Chapter Two
Simon
My tea steamed like a whistle on a train. Abigail, crunching her breakfast toast, sounded like the Charge of the Light Brigade. When Rupert brought in the kippers and set them down on the table before us, the silver cover rattled like an explosion in a gasworks.
Yes, I am sure you recognize my symptoms.
I had a hangover.
It was not, sadly, due to overdrinking. Or, at least, not entirely. Granted, I had been celebrating. We had been celebrating. Though the silver spider had nearly killed me, our latest caper had netted us enough to keep us going for six months at least, even with the addition of quite a tidy sum to Abigail’s greedy airship fund. And we hadn’t even had to deal with the exorbitant rates charged by our usual fence, as we were to deliver the things ourselves.
Abigail was happy about this, I could see. She loves with an unholy passion the old gas bag her dear departed grandpapa left her.
I, on the other hand, would happily never leave the ground in it. And, at the rate the airship fund was growing, I would quite possibly have my feet on the ground for decades to come.
Thievery, for all the romantical writers say of it, is not the way to wealth.
I seized my teacup in trembling hands and brought it to my lips with care. The sound of my teeth rattling against the bone china echoed through my head and, I fear, I groaned in agony.
“I warned you about Ellison’s brandy, Simon, on top of whatever was in that spider contraption,” Abigail said as she buttered another piece of toast with what I can only call a sad and most inconsiderate lack of sympathy. Her knife sounded like—well, I am sure by now you realize, and no doubt recognize, my feelings. I shall say no more on the matter. Feel free to interject the occasional moan or groan as it suits you.
Rupert came in with the morning post. At least we were in our London flat and not down in stuffy little Bartleby Manor. I could not stand cheerful birds at this time of morning; the hansom cabs, both steam-man and horse-drawn, made quite enough noise. But I am remiss; I promised not to mention my agonizing head. I beg your forgiveness.
Rupert is our servant, our major domo, our assistant when called upon, and so much more. He was once a burglar and thus has a multitude of talents to offer those in our own particular field. Now he cooks for us and polishes my boots. How have the mighty fallen.
“Here’s a letter from Claremont Manor, my lady.” Rupert lingered, curiosity plain on his plainer face. He had known Abigail from her birth, and me from the time I joined her and her grandpapa, and he took liberties other servants would not dare. “That’s Sir Eli Hopkins’ house, ain’t it?”
I shuddered. I mean, what was he thinking? He knew how tender were my sensibilities when it comes to the Queen’s English.
Then I realized what he’d said. I sat straight up—a vast change from my usual elegant slouch.
“Claremont Manor?” I asked in as sepulchral a tone as I could manage—not difficult in my condition. “Whatever could that bas—I mean, whatever could Sir Eli want? You haven’t seen him in some time. Have you, Abigail?” I fear those last two words went up into a sort of bleat, so I tried to cover my lapse by reaching for the sugar bowl and stirring two rather large teaspoons into my tea. As I had already sweetened it, it made a ghastly mess. Abigail folded the Times and laid it beside her plate. She was still in her ratty old green dressing gown, her dark auburn hair caught up in an untidy bundle at the back of her slender neck, her grey eyes bright with anticipation. Only Lady Abigail Moran could look so delicious in the morning, and in such attire. And if you think I have a certain amount of prejudice in this matter, you are correct. As I believe I might already have mentioned, I have always loved her, from the instant I first saw her. I was nine or ten at the time; she was rising thirteen. Since that moment she had my heart. With any luck, she shall someday realize that fact.
“I haven’t seen Eli in nearly a year,” she said as she reached for the letter. She slit it open with what I could not but consider an uncomfortable eagerness. “He lost his wife a few months ago, I believe. What a terrible pity.” She unfolded the cream-colored paper and began to read.
What a pity indeed. I had disliked Sir Eli when he was married; now he was a widower, and I could feel my dislike turning to hatred and more than a little fear.
Sir Eli and Abigail were old friends—close old friends. He was vastly rich and powerful and dressed well and lived in the most beautiful house in Kent and kept a stable and raced a steam-driven brougham and…well, I shall not continue. It is far too painful. But I suspected this Hopkins and Abigail had been, when they were away at Oxford, a bit more than just friends.
While all these difficult thoughts and horrible images sped through my aching brain, Abigail was reading the letter and absently sipping her third cup of tea. I drank mine off, burning my tongue in the process, but what was one more agony added to my already overwhelming burden?
Abigail slapped the letter on the table, barely missing the butter dish. “Rupert! Pack our bags. We’re going to Claremont on the earliest train.” She jumped up and disappeared into her bedroom. An instant later I heard bumping and cries of anger and the occasional crash, as if a wooly mammoth were giving birth to triplets in the next room—the usual sounds of Abigail packing.
I groaned and buried my head in my hands.
“Something amiss, Mr. Simon?” asked Rupert as he calmly began to clear the breakfast things away.
“Oh, no, nothing at all,” I said, my words muffled by my fingers. “Not a thing, in fact. We’re just going down to Claremont to see Sir Eli, the Lord knows why.” I looked up at Rupert’s intentionally bland face. “I say, Rupert. Could you just mix me up one of those hangover remedies? And don’t forget to pack the recipe. I feel as if I should need it more than ever in the coming days.”
***
By the time I was packed, with Rupert’s kind assistance, Abigail was dressed and had our reliable Jeremiah at the door, helping with the loading of our trunks. His steam man, Old Lamentation, stood at the head of the hansom cab, his iron top hat gleaming with boot polish and his broad metal chest, wherein resided his boiler, glowing a brilliant cherry red.
When I managed to drag both self and luggage down from our first floor flat, Abigail was giving Rupert instructions to head down to Bartleby, her poky little manor in Kent. I said nothing, simply shaking my head.
It was going to be a long few days.
We reached Victoria Station well in time for the 12:13 to Ashford, the closest town to Sir Eli’s manor. When Abigail reserved a first-class carriage, I was somewhat surprised; she tended to skimp on travel arrangements even at the best of times, meaning when we were in funds.
When I cast her a questioning look, she grinned at me. “Eli sent our travel expenses in the letter. Didn’t you notice the envelope had already been opened? But I don’t think Rupert kept more than half of it, so there’s plenty for our tickets. I thought you needed a quiet trip.”
At least part of this news, of course, caused me little surprise. Rupert had spent his formative years being trained in a variety of skills by Abigail’s redoubtable grandpapa. Since then, he’d found it next door to impossible to keep pound notes from sticking to his fingers, so the knowledge that he had kept some of the dosh which Sir Eli sent did not surprise me. What did offer me a bit of a shock was one simple thing: if Rupert had left us enough for two first-class tickets, then how generous had Abigail’s old friend been?
We settled into our unaccustomed luxury. I watched out the window as the train pulled from the station. We were soon out of London, but I kept my eyes on the passing view, though sheep had never held much interest for me, nor did the occasional thatched cottage provide any attraction either. Once we passed a steam-man factory, with rows of iron-and-brass men standing as if at attention in an open field beside it.
A boot kicked me gently on the leg. I tore my gaze from the fascinating countryside—honestly, how did folks abide it?—and reluctantly turned to face Abigail.
“What’s wrong, Simon?” she asked, her head cocked to one side in the completely adorable inquiring way she has. “Head still bothering you?”
“Actually, no. One of Rupert’s concoctions,” I explained and shook my head to prove it.
“Then what?”
I debated telling her my concerns. After all, we had had a rather rough few days; my wrist still ached at times from the silver spider device Mr. Slice had removed from it, and we’d only just finished a difficult time making friends with some beastly nouveau riches who had no idea even now their diamond necklace was a large part of our current source of funds.
But none of this mattered, of course.
“It’s this…trip. To Claremont,” I finally admitted.
“Ah.” Now she turned to look out the window. Really, those sheep were getting quite the attention. “Eli Hopkins is an old friend. He is in need of our help.”
“Our help? He wants to see you, you mean. I’m surprised he waited as long as he did. Hasn’t his wife been dead for several months?” I knew I sounded childish, not to mention churlish, but in my defense, I was not at my best.
“He needs me, Simon.” Abigail still looked out the window, a dreamy half smile on her lips. I would offer my last chance at salvation to call up a smile like that on her.
“Hmph.” I crossed my arms and leaned back against the plush seats. And I meant it to sting.
She turned, and her dreamy smile metamorphosed into a cocky grin. “There, I knew I could get a ‘hmph’ out of you, Simon.” She clicked open the leather bag beside her, the one she wouldn’t allow me to put up in the luggage rack, and pulled out a letter. “Here. Read this, and perhaps you’ll see. I would have shown it to you earlier, but I could not resist a bit of teasing. Sorry, my dear old chap.”
I seized the letter and opened it, then gritted my teeth—silently—at the salutation, though the letter, note really, was brief and to the point, though irritatingly vague:
Dearest Abigail,
I am in the direst need of your particular skills once more. I cannot trust anyone else to do what I need done, save only your lovely self. Do come at once and allow nothing to stop you. Please, for all we have been to each other, do not fail me.
Your loving
Eli
I could not resist. “Hmph,” I said again.
“Yes, as to that, my dear old thing.” Abigail sounded a touch strange. I looked at her with even more than my usual attention. “There are, I fear, a few bits of information I’ve kept from you—for your own good, naturally.”
“Ah, for my own good. I see.” I did not, but thought it necessary to pretend. “Exactly what, pray, are you keeping from me, for my own good or no?”
Abigail settled back against the horsehair cushions. She looked quite embarrassed, I was surprised to see. “Well, the bits and bobs we stole the other night, the crystal device and the silver pocketwatch-cum-spider?”
“I recall them quite well.” I sniffed. I was fairly sure I wasn’t going to like what she was about to tell me.
“Sir Eli hired us to steal them,” Abigail said. “Well, no, not precisely Eli. He has a scientist called Tesla working for him. The gentleman had some things stolen when ruffians broke into his laboratory in the country, quite near where we’re going as a matter of fact. So this Herr Tesla inquired of Eli, who sent him to me. The things we stole are in my bag.”
I confess I drew back a bit. “The silver spider? Abigail, are you quite sure that’s safe?”
“Never worry, my dear. Rupert helped me. It’s in a heavy wooden box, strapped shut, and that is in another box, also strapped. The crystal device was giving off the oddest humming, but I ignored it. Doubtless it is quite harmless.”
“Abigail!” I shouted. “Throw the thing out the window this instant!”
Abigail, the insufferable wench, laughed at me. “Nonsense, Simon. It hasn’t exploded yet. Surely we can reach Eli’s manor before it does, don’t you agree?”
“But Abigail,” I tried again.
She waved away my words. “Besides, we’ve already been paid for the deed, so in all honesty I cannot but take the things to Herr Tesla. After all, my dear grandpapa would roll over in his grave—if he resided in such a commonplace thing, naturally—if he thought I’d broken Rule Six.”
“‘Always supply any goods which are paid for in advance,’” I quoted.
“‘After all, you can always steal them again if necessary,’” she finished.
I didn’t like it. But I didn’t see I had any choice in the matter. “Hmph,” I said as I crossed my arms and stared out the window.
***
A carriage waited for us at Ashford; it was an elegant equipage with a matched pair of bays. The crest on the door was draped in black velvet, and the coachman and footman both wore a mourning band around their sleeves. Between the efforts of the two of them, our trunks were loaded and we were away before the train pulled out of the station.
“You’ve never been to Claremont, have you?” Abigail asked me after we had been through a small village and were traveling down a county road.
She knew very well I hadn’t; I’d not been invited. In point of fact, I’d not been invited this time, but I felt it was not the proper moment to point this lapse out to her.
“Never,” I said. “I’m sure it’s very grand. Sir Eli is the owner of WFG, is he not?”
Abigail made no reply, as at that moment the carriage turned into a drive. Soon we reached tall black iron gates in a brick wall, which must have been twenty feet high. I could see iron spikes all along the top of it. The gatekeeper came out of a small cottage just inside the wall, and if I was not mistaken, he carried pistols under his coat. He opened the gate with a massive key and waved the carriage inside. I glanced back when we were through to see him closing and locking the gates behind us.
I swallowed around a sudden lump in my throat. I felt we were entering a prison instead of an elegant county estate, and I have no love of prisons. The few I have been forced to enter were not among my fondest memories.
The carriage proceeded up a winding drive lined on either side with enormous oaks. They loomed so close, that again I felt a sense of being closed in and trapped. The sight of several gamekeepers with gigantic drooling hounds on thick leather leashes did not improve our surroundings.
Abigail, with her uncanny sense of my feelings, reached over and clasped my gloved hand in her own, her fingers entwined with mine.
“There, there, old thing. It won’t be bad, I promise. We’ll be out of the trees and at the house in a bit.”
“How much property does Sir Eli have here?” I asked to take my mind off my emotions.
“Oh, a couple of thousand acres at Claremont, and lord knows how much more. His company is growing at a vast rate, I understand, and he has far too much money to appreciate any of it. Still, he doesn’t remind one he’s rich, and that’s a plus in my book.” She released my hand, for at that moment we escaped from those crowding trees. The carriage stopped in the crushed stone drive before a massive house of four stories, with higher towers at either corner.
“The house is Elizabethan, I believe.” Abigail was gathering her things. “Though the Hopkins didn’t own it then—they’ve only been in residence for about a hundred years. Come along, Simon, don’t dawdle.”
I got out, nearly tripping on the last step but recovering my balance with my usual grace. I turned to take her hand but a footman was there before me, dressed in depressing grey livery with the inevitable black band around his sleeve.
“Lady Abigail, how good to see you!” called a cheerful voice from the open door.
A tall man stood just inside the open doorway. As we approached, Abigail on my arm, I could see from his attire he must be the butler, though he looked less like one than many I’d seen. From his stocky figure and bulging biceps, clearly visible beneath his jacket, not to mention his head shaved to the bone, he looked like nothing more than a pugilist disguised as a servant, and a deadly one at that.
I was wrong, I soon discovered; he was not disguised. He actually was the butler-cum-bodyguard. He’d been a bare-knuckle fighter in his time, so I was not entirely mistaken.
“Islington, my dear fellow! Good to see you. How are the pigeons?” Abigail dropped my arm and clasped the hand held out to her; her slender fingers disappeared as if a bear had grabbed them, and I waited to hear her yell in agony.
A broad grin split his face in two, and now I was closer I could see his nose had been broken more than once.
“Fancy you remembering my birds, m’lady!” He gave her hand a gingerly shake and then dropped it quickly before he broke anything. “They be right as rain, they do. Two blue ribbons in the last market fair, and I’m bringing in some new bloodlines.”
“New blood can make all the difference, in birds and in people as well,” Abigail said. She turned to me. “Islington, this is my dear friend and collaborator, Simon Thorne.”
Islington nodded politely but did not offer his hand, for which mercy I was grateful. “Sir Eli wants to see you straightaway, if you please, m’lady,” he said to Abigail. “I’ll have all your things put away, and yours too, Mr. Simon. Here, you, Sarah! To the library, if you please.”
A pretty maid with blue eyes and red cheeks stood right behind him and did not so much as wince when he shouted her name. She bobbed a curtsey and said, “This way, m’lady and sir.”
We wound our way through the manor, past closed and open doors, down hallways, through room after room and then, to my surprise, outside—where I saw the manor was built in a rectangle with a broad central courtyard entirely enclosed by the wings of the house. Down a gravel pathway we followed the maid through a door, another door, and then a third.
“I am impressed,” I murmured.
“You’re meant to be. It’s precisely what the Hopkins want,” Abigail said as quietly.
Finally the maid opened a door twice my own not-inconsiderable height and stood aside to let us in. I followed Abigail and barely moved in time before the maid closed the door behind me.
The room was massive; it must have taken up quite half of one of the short wings of the manor and was tall enough to have an upper gallery around three sides. Books and paintings lined all the walls, and the gallery above was nothing but books. A huge fireplace filled almost all of one wall, with a painting of a dyspeptic-looking gentleman in Puritan clothing above the mantle. Though the day was warm, a fire had been lit, and the room was filled with an odd sort of light, brilliant white and harsh on the eyes and completely silent, without the comforting hissing a gaslight makes.
“I see your Herr Tesla has succeeded in enlightening you, Eli,” Abigail said as she looked up at a sconce just inside the door. “Most impressive.”
Electricity. It will never catch on, I’m sure—it’s merely a fad. Gas light is so much more flattering.
“Abigail. Good of you to come so promptly,” said a quiet voice with a bit of a slur.
I looked around the room and, for a moment, wondered who had spoken. Then a noise came from above, and I raised my eyes to the gallery.
A tall thin man stood, blending into the shadows above the hooded electric lights. He had something in his hand I could not at first make out, not at least until he began his unsteady way down a set of iron spiral stairs. As he came into the halo of white light, I could see what he carried. A decanter, half full of a dark amber liquid.
At the bottom of the stairs he upturned the decanter and took a mouthful, swallowed and took another, then stumbled forward and collapsed into a leather armchair. Sir Eli, it appeared, had been celebrating our arrival before we, ah, arrived.
The electrical light showed me, in the harshest detail, a tall blond man so cadaverous and pale he could have been mistaken for a corpse.
Abigail gasped in horror and concern. “Eli, good lord, what has happened to you?” She hurried across the room and grabbed the decanter just as he was starting to drop it.
“Happened, my darling Abigail? Why, I’ve died, that’s all. When one has nothing left to live for, what else can one do?”
I had hated him before. Now I despised him and how he was making Abigail feel. Died, had he? Well, he could not be buried soon enough to suit me.
“I’m glad you’re here, Abigail,” Sir Eli said. “I’ve got a mission for you and you alone. No one else will do. It’s dangerous, it may well be deadly, and money is no object.”
Well, now. Finally the man was starting to be interesting.
“Tell me everything,” Abigail said, and Hopkins did.
I shall not burden you with his slurs and stumbling and backtracking and general unpleasantness. In a nutshell, it was this:
His wife, whom he had loved with a passion that rivaled—I am forced to admit, my own feelings for Abigail—had died. Her death must have driven him quite mad, for he believed the tragic event was directly related to some sort of cursed ancient volume, which he had still in his possession. He had made arrangements to place the book and, I suppose, its destructive power within some sort of containment device. But this device must be taken to a desolate and far-off place to be hidden away.
The man was without doubt around the bend; I had no doubt of it. But what disturbed me most was Abigail, my darling hardheaded Abigail, seemed to be taking him seriously, nodding and agreeing with everything he said. Had she gone mad too, mad with worry about this “old, dear friend”?
A door I had not even noticed, since it was covered in shelves just like the walls, opened beside the fireplace. A lean man with a wild shock of hair came out, bearing a brass and crystal box in his hands with as much care as if it contained the crown jewels. He set the box down on a low table and stood back, regarding it with a self-satisfied and complacent gaze.
Then he looked up and saw Abigail. “Ah, Lady Abigail Moran,” he said, beaming as he walked toward her, hand outstretched. “You have brought me something, I believe?”
“I have indeed, Herr Tesla,” Abigail said. “And if we do work for you in future, I’d appreciate a bit more explanation about what the things you create can do. My partner was nearly poisoned.”
Tesla ignored her. She held out a leather bag, and he seized it eagerly.
Sir Eli had not stopped his mad ramblings, even during this exchange, but now he did; he asked, “Tesla, never mind about those toys. The box—is it done? Finished at last? And will it do the job?”
Not even an introduction, mind you. Manners are all that separate us from the apes, as I believe Mr. Darwin may well have pointed out, or at least should have done.
“Indeed, Sir Eli,” said Tesla. “And it will secure the tome with more than the required protection.”
I studied the man as he carefully placed the bag Abigail had given him on the floor. I was about to question him about the spider thing myself, but another voice from the shadows stopped me. Clearly the people with whom Sir Eli surrounded himself had no idea of the importance of knocking or announcing themselves; rather, they preferred sliding out from the darkness the corners provided.
“Eli! I see your call for help was answered as promptly as you hoped. You must be the dear Lady Abigail of whom Sir Eli speaks so highly. Allow me to introduce myself: Henri d’Estes.” The man was tall, with dark hair and eyes, and was really quite stylish in his dress. I raised an eyebrow as he bowed and kissed Abigail’s hand. A bloody Frenchman now, in addition to Sir Eli. Yet another beggar to add to my ever-growing list of men to despise on Abigail’s account. “Tesla, old man. You’ve explained the box by now, no doubt?” Monsieur D’Estes yawned and, I could not help but notice, folded himself into the armchair closest to Abigail.
“I was beginning to, sir.” The lean European gentleman stepped forward and pressed a single button on the front of the brass box he had placed on the desk. “This containment device is most deadly if the wrong combination is used. But once secured, it will be unable to open as long as the formula for the key is never discovered.”
“Formula?” I found my voice at last. “For a key? How fascinating. Forgive me for asking, but how does it work?”
“Simple, my dear sir.” Tesla gestured for me to come forward and I did so; Abigail followed. “Within this compartment are two glass vials. One is for human blood. The second is for witch blood. When they are filled by fresh living blood, drawn from a body whose heart is beating, and the box closed and button pressed once more, the vials will shatter, and the two types of blood will mix. The only method which will allow a thief to break into this vessel will be to have the same combination of mixed blood available. An improbable combination, I think you must agree.”
“A witch?” I searched the man’s face, thinking him joking, but finding him to be quite serious. Then I glanced at Abigail. She was taking this all in a bit too easily for my taste. Given my day, they would have to forgive my response. “And I suppose you have one here, do you? With the broomstick and cauldron for the boiling of children at hand?”
Sir Eli roused from his chair, pressing yet another button on his desk before he barked out an order that was surprisingly clear, considering his condition: “Bring it in.”
I wondered at the “it”; for all I knew, the mad man was having a goat or some such brought in. I did not expect the lovely woman, her hands bound, golden hair damp, clothing wrinkled, but a look in her blue eyes that reminded me in some odd way of Abigail. A burly man stood behind her, and there was a leash, if you can believe me, an actual leather leash attached to a wide collar around her pale throat.
“Here, now,” I said, and if I sounded indignant, who could blame me? “I will not stay in a room where a lady is treated this way.”
“Then you may leave,” Sir Eli rapped out, his voice stronger than I had yet heard it. “Who is this man anyway?”
Ah, he had noticed me at last. I opened my mouth to reply when Abigail said, “This is Simon Thorne, my dearest friend and collaborator in all things. If you want me for this mysterious mission of yours, Eli, Simon is part of the deal. No questions about it. Are we clear?”
My heart swelled in pride, and I cast my most arrogant glance at the men in the room, beginning with Sir Eli. Then I walked to the newcomer, took her clammy hands briefly and began untying the rope. It was stubborn, so I took out my pocketknife and finished the job.
“That damnable collar comes off too,” I said.
“No!” shouted Sir Eli.
“You like to take risks, young man, I see. Be careful the bitch does not turn and bite you,” the Frenchie said.
Sir Eli shuddered, stepping back as if to farther distance himself from the girl. “You would do well to heed his words, young man, you would indeed. You do not know what they…it…is capable of doing.”
I ignored that.
“Merci beaucoup,” the girl whispered, giving me a small smile as I reached around to unlatch the clasp. When the horrid leather fell away, she glanced around the room with a look of disinterest masking fear. Though I was sure I noted recognition in her eyes when they passed over the Frenchman.
Sir Eli refused to acknowledge the girl—or what I’d done, for that matter. Instead he turned back to Abigail, who was giving me the most peculiar look. Her grey eyes snapped back toward Sir Eli as he spoke.
“You are to take this box to a secret place, Abigail. Take the witch with you, and draw from her the blood needed to be placed in this vial Tesla showed you. Any ordinary human,” he stressed the word, “blood can go in the other.” He took a rolled piece of paper and gave it to Abigail. “Here is information on how to find the hiding place. You are to spare no expense, my dearest. Anything you need will be provided, no questions asked. Only please, please, do not fail me on this.”
I was still standing beside the girl, ready to shield her from the vultures in the room, but then she spoke up. Her voice was clear and precise as she spoke one word in French: “Non.”
I dare say we all turned to her at that moment, so easily forgotten amidst the details of the mission. Indeed, Sir Eli whirled around, and despite his earlier fear stormed over to where we were standing.
“You have no choice. You will go, or suffer for it,” he said.
The lady smiled. “No more than I have already, monsieur. I am a French citizen by birth, not one of your servants, yet you have treated me like a criminal. Why should I help you? I will not go unless I receive something in return: my freedom from you and yours for all time.”
“Freedom?” raged Sir Eli. “Freedom, you say, you witch? Do you know who I am?”
“Who you are?” the lady said, her voice soft. “But of course I know. You are the Witchfinder General, the man who murders my people and steals their belongings. You are the son and grandson and great-grandson of men who did the same.” She moved forward to stand beside me, and I couldn’t help but notice how the blue of her eyes began to darken as she spoke. “But not this time, Sir Eli Matthew Hopkins. This time, I have the upper hand. I have something you want more than wealth or power. I have something you cannot take from me by simply murdering me, for you need me alive. This time, perhaps for the first time in your life, you are faced with defiance. I have something you want but cannot have without my cooperation. I will do this thing for you, Sir Eli Hopkins, though doing anything for a Hopkins is the ultimate sin for my kind. I will do this, but only on certain conditions.”
“Conditions.” The Frenchie laughed disdainfully. “You are in no place to negotiate, witch. Do as you are told.”
The girl ignored him as she continued. “First, when this thing is done to your satisfaction, you shall set me free. And not for just a little time, mind you. Not just until you can set your dogs,” she gave a disgusted look at the Frenchie, “on me again, but for the rest of my days. Next, I will be set free in my own country, in la belle France, and I want your guarantee, in writing, neither you nor yours will ever interfere with me again. I would ask for your word as an Englishman on this, Sir Eli, but while I would trust any other English gentleman in such a matter,” she turned her gaze on me and gave me a brief smile, then resumed, “I will not, I cannot, trust a Hopkins. These are my terms.”
The Frenchie stood up. “On no account, mam’selle! Eli, you cannot be listening to her babbles. You know what she is. What she is capable of.”
“And I know what you are, Henri,” Sir Eli looked at him. “I know your story, remember. But in this matter, I have no choice. The damned witchblood have gone into hiding of late. This one is all we have. All we have…alive, at least. And as you have heard Herr Tesla say, the blood must be from a beating heart, else I’d drain her now and end all this trouble by sending you a bottle of her filthy blood. No,” he raised his hand, but a calculating look had come into his eyes. “No choice. But I have certain conditions to be met as well. You will go with her, Henri. You will make sure all is done which should be done. Then, you will follow my orders—my orders, Henri, do you hear?—and release her. Are we agreed, gentlemen, ladies?”
“Damn it, Eli.” As soon as the curse left Henri’s lips, he threw Abigail an apologetic look before eyeing Sir Eli once more. “You cannot be serious! How can I go? Who will fill my position? What will WFG do—”
Sir Eli waved his hand dismissively. “It doesn’t matter. You will go.”
“Just one moment,” Abigail said. “I cannot say I understand all this, but I must know one thing before I can possibly agree to help you. Simon and I—or at least our services are, for want of a better word—for sale. But I need to know precisely where you want this thing,” she pointed at the brass box, “taken.”
The angry color in Sir Eli’s face was fading and he was looking again most corpselike. “Forgive me, my dear. I thought I had mentioned that already. It is rather a long journey, but I shall provide whatever money and equipment you need to repair your grandfather’s airship.”
My heart sank as I saw the look of utmost joy on Abigail’s face, but she said never a word.
“And when it’s airworthy, I wish you to take this box,” he waved at it, “with its contents, along with Mademoiselle des Jardin and Henri d’Estes, to Australia.”
“Australia!” I gasped. “Good lord, that’s halfway around the world! Surely, Abigail, you cannot accept such a commission.” I gave her my most pleading look.
She was having none of it. I doubt she’d heard anything at all past “repair your grandfather’s airship,” but she proved me wrong, as Abigail so often does. “Two passengers, Simon, myself and our man Rupert,” she said, and went off into one of her calculating modes, some blather about weight and displacement and airspeeds and buoyancy, a place where I do not have the learning nor talent to follow. “It can certainly be done, with careful planning. We’ll need fueling stops, and I shall have to plan a most careful route. In fact, it will be quite an adventure, don’t you agree, Simon?”
I did the only thing possible under the circumstances. I covered my face with my hands and groaned.