Emma Holloway - A Study in Ashes

Where are you, Im? There had to be magic involved, or else her sister would have faded away. But how long could a spell like this last? Another month? Years? Forever? And what would happen when it ended?

Poppy had read plenty of fairy stories and tales of dark enchantment and knew anything was possible. Holmes was right. They needed expert advice. Imogen needed it. Poppy drew in a long, shuddering breath. If she could stand up to a steam baron, she wouldn’t shy away from what needed to be done.

Come what may, Poppy was going to get help for her sister.

Unknown

IMOGEN WOKE—OR AT LEAST THAT’S WHAT IT SEEMED LIKE. It was hard to tell as there was no sequence of night and day to mark the passage of time—just an eternal dull twilight. Had she truly been asleep? Or had her mind just wandered for the blink of an eye?

Disorientation clutched at her as she flailed for some reference—where she was, or when, or how she’d got there. She caught her breath and held it, listening for a footfall or a cough to indicate another living creature. But there was nothing. There never was.

She was still in the study where she’d awakened the first time—though she couldn’t begin to say how long ago that had been. She was lying on the sofa, her cheek resting on a cushion she’d propped up against the arm. She’d have odd creases where the wrinkles in the cloth pressed into her face. Or that’s what she assumed. The place had no mirrors.

Imogen let her gaze roam around the room, her stomach queasy with anxiety. Instinctively, she drew her knees up, making a protective ball. The air was gray, not quite twilight but dark enough she would have liked to light a lamp—but there were none of those, either.

As a result, the place seemed short of color, the pink and green carpet dingy, the spines of the books on the shelf a murky reddish-brown. It didn’t matter that it was too dim to read the books. Even when the room had been bright, the pages had never quite settled down to a readable state, as if the type was playing a game of hide-and-seek upon the page.

Imogen paused, her mind drifting. The room had been bright once. That was right, wasn’t it? She remembered the drapes once had been a bright lemon yellow. Or was that green? Just like the type, the room never quite settled down to a predictable form.

It’s darker now, and smaller. There was one more bookshelf along the wall, but now it’s missing without even a blank spot to show it was there . All at once she was light-headed, as if thinking about the changes was giving her a headache. Since she’d been there, ideas had become will-o’-the-wisps, shining bright and then vanishing before she could quite reel them in. But she wanted to remember—it felt terribly important that she pay attention.

Imogen sat up carefully, clutching her thoughts so hard she ground her teeth. After a shaky moment, she rose to her feet, smoothing down her skirts and combing her hair back with her fingers. All her hairpins had been lost along the way, so she’d plaited her hair into one long braid down her back. Her clothes had suffered, too. At some point she must have opted for comfort, because her bustle, half her petticoats, and corset were gone. Her dress didn’t fit right without the undergarments, but there was no one there to witness her fashion faux pas.

Experimentally, she paced the distance from wall to wall. Last time she checked it had been twenty-one strides. She was sure of it. Now there were merely seventeen. And what happens once there are only ten? Or five? Or none? Or do I simply never sleep again, so nothing can shrink when I’m not looking? Or maybe she would just forget that she’d ever existed, and wink out like a sparkler on a cake. Imogen made a terrified noise, filling the austere silence with even that tiny whimper. The place suddenly seemed deathly cold. Why is this happening?

She couldn’t quite remember how she’d got there, or where she’d been before. Someplace else with other people—that much was obvious—but she had the feeling her memories were fading along with the room. There were snatches of conversation, the images of parties and school but not much more. Why is this happening? She wanted to know while she still remembered to care.

Imogen pushed aside the drapes to discover there was nothing but a blank wall behind them. An image flickered through her mind of a window there, looking out onto …

She couldn’t remember. At least, she couldn’t remember an exact picture of what had been on the other side of the window glass—but she did remember a feeling. Blind, abject panic that pounded like a fist from her gut through the back of her throat. She’d screamed until her voice had shattered, and then she’d cried hoarsely, moaning like a bereft child.

The notion seemed ridiculous, but her body remembered her horror, as if the vibrations were still rippling through her flesh. Why can’t I see now what I saw then? Where did the window go? And why hadn’t she remembered that before now? New foreboding crept over her, kicking her heart into a higher gear. You remember because this time you made yourself remember. But there’s something in this room trying to make you forget .

Something, maybe, but she was more certain it was a someone . And the reason she was certain was because the notion made her stomach turn to ice. Her body knew the truth. Someone had brought her here to this shrinking room. And the only person who would do that was a bitter enemy.

It all seemed madness, but the chill in her gut said it was true. And unless she wanted to fade and vanish, she had to leave. And no doubt this is an obvious conclusion you’ve drawn before . This time she’d have to get past deciding there was a problem and start doing something about it before she slid back to the beginning all over again. So find a door and leave, ninny!

“Would I even remember if there was a way out?” she asked aloud, her voice thick with lack of use. “But surely I’ve looked for one already.”

Imogen paced, rubbing her arms more to keep herself alert than because of any cold. And now I’m talking to myself. Holy hat ribbons, I’m getting as barmy as Aunt Tabitha. “But so what if I’ve looked for a door? I don’t remember doing it. That’s almost as good as hope.”

She returned to the wall behind the curtains, running her fingers over every inch, but finding only ordinary paint and plaster. And then she began a careful circuit of the room, testing every crack and cranny for hidden switches or evidence of concealed doors. When the walls revealed nothing, she began on the floor, peeling back the carpet and tugging on every board to make sure the fit was tight.

This at least didn’t seem silly. She had a vague recollection that her father had a concealed compartment beneath his study floor, full of nasty secrets. There’d been a family row about it not long ago. That made her smile—not about the fight, but the fact that getting active seemed to be doing her memory good.

She hauled the sofa aside, pushed back the tables, and stomped her feet, listening for the sound of a hollow. Nothing. Frustrated, Imogen sat down, biting her thumbnail. What had she been hoping to find, anyhow? A tunnel to China?

And why was she sitting there again, with the room a mess around her? Imogen pondered a moment, recollection of what she had been doing bobbing just out of reach as her stomach grew cold. She was losing. What? What am I losing?

Time stilled for a moment as she groped toward her thoughts as if they were the string of an errant kite. A door! I was looking for a door . She’d checked the walls and the floor, so she looked up at the ceiling, but it was blank as paper. Where else is there to look?