The Doomsday Vault (11 page)

“The Treaty of Nanking was an unequal proposition,” the second retorted. “Why do you think the locals are in revolt again? Once Lord Elgin puts the Chinks down, he'll do something dreadful to Emperor Xianfeng to ensure this never happens again, and that will send your speculations into a downward spin.”

“You're always a pessimist, White,” the first man said. “Tell you what. Let's ask this enterprising young man what he thinks.”

Both men turned to Gavin, who stopped playing, startled.

“A street player?” White said. “You can't be serious, Peterson.”

“Completely. We can make a bet of it.” Peterson fished around in his pocket. “Young man, would you like to earn a sovereign?”

Gavin's eyes widened. It seemed to be a holiday for flinging enormous amounts of money at him. “A sovereign? For doing what?”

“For failing to pay attention, I'm afraid,” Peterson replied.

“I don't understand,” Gavin said. “What's—”

A cloth bag flipped down over his face and hard hands grabbed him from behind. The bag had a sweet, chemical smell. Gavin struggled and tried to shout, but the hands held him firmly, and the fumes made him dizzy. Soft cloth filled his mouth, muffling his voice.

“Sorry, my boy,” said Peterson. “We'll try to make this painless.”

The man's words swooped and swirled and faded. Gavin felt a pinprick on his upper arm just before he lost consciousness entirely.

 

Time stretched and bunched. Voices rushed at him and slid away. Hands prodded him, then forced him upright. Tones and chords burst into his ear, and a voice demanded that he give each one a name: C, B-flat, D-sharp augmented. The voice ordered him to sing, and he sang, the notes falling from his lips in an uncontrolled torrent. He sang songs and changed keys in midmelody as the voice ordered. It never occurred to him to disobey. In fact, he was only vaguely aware of his surroundings. He seemed to be sitting on a soft chair, and he had a vague impression of stone walls. Twice, he caught a flash of wine red velvet. The mysterious lady? Then he fell asleep.

Gavin awoke with a dry mouth and a vague headache. He sat up with a groan and put a hand to his forehead for a moment, then looked around. The stone room was round and small, but brightly illuminated by the light from two electric lamps fastened to the curving walls. A carpet covered the floor. The bed he was lying on felt springy and comfortable, and the blankets were thick. A single narrow window looked out on a darkening sky. Gavin decided he must be in a tower. But why? Slowly he got to his feet. A nightstand near the bed bore a pitcher of water and a glass. Gavin poured and drank, too thirsty to care if the water was drugged. When he bent his arm, he noticed the bandage on his left bicep, and he remembered the needle pricking him in the park. He checked underneath and found a tiny red wound, nothing more.

“Hello?” Gavin called. “I'm awake! Is anyone here?”

No response. Nervously, he searched the room more closely. The heavy door was locked, no surprise. The lights could be turned off by means of a switch near the door. Interesting. He knew a little about electricity, but only a little. Why give something so expensive to a prisoner? Against one wall stood a radiator, which heated the room and drove the dampness away, another odd luxury. He turned his back to it and let the heat soak in.

Hanging off the foot of the bed was a set of clothes—blue work shirt, black trousers, socks, boots. His airman's jacket was gone, as were the coins he had saved. Gavin looked at the filthy rags he'd been wearing since the pirates took the
Juniper
and stripped them off. With a cloth he found near the pitcher, he gave himself a sponge bath. Being clean made him feel amazingly better. The new clothes fit perfectly. A part of him felt he should rebel, refuse gifts from people who had kidnapped him, drugged him, and held him prisoner. But the more practical part of him said it was stupid to wear rags when perfectly good clothes were sitting right there. The window swung outward over a dizzying drop to a cobblestoned courtyard several stories below. Beyond that lay a high wall with gargoyles on it, then green fields scattered with trees. The sun wasn't visible, but the gathering dusk told Gavin it was near night. He looked down at the smooth tower walls. No ledges or gutters to climb down on. What the hell was he doing here? He tried to remember more about the park. The men—Peterson and White—must have been a distraction for someone sneaking up behind him. But why would someone go through all that trouble for a street musician?

A pang went through him. His fiddle! What had happened to his fiddle? A moment later he found its case under the bed. Inside was the instrument, undamaged, along with a fresh supply of rosin for his bow, and the little silver nightingale. Gavin touched the bird's head, and it sang. That they hadn't taken it had made it clear he could keep it.

A clatter brought his head around. A cleverly fitted piece of the door slid upward, allowing just enough room for a mechanical brass spider to click through. It towed a covered tray on wheels behind it. The door piece snapped shut, and the spider tugged the tray around to the foot of the bed, where it whipped off the cover with one spindly leg. Gavin's mouth watered at the smells of beef, potatoes, bread, and gravy. He snatched up the fork and knife provided and ate quickly while the spider gathered up Gavin's discarded clothes and vanished out of the little door hole with them. Gavin, still chewing, wondered if he could fit through it. He also remembered the flash of red he had seen while he was half out of his mind from... whatever it was that had happened to him. Was the Red Velvet Lady responsible for all this?

“Hello?” he shouted again. “Can anyone hear me? What do you want?”

No response. He tried the door again. Still locked. He pushed it, then rattled the knob. Frustration poured out of him, and after a moment he realized he was screaming and pounding on the door with his fists, kicking at it with his new boots. He forced himself to stop and backed up, panting. A drop of sweat trickled from his white-blond hair, and the room suddenly felt small and stuffy. He opened the window and perched on the edge with his fiddle. It occurred to him that he had no idea how long he had been here. It could have been hours or days or weeks.

It was time to breathe, take stock. From a certain perspective, he was better off than he had been before. He had good clothes, good food, and a good bed. Whoever had captured him clearly wanted him alive and in good condition. Eventually, the Red Velvet Lady or whoever it was would show up and tell him more, and he would deal with the situation then. In the meantime, he could enjoy comforts such as those he had never known and he could play his fiddle.

He set the nightingale on the windowsill next to him for company and played to the empty night.

“M
iss Michaels? I say, Miss Michaels, are you all right?”

Alice came to herself with a start and shook her head. “Oh my goodness!” she trilled. “My mind went wandering for a moment, Mr. Williamson. How rude! What were you saying?”

“I was observing how the mist seems to both muffle sound and extend it,” said Norbert Williamson. “One can hardly tell if we're in Hyde Park or on a country estate.”

“True,” Alice observed. “It's very eerie. I'm glad you're nearby to keep me safe.”

“Now that was blatant flattery, Miss Michaels,” Norbert pretended to scold, “however much I enjoyed hearing it.”

“You've caught me, Mr. Williamson,” she replied with a small smile. “I'm a dreadful person.”

The open-topped carriage moved sedately over the gravel pathways of Hyde Park, currently obscured by thick yellow fog. Norbert had suggested cutting their afternoon drive short, but Alice wouldn't hear of it. It gave them a chance to enjoy the park with fewer people about, and, with a set of lap robes covering them, they could remain perfectly comfortable. It also gave Norbert the chance to be shockingly daring by pressing his muscular thigh against hers under cover of the robes. Alice made herself blush, but let her leg remain for quite a long moment before shifting away. Norbert's expression didn't shift as he changed the subject.

“I hear the Hats-On Committee is proposing more legislation regarding child labor in factories,” he said. “As if I don't have to deal with enough regulations. I already can't hire children under the age of ten, and they can't work more than ten hours per day. Now they want to cut the time back to eight hours and institute a minimum wage.”

This time Alice was ready for him. “Why hire children at all?”

“They work for less than adults. And their hands are smaller, which makes them better at assembling certain machines.”

This time as he talked, Alice was careful to pay attention so she could insert the proper comments in the proper places. It was a bit audacious of them to be out without a chaperone, but they were in public and both of them were older, so Alice found it acceptable. The driverless carriage wound through the park, the automatic horse that drew it clopping with mechanical precision. Steam snorted from the horse's gleaming muzzle at regular intervals. Then another sound caught Alice's attention. She laid a hand on Norbert's arm to interrupt.

“Was that a pistol shot?” she asked.

He cocked his head. “I didn't hear anything.”

“I'm quite certain I heard a shot.”

“In Hyde Park in broad daylight? You must be mistaken. The mist is playing tricks. But we could leave, if you're fearful of your safety.”

“Certainly not,” Alice replied. “I won't—”

The high, sweet sound of a violin slid through the fog, now close, now far away. Unable to help herself, Alice fell silent to listen. The melody was complicated and quick, happy with a hint of something else. Uncertainty? Fear?

“That's lovely,” Alice breathed, entranced. The music pushed all fear of the phantom pistol from her mind. “Like a spirit asking to be set free.”

“You have a delightful turn of phrase, Miss Michaels,” Norbert was saying. “Truly.”

Alice sighed. “He sounds festive and frightened at the same time. How does he—” The music stopped, and Alice felt crushed. Her face fell. “Oh. How disappointing.”

“We could try to find him, if you like,” Norbert offered gallantly. “I'm sure he'd play if you asked.”

She almost took him up on it—but no. What would she do if she found the musician? Fawn on him with Norbert looking on? “You're very kind, Mr. Williamson, but we'd never find him in this mist.” She patted his hand. “Best to leave it a fond memory. Still, I'm finding it a bit chilly.”

Norbert took the hint and leaned forward to flip levers and twist dials on a control box set into what would be the backward-facing seat of the carriage. The mechanical horse paused, then set off at a brisk trot. In a short time, the conveyance arrived at the small row house Alice shared with her father. Their little meetings were taking on a regularity. Each one involved a simple activity—a drive through the park, a walk in London, a picnic at the river—and each one lasted no more than two hours. This was exactly the case today.

Norbert helped her down from the carriage, his almost-handsome features brightened considerably by a fashionably cut waistcoat and fine wool jacket and a high hat. His clothes and his outrageously expensive carriage only made Alice's neighborhood seem even shabbier, but as always, he pretended not to notice, and Alice pretended not to notice he was pretending not to notice.

“So good of you to join me, Miss Michaels,” Norbert said, his usual farewell.

“So good of you to invite me, Mr. Williamson,” she said, her usual reply.

Their eyes met for a moment, brown to brown. Alice held her breath. Now was the moment. It would happen. She would feel a catch in her throat, a flutter in her breast, a weakening in her knees.

She felt nothing.

Quickly, she lowered her eyes and released his hand as if a bit overcome, turned, and fled into the house. Once inside, she peeped through the drawing room window in time to watch Norbert's carriage pull away.

“All London is astir, darling. You have to tell me everything!”

Alice spun around so quickly, her skirts swirled to catch up with her. Louisa Creek was sitting in a wingback chair, an open book in her hand and Click in her lap. She wore a soft green dress with a stark white hat and matching white gloves.

“Louisa!” Alice gasped. “What are you doing here?”

“You never called on me after the ball.” Louisa idly stroked Click's brass back with her free hand. “I was deeply wounded and came to see about your apology. Your father—a very nice man who was quite pleased to discover his close-mouthed daughter actually has a friend—invited me in and offered to let me sit until you came home. We had a nice chat until he retired for his nap. I'm surprised he didn't recognize me, but he
has
grown nearsighted.”

“Why would he recognize you?”

“We ran in the same circles years ago, darling. I'm surprised he never mentioned me.”

“Oh. Yes. Well.” Alice hung her jacket on the coatrack to regain her composure. Finding Louisa in her drawing room was like discovering a kitten in the cupboard—not necessarily unwelcome, but still startling. “I see you've met Click.”

“Indeed. He's charming.” She stood up, dumping the affronted Click off her lap and tossing the book aside. “Let's go upstairs. I'll help you change, and you can beg my forgiveness while you tell me all about this tempestuous affair with Norby.”

In an instant, Louisa was up the steps and disappearing around the turn. A pang touched Alice's stomach. “Louisa! Wait!”