‘The knife can never be turned against you. If someone tries, it will always miss its mark.’
Helen shook her head in wonder. Alchemy was the most troubling aspect of her duties — she had always considered the practice a sham at best and irreligious at worst — and yet here was alchemy woven into a battle cry that invoked God’s name.
‘It is hard to believe, I know,’ he said. ‘Shall I show you?’
‘What do you propose? To stab me?’
‘It will miss you. I guarantee it.’
She regarded him, startled. ‘No, thank you. I do not wish to be stabbed!’
‘Do you not trust me?’
One part of her did, but another part had seen the darkness in him, and the violence.
‘I do not trust the alchemy.’ A sidestep of the question.
‘This will change your mind.’ He tilted his head, considering her hesitation. ‘At some point, Lady Helen, you must make your peace with the mysteries of alchemy. It is not inherently evil or godless. It is but one more tool for us to use in our battle.’
He gestured to the knife — a request for permission to gather the weapon from its velvet bed. It was, she realised, another Reclaimer test: could she place her faith in alchemy? She had to admit it was not only worked into horrific weapons by madmen. She had seen it save a child’s soul; and her mother’s miniature, the lost Colligat, had enabled her to view the Deceivers without a lens.
‘I suppose if it fails, it will not take my Reclaimer power long to heal me,’ she said dryly, offering him the box.
He smiled at that, and picked up the knife, weighing it in his hand. ‘Beautifully balanced.’ He gripped the handle in a businesslike manner and nodded towards the table. ‘Palm down.’
Helen pushed up the sleeve of her jacket and gingerly placed her hand on the polished tabletop, the wood cool against her skin. The danger of the position was like a long scream through her body; every instinct commanded that she snatch her hand away.
‘Do not move,’ he instructed.
Easy for him to say; he was not about to be stabbed. She pressed her hand more firmly against the wood.
Without another word, he plunged the knife down at Reclaimer speed, the tip aimed between her knuckles. Her Reclaimer sight followed its blistering acceleration. His aim was straight and true and had his full strength behind it, but a mere inch from the soft flesh between her bones, the tip veered to the left, sliding past her hand as if caught upon another surface. With a loud thud, the blade hit the table beside her little finger, the force of the blow gouging its tip into the wood at least two inches deep.
She let out her breath.
‘I have tested other Reclaimer knives, of course, but it is still such an odd sensation,’ Carlston said. ‘I felt sure I was on target, and then it felt as if I had hit something and I could not hold the course. The pull of it was remarkable. Mr Wedgwood has certainly excelled himself this time.’ He wrenched the knife from the wood, and inspected the damage to the table. ‘You can see how deep it went; I was not holding back. Are you convinced now?’
‘Quite,’ Helen said, a little shakily.
‘Here.’ He held out the knife. ‘Test its balance.’
She closed her hand around the offered handle, its deeply etched pattern of tight swirls and flowers rough against her palm. Designed, she realised, to stop it from slipping in her grip. She raised the knife and sliced the air in a series of crosses. Weight and balance perfect, with enough heft to give each cut of the blade maximum purpose.
Ha, she thought, smiling; now she was assessing a deadly weapon as if she were an expert.
‘It is a marvellous thing,’ she said. ‘Thank you, Lord Carlston.’
‘Call me Carlston.’ He paused, his half-smile appearing. ‘Amberley.’
An invitation for Mr Amberley to address him without title. Clearly he meant it as a gesture of friendship between two men.
She bowed, trying to hide the heat that had come to her face. ‘Most kind of you, sir.’
‘And when you are Lady Helen, I hope I will also be Carlston.’
The change in his voice was so slight that she may have imagined it: a deepening that sent a charge through her body. She busied herself placing the knife back upon its velvet bed.
‘Thank you … Carlston.’ It felt overwhelmingly intimate.
‘Quinn tells me that Mr Stokes visited you while I was away.’
Through her delight, she felt a bright flare of self-preservation. She must concentrate. He knew about Stokes, and he knew the man would not have visited for tea and polite conversation. The impulse to tell him the whole was so strong, but she could not. Must not.
An unwelcome thought occurred. Were the gift and invitation, and indeed his charm, designed to weaken her defences?
The suspicion was not only unwelcome, but unworthy. She was painting everyone and everything with her own subterfuge.
‘Yes,’ she said carefully. ‘He came to give me a warning.’
‘Warning?’ His voice had sharpened.
‘He told me that some of the other Reclaimers believe I should absorb the vestige darkness from you. They think you are the warrior meant to battle the Grand Deceiver. Not I.’
Carlston cursed beneath his breath, in Italian and using words she had never heard before. ‘Stokes should not have told you that. It is not a solution I would ever take.’ He fixed his dark eyes upon her, his voice taking on more force. ‘Ever! I would never do that to you.’
‘I did not think you would, nor does Mr Stokes.’ Even so, it was a relief to hear him say it so emphatically.
‘I will make that very clear to those Reclaimers who think it is a viable proposition.’ He rubbed his forefinger between his brows, frowning at some new thought. ‘Besides, we do not know the role you will take against the Grand Deceiver. You must be at your strongest, and taking any vestige will weaken you. I think perhaps you should refrain from reclaiming as well.’
He smiled. ‘For now, let us start work on how to use that knife to best advantage.’
Helen nodded, but her whole focus was upon his fingers pressing hard against his forehead. The awful knit of pain was back between his brows.
Chapter Twenty
SATURDAY, 18 JULY 1812
‘No, do not lunge wildly for the whip, Lady Helen. You must anticipate the position of it,’ Lord Carlston said again. ‘Listen for the draw of the leather, feel the way it is moving through the air. Build the picture of it in your mind.’
Helen, blindfolded with glass knife in hand, heard the impatience in his voice. Over the past three days they had been training in the salon for hours at a time, and she could still not picture the whip moving through the air or catch the damnable thing. All she could feel was the sweat crawling down her back and the sting of the last ill-judged grab for the coach whip across her leather-gloved hand.
‘I am trying,’ she said.
‘Try harder,’ he snapped.
She lowered her head at his tone.
He hissed out a breath. ‘Forgive me. Of course you are trying. Take a moment to refocus.’