The Crimson Shard (19 page)

“An atmospheric steam engine?” asked Wheatley.

“I don’t know about atmospheric. We don’t use steam engines much anymore.”

“Ah!” exclaimed several gentlemen, and Blaise put up his hands to ward off any more questions.

“I’m no engineer,” he said. “All I can say is that the engines in our time do things you can’t even imagine.”

The Pell Mells went on examining the coins and tickets, but Blaise couldn’t tell if they had been won over at all. He discreetly went through his own satchel and extracted a leaflet printed with photos, maps, and diagrams.

Gingerly, he got up and smoothed it flat on an empty table near Henry. “Here is more proof. There is a London museum in the twenty-first century called the National Gallery. Each room has paintings from the past. See, they’re collected together by time period and country all the way to 1900.”

Amelia and the Pell Mells clamored around, practically knocking over one of the stone heads on a plinth.

“This is printed in color — with exact images of artworks in miniature! What superb quality paper and ink.” Martingale devoured the information on the leaflet. “How is this made?”

“There’s going to be an invention that can copy things more exactly than a painting,” said Blaise. “And printers can print those copies in any size, just like this.”

Henry exclaimed, “Our own eighteenth century is included here, collected in several rooms.” The others leaned in to look where he pointed. “The painter Mr. Hogarth seems to have his own room!”

“In a National Gallery,” Trevelyan mused, his eyes wide. “Wait until Hogarth hears of this.”

“You can’t tell him!” Blaise prized the leaflet away and stuffed it back where it came from. “Maybe we shouldn’t have shown you these things, if you can’t be trusted.”

Humbled, Trevelyan said, “I shall not utter a word. None of us shall.” The other gentlemen nodded.

Blaise lowered himself back onto his chair. “Now do you believe we’re telling the truth?”

“Have we seen enough to be convinced, gentlemen?” asked Henry, gathering all the coins and Underground tickets into a pile and pushing them toward Sunni. She packed away her evidence and sat down again.

“Aye,” the Pell Mells murmured.

“Is this why Throgmorton captured you?” asked Amelia. “To learn the secrets of the future?”

We can’t tell them about Fausto Corvo,
thought Blaise. “I guess so.”

“Blaise,” said Henry politely. “You were going to tell us about this painted door.”

“It’s in the Academy,” Blaise said.

“The Academy that enslaves its pupils,” Trevelyan said. “Enslaves them at what?”

“Drawing and painting.”

The poet raised an eyebrow. “That is a soft sort of slavery. We are all slaves to our art, whether we are painters or poets.”

“Working day and night?” Blaise tensed. “Never allowed to leave the Academy?”

None of the gentlemen looked surprised at this description.

“Sounds to me like disciplined instruction,” Catterwall said.

“And pupils being sold to anatomists if they don’t obey — is that part of disciplined instruction?” Blaise’s head was ringing.

A gasp came from the Pell Mells.

“Throgmorton has dealings with anatomists?” Martingale asked, incredulous.

“Yes,” Sunni said. “He’ll sell me to them if he catches us.”

Her words hung in the air. No one made a move to speak until Amelia leaned over and touched Blaise’s shoulder in an encouraging way.

“Tell us what the painted door is like,” she said.

He composed himself. “It’s brown, painted to look exactly like a wood-paneled door on a white wall. The handle looks like brass. It was painted to match the real door in the room.”

“Is the paint even, or does it have cracks?” asked Wheatley, pausing in his scribbling. “Are there any imperfections?”

Blaise closed his eyes for a moment. “Yes, there are some shapes scratched in the paint.” He drew a curve in the air. “Like spirals, overlapping each other.”

“What color are the spirals?”

“Darker brown, I think, with specks of red.” As he described the door, Jacob’s story came back to him. “Someone told me Throgmorton opened the door by drawing a shape on it with a sharpened shard of reddish stone that he dipped in a dark red liquid.”

“I saw him with a red stone knife,” said Sunni. “It’s sharp as a sword.”

“Describe it,” ordered Wheatley.

She gestured with her thumb and forefinger. “About this long. Flat and narrow. It fits in the palm of his hand with the pointed end sticking out.”

“Thank you.” Wheatley stood up and thrust his notebook into Blaise’s lap. “Draw the spiral on this page.”

Blaise took his rough graphite pencil and drew a delicate arc next to the man’s indecipherable scribbles.

Wheatley glanced at it and held up the book for the others to see. “I perceive that to be a nine rather than a spiral. Would you all agree?”

“A loosely drawn one,” said Trevelyan. “But yes, it could be.”

“You describe the shapes as having a sort of pattern,” said Wheatley.

Blaise nodded. “They were all roughly in the same place and overlapped.”

“Like writing?” suggested Trevelyan.

“Maybe. But it looked more like someone had drawn them on top of each other,” said Blaise.

“They could be demonic symbols.” Catterwall’s face lit up. “Magical handbooks called
The Grand Grimoire
and
The Blue Sphinx
are easily found on the streets of London, brought in by French peddlers. They are full of diabolical marks and symbols.”

Trevelyan rolled his eyes. “Have you ever seen a magical handbook? I have. They are full of recipes for potions to cure wind or baldness. Yes, there were also strange drawings and numbers in sequence, and supposed names of demons. But I question whether anyone would manage to cross time by merely copying them on a wall.”

“Perhaps this Throgmorton has!” said Catterwall.

“And what, if anything, has he revealed about this door?” Wheatley returned to his seat, not even looking at them.

“He only said he has the ability to open and close the door, but it was too complex for us to understand,” said Blaise. “Nothing else.”

“The more I hear of this man, the more I suspect he has diabolical powers to go with his diabolical heart,” said Catterwall.

Wheatley had a coughing fit and wrote even more furiously in his notebook.

“Something interesting, Wheatley?” asked Trevelyan.

“In a moment,” he replied without looking up.

Martingale asked, “Can you tell us anything else?”

Blaise looked at Sunni, and she shook her head. “That’s all we know, sir.”

“I would like a description of Throgmorton,” said Henry. “I did not see him properly at the theater. Who is he?”

“Good question, sir. We don’t know either,” said Sunni. “We’ve been told he just turned up here one day, from who knows where. He has a broken nose and light-blue eyes. I’ve seen him in a white wig and a brown one, dressed like he has a lot of money: fancy pocket watch, embroidered waistcoats, and lots of buttons all over his coat. But last night he wore plain, dark clothes.”

Martingale and several other men nodded. “A good description, Miss Sunniva.”

“Oh, he has a daughter, too, and she is just as slippery as he is.” Sunni turned to Blaise, her eyes narrowing. “Maybe
you’d
like to describe Livia.”

“Livia is about sixteen and has light-blond hair and blue-green eyes,” said Blaise, hoping that was bland enough. Anything more complimentary might be a bit hard for Sunni to take.

“And wears expensive dresses,” said Sunni, looking like she wanted to say something far more rude.

“A well-dressed man with a lovely well-dressed daughter,” Henry summed up. “A useful disguise for a rogue.”

“Yes, yes,” said Catterwall impatiently. “But back to the possibility of diabolical powers. . . .”

“Quite!” called another gentleman. “Symbols that conjure up evil forces.”

“We can rule nothing out,” said Catterwall. “Magical names, magical drawings, magical numbers — all must be considered.”

“We shall be happy for you to investigate the demonic possibilities,” said Trevelyan. “Just beware of anyone with horns and a forked tail.”

Wheatley snapped his notebook shut and stood up, announcing, “I must away. I cannot waste any more time over idle conversation.”

“Idle conversation!” Catterwall spluttered.

“We need a plan before anyone leaves, gentlemen,” said Henry, shaking his head at his friends. “My sister and I shall guard our two young friends here. Wheatley, will you seek out the magicians?”

The natural philosopher grunted a kind of yes.

“And, Catterwall, you will look into the whereabouts of magical handbooks.”

The man nodded enthusiastically.

“We are already fixed to meet for a Club Supper tomorrow night at the Jubilee Masquerade,” said Henry. “Eight o’clock, in our usual box or in that vicinity. We shall look forward to your reports.”

Wheatley bowed to Amelia and nodded to the Pell Mells. “Until tomorrow.” He hurried toward the library door, glanced over his shoulder, and said, “Guard those two well, Featherstone. Trouble is at their heels.”

“Wheatley!” Henry called, but he was already gone.

S
unni hurried down the broad steps into the grounds behind the mansion and took a huge breath in. The distant sky threatened rain, but for now the sun shone and she reveled in the fresh air.

Blaise descended the steps behind her, and they strolled along the interlocking paths in the large ornamental garden.

“I thought I was going to keel over in there,” he said. “My head was killing me.”

“Is it better now?” she asked, noticing how pale he was.

Blaise stared down at his shoes as he walked. “Yeah, a little.”

“We’ve got some hope now, haven’t we? These people are willing to help us.”

“Do you really think they bought everything we told them?”

“It seemed like it, after they saw our evidence.” Sunni grinned. “None of the Pell Mells wants to be left out of the action now.”

“What do you make of Wheatley?”

“It’s hard to tell,” she said. “Whatever he thinks, it’s all down in that notebook of his.”

They found a marble bench behind some shrubs and sat down. When Blaise began doodling in his sketchbook, Sunni almost cried at the comforting normality of it. They might have been sitting on a bench in Braeside, just being together, not even having to talk.

As Sunni watched him from the corner of her eye, she wondered what — or who — he thought about as he drew. Livia’s self-satisfied face appeared in her head. Was she inside Blaise’s head, too?

After some time, the sun disappeared under a cloud and Sunni murmured, “We were supposed to be back at school yesterday.”

“I know,” he said, putting his sketchbook away. “What I wouldn’t give to be there right now.”

“Me, too. And that’s saying a lot.”

Blaise touched his bandage. “I’m going to head back inside. Looks like rain and I don’t want this thing to get wet.”

“Oh,” said Sunni, disappointed. “Okay.”

He got up quickly, staggered, and sat down again.

“You want me to help you?” She touched his arm.

“No, I’m fine.” He stood up carefully this time. “Just need to take it easy.” At the edge of the shrubs, he turned. “Aren’t you coming?”

Sunni bit her lip. “In a minute.”

She was alone, feeling the first raindrops on her upturned face, when a gentle voice called, “Sunniva. There you are.”

Amelia hurried to her side. “Where is Blaise?”

“On his way inside.”

“You must come indoors also. There is a storm gathering.”

“I will, miss,” said Sunni, looking out at the darkening sky. “In a few minutes, if that’s all right. I don’t mind a little rain.”

Amelia furrowed her brow. “I have disturbed you.”

“No,” said Sunni. “I was just . . . sitting.”

Amelia seated herself on the edge of the bench. “I often sit here, thinking of nothing in particular.”

Sunni gave her a tight smile.

“Is everything well, Sunniva? With you and Blaise?”

“Yes, miss,” she answered, more sharply than she meant to. “Why?”

“Forgive me for asking, but I was wondering — and so was Mr. Martingale — did you and Blaise run away together before you fell victim to Throgmorton?” Amelia hesitated. “A young girl and boy such as yourselves . . .”

“No,” Sunni answered, a pang shooting through her chest. “Blaise and I are only friends.”

Amelia looked rueful. “Not sweethearts, then?”

Sunni shook her head and wiped a raindrop off her cheek.

“I must say something else,” Amelia said, her eyes shining. “Your arrival has changed my life. Because of it, I feel part of something important. The Pell Mell gentlemen allowed me to attend their meeting. They seemed to take me seriously! Not my brother, for he never takes me seriously unless his dinner is delayed, but I could sense the others do. It has inspired their ideas — and mine. We are on a quest to help you, all together!”

“I don’t know what to say, Miss Featherstone. I’m glad in one way, but in another, I’m not. Because Blaise and I have disrupted your lives.”