Cold Stone and Ivy (27 page)

There were very few patrons in the establishment, so they sat drinking tea as Fanny held forth on fashion, footwear, and, of course, family.

“And so, I simply had to tell the poor boy, ‘Ninny, my dear’—his name is Ninian, you know. Ninian Liddell. I called him ‘Liddell Ninny!’” She sniffed. “So I said, ‘Ninny dear boy, never would any good Helmsly-Wimpoll woman consent to giving her hand to such an union,’ so I bid him adieu.”

She sniffed once more, and raised her tea. “He still pines for me, I fear. Such is the effect of a Helmsly-Wimpoll woman. I do drop him a letter from time to time, however. It is the socially acceptable thing to do . . .”

“More crumble!” called Franny.

“I’m quite certain that if he could find himself some occupation more suitable to my disposition, I would perhaps entertain the thought . . .”

Ivy smiled. “And what is his occupation, Fanny?”

“Mathematician. More precisely, a logarithm writer for the Newcastle A.E. Society.”

“Well then, he must be very intelligent. Analytical Engines are all the rage in London.”

“But darling,” she sniffed. “There is simply no future in computing machines. No future at all.”

“Hmm,” said Ivy.

“So, what are these ‘delicate’ questions?” Fanny leaned forward, dropped a hand on Ivy’s sleeve. “Have you reconsidered about your mother, dearest? Do you know what the Czech has been doing to her?”

“That was good crumble,” said Franny.

Ivy took a deep breath. That night had been almost a week ago. It was hard to know what was real and what she had imagined. Sebastien had been gone for days now, and she realized that Lasingstoke without the Mad Lord and his pack of happy dogs was a quiet place indeed. “We did go up last week, but I didn’t get the chance to see her . . .”

“We,
dearest?”

“Nasty Czech,” said Franny.

Fanny looked Ivy in the eye.
“We,
dearest darling?”

She had to choose her words carefully. “Sebastien and I. We took a carriage to the Abbey, but we were called back before we could see her.”

“Were you wearing your breeches?”

“No!” Ivy laughed. “No, I’ve not worn them yet. I . . . I’ve not been riding . . .”

Fanny sat back, watched her carefully.

“There is more that you are not telling me, dearest. But not to worry. I never pry into affairs of the heart.”

She sipped her tea, gazed out the dark window, and Franny happily began working on her second dish of crumble.

Ivy glanced around the tea shop. It was late, the place was almost empty, and the questions had been eating at her like Franny devouring her crumble. Her heart thudded in her chest.

“Fanny . . .”

“Dearest?”

“You know everything about the families in the district, yes?”

“Absolutely everything, dearest.” Her eyes flashed. “You haven’t asked, have you?”

“Well, I tried . . .” Ivy sighed. “Honestly, I’m afraid to ask. Christien has gone back to London, Sebastien’s gone off to Balmoral—”

Fanny slapped a hand on the table, causing the serving girl to jump and Franny to fling a spoonful of crumble into her tea.

“I knew it! I knew it! I was right, wasn’t I, Franny?”

“You’re always right, Fanny. About what?”

“Why, about the airships!” She leaned forward. “Edward Prince of Wales
did
bring his airship by Lasingstoke, didn’t he dearest? Sebastien de Lacey’s gone to Balmoral with Victoria!”

“With Victoria Imperatrix?”

Ivy sighed.
Honestly, why could she never keep her mouth shut?

“Yes, Fanny. You are quite right. The de Lacey family is on friendly terms with the royals.”

“Mm
hm,”
said Fanny with triumph. “A Helmsly-Wimpoll woman has a nose for such things.”

And suddenly, she leaned in so close that she almost touched Ivy’s forehead with her own.

“He killed her, dearest. Cut her into a hundred pieces in their very bed.”

“Who did?” whispered Ivy. “Who killed her? Who ‘her?’”

“Jane Penteny of Eccelston, dearest. Christien and Sebastien’s mother. It was rumoured she was having a love affair with another man and in fact, that she was pregnant with his child. So Renaud Jacobe killed her with a hunting knife and cut out her womb and her heart. He was a member of the Ghost Club, you know. A ghost hunter. Drove him mad.”

“Quite mad,” said Franny.

“It’s the curse, dearest. Renaud Jacobe killed his wife, because his father killed
his
wife, because his father killed
his
wife. No one wants to marry poor Sebastien because of the curse.” She gazed out the window. “And of course, because he’s mad . . .”

“That-that’s terrible,” said Ivy. “Is this common knowledge?”

“That he’s mad? Of course it is, dearest.”

“No, no, Fanny. The way his parents died. How do you know this?”

“My mother is friend to the cook of the Hasting family’s farrier’s aunt. I have it on good authority, and a Helmsly-Wimpoll woman is never wrong.”

“Oh my . . .”

“But that’s not all, dearest,” said Fanny.

“There’s more?” whimpered Ivy.

“The boys saw it all, they did. They had been fighting. Apparently, Sebastien Laurent was a terrible ruffian and little Christien Jeremie was running in to tattle and they saw their mother in a bloody bed, her heart in their father’s hand.”

Ivy felt sick inside.

“But there’s
more,”
continued Fanny. “Sebastien Laurent, being the ruffian that he was, tried to stop his father. He rushed him, trying to hit him with his little fists. Renaud Jacobe would have absolutely none of it, but Sebastien Laurent wouldn’t stop, so Renaud picked the boy up and threw him from the third-story window. Right out the window! He was dead to the world for weeks.”

She sniffed, looked out at the Castle. “He was at Lonsdale for a good year, I believe, before he even uttered a word. He was, what Franny? Ten? Eleven?”

“Ten.”

Ivy sat, dazed and senseless. It was worse that she could have imagined. Worse than anyone could imagine. Fanny continued.

“When Renaud Jacobe came to his senses and saw what he’d done, he killed himself. Blew his head right off in front of young Christien Jeremie. It’s quite amazing that your Christien is as sane as he is. Sweet, sweet boy.”

“So sweet.”

“At least,” sniffed Fanny. “That’s the tale from Mother’s friend’s cook’s farrier’s aunt. But why wouldn’t it be true? No one would lie about something like that, would they?”

They spent the rest of the evening drinking tea and making small talk before heading back to Annie’s Apparel
just before closing
,
where Ivy Savage bought herself a pair of very fine boots in spite of the potential for scandal.

They left the ghosts of the Castle for another visit.

Of Radioactivity, a Clockwork Pistol,
and Broken Spectacles in Church

“YOU WHAT?”

Christien sighed. “I gave it to Ivy, sir, when I went up to visit.”

Williams glared at him, tightened his grim mouth. “That was not a wise thing to do, boy. She is an impetuous girl.”

Christien looked down at the black and white tiled floor. “All I know is that I have not had a headache in days, sir. I am convinced that thing is detrimental to my health.”

“And so you gave it to your fiancée?” came another voice, and they turned to see the figure of Dr. William Crookes, chemist and physicist with the Royal College of Chemistry. His hair and beard were snowy white and his eyes shone out from under bushy brows. “A radioactive device that gives you headaches and causes you to lose entire days at a time, you decide to give to the woman who will one day bear your children? What a colossal act of love and chivalry.”

“Radioactive?” gasped Christien.

“Oh most certainly,” said Crookes. “What did you think it was, my boy? A pocket watch?”

“I didn’t know what it was, sir. All my attempts to discover its nature were met with deflection.”

“As good a response as any, under the circumstances. It is a powder keg of atomical and parapsychical energy. I sincerely hope she does not explode.”

“Explode?”

“A joke, boy. Sit down, sit down. You are far too pretty to fret.”

They were in one of the many laboratories of Dr. Crookes at his home in Kensington. It was a conservatory almost entirely made of paned glass and containing hundreds of species of tropical plants. There were scientific instruments amongst the greenery; pots of rich black earth spilled over magnifying lenses and microscopes. Small birds flitted between potted palms and telescopes. It was also humid inside this greenhouse lab and it smelled of oranges. As Christien sank into a wicker chair, he wished he could drip away like the condensation streaking down the windows.

“My concern,” began Williams, “is what will happen once Sebastien de Lacey sees the device at Lasingstoke? Will he know what it is? Will he take it to the War Office? God forbid it fall into the hands of Arvin Frankow!”

“We
don’t even know how to use it, Jack. Frankow will not either. No, I am by far the one most suited to uncover its atomical and parapsychical properties. My lab upstairs is equipped to both investigate and contain, if necessary.”

Christien sat forward now. “But what does it do, sir? And if it is so damned important, why did my father leave it to me? Why not will it to the Club and be done with it?”

Both Williams and Crookes exchanged glances. Crookes leaned back in his chair.

“Your father hoarded his treasures like a dragon hoards gold. From what we can gather, it was one of three lockets manufactured two hundred years ago, by some damned metallurgical Frenchie hired by Ashmole. You’ve heard of Elias Ashmole, certainly?”

“No, sir, I have not.”

Crookes sighed now. “Jack, you have been terribly lax in this boy’s education. How could he possibly be voted in for Club membership when he has absolutely no understanding of who we are or what we do?”

“He’s a de Lacey, Bookie. His pedigree speaks for itself.”

“True enough. Look him up, boy. Elias Ashmole. He was a queer duck but brilliant.
Ahem.
To continue, the lockets were apparently constructed based on designs by the Danish alchemist, Tycho Brahe. Have you heard of
him
, boy? No? Oh dear me, dear me. They have names, you know, these lockets, although where the names come from is still a mystery.”

“Names?”

“Ghostlight, Arclight, and Lostlight, or the French equivalent. Yours was Ghostlight.”

“Ghostlight . . .” Christien sat back, thinking.

“At any rate, they were intended to be a channel for angelic forces to enter and exit our world, a sort of ‘ghost door’ to other worlds and planes of existence that we are only beginning to understand now. All my work in chemistry and physics springs from this fundamental hypothesis. You see, I firmly believe that solid matter is neither solid nor matter, but rather collections of particles moving at great speeds through the vacuum of space, and that we are little more than a conglomeration of universal forces held together every second of every day by every word that proceeds from the mouth of God . . .”

He paused, eyes darting from Christien to Williams and back again. He looked down at his tea, sipped a moment before continuing.

“Ahem.
Needless to say, only Ghostlight is left and your father used it to hunt and dispatch ghosts.”

Christien frowned. He did not know what to make of any of this, especially in light of the incident at Seventh.

“Is that what Sebastien thinks he’s doing up North?”

“Likely a form of it,” said Crookes. “Although without the locket, I’m not entirely sure what he’s able to accomplish.”

Williams leaned forward. “And you said your father left you the locket, Remy?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Are you sure about that, boy?”

“Well, yes.”

“And how
exactly
did he leave it to you?”

“He . . . I . . .” Christien blinked, blinked some more. “No. He didn’t. I found it in his room when I was twelve. How odd. I’d completely forgotten . . .”

He cocked his head and sank back in the wicker chair, a furrow appearing between his brows. “After they died, Rupert and Cookie kept the room locked up. I’d never been allowed in, not ever, but Cookie would go in once a month to dust. One day, I slipped in behind her. She didn’t know I was there, and when she left, I spent the entire day going through my things . . .”

“Your things?”

“His
things . . .” Christien struggled to recall as the memories rippled like water. “I found the locket in a chest of drawers. It had turned the inside solid gold. I’ve had it ever since.”