by A. W. Exley
They rode in near silence, each lost in their own thoughts. Cara chewed her lips wondering how many more secrets Nan kept and if she had the courage to ask. Like how the Curator referred to her as a treasure and that she had hidden potential. When cut, she bled, so she knew she was flesh and blood and not an automaton. So what else could he mean?
They landed on the back lawn of the Leicester estate and a small group of servants came out to meet them, holding aloft lanterns. The tiny airship was soon secure, and they stood on the grass.
Nan took one of the lights and pressed it into Cara’s hand. “We’ll talk once you return. I’ll have something ready in the parlour to warm you up.” She kissed her granddaughter’s cheek. A bronze key moved from her palm to Nate’s, and then she walked up the stairs to the house.
Nate waited by Cara’s side, until the last people disappeared inside and the door closed.
“This way.” She pointed to one side.
They walked in silence; Nate held his lantern high while Cara let hers trail from her hand as she huddled into his side. Across the lawn and through the rose garden, they passed under the arch cut in the yew hedge. On the other side, sat the little church and familial cemetery. The clouds parted and moonlight washed a silver glow over avenging angels, crosses, and plain headstones. Each marked the last resting place of staff and family. Cara scanned names and dates as they headed to the rectangular crypt holding the central position.
Above the doorway, carved in marble, a phoenix spread its wings, protecting those slumbering inside. His claws clutched a plague with the family motto; I shall arise. Urns along the front held fresh cut flowers.
Nate placed his lantern on the ground and drew Nan’s key from his pocket. Then he unlocked the massive padlock holding together a length of chain threaded through rings on either side of the doors. He placed his shoulder to the cool metal and pushed them open.
Cara waited on the step while stale air rushed out and the night chill reached inside. It had been eight years since the door was last opened and her grandfather interred. She took a deep breath and then crossed over the threshold.
The electric lights threw a soft yellow glow around the interior. An ornate tomb took centre stage, that of the light-fingered Earl of Morton. One side held a procession of carved tombs. On the opposite wall, plainer caskets were stacked four high.
Cara moved to the end tomb where the occupant clutched a cavalry sword in one hand. She laid a palm on the sculpture’s chest. “My grandfather, Gideon. He would have liked you. He was also a spy, as I recently discovered.” She smiled. “And kept many secrets for this family.”
She patted him and moved to the next sarcophagus. Normally, only the earls took up floor space, but the family made an exception for the much-loved Bella, her tomb marked as special by the pale pink vein running through the delicate marble.
“Isabella,” she whispered. Her gaze lingered on the lovingly rendered face, heart-shaped with the hair pulled back from a widow’s peak before falling around high cheekbones. A tear rolled down Cara’s cheek.
Nate caught the tear on a fingertip and pulled her into an embrace. “You don’t have to do this. You can wait outside if you would prefer?”
She shook her head. “It’s not that. I just wish I looked like her, instead of him.”
He stroked her short auburn hair. “You are yourself; don’t think that any family resemblance means you also echo his character and faults.”
Cara wiped her eyes and blew her nose. Over the last few weeks, she grew more emotional and burst into tears at the smallest thing. She ground her teeth and for the umpteenth time, and wished the last traces of Mary Tudor would leave her body. Perhaps another stop by the baths would draw the tiniest fragments hiding between her joints.
“This is going to be blasted heavy. Lucky Nan slipped me my favourite implement.” She handed Nate a crowbar.
He tucked the pinched end under the lid. “Ready?”
She nodded and as he prised and levered, then added her smaller weight to the object. The lid scrapped a scant inch, but enough for Nate to reposition the bar so they could try again. Little by little, they moved the heavy top to one side and revealed Cara’s mother.
Nate sucked in a breath as he held the lantern high.
After twenty-two years, she remained so perfectly preserved she appeared to merely be asleep. Nestled against a deep blue silk, lustrous black hair tumbled around her face and shoulders. Thick black lashes rested on luminous skin, a pale blush stained her cheeks, and a tinge of red to her lips.
“Like Sleeping Beauty,” Nate said from beside Cara, finally breaking the silence.
Cara laid both hands on the edge of the coffin to steady herself. She had seen a few pictures of her mother, but here she lay, only a few years older than her, untouched by the ravages of death or time. It seemed as though her eyes could flutter open and gaze at her daughter at any moment. If she reached out and shook her shoulder, would her mother awaken?
“Lucas spent a fortune to have her embalmed.” Cara raised a hand, and the shadow fingers touched the corpse. “He needed time while he sought a dragon, hoping the Curator’s rahab would do the job of resurrecting her.”
Nate moved the lantern and they saw what she clasped in her hands. A feather.
Light hit the vane and bounced flashes of gold around the crypt. Deep red and sunlight yellow spun over the curling feather like the play of fire over the dragon’s scales. Two mythical creatures who could work in unison.
So beautiful.
She laid a hand over her mother’s cold flesh in a quick caress, and then tugged the phoenix feather through her stiff fingers. “Thank you,” she whispered and nodded to Nate.
He shouldered the lid back into place and Cara waited on the step outside. Tears streamed down her face as she cried for the mother she never knew.
Back at the house, they found Nan in the comfortable parlour with a pot of tea and a stack of shortbread. Cara deposited the feather on the tea tray and unlaced her boots. She curled up on the sofa with her feet under her, staring into the tea, Nate next to her, his arm stretched along the back of the sofa. Questions swirled and mingled with the aromatic steam.
“Where do you want to start?” Nan asked, adding a piece of chocolate shortbread to her saucer.
Where to start? The Curator’s words nagged at her, why did he compare her to an artifact? What happened between him and Lucas? “With my origins. Was Csenger involved in some way?”
Nan arched one eyebrow and took a sip of her beverage. Then she set down the cup and began, her hands clasped in her lap as if to keep herself grounded against the weight of the recollections. “Bella and Lucas were married for five years when we suspected something was amiss. They were both young, healthy, and so obviously in love but she had trouble conceiving. Twice she quickened, but the child was taken from them, and each time Bella lay dreadfully ill for weeks.”
“They began looking for natural remedies to reinforce Bella’s health and to start their family. By then, Lucas had resigned his diplomatic posting and was working at the museum. He said he was on the trail of something and disappeared to India. A month later, he returned, clutching a single pearl. He said it possessed miraculous powers of fecundity. We laughed, but Bella said she would try anything and so she swallowed the pearl. Nine months later, you battled to join us in the world.”
“A pearl?” Cara said. That didn’t sound like any artifact she read about, although she hadn’t delved into Indian mythology yet, and who thought a single feather would hold any power?
Nate let out a low whistle. “If your genesis was an artifact, that would explain why the Curator is so fascinated by you. One artifact created you, another binds you, and you react to all of them.”
Her life wrapped in layers of mystery and every one tainted by items of power. She soaked in their influence from the moment of conception. “Assuming this pearl was an artifact, some of them work on an exchange.” She swallowed, and her
gaze darted around the room before resting on Nan. “Did Bella trade her life for mine?”
A sad smile touched Nan’s lips. “No. That, I am afraid to say, is the curse of our maternal line. Childbirth has always been our personal battleground. It would appear God doesn’t want too many of us stroppy women walking around.”
Nate rested his hand on the back of her neck. “It would appear the pearl Bella swallowed created a sort of divining rod for artifacts. You.”
Cara heaved a big sigh. “I wonder if Lucas knew what they made. But it does explain why I react when an artifact is nearby and you don’t. It’s because that trait doesn’t come from the Heart.”
She shook her head. Would she ever understand all the events that shaped her life, or was there a point where you had to let everything go and move forward? Move forward, her mind whispered. Dwelling on the past served no purpose, as things could never be changed. She had a life to lead with Nate, Rachel, and Kirill, and their future together to look forward to.
Decision made, she snatched a piece of chocolate shortbread and took a bite. “So, an early Earl of Morton plucked the phoenix in the Forbidden City and scarpered back to England. But where has the feather been for the last two hundred and fifty years?”
The familiar mischievous sparkle lit Nan’s eyes. “Feathers, dear. I believe there were four originally, and now only the one remains.”
Laughter tickled along their bond, and Cara stared at Nate. “Not a word about my thieving relatives.”
His gaze glimmered with humour while he mimed buttoning his mouth closed.
“But to answer your question, Ferdinand has always guarded them,” Nan said.
“Ferdinand?” Cara burst out laughing. Ferdinand was an enormous stuffed grizzly bear standing in the grand entranceway, the touch of family whimsy displayed in the pheasant sitting on his head. Who thought, for all those years, the pheasant concealed the feathers of a distant relative amongst his own plumage?
And just like that, the last detail of Cara’s plan dropped into place. She just hoped it dovetailed with whatever Nate was formulating.
hey returned to Mayfair and fell into an exhausted sleep, only rising late in the afternoon. Nate excused himself to lay his plans while Cara drew Amy and Rachel into the parlour to reveal hers. Amy squealed at having a key role while the frown on Rachel’s face implied she doubted it would work.
“We have to try,” Cara said. “I’m relying on you two.” With that, she left them to their task and headed outside to find Kirill.
The high brick walls around the garden hid him from the view of the outside world, but there was still plenty of staff loitering on the back steps, slack-jawed, watching the creature play. Loyalty to Nate bought silence about most things, but a dragon cavorting in the snow sorely tested their bonds.
An internal clock ticked in Cara’s chest as she counted the remaining moments before the world learned of Kirill and Victoria called them to account for their actions. Would she demand Kirill be chained in the tower as the monarch’s pet, or could they persuade her to let him remain free? Yet another worry added to the now constant roiling in her gut.
“He ate a whole hogget this morning,” the chef said from beside her. “Is that normal?”
Cara shook her head as Kirill raced around trees carrying a stick in his mouth. “I really have no idea. Let’s assume it is.”
“Better order up some more, then. Don’t want him going hungry and eyeing up the boot boy.” The chef wiped his hands on his apron and headed back down the stairs to his domain.
Reassured that Kirill was happy playing, Cara retreated to her study and the ancient books stolen from the Curator. She scoured them for any mentions of the rahab and Moseh’s staff, and lost track of time until Nate returned and drew her from the tiring work. Night fell early and by five o’clock, pitch black lay over the city. Thick cloud obscured the moon, and they passed the next few hours cloistered inside, keeping the parlour bright and light, and playing charades to amuse Rachel. She pouted about being sent off to bed and missing all the evening’s fun, and was only placated by Cara’s promise of having Kirill for company.
Cara gave the dragon a stern lecture about also being shut in for the night. She had no idea how much he understood, but he curled up on the knotted rug in front of Rachel’s fireplace and dropped his head to his paws.
Downstairs, she climbed into the carriage and tucked the fur-lined blanket over her knees. The side dipped as Nate took the seat next to her, and Brick’s weight pulled it over on a sharp angle as he clamoured to the top seat next to the driver. They trotted along frozen deserted roads. Even the bobtails abandoned street corners to seek clients in much warmer pubs and coffee houses.
“To think he did all this just to be young again,” she said, her gaze fixed on the crystalline view outside.
“More than just youth,” Nate replied. “He seeks power. And you.”
She didn’t want to be reminded of that. The Curator dangled the lure of unlocking her past, but her curiosity baulked and finally encountered a secret it didn’t need to know. She wanted her life with Nate and wouldn’t chase sprites with Csenger. He sought to trap her while Nate liberated her. There was no comparison between the two men, only one of them understood that to hold her, he had to value her freedom.
The carriage halted on the road, a good fifty feet from the Thames but with a clear line of sight to the jetty running away from the stout house. Nate didn’t need to ask Cara to stay in the carriage, she wasn’t budging. At least this way, if the rahab reached out for her, it would get everybody, and she wouldn’t wake up alone again.
They didn’t have long to wait before a strange procession headed onto the solid Thames. The Curator wore his robe covered in arcane symbols. Even without the moonlight, the silver embroidery glowed as though alive. The runes shifted and writhed over the fabric as he walked, reforming themselves into different configurations. The grey drones followed behind Csenger, Cara counted thirty of them fanned out along the shore.
He stood on the end of the pier, the carved staff in his hand. He raised it high, to the murky heavens, and the signs on his robe converged around his shoulders.
“I’m guessing his robe is also some form of artifact,” Cara said.
“One problem at a time,” Nate replied.
The clouds parted, and a small shaft of moonlight lit the old noble as he slammed the staff down on the timbers at his feet. As the end touched the wood, a boom like distant thunder echoed across London and a visible pulse radiated out from the spot and rippled over the ice. The carriage rocked on its axles and then settled.
Seconds ticked by, and just as Cara thought it hadn’t worked, a now familiar crack made her cringe. From under Tower Bridge to the jetty, a split raced toward the Curator. It stopped twenty feet from where he stood and erupted upward in the same waterspout that grabbed her. Cara clapped her hands over her ears as the ice shattered with the intensity of cannon fire. Formed of water and crystals, the rahab towered over its master, screaming like a banshee.
Lights winked on around London as the ungodly scream woke the citizens, and people rushed to their windows to see what happened.
“Londoners will think hell has finally opened, I imagine there will be a mass exodus by morning,” Cara yelled over the commotion.
The Curator raised the staff and shook it at the beast. The rahab opened its mouth to show icicle teeth over a foot long as it shrieked and dove. As the demon swept past, it racked long claws over the ice, splitting the Thames open in raw gashes hundreds of feet long. Water bubbled up like arterial blood.
Over and over, Csenger raised the staff and drove it to the pier. Each time, a thunderclap washed over the city; and in response, the rahab screamed a high-pitched cry that frayed nerve endings. It dove to the Thames, thrashing and clawing as though engaged in a mortal battle to defeat the expanse of the river.
As time passed, it seemed to weaken and its cry grew hoarse. Then it rose up and turned
its head to the men on the shore and breathed inward. It rained in reverse as droplets sprang from the men and flowed to the demon. It sucked in the water, and undulated and swelled with each tiny morsel it feasted upon. When the last drop passed its jaws, it snapped them shut. With the spell broken, the men fell to the ground like pins struck by a bowling ball.
The Curator raised the staff again and banged it down. This time, instead of thunder, a flash of lightning shot along the ground. The rahab pulled back and reared up, and then split apart. Millions of water crystals and slivers of ice danced over the Thames in the silver moonlight.
“So beautiful,” Cara whispered into the unexpected silence.
A complicated ballet took place high in the sky and then the pieces twirled together over and over, creating a maelstrom. The storm exploded and scattered tiny luminescent shards over the Thames. From the centre, emerged a dragon in the shifting greens of deep ice as the rahab took a physical form instead of being shrouded in water. Long and sleek with a sinuous spine, it had elaborate ruffles around its neck. Each foot ended in an icicle talon, and the tail glinted razor sharp. Paper-thin wings showed the moon behind them as they spread wide, and it shot up toward the stars. Then the rahab screamed its rage at its master, and folding the wings against its sides, dove straight at the Curator.
Cara held her breath, sure Nate was about to be cheated out of his revenge when the demon shredded Csenger all over Southwark. The creature closed the gap to only a matter of feet and extended its claws… but instead of attacking, it melted into the wood of its prison as it touched the staff.
The Curator slumped against the walking stick, and the strange runes drifted down to the bottom of his robe.
“We should kill him now, while he’s vulnerable,” Nate said as his hand reached for the door handle.
Cara placed her hand over his. “We have to know it worked, first. What if you kill him and the winter remains over London?”
