Now it wasn’t that she hadn’t expected the attention. A large crowd of mostly older men had gathered around her in an instant, giving her no time even to change out of her costume. Not that she imagined they minded her being still in costume. She seriously needed food, and instead she was being offered glass after glass of champagne. One had been more than enough. Even just a couple sips had caused her head to feel light and fuzzy.
Food. Anything for food.
“Has anyone ever told you how stunning you are?” asked a pimply boy, the only guy who was around her age in the crowd.
“Yes.” Of course, she’d been told that. That’s all anyone ever told her.
The pimply boy laughed kind of like a donkey.
Someone else grabbed her elbow and wrenched her around to face him. By now all these men were starting to look alike, pasty, hair matted to their heads with sweat. The degree to which each man was old, fat, and drunk varied, but if any of them wasn’t in one of these conditions yet, there was no doubt that in a short time he would be. The man who had so violently assaulted her elbow was in the later stages of all three.
She jerked her arm free from his death grip and almost gave him a good smack across the face, but she knew that the Magician would definitely not approve of that. Well, he’d approve of her motivation, just not of her action.
“I’m going to find food,” she announced loudly, and pushed her way violently past the gross man.
Many hands attempted to stop her from leaving, making her feel hot and uncomfortable. She tried to flick them off with a shake, like when a horse shudders to get rid of a fly. There were too many of them. She pushed and pushed and finally was free of them all, practically running away from them. The laughter that followed her exit made her feel so angry and so . . . small . . . that when she turned the corner, she stopped and kicked the wall.
Why couldn’t she get used to that kind of attention? Sure she’d been pretty for forever, but this whole “guys coming up to her and even touching her” thing had only really started happening in the last two years. It was one thing to be a superstar onstage, but being so “popular” offstage still totally freaked her out. Her breathing always got shallow, her face hot.
Nellie stormed off to find the kitchen. She couldn’t make herself feel better, but she could make herself full. It was a maze downstairs, but eventually she found the huge room, which was full of chaos and wonderful, wonderful smells.
The cook didn’t seem to like her at first, probably because of the way she was dressed, but after a few quick minutes of conversation, Nellie won her over. The line about how the food had been so popular upstairs that she hadn’t gotten a chance to try it worked particularly well. In the end, she was begrudgingly given a Cornish pasty. It was better than nothing.
She wandered back out into the hall, inhaling the pasty, aware that she looked hardly ladylike. Then again, she wasn’t really a lady, now, was she? She turned a corner as she finished it, not really feeling full, but at least feeling better. The hall she was in was different from the one she’d been in before, narrow, low-ceilinged, poorly lit. Damn. She’d got turned around somehow.
She needed to get back upstairs soon. She didn’t want the Magician to worry, plus he’d promised she’d get to take a cab home, and she didn’t want to miss out on the chance. She turned back the way she’d come.
“Hello, there.”
Standing in her path was a footman, some young guy who looked like all the other footmen.
“Hiya,” replied Nellie, walking forward. He took a step to the side to block her way. Nice.
“Ain’t you pretty.”
Nellie sighed. “Uh, thanks.” She kept her eyes lowered.
“Tomorrow’s my day off.”
Nellie was starting to feel uncomfortable. It was creepy standing alone in a strange hallway with this guy. “Good for you.”
He took a step toward her, and she took a step back.
“Come to the pub with me.”
“No, thank you.”
“No?”
“I’m . . . busy tomorrow.”
The footman reached up to push a stray curl away from her cheek. It made her flinch. He started to laugh. “You scared of me?”
Yes. “No.”
He laughed some more. And took a step closer. Nellie found her back against the wall. How’d she get turned around like that? Her heart was racing, and she could feel herself start to panic. The footman could obviously sense this.
“Hey, just sayin’ you’re sweet. Ain’t nothin’ to be all fussed about.”
“I know. But could you back off?”
The footman smiled. “I think you like it.”
“I think I don’t.”
“I think you do.”
“No. I really don’t think she does,” said another voice. And then the footman got it—right across the kisser.
* * *
CORA HAD ESCAPED from the din of small talk by hastening down the servants’ staircase, much to her relief. Okay, sure, several servants she’d passed had given her some pretty filthy looks, but Cora really didn’t care. All that mattered was that she wasn’t upstairs anymore.
The downstairs was considerably larger than it was at Lord White’s, though probably that had something to do with a secret lab taking up most of the space at his place. She thought it was interesting, the difference between the atmospheres in homes. Even in the servants’ part of this house, there was a general air of superiority.
She’d made her way down the wide hall toward a narrower one that branched to the left when she heard voices. Normally she’d try to avoid any voices that were emanating from around corners, but there was a quality to this conversation, combined with a strange shuffling sound, that made Cora curious. She took a moment to steady herself and then turned the corner. One of the footmen had the Magician’s assistant backed up against the wall. The girl looked really scared. Who could blame her? What a sleaze.
Cora didn’t know why, but seeing this footman attempting to take advantage of the assistant made Cora’s blood boil.
“I know. But could you back off?” the assistant was saying.
“I think you like it,” replied the footman,
“I think I don’t.”
“I think you do.”
Cora approached the footman from behind. “No. I really don’t think she does.” He turned in surprise at the new voice, and she punched him in the face.
“Bugger and hell!” she said, holding on to her fist. She’d never punched anyone before, and prior to this moment, the concept that her hand might hurt as much as his face had not occurred to her.
The footman massaged his jaw for a second, looking at her in total shock. Cora backed off slightly as he walked toward her. Oh shit. Then he struck her, palm open, across her cheek. Now, that was a feeling she was very familiar with, from her days on the street.
“You arse!” This time he turned back to look at the assistant, who kneed him in the groin. Quite firmly. So firmly that he let out a high-pitched squeal, much like a mouse might do if it had been squashed underfoot. He doubled over.
Cora was about to express her gratitude when the Magician’s assistant kicked her leg up high and then brought her heel across the footman’s head, putting him out like a light. She stood over the body for a moment, then looked at Cora.
“I think maybe that wasn’t necessary,” the assistant said, biting her lower lip.
“Maybe.”
“When I get mad, I go a bit overboard.”
I know the feeling, thought Cora. She knelt down and examined the footman. He was still breathing, thank goodness. The heel of the assistant’s boot was a formidable weapon and could have gone clear through the man’s skull if applied with enough force. “That was an impressive kick.”
“Never used it for violence before. Normally just kick high in the show.”
“Yes, I saw that earlier. You’re very skilled.”
“Thank you.” The assistant s
miled broadly, brushing one of her blond curls from her forehead. “And thanks for the help.”
“Well, I hardly think my blow even bruised him.” Though her knuckles were still sore.
“You distracted him good and proper. Wouldn’t have had the confidence to do what I did without you takin’ charge like that.”
“Well . . . glad I could help, then.” Then she added, “I’m Cora Bell.” She extended her hand.
“Nellie Harrison,” replied the assistant, taking it firmly. Almost a little too firmly. She pumped Cora’s arm up and down with great enthusiasm, and though, yeah, it was a slightly painful experience, Cora liked her general level of energy. Having spent so much time with the upper classes, Cora had grown familiar with the accepted tradition of never demonstrating passion about anything. It was nice to meet someone so artless.
There was a moan, and they turned to look at the footman. He pushed himself up to his elbows and then noticed the two of them staring down at him.
“Get on with you!” ordered Cora, with an edge to her voice that she saved for such characters. The footman took to his feet like a newborn foal falling over himself. Once standing, he lumbered off down the hall.
The girls turned to each other again.
“It’s very nice to meet you,” said Cora.
“Likewise. And cheers for the rescue,” replied Nellie.
“My pleasure. Though I think you’d have done just fine without me.”
“Like I says before, not so sure about that.”
“Well, you’re welcome, again.” There was a slight awkwardness, the kind that always came when saying good-bye to someone one had just met. Ought one to be familiar, formal . . . they had just shook hands. Should Cora extend hers again? A little nod? Her thoughts were interrupted by:
“Say, how you gettin’ home?”
Oh. Well . . . “Probably with his lordship in his carriage. Though”—she thought of Lord White getting drunk in the library—“when that might be, God only knows.”
“I’m takin’ a steam cab,” Nellie announced. She said it with great pride, though Cora could hardly understand why.
“Well . . . that’s good.”
“You want to share it with me? Could drop you off at home.”
Cora was about to say no automatically when she realized that the suggestion was actually a good one. She’d be able to leave this horrible party, getting home at a fairly reasonable time. She might even be able to do a bit of reading, something that had become a luxury of late.
“That sounds like a very good idea, actually.”
“Wonderful!” Nellie linked her arm in hers. “We can get to know each other better, and the best part, of course, we’ll get to ride in a steam cab!”
“Uh, yes,” Cora replied as she led the two of them down the hall to the servants’ staircase. “How thrilling.”
11
The London Fog
“GO HOME, MICHIKO.”
Sit, Michiko. Beg, Michiko. Play dead, Michiko.
It hadn’t been her fault that everyone had wanted to speak with her after the show. Though it was pretty intimidating having all these people crowd around, talking loudly at her. A huge wall of sound. Well, maybe it was a bit her fault. But she’d just been doing her job, after all. Just doing the fights like they’d practiced. Her kata was the same one as always. Hadn’t Callum wanted this kind of attention? Watching him exchange cards with person after person was proof that his plan had worked. He ought to be thrilled.
“Go home, Michiko.” Blunt. To the point. A hiss in the ear.
He was drunk. Already. Pushing his way through the crowd, laughing loudly. Giving big hugs to some of the men.
“Now, aren’t I good teacher? If I can teach a Jap like her, I can teach anyone. Your wives, daughters, yourself.”
Again, she had no clue what he was talking about. Until: “Go home, Michiko.”
He handed her the satchel of weapons. More like threw it at her.
And that was that. Apparently he thought the best way for her to get home was to walk. Carrying all the weapons with her.
Well, she was fine with that. She was done with the loud, claustrophobic party. Besides, she could use the alone time, and it wasn’t that late anyway. She liked walking, and she had grown so used to lugging around the weapons that they were hardly a burden.
So she had left. Many people had tried to convince her to stay, but Callum had helped her to the front door. Had also slammed it shut behind her.
“Go home, Michiko.” How she wanted to. She missed Japan—the countryside, the food. Understanding what the hell people were saying.
As she started the long journey back to Callum’s, the air was damp, as it always was. The fog was thick. As it always was. London at night, Michiko had quickly learned, was nothing like London during the day. During the day, the streets were crowded, the city teemed with people, like maggots feeding on roadkill. But at night . . . at night the streets grew quiet. The fog unrolled itself over the Gothic towers, smothering the city in an eerie silence. The light from the streetlamps created halos in the white. Figures appeared and then vanished as if they’d never been at all. And you could find yourself walking right into a wall or the river if you weren’t careful.
Shadows would appear in the distance. Shadows that could be anything, that could tease the imagination.
Like the one looming before her now.
Michiko wasn’t scared of illusion, but still. She felt unnerved. She rarely felt unnerved without cause. She trusted her instincts. Something was off about this giant shadow.
She approached it carefully.
The giant shadow turned out to be a carriage. Motionless. No driver. The horses standing still, ears twitching as if they were waiting for something.
“Hello?” she called out. Her voice sounded loud in the empty street. One of the horses snorted at her. This wasn’t right; this was so many versions of what wasn’t right. She put down the weapons as softly as she could and pulled out the katana. Then, preparing it for use behind her back, she approached the carriage.
“Hello?” she said, more softly. She was close enough now that she could see that one of the doors was standing open, the dark purple window drapes pulled free at one side from their hooks. She took a few more steps and her foot accidentally kicked something. She looked as the something rolled a few feet then stopped. She leaned down to examine it more closely. On the ground staring up at her was the old, whiskered face of the man from the gala. The one who’d flown the mechanical bird around the room. His eyes were expressionless. His head . . . bodiless.
Michiko felt numb. She was staring at a head. A head. That looked to have been divorced from its body surprisingly cleanly. A very clean cut indeed. The arteries and cartilage severed as if sliced with scissors.
Then.
There it was.
The sound she’d been waiting for.
A footstep in the dark and fog.
She tightened her grip on the katana and spun, her opposite knee on the ground and her other leg stretched out to the side. She blocked the blade coming for her jugular. She rolled to one side and was instantly up on her feet. The blade of her assailant came fast and furious, and each time she parried an attack, she tried to get take a peek at the man she was fighting. All she caught a glimpse of was a bowler hat and a long dark trench coat.
And then her sword shattered. One piece flying up and embedding itself in her cheek.
Pain. Just a little.
And anger.
Damn you, Callum. Damn you for being so cheap.
And so stupid.
As the figure circled her like a lion examining its prey, Michiko cursed herself. Why hadn’t she just brought the Silver Heart with her tonight? If she had, its blade certainly would not be in pieces at her feet. Who cared what Callum thought? Even if he noticed the new sword, what would he do? Yell? Hit her a couple times when they got home? Nothing significant.
Now she was about to die.
/>
That was significant.
A samurai enters every duel expecting to die.
Another sign that she really wasn’t one. She had not expected this outcome. Well. If she was going to face death, she was going to do so with honor.
“Do it fast.” She fell to her knees and held her chin up high. She could see more of the figure now, a face hidden in shadow, but she could see he had a thick beard.
Oh, who cared.
The figure walked around behind her. Then he started to laugh.
And suddenly Michiko didn’t feel like a samurai at all. She felt like a little girl. She couldn’t accept death, she just couldn’t. She feared it. She feared it with every fiber of her being. Hot tears filled her eyes. You’re weak. You’re weak and not worthy of the Silver Heart.
In a rush of feeling, she sent out a stream of Japanese at her assailant. It was some of the nastiest things she could think of calling him. She ended it with “coward,” the nastiest of all.
Then the world went black. But even as it did, she understood.
Not death, then.
Not this time.
12
Three Girls, Together at Long Last
“THERE’S A WHAT in your sitting room?” Cora jumped in her seat, but not from alarm, just the nasty pothole they’d just gone over. Scheherazade squawked at the same moment, and Nellie saw Cora eye the bird with uncertainty.
She reached up and scratched the parrot sitting on her shoulder. “A dead body,” she repeated. “And it’s really not right for me to be tellin’ you all this, but I just can’t keep it in sometimes, you know? When I feel things, I just got to say them. You know? And I’m headin’ back there right now. I know he’s dead and all, but I don’t mind tellin’ you, it gives me the heebie-jeebies.”
Nellie knew she shouldn’t be saying any of this to a stranger, but after all, the stranger had saved her, and so she couldn’t be all that bad, now, could she?
The Friday Society Page 7
