The Lady in the Coppergate Tower

by Nancy Campbell Allen

  “I am afraid,” she whispered, hating that she felt it so keenly, hating to admit it aloud. “I am afraid.”

  He extended his hands to her, and she scooted over to him, still on the floor. She pulled her knees up and hugged them tightly. He wrapped his arms around her, smoothing her hair, and she rested her head against his shoulder.

  “What am I going to do?”

  “Do not fret, love. I will help you. Yes?”

  She nodded, bumping her head against his chin. “Yes.” She paused, her eyes burning with tears. “I am so sorry.” She caught her breath on a sob. “Sam, I am so very sorry! What have I led you into?”

  “Shh, none of that. I’m not sorry, not in the least. I would choose to be here with you, again and again. No apologies.”

  “But this is a disaster. I may never sleep peacefully again without having to share my brain with a madwoman!”

  She felt him smile, but still knew exactly how his face would look. “We’ll reach her soon, and then help her. When that happens, she’ll no longer need to see the world through your eyes.”

  “I am simply not going to sleep. I will remain awake until we reach her.”

  “As your physician, I advise against that course of action.”

  “Sleeplessness cannot possibly be worse than this.”

  “Believe me when I say it is. I’ve seen soldiers go for days on end without sleep. I cannot recommend it in good conscience.”

  She felt a smile creep up, which surprised her. She’d been convinced only one minute before that she’d never smile again. “I suppose I shall devise another plan, then.”

  “That is a much better idea.” He slowly, softly brushed her hair away from her eyes and rubbed his thumb against her temple.

  She was becoming warmer by degrees, and she wrapped her arm around his. His muscle was firm beneath her fingertips, solid, smooth, and secure. She closed her eyes and placed a kiss on his arm, hoping he didn’t feel it but knowing she would expire if she didn’t do it.

  She loved him with her whole heart. She always had. She didn’t know the extent of his affections, if he would ever think of her as more than a cherished friend, but while he held her close and smoothed her hair, she could pretend. She sighed, and despite everything, wished she could remain in that moment forever.

  He seemed content to indulge her unspoken wish, but she knew he was probably sore from sitting so long on the floor. She slowly lifted her head and offered him a tremulous smile. He was so close, his mouth inches from her temple, and she held her breath, wondering if he would place a kiss there in return for the one she’d given him.

  He looked at her for some time, and then finally, as if having made a decision, shifted the slightest bit. “Not when you’re vulnerable.” He whispered it so softly she wasn’t certain she’d understood.

  He stood with a small grunt, putting his hand at the small of his back as he stretched. She took his offered hand and quietly left the Control Room with him, grateful when he encircled her again with his arm to chase away the chill. She shook her head when he indicated the lift, and they climbed the stairs instead. She didn’t want the noise of the lift to alert any more ’tons. She didn’t want to contemplate the number that may have seen her running through the halls, out of her head.

  Sam walked into her cabin, made a cursory check of the water closet and of the adjoining room, where Sally slept and Eugene kept a faithful vigil. He urged her to bed and tucked the covers around her as one would a child.

  “I’ll sit here until you sleep again.” He indicated the chairs by the hearth, which were comfortable, but not for sleep.

  “Sam, no. I am fine now. You go back to your bed. You’re the one who provided a lecture on the evils of sleep deprivation.”

  “Did I forget to mention those rules apply to everyone but me?” He paused, then kissed his fingertip and touched it to her nose. “Close your eyes.”

  “I—”

  “Hazel. Go to sleep. Should I need to stretch out, this carpet is thicker than most cots I slept on in the military.”

  He sat in one of the chairs and leaned back, his long legs stretched in front of him.

  Now that she was lucid, she was mortified. “Sam, please—”

  “Hazel, I’ll not say it again. As your doctor, I am ordering you to sleep.”

  Her lips twitched. “You cannot do that.”

  “I can and I am. Not another word out of you.”

  She decided to save her breath. She turned to her side, facing him, and pulled the duvet close under her chin. If she hadn’t loved him already, by now she was well and truly sunk.

  Her eyes drifted closed, and she felt her body relax. Bless all things holy, Marit must have also gone to sleep. Perhaps she would get a few hours’ rest before breakfast.

  When she awoke later, she checked her watch. She’d overslept by an hour, and her head ached. She needed some tea. When she sat up, she noted the empty chair in the sitting area. She smiled. Her protector had stayed long enough to see that she was resting peacefully.

  On the nightstand to her left sat a cup and saucer, tendrils of heat rising from it. She felt tears threaten as she carefully lifted the cup to her nose. Her favorite breakfast tea, steeped to her preference, and contained in her favorite teacup from the clinic. It was ivory china with delicate yellow flowers and twisting green vines, and she wondered if by some miracle, the Magellan carried the same pattern she happened to love.

  She took a sip and closed her eyes in bliss before looking carefully at the rim near the handle. There was a tiny chip, so small as to be invisible at first glance. No, this was her cup, which meant Sam must have packed it for her, just in case.

  She indulged herself in the softness of the bed and the warmth of the tea for a few luxurious minutes before facing the day.

  It was time to make a plan.

  Hazel climbed the staircase to the top level of the Magellan to beard the lion in his lair. The Magellan would reach Romania soon, and Hazel had decided she would not travel one foot in any direction other than home without some answers from her uncle.

  She had been stewing over Marit’s welfare, convinced her sister was being held captive, and she wanted confirmation from the count. Though she still believed he might be a vampire, she wasn’t concerned for her safety. Dravor had specific reasons for taking her to Marit, and he couldn’t hurt her until his purposes—whatever they were—had been accomplished.

  In addition to her concerns for Marit, the issue of Sally’s “accident” and continued unconscious state, not to mention the bruising on her neck, had not yet been addressed. She did not trust Renton and wanted Sally to confirm his identity as the man who had caused, even inadvertently, her injury.

  She was exhausted from a night filled with cries for help echoing through her head, and then an unexpected adventure to the Control Room. Even now she felt trapped, as though she were also locked away, unable to get out or speak to anyone. Stirrings of desperation flitted in and out of her thoughts, and she fought to remain calm. Panicked, racing heartbeats struck intermittently without warning, accompanied by waves of horror.

  She paused at Dravor’s study door, nerves stretched taut. She wanted to speak to him without anyone else around. Sam was big and protective, and his hostility toward their host was thinly veiled, if at all. She wanted Dravor’s unfettered comments and would judge for herself if he was telling her the truth.

  Besides, between bouts of possible insanity, she was all aflutter after her embrace and almost-kiss with Sam the night before. She’d told Sam she needed some time alone in her suite this morning, and when he’d headed for the infirmary, she’d made a beeline for the stairs.

  She knocked firmly on her uncle’s study door. She heard nothing inside, but she knew Dravor often worked there after breakfast.

  Deciding Dravor had lied or was otherwise detaine
d elsewhere, she turned to go. Then the door opened, and her uncle stood at the threshold, brows raised in surprise.

  “Hazel?”

  She swallowed and turned back on her heel. It wasn’t difficult to pretend she was nervous. She wanted him to believe he had the upper hand with her, always—and frankly, he did—because she knew any civil relationship with him depended on her ability to keep her hostility and mistrust hidden.

  “Have you time for a word with me?” She folded her hands in front of her though she felt the urge to wring them and pace. Nervousness was one thing, but she needn’t show abject fear. She did have her pride, after all.

  His smile transformed his face, and she noted again the handsome visage that should have been welcoming, but it was as though something skeletal and rotted shifted beneath the surface. Her heart hammered in her chest. Before she could decide if her eyes were playing tricks, his appearance was normal—nothing out of the ordinary.

  “Certainly! I always have time for you. Please, come in.” He stepped back and held the door open as she entered.

  She’d caught the barest glimpse of the room from the tour he’d given her and Sam initially. She took in the details now, with an interest she hadn’t expected. The room was large, richer in tone than the rest of the Magellan, and aesthetically beautiful. She guessed the wood paneling and rafters to be combinations of cherry and oak, and a large desk situated on the opposite wall was a substantial piece of mahogany. A smaller side table sat in a comfortable seating area in the right corner, flanked by two chairs. The room itself was dim until Dravor turned the knobs on a few elegant sconces and lamps.

  To her left, built-in shelving housed items that showcased the count’s widely traveled past. A small item caught her eye, and she moved to the shelf, delighted in spite of herself. “This is an ancient American totem! Isla has one, but I suspect hers is a newer replica. This one appears quite old.” She looked at Dravor, who watched her with satisfaction.

  “I procured that piece last year in Port Lucy. I am quite proud of it, I do not mind admitting. I’ve searched for years to find it, tracking it from the American states. How it found itself in a small voodoo shop on the isles is anyone’s guess.”

  She looked in wonder at the rest of the collection, noting extremely old statuary, bits and pieces of broken medallions, and artifacts representing a multitude of cultures.

  “You recognize many of these items, I presume?” he asked, standing just behind her.

  She jumped at his unexpected nearness and glanced at him, forcing a smile. “I do. I read voraciously, and histories of cultures and peoples specifically hold my interest.” She paused and looked back at the shelves. “These are very old. I daresay many are original.”

  He nodded.

  She waited, but he didn’t elaborate, and the silence between them stretched. Rather than ask why such items were in an obscure nobleman’s personal collection rather than in a museum where all could admire them, she opted for a benign observation instead.

  “You must derive great pleasure in owning them. I cannot imagine a student of history or the arts who would not wish to see them.” She paused and confessed, “I am in awe. They’re beautiful.”

  He smiled and indicated a chair in the seating area. She took it as he went to a small mahogany bar near his desk. “A drink? Something mild—grape juice, perhaps?”

  “That would be lovely, thank you.”

  He poured two glasses of light liquid and offered her one before taking the other chair. “From the purest white grapes on earth. I own a small vineyard in Italy. We shall visit sometime, if you like.”

  The words should have been lovely and full of warmth. Yet every time he said something socially appropriate that, coming from anyone else, would have sounded normal, she felt something was off, like dissonant notes in her ear. The utter lack of emotion in his voice when he spoke was the most chilling part of all. He smiled, he laughed, his voice paused in all the right places, rose and fell depending on the sentiment behind the statement—there just was no sentiment behind the statement. As much as she looked, intentionally watched for it, she knew he did not care about her welfare for her sake. He wanted her for some purpose she had yet to divine.

  She was struck with a sudden pang of yearning, a wish that he would have filled the gap that she had always felt when she watched other people’s interactions with their fathers. Her interests overlapped Dravor’s; the things they had in common should have brought them closer together, but she found herself unable to make a connection with him.

  Why could he not have simply been what he claimed? She would give the world for a father like him, and yet, she knew to her soul he was not all he seemed. Perhaps she was truly going mad after all. When she looked at him now, she saw nothing out of the ordinary, certainly not skull bones or decaying flesh.

  She sipped the juice, which was light, crisp, and sweet. She clasped the glass with two hands in her lap while her uncle took a drink and then settled likewise.

  “Now, Hazel, dearest. How may I be of service to you?”

  She took a quiet breath and steadied her nerves. “I am worried about Marit.”

  He wrinkled his forehead but then smoothed it again. “Why is that? You have concerns beyond the things I’ve told you?”

  “But therein lies the problem. You’ve told me very little about her, and if there is something I can do, something to learn or study that might help her when we arrive, I would very much like to do that.” She dared not tell him Marit had been visiting her, that she felt her presence more keenly with each mile that brought them closer together. She didn’t want Dravor monitoring her sleep, hoping to witness one of Marit’s “dreaming visits.”

  He watched her carefully before saying, “Your sister suffers from delusions, I fear. She seems to have lost her grasp of reality. She paces; she mutters nonsense.” He lifted his shoulders. “I am at a loss. Short of institutionalizing her, I do not know how to help her.”

  She was impressed he’d finally told her the truth. “I see. I’ll use your library to research illnesses of the mind—I believe I saw a volume or two on the subject.” She paused. “Is she— Is Marit . . . Does she live with you in your home?”

  “Oh, yes. Her entire life. I’ve provided her with every comfort, have seen to her every need.” He frowned, affecting a look of concern. “That I have been unable to help her has troubled me greatly.”

  “You said it seems she has lost her grasp of reality. Does that mean she once possessed it? Was she clearheaded before and only now exhibiting signs of illness?”

  He nodded. “The changes began just over a year ago.”

  She filed the information away for later use. Perhaps something had happened a year ago, perhaps not. She needed to think, to make some notes. “One more issue troubles me. I am concerned about my maid, Sally.”

  “Ah. The poor girl. I am concerned she remains unresponsive.” His brows drew together. “Naturally, I am ultimately responsible for her welfare, and when we surface, I shall telegraph her mother to see if she would like Sally returned home.”

  “In an unconscious state?”

  “My dear, if she does not awaken, there is little anyone can do for her. She may as well be with loved ones.”

  Hazel’s fingers tightened on her glass. “I would very much like to know who hurt her.”

  He tipped his head. “Whom do you suppose would have reason?”

  “Perhaps someone who found her attractive? Or easy prey?” Did she dare name Renton as the man she suspected?

  “I ought to have considered it earlier, but there may have been ’tons that day who were in close proximity and recorded the events. Perhaps we might glean information from those records. It will take some time, but I’ll instruct the Tesla Room operators to begin preliminary work.” He paused. “Will that be to your satisfaction?”

  She nodde
d. “And to yours, I hope. I am certain you wish to solve this mystery, eradicate any danger, as quickly as possible.”

  “Of course. I do appreciate your concern for Miss Tucker. You’re kind to show such attention for a servant.” He took another swallow of his juice, watching her over the rim of his glass.

  She was able to twitch a smile, barely. “My life has not been so different from hers.”

  He nodded gravely. “I cannot tell you how it pains me that so much time was lost before I found you. You’ve been noble since birth, yet have been forced to live well below your station.”

  “My life has been a good one. Rewarding and filled with love. My mother worked diligently so I might go to school and acquire skills.”

  He watched her for a moment before smiling and lifting his glass. “Indeed. To Rowena Hughes.”

  A chill chased down Hazel’s arms. “To Rowena.” She sipped her juice and then changed the subject. “Tell me what brings you the most joy in your collections.” She indicated the shelves across the room.

  He took a breath and released a sigh. “Hazel, you are of magick blood. Thus, you know there are elements of life bound in earthly science and other matters that take on an ethereal quality. Some might define them as ‘unexplainable.’”

  She nodded. “I’ve found most people tolerate the idea of magick, even while wary of the power behind it.”

  “That power is as real as the gravity that anchors us to the ground, or the air we breathe.”

  “Yes.”

  “Has it been your experience that magick can tie itself to physical objects? That whether by natural means or spells commanded by a gifted witch—Light or Dark—earthly items can absorb and contain a power of their own?”

  She glanced at her gold chain encircling her wrist.

  “Exactly.” His voice rose in conviction. “That is exactly my meaning. Your mother charmed that length of gold, and through it, gifted you with an affinity to gold in general.” He placed his glass on the side table and leaned forward. “That simple piece of jewelry”—he pointed at her bracelet—“has become a physical manifestation of magick.” He sat back in his chair. “Healing magick, I believe.”