The Transference Engine (22 page)

“What happened when the chemist told a joke?” Reverend Rigby asked Lady Ada. He sat to her immediate left and I sat next to him at the long formal dining table at Lovelace House. Since becoming a belted earl, William King's idea of
en famille
had expanded greatly.

Ada returned an almost blank face toward her newest admirer. But the corner of her mouth twitched as she resisted a smile. “He got no reaction,” she said quietly.

Then the two of them burst into laughter, much too loud and uninhibited to be acceptable at a formal dinner, or even an informal one—which this one had ceased to be.

Lord William rolled his eyes at me. We knew this game. He'd initiated it during his courtship of Ada. He had a fine mind but rarely turned it to mathematics anymore. He used it to craft logical, compelling speeches in the House of Lords and among the queen's advisers. The few other guests at the table were a Cabinet minister, his wife, and a country baron and his lady with an estate near Lord William's. The confusion in their eyes told me that they had no inkling what the joke meant. I didn't feel obliged to explain.

Reverend Rigby continued to ingratiate himself while Lord William entertained the country lady who looked as if her fingers itched to examine the lace on my sleeve more closely. Her pale cream-colored gown with champagne lace from Nottingham was well made and quite fashionable. I thought I recognized the modiste's styling in the ruching. She'd begrudged not a penny on the ensemble.

“Are the seating arrangements inside the Abbey complete?” the Cabinet minister's wife asked her husband, an interesting ploy to change the conversation back to something we all understood and appreciated.

As footmen served and removed each course, I realized that here, in the home of the greatest innovator of serving machines, Lady Ada preferred human servants. Unless . . . No I detected no sign that any of them were less than human or even partially machines.

Ada and Rigby smothered smiles and joined in.

We lingered over an excellent pudding glazed with marzipan until the clock struck midnight. I'd been thinking longingly of my bed for over an hour, wondering how to extricate myself gracefully from excellent company and good food.

“My dear Madame Magdala, let me call the carriage for you. I know you have obligations quite early in the morning,” Lord William said quietly.

I smiled my appreciation to him just as the door opened and an agitated butler made hasty steps to the earl.

“Excuse me, m' lord. An urgent message from the Prime Minister.”

Lord William's face paled and his hands shook so violently he had to put down his coffee cup lest he spill the remaining dregs at the bottom. He shoved back his chair quite violently in his haste to meet the messenger elsewhere.

The dinner party began shifting, making noises and motions toward departure.

“I can offer you a seat in His Grace's carriage,” Rigby said quietly taking my elbow and steering me toward the exit.

“Thank you. I fear his lordship will require the use of his own carriage,” I whispered back.

The butler returned and made haste to my side. “Madame, my lord requests your immediate assistance in a matter of some delicacy.”

Rigby and I exchanged glances. “Perhaps my assistance can be of value as well,” the reverend said.

The butler nodded and led us toward the earl's private office on the other side of the house. We found Lord William leaning heavily against the mantel, gripping it fiercely with both hands. A shorter man would not appear so cowed, but his back was nearly bent double in despair.

“Magdala, thank God you are here tonight. We must go at once.” He gathered himself upright once more tall and decisive. “You, too, Rigby. Your expertise will be most welcome.”

“What has happened, my lord?” I asked from the doorway.

“Miss Abigail Norwynd has returned to her parents' home.”

“That is good news,” Rigby said. But joy did not color his voice.

“Not if she left her soul behind when she escaped her captors,” William ground out.

Chapter Twenty-One

“Y
OU'RE A GYPSY!”
Lady Norwynd screeched as she clung to her limp and bedraggled daughter. They sat on a settee upholstered in fine French brocade. The cream and gold matched the lady's coloring, as well as her daughter's. They seemed to blend in with it, becoming almost unnoticeable, and I had to wonder if she'd chosen it for that purpose. A wonder that she' d allow the daughter's damp and stained day dress to touch the upholstery. “Surely you know a spell to break this Gypsy curse.”

I swallowed my outrage as all eyes in the small family parlor abovestairs turned to me.

Lord William stiffened in his perch upon a spindly chair much too delicate for his height and form.

Reverend Rigby frowned from his study of the mantelpiece—carved and painted to resemble Italian marble—then resumed his compassionate priestly demeanor. I'd seen him change appearance and identity so often that day, beggar, spy, social dandy, experienced pickpocket, and crime fighter, I had no idea which one exemplified the man. “My lady, may we examine the girl?” He held out a long-fingered hand that had proved adept at picking pockets and piously counting rosary beads.

Reluctantly, the lady released her fierce grip on the blonde teenager. The girl flopped back against the back of their seat, eyes blank and staring. Unblinking. Messy golden curls dangled in her eyes and down her back, hairpins long lost. Her once-pretty day gown of white and light blue muslin was stained with blood and dirt in random splotches. The bruising on her face and upper arms matched. Odd patterns I could not puzzle through. Which had come from a slap and which from a fierce grip? The edges had begun to blur and shift from dark purple to ugly greenish yellow. A week's worth of healing, at least, not hours or days.

Had she disappeared long before her parents reported her missing? Had she run away from physical punishment rather than been abducted?

Rigby knelt before the girl, running his fine hands from her crown, down her shoulders and arms, not touching. I wondered if he felt her life energy as Ish had tried to teach me to do, to feel a person's health in ways my other senses could not assess. He could detect lies within that energy. Could Rigby?

Then the priest held up his black-and-silver rosary before the girl's eyes. She couldn't help but see it, even if her eyes remained unfocused.

Nothing. No flicker in her eyes, no flinch away from the potent symbol of faith.

Rigby swung the crucifix back and forth with the slightest tremble of his fingers. Still no reaction. Like the chemist who told a joke.

I bit back the laughter of hysteria.

Tears streamed down Lady Norwynd's face. She could not have yet reached her thirty-fifth birthday, younger than me, and much less worldly wise.

Lord William and the girl's father turned away.

“I have no tricks up my sleeve. Madame Magdala, do you have any ideas?” Rigby asked, rising stiffly to his feet and pocketing the rosary.

“I need a cup of coffee.” I blurted out the first words that came to mind.

Everyone in the room gasped at my audacity.

“Not to drink, or restore me. To
see
.”

“Then it's true? You do have Gypsy magic?” Lady Norwynd whispered, hope coloring her words.

“A cup of water will do. Anything liquid.”

Lord Norwynd strode to the door to summon a servant, his pudgy frame shifting side to side with each stride.

The movement captured my straining gaze, side to side, side to side. My peripheral vision began to close in; darkness crouched ready to pounce inward like a leopard awaiting prey. Side to side, back and forth.

The silver crucifix replaced the image of the girl's father. Side to side, around and around and around again, creating a swirling vortex of sparkling silver. I focused on the glitter and gleam as gaslight caught the precious metal, fixing my gaze on the dying Christ, sacrificing himself for all mankind. Sacrifice. Death that is not death. Resurrection.

The silver crucifix became a light beckoning through a tunnel, reflecting off whitewashed walls. Darkness banished to the far depths of . . . a cave. A cave where steam engines chugged and whistled, where metal laboratory tables awaited victims, scrubbed clean and polished to a high sheen, filling the floor space, and Leyden jars stacked neatly on a wall. Copper wires everywhere. Ghosts wandered aimlessly about, restrained by the wires that connected them to the jars.

Blue-and-red electrical jolts sparked along those wires—as they had with the dwarf in Stamata's cellar laboratory.

Only one body remained unconnected. One sheet-draped body remained on a table pushed into the corner, useless, forgotten.

A black-and-silver strand of beads encircled it all, choking the life from the ghosts, from the victims, from me . . .

A sob convulsed in my chest, breaking the trance.

I blinked rapidly, trying to sort the rapid change of scene and lighting, live companions replaced numerous ghosts, all girls, all angry. All lost.

Father Rigby crossed himself, murmuring a prayer. Then he kissed and pocketed the rosary. Head bowed, he touched my hand.

An electrical jolt from his skin to mine finished my transition to reality. I had to shake my head vigorously to clear it of the ghastly images.

“We have true necromancy at work,” Rigby said quietly.

Lady Norwynd reared back, hand to chest, eyes wide and jaw moving wordlessly.

“Popish nonsense.” Lord Norwynd spoke for the first time, his voice pushed higher than his normal tenor by anxiety.

“Gypsy curses,” Lady Norwynd countered, finally finding a voice, though she kept her hand over her heart as if to still its too rapid beat. “Can we trust Gypsies any more than we can Roman Catholics? They are both aligned with the Devil.”

I bit my lip to keep acidic words from leaking out.

Miss Abigail remained motionless, eyes closed, no longer staring. Yet she breathed. A pulse beat strongly on her neck just below her ear.

How?

“Did I speak?” I whispered to Rigby, hoping the others could not hear.

Did I speak of the black-and-silver beads that could either choke the life from the hideous experiments with death, or choke the life from those who sought to end it?

He jerked a quick nod and turned away from me. His shoulders trembled slightly as he fought for control.

“What can we do for her?” Lord Norwynd took up a protective stance behind the settee, one hand on his wife's shoulder, the other on the furniture, close to his daughter but not touching her.

“I saw this happen in Rome,” Rigby said, staring at the fire, or into his past. “The female victims were sent to a convent. The sisters were dedicated to nursing the sick and caring for the feeble . . . of mind as well as body. The church leaders hoped that cloistered in a community of deep faith, the stray souls would find their bodies again.”

“We do not hold with Popish ways,” Norwynd replied. “I could not vote for the Reform Act because it granted freedom and tolerance to Roman Catholics.” Implying that he agreed with everything else.

“I will speak with His Grace tonight, late as it is,” Rigby said, taking a firmer, more decisive stance. “By morning, we will have made arrangements for placing your daughter in an
Anglican
convent in the north. In the meantime, bathe her and put her to bed. Try to give her water or broth, a sip at a time so she does not choke. And now we must take our leave.” He turned to face the door, keeping his glance averted from Lord Norwynd and his wife.

As I rose to follow him, the exotic clockwork hummingbird snagged on my skirts. I stared at it a long moment trying to remember why I'd worn the thing, other than to delight and amuse at the party. I was too tired to think straight. . . .

The bird contained condensed coffee to boost my body and mind when I fell to this depth of fatigue. I looked back at the girl. Her eyes blinked once. An automatic response that needed no thought or will to control it. What if she was merely in shock from the trauma of a kidnap? What if she had escaped before Ruthven had a chance to drain her soul from her?

She still faced the ruin of her reputation. But perchance she could testify against her captor. Perhaps the Norwynds could have their daughter back.

Before anyone had the opportunity or wits to stop me, I shoved the sharp bird beak, as fine as a stout needle, between her lips. Her mouth opened a fraction in response to my prod. The beak slid along the top of her tongue. With eyes glued to her face for any flicker of awareness, I depressed the bird's tail with my thumb. A thick sludge of coffee, boiled down to its stimulating essence, shot into the back of her throat.

Her neck muscles remained still, so I clamped the fingers of my other hand over her nose, forcing her body to gulp so she could breathe.

“What are you doing?” Lady Norwynd protested, fluttering her hands and looking more pallid than before. Like a properly trained lady, she did not rush to stop me, politely leaving that chore to the men in the room. “Gypsy poison!”

“Nay, my lady. Simply a common remedy,” Reverend Rigby spoke in my defense. He shifted to stand between me and the others.

Miss Abigail choked, swallowed, and blinked again, three times in rapid succession.

Then, disappointingly, she dropped back into her catatonic state.

“I think the good sisters will have something to work with,” I said, hiding my minor triumph. “I have roused her to the point she will accept her soul, should it choose to return to her.” Graciously I stepped back and gestured Rigby to exit. Hastily if possible.

Lord William made polite leave-taking gestures.

“I presume this means our daughter will not have the honor of carrying Her Majesty's train at the coronation?” Lady Norwynd looked up with hopeful eyes.

“No, she will not,” Lord William pronounced resolutely, no room for compromise.

“Perhaps her younger sister?”

“No. The honor will go to another family.”

We left, each of us collapsing into the carriage pulled by mechanical horses powered by steam. The groom had kept the boiler stoked so that the beasts trotted off smartly with no delay.