A Reflection of Shadows

by Anne Renwick

  Afraid she might drop it, she gripped the light with more force than strictly necessary as she stuck her head into the void. Coal dust stained the narrowing ascent of the shaft. Easy enough to climb, but disappointment waited at the top. “A twelve-inch coal hole.” Not an escape route. But still an opening onto a street. Buoyed by hope, her heart lifted. Men, women or children might—or might not—pass by, and might or might not be induced to summon help. She backed out. “I’ll climb up and try to pass a message.”

  “Not to the managers of The Three-Eyed Bat,” he warned. “At least not until all other options are exhausted. They saw me descend and haven’t bothered to come looking. I expect Glover has ensured they’ve been paid well for the use of this space and their silence. Alerting them would likely only result in our captors’ swift return.”

  “So noted.” She shoved her hands deep into the pockets of Nick’s coat. They’d stripped her of her belt and with it, all her supplies. “Please tell me you’ve paper and a pencil somewhere on your person.”

  With a half-smile, he produced said items from the cuff of his sleeve and the hem of his trousers. The slip of paper was damp, but serviceable. “At your service.”

  She lifted an eyebrow. “I don’t suppose they conveniently overlooked a skeet pigeon you’ve tucked inside a boot?”

  A ghost of a smile touched his lips. “A small mechanical assistant would be quite handy at the moment. Alas, we will need to depend upon the goodwill of drunkards and street urchins. Send as many as you can. Promise them the moon.” He blew on his hands and flexed his fingers before tearing the paper into thin strips. “What shall I write and to whom?”

  “Begin with a message addressed to my aunt,” she directed. “Sorcha might be hanging about in the shadows.”

  His hand stilled, and Nick lifted his gaze. “Really? Your familiar followed you?”

  “She’ll sometimes take to the streets on her own business, but when we’re out working, not once has she ever left my side. She leapt out the window first, but would have waited. Despite the laudanum forced upon me before they rolled me inside that carpet, I caught glimpses of her trailing behind the crank hack.”

  “You’ll pardon my disbelief, but Sorcha is mostly wild. And a feline. They’re not known for being the most cooperative—or trainable—of creatures.”

  “Agreed.” Colleen tore strips of cloth from her damaged sleeve, braiding them together to form a collar, twisting a wider length of the material to form a pouch. “But neither is she a fat house cat accustomed to a life of pampered indulgence. Which is why the promise of a tin of sardines never fails.”

  Nick made an amused noise.

  A small smile twitched her lips. “Isabella and I trained Sorcha to carry messages home to warn my aunt of inevitable delays, so that she might conceal my absence.” For all the good that had done. All that time her uncle had known what she was about. “We always knew there might come a day I found myself trapped. This situation certainly qualifies.”

  Colleen certainly wouldn’t suggest they reach out to Mr. Witherspoon. Not after he’d hired her to work an obfuscation chain that helped her own uncle to double-cross his traitorous colleagues in a tangled web of betrayal. If—when—they survived this, she was of a mind to bang on his door and set his ears on fire with a few choice words.

  “Worth a try.” Nick began to scratch out a message. “I’m asking her to contact my father who, given the dead body dropped upon his stoop, will have noticed our sudden, and now prolonged, absence.”

  “We only have to pray Isabella is not overly beleaguered with the consequences of her husband’s arrival upon the doorstep.” By the arrival of constables and Runners. By the morbidly curious. But mostly, by relief. They needed Isabella to retreat to her room and find the cat sìth waiting in time to send help before Dr. Farquhar and Mr. Glover returned with plans for Colleen’s death and resurrection.

  Nick handed her the slip of paper, then began to compose a few more general pleas for help. Rolling the message into a tight tube, she tucked it into the cloth pouch and knotted it into place. Minutes later, the notes were written, addressed and stashed securely into her cincher.

  She caught Nick by the lapel of his waistcoat and rose up on to her toes to press a kiss to his lips. “Thoughts of sitting hearthside with you have never been so appealing.” Where she might find the courage to whisper her words of love.

  “Sitting?” He forced levity into his tight voice as he caught her waist and let his gaze slide slowly over her ruined shirt and torn cincher. “There’ll be no sitting. Not until we’re old and gray. But the sooner we’ve a fire before us the better. Let me give you a boost.”

  The opening into the coal chute posed not the slightest problem. Nor—though her cold, raw and much-abused fingers smarted and her arm ached—did the passageway itself. As suspected from the gentle movement of air into the chamber below, the iron plate of the coal hole cover was perforated. Working the latch with frigid fingers proved a challenge, but after a few fumbles, she managed to pop it open. Like a fox emerging from its den, she lifted her head.

  Fifty feet away lay the entrance to the pub. Over its dark, wooden door a sign flapped gently in the wind. Inky shadows clung to the street, but the wavy glass of the pub’s windows gave off a soft yellow glow despite the hour. She could hear the soft clatter of late night traffic, but The Three-Eye Bat was at the end of a long alleyway, close yet removed from nearby busier streets, and foot traffic was regrettably light. “Sorcha!” she called softly, clicking her tongue against her teeth. “Are ye here?” A shadow detached itself from the gloom, wending its way along the buildings, padding cautiously in her direction upon silent feet. “Div nae worry.” Do not worry. “It’s me, Colleen.”

  In true feline form, the cat sìth approached in a cautious, roundabout manner. Sorcha sniffed at Colleen’s mussed hair with disapproval.

  “I’m in need o yer services, fairy cat. Grant me a boon?”

  Sorcha sat back upon her haunches, as if contemplating Colleen’s quandary. Slowly, she lowered herself back into the hole, hoping the cat sìth’s curiosity would draw her closer. It did. The cat sìth peered down into the coal hole, whiskers twitching.

  Colleen lifted the braided collar. “Might I?” When Sorcha did not back away, she tied the twisted neckband about the cat sìth’s neck, an indignity suffered without complaint. “Ging hame,” she said. Go home. “Tae Isabella.” To Isabella.

  The cat sìth blinked at Colleen, then turned about and darted across the cobblestones, melting into the shadows.

  When she was certain Sorcha was beyond hearing, Colleen began to call for help. “Is anyone there?”

  Long minutes passed while she shivered. So close to freedom, yet so very, very far. A drunkard or two staggered from the doors of the pub, oblivious to her beckoning calls. Not until an old, hunch-backed woman turned down the alleyway did a soul turn a face in her direction.

  “What’s this?” The old woman altered course and crept forward to peer down at Colleen. “In a bit of a pickle are you, young lady?”

  “Quite.” Colleen lifted a slip of paper beside her face. “I’m trapped inside The Three-Eyed Bat’s cellars and desperately in need of help.”

  “I’d say,” the old woman agreed, stroking her hairy chin.

  “Please, will you carry a message for me?” Colleen pleaded. “The recipient will pay ten pounds.”

  “One hundred,” she demanded, cackling.

  Unease swirled in Colleen’s stomach. “Done.”

  “And what guarantee have I that it will be paid?” The woman made no attempt to reach for the message.

  “The recipient will be desperate for news. He holds a seat in Parliament.”

  “A lord?”

  Colleen nodded. “He is.”

  The old woman took a step back. “What kind of fool do you take me for? A thousand pounds is no use to a dead woman. No one trapped in cellars beneath The Three-Eyed Bat is worth paying the price of dra
wing the attention of a peer.” She straightened. “Now, they do pay their informants well, and that is an effort worth making.” The old woman padded to the door of the pub and banged.

  “No!” Colleen called. “Please! I’m begging you.”

  But as the door to the pub cracked open, Colleen ducked beneath the surface, pulling the iron coal hole cover closed and praying those inside The Three-Eyed Bat would dismiss the old woman’s tale.

  “What is it?” Nick called.

  Heart pounding, she slid down the brick shaft. “No amount of money—or so I am informed—is sufficient to purchase assistance. I managed to send a message with Sorcha, but an old woman declined my offer in favor of alerting those inside the pub.”

  Nick’s curses echoed her own thoughts.

  She crouched at the bottom of the shaft beside the opening. “What do—”

  Bang. Bang. Bang. The sound of a booted foot stomping upon the coal hole, her silent plea denied. “Is that you, Mrs. Glover? I gather the worm has brought about no ill-effects, though by now you ought to be feeling the cold. No? Shimmy back my way so that we might have a word.”

  “It’s Mr. Glover,” she hissed. Had he not left the pub? Or had he only just returned?

  “Stay still,” Nick whispered. “Let him wonder if the old woman lied.”

  “Quite a lot of trouble you’ve caused me of late,” Mr. Glover called. “Perhaps we shouldn’t have skipped so lightly over the marriage vows. I would enjoy hearing you promise obedience.” There was a long pause. “Last chance, wife. My patience has grown thinner than a French whore’s negligee.”

  Hatred burned in her chest. She refused to answer him.

  “No witty reply?” Mr. Glover said. “Has the chill addled your mind? Excellent. Time to hasten our little experiment. Dr. Farquhar is most anxious to escape to Scotland. Between a burned house and an eviscerated wife, the Metropolitan Police are all too eager to speak with him.”

  A faint clang sounded above her, the sound of tin scrapping across stone. A second later a deluge of cold water poured down upon her, drenching her hair, her shirt and splashed off the brick, soaking through her trousers and pooling inside her boots. Her lungs dragged in a deep, shuddering breath, but the resulting scream froze in her throat as the entirety of her body began to shake uncontrollably.

  “Colleen!” Nick yelled. His hands reached through the metal wall, tugging at her as a second bucket of water rained down.

  She slid back into the frigid prison, as Mr. Glover called, his voice twisted by malice. “We won’t be much longer, my dear. Inform your lover that if there is any resistance on his part, Lady Anna will not be granted the privilege of a cure while supervised by her most dedicated brother. We will instead dispose of him and consider a more compliant patient with more appreciative family members.”

  “Bastard!” Nick yelled.

  Evil laughter filtered down. “Only a third son, like yourself, looking to secure a future.”

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  Wet and dripping, Colleen fell into his arms. Violent tremors shook her petite body. Not only had the water Glover poured down the coal chute soaked her to the skin, it had splashed onto his own clothes, drenching the front of his waistcoat and trousers. Hypothermia was now a given. At best, they could lessen its severity.

  “Hang in there.” Nick carried her to the chair as quickly as he could manage. With stiff fingers, he wrung out her long hair, then twisted it into a rough knot and pinned it in place with his pencil to keep the wet from the back of her neck.

  “Your sister…” Her teeth chattered, clicking uncontrollably as she spoke. “Is it possible… he has her?”

  The thought nagged at him. “Doubtful. She rarely leaves the house and forever has her attendant trailing behind her.” And she was in bed. Sleeping deeply after her most recent syncopal episode. Police officers would be swarming the property. Glover could not possibly have Anna in his clutches.

  Hanging his wet waistcoat from the back of the chair, he stripped away his coat, then Colleen’s cincher and shirt. Tugging off his own shirt, he shoved her cold arms through its sleeves, fingers fumbling to fasten its buttons. Back on went his own waistcoat; when hypothermia threatened, damp clothing was better than no clothing at all.

  “But… promise… of a cure.”

  “With a dead body on our doorstep, I would hope Anna and my parents would be more circumspect about miraculous offers.” Off came her boots. He dumped the water pooled within onto the floor and forced her frigid feet back into the damp leather. Stockinged feet were not an option. Not on cold, wet metal. That way led nowhere but to frostbite.

  He retrieved her wet shirt from the floor and knotted the garment at the wrist, gathering the bolts within the makeshift pouch. Another knot secured them in place. It was a crude weapon but useful when swung at an enemy. He set it along with the metal grating beside the door. When Glover and his minions arrived, Nick intended to be waiting. He only hoped he’d not be too cold to wield it when the opportunity arose.

  When. Not if.

  For the deluge of water spoke of impatience, of a desire to push the moment of the cruel experiment sooner.

  Lifting Colleen from the chair, he lowered himself onto its seat and settled her upon his lap. Nick tucked her wet head beneath his chin and clasped her against his chest. Shared body heat was their best hope to slow their decent into hypothermia. There’d be no stopping it.

  “How are you feeling?” He did his best to ignore the frosty air that billowed about their legs. If the cold drove the nematode into the cardiac muscle of the heart as Farquhar insisted, had it now lodged in her myocardium? “Has your heart skipped a beat? Any sensations of fluttering? Chest pain?”

  “No… to all.” She touched the bare skin of his arm—a sensation that barely registered. “I’m so cold, Nick. How much longer… before…” A tear slid down her cheek.

  “We’ll hold out as long as we can,” he answered. “Remember, they wish us to live.” Farquhar had a mad hypothesis to prove, but Glover only cared to the extent that their—temporary—survival might fill his coffers.

  “When this… is over…” A shiver ran through her body, and Colleen tucked her hands beneath her arms. “Ask me again… to marry you. Properly. On one knee.”

  “Why? Have you finally come to your senses?” The levity in his voice was forced. He rubbed his hands up and down her body, hoping friction might warm her. He’d not win her, only to lose her. “When did you finally realize I was the only man for you?”

  Her tremors subsided. Some. In a few moments, he’d insist they stand, move about in an attempt to keep blood flowing through their extremities. Soon. When his own shivering slowed.

  She huffed a frosty laugh. “It wasn’t one moment. More an accumulation of them. The waltz that first brought us too close. The night we passed an hour with our backs pressed to a chimney stack. Watching you slink through halls. Storm into a room. Seeing you care for your family. Working with you as a partner.”

  “Let’s not forget that desktop kiss. Or time spent in a certain aviary.”

  “But a thief shouldn’t angle for a Queen’s agent.” Her smile was faint, and if his decilamp could illuminate a full spectrum of colors, he had no doubt her lips would cast a faint blue.

  “And yet she caught one.” For he was well and truly hooked. “Tell me, if we marry, do I become a laird?” He refused to let morbid thoughts occupy space in his mind. They would survive this.

  She laughed softly into his neck. “No. That title belongs to the landowner. While a wife is afforded a courtesy title, I do not believe the tradition extends to a husband. Does this third son find himself overly disappointed?”

  “Not at all. I’ve never wished for a title and find myself happy to ponder a future in which I’m a kept man.” He kissed her damp hair and tightened his arms about her. “Tell me again about Craigieburn Castle.”

  “It’s styled after a tower house.” Her voice grew wistful. “And looks li
ke a miniature castle, stretching straight up toward the sky. No moats. No curtain wall surrounding a courtyard.”

  “So very disappointing, that. At least it’s old.”

  “If you consider that it dates to the sixteenth century old.” She laughed into his shoulder. “And before its heirs depleted the family coffers, they fussed with the architecture adding turrets and balustrades, corbeling and gargoyles.”

  “What’s not to love about a scowling gargoyle?” But though she cherished the castle, he knew the inhabitants of its surrounding lands were ever at the forefront of her mind. “And the countryside?”

  “Forests and fields. Most of those who farm the land can lay claim to at least one ancestor with golden eyes, and in the surrounding woods prowl the cat sìth.” The faint smile upon her face faded away. “I’m the last Stewart. If I don’t return—”

  “You will, and I’ll escort you there myself.” He kissed her cool forehead. “Do tell me there’s a massive fireplace in the great hall where we can stretch out before a fire.”

  “Upon piles of warm blankets woven in the clan tartan.” She sighed as her eyelids fluttered shut.

  “Such a tease,” he quipped. But Colleen’s sleepiness worried him. “Time to stand up.” He pushed them to their booted feet. “We need to move. Circulate the blood. Frostbite is something potential brides and grooms ought to avoid before a wedding.”

  Side by side, they moved about the icebox, careful to avoid puddles—be they of blood or water—as they struggled against the deepening freeze.

  Time passed. Minutes or hours, he no longer knew. Only when the decilamp flickered and died, only after shaking it failed to reinvigorate the bioluminescent bacteria within, did Nick notice the gray, feeble light filtering down the ventilation coal shaft from some six feet above.