P. Elrod: The Hanged Man

Her exhausted little company spread themselves among the furnishings. Even the indefatigable Brook sprawled in a chair, his long legs stretched out. She knew if she shut her eyes she’d never get them open again. Besides, the damned corset pinched too much. She went to the hall, looking for and finding a necessary room.

Tiled from floor to ceiling in greens and blues with winking highlights of topaz-colored glass, it was the most remarkable and beautiful one she’d ever seen. The walls gave the impression of being in a fairy forest of vines and flowers, dazzling even by gaslight.

Alex quit the water closet to find Sybil waiting on a settee by the bathing tub, a bright smile on her mad face. She wore a purple dressing gown and brilliant red carpet slippers.

“Hallo, traveler’s daughter! I’m glad you broke the mirrors. My head’s cooler now.”

Alex had to smile back. “Pleased to have been of help.”

“Dreadful things in those mirrors.”

“Yes. There were.”

“Are. Still there. Can’t let more get through.”

“Do you know how many are here?”

“No, how many?” She tucked her lips, waiting for an answer.

“I’d hoped you might say.”

Sybil tapped her head. “Doesn’t work like that. What comes, comes, and others decide what’s important. I gave that up ages ago, too distracting. You look terrible.”

“I’m sure I do. Would you mind helping me loosen this corset?”

“I won’t know until I try. What a pretty dress!”

“It was some hours ago. Who else is else about? That companion of yours?”

“She’s having a nap. I exhaust people. I don’t mean to, but there it is. Here-this came, or maybe I had it brought up. Sometimes I forget what I ask for, but these wanted to be in here and they aren’t my size. They should trim you up.” She gestured at a blouse and a walking skirt neatly laid out on a chair. “Are the colors all right?”

The blouse had blue and brown stripes and the skirt was a slightly darker brown with sky-blue braiding for trim.

Normally Alex would have avoided such a garish and unlikely combination, but anything was better than the rags of Andrina’s vanity. “They’re beautiful. Thank you.”

Sybil gave a breathy giggle, rocking back and forth. “I love color-color-colors. They don’t always go together and then suddenly they do. Such a surprise, like rainbows in a mud puddle.”

She assisted with the corset and Alex took what seemed to be her first deep breath in days. “Do you live here?”

“All the time. It keeps me safe. Hardly ever have guests. I’m supposed to be in bed, but I like you. Had to say hallo. Do you like my sitting room?”

“It’s lovely.”

“But so quiet. One day after another with the big clock up the road striking away the hours. Dickie promised to find a better place for me, but there won’t be time, things are going to get dreadfully busy for him.”

“In what way?”

“He’ll find out. I think he’ll find out. I don’t know. I might never know. Or I’ll know too much and it gets stopped up trying to get out. I’ve just the one head and a thousand thoughts a minute, all of them right and all of them wrong and somebody always wants me to pick just one. But I leave that to others.”

“Quite right,” Alex said supportively, buttoning the blouse. The blue and brown stripes should not have cooperated, yet did. “This is delightful.”

Another pleased giggle. “I like getting things right. Makes up for the other times.” She ran water in the washing basin and soaked a fresh towel in it. “For the handsome one’s eyes.”

“Lieutenant Brook?”

“I don’t know. There’s a handsome man with bruises and he’s keen on you. Be keen right back.” She thrust the towel into Alex’s hands.

“That’s not something I’m able to-”

“Piffle. Be keen.” She made shooing gestures, and there was no answer but to leave.

In Alex’s absence the fire had been built up with more coal, making the room pleasantly warm for all its size. James, stretched on a long couch, snored gently. Brook began to rise. She waved him down.

“Put your head back,” she said.

He obeyed, watching from his blooming bruises. He did have such nice eyes. She eased the cold towel on, and he gave a small sigh. As she started to turn, his hand somehow caught hers. Neither so gently that she could pull away nor so firmly that it would hurt, he held fast. He was insistent about it.

The emotions from that contact …

Her instinctive reaction was always to slam her internal armor in place.

This time, she did not.

What flooded in was … nice.

His feelings were like chords of music. Sweet. Warm. Boundless. Waves of it, lifting, lilting, strong.

She knew she was the source of its creation in him.

Which was a little frightening.

He released her hand. She expected him to move the towel so he could gauge her reaction, but he left it in place. He’d wanted only for her to know . What she would do with the knowledge was her choice.

She gulped, seized by a hectic urge to run, which was foiled by a calm curiosity to stay and see what might happen.

“Lady Drina?”

Fingate. Dear, wonderful Fingate saved her from making a decision. She gave her full attention to him as she might grant to a life preserver flung her way on a stormy sea.

“I must speak with you,” he said. “A private matter. Family.”

Something to do with her father. “The hall, then.”

He followed her out and they settled on two chairs beneath a lighted gas sconce.

“I’ve a small favor to ask, Mr. Fingate. I prefer to be called Alex, or if you must, Miss Alex or Miss Pendlebury. I’m used to it, now. After tonight the less connection I have with that side of the family the better. I’ve no use for titles in the Service.”

His expression was unusually distressed. “Very well. Something … I don’t know how to say it. This beyond unspeakable if it’s true. I hope to God it is not, that I just made a mistake.”

“About what?”

“You said earlier today that you live on Baker Street?”

“What of it?”

“And Dr. Fonteyn told me that you’ve been with the Psychic Service for several years.”

“Yes.…”

“If that’s true, then why is it that-”

* * *

Alex found the carte blanche letter almost murderously helpful at clearing obstacles. It enabled her to walk unchallenged out of Service headquarters, to commandeer a coach, and to get through the Horse Guards. She had an errand that would not wait, even if she was dismissed in disgrace as a result.

She stormed up to the door of Pendlebury House and, having lost her key, rang the bell until someone let her in. It might have been Mabrey, she was in no state to notice.

She pushed past, fetched what she wanted, and departed without a word. If her aunt and uncle were back from whatever social demand had taken them away, she didn’t know or care. In her present mood she’d have set fire to the whole damnable place and felt only satisfaction.

Fingate had told her much, and Alex worked out the rest.

The coach was barely stopped before the Service building when she burst forth and charged into the front reception area. Mrs. George was not on duty, but the older man at the desk readily provided the number of the room she wanted.

Below street level were the most secure and quiet rooms, used for Readings. Now it was as noisy as an East End public house on New Year’s Eve.

Certain select occupants from the Grosvenor Square raid were confined in the small locked rooms here. She recognized a number of grim-faced men in disheveled evening dress being escorted to and fro. Some were silent with shock, others fought and bellowed commands, which were ignored. They’d be questioned by Readers, each in turn, the interviews taken down in shorthand. Of course, they could choose not to speak. That was their right, but there was likely to be other evidence to bring against them. They were in for it.