A Study in Silks (46 page)

Magnus put down his fork, his expression deadly serious. “Freedom from pain, for those who suffer it. Unlimited mechanical power, for those who need it. Genius, for those who know how to find it.”

“Genius?”

“Imagine the swiftness of human thought combined with the tireless strength of brass and steel. What brilliant computations could not be achieved then? And that would just be the beginning. Imagine the wisdom to be gained by true immortality.”

Evelina stabbed a bit of potato with her fork. She couldn’t decide if Dr. Magnus was insane or a revolutionary genius. “Is this philosophy of your own making?”

“Not solely. I seek to further my work by studying ancient writings, and by creating my own examples. Old devices and new freaks of nature, you might say.”

Something in his expression said that was a private joke. Irritation pricked her, but she moved on. “Have you applied these theories?”

“I have. My greatest limitations have always been my mechanical abilities. I have as much talent as the most accomplished of the makers, but tire of tedium of practiced application. My greatest achievements have always occurred when I work with another who takes up that share of the burden.”

Does this explain his interest in Tobias?
“And then?”

“Oh, there have been a few solid victories. I made some automata, truly fine ones in their day. And there was a
longcase clock that had some of my best work. I wonder if Bancroft still has it.”

“He certainly does.” Evelina put down her fork, suddenly glued to Magnus’s words. “I have always been fascinated by that piece. Would you please explain it to me?”

“
THERE IT IS
,” said Magnus, once they had escaped the dessert course. “It’s been many a year since I saw this beauty.”

The clock on the second-floor landing was a familiar part of the house. It was a large, walnut affair with an arched top framed by carved finials. It was the most complex clock that Evelina had ever seen, with seven moving dials besides the regular face and chimes. The top part of the arch showed the zodiac. The lower part showed the phases of the moon, each with a delicately painted face.

Below was a slot where punch cards emerged at random intervals, usually fluttering to the floor to the annoyance of the maids. Only Lord Bancroft seemed to understand the cards’ meaning. Evelina detested the fact that she could never figure them, or the rest of the clock, out. And so her curiosity pushed aside all caution about Dr. Magnus. This man had
built
the machine and that frustrating gulf of ignorance could be bridged within minutes.

She turned to him, forced to look up to meet his dark eyes. “The face shows everything. Time. Date. Barometric pressure. Every second of every minute. And it’s accurate. Lord Bancroft said that he has to adjust the workings only once every year, and that by only a matter of seconds, and then only due to the slope of the floorboards affecting the balance of the pendulum.”

Dr. Magnus bowed slightly, accepting the acknowledgment of his superior creation.

“But,” Evelina said, tapping the side of the glossy case, “the dial that shows the weather has never worked. In most clocks, the weather reading follows the barometric pressure, fair if it is high and foul if it is low. But here it seems to operate independently—and it’s wrong. Tonight, the sky is perfectly
clear and yet the clock’s hand is pointing to storm clouds.”

“Indeed?” Magnus smiled.

Evelina frowned at his amusement. “It is a critical flaw in the design. Perhaps the technology is lacking. I’ve opened up the case to see that part of the mechanism is connected to vials of fluid rather than to a recognizable barometer.”

Magnus stroked the side of the clock as fondly as if it were a favorite cat. “Who is to say that the reading refers to literal weather?”

“What other kind of weather is there?”

“The predictive value of this feature is metaphorical.”

“Metaphorical?” Evelina parroted in disbelief.

“Have you not seen the cards it emits?”

“Of course I have. They’ve been coming fast and furious of late. They’re gibberish.”

“Not gibberish, a cipher Bancroft and I wrote together. The cards are prognostications and warnings. This clock is of my own design and is attuned to currents in the aether. Whenever there is a disturbance, the clock reports it.”

Evelina put a hand to her forehead, as if trying to ease her pounding thoughts. “Let me understand this. Those vials of colored fluid inside the clock somehow detect fluctuations in the aether?”

“Simplistically, yes. They are chemical compounds of my own devising with varied levels of viscosity. They are tuned to detect the slightest energetic vibrations. If someone ill-wishes you in Turkestan, this device will know of it. And it will tell you, if you understand the cipher.”

Twenty more questions crammed into Evelina’s skull, including why Lord Bancroft was so anxious to know what was coming his way. Of course anyone wanted to know about bad luck, but was he expecting particular trouble?
Three murders. Enemies all around his table. Of course he is
.

“Why did you make this clock?”

“Because I could. And, at the time, Lord Bancroft was a friend. I was happy to give him a tool designed to aid in his
political ambitions. Unfortunately, he now professes to revile the magical arts.”

“Magic is forbidden in the Empire.”

“That is like saying the air is forbidden. It will be there whether you approve of it or not. I can tell you possess a talent, Miss Cooper, the same way you can sense mine. The question is whether or not you have the courage to learn how to use it to its fullest advantage.”

She thought of the implements in her train case—all the magical tools Gran Cooper had never explained. Someone like Magnus could teach her much about her birthright.

“Perhaps it is you who will find perfect wisdom.” The look he gave her devoured her face. He lowered his chin a degree, giving her the full force of his eyes. “Perhaps it is you that I have sought for so many years.”

“Um.” Evelina had been doing fine until he returned to the topic of perfect wisdom. That struck the same sour note as a huckster selling a bottle of cure-all, promising too much. “If I had the potential for such impeccable wisdom, I would not be standing on a dark staircase with a stranger, unchaperoned.”

She turned to leave, but he caught her arm in a bruising grip. Fear lanced through her. She gasped, jerking herself free.

He surged toward her, eyes flashing. “Don’t be a fool. I can open doors of impossible wonder. I can answer your every question. I can make your life remarkable.”

Evelina skittered away, cursing the encumbrance of her heavy dress. “If I live a remarkable life, it will not be at your whim, my lord!”

Magnus’s lips thinned. “Is that so?” And his hand snaked out to grasp her wrist so hard she thought the bones would break.

NICK GHOSTED PAST THE PARLOR WINDOWS, KEEPING TO
what shadows he could find, his feet silent in the soft flower beds. He raised up just enough to peer inside. A lone maid mopped up a spill from the carpet. He ducked out of sight before she noticed him, feeling like the thief from a comic farce.

Where had Evelina gone? He’d caught a glimpse of her leaving the dining room with Dr. Magnus, but it hadn’t been possible to see where they went. And his near-encounter with Magnus and Bancroft had proved that creeping into the ground-floor rooms wasn’t practical. Looking in windows wasn’t getting him very far, either.

Bloody woman
. What was she thinking, going off alone with Magnus?
You should have warned her about him. You should have found a way
.

Should have, would have. The story of Nick’s life. Well, now he was going to act, even if that meant embarrassing himself or tackling Magnus to the ground. Every instinct said the man was trouble on a demonic scale, and Nick’s self-appointed task was to keep Evie safe. It had been since the first day he’d seen her, a cherubic imp with long, dark ringlets and mud on her skirts. He wasn’t about to abandon her now.

He heard the maid leaving the parlor, her mop, bucket, and broom rattling as she shuffled away with her burden. Nick squirmed through the flower beds and around the corner, heading for deeper shadow.

This was the same side of the house as Evelina’s bedroom; he knew this wall well. There were a great many casement
windows, all easily opened with a knife just like the one he carried. And, it was nighttime now, with this side of the house relatively free of ornamental lights, which meant he could climb without being seen.

Most of the upper windows were dark, but those on the first two floors were lit, stained glass panels floating like jewels in the darkness. Nick pulled himself up, using a drainpipe and the frames of the windows as handholds. After all that crouching and lurking, he appreciated the flow and stretch of muscle, even if his ankle was starting to complain again.

His line of ascent was between the stairway windows and the bedrooms. At the first bedroom, he saw one of the ladies’ maids repairing the hem of a gown for her visibly impatient mistress. He ducked out of sight, then clambered across, hand-over-hand, to peer in the stairwell window.

Shock speared him, making his hand slip an inch.
By all the dark gods!

Dr. Magnus was dragging Evelina toward him by the wrist, making her stumble as she tried to twist away. In a flash, Nick had his knife out, working at the latch of the casement. With a hiss of pain and disgust, Evelina raised her free hand and slapped the doctor hard across the face. As the man’s face clouded with rage, the latch gave way and Nick pulled the window open, sliding through to the stairway and landing feet-first. It was farther to the floor than he’d bargained for, and he landed with a loud thud.

“Nick!” Evelina’s startled squeak echoed in the high vault of the ceiling.

Magnus wheeled around, a scowl of rage on his face. “What the devil are you doing here?”

He had a sudden instant of clarity. Magnus: powerful, wealthy, dangerous. Nick: half in rags, entirely out of place. Words deserted him. He raised the knife, figuring that would have to suffice.

“And you are her Galahad?” Magnus asked incredulously.

“Nick, be careful,” Evelina said in a low voice.

He could only spare a glance at Evelina, but he saw her look of gratitude. He was there, defending her, fighting by
her side as he was supposed to be. The knowledge gave him courage as he crouched, knowing by sheer instinct that Magnus was waiting for an opening to strike—but how he would fight was anyone’s guess. Nick was no practitioner, but he had enough of the Blood to feel the prickle of magic in the air.

“Dr. Magnus, I would very much appreciate it if you left this house,” Evelina said in a tight voice.

Magnus’s expression grew even more dangerous. “You are not the owner of this place, nor are you one of his children. You have no power over the threshold here.”

Nick’s heart jerked in his chest, but a flood of white-hot anger surged through his blood, half of it at himself. He should have found a way to stop Magnus the moment he had misgivings about the man—which was mere seconds after meeting him.

Could have, should have. He was done with all that. “You heard the lady. It’s time to go,” Nick said.

“I think not,” Magnus replied coolly.

Nick lunged forward, one hand extended to push the man back, knife in the other as backup. An altercation would attract unwelcome attention, but under the circumstances what did it matter? Getting thrown out on his arse was the least of their problems.

But suddenly Magnus wasn’t there. Nick wheeled to look for him, and was gripped in wild, white-hot agony. The pain was so great, he felt suspended in the air, left arm extended, right fingers curled around the knife, knees bent, weight balanced on his toes. Every fiber of his body seemed to curl inward, retracting as the pain crawled up every nerve, biting, clawing, flaying him one shred at a time. Nick was aware of the knife falling from his fingers, the searing flash of light on the blade, the distant thump as it hit the carpet. Somewhere to his left, there was a rose-colored swirl as Evelina turned to grab for him, but he could not move his head—not even to spare his life. The roots of his eyelashes hurt too much to glance to the side.

A crawling sense of evil poured over him, questing fingers tickling his skin, looking for openings into his core.
Frozen, unable to move, he cringed with horror at the feel of it clawing at his ears and eyes, wriggling up his nose and between his teeth, hunting for a way into his soul.

And then, something gave way inside and he crumpled. It didn’t happen quickly, but one muscle at a time lost its resilience, letting bone and tendon fail. His right knee hit the ground first, jolting his teeth and making him bite his tongue. Then his hip hit the carpet, and finally the rest of him. When his head smashed to the ground, the world had already gone black.

He had a distant, puzzled thought that he’d expected to die in a performance or maybe of old age and drink, not breathing his last on a rich man’s carpet.