The Left Hand of Justice (11 page)

“I’m sorry, Madame.”

The man rose from his desk. Only then did Corbeau witness the magnitude of his physique. He was both tall and wide, and as he straightened, she saw the suggestion of a one-time fighter’s formidable musculature. The multiple bruises, insults, and injuries of the morning suddenly clamored for her attention all at once. If it had been one of these men, she might have forced her way in on a good day. But not both of them. Not today. She would have to find a different way to get to Javert.

Vautrin crossed his arms over his chest, a smug expression on his face.

“This isn’t over,” she said, looking Vautrin in the eye.

He oozed self-satisfaction. For now, at least, he had won. He nodded with mock benevolence. “Good day, Madame.”

*

Outside, the clouds had gathered overhead, dark and portentous. Lightning screamed across the sky, thunder rumbling in its wake. As the heavy doors of the Conciergerie slammed shut behind Corbeau, heavy raindrops began to pelt down from above.

Now what was she supposed to do? She had completed Javert’s task—the task that would have seen her reinstated—quicker than he could have hoped, but she had no way of relaying this fact to him. She hugged her shoulder bag close under her arm and pulled her coat tighter around her, stepping back as a passing carriage sprayed the curb with filthy water. If that wasn’t enough, she’d left Javert’s umbrella in Dr. Kalderash’s entryway. She wouldn’t be going back there any time soon—not without an arrest warrant in hand. She pushed her hands into her coat pockets and felt the comforting lump of the purse that Javert had passed her that morning. She’d given Marie a few coins, but more than enough remained to have a bite to eat at the café across the street. In fact, if she wanted to, she could sit there all day, waiting for the prefect to emerge. And while she did so, she could review his notes again and compare them to her own. Yes, that’s exactly what she would do. She jumped as a light hand settled on her shoulder.

“We have to stop bumping into each other like this, Elise.”

Corbeau turned, her irritation melting away as she took in the only friendly face that had greeted her today.

“You are following me.”

“Nonsense.” Sophie smiled back. She had acquired a fur-lined hat that matched her coat. As she moved closer, Corbeau instinctively relieved her of her ivory-handled umbrella and angled the oiled silk to protect them both. “All the best gossip comes from this part of town.”

“Only if you’re selling police gossip. You usually prefer society stuff. Tales of the rich and vapid. Interesting, coming from a socialist.”

“I’m exposing the upper classes for what they are.”

“You’re gathering admirers and feathering your nest. Nicely, too, I might add.” Corbeau fingered the fur trim of the other woman’s hat.

“Still waiting for you to drop by like you promised.”

“I didn’t promise.” Corbeau thought better of it. Kalderash wasn’t going anywhere, and Javert hadn’t expected her to finish her investigation this early anyway. Her entire body felt suddenly heavy. Her head pounded, and she could feel—acutely—every scratch, bruise, cut, and ding that she had sustained since foolishly stopping at Oubliette for a bottle of wine after work the previous day. Sophie was still looking at her expectantly. Corbeau shook her head. “I’d be honored,” she said.

Sophie beamed and held up a manicured hand. A well-appointed fiacre seemed to materialize out of nowhere, its fresh paint gleaming through the rain, the horse healthy and neatly turned out. One look at Sophie, and the driver hopped down from his perch and opened the door for them. Corbeau was surprised he didn’t lay his coat across the puddle between the curb and the carriage step. She felt a twinge of jealousy as the driver took Sophie’s delicate hand in his and assisted her up. It didn’t help that when he was done, he began to shut the carriage door behind her.

“Excuse me,” Corbeau said.

He glared at her over her shoulder but, after a giggled word from Sophie, stepped back with a bow.

But he didn’t offer to help her inside.

Corbeau slid inside, feeling a little self-conscious about her filthy dress on the crisp new leather. But Sophie took her hand and she felt she was exactly where she belonged—at least for now.

Maria stood in the doorway for some time watching Inspector Corbeau disappear into the early morning Rue des Rosiers bustle and punishing herself with regret. She’d made a terrible mistake. Not only had she underestimated Corbeau’s knowledge of herb-magic, but she’d also driven off a potential ally. She was still certain Javert had sent Corbeau, tasked with her arrest. But in retrospect, the inspector had acted as if she was open to other explanations for Hermine’s disappearance. She’d been trying to see all the possibilities. And now Maria had not only insulted her intelligence and training, but enraged her by drawing up a spell to ward her off. Inspector Corbeau might have been considering a number of theories to explain what happened to Hermine, but by the time she stormed off, that number had narrowed to one—the exact one that would land Maria right where Javert wanted her.

The inspector had warned her not to leave Paris. She’d probably sent out guards as soon as she arrived back at the Conciergerie. If Maria ran, every agent in Paris would be looking for her. But what other choice did she have?

She shut the door. Turning, she nearly tripped over the inspector’s heavy umbrella. The hulking mass of oiled silk and baleen hadn’t been designed with a woman in mind, but it suited the inspector perfectly. She ran a finger over the carved handle, and unbidden sensations flooded her mind: the inspector’s callused hand with its fine, tapered fingers—held out in apology after she’d knocked Maria down. Maria had wanted to take it, to feel the hard muscles beneath the cool skin—but pride had prevented that. There had been a spark of recognition in the inspector’s eye when their conversation had veered into theories of supernatural phenomena. She was an intelligent woman, and experience had made her knowledgeable as well. And she hadn’t shied away from Maria’s scars, shorn hair, or her Eye. Maria slumped back against the doorway of her cluttered front room and let out a long breath. She’d spent so many years among untrustworthy people that she wouldn’t know honest if it walked up and bit her.

And she longed for honest. As far back as she could remember, relationships had always been an exchange of obligation. She bartered the skills she’d learned from her mother and aunts for money—spells and healing exchanged for coin in the dead of night. With money she bought herself out of the slavery in which most Roma still lived in her country. Money bought education as well and, later, medical training. She would have loved to remain in that jewel of a village she’d eventually settled in, attending the needs of both people and machines. But when disease had ravaged the village, her friends and neighbors had wasted no time declaring her a witch and driving her out at the pointed tips of the very tools she’d created for them.

Her correspondence with Claude Javert—the new prefect of the Paris police, and himself a tinkerer—had been a godsend then. He’d brought her to Paris to work in his new organization. Of course everyone knew how that had turned out. When Maria and Javert had fallen out, Hermine had been there to catch her. Hermine had pledged her love, and Maria had lowered her guard. But in the end, as always, the relationship came down to a cold-hearted exchange. From the moment Maria had made the mistake of mentioning the Left Hand of Justice, Hermine had no longer been content with their clinic. She had embarked on a crusade to “cure” all spiritual afflictions, whether or not the “afflicted” wanted to be cured. Hermine’s temper, she might have withstood. But this new ambition had hastened the end.

And what, Maria wondered, would Corbeau have wanted from her, when all was said and done?

Thunder shook the air, and the clouds threw down a wall of rain. Maria shivered and returned to the front room. Too little water was left in the samovar to bother with, so she removed the teapot from the top and let the coal smolder. The fire crackled away in the fireplace, the dried widow’s root she had thrown onto the logs now just a trace of sweetness in the air. She fished a monograph on mathematics out of the pile on her desk. Just as she was about to sit down, a shadow flashed against the front-window curtain. She drew the curtain back, gasping as a bird—a mass of black-and-white feathers, wild eyes luminous with reflected lamplight, hurled itself against the glass. The bird hit hard and slid down, and Maria heard it thump quietly to the ground outside.

Her grandmother had taught her a magpie was a message: quarrel and strife. As if she needed a sign to tell her that. More importantly, her research had forced her to recognize the spark of the divine—the Spirit, if you will—present in all living organisms, whether fish or bird or tree or even prefect of police. A thrumming, crackling field of spirit surrounded each and every living thing, which meant that it would be evil to simply let this creature drown in a puddle outside her window.

Dropping the magazine, Maria hurried out into the rain, crouched on the wet pavement, and gathered it up in the folds of her robe.

“Oh, you poor thing.”

The bird safe in her hands, she hurried back inside. Wiping her bare feet, now pale with cold, on the rough mat just inside the entrance, she locked the door behind her. Then she reached up to the wainscoting on the adjacent wall and withdrew a key. The small doorway in the corridor had originally served to connect the servants’ area with the upstairs. Maria had no use for servants. They were an expense and a liability. But the basement made an ideal laboratory.

The bird trembled in her hand. As she paused on the staircase, it stared up at her with a dazed expression, its neck at a disconcerting angle. It would not live. But it had served its purpose—it was a message, she was sure of it. All that remained was to decode it. The poor creature would not spend its last moments in fear, wetness, and cold. She paused at the bottom of the staircase to light the gas sconce.

Long tables stood at right angles against the two far walls. Piles of cogs, gears, springs, tools, fabric, and notes marked ideas under development. Such good ideas. Her eyes burned at the thought that this was as far as they might get before she’d be forced to start over. Or would she bother this time? Chill radiated from the basement walls. Laying the bird down on the edge of one of the tables, she lit the brazier in the corner. If she were to work that day, she’d need warmth.

After she tucked the tinderbox back in its place, she found a square of blue silk, shook it out, and spread it on the table. Gently, she laid the bird on top of it.

Hermine had begged her to find a cure for what she called her affliction. A kinder term, perhaps, than demonic possession, but just as inaccurate. The fact was that Hermine possessed untrained spiritual abilities, the likes of which Maria had never before seen. But in two years, try as Maria might, she had never been able to convince Hermine she was anything but cursed. In retrospect, perhaps Maria should have been more patient. It wasn’t her, after all, who had been beset from childhood with unwanted visions. Maria had never moved objects with mere thought. To have been raised in a society where such things were considered signs of indwelt evil—or at least of mental instability—must have been terrifying. Maria wondered whether part of her attraction to Hermine hadn’t been the desire for some of Hermine’s immense power to somehow rub off on her. That was definitely an aspect of her extraordinary charisma, whether her followers knew it or not.

All the same, Hermine’s constant demands that Maria search for a way to suppress her abilities made Maria—who hadn’t a gram of inherent spiritual talent—burn with rage. If only Hermine had been more patient, they could have found a way to control her talent together. Hermine might have seen it for the gift that it was. But Maria had been impatient as well, and she had been jealous. And now things had gone horribly wrong.

The bird shivered on the silk square in front of her. She stroked its head with her finger.

“Who sent you?” she asked. As if she could have understood the answer. Maria hadn’t the power to communicate with animals, though Michel Bertrand had.

The bird twitched toward her voice, but its eyes were going unfocused and it labored to breathe. She watched the light in its eyes slowly fade until the eyes were as lifeless as glass and the rise and fall of its chest had stilled. As she stroked its soft stomach, she noticed a small, hard protuberance. And therein lay the message. She was certain of it.

She jumped as someone rapped sharply on the street-level window. She had obscured the window with a thick curtain when she’d first moved in. Only a few people knew that, more often than not, the mistress of the house herself was to be found there. Who was it? What could they want?

“Doctor!”

At the sound of the boy Joseph’s voice, she let out a breath of relief. She had no messages for him to run—her network of acquaintances had been turning against her with frightening predictability—but fussing over him would be a welcome distraction.

“Come to the front door,” she called.

With a backward glance at the magpie, she climbed the stairs to let him in. Only after he had shut the door behind himself and hung his thin coat on the hook in her vestibule, did she realize that, for the first time, she hadn’t heard the unique shuffle of the wooden post he used to walk on. He was using the leg she had crafted confidently and, apparently, comfortably. The graft of the mechanical device to his vital spiritual field had worked even better than she had hoped. The experiment had paid off for them both.

“The apparatus is working well, I see.” Of course it was. The device was well made, and the child was brimming with life force.

The boy grinned back. “Better than the one God gave me. If I had two of ’em, I bet I could fly. It’s a joke,” he said quickly, as Maria felt her expression go hard.

At the height of her devices’ popularity, several people had approached her about replacing perfectly healthy limbs with all sorts of terrible things. A few had even drawn up plans. In a way it had been a blessing when Hermine had declared the trend finished. Healing a defect was one thing, but replacing the perfect with the mechanical was an abomination.