by Anne Renwick
Then it would be time for him to plan his escape.
Watson blinked, curled up into a ball, and rolled toward Olivia.
“Eeee,” Wei screeched, rushing down the stairs. “Count. He outside! Many, many guardsmen here. Mill surrounded!”
Ian swore under his breath. “Go upstairs,” he ordered Wei, drawing the knife he’d stolen from Katherine. “Hide beneath empty grain sacks. Go with her, Olivia. Call for backup into that acousticotransmitter.”
“Not an option.” She held up the device. The green light that had glowed so readily just hours ago was faint and pulsing. Nearly dead.
What good was Black if he could not rescue a single, solitary woman waving a beacon inside a two-hour time frame?
“Go!” he yelled. “Grab your reticule and hide!”
“I won’t—”
“You’re not a spy,” he snapped. “Do as I say.”
Clutching her reticule, Olivia ran up the steps, and not a moment too soon.
Ian drew his blade as the door slammed open. Five guardsmen surrounded him, all pointing knives in his direction.
He froze.
Zheng strode through the door, chin held high. He examined the water-wheel generator and the wine-barrel solenoid without the slightest sign of interest, then turned his steely gaze upon Ian. “A dagger,” he commented. “Of Russian make and model. Curious.” His voice was scornful. “Drop it. Kick it away.”
“His allegiances are immaterial.” Count Eberwin strode through the door. “Let him keep it.” The count’s eyes locked with Ian’s. “But if he makes one move, kill him.”
“A bad idea,” Ian said. “For I’ve discovered the method by which the osteoblastoma—the bone cancer—can be cured.” More than a few feet shifted uncertainly. A number of guardsmen possessing obvious tumor growths upon their mandibles appeared to understand English. Might his announcement cause dissension among the ranks?
Good.
Out of the corner of his eyes—for he didn’t dare move an inch—Ian watched as the count circled the room, examining the generator, the solenoid. He stopped before Ian. “So. Does it work, this device?”
“Electromagnet,” Ian corrected. “Yes, it does. With a carefully controlled dosage of arsenic and repeated exposure to the magnetic field, I believe most of your guardsmen can be cured.”
“Arsenic? That is a poison, not a cure.”
“In small doses…” Ian explained how he’d untangled Warrick’s remedy.
“Progress at last. Though you defied my direct orders.” The count waved his hand. “However, with Doktor Warrick’s demise, I must alter my plans to remove your head from its shoulders.”
“Against my advice,” Zheng added.
“A stay of execution, if you will. Which brings us to the matter of my missing wife.” The count looked at Ian, shaking his head. “Who, I am told, is Russian.” He curled his lip. “Russians. Always the Russians causing trouble. I go through great effort to marry a British noblewoman with a dowry of the most interesting pteryformes and what do I get? A Russian pretending to be one.”
“Countess Katherine?” Ian asked, feigning innocence. “I’ve met her family, spoken with her father…” All true. He too had been deceived. Deceived, in fact, by nearly everyone in his life.
“A house in London. A manor in the countryside. A whole host of family and friends to complete the façade.” The count pointed a finger at him. “Your country, it is infiltrated with any number of spies. But I digress. Russians. We were speaking of them.”
Ian held his tongue.
“No?” The count narrowed his eyes. “You have nothing to add? Zheng informs me Warrick and my wife were about to abscond with my cells. You too, perhaps, had travel plans?”
“I’ve no intention of traveling to Russia,” Ian said.
“Good. Now. On to the next item. The osforare apparatus is missing. Where is it?” The count fell silent, waiting for an answer.
When Ian did not provide one, the count’s gaze turned predatory. “No ready answer? Do you know where it is? Or are you too surprised to learn of its disappearance? For the countess, before her disappearance, mentioned something disturbing about your wife.”
Icy fingers walked up Ian’s spine, vertebrae by vertebrae.
“It took me some time to place the name.” The count clasped his hands behind his back. “You neglected to inform me that she is a member of the Ravensdale family.”
“My wife’s maiden name is Stonewythe,” Ian insisted.
“Lies!” the count bellowed. “She is a British spy.” His nostrils flared. “Everywhere I turn, betrayal. So, tell me, did you escort a British spy into my home?”
“No.” He’d escorted a would-be spy.
Zheng finished searching the ground floor of the mill. “Not here,” he said and placed a foot on the first stair, but the count lifted a hand. Zheng paused.
“Will Zheng find Lady Olivia Ravensdale upstairs?” An unspoken threat hung in the air.
Ian stared back at the count, hoping she had ignored his instructions to hide. He hoped she and Wei had found a way to slip unnoticed from the mill house. He prayed that even now, Black hustled Olivia away into the distance, leaving a trail impossible to follow.
“No answer?” The count’s eyes bulged.
“She is not a spy,” Ian ground out. “Ladies of the ton do not function as spies.” They worked as societal liaisons. Though a ghastly marital arrangement, it was at least voluntary.
“Forgive me if I do not take your word.” He waved at Zheng. “Search upstairs!”
“No need,” Olivia said.
Heads swiveled. Ian’s heart stopped. She stood at the top of the stairs, back straight and head held high. Air rushed from his lungs, his alveoli collapsing, one after the other, even as his heart pounded, demanding more oxygen.
“I have what you’re looking for right here.” Olivia lifted her reticule. A guardsman quickly relieved her of the burden.
The count sketched a courtly bow. “Lady Olivia Ravensdale.”
She curtsied. “Finding our guardsmen asleep at their post and the rest of the castle seemingly under a sleeping spell, we brought it with us, following a lead Warrick provided before his untimely end.” She waved a hand at the solenoid. “If you have been betrayed, it was not by me or my husband.”
The guardsman holding her reticule drew forth the bundle and unwrapped it carefully, revealing the osforare apparatus.
The count’s expression softened. “As I’ve yet to find evidence of your betrayal, I will hold my judgment in abeyance.” He crooked a finger. “Come here.”
Olivia’s gaze flickered to Ian’s. He wanted her nowhere near the count, but there was little choice. Given the black mood of the man, any misstep could cost them their lives. No choice but to obey. He gave her a pained nod.
She crossed the room to stand before Count Eberwin. “Please, allow us to continue our work here. We will correct Warrick’s errors and heal your guardsmen. With the past behind us, we can move forward.”
The count stroked his beard. “The programming for the apparatus is complete?”
“I’ve made much progress,” she answered. “The punch card to heal a broken arm is complete.”
The count raised an eyebrow at Ian. “And the transformative reagent?”
“Nearly ready,” Ian hedged.
“Excellent.” The count turned back to Olivia and held out a hand. “I must insist we return to the castle until my wife is located.”
“But shouldn’t treatment begin immediately?” She glanced at Ian, at the guards who still surrounded him, blades at the ready.
“It should,” the count agreed. “Their time grows short. Your husband will see to things here. You have other uses.”
None of which Ian cared to contemplate. “My work will suffer without her assistance,” he protested.
“I doubt that very much, Lord Rathsburn. In fact, I will do all that is in my power to see that your work gathers speed
. Your hand, Lady Olivia,” the count insisted.
She placed shaking fingers upon the count’s outstretched palm.
In one smooth motion, the count gripped her elbow with his free hand at the same time bringing up his knee. There was a loud snap as her forearm broke across his thigh as if it were a mere twig.
Olivia’s scream of pain tore through Ian’s chest, making his blood run cold.
“No!” Ian lunged. Hands grabbed him from all angles, restraining him. Knives pressed into his flesh and warm blood trickled down his neck.
Cradling her broken arm, Olivia collapsed to the ground, keening and white-faced.
Ian’s heart pounded, every muscle tensed—every fiber of his being needed to be at her side, but no matter how he struggled, there was no escaping the five men who held him fast.
Zheng plucked the dagger from his hand.
As Olivia’s sobs faded to pained whimpers, the count addressed Ian. “You will prove your loyalty and your ability. Prepare your potion. I will hold the apparatus.” His lips stretched into a predatory smile. “You may treat your wife’s broken arm the way you once planned to treat those of British spies—or you will not treat her at all.”
“She needs immediate medical care,” Ian pleaded, ready to do anything the count asked of him if it would save her. Olivia’s anguished cries had flayed him raw. “The bones, they need to be set.”
“Then you had best work fast.” The count snapped his fingers. “Bring her.”
Chapter Thirty-Two
OLIVIA DREAMED THAT tiny, monstrous spiders clawed from inside her arm, inside the bone itself, desperately trying to dig their way free. She twisted against the weight of the sheets above her, resenting their efforts to bind her to the cloud-soft mattress below. A pea soup fog wrapped about her mind, refusing to retreat no matter how she batted at it. But she needed to get up, needed to focus, needed to flee.
“No, no. Please don’t move,” a familiar voice penetrated the haze. A gentle hand pressed down upon her shoulder. “You’ll only make it worse. Trust me, I know.”
Elizabeth.
With great effort, Olivia pried open her leaden eyelids. The room swam and she struggled to focus. She was in the turret room. Lying on Elizabeth’s bed. Behind the bars.
Elizabeth bent over her, pressing the rim of a glass bottle to her lips. “Here. Take a bit more.”
“No.” She pushed away the laudanum with the one arm that didn’t pulse with pain. Her other arm lay at her side, bound to a wooden slat with strips of white cloth. Its position wasn’t quite natural. “Tell me. What happened?”
“I set it as best I could while you were unconscious from the pain,” Elizabeth said. “Not an uncommon reaction, particularly with multiple breaks.”
“Multiple?”
“There are two bones in your forearm, the radius and the ulna. Both are broken. I was told that Ian would be along later to see to your arm, but it’s been several hours…”
Olivia turned her head on the pillow. An oil lamp burned on the bedside table. The light shining through the window carried an orange cast to it. Sunset. An entire day, lost.
Time was passing quickly, too quickly, and she was helpless to assist. She pressed her good hand to her chest. Not entirely helpless, then. She wore a dressing robe, but only her outer gown had been removed. She still wore her corset.
Perhaps, when the pain faded a bit…
“I’m certain Ian will arrive soon,” Elizabeth reassured her with forced optimism as she drew a chair up beside the bed. “As to how it was broken, I was hoping you would tell me.”
“The count…” Olivia began, watching Elizabeth’s eyes grow ever wider as she recounted recent events. A tale of Russians, arsenic and a three phase generator.
“Warrick is dead by Zheng’s hand?” Shock and relief washed over Elizabeth’s face.
Olivia nodded, happy to finally offer her a small comfort, but the very motion sent pain throbbing through her arm. No more moving.
“I can be cured?” There was amazement in Elizabeth’s voice.
“Yes,” Olivia said. Presuming the count allowed it.
“John intended to keep me bound to him.” Elizabeth frowned. “A never-ending cycle. A bone breaks, he transplants new cells, and when I have healed—presumably before bone cancer develops—a dose of arsenic and time in his magnetic tube to eliminate any rogue cells.”
“Such is my understanding,” Olivia said. “Though Ian would take me to task for leaving out the details.”
A brief smile crossed Elizabeth’s face. “A tale that brings us back to your broken arm. The count is a violent man, but there is usually method to his madness. Why break it?”
“For spite. Because he believes me to be a spy.” To think she’d once viewed this all as a grand adventure. “Because he wishes to force Ian to deploy the osforare apparatus using his transformative reagent. Unlike Warrick’s cells, Ian’s solution directly transforms the osteoblasts, the mature cells that build bone. These cells do not divide or migrate about. They will stay in place, focusing solely upon their task. Then they die. No bone cancer will develop.”
If they worked as designed. No human trials had been conducted. But the rats he’d studied, well, they’d been fine. Small comfort that.
The procedure involved was at the forefront of her mind. The osforare apparatus with its one hundred needles was a device best described as one of torture—and she knew precisely how it functioned.
She closed her eyes as the room swam, focusing on the tiny, monstrous spiders that had resumed their escape attempt, and told herself the procedure couldn’t be any worse that what she already endured.
“So you are?” Elizabeth asked in a hushed voice. “A spy?”
No. “Not really,” she whispered. Not the kind they required. Not the kind with technologies and weapons and an endless knowledge of how to evade detection and capture. Obviously.
But Ian, he was. Or he had been.
A thought floated to mind. “Is Steam Matilda here?”
“Yes,” Elizabeth answered.
“Talk to her,” Olivia breathed. “Whisper into her ear everything that has happened—will happen—to me. Tell her of your procedure and of anything that has changed since.”
“Why?”
But she couldn’t answer. The room spun again as a wave of pain overtook her arm. Far more than bone felt damaged. There were any number of muscle, nerve and blood vessels inside that could have torn.
Elizabeth bent over her once more, again urging Olivia to sip from the bottle of laudanum. This time she didn’t argue.
~~~
Olivia wasn’t sure how much time passed before a cool breeze blew into their cell, but she recognized the lilting voice and the patter of feet. “Wei,” she whispered and pried open her eyes.
The girl stared through the bars with wide, worried eyes. “This bad. Very bad. Watson delivered your message to Black. Then returned.”
“Black?” Elizabeth asked.
“His name is Mr. Black. He’s a real spy,” Olivia said. While speaking into the acousticotransmitter, she’d told him about their flight plan. When the transmitter’s battery failed, when the count had stormed the mill, they’d lowered Watson from a window to the cobblestone street, sending him to intercept Mr. Black.
At the time, her broken arm was an unforeseen complication.
Wei frowned. “We have problem. Black says Russian airship sailing in our direction. They maybe come for countess. Black says no waiting. We need to leave. Tomorrow night at full dark.”
“Tomorrow?” Olivia jerked in alarm, sending starbursts of pain through her bad arm. It was too soon. They would have no choice but to risk pitting gypsy evasive maneuvers against the count’s overhead tracking techniques. She did not like their odds.
“I have wings, but with broken arm, you cannot fly.” Wei shook her head. “Black hear most of what count do through other transmitter.”
“Other transmitter?” Elizabeth as
ked.
“In Steam Matilda, in her ear. I installed it a few days ago so that no one would find it.”
“I spoke to her as you instructed, Olivia.” Elizabeth looked impressed. “So, at the moment you cannot fly. Let’s hide the wings, nonetheless. My brother’s contraption may yet solve our problems. We need to be ready for any opportunities that present themselves. Whenever they may occur. Push the wings through the bars.”
After stashing one set of wings beneath the bed, Elizabeth strapped the second set of wings onto her back and turned toward Wei. “Teach me.”
Olivia watched the gliding lesson, such as one could take place, what with Elizabeth able to leap off nothing taller than the bedside chair. Many steps Wei made look effortless, but were in fact quite complicated. Strapping the wings to the wrist, locking the struts, techniques for catching the air, turning, spiraling and very, very explicit instructions as to how to land.
Her head swam with the complexity of it all.
Elizabeth sighed as she took off the second set of wings and slid them beneath the bed. “Gliding sounds grand.”
“Wei, can your nightingale carry messages?” Olivia asked.
“Tiny ones. Wrap on ankle.” She pulled the bird from inside her padded jacket, demonstrating how to attach a thin strip of paper.
“Send word when the acousticotransmitter in Steam Matilda dies,” Olivia said. “The battery. Only a few hours of power are left. Soon your bird will be our only way to communicate.”
Wei nodded and tucked the bird away.
Sounds of an argument filtered through the door. Several men drew near. Olivia’s stomach twisted into a hard knot. It seemed a potentially historic moment of scientific experimentation approached.
Darting for the window, Wei hung from the ledge only long enough to slide her arms into the wrist straps of her wings and close the window. There was a flash of canvas and wood, and the girl was gone.
The door opened and Zheng strode inside. Without comment, he crossed to their cell and unlocked the barred door, swinging it wide. Ian stepped into the turret room, bearing a tarnished, silver tea tray. On its surface rested a number of small bottles, cotton swabs, a syringe filled with a strange reddish fluid and the osforare apparatus, its needles gleaming like eager teeth in the lamp light. It looked hungry. Overly eager to bite into flesh and blood.
