The Deathsniffer’s Assistant (The Faraday Files Book 1) (23 page)

The twin rose petals in Miss Albany’s cheeks slowly disappeared, and she echoed his step back with one of her own, smoothing the lines of her drab grey dress. “Yes, of course,” she said, a touch of contrition in her once again well-measured voice. “You must understand, Mister Buckley, I have nothing against the rules of society on principle. Of course not. They serve an important purpose, and I would never advise teaching poor manners to any of my charges. Rosemary could do with a few more.”

“And I could do with a few less.” The mocking words left his lips before he could so much as note their passage, and he clamped his mouth shut as if to catch them and reel them back. She would feel his shame, he remembered. He’d forgotten what it was like, being so close to a heartreader. It was impossible to cloak intent or reaction.

Miss Albany had the grace to look chagrined, but she gave a short, tight nod. “Perhaps so.” Immediately, she turned and started towards the foyer door. “I really do need to be going,” she said, speaking just a little too quickly. “It’s the middle of the night, and―”

Chris caught her wrist. He didn’t tug, nor would he have held her if she fought, but she didn’t, merely stood there limp and defeated. “This isn’t a conversation I imagined having, especially not today,” he told her honestly. He tried to magnify his feelings of sincerity, to push them towards her. His mother had always said that helped her feel him when he was holding back from her.

“…no. I would agree,” Miss Albany sighed.

“But it’s said, now.”

“It shouldn’t be, Mister Buckley. I had recently awakened and was speaking without thinking. It would be most appropriate and better for our professional situation if we both forget any of it was said at all.”

That isn’t very honest,
he wanted to say, but reluctantly, he released her wrist. She pulled it up against her, rubbing where he’d held her. She averted her eyes once more, but not before sending him a thankful look under her eyelashes. “Rosemary was extremely happy to know you spent the night at her side. She was disappointed to have missed you.” She turned away from him. “The doctor assigned to her was by today. His name is Jameson, and he is very pleasant. Doctor Jameson looked into her blood, bones, and brain, and he assured Mister Spencer and I her recovery is progressing quite well, considering what she did.” Chris followed after her. He made a point of not letting his eyes drop to her posterior.

“Will you be all right getting home?” he asked.

“There’s no need. I like to walk.”

He turned to shoot a dubious glance towards the dark windows, out into the city. “Are you sure?” he asked, watching the flickering alp-light of the streetlamps filter through the frosted windows. “It’s dark, and wet, and you’d be alone on the road, and―”

“Mister Buckley,” she said firmly, speaking his name like a silencing command. When he turned his gaze back to her, her lips were set in a thin line and her shoulders were squared. The no-nonsense nanny had returned. “Whatever ill-considered moment of weakness you might have seen in me, I am quite capable. I do appreciate your concern, but let me assure you: I can take care of myself, thank you very much.”

The thought of simply letting a woman go out into the city this late at night went against all of his gentleman’s instincts, but he bit his tongue. He forced a tight nod and a courteous smile up at her, but she glanced past him and frowned, a tiny crease appearing between her brows. She’d felt his dislike of the situation. Did she appreciate his restraint, or was she bemused yet again at his lack of honesty? “I suppose I’ll see you in the morrow, then, Miss Al―”

A sharp
crack
from outside cut him off, and then a sound like glass shattering in a thousand shards. He turned to face the door, squinting to see without his spectacles.

One of the warm, orange lights framing the doorway flickered and then died.

“Oh, no,” Chris had time to breathe before the sound of crackling flames roared up, and bright orange light flooded into the foyer.

“Oh, Gods!” Miss Albany whispered breathlessly, and Chris was only barely aware of her suddenly pushing up against his side. Instinctively, he wrapped an arm about her shoulders and pulled her against him as they both stood, motionless, not even daring to breathe. They felt the heavy waves of hot light pulse back into the room. Chris could barely make out the form of the freed salamander slithering around its own serpentine body in midair, the friction of its scales putting off heat that radiated outward. No ‘binder’s song restrained the creature; nothing held it back. Nothing gave it orders. Chris trembled, pulling Miss Albany closer against him—more as a comfort to himself than in any attempt to protect her. If it should choose to wreak havoc in vengeance before going back to the plane then this house, this entire block, he and Miss Albany and
Rosemary
…

The light flared up. A wave of heat like the summer sun fanned back and ruffled his hair. And then those sinuous coils of orange-red light streaked off into the night, vanishing in a sound like the crackle of flames.

Everything instantly went dark and cold. Chris could only stand there, clinging to Miss Albany, afraid it would come back, afraid it wasn’t over, but finally, his muscles began to relax. He sagged against the bannister in relief. His face felt too tight. “Oh, Gods,” he murmured. “For a moment there, I thought for sure…”

Miss Albany said nothing in response, but the fabric of her gown rustled. There was a muffled
thump
as she dropped down onto the first stair landing, and then the sound of a strangled sob.

Eventually, without saying a word to his sister’s governess, Chris gathered himself. He threw open the front door, welcoming the blast of cool night air after the horrible heat of the salamander. He examined the damage while Miss Albany stood in the doorway, peering out into the darkness. The brass support of the light looked as if had been pulled half out of the wall and the enchanted glass circle that had bound the salamander had fallen below, bursting like a thrown snowball.

“I don’t know what happened,” he murmured. “These are good, solid craftsmanship, and we replace the salamanders annually. I can’t imagine why it would just…”

Miss Albany was shaking her head. “No,” she said, fear in her voice. “It didn’t just break, Mister Buckley. Someone broke it.”

A chill went down his spine. He said nothing, allowing her to continue.

She reached up and touched the bronze mount with a shaking hand. “You didn’t see. You were facing me. But the moment before it happened, Mister Buckley, I swear to you, I swear I saw a silhouette standing in the window here. Like someone was coming close to the door, listening, watching.”

Chris shuddered, remembering the impression he’d had on the way home, that feeling someone was cloaking their steps in his own. He forced himself to shake it off, and found it harder to dismiss than he’d like. “I’m sure it was your imagination, Miss Albany,” he said with a confidence he didn’t feel. “This is a fine part of the city. We don’t have crime, here.”

She took a deep, shaking breath, and squared her shoulders. “Of course,” she said. “This is a respectable neighbourhood. The mount was just faulty.” She hesitated. “But if you don’t mind, I—I think I might like to call a taxi service, after all.”

He remembered giggling in the cubbyhole beneath the staircase, squirming in the darkness, trying to force himself to remain silent. He remembered the door opening, Julia Buckley reaching out to pull him up into her arms.

He’d buried his face into the crook of her neck.
Oh, but how did you know?

And she’d stroked her hair and laughed quietly.
I felt you, sweetling. I can always feel you. You can’t hide from Mother. She can read your little heart.

He made sure to check in on Rosemary before retiring, but not even the sight of her sleeping peacefully, safe from all harm, was enough to do away with the feeling of dread he felt growing in the pit of his stomach.

he girl who saved White Clover Farms and several bystanders from a disastrous end has been identified as Miss Rosemary Buckley,
the paper read.
Miss Buckley halted the rampage of two cloudlings who had been bound with insufficient skill and broke free of their shackles. If her name sounds familiar, you have a good memory. The Buckley family was once a respected and important part of spiritbinding politics at Lowry, but their name has fallen far from the heights it once soared to. The last vestige of respectability for the family seemed to have been extinguished with the death of outspoken traditionalist, spiritbinder, and socialite Michael Buckley during the Floating Castle Incident. Currently controlled by his young son, Christopher, the Buckley fortune has all but dried up, and no one has rightly given them any thought since their chances at revival died with the elder Mister Buckley.

Of course, that may change soon. Only days before the six-year anniversary of the Floating Castle Incident, Rosemary Buckley’s impressive show at White Clover has the spiritbinding world abuzz. The rogue cloudlings were wild with anger and looking for revenge after their bonds shattered that day, and Miss Buckley is thirteen years old, and not even yet categorized, much less trained. Such a feat would have been impressive from an experienced middle-aged man. For a young girl with a wizard’s touch, it seems nearly miraculous. The Buckley family troubles may be nearly over after all, as it likely won’t be long until Lowry is beating down their doors, coming after little Miss Rosemary Buckley and her incredible wizardry.

Neither she nor the younger Mister Buckley could be reached for commentary, but traditionalist juggernaut Avery Combs said the following: “We will most certainly be keeping an eye on the girl. We were aware that she existed, as we endeavour to keep careful record of all wizards, but this incident has, of course, shocked and excited us. I suspect you will be printing many stories about Miss Buckley very soon as she works with us to restore the lost balance of our great nation.”

We certainly hope so. In an age where even the best spiritbinders are finding their elementals escaping almost daily, someone with this level of skill could be the saviour the traditionalist movement has long been waiting for. Could there be hope for the future of spirit-based technologies after all?

Chris set the paper down. He pulled off his spectacles, threw them down on the desk, and pinched the bridge of his nose. It was far, far too early in the morning to have a headache as strong as this.

He took a deep breath.

So.

After all his years hiding—downplaying his father’s boasts, avoiding any contact with Lowry, falsifying accounts of Rosemary’s wizardry—it had finally begun.

And only the Three and Three knew how it was going to end. Chris dropped down onto the desk, burying his face in his arms, and choked back the ragged noise of pure panicked uncertainty that rose in his throat.

Gods. How had they ever managed to find out so much? Miss Albany hadn’t spoken a word about reporters, and he’d been so relieved. Stupid. Of course they’d find him.

“There’s nothing more surreal than reading about yourself in the paper,” he muttered unhappily. He leaned against one arm, sliding the paper out from under him and looking at the blurry headline one more time—
WHITE CLOVER SAVIOUR IDENTIFIED,
it read—before he forced himself to straighten. He folded the paper up and dropped it into the rubbish bin beside his desk, wiping his hands of it as though it had been covered in a thin film of grease. If Olivia had a problem with it disappearing, she could just get a new one. A different one.