Accursed (29 page)

Tamara rolled her eyes. “Nothing you could offer would be worth that abasement,” she replied tartly.

“You think not? I know many things, my little pet. I can see the future, and it is black, black, black. But pray, tell me more of this John Haversham.”

“I told you I would not,” Tamara answered. “And besides, my life is of no consequence to you.”

Oblis smiled, showing blackened teeth.
Poor Father,
she thought miserably. He had always been such a
clean
man.

“I can offer you advice, Tamara Swift. I can help you in your quest to find the source of this curse. This
plague.
”

Tamara flinched and stared at him. But her interest had been piqued.

Oblis sat cross-legged on the floor, his hands clasped rapturously before him.

“What do you know of it?” Tamara said.

Oblis only smiled.

Her skin prickled with frustration and anger, but her curiosity got the better of her. If he had some knowledge of value, it would be irresponsible of her not to discover its nature.

“What would you like to know? What do I have to offer that you could possibly want, in exchange for information?”

“Tell me of your humiliation,” Oblis said.

Tamara glared at him. “It was nothing. I told you—”

“Enough!” Oblis said in a terrifyingly loud voice. “I want to know what you did to humiliate yourself!”

She started to speak, but stopped herself. She took a breath and composed her words, before beginning again.

“I took his . . . finger . . . into my mouth . . .” Tamara’s stomach turned as she spoke the words.

Oblis began to laugh gleefully.

“And then?”

She swallowed hard, but then braced herself, meeting his gaze with a steely glare of her own. “I suckled upon it.”

Oblis clapped his hands together. “Yes! And did you enjoy it?”

She looked down at her hands before nodding. “Yes, I enjoyed it.”

His laughter was giddy. “Of course you did, filthy girl. Of course you did!”

Tamara trembled with hatred for the demon, but she said nothing.

“Excellent. And what more?”

She frowned. “Nothing more. Isn’t that horrible enough?”

“You’re certain?”

“Completely,” she said, shivering.

“All right, then. Now for your reward, as promised. A question. Why have you not sought the Protector of Bharath?”

“That is all my humiliation is worth?” Tamara said. “You promised answers, and instead offer a question.”

Oblis nodded. “The question is its own answer. As to your humiliation, it was but a small thing, Tamara. You will experience far worse. Believe me when I tell you that.”

J
ohn Haversham rose far earlier than was his wont. He was scheduled to make an appearance later in the morning, at the Algernon Club, and the prospect had given him a fitful night’s sleep.

Despite his exhaustion, however, he could not force himself to return to slumber, no matter how he tried. Nor did he wish to pass the hours within the confines of his home. So he roused his driver early, and set out for Covent Garden just after eight o’clock.

By the time he arrived, the frenzy of the vegetable market had faded entirely. Only once, several years earlier, had John visited the market early enough to witness the spectacle that took place there each morning. The sellers called to one another and to the throngs of people who arrived to buy their wares, and the customers wandered among literal walls of vegetation, piles of turnips, cauliflowers, and cabbages that towered a dozen feet from the ground, choosing what they wished for their shops and kitchens. The bustle of the crowds had been extraordinary, and John recalled with perfect clarity how magical it seemed, watching the towers of vegetables melt away, finally to vanish altogether. There had been fruit, as well, during that summer visit, and carts overflowing with flowers.

John had always intended to return, to witness that wild scene once more. But this time, his goal was quite different.

He stepped down out of the carriage and instructed his driver to retrieve him at half past one from his favorite pub in Piccadilly. He had far too much pent-up energy, and he needed to release it through a morning of brisk walking, to be followed by a quick bite at the pub. By then, he would know what, precisely, the director of the Algernon Club expected of him.

For now, though, he didn’t want to think about the club. He had other things to occupy his thoughts.

As the carriage rattled away, he turned to survey the aftermath of that morning’s market. The carts were gone, even the debris of cabbage leaves and rotten vegetables had been removed. This early in the year, there were far fewer flower girls on the street, but as John began his stroll through Covent Garden, moving briskly to burn off his anxiety, he spotted a petite Irish lass, her red hair shining even in sunlight. She looked freshly scrubbed, perhaps ten years old, and she had two large baskets of flowers, most of them arranged in pretty buttonhole bouquets.

Perched on the stairway of the church, she spotted him right away and stood, lifting a basket and tromping down to the foot of the stone steps.

“Flowers, sir?” she said.

John smiled as he strode toward her. There were others in the square, an elderly couple walking arm in arm, two costermongers with red faces who seemed engaged in a quiet argument, and any number of household cooks and other servants sent to purchase fruits and vegetables for their employers’ larders. They were all moving in and out of the shops. Yet the girl had focused on him.

“Why, good morning, my dear. I must look like an easy mark,” he said brightly, crouching in front of her to examine her basket.

“Violets from the South of France, sir! Brought over by steamship,” the girl said, resplendent despite the plainness of her blue dress. She wore a matching bow in her hair. Her pale, freckled cheeks flushed red as candied apples with the chilly breeze, and he thought she might also be combating a natural shyness. “And the prettiest of roses from—”

“You’re the prettiest of roses, young lady,” John said, flashing her his most charming smile. He shook his head sadly, then. “If only you were a decade older, I might buy
you
such a lovely bouquet. But alas, I haven’t a lady to whom I could present them at the moment.”

She flushed even more furiously scarlet, but he could see that his flattery hadn’t been enough to overcome her disappointment that he would not buy her flowers. So John reached into his jacket pocket and removed a small leather purse, from which he extracted two shillings.

“For the flower of Covent Garden,” he said, shooting his cuffs and then taking her hand, placing the coins in her palm, and closing her fingers around them.

Her eyes were wide as saucers. “Thank . . . thank you, sir.” The lovely little lass actually gave him a small curtsy. “Thank you so very much.”

John returned the purse to his pocket and stood up, then tugged on his lapels, straightening his jacket. The stiff collar of his shirt was rough against his neck, and he twisted his head to try to give himself a bit more room to breathe.

“Entirely my pleasure to have made your acquaintance, miss,” he replied. There was a young couple, newly married from the look of them, just wandering through from the other side of the square, and he gestured toward them. “Now get on with you. There’s a lad who won’t be able to resist a bouquet for his lady love. She won’t let him, I daresay.”

The girl giggled, ran back to the steps to get her other basket, then hurried toward the couple.

He wandered Covent Garden, at a more relaxed pace now, strolling into one after another of the small, enclosed squares on either side of the main avenue. His stomach growled to remind him that he had avoided breakfast, but that was, indeed, what had prompted him to have the driver leave him off here.

There were barrels of deep red American apples, winter pears from France, grapes from Hamburg, and boxes upon boxes of oranges. John sampled each, relishing the sweetness of the best fruit that could be had in all London. Soon his fingers and chin were sticky with their juices, no matter how meticulous he tried to be.

From one seller he procured a cup of water and a cloth that was only slightly soiled, and managed to clean himself up, laughing at the way the vendor rolled his eyes.
How vain I must look to this fellow,
he mused. To complete his breakfast, he bought a small bag of nuts, which he slipped into his pocket to eat as he walked.

When he emerged from the alley where he had procured the nuts, passing a small cluster of women shelling walnuts, John saw that the fruiterers and costermongers had begun to arrive for the sale that would begin at ten o’clock. Auctioneers had set up boxes on the street, from which they would hawk their wares. The prices for some of the fruit would be extravagant, and watching the bidding would have been entertaining, but he had planned a long walk before his meeting this morning and he wanted to enjoy himself, to take in the sights of the Strand and St. James Square at his leisure.

Clouds began to gather, and the sky became grayer, but still no rain fell. The wind was blowing toward the river, so rather than the stink of the Thames there was the odor of chimney smoke, which John had always been fond of, as long as it wasn’t chokingly thick. A bit more sun would have been appreciated, but still the morning was altogether pleasant.

He walked southwest along the Strand, enjoying the leisurely pace that prevailed here. All across the city, pedestrians wore expressions of determination and purpose as they went rushing about their daily duties. Though it had a reputation that drew many visitors to its shops, the Strand was spectacularly unlovely. The architecture along the street was ordinary, and the wares hawked in the various storefronts were hardly worth the trouble. Nearly everything that could be found along the Strand could be found elsewhere in London. John knew that many people, particularly those in the upper classes, could not understand the lure of the street, but to him it was painfully obvious.

It was the walk itself. There was a bohemian air about the place, perhaps born of the presence of Booksellers’ Row, or the many theaters that stood along the way. To wander down the street gazing in shop windows and admiring the marquees of the Adelphi and the Lyceum and the Gaiety, to take a moment to admire the church of St. Mary le Strand . . . it was peaceful, in its way. Relaxing. That was the problem. When the effete, snobbish nobility sniffed and turned up their noses at the Strand, it was simply that they were appalled by the relaxed environment of the place.

He loved it.

With carriages trundling past him, and men and women bustling by, he took his time walking all the way to St. James’s Park. It was small in comparison with some of the great, sprawling, green spaces of London. Little more than an enclosed garden, really, but he enjoyed lingering there nonetheless. Admiring the ladies he saw strolling the Mall, he nearly stepped into a pile of dung left behind by the mounts of the Horse Guards. Their parade grounds were located in the park, and he had only just missed their morning outing.

There were few gardens blooming yet in the city, but he caught a sweet scent on the air. Turning, he spotted the line of stalls in front of Carlton House terrace, where vendors sold fresh gingerbread and sweetstuffs, and where fresh milk could be had, right from the cow. Several of the stalls had the beasts tethered there in front. It brought a smile to his face. After his visit to Covent Garden, he wasn’t hungry at all, but the scent of gingerbread was tempting.

“Perhaps later,” he muttered to himself, retrieving his pocket watch and opening it. He had only a handful of minutes before he was to appear at the Algernon Club.

Time to go, then.

The easiness of spirit he had so carefully cultivated all morning evaporated as he left the park and turned north onto St. James Street. John dropped into a demeanor that was now just as purposeful and businesslike as any of the society wretches he had been mentally condemning only minutes earlier, but there was nothing to be done for it. His stomach began to knot and his anxiety returned as he passed White’s and made his way to the unassuming, featureless façade of the club.

With a glance around at the ordinary London street, he took a breath and rapped on the door. A moment passed, then it opened, revealing a gray-faced servant wearing black jacket and tie. He was broad-shouldered, and his nose looked as though it had been broken at least once. As an aficionado of pugilism, John would have thought the man a former boxer, but the way he stood ramrod-straight, almost at attention, bespoke instead a soldier.

“Yes, sir?”

John produced his card, which the man glanced at for a moment before nodding and stepping back. “Very good, Mr. Haversham. You are expected. Please do come in, and welcome back to the Algernon Club.”

John smiled weakly in return, but the servant never noticed. Rather, he turned his back and started down a hall that led deeper into the building.

“This way, please,” the former soldier said over his shoulder.

They passed several large drawing rooms where men of varying ages—though all of them were older than John himself—smoked and chatted and argued. There was a room where a small group was gathered around a lad no more than twenty, who seemed to be doing card tricks. The older gentlemen gazed on, obviously attempting to disguise their level of interest, acting unimpressed but putting on a poor show of it, John thought.