The boy pointed to a corner of the room. “Desk over there, sir.” Then he ducked under Wycliff’s arm and took off at a sprint.
Wycliff and Hannah wound their way through the obstacles of people and furniture to the far corner. Papers were scattered over the desk’s surface, the chair pushed back, and a tepid cup of tea balanced on a stack of books.
Hannah glanced around, wondering which of the men yelling at one another sought to expose the Afflicted.
“Where’s Nash?” Wycliff asked the man furiously writing at the nearby desk.
He looked up and glanced around before he shrugged. “Must have stepped out. Always chasing a story, that one.”
“He cannot be far—the tea is still warm.” Hannah pointed to the cup.
“Or he could be avoiding us. Everyone saw us come in.” Wycliff stared at each face, but without a description they had no idea whom they sought.
A lean older gentleman approached, of average height. His hair had gone bald in an odd pattern as though he had rubbed the growth away from years of worrying at it. He squinted at Hannah. “I say, aren’t you Lady Wycliff, the daughter of the dead mage?”
A ripple raced through the room, and all eyes turned to stare at Hannah. She stiffened her spine. “Lady Miles is my mother, yes. We are looking for Mr Nash. Could you point him out for us?”
He glanced around. “Not sure I see him at the moment. Why do you want to talk to him? Is it about these missing brains? Last we spoke, he muttered that those dead Afflicted were eating them. But that can’t be true, now, can it? Parliament would never let a bunch of dead women devour the minds of honest Englishmen. Or is it because we have a mad king and the nobles are looking after one another at the expense of the common man?”
Hannah reached for Wycliff’s hand. She didn’t like the direction the questions were taking.
“Nash might have information about a missing persons case I am investigating.” Wycliff took a step toward the man and shielded Hannah from his view as he deflected the conversation.
The man’s chilling gaze remained on Hannah, and she resisted the urge to shudder. “He’s not here. Why don’t you try later on tonight? Sometimes he turns his stories in late.”
Wycliff nodded, and Hannah needed no persuading to leave the building. “I think we can safely assume the direction that Nash’s next story will take,” he murmured as they emerged on the pavement.
“I will discuss what to do with Mother. She needs to suppress the new rumours, even as someone seeks to unveil them.” A roar from farther along the road drew Hannah’s attention. “Whatever is happening down there?”
“We shall investigate, but stay close, Hannah.” Wycliff kept her tucked against his side as they walked along the road and found a large crowd gathered.
They mob used the intersection of two roads as a square in which to assemble. In the middle of the crossroad stood an open cart. Using the vehicle as in impromptu stage was a man who resembled a ringleader. He gestured with his bowler hat as he incited the crowd. Next to the man stood a forlorn-looking woman in a dirty shift, her head bowed.
A banner nailed to the side of the cart read, London Belongs to the Living, Not the Dead!
“Stare at the face of death!” The man yelled as he put a hand under the woman’s chin and tilted her head up. “This woman is a mind-devouring horror.”
Hannah stared at the woman, trying to find anything familiar in her features. From this distance, it was impossible to tell if she were one of the Afflicted or an actor hired to portray one. People around them chanted and yelled. A woman screeched and swooned. Men rushed to prop her up while others yelled, “Disgusting things!” More shouted, “Should be in the ground. Go back to your grave!”
“Oh, dear,” Hannah blurted.
12
Wycliff wrapped his arm around Hannah’s waist and held her close. “Do you recognise her?” he said against her ear as he pulled her into the shelter of a shop’s awning.
“No. But it is difficult to tell from this distance, nor do I know them all by sight. Many keep their lives private.” Tight lines pulled at the corners of Hannah’s eyes as she stared at the woman on exhibit.
“She hungers for your brain. Will she dine on yours tonight, sir?” The showman used a cane to point to a robust lad near the front.
People yelled and screamed. The man leapt back, as though he expected the woman to lunge and grab his head.
“I must get closer. I cannot tell if she is one or not.” Hannah tugged on his jacket lapel.
Wycliff swore under his breath and took her hand before she darted away. “I don’t want you wading through this lot. I will get closer and see what I can learn, if you promise to stay put?”
Concern flared under his skin. He needed to keep Hannah safe and away from the crowd in case the mood spilled over and turned violent. A backward glance revealed a group pelting the woman with rotten produce. How dared they behave like that toward another human being? Even the loathsome Unnatural criminals in the Repository were treated better.
Hannah swallowed the argument that flitted behind her eyes. “I promise. I will wait here until you return.”
He kissed the tips of her gloves and silently prayed that for once, she would do as he asked. He pushed through the crowd, unwashed bodies rubbing against him and offending his senses. They were a mixed lot, from the poor in their rags to the more affluent working classes drawn from the surrounding businesses or street vendors. Even one or two gentlemen like himself watched from the outer edges. Wycliff used his greater height and lack of manners to shove his way to the front and close to the cart.
The woman kept her eyes downcast. Tomato dripped from one shoulder like pale blood. A smear of overripe pumpkin was caught in her hair. Wycliff took his time in examining her, searching for the telltale signs of the Afflicted. It was pointless to try to detect the faint odour of rot—the stench of the expired fruit and vegetables overpowered any such trace.
With an effort, he blocked out the noise around him and focused. He started with the obvious—he didn’t recognise her. Not that he knew all the members of the ton—he relied on their recognising and then avoiding him. Her gown appeared no different from the sturdy woven ones Hannah wore when assisting her father or working outside. The curse took nobles from various levels, but there was nothing about this woman’s demeanour or appearance that hinted at her coming from the upper echelons.
As he watched her, tiny signs filtered through to him. The woman drew ragged breaths. The Afflicted didn’t breathe, although some kept up the artifice in company to conceal their condition. More telling, in a tiny scratch on her arm no more than an inch long, a single drop of blood congealed. A well-fed Afflicted could easily heal such a wound and a droplet wouldn’t even have time to form. If the creature didn’t have access to her allocation of pickled cauliflower, then rot would bloom over her skin. Yet this woman had an unblemished complexion. She also possessed all her fingernails, one of the first things to slough off a decaying body.
Confident in his assessment that the woman was living, Wycliff turned to the man exhibiting his prize. “She’s not Afflicted!” he yelled. “This woman is alive, and he deceives you!”
People around him stared, and a wave of chatter washed over the crowd. Whispers of doubt raced from person to person.
The showman dropped his arms and glared at Wycliff with a narrowed gaze. “I assure you, she is indeed one of the Afflicted and undead.”
“You lie. This woman is alive and breathing.” People around Wycliff pulled back, isolating the nonbeliever in their midst. Yet at the same time, their whispers grew louder as others noticed the rise and fall of the woman’s chest.
“The common folk have no dealings with the Afflicted. You must defer to my expert opinion in this matter.” The man spoke to the crowd, trying to win them back to his side. He laughed, but only a few laughed along with him. He shot a murderous look at Wycliff for stealing his limelight.
“The Af
flicted don’t breathe and this poor woman does. But there is an easy way to settle this. The Afflicted can heal their wounds. Let us cut her and watch her skin reform around the wound. I’m sure those assembled here would like to see that.” Wycliff gestured to those around him, and their eyes lit up at the idea of enhancing the spectacle by slicing the defenceless woman.
People cheered behind him. “Cut her!” an old woman yelled. Similar cries went up.
A nearby person pulled a knife from his jacket and rushed the platform. “Prove it! Cut her flesh and show us how the undead heal,” he cried as he waved the blade.
The woman blanched. She sought Wycliff’s gaze with panic in her eyes. “No, no, please,” she whispered. The woman cast about her and looked ready to jump from the cart and leg it. Only the animosity rolling off the crowd stopped her. What was worse—staying put to be sliced or leaping into a crowd hungry to destroy an Afflicted?
Sweat dribbled down the showman’s face and he reached out to take hold of the woman’s arm. The man’s brain fair smoked as he sought a way to wrangle the crowd back to his side. Then he stared at his prisoner and clutched one hand to his chest. “Why, I think this good man is correct! This woman does breathe and has deceived me!”
A disappointed groan rippled through the people, deprived of the next act in the show.
“But take this as a cautionary tale, my friends.” Here he let go of the woman and leaned toward the audience, waving them closer. “The Afflicted look just like you, me, and this woman. We cannot tell them apart easily, except for the most rotten among them like Lady Miles.”
Wycliff choked on a rush of indignation at hearing his mother-in-law used as an example of what to look out for. He toyed with telling her when he returned home. The showman might find himself turned into an exhibit should the mage give him a tail or webbed feet for the insult.
“We must band together to stamp out their scourge, before they feast on all our minds!” The showman sneered at Wycliff, pleased with his manoeuvring to turn events back to his advantage.
Wycliff didn’t care. His goal had been achieved when he’d determined the woman was not one of the Afflicted. He only hoped she received compensation for her ordeal. He drifted back through the unwashed tide until it spat him out at the edges.
Hannah peered from around the side of the sheltered doorway. “Is she truly alive? You weren’t just saying that?”
“The woman breathes and has a slight cut on her arm that has not healed. Not that I think it really matters to that lot—they are hanging on every word. The articles Nash writes are fuelling them.” He took her arm and led her away from the show.
Most of the worry eased from around her eyes. “How dare he call my mother the most rotten of the Afflicted. I had to remember my promise to you, but I was sorely tempted to rush out and demand he retract his words.”
“I was also tempted, but nothing would be gained by letting them know who we are.” The noise behind them lessened as they walked back to Frank and the carriage.
“I do not like how people are being rallied against the Afflicted.” Hannah turned to him before climbing into the vehicle.
“Neither do I.” Once he would have welcomed it. Now it made cold dread swirl through him. Where would it end?
When they returned to Westbourne Green, Hannah tore through the house searching for her mother and calling her name. She spied Mary carrying an empty tray along the hall.
“Where is Mother?” Hannah asked the maid.
“Outside, milady.” The maid waved to the rear of the house and the forest beyond.
Hannah turned on her heel and ran across the terrace and down the steps. As her boots struck the dirt, the chickens squawked and scattered out of her way.
“Sorry, ladies.” Hannah apologised for ruffling their feathers as she headed into the welcoming embrace of the trees.
Wycliff followed her, his long stride keeping pace with her. He rolled his shirtsleeves up to his elbows as he walked, having stripped off his hat, gloves, and coat while Hannah searched for the mage inside the house. He kept his anger contained, visible only in the faint ripple of invisible smoke across his skin and the dark fire in his eyes.
Hannah, on the other hand, felt ready to explode from the outrage pounding through her veins. Dots of red danced before her eyes. Wycliff reached up to hold a branch out of her way as she tugged on her gloves, but the leather refused to budge. Nor could she remove her bonnet—the ribbon appeared to have tied itself in a knot. Hannah burst from the trees to find her mother in her bower, enjoying the late afternoon warmth.
“Hannah! Whatever has you all flustered?” Her mother set down her book.
“A horrid man was exhibiting what he claimed was one of the Afflicted in the street. That newspaper man is intent on exposing us all, misinformed people are waving placards, and my blasted bonnet won’t come off!” Hannah scrabbled at the ribbon and in the end she succeeded in pulling it over her chin. She threw the bonnet to the grass. The rough act dislodged a sizeable length of her hair from the arrangement Mary had carefully crafted, and it swung over one side of her face.
Hannah threw herself down next to the bonnet with a powerful urge to flail her fists in the soft lawn.
“My. That is quite a lot to absorb.” Seraphina gestured to the bonnet, and it wriggled along the ground toward her like a snuffling hedgehog. “Tell me about this exhibition first. Was it truly one of the Afflicted?” The bonnet made its way into the mage’s lap, where she picked at the ribbons, undoing the tight knots Hannah had pulled.
“No. Wycliff got close enough to discover she breathed and was a living person.” Hannah finally peeled the gloves from her hands and clutched them as she sat at her mother’s feet.
Wycliff took a seat at the other end of the bower. “The man was inciting the crowd with tales of how the Afflicted would dine on their brains and how the undead looked like any one of them.” Wycliff crossed his arms and sank into the shadows.
Hannah heaved a heavy sigh. The situation was intolerable, but how could they allay the fears of Londoners when one man seemed determined to terrify them?
“Oh, dear. We feared this might happen, which is why I have always smoothed away any rumours about Unwin and Alder or how the Afflicted sustain themselves. Fortunately, the public have little evidence to fuel their fear.” Seraphina set the bonnet free, and it floated toward Hannah.
“Only rational men require evidence. People in the grip of anger and fear seize on empty words.” Hannah stuffed her gloves in the bonnet and left it on the grass. She hugged her knees to her chest and tried to figure out how to stop panic spreading among the population.
“The reporter, Nash, is fuelling the fire with his stories. Unfortunately, he was not at his desk when we went to speak with him. Nor would I wish Hannah to return there. The mood of the room was somewhat hostile toward the Afflicted—and she was recognised.” Wycliff’s gaze lingered on Hannah.
She rather liked his protective side, as long as it didn’t become too suffocating. If he thought to keep her safe in the countryside while people gathered pitchforks and torches to seek out the Afflicted, they would have words.
“I will create new moths to find and erase rumours, even if someone else hunts them out and shoots them down. It would be an easier task if there were something to distract popular opinion. What we need is a bigger scandal.” Seraphina drew in the air as she spoke. Flashes of angry crowds turned into people watching a troupe of entertainers.
“If Prince George did something outrageous, that would give them all something to talk about, but he has been reasonably well behaved this season. I dislike this turn of events with a man exhibiting a fake Afflicted woman. What will they do if they get their hands on one of the genuine Afflicted?” A memory surfaced in Hannah’s mind, of Emma Knightley cutting herself for the entertainment of society bucks so she could earn the money to pay for her allotment of pickled cauliflower. What if another of the Afflicted offered herself up, to ens
ure she had the supplies to keep her body from rotting? Or worse, what if the mob abducted one and kept her hostage until she starved and became desperate?
“I will return to London to look for Nash. He is key. Someone is feeding him information, and I suspect it is the missing Unwin and Alder employee. Have you received any answer from the mage council?” Wycliff leaned forward, the fire still flashing in his eyes.
“Of sorts. They will investigate the use of mage fire to destroy the former Lady Albright. However, they do not think it necessary for me to meet with them, as they claim the fire was most likely a potion sold by any registered apothecary. I disagree and have insisted upon a meeting. I would look them in the eye as they squirm before me.” A flame erupted in the palm of her outstretched hand, the white so pure it appeared to dance silver, as though she held a captive moonbeam.
Hannah’s rage seeped from her veins and flowed away with the gentle burble of the creek. Behind it, a wave of sadness washed in. How many lives would be irrevocably altered before they dampened the fear stalking the streets?
“I shall return to my study of shadow mages and the underworld. Do you require Papa to carry you inside, Mother?” Hannah rose to her feet and brushed twigs and loose grass from her skirts.
“Not yet, thank you, dear. I believe it might rain. I shall wait for it.” Seraphina picked up her book and returned to her reading.
Wycliff took Hannah’s hand, and they walked to the house at a much slower pace.
“We must find a way to end things, before people are hurt or…destroyed like the former Lady Albright.” Hannah paused by a towering beech, the bark on its trunk an unusual purple tone tinged with silver. As a girl, she marvelled at how they soaked up the magic used by her mother to grow so fast and tall. Each held a tiny spark of that power, and created a truly enchanted forest.
Wycliff clenched his fingers on the bark. “You still intend to walk the dark path with me.” His voice choked on the words.
Hessians and Hellhounds Page 11
