“We need to study the type of brains,” she burst out. Like a kettle letting off steam, she was relieved to finally unburden herself of the ideas building in her head.
Her father peered at her over the rims of his spectacles. “We did—mouse, cow, pig, and sheep. None worked, except they made the ladies less aware of the damage done to them.”
Hannah waved her hands. “No. Types of human brains—aftermages or ordinary. Lord Wycliff asked whether ingesting the brain of an aftermage made any difference to the French curse. I believe we must answer that question at once.”
Her father’s grey eyebrows jumped and he let out a low exclamation. He took off his spectacles and placed them on the bench. “I say, what an idea. We haven’t looked at it from that angle.”
“I know.” Hannah grabbed her apron off the hook by the door and dropped it over her head. She tied a bow in the ends behind her back as she approached the workbench. “Imagine if consuming the brain of an aftermage somehow counteracted the French magic and alleviated the symptoms.”
Sir Hugh rubbed his chin as his mind turned over the possibilities. “Conversely, magic added to magic might magnify the curse and speed the decay. Sera’s power did not stop the curse’s spread through her limbs.”
“Oh, I hadn’t considered that.” Some of Hannah’s excitement deflated. She wouldn’t want to make the Afflicted women worse.
Sir Hugh patted her hand. “What do I always say, Hannah?”
“Hypothesise, then strategise.” She needed the reminder of her father’s motto. They wouldn’t know what effect, if any, the difference might make until they conducted a study and analysed the results. Then they could determine whether they needed to change the way they treated the Afflicted. She didn’t want to think about the possible long-term effect of sparking a surge in demand for a particular type of brain.
Sir Hugh pulled a padded leather stool out from under the bench. “It is a fascinating idea. I assume there is some record kept of official donations to our cause?”
Were such conversations, Hannah wondered, why she had few social engagements? She would rather discuss which working-class people had surrendered their brains to feed the nobles than how to raise funds for a new fountain in the town square.
She sat on the stool and swung her legs under the bench. “Viscount Wycliff said Unwin and Alder are required to keep records of donations and deliveries. It will involve some hard work, but with their cooperation, we will be able to conduct such a study. I thought we might use three groups—one receiving donations from aftermages, one ordinary, and one an equal mix.”
Sir Hugh pinched the bridge of his nose while he bowed his head in thought. “The problem will be establishing a baseline of an Afflicted’s condition. We don’t want to alert them to the nature of the study, but we require some way to know if their symptoms alter.”
Hannah picked up a pencil and began making notes on a sheet of paper. “Perhaps, if the Ministry of Unnaturals agrees, we could say it is part of a study to reach out to all Afflicted and determine their current state? It is certainly no falsehood to say we want to investigate the long-term effects of the curse, and we can only do that by periodically reviewing the level of decay and comparing it against the previous examination.”
Hannah added Request permission from Sir Manly Powers to her list. Having the Ministry sanction their work would smooth some of the bumps in the road ahead. Particularly the large mounds created by Viscount Wycliff, as he dug metaphorical holes in parlours around London.
“Excellent work, Hannah. While I cannot predict what we may find, I do hope we finally have the breakthrough we so desperately need to help these poor women.”
They both fell silent for a long moment. The Affliction consumed many lives. Not only the women concerned, but their families as well. Thinking of families brought the day’s interviews to mind.
“Today I saw Miss Emma Knightley, who is in remarkable condition, with no visible signs of decay. She even breathes, although it must take quite a sustained effort to keep it up.” Hannah added more tasks to her growing list.
Sir Hugh took the sample off the microscope and replaced it with another. “Really? Do you know what she is feeding upon? There may be something in her particular diet or environment that is slowing her symptoms. Do you think she would allow me to examine her?”
Hannah doubted Emma Knightley wanted to see her, or any member of her family, in the near future. Although perhaps with time the young woman might forget Hannah’s betrayal in telling Lord Wycliff about her gown. “I think not. The interview today was particularly horrid.”
Sir Hugh’s face fell. “Oh. There are, unfortunately, plenty of other Afflicted women for us to examine. Once we have the relevant records, your mother can delve into the genealogies to determine who among the donors is an aftermage. We should also record what generation they belong to, to see if that is another factor.”
More notes were made. Hannah could see her days becoming full rather quickly. “We shall have to visit Unwin and Alder and establish a working relationship with their staff.”
Sir Hugh picked up the delicate spectacles and returned them to his nose. Then he peered into the eyepieces of the microscope. “I’ll leave it to you to sort out the details. You’re much better at that than I.”
Which meant Hannah remembered to sort such details. Sir Hugh had a tendency to become overly involved in his work and forget the time. Or the day. Hannah and Mary had to make sure he emerged at least once a day for a meal and to experience a little daylight.
“Did you determine anything about the unfortunate heart?” Hannah scanned the rows of bottles on the shelves adjacent to the bench. A variety of body parts and smaller mammals floated in preservative. While there were a few hearts, she didn’t see the rotten one.
Sir Hugh continued to switch samples and divide his attention between Hannah and whatever was between the layers of glass. “No. It was quite beyond saving. I did discover that the advanced rot originated in the heart and spread outward, eating away the surrounding tissue. If the poor woman hadn’t fallen down, she would have dissolved from the inside before much longer.”
Hannah screwed up her face. What a terrible fate—to rot from the inside out until you simply collapsed in a puddle of fluids. “That is the opposite of the way decay usually progresses in the Afflicted. We have found it starts with the exterior, in the extremities, and then works upward and inward.”
He looked up, excitement a sparkle in his eyes. Sir Hugh had two great passions in life—his wife, and his study to restart her heart. “Yes, quite a puzzle, is it not? Why did the French curse take such a different route in this poor woman? So far the only factor in play is the age of the powder.”
“How do the mice fare?” Hannah glanced at the wall where the shelves held cages in a variety of sizes. One shelf held the mice who lived short, cursed lives. Large red tags with the letter A identified their cages. A blue tag with a number referenced other details of their Affliction. The shelf above was home to the healthy mice, who bred the donors for their Afflicted kin.
He huffed and shook his head. “Far too early to tell. I have infected three and we shall see what unfolds. I want to wait and see if they simply fall down like our poor maid.”
That had taken six months. Hannah felt uncomfortable wishing the mice a quicker demise. Waiting was the worst part of scientific study, but knowledge revealed itself in its own time.
“Why don’t you confer with your mother? You’ll find her in the library today.” Her father nudged her when she had been silent for too long.
She was finding it difficult to concentrate after her time with Lord Wycliff. Like a whirlwind, he uprooted her thoughts and hurled them in different directions. She needed quiet time with her mother to allow everything to settle down. “Do you need me this afternoon?”
He tapped her list of tasks. “Nothing I can’t manage. The sooner you gather the records for your mother, the sooner we can begin our n
ew study.”
“Very well.” She laid a hand on his shoulder and then removed her apron and hung it back on its hook. By the time Hannah slipped out the door, her father was once again engrossed in his research.
Back up the stairs she went, until she emerged in the subdued daylight of the entrance hall. Hannah set off along the corridor to the corner of the house that held the library. The house was enormous for just the three of them, with many twists and turns and more rooms than they could ever use. Her parents had hoped to fill it with the laughter of many children, a dream that was dashed when the Fates had only gifted them one child.
And then had come the Affliction.
Hannah paused with her fingers curled around the handle of the library door. While as the direct offspring of a mage she was devoid of any magical ability, she was still sensitive to it. Goosebumps washed up her arm, a sign that warned of magic being performed beyond the door. At times she lived in a constant state of alert, as her mother cast spells in the turret high above them and the prickling sensation rained down on Hannah.
Hannah pushed into the room she loved the most. Could there be anything more marvellous in the world than a library? Other women might prefer a ballroom, or a millinery shop, but Hannah swooned over books.
The square room was double height, with the floor above the library being her mother’s turret room. Nearly all four walls were floor-to-ceiling bookshelves. Books barely allowed space for the large window, with the shelves rejoining above the frame to carry on their way.
Her parents had a shared devotion to books and the library perfectly merged magic and science. Tomes on a vast range of subjects were crammed into every shelf. Science books huddled together on one wall, magical volumes whispered to one another on a third. Fiction separated the two and the whole created a scene that soothed Hannah’s fractious nerves and settled her mind after her morning with Wycliff.
Her mother sat at the huge desk with the window behind her. Today a delicate pearl and diamond tiara secured her heavy veil. Clad in her usual bleached linen and muslin, she resembled a bride waiting to meet her groom.
Hannah’s shoes sank into the heavy rug as she walked to her mother’s side and kissed her covered cheek. “What are you about today? The tiara usually means you are in a whimsical mood.”
Seraphina raised a hand gloved in cotton to tap the pearl that hung, suspended, in the centre of the tiara. “I love this piece and since I no longer attend balls or the theatre, I have decided that at least one day a week will be a tiara day.”
Hannah smiled. Despite all that had happened to her, her mother found some way to create a little joy or happiness in each day.
“I also dream of the day my daughter will wear it for her wedding.” Seraphina took Hannah’s hand.
An emptiness opened inside of Hannah. She would relish every moment of Lizzie’s wedding, but there would never be such an event in her future. “Mother, please don’t. You know why that can never happen.”
The mage held Hannah’s hand to her cheek. “Allow your mother to dream, dearest. After all, I do believe in magic.”
It would take more miracle than magic for her ever to see Hannah walk down the aisle. But she would allow her mother to dream. She turned her attention to the work before her. Spread out on the desk was a detailed map of France. Five wooden pillars sat at various points in the countryside, making five points of a star. Tiny, ghostly people who seemed made of ash stood in a small cluster in the centre of the star.
“What am I seeing?” Hannah asked. “I assume the five pillars are the French mages?”
“Yes. I have decided to tackle our quest from a different angle. I intend to locate the French mage who created this curse. If we know how he worked his original spell, then we could reverse it.”
Hannah’s hand hovered over the miniature ash people. “Does this small group have something to do with how you will accomplish that?”
“This curse was not sprung upon us untested. The French have their own Afflicted. Sir Ewan Shaw was shot on the battlefield by a French officer whom he said smelled of death. He found the same odour attached to the cache of face powder and snuff he discovered. I believe that French officer was Afflicted.”
Ewan Shaw was a lycanthrope with a keen sense of smell—one of the original Highland Wolves. While on a mission in Kent he had uncovered the French plot to release thousands of contaminated containers upon the English people.
“Imagine what would have happened if he hadn’t found and destroyed all the infected powder,” Hannah said as she stared at the map.
Seraphina waved a hand over the map and the ash people shrank even smaller, until they resembled ants. “Mass panic would have ensued and who knows how many would have died or been turned into secondary Afflicted. We are fortunate only two barrels of powder were mixed up by the smugglers and the curse was somewhat confined.”
Ewan Shaw had retired from the Highland Wolves to take up the role of spy master based in London. “How is he aiding your search?”
“Sir Ewan is using his intelligence contacts to pinpoint the locations of French Afflicted. I have a theory that the highest concentration of them will be found around the mage responsible. Unfortunately, so far all the ones we have uncovered are almost equidistant from all the mages.” She touched one of the pillars and a face appeared above it. Small eyes squinted from a round face with a long beard.
Hannah suppressed a shudder. What sort of mind had conceived of the evil curse in the first place? Even during a time of war, how did a person justify creating weapons that killed so many innocent people? She wondered if the one who did it might have trouble sleeping at night. Or might even have succumbed to his own creation. “Even if you find the one responsible, how will you persuade him to reveal his original spell?”
Her mother huffed. “I think we will find a way, once we have him pinned down. Moving on to other topics, what do you think of Lord Wycliff after prolonged exposure?”
Hannah snorted and walked to the window seat. She flopped down on the cushion and crossed her arms. “I think he is the most horrid and infuriating man I have ever met. I cannot imagine how he is supposed to help in our work. Is it possible your power was mistaken when it urged you to make him a player on this board?”
With her gloved hand, Seraphina dusted around the edges of the large map. “He is a piece with a purpose—we just can’t discern it yet. Have you ever attempted to save an injured animal?”
“Yes.” A cat had once become ensnared in a trap set in their garden, meant to catch a stoat eating the chickens.
Next her mother picked up the writing set and dusted underneath. “And what did the creature do, as you worked to save it?”
Hannah remembered that long-ago day. She had been approximately ten years old. “It tried to bite me. What does this have to do with Viscount Wycliff?”
Seraphina stopped dusting and turned a veiled countenance to her daughter. “An injured animal will lash out, even as you try to free it. In its pain, it cannot distinguish those who hurt it from those trying to help.”
“But he is no animal and he should know better. He treats Afflicted women abominably and thinks you should all be rounded up and burned!” How could her mother have any sympathy for the man?
“Ah. So he strikes out from a place of pain and ignorance. How miserable his life must be. Imagine what might happen if someone tried to bring a little light into his darkness.”
Hannah scoffed. Let the horrid man wallow in the dark. It seemed the best place for him. “Have you decided on a breed of puppy for me yet?” She’d rather have a loyal dog at her side than the snarling hellhound. Perhaps a lovely spaniel with soft, silky ears.
“Oh, I do believe I know of something that might work.”
Though her face was obscured, Hannah couldn’t help feeling her mother was smiling beneath her veil.
14
Five days later, having made no progress with his inquiries, Wycliff pushed aside the stack o
f his creditors’ invoices and then leaned back in his chair to run a hand through his hair. While he had finally managed to pay off the debts he’d inherited from his father along with the title, in doing so he had ignored his own. Creditors appeared weekly to thrust a new demand for payment into the hands of his elderly retainer.
He kept few staff, requiring only one older couple to see to his needs. The woman cooked and cleaned, the man did everything else. The house was rented, cheap, and in an area bordering on disreputable. He went without a fire in his room so he could save on coal, and simply wore his overcoat inside when the temperature dropped.
His ancestral home in Dorset sat empty, although he paid a local family to ensure no squatters moved in or removed what furnishings were left.
He was like the Knightleys, selling off everything not nailed down to make ends meet, but the unnatural appetite he had to appease was that of his deceased father. The man had bankrupted the estate to fuel his desires for women and gambling. When Wycliff inherited, society twittered that he would sell the estate, take what residual he could, and scurry away to a dark corner.
Certainly as a young man he had fled the old pile as soon as possible. Only after the war did it become uppermost in his mind. He wanted to put down roots, to belong somewhere, to have a haven that was permanent in a changing world. The estate embodied those things to him and so he fought to keep it. But it was a losing battle.
A manager oversaw the farming of the land and returned sufficient modest profit that after five long years, he had paid off his father’s debts. But every year saw the estate fall further into neglect. Essential repairs were deferred. The roof leaked, the windows were draughty, and the wallpaper peeled from the plaster in the front rooms. He wanted to buy new breeding stock of rams and bulls, but there wasn’t the money to do so, and no one would extend him credit.
Manners and Monsters, #1 Page 12
