by Y. S. Lee
The simplest way to neutralize the guncotton was to wet it again. He’d brought a pair of buckets with him and was busy filling them with rank water, hauling them up to the antechamber and carefully, nervously, pouring it into each crate. It was slow work: at this time of day, the sewers were down to a trickle, and he had to travel downstream a few hundred yards in order to fill his buckets. The first time he’d tried to douse the guncotton, he’d held his breath, certain that it would ignite instead. But it hadn’t.
He was filthy. Soaked to the skin. Shaking with nervous tension. He’d no idea whether Mary had been successful. He could hear constant, irregular rumbles that echoed up and down the tunnels — the clatter of carriage wheels on the cobblestones above, translated through layers of stone and earth and brick. But he couldn’t hear activity from within the palace, not even the scurrying of feet on flagstones. And yet, even as he listened, there came a new sound: light, tentative footsteps, coming from the palace’s access tunnel, just above this room.
He tensed. Set down his empty buckets. He had the advantage in some ways: he’d been down here longer, knew where the crates ended, could see general outlines even in the gloom. And this other person would have just descended a ladder. But he was at a disadvantage, too: he didn’t want to die down here in the sewers and was intensely aware of the risks involved simply in being where he was. He forced himself to unclench his fists, to balance his weight lightly on the balls of his feet. To be ready for anything.
The footsteps were careful, unhurried, yet steady. From the click of the shoe soles on the ladder’s metal rungs, the person wasn’t wearing waterproofs and waders. Not a flusher, then. He waited, wondering if he’d positioned himself as well as he’d thought: the crates were behind him, so that he might block the intruder’s access to them. Perhaps he ought to have stayed behind them, for an opportunity to see the person before he showed himself. But it was too late.
In the near darkness, he saw a pair of smallish boots descending the last rungs, showing a clear three inches of ankle beneath a dark skirt, and he was instantly seized with panic and anger. He couldn’t possibly recognize a pair of buttoned boots. It was ridiculous. And yet, as the owner of the boots touched down with a soft thump and turned about, it seemed inevitable that it was she.
“I told you to evacuate with the rest of the staff,” he snapped.
She dusted off her hands. “So you did. And good afternoon, by the way.”
“It’s not, actually. Get out. Go.”
And yet she came toward him, eyeing the looming stack of crates with respect. “That’s an enormous quantity of guncotton.”
“Enough to blow us up a hundred times over,” he agreed. “Which is why you’re leaving this instant.”
“Only if you come with me.” She held out her hand.
He stared at it, tempted. “Someone’s got to guard the crates until the army can dispose of them.”
“That’s what I thought. I’ve come to help.”
He squinted at the ladder and its chute, wondering if he had enough clearance simply to throw her over his shoulder and carry her up by force.
“It’s no good,” she said in a sweet voice. “I’d only struggle. And that would leave the crates unguarded.”
Not for the first time, he was tempted to shake her. Instead, he drew a deep breath. Contained his anger. “Mary. Is there nothing I can say or do to induce you to leave?”
“No. You need help. Now tell me what to do.” She was already rolling her sleeves, turning up her skirts to knee height for freer movement.
He sighed. Gritted his teeth. Then said, “We’ll make a relay: I’ll fill the buckets and pass them to you; you soak the guncotton and return the buckets at the midpoint.”
“Very good.”
“Seems a long way from good to me.”
She rolled her eyes. “All right: very sensible.”
She was irresistible. He leaned down and planted the swiftest of kisses on her lips. “I do love a sensible girl.” And then he turned away, bucket in hand, before she could think of a riposte.
Once they’d settled into a rhythm, Mary found it difficult to believe in their imminent danger. It was hard work, of course — dirty, cold, slippery, splashy — but the guncotton looked so harmless. Nevertheless, they labored on. After nearly half an hour, they’d fetched enough water to soak through two-thirds of the crates. The emergency would soon be averted. And yet Mary remained troubled by the use of a substance that was so volatile.
When she next met James to exchange buckets, empty for full, she said, “Doesn’t it seem strange to you, the use of guncotton?”
“How d’you mean?” He sounded distracted and squinted down the tunnel at some invisible end point.
“The whole scheme seems oddly uncalculated . . . more like a general, irrational gesture than a specific threat to the Crown.”
“I’d say that planting any type of explosive beneath Buckingham Palace is irrational.”
“Yes,” she persisted, “but isn’t the use of guncotton extra foolish? If one wanted to murder the queen, there are more direct ways. She rides out through the parks nearly every day; it wouldn’t be difficult to swarm her carriage or put a gun to her head. It’s happened before.”
“But the palace is an important symbol. Perhaps it’s a gesture aimed at the building and what it represents rather than at the monarch.”
“Even so, the risk of carrying in all the guncotton . . . no sensible person would run such a high personal risk. Unless he was extremely desperate or utterly indifferent.” He turned toward her, holding her gaze for a long moment. He looked deadly serious and — odd moment for her to choose to notice this — as handsome as one could look in near blackness.
“You’re talking about a lunatic.”
“Or someone too reckless to care about his own safety.”
“In practice, it’s not that different. It means we’re much less able to anticipate what he’ll do next.”
She drew breath to reply — and was interrupted not by speech, but by a sudden dazzle of light. In truth, it was likely no more than a warm glow. But after such prolonged murkiness, it had a blinding effect. Both froze. Held their breath. Narrowed their eyes.
James’s hand bumped against her arm, and he pushed her gently upstream, a silent order: retreat. She began to move slowly, using the noise of the newcomer’s splashing to cover the sounds of her own motion. A brief retreat was all very well — it offered time to think, to plan their next move. But it had to end soon — the last thing they wanted was live flame near the guncotton. As they rounded the curve, they came to a halt by unspoken agreement.
James pulled her near, put his mouth to the curve of her ear. “Go,” he said. “Fetch help.”
“Come with me. Nothing to be gained by staying.”
“I’m going to try to reason with him.” He pushed her gently once again. “Go. It’s our best chance.”
“You can’t reason with a madman,” she hissed. “Come on. We need to get clear of the palace before he blows it up.”
“There’s no time.”
“Precisely!”
They glared at each other. Had the situation been less serious, Mary would have burst out laughing — this was so typical of their entire history. But the more time they wasted bickering, the more certain their deaths. Even now, as she looked into James’s eyes, his gaze frantic, insistent, she couldn’t imagine that she’d see him again. This was simply a ploy to get her to safety. To save her life at the cost of his. She could either accept that gift or throw it back in his face, achieving nothing.
He pushed her again, firmly this time, and she relented. She wound one arm about his neck and pulled him down, planting a fierce kiss on his lips. “James. I —” His eyes locked with hers, and suddenly her throat closed. “I —”. She tried to shape the next word, bring her tongue up to her palate. She couldn’t do it.
The intruder’s splashing grew louder, and she spun away, unable to look at J
ames for a moment longer. As she picked her way upstream, tears already misted her vision. She clenched her teeth and forced herself to place one foot before the other. A fine thing it would be if she ruined James’s great gesture, her futile attempt to get help, by slipping and falling.
She came so very close. She was mere steps from the guncotton room when the light suddenly flared bright and she heard James say, “Good afternoon.” His voice was steady and cool. “I wondered when you might return.”
There was a distinct pause. She dared not move, lest sudden motion cause the intruder to panic. Then a new speaker said, “Ah — you’re the fellow who was mucking about down here the other night.” The voice — male, patrician, chalky with age — instantly made Mary’s mind whirl. She knew those tones. Had heard this man before. But when? “Meddlesome chap.”
“Hardly,” said James. He managed to sound slightly amused. “The safety of these tunnels is my responsibility. If anything, you’re mucking up my work.”
The reply was prefaced by a metallic click. “Care to repeat that bit of insolence?” said the intruder, testy now. A short silence. “I thought not. You might cheek an old man, but not his trusty assistant.”
Mary frowned, trying to make sense of the bobbing shadows and brilliant, inconsistent rays of light that obscured more than they revealed. And then her eyes caught a glimpse of the “assistant”: a sleekly gleaming handgun, pointing unwaveringly at James’s chest. Her heart seemed to stagger, and she stifled a useless impulse to run toward them.
“Now,” said the intruder, sounding rather pleased with himself, “March. Go on. You know where I want to go.”
“You must have paid the watchman a neat sum,” said James, holding his ground.
The man snorted — an authoritative, impatient sound that was maddeningly familiar to Mary’s ears. “Don’t stall, young man; I’m not here to play about. March, or I’ll shoot you here and now.”
The sound of steady, sloshing footsteps came as a relief to Mary. While James was no fool, he was quite capable of asking one too many questions. She squinted toward the light but could see only James’s profile and a flare of lantern light — nothing beyond that. There was no way of timing her escape, and so she remained, statue-like, a yard from the half step up to the guncotton room. She was so very near. There was less to be gained from blind risk than from caution.
The intruder’s snort still echoed in her ears. Where had she heard it before? She summoned the last — the only — image she had of him, punting that little barge downsewer. Physically confident. Square shouldered. Intent.
A total stranger, and yet not quite.
She almost gasped when, at last, it came to her: Honoria Dalrymple’s stepfather, the Earl of Wintermarch! He was the intruder. The man who’d bowed out of dinner with the queen at the last moment. The man who prowled through the sewers by night, looking for the secret access point. The man who’d instructed Honoria to find the access tunnel from the palace kitchens. She’d seen him the previous night on the servants’ staircase, in confidential conversation with Honoria. And the snort was familiar as a masculine version of Honoria’s own sound of disapproval and disbelief.
But even with this identification, she still hadn’t a clue as to his motives. It made no sense: Honoria’s family was part of the elite, and her position as lady-in-waiting affirmed that. Despite her family connection to the disreputable Ralph Beaulieu-Buckworth, they were still part of the inner circle. Why would her stepfather — a retired general, she knew, and by reputation a very distinguished gentleman — want to do the queen harm?
She ought never to have been this much in the dark. If Anne and Felicity had given her the background information she’d requested, it was just possible that this entire crisis might have been avoided. It was an unusual slip, a grave one — and yet it wasn’t the first, even during the space of this assignment.
She still couldn’t see where Wintermarch’s gaze might be focused, but the two men were drawing perilously near. She had to move. In three slow, gliding steps she reached the half wall. So far, no alarm. But the most difficult part still lay before her: climbing up to the raised chamber. She risked a glance at the men — and almost immediately that voice barked, “Who’s there?”
She went perfectly still. Lowered her eyelids but kept her gaze on the source of the light.
“A rat, probably,” said James. His tone was passably dismissive, but Mary couldn’t miss the underlying tension in his tone. “What else might it be?”
“Well, now, that’s an interesting question. Keep moving.”
A long pause.
A wave of the gun.
James’s steps resumed, slower now, his unspoken reluctance practically audible in the silence — to Mary, at least. “Where are we going?”
No reply, the answer being only too obvious.
They were perhaps twenty-five yards away. It was either stay here and be trapped or risk being seen. Mary grasped the ledge, found the smallest of toeholds in the crumbling brick, and began to pull herself up.
“Halt! Don’t move.”
She ignored this command. A moment later, bruised shoulder burning in protest, she lay sprawled with less elegance than efficiency on the ledge. She was there. She had done it. She had only to climb the ladder and make her way through the tunnel. Surely the army had arrived. Surely she could convince them of the truth.
“There’s nothing there, you old fool.” That was James’s voice.
“In that case, your confederate won’t flinch if I put a bullet in your thick skull.”
Mary went still.
“Precisely. A pointless bluff,” said James. But his bold words were followed by the faintest of gasps.
It was enough to make Mary glance over her shoulder. James’s back was to the wall, the barrel of a pistol at the center of his forehead. Wintermarch had thoughtfully raised the lantern to illuminate the metal’s dull gleam, James’s defiant expression.
“Hear me, sirrah?” called Wintermarch down the tunnel, making it ring with echoes. “Show yourself, or this young piece of impertinence dies.” He paused, then added as an afterthought, “And then I’ll keep shooting. Either the guncotton will explode or this moldering heap of bricks will collapse on you. Either way, you’re both dead.”
“You’re talking to the echoes,” said James. He sounded more angry than afraid. “Wasting time.”
A soft, unpleasant chuckle. “We’ll see about that.” Wintermarch turned his head toward Mary, pressing the muzzle hard into James’s forehead. She flinched involuntarily at the sight, and a faint smile curved the old man’s lips. “Show yourself. I’ll give you to five.
“One.
“Two.”
He meant it. What had she said about madmen?
“Three.
“Four.”
“Don’t shoot.” Her voice was hoarse, and for a panicked moment, she thought he’d not heard. “I’m coming.”
“God damn it, Mary, run!” shouted James, apparently oblivious of the gun pressing against his skull.
But Wintermarch only chuckled. “As I thought. Although I’ll confess I didn’t expect a woman.” He turned toward Mary. “Show yourself then, missy.”
“She’s done nothing wrong. Please let her go.” There was a faint tremor in James’s voice that moved her more than any protestation of devotion.
Mary clambered down. Despite the icy knot of fear at her core, she felt a ravening curiosity. What on earth did the Earl of Wintermarch hope to accomplish with this scheme? It defied all logic. She walked toward the two men, into the circle of light. He was carrying, she noticed, another etched-glass lantern, like some sort of lunatic’s calling card “Here I am, your lordship.”
Wintermarch’s eyebrows, a pair of thick, tufted caterpillars, shot up. “Got it all worked out, have you, missy?”
She inclined her head very slightly — an imitation of Honoria’s haughty manner. “The Earl of Wintermarch, of course. Stepfather to the Honorable
Honoria Dalrymple, Her Majesty’s lady-in-waiting. And a not-so-distant relation of the Honorable Ralph Beaulieu-Buckworth.”
The old man actually grinned. “At your service. You’ll forgive my not asking your names; I don’t much care for rabble.”
Mary stepped forward so that she stood next to James, the two of them facing Wintermarch side by side. “Rabble we might be, but we uncovered your scheme. You’re too late, you know — the palace was evacuated nearly an hour ago. The queen is safe.”
Amusement flickered across his corrugated features. “Balderdash. That incompetent she-toad could never bestir herself so quickly.”
“Have you not had word from Mrs. Dalrymple?” asked Mary, genuinely startled. “Even the servants have escaped.”
He was suddenly annoyed. “Enough chitter-chatter. Move.” He brandished the gun in the direction of the guncotton room.
“It’s an excellent question: what do you hope to accomplish in blowing up an empty palace?” asked James, even as they began to walk. It was a curious sort of death march, accompanying an armed madman with live flame into the presence of explosives.
“I’m not here to satisfy your desire for a story,” sneered Wintermarch. “Especially with such clumsy questioning.”
“You don’t feel even the slightest inclination to boast of your clever scheme?” asked Mary. She felt cheated. If she was to die, she at least wanted some answers first. And more than cheated, she felt angry. She was going to die in this sewer, at the caprice of a crazed aristocrat who didn’t care whether he himself lived or died. Her death wouldn’t even be useful or meaningful.
For an answer, he waved the pistol. “Up.”
First she, and then James, climbed into the room. The earl remained in the tunnel, smirking at them. “Would you like a hand?” asked James.
Wintermarch snorted. “I may be old, but I’m not a fool. You want to push me off balance, or at least wrest the gun from me. No, thank you, I’ll do very well standing right here.”
