Cold Stone and Ivy (22 page)

“I have been thinking about it for some time,” Christien continued. “So when Rupert sent the telegram, I couldn’t stomach the thought of taking an airship then renting a coach for the drive to Lasingstoke, so I simply . . . bought a steamcar.”

“Six wheels?”

“Naturally,” he purred. “Four wheels are notoriously unstable. You see the bloody things tipped all over the streets back home. It’s said that Edward has one with eight.”

She looked back at the car.

“Can we go for a drive?”

“What? Now?”

“Yes. Now. I’d love to go for a drive.”

“Ivy?” He studied her for a long moment. “What on earth are you thinking?”

“I need to go somewhere.”

“You are incorrigible, you know that?”

But he held open the door to help her up and onto the high tufted seat before moving around to the rear of the car.

She watched as he slipped on goggles then a set of heavy leather gloves and raised the boot of the car. She watched him rummage around the firebox and pull out a block of coal. She sat a little higher, twisting in her seat to see the flash of a copper boiler as the coal disappeared into the furnace with the slap of a plate. He closed the boot and flashed her another smile before climbing up behind the driving levers. He passed her a set of goggles, and she remembered the sight of Franny, her blonde hair and goggles and wild scarf flapping in the wind.

With a dramatic flourish, he held up a beautiful golden key, set it into the lock, rotated it three times, and punched a hex-key painted in green. It took but a moment for the engine to catch, and suddenly, the vehicle began puffing and chugging like a locomotive. She threw a nervous glance at her fiancé.

“Just warming up,” he purred. And with a deft motion, he released the clutch, hauled off the brake lever, and the steamcar bounced forward, and forward again.

Ivy yelped as the steamcar puffed and chugged, puffed and chugged down the drive that led away from Lasingstoke Hall.

“THIS WAS A
bad idea, Ivy.”

They stood by the graves near the little church at Lasingstoke, having left the steamcar by the side of the road. It was called All Souls Christchapel and had served the estate and surrounding area for centuries. There was no minister, no parson or priest, as the de Lacey family had historically refused to incorporate English rites into their charter. According to Christien, marriages, christenings, or funerals were to be conducted by the resident baron in either Latin or French.

Headstones dating back over six hundred years sank beneath statues blackened with age, wooden crosses splintered and tipping. Barely visible was a mound of new earth with a name carved into a hazel branch. “Charlie Fretts, 1877-1888,” it read.

“I would just like to see it,” she said.

“It’s just a house.”

“Come on.”

Without waiting for an answer, she turned and set off down the path. The imprints of boots were still visible and drying like mortar in the mud.

“I’m sorry this has happened,” said Christien as he reluctantly followed. “But going there will only fuel your fears, not cool them.”

“But how could a thing like that happen, Christien?” she asked. “You should have seen his face.”

“Superficial wounds, Ivy,” he said. “He likely fell out of a tree and scratched it on the holly. Look at this. It’s worse than thistle in this forest.”

“They looked like claw marks,” she countered. “Some were very deep.”

“But if they were so very deep, how could they heal in two nights?”

“Your brother did something at the church. That’s what Rupert said.”

“Rupert is not a medical doctor.”

“Your brother knew that Davis was heading into Seventh.”

“My brother knew because we were once boys too, Ivy.”

She said nothing more for some time. The forest was dark and damp, and there was no trace of birdsong this deep in. She was beginning to grow winded hiking over the uneven terrain and looked at down her city boots, the hem of her skirt swishing and snagging on the branches. She wondered what the breeches would feel like on her legs.

And then she saw it, the place that almost killed her brother. Tall, dark, and all but hidden by the ivy that worked to consume it, the Seventh House of de Lacey was made of stone. There were black sashes over the windows and rusted locks over the doors. It was empty and run-down, but there was no blood, there were no axes, no cobwebs or spiders or anything remotely sinister.

It was just a house.

Christien moved around to stand beside her, and his face was neutral, skin like fine porcelain. A lock of dark hair fell across his forehead. It looked out of place.

“Bastien used to always say this was where the bad things went.”

“Here? To Seventh?”

“Yes. Father used to scare us all the time with tales of Seventh. Entire families murdered in this house, he would say, since before the de Laceys staked the claim back in the Iron Conqueror’s time. Sometimes Father would bring him here when he was being bad, which was quite often. I’m not surprised he’s made up an entire mythology around this place.”

She couldn’t tear her eyes away. It was just an abandoned house.

“After our parents died, Bastien spent years at Lonsdale.
Years
, Ivy. Even Frankow couldn’t take the voices away, despite all his treatments. He still can’t bear to be in the same room as me. Says the cadavers are too much for him.”

“But Rupert—”

“Rupert indulges him. He protects him, shelters him, and treats him like a child. Which, I suppose, he is.”

There was only a faint breeze drying the leaves that remained on the trees, preparing everything for winter. It would be cold soon. They both continued to stare at the house a long while before Christien spoke again.

“Bond insists we learn the new theories for our psychology course. He says it will be instrumental in understanding the criminal mind. Naturally, because of Bastien, it has a special interest for me. The monographs of Drs. Freud, Bleuler, and Schneider have opened my eyes to my brother’s illness.”

The ivy was covering two sides of the house, already turning red with the first touches of frost. She remembered it had been an evening of ice and frost.

“He has a condition that’s being called ‘schizophrenia.’ It’s from the Greek, meaning ‘to split the mind.’ He sees things no one else sees. He hears things no one else hears. Frankow is a pioneer in such conditions and has pharmacological compounds available to help dull the symptoms but Bastien refuses to take anything. It’s a terrible syndrome, and I am certain there is no cure.”

She sighed.

“So there is nothing ‘fantastical’ left in the world . . .”

“Not in my world.” He sighed. “There can’t be. There are only facts and evidence and unexplained science.”

The large spectacles, the blood on his cheek, the words in Latin.

“Are you disappointed?”

“I’m sorry, Christien. I’m afraid I don’t know what to believe anymore.”

“No, Ivy.
I’m
sorry. I shouldn’t have sent you here. To be honest, I didn’t expect Bastien to be here at all. He rarely is.”

He took her hand in his, gave it a squeeze. She looked down. Long elegant fingers, neatly trimmed and polished nails, no blood or bruising. There was a brass ring on his little finger. She had never seen it there before.

He smiled a thin smile. “Can we go back now? I hate this place.”

“Wait—” She paused, glanced up at the sky above the house. “Can you hear that?”

“Oh Ivy, please . . .”

“No, Christien, it’s like a heartbeat. Listen . . .”

The trees began to move and moan and soon, a sound very much like the beating of a heart, growing louder and stronger by the moment. Not a thud, thud, thud; rather, a thwup thwup thwup. That and the rustle of the dry leaves in the trees. Thwup thwup thwup went her heart, and the rustling trees were beginning to sound like the humming of a very large engine, and she thought it nothing at all like the howling and roaring of that rainy night.

A huge dark shadow fell across them, and they both looked up as the vast underbelly of an airship came into view over the Seventh House of Lasingstoke.

WITH THE STEAMCAR
running on full throttle, they managed to beat the airship back to Lasingstoke Hall and watched from the courtyard as the massive vessel slowed in mid-air, preparing to dock. There were four others in the sky high above Lasingstoke, a regular armada. The hum and thwup of propellers was almost deafening, and servants she had never seen before came flooding out of the Hall to attend to it. The name
“HMAS Royal Carolina”
was painted in gilt across her bow.

She
was a grand airship with a large cylindrical balloon of black and gold canvas, brass scalloped fins, and copper rudders, with rings of aluminium and girders of polished steel. Beneath it, the cabin was as ornate as a royal frigate, her hull painted a gleaming white, with ebony and gold fittings. The bowsprit figurehead was a woman of solid gold, and on her stern, gold and silver mer-people frolicked in ivory waves.

She was flying the colours of the House Saxe-Cobourg and Gotha.

Ivy clutched Christien’s arm.

“The Prince of Wales?”

He turned to her, and she thought she had never seen him smile so.

“This is a surprise.” He looked back, shaded his eyes against the flying debris for a better look. “I wonder if Eddy’s here too?”

The gondola hovered scarcely ten feet from the ground, and she could see faces in the saloon of the cabin. The crew were shouting orders, cables were dropped, and servants rushed to catch them. From the cabin, uniformed men dropped to the ground to do the same, and suddenly Ivy understood the reason for the black iron posts in the courtyard. They were securing the airship to the ground, much in the same way a ship was secured to a dock. Ivy shook her head. It was truly too fantastical for her.

More shouting now, and she could see Rupert’s tall form appear from one of the court’s many doorways, hands on hips, as a metallic stair unfurled from the deck like a sea-faring gangplank. A bosun’s whistle blew all to attention.

First, several men in naval dress, goggled still as the propellers lifted debris into the air, but soon a stout figure in breeches, riding boots, and town coat stepped onto the stair. Albert Edward, Prince of Wales, kept one hand on his top hat to keep it on his head. His other hand was gloved and tucked across his belly, and she knew it was the mechanical one, hidden in the sleeve. He was bearded and she thought he rather looked like a bear. A fine, intelligent, decorated bear.

Directly behind him followed another man, much younger, perhaps the same age as Christien, and once again, she knew him. Albert Victor Christian Edward, Duke of Clarence and Avon, eldest son of the Prince of Wales and grandson to Victoria. Scandal followed at his heels like flies after a butcher’s cart. He was taller than his father and slimmer, and his dress was much finer, with a pale grey waistcoat, red silk cravat, and yellow carnation in his lapel. But the likeness was undeniable, down to the upturned moustache, and he followed stiffly down the stair. His disinterested gaze swept over everything.

The Prince of Wales and Duke of Clarence stood, goggles toffed, awaiting a formal greeting. Both Rupert and Christien began moving across the square to oblige. Ivy stayed near the archway, watching them exchange greetings, handshakes, claps on the shoulder as men were wont to do. But suddenly, Christien was waving her over and before she knew it, she was standing before the heir apparent to the English throne and his son.

She curtsied, keeping her eyes low.

“And this is Ivy Savage, Your Royal Highness,” said Christien. “My fiancée.”

“Enchanted.” The bear man thrust out his gloved hand and she was obliged to take it. It felt odd, stiff, and the fingers closed about hers with a series of clicks. “A bit of a wild thing, isn’t she? ‘Savage,’ you say? Common Welshie name, wot? Are you a child of the Red Dragon, girl?”

“Yes, Your Highness.” She felt her cheeks redden. “I grew up in Swansea, sir.”

“She knows Williams,” said Christien. “From the same town, in fact.”

“Ah, Jack! Capital fellow!” Edward guffawed. “
Y Ddraig Goch ddyry gychwyn,
and all that, wot, little
Cymry!”

“Indeed, sir,” she grinned. His pronunciation was atrocious but he was fluent, she had to admit.

“You don’t have the lilt, girl.”

“No, sir. My father moved to London many years ago.”

“Splendid, splendid. Good catch, I’d say. A Prince of Wales must love the Welsh! And I do, girl! I most certainly do! Eddy, say hello to the little
Cymry
.”

Ivy swallowed as Albert Victor stepped forward, took her hand in a formal, if unremarkable, grip.

“Enchanted,” he said, and she could feel his disinterested eyes sweep over her figure. And, Ivy thought, over Christien’s as well.

“Eddy has made captain,” the Prince of Wales bellowed, obviously proud of his son. “He will be commanding the new Royal Corps of Airships in the New Year.”