Who was Frieda Sewell? Or Kathleen March? Part of him wished he could lay his hand on the posters and see their final moments. While he hated the trauma of violent deaths, he wanted to know them. He wished he could separate them into individuals instead of statistics. Those last moments showed him who they were better than any file ever could. In those final seconds, their thoughts told of loves and regrets, of intimacy never shared aloud. Immanuel folded his arms to stave off the nighttime chill as he drew closer to the island’s most recent victim.
Helene Balthazar. 1865-1892. Seohl-wiga Island. Blonde hair, hazel eyes. Unknown.
Attached to the paper was a blurry photograph of a woman sitting with her husband. Her lips were drawn straight and her eyes stared ahead, the corners tipped down while her husband held her hand and proudly sat for his portrait. There was something strange about her. The photographs appeared to be a wedding portrait, but she seemed resigned. Carefully unpinning the picture, Immanuel wondered if she had merely run away. If her husband had turned to drink or had beaten her, perhaps she had escaped in a boat or on the ferry while he was at sea. Perhaps in a fit of gin-fueled rage, he had killed her and dumped her body into the sea where she would fall to pieces before she could be found. Sailors surely knew the flow of the currents that would send a body to open water.
Tacking the photograph back on the wall, Immanuel stared at the red string running between three of the women. The names were different and they had lived on different islands within the chain, but they all had drowned and all had green eyes. Immanuel was about to move on when his eyes landed on the dates. Two out of three didn’t have birthdates, but they had approximate ages: 36, 45, 57. Brown hair, brown hair, grey hair. Turning to the next set of strings, Immanuel traced its path. Once again, the women progressed in age, but the features remained the same.
“They’re the same woman,” Immanuel murmured breathlessly.
Each color string traced the life of one woman through her various incarnations. Somehow they had managed to hop between islands undetected, faking their deaths through drowning only to reappear again elsewhere. Their sixty-seven victims were truly fifty, and even then, there were a few he suspected may be repeats. But why had they done it? Why had they escaped their lives, often more than once? Helene’s dower face flashed through Immanuel’s mind. Had motherhood and wifely duties sent them barreling toward freedom by whatever means necessary?
“Immanuel, what are you doing up?”
Turning, Immanuel found Adam leaning against the doorway. He yawned and blinked in the bright light of the electric lamps. Against his will, Immanuel felt a yawn claw up his throat.
“I—” His gaze trailed to the dish of oil beside him. Adam still didn’t understand his need to graffiti every surface to secure their safety. Magic still was something to be spoken of in hushed tones, so Immanuel said, “I was making sure the front door was locked, but I got distracted.”
“Well, it’s late. Come back to bed. We can figure this mess out tomorrow.”
Eying the wall of women’s faces one more time, Immanuel nodded and drifted to Adam’s side. His companion snaked his arm around his waist and tugged him close as they turned to go up the steps. The house creaked with each tread, but as they reached the door to their shared room, Adam tightened his grip and steered Immanuel toward his bed. Immanuel looked between his companion and the sagging mattress uncertainly.
“We only have a few hours until sunrise. I think we can risk it.” Staring into Immanuel’s eyes, he brushed the hair from his forehead and cupped his cheek. “Especially if you warded the whole house.”
Lifting the covers, Adam gestured for Immanuel to get in first before sliding in beside him. He stretched his arm beneath Immanuel’s neck and around his shoulder to keep him close, even though Immanuel knew it would put Adam’s arm to sleep. They shifted until finally their bodies fell into their natural grooves and Adam’s thumb came to rest in the nick in his ribs. Immanuel closed his eyes and drew in slow breaths until all he could feel was the steady drum of his heart and the reassuring warmth of Adam’s skin radiating through the thin fabric of his union suit.
Chapter Fourteen
The Lighthouse Keeper
Adam awoke relieved to find Immanuel sound asleep curled against his side. Unlike nights where Immanuel fell asleep an hour before he had to rise for work, there were no creases in his brow or signs of exhaustion, just blessed peace. Slowly turning onto his side, Adam studied his companion’s lax features before gently kissing his forehead. When Immanuel didn’t stir, Adam slipped out of bed, careful not to disturb him as he dressed in silence. Standing before the small mirror above the washbasin, Adam contemplated the auburn stubble sprouting along his jaw. Most days he sliced it off without a second thought, but this was a town where men worked with their hands and didn’t take kindly to fussy dandies.
Creeping down to the kitchen, Adam lit and stoked the stove. He silently moved from cupboard to cupboard, gathering what he needed to make a palatable breakfast. For all the trouble Mr. Jacobs caused, at least he had the foresight to properly stock the larder. Cracking eggs into a battered pan, Adam listened as the boards whined overhead.
“Adam?” Immanuel called, his voice thin.
“Making breakfast.”
That twinge of panic in his voice was what Adam hated about the rare occasions he awoke before Immanuel. Lord Rose had left behind more than poorly healed ribs and a scarred eye. Immanuel truly feared Adam would disappear one day, as if he had been nothing more than a figment of his mind. It had been hard to understand at first, but the previous night when he awoke to find Immanuel’s bed open and empty, he felt that familiar pang of panic. He couldn’t say what woke him. Normally Immanuel made enough noise that if Adam dared to sleep in, he would be up by the time Immanuel began to open and shut the drawers and wardrobe.
No, what had awoken him wasn’t noise. It was the absence of his presence. For as long as he had known Immanuel, he had always felt there was something different about him. He had chalked it up to favoritism, but the more he spent time away from him, the more apparent his “otherness” became. He couldn’t hear it, he couldn’t see it. Hell, he couldn’t even really describe it, but Immanuel had a loudness to his being, even when he desperately tried to make himself invisible. Strangers’ eyes found their way to him in a crowded room despite his somber grey suits and his bichrome gaze locked on the ground or hidden under his hair. The night before there was a moment when the ringing in his head cleared, and Adam awoke from a sound sleep at the sudden quiet. Over the sizzle of bacon, he wondered if this static had been a byproduct of the handfasting or if it had always been this way, but after living with Immanuel for several months, he had finally begun to take notice.
By the time Adam had scraped eggs and bacon onto the scratched china and had the tea kettle whistling, Immanuel wandered down the steps, pausing at the bottom to stare into Jacobs’ room for a long moment. Turning back to Adam as he ducked into the dining room, Immanuel broke into a wide grin.
“What happened to your face?” he asked, biting his lip to suppress a laugh.
“I decided to try a more rugged look. What do you think?”
Immanuel’s eyes darted over his features. “Can I touch it?”
“Fine,” he replied, rolling his eyes.
Standing before him, Immanuel cupped Adam’s face. At first, he slowly ran his hands over the day’s growth, but as he reached his jaw, a mischievous smile crossed his lips. Immanuel rubbed his hands across Adam’s cheeks as if trying to create a spark. He pulled his face away, warding his lover off with the plates of food.
“That’s enough, you silly git.” Dropping the plates onto the table, Adam watched Immanuel hide a yawn. “How did you sleep?”
Immanuel shook his head and picked at his eggs. “Like I could sleep for another five hours. You should have awoken me earlier. I didn’t mean to sleep this late.”
“We have both had a rough week. I thought you might
appreciate a little extra shut-eye.”
“While I appreciate the thought, we’re wasting time. We only have five days left to figure this out, and we’re no closer to knowing who murdered the selkie or Mr. Jacobs. I don’t even know where to start.”
Frowning, Adam nudged Immanuel’s arm as he absently poked holes in his breakfast with the tines of his fork. “You can start by eating your breakfast. I don’t need you swooning on me.” Raising his gaze, Adam caught the glint of sunlight off the glass beacon. “I was thinking I might go to the lighthouse and speak to the lighthouse keeper, what’s his name?”
“Quill. No, Quince. That’s not a bad idea. Miss Larkin did say he was the village… everything. He might know something.”
“While I’m there, I thought you could go visit that strange chap, Byron. He seemed willing to chat with you.”
“At the same time? We aren’t going together?”
Adam released a short laugh and set his teacup aside. “Don’t you think it would look odd if we went everywhere together? We told Byron and Miss Larkin that you are here to study seals and I’m a journalist who is tagging along. Do you think a journalist would have much interest in studying seals?”
A fitful frown crossed Immanuel’s lips as he stared at a forkful of egg. “No, I guess not, but is it safe to split up?”
“I’m only going to speak to the man, not get into a boat with him. I had already planned to take my revolver with me when I went. Speaking of which, you should take Jacobs’ gun with you.”
Immanuel opened his mouth only to close it again. “I have never fired a gun. I have never even handled one.”
“Really? You have never gone hunting?”
Shaking his head, Immanuel hesitantly choked down a bite of bacon and eggs. “No, my family never went. And with my abilities now, I try to stay as far away from corpses as I can. I really don’t want to see myself shoot anything. It’s hard enough to eat poultry as it is.”
“Fine, but you still need to eat.”
***
By the time Adam managed to flush Immanuel out of the cottage, his companion had eaten approximately four bites of his breakfast and looked as sullen as he did after a bad day at the museum. Leaving him at the crossroads, Adam tried not to look back at Immanuel heading between the trees toward the village. If he did, he feared the worry he had suppressed all morning would overtake him and he would call Immanuel to tag along with him to the lighthouse. He had to be strong for him, he had to if they had any hope of becoming something more. Adam blinked. When did he suddenly get on board with this notion?
Turning his collar up against the damp chill, Adam stuffed his hands in his pockets and made certain to temper the fluidity of his gait. Through the scant trees and roiling fog, Adam could make out the deep red brick of the lighthouse rising from the grasses like the Tower of Babel. Attached at the beacon’s hip was a matching building, squat and square. While it lacked the pretention of the red brick houses Adam was familiar with in London, the lighthouse keeper’s home was more modern than any of the slate-rooved houses populating the island. As he followed the washed out dirt path where the sea segmented the island each day, Adam trailed into the sand-stained grass. Salt coated his lips and teeth, casting his body in an earthen crust as he stood staring at the distant, flickering forms of birds. Not far from shore, a dozen metal buoys bobbed in a curved line that paralleled the shape of the coast. If he hadn’t seen the brick shed hugging the cliff and cables trailing into the water, he never would have guessed their ingenious purpose.
“Oy, what you think you’re doing? Get away from the edge, you ruddy fool, before you fall in.”
Adam turned to find the lighthouse keeper trudging toward him from the house, red-faced and puffing out plumes of breath. Taking a step back, Adam tipped his hat to Casper Quince and gave him his best company smile. “Just admiring your gorgeous views and unsightly generators. Nice to see you again, Mr. Quince.”
When the other man released a chuckle, Adam relaxed a fraction. It was a calculated risk to say, but as Mr. Quince reached his side, he drew in a long breath and gave the bobbing generators a glare.
“You know I tried to stop them from dumping them out here, but I was overruled. Progress and all that. Electricity,” Quince murmured, retrieving a pipe from his pocket. “What’s wrong with gas lamps? You don’t hear of gas lamps going out at all hours.”
“It did interrupt my work last night. I must say it works a lot better in London.”
“I suppose it does. You like it? People get sick from it?”
Adam narrowed his eyes. “No. Not unless they fall on a line or try to grab it, and that’s more stupidity than sickness.”
“They aren’t that far off.”
“Isn’t that the truth. To answer your question, Mr. Quince, it works very well. It goes out during storms sometimes, but that’s it.”
He nodded thoughtfully, running a chapped hand over his whiskers. “You and the other bloke from London?”
“Yes, though Mr. Winter originally hails from Germany.”
“I got family out that way,” Quince said, more to the wind than to Adam as he filled his pipe and struggled to light it against the breeze. “Haven’t seen them since I was a lad.”
“Mr. Quince, the reason I’ve come here is I am working on a piece about the history and lore of Seohl-wiga Island, and I was hoping you could help me.”
“That right?” Quince ran his pale green eyes over Adam’s form from shined boot to carefully brushed top hat. “What’s a Londoner got to do with us?”
“I heard the island was struggling, despite the piece I saw in the paper about the lighthouse and generators. I would like to write something that will give people a reason to come here and visit, spend some money in town. Too many places like this are dying, and it’s a damn shame.”
Adam kept his eyes locked on the horizon, where sea and sky blended to form a line of sparkling grey. When you’re an outsider, you let them come to you, Adam reminded himself as he waited. Adam knew how to bait the hook, how to subtly steal clients before they realized what he was up to.
“May as well come inside then. No sense catching our death out here.”
Quince turned back to the house, pausing only long enough to cup his pipe and light it against the wicked wind. Leading Adam across the waving grasses and gravel, Quince tromped into the brick house, not even stopping to unlock the door. Adam blinked, reminding himself once more they were no longer in London.
The house was warmer than Adam expected. Seeing Casper Quince’s drab figure skulking outside, he had expected a home closer to a cave than a seaside cottage. The inside of the house had been plastered and whitewashed to reflect the light pouring in through the elongated windows facing out toward the sea. The floorboards were rough and unstained but had been covered with rugs that, though careworn, were clean. Taking off his hat, Adam stared up at the white boards and exposed rafters jutting from the brick like ribs. The only tell-tale sign of its owner was the undertones of fish and muck.
At one end of the room a loft lined with bookshelves stood above a parted door where Adam could make out what looked like the shape of a trunk or dresser. The house was small, utilizing every foot efficiently. Even the rafters above the loft had been crammed with nets, rods, and other items Adam couldn’t identify. The furniture was an eclectic mix of homemade pieces and those that had been hand-me-downs or even from passing ships. As Adam drifted toward the loft, straining to read the titles, Mr. Quince headed straight for a squat, latched cupboard beside a faded and patched armchair. The titles lining the shelf were familiar, some sat on their shared shelf at home. Others he couldn’t place in a certain discipline, apart from science of some sort. Adam sniffed the air, his nose crinkling at the overwhelming stench of dried ocean somewhere nearby. The tools, he thought, his eyes trailing up to the rafters as he returned to the cluster of chairs.
In his home, Casper Quince appeared much less formidable. Outside he seemed large
, swelling up with each breath despite being shorter than Adam, yet inside, he seemed to deflate and his cactal demeanor receded beneath layers of whiskers and wool. Lingering at the edge of the rug, Adam studied the lighthouse keeper. Casper Quince was comprised of varying shades of olive brown and grey. His skin had been deeply creased from years in the sun and wind while his mastiff jaw was firmly set into an impassive frown. It was strange to see a man who had sent a twinge of apprehension in his heart the day before putting on reading glasses in a tidy home. Somehow he had expected something far more… slovenly.
“Drink?” Quince barked without looking back.
“Yes, thank you. You have a lovely home, Mr. Quince.”
Grunting an acknowledgement, Quince handed Adam a cloudy glass and sank into his armchair. Adam stared down at the chair across from his host. It was one of the seemingly homemade pieces that appeared half-finished and rough. Fearing he might get splinters in rather unpleasant places, Adam perched on the edge of his seat and took a sip of his drink. He grimaced and his eyes bulged at the astringent tang of bathtub gin. Catching Quince watching him from the corner of his eye, Adam suppressed the urge to cough and took a long swig. Immanuel would not be pleased.
“You read the article about the island?” Quince asked, watching the ribbon of smoke drift from the bowl of his pipe.
“Yes, I read about it in the London papers a few weeks ago. It was quite interesting.”
“I sent that in myself,” he replied, the faintest hint of pride curling the corner of his lip.
Selkie Cove (The Ingenious Mechanical Devices Book 5) Page 16
