A Study in Darkness (71 page)

“Theorize,” her uncle prompted. “And don’t be flippant. How did we end up here, where we are in this moment?”

She sighed. “You heard Keating. I think that Magnus probably kidnapped Imogen for two reasons. There was his old feud with Bancroft, but taking Imogen made another trap possible. He wanted Athena’s Casket.”

She didn’t mention Magnus’s prediction that her lust for dark magic would eventually tempt her to betray Nick. With Magnus gone and the
Red Jack
in ashes, that wasn’t even possible anymore. The damage was already done.

“Keating did almost the same thing,” she added. “Either one could have held me hostage and forced Nick to give up Athena, but instead I blithely asked him to save Imogen, never thinking what that meant. I was a fool. Nick being Nick went straight to the
Wyvern
. If Keating’s men hadn’t shot down the
Red Jack
, Magnus would have tried for it.”

Holmes nodded. “What else?”

“I put myself in Keating’s power and the
Red Jack
was destroyed anyway. I asked Nick for help and it killed him. I deserve the bargain I made.”

For the first time, Holmes looked sympathetic. “Don’t say that. You don’t know that Nick is gone.”

Tears flooded Evelina’s vision, her eyes stinging with fresh grief. “How could he have survived?” She wiped her cheeks impatiently, aware that her uncle was uncomfortable with tears. The emotional fog that had filled her with exhaustion was finally receding, replaced by anger so vibrant she could barely hold it in.

“I don’t know,” Holmes said. “But the last time we sat like this, we turned over the remaining clues of the Grace Child murder. You found the answers, despite the obscurity of the case. I’ve learned to have faith in slim chances.”

“What answers do we lack this time? Besides how to find Nick, if he still lives, and save Imogen.” As if that was not more than enough.

Holmes nodded. “Someone poisoned Jones and Bingham, even while they were in rebel custody. The rebels have a traitor in their midst. So does the Blue King. My assumption was that it was Mycroft, but I am not sure it was entirely his work. I have yet to solve that mystery.”

Evelina blinked. “You know far more about the resistance than you’re letting on. Are you involved? Do you know who the Schoolmaster is? He seems to have a lot of influence for someone so young.”

He gave her an enigmatic look. “I know something of the players in the Baskerville affair, and I think you are better off under Keating’s protection than out in the cold right now. Say what you wish about the Gold King, but he looks after what’s his, and dangerous times are coming.”

“I don’t want his protection. I want his entrails as bootlaces.”

“I can sympathize, but I repeat my point. It is only a matter of time before you may be grateful of shelter. Rebellions are not for young ladies, however much they may aspire to the status of hoyden.”

“Keating put me in shackles.”

“But tasteful ones.”

There were silver bracelets on her wrists, plain and slender, almost elegant, but impossible to remove. And they were equipped with an aetheric signaling device. As long as she wore them, the Yellowbacks knew where she was.

Any hope of flight had been crushed as soon as she saw the mark the bracelets bore: Her Majesty’s Laboratories, where those of the Blood were committed for scientific experimentation. It was a less than subtle reminder of what might happen if she crossed her employer.

Holmes’s expression was grave. For once, her uncle wasn’t reading the paper or fiddling with his pipe. He was looking at her very seriously, and it made her twitch. It really was like Bird said:
I can see him thinking about unbolting my hide so he can see what makes my gears turn
. “Don’t mistake me, Evelina. I want your freedom almost as much as you want it. But you know how much it hurts to lose the ones you hold dear, so I cannot help but desire your safety more than anything else. Be patient and leave the battle to others. Live to see the Empire free.”

“And if there’s anything that can be done to find Nick or help Imogen …”

“It shall be done. Trust me on that.”

“You’re getting downright sentimental, Uncle,” she said, trying to keep her tone light though her throat ached with unshed tears.

The corner of his mouth twitched. “What else did you learn in Whitechapel? You were in some extremely challenging circumstances.”

Evelina swallowed, feeling the stir of dark hunger inside her. There was a little bit of her that was grateful for the restraint of Keating’s bracelets. “I learned that I can be tempted.”

Sherlock gave a brief flicker of a smile. “Everyone can. It’s just a matter of who will admit to it, and who whistles in the dark, and who will make that weakness their weapon.”

“Weapon?”

“One has to understand the nature of a fatal flaw before one can find it in others. Know yourself, to know your enemy.” Holmes’s eyes grew hard.

Evelina felt the heat of anger again. “Keating regards me as an interesting toy.”

“Then use his mistake.”

“I wish I could, but I’m useless. Imogen and Nick are dead or in mortal peril, and I’m about to be enslaved. Last spring I was worried about what gloves to wear. What can I do against Keating?”

“Always go with the white, and stay safe.” Holmes made a steeple of his fingers. “Arm yourself against every eventuality
and survive. There is only one thing to do once you have such distinguished enemies. Wait and watch. And when your moment comes, you make them pay dearly. Difficult times do not last.”

She finished his favorite piece of advice. “Difficult, obstinate, and impertinent people do.”

And then she heard the sound of feet on the stairs, and a sharp, commanding rap.

“Ah,” said Holmes. “Your coach is here. Then this is good-bye.”

IMOGEN DIDN
’
T FEEL
right. It wasn’t that she felt physically ill—she was fine that way. It was just that everything felt odd. Disconnected. Almost as if she’d gone shopping and left a parcel behind but couldn’t recall what it was.

Then she realized that she was lying on a very pretty pink and green carpet. It was soft, but she was on the floor, so she got to her feet, shaking out her skirts. Had she fainted? And where was she?
This has to be another dream
.

Except somehow she knew it wasn’t. With a pang of uneasiness—the creeping, crawly kind one gets from a frightening novel—she looked around. The room was a small study, pleasant enough and nicely furnished, and with a case of books that looked very old and musty indeed. She’d never seen this place in her life.

Until she went to the window and lifted the curtain. Imogen sucked in her breath, her fingers crushing the soft fabric. She had expected to see a garden, or a meadow, or some bit of landscape. Instead, she saw the stairs descending from the bedrooms of her house to the second-floor landing. The perspective was confusing, to say the least.
There’s no study on this side of the stairway, so how am I standing in it?

And then it slowly dawned on her that it wasn’t just the perspective and angle that was strange, but also the scale. For things to look the way they did, she would have to be as tiny as a china figurine.

And she would have to be inside the longcase clock that Dr. Magnus built.

She looked again, and then reasoned everything through again, her mind resisting an illogic as relentless as an incoming tide. In a sudden surge of terror, Imogen began pounding on the window—the inside of the clock face—and screamed.

A Study in Silks
A Study in Darkness

“
YOU ARE NOT WELCOME HERE,
”
SAID THE MAN IN THE QUIETLY
understated brown suit. “Forgive my blunt speech, but I cannot make it any more plain. Those of us on the faculty have established policies.”

Those of us on the faculty
. That meant this man who had interrupted her work was a professor. Evelina Cooper gripped her notebook until her knuckles hurt, wishing it were heavy enough to knock reason into his head. Surely he could see the equipment in this place was infinitely superior to what they had at the Ladies’ College? And what harm was there in her using it? She wasn’t in anyone’s way.

The man waited for her to acknowledge his words—no doubt expecting swift obedience—but Evelina couldn’t look at him. A painful knot lodged at the back of her throat, like a stillborn wail of frustration.

“I am happy to assist you in clearing away this equipment,” he offered, “and we’ll say no more about this incident.”

Stubbornness made her stall, and she fiddled with the photograph slipping out from between the pages of her book, tucking it back into place. It was of her uncle Sherlock, his likeness no doubt at home between the ruled pages of formulae and lecture notes.
If someone had tried to toss Sherlock Holmes out of a lab, he would have knocked the offender down
. But young ladies were expected to be meek and mild.

Marginal politeness was a more attainable goal. “Your offer of assistance is kind, sir, and yet I don’t understand why I can’t use this facility.”

“I think you do. None of the sciences are required for a Lady’s Certificate of Arts.” He swept a hand around the laboratory. “Therefore, all this is unnecessary for students of the female college.”

“I protest that logic, sir.” It came out stiff with displeasure, but Evelina knew she had lost.

“Miss, be reasonable.”

“I am perfectly reasonable, sir, which is why I am astonished by this restriction.” Evelina twisted her silver bracelets around, fingers alive with agitation.

Her gaze searched the high-ceilinged room, though there was nothing to find in the gray shadows. The laboratory, with its rows of tables and shelves of gleaming equipment, was empty this early in the morning. Most of the students were still groping for their second cup of tea. The fact that the door to the lab had been locked hadn’t slowed her down for more than half a minute.

He gave her a hard look from under beetling eyebrows. He wasn’t one of the creaky old dons of the University of Camelin—not yet, anyhow—but he had perfected the glower. “Perhaps you should consider something in the line of elocution or moral philosophy.”

Evelina bit her tongue.
Do my morals appear to need philosophy, sir? Outside of picking the lock, that is?

The man harrumphed at her silence. “Domestic management, then. Or maybe literature.” He pronounced the latter with a curl of the lip.

Evelina looked away before her temper led her down a regrettable path. She had powers this man had no idea about. She could command spirits of earth and tree. She had dabbled in sorcery and tasted death magic. She had nearly bled to death in a Whitechapel gutter and had made enemies and allies of some of the most powerful men in Mayfair—one of whom had bound her magic to his service with those pretty silver bracelets. And yet she couldn’t get a seat in a proper chemistry class.

At last, she let out a sigh. “I am an eager student of languages and literature, but I am here to study science.”

“A worthy ambition,” said the man. He might have bottled
the tone and put it on the shelf next to the other dangerous acids. “But perhaps the practical work is a little beyond your scope.”