skin retained the smooth, grey speckled fur of a harbor seal, the face and body had the unmistakable profile of the human form. Its arms were short, as if stunted, and ended in a webbed hand tipped with sharp claws. Spotted, hooded lids covered the creature’s large eyes, which peeked out beneath long lashes. A twang of recognition rang through him, touching the deepest parts of his mind. All thoughts escaped him as he took in the creature’s bisected tail and elongated human torso. With a tut, Sir William tossed the sheet back over the glass coffin, hiding the creature from view as a dockhand passed.

  “Take this up to Mr. Winter’s office and let no one else see it.”

  Before Immanuel could speak, the director snapped his fingers for one of the men to fetch a cart. Whatever the creature was, Immanuel had the sinking feeling it wasn’t as unbelievable as Sir William thought. The director turned and headed back to the dock, leaving Immanuel standing mute as two rough dockhands tromped in. The wooden dolly yawned beneath the weight of the beast and the gallons of fluid surrounding it. Immanuel flinched as the gruff men rammed the cart into the doorframe on their way to the upper floor before shoving the corner further into the elevator with their scuffed boots. Following close behind them, Immanuel stood silently in front of the elevator doors, staring down at the shoes Adam had polished for him the previous night. The men beside him spoke of a new freak show opening in Piccadilly. Immanuel’s scarred eye burned as he clasped his nervous hands behind his back. Would they call him a freak if they knew what he truly was? That with a touch of his hand, he could see the last moments of the creature at their feet’s life, if it really was a creature at all and not some amalgamation of body parts. Would they call for his demise if they knew all the ways he went against nature?

  With a thud, the elevator doors opened, and the men rolled the box down the hall to Immanuel’s office. Immanuel inwardly sighed, standing out of the way until, with a few more bangs, they left him alone with the veiled creature. Ignoring the glass box monopolizing the space between his desk and door, Immanuel shimmied behind his desk to gather up the papers and fallen books the men had scattered in their wake. His eyes roamed over the sigils and notes. The ink had bled in a few places, but overall, his work appeared to still be legible. He carefully tucked the papers into his notebook and turned his attention to the pile of letters sitting on his blotter. As he turned over the first envelope, his eyes lit up; the seal was from the Royal Zoological Society. Immanuel’s hands shook as he ripped open the wax and pulled out the letter.

  ***

  Adam watched from the threshold as Immanuel read the letter. His bichrome eyes widened, and a smile brightened his features. Immanuel bit his lip and reread the letter again, the look of glee refusing to leave his face. Swallowing hard, Adam lightly wrapped on the door with his knuckles. Immanuel jumped, but upon seeing Adam, relief washed across his face only to be replaced with unbridled joy.

  “Adam, I got in,” Immanuel said, beaming. Standing, he held the letter out for Adam to take, but his companion didn’t move from his place near the door. “Look! I got into the Zoological Society. Read it. Tell me I’m not imagining this.”

  “Congratulations. I’m very proud of you,” Adam replied, his voice tight.

  “I can’t believe it. I was certain my paper wasn’t good enough. Walrus evolution isn’t exactly interesting, but—” Glancing at the clock above his door, Immanuel paused as he stuffed the letter back into the envelope with trembling hands. “You got here quickly. I wasn’t expecting you for another few minutes.”

  “Mr. Bodkin let me go early.”

  Immanuel’s gaze drifted to the letter again but he caught himself. “That was very nice of him.”

  Adam kept his eyes locked on the knotty floorboards. How could Immanuel not notice the strain in his voice or the tightness in his features? Immanuel walked toward the door but returned to grab the letter off his desk. Adam drew in a breath and steeled himself. Happiness could blind as much as anger, and it wasn’t his place to ruin Immanuel’s day. It wasn’t his place to ruin anything for anyone. Clearing his throat, Adam turned to the cloaked crate at his ankle.

  “What’s this?” he asked, nudging the box with his foot.

  Immanuel glanced toward the window for any sign of rain before grabbing his top hat. “A specimen Sir William wants me to take a look at after lunch. A seal of some sort.”

  “Great. The flat will stink like dead fish.”

  Adam turned at a gentle squeeze of his arm. Immanuel let his hand linger as he met Adam’s gaze, a fleeting embrace before they had to pretend they were nothing more than friends. Most days Adam would have relished such an allowance in public, but today he wanted nothing more than to peel his lover’s fingers off his coat.

  Staring into Adam’s eyes, Immanuel whispered, “It’s nothing a bath for two can’t fix.”

  He should have smiled, he should have done something, but all Adam felt was the gnaw of dread hollowing his chest.

  ***

  Immanuel wouldn’t stop rambling. It was a habit Adam normally found endearing, that his enthusiasm could send his mouth and mind spinning out of control, but after the day he had, Adam wished he would shut up. Sitting in a leather-backed booth at Benekey’s, Adam rubbed his brow as Immanuel prattled on about walrus anatomy between bites of fried fish. His head pounded with the clank of glasses and silverware, the din of voices
all around them, and the stink of cigarette smoke drifting in despite the high walls of the booth. A plate of roast beef sat untouched beside a glass of wine he hadn’t intended to order. It would turn his face red, if it wasn’t already, but perhaps it would make denial that much easier.

  Adam snapped out of his thoughts as Immanuel’s hand brushed against his under the guise of chasing a loose chip.

  “What’s wrong? You’re very quiet today,” Immanuel said softly, his mismatched eyes intent with concern. “Tell me about your office. Any interesting clients?”

  Resisting the urge to scratch his wrist, Adam tapped his nails on the base of the glass and kept his gaze on the merlot within. Ruin it, his mind whispered. “I was sacked today.”

  “You were wha—?” Immanuel’s mouth wordlessly opened twice before he shook his head and put his hand over Adam’s. “Why didn’t you say anything? I’m so sorry, Adam. If I had known, I wouldn’t have—”

  Adam ripped his hand away and picked up his knife. “It’s fine. I don’t want to make a thing of it.”

  “Can you fix it? Can you prove to Mr. Bodkin that whatever it was, was an accident? You always seemed to get on so well, so maybe he would listen after given the chance to rethink his decision.”

  He swallowed against the knot in his throat and tried to keep his voice level. “It wasn’t due to a mistake. They needed to make room for Mr. Ellis’s son, so they gave me the ax.”

  “Oh.” Immanuel’s expression lightened as he leaned back in his seat. “Then, it shouldn’t be too hard to find new employment. You didn’t do anything to deserve it. There must be other offices looking for accountants.”

  “Yes, but Ellis… Ellis has a hand in half of them. The others are either friends of his or they wouldn’t hire me because I don’t think he will give me a reference. Bodkin never mentioned it and I forgot to ask. That’s what happened when Reynolds was dismissed last year. He was blackballed. Last I heard, he had to take a position in Edinburgh,” Adam replied, his voice alien, tighter but calmer than he anticipated.

  “But— but why wouldn’t they give you a reference if you were let go due to nepotism?”

  “Because I don’t ‘fit their aesthetic,’” he spat as he turned to watch his reflection in the smoked glass mirror hanging beside them.

  “What do you mean by aesthetic?”

  His henna-red hair and blue eyes flared, taking on an otherworldly hue under the dim electric lights. “I think you know what I mean.”

  Dropping his voice, Immanuel pushed aside his plate and leaned closer. “That you’re— you’re,” the word escaped him, “schwul? There’s no way for them to know that for certain. You’re so careful.”

  Ignoring Immanuel’s imploring stare, Adam ground his jaw and hacked his meat into cubes. “Apparently, they suspect it. It seems no matter what I do, people still see through me.”

  “Even so, I’m sure you’ll get a new position before you know it. You’re pretty perfect to me.”

  “Unfortunately your opinion matters very little.”

  Adam looked up from his blood-ringed plate to find Immanuel glaring at him. His blotted blue eye glistened with moisture while his lips sealed in a hard line. On the table beside his fork, Immanuel’s finger twitched with the urge to draw a sigil. For a moment they merely stared at each other as Adam waited for something on his side of the table to go flying with a twist of his lover’s finger. Let him, he thought bitterly.

  “I understand that you have had a very trying day, but could you please not take it out on me? I have done nothing to you, Adam.”

  “My apologies. It’s just that while I was on the train, I realized I can only be without work for two months before we’re in the red. My sister’s toy business has been slow since she married and I only have a little over a month’s worth of pay in reserve.”

  When Adam’s gaze returned to his plate, Immanuel asked, “Have you spoken to Lord or Lady Dorset? I’m certain they—”

  “I’m certain they would too, but I’m not going to sponge off my brother-in-law for the rest of my life,” he snapped.

  “It would only be for a little while.”

  “I said, no.”

  “Then, what do you plan to do? You act like you won’t be able to find work as an accountant, but then you say you couldn’t possibly ask your sister for help when you need it. If your fears are correct, you may not have an income. Then what will we do? My wages at the museum…” Immanuel drew in a tremulous breath. He liked living on Baker Street in their own flat where they could do as they please without fear. A boarding house could ruin all of that. “I suppose I could ask Sir William for a raise or an advance. If I tell him the circumstances, then—”

  “Don’t you dare. I don’t need everyone knowing my business.” No one would discuss how far the countess’s brother had fallen behind his back.

  “Adam,” Immanuel pleaded, shaking his head, “what do you expect me to do? You act like you won’t be able to get work, but you act like we should do nothing to stay afloat. I’m certain Hadley—”

  “Don’t bring up my sister. I don’t need her help.”

  Immanuel sat back, watching Adam stab a piece of beef and twirl it on the tip of his fork without bringing it to his lips. “Are you really going to let your pride sink us? This doesn’t only affect you, Adam.”

  For a moment, Adam merely scowled at him, but in an instant, his hand was on his coat and his hat was on his head. Immanuel scooted out of the booth after him, calling his name as Adam cast a burning glance over his shoulder. Standing next to their table, Immanuel watched Adam cut through the crowded restaurant and disappear onto the street. Tears burned the backs of Immanuel’s eyes at the sudden sensation of falling. He blinked until his clouded eye cleared, stuffing his hand into his pocket for coins. The cool metal with its familiar striations and reliefs brought his mind back to the clatter of the smoke-hazed room. Drawing in a long slow breath, Immanuel released it as the panic momentarily receded.

  Paying their bill, Immanuel slipped onto the street hoping to see Adam leaning against the brick façade waiting for him, but when he reached the corner, he knew for certain he was gone. Fear welled in his breast, compelling him to run home to make certain his lover was all right. Immanuel stood very still until, with each breath and droplet of rain pattering against his face, the feeling finally relinquished its hold. Adam would be fine. He was a reasonable man, who had shown no sign of wanting to hurt himself. He would be fine. Pulling out his pocket watch, Immanuel clicked open the cold brass face. Even if he wanted to, there was no way he could make it to the house and return to the museum without arousing suspicion at his tardiness. There was only one thing he could do. He had to go back to the museum and carry on as if Adam Fenice’s troubles weren’t his own.

  Chapter Three

  A Foot in Both Worlds

  On the walk back to the museum, Immanuel replayed what had happened at Benekey’s over and over, searching for any way he could have made Adam stay. Reaching the museum’s familiar Gothic façade, Immanuel stared at the masses of people tittering within. All week he had been looking forward to having lunch with Adam, and he ruined it. He swallowed against the tightness working its way from his throat to his chest and ducked around the side to take the servants’ entrance in. As he climbed the back stairs up to his office, he dreaded running into another curator as much as he dreaded what awaited him at home. Adam was angry, and rightly so, yet the thought of wrangling with Adam’s vile stubbornness was more than Immanuel could bear. Whatever the solution, it would have to be Adam’s idea. That much was clear.

  At the top of the stairs, Immanuel froze with his hand on the worn door. Someone was in his office. A shadow passed behind the mottled glass, disappearing near his desk. Immanuel’s heart pounded in his temples as the urge to run tensed his muscles and set every hair on end. Drawing in a steadying breath, he tried to banish all thoughts of Lord Rose. It had been months since he was attacked and Lord Rose’s soul was se
aled in a lead tomb in the bowels of Interceptor Headquarters. Lady Rose supposedly shared a similar fate, but as the shadow paced past the glass again, Immanuel caught the unmistakable shape of a corseted waist. Could she have gotten free and come after him?

  Slowly ducking back into the stairway, Immanuel fumbled through his leather satchel for the vivalabe. The moment his fingers brushed its cool, brassy surface, a wave of calm passed over him. The brass ball was the size of a compass and weighed twice as much. If he took it out at night, he could hear the steady cadence of its clockwork heart, ticking in time with his own. With two clicks of the hidden button, the ball’s lid fell back to reveal an etched face lined with minute chips of colored stone. In an instant, the marbles scattered like billiard balls, leaving only three clustered together: a white, a green, and an amber. Immanuel exhaled, letting his head fall back against the cold wall in relief that Lady Rose’s red stone was nowhere to be seen. He stared at the amber stone and chewed his lip. Had Peregrine already reported his transgression to Judith Elliott?

  Stuffing the vivalabe back into his bag, Immanuel smoothed his rumpled coat and pushed a wet blonde curl from his forehead. Even if Judith would ultimately discern something was amiss, he didn’t want her to read it on his face. If she wanted to know, she would have to work for it. In three long strides with his eyes cast to the floor, Immanuel reached his office and slipped inside. Judith looked up from behind his desk, her hazel eyes meeting his without hesitation. With a knowing smile, she studied his latest sigils with a gold magnifying glass hanging from a chain around her regal neck. No matter where he saw her, Judith Elliott was unabashedly American. Where the British embraced etiquette to the point of meekness or passive aggression, her intentions were always as straight and loud as a gunshot. If he hadn’t known any better, he would have assumed it was her office by the glint her eye and the self-assured way she stayed rooted in his seat even as he hung up his bag and coat.