Brass Carriages and Glass Hearts

by Nancy Campbell Allen

  His jaw tightened, and he cupped her cheek. “I will get you to Edinburgh. Do you trust me?”

  She nodded and chewed on her lip. Feeling ridiculously tender, he cupped her other cheek and tilted her head, kissing first one closed eyelid and then the other. She was dejected, defeated, and it did not sit well with him. She was allowed a period of melancholy as much as anybody else, but in his mind, she was Emmeline O’Shea, firebrand and fierce defender of the wronged. To see her looking so crushed was disconcerting, and, he admitted, frightening. He realized then how much he’d come to expect her solidity, even as his adversary.

  She must have sensed his thoughts, because when she opened her eyes, she managed a light scowl. “I am not broken.”

  He smiled. “Of course you’re not.”

  “Then you should not look at me as though I’m already laid out in a coffin.”

  “Ah, good. There she is.” He still held her face in his hands. “I confess, seeing you wounded is an unpleasant occurrence.”

  “You’ve seen me wounded plenty.” She managed half an eye roll before wincing.

  “No, I’ve seen you filthy from demonstrations gone awry, hair pulled from pins as I’ve tossed you over my shoulder or into carriages, and angrier than a nest full of wasps. Never wounded.”

  She cleared her throat, scowl deepening, and subtly straightened her shoulders. “Wounded is a subjective term. I’ve merely been inconvenienced by the actions of others.”

  He smiled and was surprised by his sense of relief. She was still in there despite her bruises and aches and pains. He kissed her forehead and released her. “I’ll be out on the road,” he repeated. He paused and turned back. “Emmeline, what would you have done if I hadn’t followed you out of that airship?”

  She sighed. “I suppose I’d still be sitting on the rocks, stuck in that infernal Jump Wing death trap.”

  He laughed and made his way to the road. She’d have managed, of that he had no doubt. Perhaps she’d still be near the beach, or taken a different direction, but she wouldn’t have remained stationary.

  The road was clear in both directions, but the stretch of coast where they’d landed was desolate for miles in either direction. He remembered seeing lights on the western horizon during the night, though.

  “West, then,” he said aloud and strolled a short distance down the road and then back again to the trees.

  He’d begun to wonder if Emme had disappeared by the time he heard snapping twigs. She hobbled out of the trees, making good use of her walking stick. He took the portmanteau from her and eyed her up and down.

  “How fares the ankle? Better or worse than last night?”

  “Same.” She’d cleaned her face and braided her hair, and while her eyes were still swollen and her face pale, she was looking more like herself.

  He offered his arm, and she grasped it, and with a deep breath, she nodded at the road. They made their way slowly at first, until she found a rhythm in her limping gait. At one point she paused and withdrew her scriber from her pocket and handed it to him. “The radio signal still isn’t strong enough, but perhaps as we get closer to town . . .”

  He nodded and watched it periodically as they walked, hoping to see signs of life on the thing. He was looking at it for what seemed the millionth time when she looked behind them and stopped.

  “Someone is coming!”

  He followed her gaze and saw a horse-drawn cart with a solitary driver approaching.

  “Here’s hoping he’s a friendly fellow,” he said as the conveyance grew closer. The large horse’s clop was muffled by the rain-softened path but grew in volume until the wagon drew up alongside them and stopped.

  It was filled with pumpkins, and the driver was a trim, tidy-looking man with round spectacles, nondescript features, and a friendly, curious smile. He might have been twenty years old or fifty. He was the sort of person who would have been an excellent undercover detective. He would melt into a crowd and be utterly unremarkable.

  “This is a long stretch of road to walk!” He bore the speech of an educated Englishman.

  Oliver nodded. “I wonder if you are traveling in the direction of Edinburgh? If so, might we prevail upon you for a ride? We would certainly compensate you for it.”

  “No need for all that. I’m going there anyway.” The smile seemed genuine, and Oliver glanced at Emme, who regarded their would-be rescuer with an assessing eye. He couldn’t read her face.

  She looked at Oliver and nodded. “We are grateful for the help,” she finally said.

  As the driver slid over on the seat, Oliver helped Emme up and then handed her the bag. She sat gingerly next to the man, her lip caught between her teeth as she carefully maneuvered her sore foot.

  “Oooch,” the driver said, watching her. “An injury?”

  “A sprain,” she said with a tilt of her head and a strained smile. “I was running along the rocky shore, foolish me.”

  “I shall deliver you directly to the hospital doorstep, if you wish, and would also be willing to remain and take you and your husband to your hotel of choice.”

  Emme looked at Oliver, her smile frozen in place.

  “Excellent,” Oliver told the man and extended his hand. “We are John and Mary Smith, and are very grateful for your assistance. Our Traveler malfunctioned a mile or so behind us, and we’ve had a rather long night of it.”

  “My name is Guster Gustavsen. Associates with a sense of humor call me Gus-Gus. Most simply call me Gus.” He shook Oliver’s hand and then tipped his hat to Emme. “Let’s be about getting you to the doctor, then, dear lady.”

  Oliver nodded at the affable man, who carried the conversation with innocuous observations about the weather, upcoming holidays and fall festivals, and the multitudes already gathering for the Summit meeting.

  The wagon rolled along, catching the occasional bump, and Emme’s fist tightened on the bench between them. Oliver picked up her hand and threaded her arm through his. He placed his fingers around her fist and held it, maintaining the other end of the conversation with Gus.

  Emme swayed against Oliver, trying to keep herself upright, but after a time, she leaned on his arm and shoulder.

  Eventually, Edinburgh appeared on the horizon and grew larger as they approached, the humble wagon making its way into the heart of the city. A combination of ancient and newer architecture adorned the streets, and congestion in both traffic and pedestrian walkways slowed all movement. The mood was festive, laughter abounded, and music poured from pubs, restaurants, and gathering spots.

  They slowly made their way along the row of tents and temporary structures set up on the green lawns of Princes Street Gardens. Signs outside each building announced its function and activities to be found within. Emme, who betrayed her true depth of physical pain by the punishing grip she held on Oliver’s hand, took in the city with eyes bright and a smile on her pale face. A large building came into view with the words “International Shifter Rights Organization” emblazoned on a sign above the door.

  “Look!” She pointed with her free hand, the other still tightly clenching his. “Stop—we should tell Carlo we’ve arrived.”

  Finding treatment for her ankle was paramount, and Oliver told her so, motioning for Gus to keep going.

  “I’m fine,” she protested.

  Oliver used the only thing he could think of to sway her. “You’re the spokeswoman for the organization. We must treat your ankle and freshen your appearance before you arrive and are introduced to those you’ve yet to meet.”

  She side-eyed him but reluctantly nodded. “You are correct. I’ll acquiesce this once.” She looked at their joined hands as if only just realizing she was squeezing his fingers. She gasped a little and released his hand, which slowly regained its color.

  “And we shall request something for the pain,” he told her, his smile wry.
>
  She shook her head. “I cannot have anything that will leave me feeling sluggish. I shall be well enough. Oh dear.” She pointed down the street. “Protesters?” As they drew closer, she frowned, looked pained. Some of the protesters held signs reading “Predatory shifters are dangerous!” and “Protect our children from shifters!”

  The crowd was not large, but the effect on Emme was palpable. She bounced her knee, and her eyes widened as she sucked in her breath.

  He picked up her hand again and held it between his. “Squeeze,” he told her. “And do not fidget; it will only hurt more.”

  They passed another protester holding a sign reading “Vampires are monsters, not coworkers!”

  Emme tightened her grip. “They protest vampire assimilation, too.” She looked at Oliver and then at Gus. “Have these protests been continual?”

  Gus side-eyed them both for a moment. “No, and they are quickly dispersed. Summit organizers have been quite diligent in securing peacekeepers.” He paused before stating, “You are not John and Mary Smith, methinks.” Gus’s expression was grave as he studied Oliver. “As a matter of fact . . . Have you a brother named Lawrence Reed?”

  Oliver was impressed with the effectiveness Emme’s title afforded her at the hospital. Staff were abuzz with the news that the missing spokeswoman for the ISRO had arrived in town and needed medical attention. Apparently word of her delay had spread, though no one knew what had caused it. She was whisked away from him, yelling over her shoulder that he should protect her portmanteau with life and limb.

  He remained as close as he could, pacing up and down the long hallway outside the door to her examining room. It was not long before he spied Gus, who, true to his word, had returned to meet them after delivering his load of pumpkins. Gus’s question about Lawrence had rattled Oliver more than he cared to admit. He’d put off conversation about him for the moment, but a full discussion about Lawrence was inevitable.

  Gus approached him in the hallway. “How fares the lady?”

  A scream followed by a torrent of angry almost-curses sounded from behind Emme’s closed door, and Oliver winced. He was torn between wishing he could be with her for support and feeling grateful that the stern-faced nurse had barred his entrance.

  “Well enough, I suppose,” Oliver said. “Alive, at any rate.”

  “Oh dear. She must be in horrible pain. Is she still insisting she not be dosed with laudanum?”

  “Very insistent.”

  “Sir,” Gus said, falling into step with Oliver as he began pacing again, “I was unable to fully explain my curiosity about your brother, and while I know the time is still inopportune, I feel I must pursue it.”

  Oliver glanced at the shorter man, whose spectacles perched in front of intense eyes. Sincere eyes, as far as Oliver could surmise. “I’ve told you he was turned into a vampire a few years ago and has not been in contact with me since.”

  “Yes.” Gus nodded. “I must tell you, however, that—” He glanced over his shoulder and motioned for Oliver to join him in a small seating area adjacent to the corridor. “Lawrence Reed has risen through the powerful vampire Cadre ranks by deposing those above him with frightening speed. He plans to disrupt the Summit meetings, though how or when, I do not know. I have taken this information to the authorities, and they’ve assured me their security forces are prepared for any attack, but I remain uneasy.”

  “How are you privy to this information? Are you a private investigator?”

  Gus’s eyes slid away from Oliver’s face for a moment, and he shrugged. “Of a sort. I am a jack-of-all-trades, and because I am unassuming in stature and personality, people do not guard their tongues in my presence.” He paused. “I am hoping that, given this knowledge of your brother’s plans, you will be vigilant both in protecting Miss O’Shea and listening for any additional information about your brother or his plans. I assume your role is indeed to protect the ISRO’s spokeswoman?”

  Oliver nodded. Since Gus had surmised they were not “John and Mary Smith,” it seemed silly to continue using the pseudonyms with him.

  “And will you pass along my concerns to your superiors at the Yard? I fear a Cadre attack would have far-reaching consequences. The innocent of the vampire population are especially at risk. They must live in the shadows now because the reputation of the Cadre terrifies the public. There is little human understanding for those vampires who simply wish to continue their lives in peace.”

  Oliver squinted. “I am afraid I do not follow. Who are these innocent vampires?”

  Gus removed his spectacles and rubbed his eye. The little man suddenly seemed weary. “You are aware of the Soul Consistency factor among the shifter population? That a peace-loving person in human form is also nonviolent in animal form, even if that form is predatory?”

  Oliver nodded. Soul Consistency was a theory that had recently been proven in multiple studies; it was the very heart of Emme’s arguments. Although the scientific community had known of its verity for years, politicians continued to cast doubt on it to maintain control and take advantage of shifters and their sympathizers.

  “The same factor applies to many who have been turned.”

  Oliver raised a skeptical brow. “Soul Consistency applies to vampires?”

  Gus nodded, solemn.

  Silence stretched between them.

  Oliver finally asked, “How do you come by this information?”

  “I know many personally. They have nobody to speak on their behalf. I quietly assess and observe, but I need help. I thought, given your situation and experience, that perhaps you and Miss O’Shea . . .”

  Oliver sat back in his chair with a sigh. “Miss O’Shea will take this information and run with it,” he muttered, adding, “once her ankle heals, I suppose.”

  Gus smiled. “Please, allow me to assist you this week. I know the city well, and I have many contacts. I will act as your personal valet and man of affairs. In years gone by, I was a solicitor. All I ask is that you grant me permission to quietly spread the word that you are willing to speak with your brother.”

  Oliver assessed him carefully. Gus might genuinely wish to help, or he could be a Trojan horse. Perhaps Emme might be willing to read his aura, check for any hint of deceit. “I am not certain meeting with Lawrence will yield any results. We were never close.”

  Gus opened his mouth, then closed it again.

  “Speak, man.”

  “Sir, would you have described Lawrence as a good sort? Was he kind?”

  Oliver’s jaw tensed. “Lawrence was a dissatisfied sort. Unhappy with his lot in life and resentful of any whose circumstances were better than his own.”

  “Vampirism heightens emotions that already exist, enhances traits one possessed in life. What you say of your brother makes sense.” Gus rubbed his neck. “Lawrence Reed is not a good man, sir. He is among the most dangerous I’ve ever met.”

  “You’ve spent time with him? Often?”

  “Not often, but enough. As I said, the innocent have no voice, and I quietly search for allies. They are, regrettably, few and far between.”

  Oliver finally nodded. “My priority is Miss O’Shea and ensuring her safety for the duration of the Summit. I hesitate for you to hint that I wish to see my brother because I will not have Emme put in harm’s way. Should you come across further intelligence, however, pass it to me, and I’ll see it is fed into the right channels.”

  Gus nodded, relief showing in his face. “It is more than I hoped for, sir. Thank you.”

  They were interrupted by the same severe nurse who had prevented him from entering Emme’s examination room. “Miss O’Shea has been treated for a severe ankle sprain and multiple bruises but insists she must leave, despite the doctor’s recommendation that she stay overnight.” She sniffed and looked at Oliver in clear disapproval. “Miss O’Shea says she is to be remanded to you
r care.”

  He debated telling the woman that Emme’s body was bruised because of an insane dive from an airship, but doubted even that would wipe the look of condemnation from her face. Oliver picked up Emme’s carpetbag and nodded to the nurse. “Have you instructions for her care?”

  “I gave them to the lady herself, who can read.”

  Oliver eyed her evenly. “I am well aware of her literary acumen. As her temporary caregiver, I would like to be apprised of any medical instructions you may have.”

  The nurse sniffed. “She has instructions and will share them if she wishes. We are securing a rolling chair for convenience in transporting her where stairs are a complication, and crutches she may utilize when she feels ready.”

  “Has she been medicated?”

  “Did you not hear the screaming? The doctor prescribed laudanum, but she refused. She is insisting she does not need it and never will. Claims she has no time to waste in a lethargic state.”

  Oliver’s lips twitched. “Time will tell.”

  “Indeed.” She paused, examining him. “Perhaps I’ll give you the bottle. Come along. Has she a maid or a female relative nearby?”

  “I’ll secure the services of a maid at the hotel.” He followed the nurse, and Gus followed him. Her stride was surprisingly brisk, and he doubled his stride to keep up.

  “Inform the maid that the cast on Miss O’Shea’s foot is not to become wet. It’s been bound with bandages soaked in plaster of Paris. They’ve hardened but must remain dry. The cast is small, but not enough to fit inside a boot.”

  “Madam, supposing the swelling recedes?” Gus asked, trotting alongside Oliver.

  She stopped, and they nearly bumped into her. “Who is this?” she demanded.

  Oliver swallowed. “My valet.”

  “Tell your valet that the physician attending Miss O’Shea is a sixty-year veteran of the profession. I should think he knows how to treat a patient.” She spun on her heel and resumed her pace.

  “Sir,” Gus said quietly to Oliver, “it is only that I observed my nephew’s condition after a nasty break, and—”