Aether Rising

Chapter 11

Chapter Eleven

Boston, 11 March 1871

Patrick caught a shadow in his peripheral vision, but when he turned toward it, it disappeared. He rubbed his eyes. The blasted thing had been doing that to him all day.

Chadwick would tell me to use logic, not my fears, to guide my actions, he reminded himself. He said a prayer that his friend was safe. Except he hadn’t prayed in so long and he had seen so many strange things he wasn’t sure he directed his thoughts to the correct deity. When he closed his eyes, finally exhausted, a memory floated into his mind, of his grandmother with her church shawl on and her rosary beads clinking through her fingers as her lips murmured through the prayers. He’d never had much use for religion or a god that would allow someone like his father to live while his mother had died in childbirth with his younger sister, who became the next angel within an hour. Then his father’s drinking and whoring had really taken off, and Patrick had left as soon as he could so he wouldn’t be a burden on his oldest sister.

The sound of the door at the top of the stairs scraping open made him open his eyes and wake from the half-dream, half-memory. He suppressed the urge to run for it and barrel through whoever was up there whether they had a weapon or not. Anything was better than the tricks his mind was playing on him.

He refused to believe in a ghost, and he had no use for memories.

The man who descended in the company of an armed guard—not Morlock, thankfully—had a shock of salt-and-pepper hair and wore a purple suit. His lack of beard showed the hollows in his cheeks, and he stared at Patrick from behind a monocle.

A monocle? Patrick blinked. Now I know I’m seeing things. Of all the oddities he’d seen that day, the man’s eyepiece made him want to giggle madly, but he held himself in check.

“So you’re the famous inventor they’ve brought in,” the man said with a sniff and a glance around. “I can’t say I’m impressed with your accommodations. You should insist on better.”

The man’s voice sounded familiar, but remembering made Patrick question his sanity even more. He and the others had been in Paris at the Théâtre Bohème, and a voice behind the wall had been saying something in French. Patrick hadn’t been able to make the words out, but the tone and the fact that nothing should have been back there had made his hair stand on end. Still, he wouldn’t give the man an advantage.

“Are you bringing my dinner?” Patrick asked. “Because if you’re not, I’m not interested in speaking with you.”

The man made a rude noise. “No, I don’t have your supper.” He gestured to the armed guard. “Go. I’ll be fine here.”

“The boss said not to let anyone come in here by themselves with him.” The jerk of his head and the man’s tone told Patrick he’d been relegated to the role of monster in the dungeon.

“I’m armed, don’t worry.” The man in the purple suit made a shooing motion. “Now go. We have important things to discuss.”

The guard looked hesitant for a moment, then shrugged his shoulders and muttered, “They don’t pay me enough to deal with them weird tinker types.” He ascended the stairs and called over his shoulder before rounding the curve, “Yell if you need something.” The sound of the door closing echoed through the stairwell.

“Ah, so we’re finally alone,” the stranger said and adjusted his sleeves.

“As I said, unless you have food, I’m not interested.” Patrick pondered pouncing on the man and overpowering him for his weapon, but there was something about the stranger that made him hesitate. He seemed too confident. Was it an act? Patrick wasn’t sure he was equipped to call the bluff with his senses muddled by hunger and lack of sleep.

The monocled man brushed some imaginary piece of dirt from the elbow of his garish suit and, apparently satisfied, looked at Patrick with both eyes. “You may be interested in what I have to tell you, and whether you listen or not, at least I can say I’ve done my part.”

“Which is…?” Patrick asked in spite of himself.

“To warn you. This imprisonment wasn’t part of Davidson’s plan for you.”

“No shite.” Patrick crossed his arms. “I’m not thinking he had any sort of plan for me.” He added Davidson to the growing list of people he wanted to punch.

“Right. So you may as well just share what you were going to do and let me finish it for you. Then you can be free.” The monocle distorted the man’s satisfied blink into that of an unbalanced owl.

Patrick remembered hearing the name of the inventor Cobb had stolen automaton plans from and then had escaped from Paris with. “You’re Paul Farrell.”

The stranger bowed. “I would say, ‘At your service,’ but I’m really not.”

“No, you’re looking out for your own interests. Why the warning?”

Farrell shrugged. “Professional courtesy.”

“Or you want me out of the way.” Patrick sighed. “No dice.”

Farrell glowered with his monocled eye. “Look, you want out of here. Your only chances are to do what Cobb wants you to or to let me do it. Either way, you’re a dead man once he gets sufficient control of the aether.”

Patrick matched the glare. “So what are you proposing?”

“That you tell me your secrets and let me take the glory. Then I’ll free you.”

“And why should I trust you?” Patrick asked. “You could take the credit and leave me to rot.”

Farrell pulled up one sleeve, and Patrick saw the tattoo—a circle inside a square. “Or I could stall the project and free you for your trouble.”

The inked symbol, fresh enough to still show redness around the lines, chilled Patrick more than any supposed ghost could have.

“You’ve joined the neo-Pythagoreans. What, did they offer you more money than Cobb?”

Rather than being offended, Farrell rolled his sleeve down and gave Patrick a measuring look. “Let’s just say I’ve been convinced that Cobb’s mission is foolhardy for both him and the world.”

Patrick leaned against the wall and ignored the damp that soaked into the shoulder of his coat. “Oh, do tell?”

“You’re playing with forces beyond what you could ever imagine.” Farrell wiped his face with a handkerchief. “You’re not only dealing with the power of Eros but the god himself.”

“And there’s your mistake.” Patrick shoved himself away from the wall. “I don’t believe in ghosts, and I don’t believe in gods.” Some good his prayers had done him to this point.

Farrell backed up, but Patrick had him cornered against the wall by the stairs.

“And now, what sort of weapon do you have?” Patrick asked.

Farrell clasped Patrick’s wrists, and too late, Patrick felt the prick of wires. An electric jolt knocked him backwards. Farrell hadn’t been cornered, only bracing himself.

“Consider my words, Mister O’Connell. There are forces at play beyond your control.”

The electricity running through Patrick’s nerves made him shiver and convulse on the floor. Farrell ascended the stairs and knocked at the door. His voice floated down the stairs.

“I’m quite done in here. You might want to check on him. He seems to have had quite a shock.”

Bastard, Patrick thought, but he couldn’t focus on the words his mind tried to make—most of them of the unsavory sort. A mist formed over him, and he found himself looking into the face of a woman who resembled Louisa, but older and with darker, sadder eyes.

Iris watched Claire leave the lounge and wanted to follow her, but Marie put a hand on Iris’s arm.

“Wait. Eliza is going after her. We can find her later.”

“I don’t know if we’ll have time.” Iris pulled away. Her suspicions were confirmed when she looked out the window to see a glittering gold cloud heading their way.

Marie’s grip tightened. “Are those…?” she asked.

“I believe so.” Iris spoke around the panic knotting her windpipe and tried to push away memories of their terrifying fall from the sky the year before. “The Clockwork Guild must have found us somehow. Get the guys—we need to head…” She forced an inhale through her too-tight throat, and her next words squeaked out, “for an escape hatch now.”

Marie nodded. Iris liked how her friend didn’t protest about their luggage or any of the other worries a typical female would have. Things were just things. Their lives, however…

Will always be in danger no matter what we do. The thought was almost enough to deflate Iris’s resolve. Would they always be running? She wished they hadn’t had to send Armand and the Skycatcher away.

“Come with me,” a voice at Iris’s elbow said. Iris turned to see Lieutenant Crow.

“Why should I trust you?” Iris asked. “You betrayed Claire.”

Crow didn’t look offended. “I need to get her away from her aunt, but that wasn’t going to happen here. This will be the perfect chance.”

“If the ship is under attack, Claire’s aunt will stick with her even closer.” Iris gestured to the lounge, where a worried murmur had erupted among the patrons. “Do you think she doesn’t know yet?”

Marie held a frantic whispered conversation with Edward. Johann had noticed them and was hurrying his piece, dragging the rest of the chamber ensemble along with him. If Iris’s brain hadn’t been whirling with escape scenarios, she would have sent an apology to poor J.S. Bach’s ghost.

Lieutenant Crow’s full lips drew to the side in a disapproving expression that made Iris’s memory flicker. “Eliza Adams is the type of woman who will be most concerned with her own affairs. I’ll take care of her. Just come with me so you can take care of Doctor McPhee.”

The music stopped with the grace of a railway car slamming into a brick wall, and the musicians threw instruments into cases. Johann, Edward, and Marie joined Iris at their table. Iris explained what Crow was proposing.

“I’m not sure about this,” Marie said.

“Please, you have to trust me.” Crow made a hand gesture as though to tuck her hair behind her ear, and Iris caught a glimpse of something on the woman’s wrist. She grabbed it, and her fingers met the cold metal of a watch Crow wore strapped to her wrist rather than on a chain. Iris barely had time to think, A wristlet watch? How curious, when the impressions she got from the object slammed into her brain.

Crow spoke through a tube to someone scheduling the attack while the captain looked the other way. Then a flash of the scene with Claire and Eliza in the officers’ room followed by an image of Iris, Claire, and Marie talking, and finally a stab of satisfaction. Over it all was the sense of following orders beyond the captain’s.

Iris turned over Crow’s wrist, pushed her sleeve up, and found the tattoo of a square inside a circle.

“You planned this. You’re a neo-Pythagorean.”

“I need Doctor McPhee away from Parnaby Cobb’s influence,” the lieutenant said. “I didn’t know you would be on the airship when I planned for this, but you’re the perfect ones to hide her away.”

“And what about Chadwick and Patrick?” Marie asked.

“Their rescues are being secured,” Crow assured them. “Now hurry, I’ve gained Adams’s trust, but I’m not sure how long that will last.”

“Do we believe her?” Marie asked.

Iris wondered when she’d become the leader of their little troupe, but what else could she do? “Yes. I believe we have no choice. If we resist she’ll arrest us.”

“Smart woman. Good, follow me,” Crow told them. “Your luggage has been stowed in Escape Hatch three. Head that way once we extract Doctor McPhee from her aunt.”

Claire lay on the bed and pretended to sleep. Her aunt had taken advantage of the private bedroom to spend an inordinately long time in the bathing chamber, and Claire wondered if the rooms would be habitable after Eliza was done. Claire had spent enough time on military bases and around hospitals to have a high tolerance for certain smells, but she’d always had the opportunity to escape if she needed it.

Once she was sure Eliza was fully involved in what she was doing—one minor advantage of the many layers of skirts women had to wear was that lavatory trips were never short—Claire rose from the bed and tiptoed to the door. It was locked, of course, but she pulled a hairpin from her coiled tresses and inserted it into the lock as Patrick O’Connell had once shown her. Not that she had anywhere to go where she wouldn’t be found, aside from the escape compartments. She only hoped they didn’t require some central control to be loosed.

A knock startled Claire and nearly made her fall backwards on her bustle.

“Who is that?” Eliza called.

A flurry of activity from inside the lavatory made Claire reply to keep her aunt from coming out, “Nothing to worry about, Auntie.” To the door, she said, “What is it?”

The voice that answered was Lieutenant Crow. “Doctor McPhee, is your aunt in there with you?”

Oh, now she calls me Doctor. Waves of urgency came through the door, however, so Claire merely answered, “Yes.”

“In the room or in the lavatory?” Crow asked.

A hot flush crept up Claire’s neck. It was one thing to discuss such matters in a medical setting, but her old society training kicked in, and she couldn’t speak for a moment.

“Doctor McPhee, it’s all right.” This was the voice of the dusky-skinned woman Marie. “We just need to know if you’re truly alone, or as much as you can be.”

“In the lavatory,” Claire whispered.

“Good,” Crow said so quietly Claire strained to hear her. “The powder I put in her tea is working. Now go and lock the door—the lavatory chamber in your room locks from the outside.”

Claire did as she was bid, and when the lock clicked into place, Aunt Eliza made a satisfying sound resembling an indignant chicken’s squawk.

“Claire Alice McPhee, you open that door right this second.” The demand was punctuated by a long, emphatic fart.

Claire put her hand over her mouth to suppress a giggle. “Sorry, auntie. It sounds like that’s the best place for you right now.” She opened the door.

“Quick, grab your valise, and let’s go.”

Claire shoved the few things she’d taken out into her luggage, then whirled around. “Calla. I can’t leave without her. I promised her I’d find her a position in Boston.”

Crow frowned. “I wasn’t aware you traveled with a maid. You didn’t board with one.”

Claire sighed through her teeth. Did no one understand how things worked, fair or not? “She had to board through the back. She’s negro.”

“I’m really sorry, but we don’t have time,” Crow said. “An attack is imminent.”

“Then we need to go by the servants’ floor first,” Claire insisted. “I’m not leaving without her.”

“We can’t.” Crow tugged so hard it felt like she wanted to pull Claire’s arm off, but she gritted her teeth and held on. She looked at Iris and Marie, who whispered together. Marie nodded and took off down the hall.

“Oh, Clai-ire.” Eliza’s singsong voice was interrupted by another flatulent outburst. “Don’t forget, only Parnaby and I know where your beloved is.”

“That’s not true.” Crow grabbed the handle of Claire’s valise, but Claire held on to it. “We know where they’re keeping him, and help is on the way.”

“And why should I trust you, any of you?” Claire asked. “I appreciate you wanting to rescue me, Lieutenant, but I can’t leave Calla to die.” She also felt the deceit in Crow’s words, although she couldn’t tell which part—the attack, them not having time to fetch Calla, or her knowing where they held Chadwick. And there was the desire to take Claire into her influence. A glance at Iris’s face told Claire she was wary, and her own mixed feelings swirled.

“Marie is going to fetch Calla.” Iris toyed with the buttons on the gloves at her wrist. “We can all meet at the designated escape hatch.”

“You can go,” Eliza said, “but then I’ll send the order for your precious Chadwick to be executed.”

Claire didn’t need her talent to tell how gleeful Eliza felt about ordering what she felt should have been done long ago—the ultimate punishment for a half-n***o who dared to love her precious niece.

“It doesn’t matter,” Crow said. “She’ll die when this airship crashes.”

“Wait,” Iris and Claire said, then Iris followed with, “You didn’t say anything about a crash.”

“All these innocent people,” Claire added. “We can’t…” The thought made her stomach and heart quiver together with horror. “No, I’ll stay. Call off the attack.”

“This would be a small sacrifice compared to the damage Cobb will do if he gains control of the Eros Element. Plus, I can’t call it off,” Crow said, but Claire and Iris exchanged glances. They both knew she lied.

“Yes, you can,” Iris insisted. “I’ve been through a Clockwork attack. They do so swiftly, not as a cloud waiting for someone’s order.”

“I can’t risk Chadwick.” Claire’s anxiety overflowed into tears. “You’re going to have to figure out something else.” She used Crow’s surprise to grab her valise back and slam the door in the lieutenant’s face.

“Are you going to unlock the door?” Eliza asked.

“Maybe when you’re done with whatever needs to happen in there,” Claire replied. “I need some quiet to think.”

Footsteps in the hall told her that the others left, but then more arrived, and there was a knock at the door.

“Miss?” Calla’s soft, hesitant voice carried through the wood along with her anxiety at being betrayed.

Claire opened the door, and Calla fell into her arms. “I was afraid you’d leave me.”

“Never,” Claire promised and held the girl tightly. “We’re in this together.”