Gilded: The St. Croix Chronicles (27 page)

“I will not—” I bit my tongue, ceasing the careless cruelty of my distraction, and was spared the need by Zylphia’s return through the same door Booth and his wife now looked in on.

Her expression as she sidled past my butler was perplexed. “Ah, Cherry?”

I ignored Fanny’s sharp intake of scandalized breath, and the echoed sound I heard from beyond a pained-looked Booth. “Quick, give them here.” I beckoned impatiently.

“Of course, it’s just that . . . Well, see for yourself.” She pulled two scraps of white bands from behind her back. As if someone had taken the palms and a portion of the fingers and cut them directly out.

“What on earth?” Fanny demanded, and raised a lecturing finger to my maid. “Young lady, if this is how you launder—”

“Leave her be,” I cut in sharply, yet I could not help my grin. It spread ear to ear, filled my chest with something exciting and sharp. Something I recognized well.

The rising blood of a chase.

Digestion. Not so literal, after all.

All eyes turned to me as I took the ruined gloves and laid them out on the table.

It was as if bits of the cloth were missing. Whole section, exactly in the shape of fingers whose tips and joints were gnawed out. A bit of the palm.

How strange. How interesting.

How
lovely
that I was right.

“The formula,” I said as I plucked one from the table and stripped a glove from my hand, “used the letters
D
and
G
. Digestion.” I began to pull the ruined glove over my fingers. My palm. “Among various other instructions, it also required aether to imbue it and water to carry it.”

“What are you babbling about?” Fanny demanded. “There’s no call to put a glove full of holes on your hand.”

Yet as my fingers slid into place, I watched them appear within the empty portions. Watched them, yet
felt
the indication of fabric where none showed. “Digestion,” I murmured, more now to myself. “As Mr. Pettigrew suggested, it could also be the process by which one element overtakes another. Much the same as the fabric what took on the liquid, bonding both. If it seeps through the body, then won’t it do the same?” Worse, to my way of thinking, for the unique properties of a body allowed for a richer consumption through the blood.

“Cherry, really,” Fanny said, once more cutting into my thoughts.

I looked up, fingers flexing within the indication of the vanished fabric. “What? Oh.” I smiled, distracted and more than a little manic. “Eureka. We are searching for an invisible killer.”

“Invisible? Preposterous,” Fanny dismissed.

When even Zylphia looked skeptical, I raised my patchworked hand and added, “Oh, not
truly
invisible. It’s science, not magic. Zylphia?”

“Miss.”

“How long will it take for my costume to be ready?”

“All day,” Fanny interjected, deliberately stripping any intent I might have had to go searching for evidence or hunting down my invisible woman.

For I had no more doubts. The dress in Professor Lambkin’s office had been my first clue, after all.

Miss Hensworth was dabbling in the alchemical arts. That would make this much harder, but that much more important.

“But I—” I sighed. “Fine. Ready my costume.” I stripped off the glove once more.

Yet as I did, I felt what we all heard. A subtle sound, a whisper, but loud as a scream in the silence following my order.
Rip.

Frowning, I studied the glove. Ran it through my fingers. It gave. Just like that. And what fibers gave, soon crumbled to nothing.

I looked up, my frown turning to sudden concern. “It is wearing down.”

“What?”

“It weakens the structure of the fabric,” I told them, and spun in agitation. “Perhaps the aether reacts poorly with the long term viability of the material it imbues. Blast! We
must
be at that masquerade. ’Tis life or death, now.”

“Cherry,” Fanny sighed, and dropped her forehead into her cradling hand.

I left her there, left Mrs. Booth and Zylphia staring in my wake as I hurried up the stairs to begin my own preparations.

Alchemy was not magic. Yet like most scientific endeavors, there were drawbacks to be had. Drawbacks that could build, like a slow poison or a quiet, subtle killer.

I knew this more than most. The drawback to my father’s serum had been fatal.

Miss Hensworth might not realize the same.

Chapter Twenty

I
t was nearly impossible to retain my focus.

The entirety of King’s College had been transformed for the masquerade, turned inside out in a sheer wonderland of surreal decor and unique display. What belonged inside was now outdoors, and what was meant to be outside had gone in.

I had never seen the like.

And clocks, clocks everywhere! So many devices fashioned from so many materials. Guests filed past two large grandfather clocks that I could only assume had cost a small fortune apiece. They tolled out at random increments, skewing my sense of time as I was sure they’d been intended. We passed tables set for tea, shelves filled with books and protected by faux walls attached to nothing at all. The path stones we tread upon were clocks, tiny gears open beneath a pristine plate of glass, numbers lacquered in stark black.

Each gave a different time, each ticked on a different beat.

Over it all, protecting us from the rain falling to the London streets in icy sheets of cold and wet, rose creations in scrollworked metal to resemble pieces of ceiling and dreamlike portions of an abstract house. Telescopes mounted on brass fittings looked out of windows set in walls with no interior.

Desks and bookshelves, parlor furniture, all of it exactly where it shouldn’t be.

I did my best not to stare as Fanny and I walked in step with a knot of richly garbed strangers, yet I failed more often than not.

My costume was truly inspired. Madame Troussard had outdone herself. In the guise of a masquerade, gentlemen and ladies can always stretch the bounds of propriety for the favor of surprise and awe. I did both.

Yet there were many who had taken it even farther. I did not see simple sky ship captains or old-fashioned lords and ladies. I saw creatures who stepped from the pages of fantasy; a truly magnificent collection of gowns, coats, hairpieces, masks. The noise, even in the queue, was astonishingly deep; not so much loud as rich and full and vibrant.

My gown was shockingly pink, a paler shade than I usually dared to wear. The sleeves were a diaphanous material that revealed my arms to any who bothered to look, yet whose gathers at the elbow turned them to large puffs of shimmering confection. It was not lace that spilled from the hem but a waterfall of crystals linked together by sturdy net, and they caught the light in a thousand glittering shards.

And clinked like tiny bells with every gesture.

The bodice of the gown was low—much lower than I was usually comfortable with, and I constantly worried for my ability to move, much less my modesty—yet the same crystal net shaped my décolletage, hugged my throat and made it appear as if I wore crystalline armor. It fastened to a large, ornate brass collar, whose inset cameo did not feature a woman but a single faceted crystal in the shape of a rose.

My corset was tight enough to give my bell-shaped skirt a dramatic flare. The bustle drawn tight at the waist and gathered into a shimmering mix of diaphanous pink and mauve ruffle offered an extreme bit of feminine flirtation, which I rather wryly tolerated. I pitied anyone behind me, for I knew the crystals hanging from the bustle were blinding in the right light.

Yet the split down the front ensured it by no means was a proper skirt. The mauve-ruffled petticoats I wore to give it sway and shape were likewise split, allowing my legs from the thighs to my knee-high tooled boots to be ogled at any viewer’s leisure.

Regardless, I was not so bold as to go bare-legged in such vaunted company. Zylphia suggested she might; I was not a sweet, nor looking to be mistaken for one. Instead, I wore trousers beneath the skirt, fitted so well in the same mauve that they rather scandalously clung to each leg before vanishing into the boots.

I looked as if I were a pirate princess in pink and diamonds, rather than Miss St. Croix, the only marginally proper heiress.

I was, much to my surprise, very much not myself.

My mask was not a full one, covering only my eyes and much of my nose. My hair, of course, was easily recognizable, and Zylphia had done a lovely series of curls and loose knots to which the large array of gilded roses could be applied.

I felt weighed down, stuffed into place, and . . .

And remarkably pretty.

Yet I had no weapons, no items which I could use to my advantage. I hunted a murderer bare-handed and alone. Fanny would be no help—lovely as she was in a more subdued creation of smoke and lace, her mask a painted moue and the hood affixed to her bodice covering much of her hair.

Zylphia dared not risk being found sneaking into such an event. And I had no Teddy for even escort.

Somehow, I would have to find Miss Hensworth in this madness without my proper escort becoming the wiser.

I knew she would be here, for the dean was also here. But how would I find her?

Fanny did not speak as we stepped into the ballroom proper. She must have been quite overwhelmed; I could not tell beneath her costumed finery. Yet her hand on my arm tightened as even I was forced to stare.

Trees had been somehow moved inside. The massive ballroom King’s College boasted for events such as these had become a garden, with a screen of black night and glittering stars overhead. Pocket watches by the hundreds sparkled in the trees like ornaments, some copper, some gold, some silver or brass.

“Good heavens,” Fanny gasped, and I followed her gaze, up into the very heights of the ballroom.

A sky ferry. Lady Rutledge had somehow managed to include a sky ferry into her event, and the dean had allowed it. It hung from supports, a beautiful thing of brass polished to perfection, wooden beams, and a gasbag made of some kind of pale linen shot through with gold. Even as I watched, the flames beneath the bag sparked blue.

As if that weren’t surreal enough, I saw men and women soaring across the ceiling in shimmering gold ribbons. They spun and danced on air and webs, graceful as birds, agile as spiders.

Circus performers.

Lady Rutledge had brought the Menagerie to London proper.

A knot formed in my belly. Hard and tight and anxious.

“Pardon,” shouted a man who blundered by me, his voice distorted behind his mask. I saw nothing but black and white, and eyes sparkling from too much drink, perhaps. Or too much heat.

Fashionably late though we were, the event was already a crush.

A masquerade has different rules; ones that are closely mirrored by the Midnight Menagerie below. There are no identities for the evening, no requirements but that the barest forms of propriety be considered. To that end, I escorted Fanny to a likely knot of women wearing costumes slightly more subdued, and waited until she found a friend.

I patted her hand. “I should find the earl,” I said, my mouth close to her ear.

She nodded. “Be a good girl, then, and—” She caught my arm. I could all but picture the frown on her stern features. “Do not do anything we will regret, do you hear me?”

“Absolutely not,” I assured her, lying through my teeth. Even now, I studied all who passed by me, frittered around me. Many costumes revealed a portion of faces, hands, arms.

I would search for the one that did not.

Digestion.
All scientific medicinals took time to reach full potency. Such was indicated by the absorption rate displayed by my glove. It was possible that Miss Hensworth had taken the term literally, for no other method I could envision based on the working formula would work nearly so well. How long had she been drinking the concoction?

Miss Hensworth needed to be stopped.

I left Fanny in good company, threading my way through the crush of people. I heard many conversations, some that told me exactly who spoke. But I also heard so much more, and the sheer anonymity of the event did not make things weigh any less.

At each corner of the ballroom, I found garden hills, covered in flowers and occasionally springing forth another strange little clock. At the top of each hill, a brass cannon. I wondered what it would shoot, if anything.

Glass windmills and beaten silver devices that spun around and around in dizzying patterns dotted the crowd. Over it all, the occasional
whoosh
of the sky ferry’s aether engine warming up, and a glint of gold as aerialists danced their airy dance.

I forged my way through a small knot of gentlemen all wearing the same long-nosed mask, and did not pay much attention to the long golden device one held to his mouth until it blared out a sound that rebounded through the already noisy ballroom.

I flinched, spinning around with my shoulders tight, raising a hand to my ear as the cacophony bounced back in a flurry of wild echoes and raucous laughter. The men hooted and hollered, passing the noise-making device to one of their own.

I shook my head as I backed away from the oddly sinister-looking mask each wore.

Started as my back collided with a solid, unyielding warmth.

“I am sorry, I—”

Hands fell to my shoulders. “A dance,” came a voice that curled like a velvet promise against my skin.

I stiffened, turned in a frothy confection of pink and mauve, but my masked gentlemen only took my gloved hand in his and led me the few paces to the floor. Without waiting for denial or protest, I found myself expertly inserted into the spiraling, graceful display of iridescent color.

I stared through the awkward confines of my mask at the man who towered above me.

His mask, unlike mine in its glittering pink and pearlescent design, was stark in its simplicity. Solid black, lacking gilt or shine, it covered more than half of his face, leaving only his mouth and square chin free.

His hair was black, queued back into a straight fall past his shoulders, and his costume much less pretentious than even mine. He wore simple black from head to toe, eschewing the proper white shirt, formal tie and gloves for the ebon color.

But his eyes. They met mine without fear or artifice, and I set my jaw as a river of blue flame in brown gleamed like the aether fire above us.

My feet, habitually taking the steps required of the waltz I found myself in, took a misstep. I opened my mouth; his hand splayed across my lower back, pulling me all too closely against his powerful body, and guided our turn across the floor.

My words dried, my tongue suddenly clumsy.

“I was under the perhaps mistaken impression that all ladies in London could dance,” Micajah Hawke taunted softly.

My skirts swirled around his legs, an intimate tangle that made it abundantly clear how trousers provided so little barrier between bodies such as ours.

I gritted my teeth. He did not know who I was. He could not.

Zylphia had sworn to it.

I forced my lips into a smile and met his gaze direct. “You have unfortunately found the exception to the rule, if such a rule is to be had.” Small talk. Charming conversation.

These were things expected of a lady upon the dance floor.

I would have preferred to take a knee to his most vulnerable flesh and leave him gasping on the floor.

Hawke and I were not friends.

But this lady in pink and crystal had no call to be so rude, and so I swallowed the urge and smiled prettily and counted the beats until I could be free.

“Never fear,” he said, his palm pressing all too intimately low on my back. Sweat gathered there. Bloomed across my shoulders, mercifully bare beneath the crystalline net. “You have other talents.”

Another misstep; one I caught myself and righted without help. Or, I hoped, revelation of my dismay.

What did he know?

“I’m sure,” he added after a moment’s study. His gaze was lazy, his smile mirroring that laconic indulgence I so often had seen when he performed for the crowds.

The last I’d been so close to see it, he’d fondled a sweet’s breast in a steam-filled room of debauched men and women playacting at Roman bathhouse.

My skin heated.

“You are too bold, sir,” I snapped.

He did not let me pull away. His grip tightened, until my chest was pulled against his and I could see each tiny pore where he’d shaved the bristle of a day’s work from his strong, swarthy jaw.

Micajah Hawke was temptation given flesh, and he bloody well knew it.

I was better than his simple creatures. I was not his pet.

His mouth lowered to my ear. Relief that he only meant to whisper filled me as he expertly navigated our path through the swish and swirl of beautifully tailored skirts and streamers.

Until his breath touched the sensitive skin there. His chuckle was as dark as his reputation. “I beg a bargain.”

I nearly laughed outright, breathless though I remained. The ringmaster of the Menagerie did not beg for anything. “Be careful what you bargain for, sir, for these are not your usual grounds.”

“Careful what you taunt me with,” he returned in the same soft, nearly inaudible tones. Personal tones; a lover’s whisper, a seductive command. “My grounds extend farther than you’d like . . . Miss Black.”

My foot caught in his. I lurched, sucked in a breath as I jerked away, but he did not allow it. Skillfully, impossibly expertly, his foot eased from under mine, stepped between my legs and pulled me upright before any could see more than a brush of bodies, a dip of a hand where there needn’t have been one.