Chasing the Star Garden: The Airship Racing Chronicles (Volume 1) (12 page)

Chapter 15

“
W
hat a crock of shite,” Angus exclaimed after I told him and Jessup about my meetings with both Celeste and Richard Payne Knight. While I had given them most of the details, I had left out the Temenos prophecy. I was still reeling from having heard the name spoken aloud. “You did the right thing, lassie. Best not to get mixed up in matters that aren’t your concern.”

Jessup sat looking at his hands. It was not like him to mull over his thoughts.

“What?” I asked him.

He shrugged, spreading his hands, but didn’t answer.

“Out with it.”

“Well, this Celeste, she’s right, isn’t she? Doesn’t it seem wrong for a bunch of crusty old buggers to go ripping about the Mediterranean taking everything they want and hauling it back to London?”

“The rebellious tribe of Boudicca speaks,” I said. “You have a point, but should I be risking my neck over it?”

Before either of them had the chance to answer, the door to my bedroom burst open, and a wild-looking Sal came in. He said nothing but scooped me into his arms and crushed me against his chest. Taking their cue, Jessup and Angus made silent departures.

“I can’t breathe,” I told Sal after a moment.

“Are you all right?” he said, stepping back, smoothing my hair around my face.

I relayed to him the sequence of events that had unfolded.

“I went back to Anthony’s workshop. They tore the place apart and bloodied his nose. They were looking for the kaleidoscope. My Lily, I am so sorry. You were right behind me. I stopped for just a moment, and when I turned around, you were gone!”

“Sal, I’m fine. How about Anthony? Is he all right?”

“Surprised. Angry. But fine.”

“I left the kaleidoscope with that woman. We came here to find out what it was and now we know. I’ve got too many of my own worries to get involved in this sort of mess.”

Sal looked distressed. He held my hand, stroking my fingers. “The statue they seek is a rare treasure. Praxiteles is the most renowned sculptor of the ancient world. Thousands of people sailed to the ancient city of Knidos to view the Aphrodite. I thought the statue was lost in a fire in Constantinople.”

“Celeste said it was a false lead, that the real statue was hidden by one of its admirers.”

“The ancient cults, Lily, are very serious. To them, the Gods of the ancient world are as real as they were in the time of Troy. Praxiteles’ statute was created for the cult of Aphrodite Euploia, the goddess of fair voyages. A voyager yourself, you must see there seems to be some connection between you and this goddess. After all, only a stargazer would notice coordinates in a kaleidoscope,” Sal said.

“Coordinates?”

“I have been thinking about the kaleidoscope, the numbers, and why the object came to you specifically—your knowledge, your skills. The numbers seem to be a line of latitude. Venus is a morning and evening star. You saw the numbers in the evening star. What would we see if we viewed the numbers at the morning star?”

“Another set of numbers. The exact coordinates?”

“Perhaps.”

“But surely someone else would have noticed after all these years. Knight said the kaleidoscope was ancient, the work of someone names Eudoxus.”

“Eudoxus was an astronomer. He studied under Plato and was contemporary to Praxiteles. He may have also belonged to the cult of Aphrodite. It is certainly possible he tinkered the kaleidoscope. If the kaleidoscope was only meant to be used in a time of need, then no one may have ever known it was anything other than a colorful looking glass.”

“Celeste said the Dilettanti stole it from Paphos.”

“The Dilettanti have two sides. They are lovers of art and culture. On one hand they preserve history that would otherwise sit buried under rubble and grass, but on the other hand, they are dangerous connoisseurs of sexuality. They hold a secret museum of erotic art, so naturally all of London knows about it. They have shaken Pompeii loose of her riches and collected art from every ancient city they have unearthed in search of the divine physical form. No doubt, the Aphrodite of Knidos is a coveted prize, the most dazzling game piece of the ancient world. The courtesan likely did not exaggerate the dire nature of the situation. If the Dilettanti think they have a lead on the Aphrodite, they will not stop until they recover it.”

“And if they do, then what? It will sit in the British Museum. Is that so bad?”

“We will all go and marvel at Praxiteles’ creation whereas the cult of Venus, when they see her, will marvel at divine love.”

I looked at Sal who was staring at me with great intensity. I giggled. “What, are you marveling at divine love?”

Sal gently took me by both arms and pulled me into a deep kiss. Something felt different. There was a shift, a minor change in pressure, intensity, chemistry, between us. I felt the sweet softness of his lips and breathed in his comforting scent of sandalwood. For just a moment, my heart fluttered open.

Sal laid me down and whispered in my ear. “When I thought something had happened to you, that I might have lost you…” he kissed me gently, and our eyes locked on one another.

This was not Sal, the Italian, of Tinkers’ Hall talking to me. This was Salvatore Colonna of Rome, Sal who had old friends, a bad relationship with his brother, and a dead mother who would have liked me. This Sal was not distracted by inventions and devices. A different man, or, perhaps, the real Salvatore was looking down at me. I kissed this man back as Beatrice—or maybe Penelope-might have kissed him. Outside my open bedroom window, the swans sounded again, their calls reverberating deep in my soul.

Chapter 16

E
ven though I was young when I was adopted, it didn’t take me long to figure out that my new situation was far worse than anything I could have ever imagined. Mr. Oleander made no effort to hide his repugnant behavior.

My first night there, Mr. Oleander came into my and Nicolette’s room after Mr. Fletcher had gone to sleep. I could hear Mr. Fletcher snoring loudly in his room on the other side of the flat.

The door creaked when Mr. Oleander entered.

“Sir?” I said. I had been lying on a trundle rolled out from under Nicolette’s bed. Still worried about making a good impression, and desperate not to go back to the charity school, I sat up.

“Go to sleep, Lily,” he said as he neared Nicolette’s bed. He bore a candle before him; his bent shadow moved along the wall. Nicolette never stirred. I guess, after all those years, she had grown to expect him.

Puzzled, I stared at Mr. Oleander.

“Mind your own business, pretty kitty, or I’ll make
you
my business. Lie down and close your eyes.”

I was confused, but I did as I was told.

“Don’t pretend you’re sleeping,” Mr. Oleander whispered to Nicolette.

“Non. I am only tired,” I head Nicolette whisper.

“Well, I won’t be long. Come on now. Let’s get acquainted,” he whispered.

I heard Nicolette sit up, followed by a lot of wet sounds and Mr. Oleander moaning. I didn’t dare to look. After a few moments, I head Mr. Oleander direct Nicolette to lie down. The bed creaked. My trundle shifted when he crawled onto the bed with her.

Then the bed started shaking. Mr. Oleander was groaning. Curiosity got the better of me. I peeked out from under the blankets to look. Mr. Oleander had pushed Nicolette’s skirts up to her neck and had poised himself between her open legs. He was pumping hard, his face contorted into a weird grimace. Nicolette, her body rocking, stared at the skylight overhead. Her expression was as empty as the full moon.

Feeling sick, I pulled the blanket back over my head. My trundle rocked as Mr. Oleander relieved his lust on Nicolette. My bed shaking, I began to feel like it was happening to me too.

“Ahh, by God, there we go,” Mr. Oleander said finally. Moments later he belted up and left, taking his candle with him.

I crawled out from under my covers and looked at Nicolette. She lay motionless, staring up at the starry sky. Her dress was still pushed up around her neck, her body exposed. Not sure what to do, I gently pulled her skirts back down and covered her. She didn’t resist. In fact, she barely seemed to notice. I took her cold hand and sat beside her.

“For some reason, I thought he was your father,” I whispered.

She turned and looked at me. One tear slid from the corner of her eye. “He might be.”

I was shocked by her answer. “Where is your mother?”

“Dead. Oleander was one of my mother’s clients. He took me in when she died, brought me here.”

“From France?”

“Oui,” Nicolette said in an exhale.

“How long ago?”

She sighed. “I don’t remember anymore.”

I lay my cheek on her hand and said nothing else. I was frightened to my core that I would share Nicolette’s fate. Maybe it would have been better if I had drowned in the Thames. What a choice: be left for dead or be abused until you were dead inside. All I knew was that I did not want that man’s hands on me. I swore that no one would ever touch me without my permission. But I never could have anticipated what was to come.

Standing on a pedestal above an adoring crowd, I felt eyes roving over my naked body. I tried to cover myself, but my arms, stiff as stone, were frozen in place. Inside, I burned. All eyes devoured me: my lips, my thighs, my bare breasts, my secret female parts. Men and women gazed on me with desire and envy. I could read their lusty thoughts in their eyes. At night, as they made love to their paramours, they would imagine the upturn of my nipples, the roundness of my bottom. And I could not prevent them. Their thoughts raped me. They circled around me, gazing, absorbing my every curve. They would comment on my buttocks, my breasts, on which view was more preferable, back or front. The Phoenicians, the Koans, the Knidians, and the Greeks would all come and see what Praxiteles had made. With eyes of stone, I stared out at the blue-green waters of the Aegean and pretended they did not molest me. I thought of what I would say if I could speak, but my stony lips never uttered even a murmur.

“Be silent. Be still,” Mr. Oleander whispered as he crawled into Nicolette’s bed.

Moonlight poured in through the skylight, illuminating the room. Nicolette’s face was white, almost translucent. Her glazed over eyes were staring at some far-off point no one could see but her. Her body rocked back and forth. Mr. Oleander’s shadow rolled over her like a storm cloud.

Nicolette turned her head. She wore the face of the Aphrodite. Her glossy eyes met mine. Her hand slid from the bed. I took it. It was cold as stone.

“Lily,” she rasped. “Save me!”

I sat bolt upright. Outside, a gondolier was singing as he poled past the palazzo. I was shaking and drenched in sweat: fucking dreams, as always, the fucking nightmares. I tried to catch my breath. Undisturbed, Sal lay sleeping in the bed beside me. I poured a glass of water and rose. Still naked, the rub of lovemaking fresh on my skin, I leaned against the frame of the balcony window. A wind blew across the Adriatic. It cooled my sticky flesh. Moonlight shone down on me. Its luminescence made the canal waters sparkle with silver light.

I tried so hard to forget everything, to forget the years with Mr. Fletcher and Mr. Oleander, to forget what had happened to Nicolette and me, but the dreams wouldn’t let it go. Now my dreams were a confused mess, a mix of the mystery of the statue and the pain of the past. And every time I saw Nicolette, even if it was just in a dream, my heart broke again.

As I gazed out at the canal waters, I thought I saw Nicolette’s porcelain face appear amongst the waves. The image disappeared under the water. And again, I could not save her. But I could save the Aphrodite. Celeste was desperate. Sal was willing. Byron was encouraging. And an ancient prophecy said someone from my family line-my real family line-would protect the Goddess of Love. I didn’t set much stock in such intangible things as prophecies or the familial duty of a family with which I had no connection. But Nicolette had been tangible, someone who had been family. She too had been the victim of hungry eyes. Would I let the sculpture fall to the same fate?

I closed my eyes and calculated. It had been about nine years since she died-no, no more of this. I wouldn’t think of it anymore. I calculated again. I had not smoked opium for hours. The laudanum was supposed to have the same effect, but it didn’t. Nothing made me feel better than smoking opium. Nothing made me forget better than smoking opium.

As silently as possible, I pulled a chair to the open balcony doorway. I dug in my satchel and pulled out my pipe. It had gotten tangled up in the kaleidoscope’s cloth wrapping which lay forgotten in my bag. After a couple of hits, my hands started to steady. The images from the dream started to melt. I was able, once again, to push Nicolette’s memory back into the dark place inside me where I kept her. Where I kept her safe. My eyes floated, my head humming. I looked at the cloth; the image of the swan was hidden in the darkness. As a gondolier passed, he looked up to find me sitting naked in the starlight.

“Bellisimo!” he called excitedly, extending both arms to the night’s sky.

Feeling momentarily modest, I dropped the kaleidoscope’s wrapping over my cunny.

“Venere pudica,” the gondolier called with a laugh then poled way.

“Modest Venus,” Sal said from the bed behind me.

I looked back at him. The moonlight fell on his naked body. He looked beautiful, his silver-streaked hair shining. “What did you say?”

“Venere pudica means ‘Modest Venus.’ That is the Aphrodite of Knidos’ common title.”

“Just how do you know so much about this statue?”

Sal shrugged. “My brother donated a copy to the Pope a few years ago.”

I considered for a moment then laughed out loud.

Sal smiled wryly. “What is it, my Lily?”

“Well, I guess we have to find her.”

Sal rose and came to stand behind me. He kissed my earlobe. “I know,” he whispered.