A Conspiracy of Alchemists: Book One in the Chronicles of Light and Shadow (4 page)

CHAPTER 5

I dreamed of night-gray clouds shifting as I slumbered. Below, my saltwater sisters, the selkies, sang to me as we passed high in the sky over them.

Perhaps I should have roused and made myself known to the girl, but I was so weary. And she had the other to rely on. He would see that she would come to no harm. Of that at least, I was sure.

We were a proud people once. We stood at the side of the phyllomancers in the days when the sun scented the earth with sage and rosemary. We helped them see in the study of the leaves what would come to pass. But that was a long time ago. Mankind no longer concerns itself with what might be tomorrow. Instead, they spend their short, brutish lives burning and wasting, without sparing a thought for what might happen once they are gone. They call themselves scientists and “enlightened,” while we, the ones who have seen the seasons turn a thousand times over are denigrated to dwell in the Shadows.

There are those who believe that humans are beyond the assistance that any of my kind might give. There are those of us who have hardened our hearts. But I embrace neither of these thoughts completely.

The girl with the horse chestnut hair did not know the danger she would face. She was blissfully unaware of the clouds that gathered from behind. And so I slept on, dreaming of the serenity found only at the feet of trees.

The clouds before the headlights of the
Water Lily
parted for a moment. Elle caught a glimpse of the quartz-black sea of the English Channel as it shifted below them.

She checked the clock on the instrument panel. It was past midnight; they had been flying for almost seven hours.

She yawned, put the steering lock in place to keep the ship on course and reached up to stretch her shoulders. Out of habit, she glanced at her compass to check the ship’s bearings and smiled with satisfaction. Apart from being a bit low on balloon gas, they were steady on course.

The ship was pulling a little to one side as helium seeped from the bullet holes, but they didn’t have far to go now, so they would be all right. She would need to book the
Water Lily
in for an overhaul after they landed though. She was also now going to need her canvas patched and refilled. That was annoying. A quick charter across the Channel did not usually include being shot at. She fiddled with the bracelet around her wrist. She should have known there would be problems the moment Patrice gave her this bracelet. What could possibly have been inside the box that would have caused such a fracas? She shrugged. If she’d learned anything in the past few years as a pilot, it was that sometimes it was better not to ask questions.

She glanced over at her travel companions. Patrice was asleep on a bale of cotton packing bags, judging by the soft snores that were emanating from the back. Marsh was in the seat next to her, hunched up in his cloak with his eyes closed. He had a fine face, etched out in profile by the lights of the flight console. It was a pity that it belonged to a man who was so ill-tempered.

“That must be England,” he said, opening his eyes as if it was in reply to her thoughts.

She looked away and cleared her throat. “Yes. I took the long way round across the Channel from Dieppe. The moon is out, so if you look carefully, you should see the white cliffs and the lights of Eastbourne in a few minutes.”

He leaned forward to look out of the window. “Interesting. I’ve never flown in the front seat before. Look at all those stars.”

“It’s what I love best about flying. Up here everything is so quiet. Peaceful.” She thought better of telling him why they were still in the air. The fact that she had to fly at slow speed to conserve balloon gas and that she’d taken the long way to avoid air patrol ships did not make for tranquil flying.

She spotted the lighthouse that signaled landfall in the distance. “See those lights to the left of that bank of clouds? Those are just off the white cliffs at Beachy Head. We’re nearly home.”

“And where would home be, Miss Chance? London?” he asked.

“Oxford actually, but I stay with my uncle and aunt in London when I am flying. They have a house off Grosvenor Square.”

“And your uncle is?”

“Lord Geoffrey Chance. My father, Charles, is his younger brother.”

“Professor Charles Chance?” Marsh considered the matter for a moment. “The spark-reactor scientist?
He
is your father?”

“Professor of science and engineering. Hydro-thermal combustion thaumaturgy and propulsion engines, to be precise.”

“And your mother?”

She studied the cloud formations in front of her. It was a difficult question to answer. “My mother died when I was very young. That’s all there is to say about her.”

“And is it because of your father that you like to fly?”

Elle bristled. Her family was not a subject she liked to discuss. Especially not with strangers. “Something like that. But what about you? Where is home for you, Mr. Marsh?” she asked, turning the conversation away from herself.

“Cornwall.”

She waited for him to elaborate, but he remained quiet. It was probably better that way. She wasn’t sure how much she really wanted to know about him … or what he and Patrice were up to. All she wanted right now was a hot breakfast and a good sleep.

She stretched again. “I don’t know about you, but I could do with a nice cup of tea.”

“I think I could be persuaded.” His face brightened at the prospect.

She reached down into one of the cabinets for the wicker basket that held her tea things and pulled out a teapot. She dropped a handful of tea leaves into it and handed it to Marsh. “Do us a favor and fill this. You’ll find hot water in the samovar that runs off the reactor.”

He rose and moved stiffly across the cabin to the brass samovar, clearly not as unaffected by their escape earlier as he’d let on. Elle smiled to herself. So Mr. Marsh was human after all.

Marsh put the filled teapot down on the counter between them. “This is a handsome ship,” he said, eyeing the interior.

“She is lovely, isn’t she?” Elle poured the tea into enameled tin mugs and spooned a liberal helping of sugar into each. The tea was strong and dark, with a swirl of leaves clouding the bottom. A freight ship was no place for fancy china.

“Who owns her?”

Elle straightened. “That would be me,” she said with a touch of pride. “She’s an independent charter and I hold her lease, but the British Flying Company subcontracts us for now. At least until I have enough capital to start up on my own.”

He looked slightly impressed. “A woman with her own charter company. How fascinating.”

“There is no reason why there shouldn’t be,” she said, annoyed at his tone.

He rolled his eyes. “Are we about to enter into a debate on suffrage, Miss Chance?”

“We might, if you provoke me,” Elle said.

Marsh sighed. “As admirable as the movement is, you may take it from me that the Suffragettes know nothing of the true power of women.”

“Oh, and I suppose you are an expert on the subject?” she said.

“Actually, I am.”

“Is that a fact, now?”

“All I’m saying is that forcing the issue by way of the right to vote will never be helpful. It simply goes against that which is natural. And the loss of belief in the old ways is something we can ill afford these days.”

He was being serious, she realized. She pressed her lips together to hide her disappointment. He was lovely to look at and mildly charming, but under the surface was nothing but shallow, smug arrogance. And she was not going to give him the satisfaction of becoming angry. “For Patrice.” She shoved a mug at him and nodded at their softly snoring companion.

Marsh walked over to him and nudged his shoulder. Patrice sat up. He was red-cheeked and disorientated as he took hold of the mug. He muttered something in French about it not being coffee.

Elle pulled a tin of biscuits from the basket. “Here, have a bit of shortbread. Our housekeeper makes them. She is the unrivaled queen of biscuits,” she said as she handed the tin around.

They drank their tea and bit into the buttery shortbread. Around them, the
Water Lily
groaned and creaked as she limped across the sky. Elle risked another sideways glance at Marsh. Yes, he was definitely a fine-looking man. He was also most certainly trouble—the kind she would do well to avoid.

The communications console rattled and spewed out a thin strip of paper tape. Elle tore it off and looked at the Morse code tapped onto it.

“Airfield coming up. They’ve cleared us for landing,” she said with some relief. “You chaps had better finish your tea. And keep your heads down. I’ve seen enough trouble for one trip.”

The lights of the airfield loomed into view. Elle brushed biscuit crumbs off her coat and stowed the tea things away. It was time to ready the ship for landing.

The airfield opened up below them. To the side were the gargantuan airship hangers where the biggest airships could be overhauled. A row of spark lights lit up on the ground, indicating a landing berth to the left.

Gently she eased off on the throttle and the
Water Lily
aligned herself with the wooden landing platform below. The thrusters spluttered into reverse. With a wheeze of steam, the dirigible berthed. Her slightly flaccid balloon keeled to one side as she shuddered against the mooring trellises. To Elle’s relief, the tether ropes released when she pulled the operating lever. Patrice’s circus act on takeoff hadn’t entangled them as badly as she’d feared.

The night crew ran out and grabbed hold of the tether ropes. A few moments later the whistle sounded to signal that the ship was secure for disembarkation. She took a deep breath. They had made it.

Elle was about to reach for her holdall when she remembered it was gone. The loss of it made her insides lurch. The thought of some greasy absinthe-soaked lout pawing through her possessions made her nauseous, but there was nothing she could do about it. She sighed and tucked her pilot license and the ship’s departure permit into her coat pocket. The holdall had been her favorite. It would take a lot of searching to find another one that she’d love as much.

They waited until the ground crew had finished tying the last ropes before Elle opened the hatch and let the rope ladder tumble down.

It had been raining and the ground squelched a muddy welcome under her boots when she stepped off the bottom rung of the ladder. She smiled. It was good to be home.

“Well, we’ve reached the end of our journey,” she said when her passengers stepped into the mud beside her. “The freight-ship berths are miles away from the departure hall, so if you keep your heads and don’t act suspiciously, no one will notice you leaving. You may have to tramp through a field or two to get to the main road though. It’s that way.” She gestured into the darkness. “I wish you best of luck, chaps. And Patrice, I do hope you find the man who took the viscount’s box.” She turned to Marsh and extended her hand.

He took it and looked into her eyes. “Thank you. For everything.” She felt another jolt. What is it about this man’s stare that affected her so? It really was most disconcerting.

“We really should see you through the arrivals terminal safely. In fact, I insist on it,” Patrice said.

“Oh, that won’t be necessary.” She was in no mood to explain her unscheduled passengers to the authorities.

“Miss Chance!”

She turned at the sound of her name shouted in the distance. A lad of about ten or eleven was running across the field to meet her.

“Quick. Hide!” she said.

Marsh and Patrice stepped into the shadows.

“Miss Chance.” The boy panted as he came to a stop before her. “The night superintendent wants to see you in his office as soon as you’ve cleared customs. He said I am to go with you. This way, please, miss,” the boy said. He took off in the direction of the buildings.

Elle motioned behind her back for Marsh and Patrice to stay out of sight and then followed the boy. She had been dreading the explanations she was going to need when they discovered that she had no docking papers from Paris with her. And that was without having the Airfield Superintendent involved. She put her hands in her pockets and huddled into her coat in the crisp night air as she followed the boy across the airfield to the buildings.

Light from the arrivals hanger spilled out onto the airfield as they entered the deserted customs office. A single spark-lamp cast a lonely, bluish glow over the counters. Four rings of the counter bell eventually procured a sleepy clerk from the back. He shuffled up to one of the little windows and blinked at them in the bright light.

“No freight. Empty cargo freighter returning to homeport. The docking papers have been sent to the British Flying Company direct.” She slipped the Paris departure permit across the counter. “And I need a repair and maintenance form, please. The old girl needs a good solid overhaul.”

To her relief, the clerk just yawned as he found the
Water Lily
in his ledger. He stamped the arrival papers without any further questions and waved them off, intent on getting back to his nap as soon as possible.