Emma Holloway - A Study in Ashes

“Keating told me about these.” He turned the bracelets over. They appeared solid, their only markings a tiny bit of flowing script that read: Her Majesty’s Scientific Laboratories.

“Did he tell you how they work?” she asked.

He shook his head. “Only that the cuffs keep you within the boundary of the college. Keating’s men can track you if you wander off.”

She shuddered. “I would never make it that far. They deliver a horrid shock if I try to leave. It’s as if a thousand darning needles are amputating my arms at the elbows.”

Evelina felt a bloody satisfaction at the horrified look on his face. But beneath her triumph was a twisting mass of hurt and shame. She’d been trapped and caged, and it galled her.

“That’s monstrous,” he said softly.

She didn’t know how to reply to the pity in his voice. But then she saw his bandage, and it gave her something else to focus on. “You’re hurt.” She reached out, touching the wound linen that peeked from beneath his sleeve.

“Just a steam burn,” he said. “Nothing at all. Nothing like the rest of our wounds.” And he put his hand over hers, fingers gently wrapping hers in familiar warmth.

Oh, no . She put her other palm against the gray wool of his coat, jewels of rain still caught on the soft weave. His chest moved, alive and warm, and loneliness swamped her. But this time she knew enough to pull away. That loneliness was her ache for someone else. Someone who not only loved her magic, but had his own. “I made this bargain.”

“For the sake of Captain Niccolo,” Tobias said in a tight voice.

There was nothing she could say. “Yes.”

There was a long silence, then Tobias sighed, something extinguished in his eyes. “I’m sorry. Believe that I want you to be happy.”

Evelina felt her chin tremble and ducked her head. If she cried, Tobias would hold her, and right then they were both sad enough to need the warmth of it. But it wouldn’t lead anywhere either of them could go. She cleared her throat, pulling her pride to her like a child clutches a blanket. “Are you happy?”

He hesitated, but then his mouth quirked. “Sometimes.”

“I’m glad.” She felt the energy between them shift, moving away from the most dangerous ground. She relaxed an infinitesimal degree. “And at least I get the education I always wanted.”

“Is it everything you thought?”

His question caught her off guard. “No.”

Tobias stood patiently, waiting for more.

“I don’t know,” she finally said. “I’ve been through too much to content myself with the predigested nonsense they consider suitable for females.”

A smile tugged at his lips. “I understand there was an incident. Were you making a statement?”

She sighed. “For the record, the demise of the laboratory was not premeditated.”

“Keating hopes you’ll find a way to put magic into machines. It would put him miles ahead of the rest of the Steam Council.”

She already knew how to do that, but wasn’t about to put that kind of advantage into the Gold King’s hands. “He may wait for a long time. That secret’s been lost for centuries, and if they never teach me anything here, it will be lost a while longer.”

“He’ll grow impatient. He wants the technology for his airships.”

He wanted a ship of wonders, like the Red Jack had been. Evelina wondered what had become of Nick’s air spirit. “Breakthroughs of that nature don’t come on command.”

“I know.” Tobias swallowed, as if choking back words he couldn’t afford to say. His eyes met hers, gray and bleak. “I know and I’m sorry, Evelina. I wish there was something I could do.”

“I didn’t ask you to do anything,” she said softly. “You’ve too much at stake in this.” He was every bit as trapped as she was. “Perhaps you should go,” she added softly.

He looked away, misery plain on his handsome features. “Keating has another assignment for you.”

She closed her eyes, fear rising like an evil mist. The last assignment had left her bleeding to death in a Whitechapel alley. “What does he want?”

“You’re to investigate an amateur parapsychological society.”

“Amateurs?” Evelina’s eyes snapped open. “Are you quite serious?”

Tobias looked apologetic. “A séance, to be more precise.”

“Table rapping?” Her brow furrowed, not sure whether to be alarmed or insulted.

“You sound chagrined.” A hint of amusement lurked in the corners of his mouth, making him look almost himself.

“I feel a bit like a thoroughbred asked to pull a pony cart.”

“Sadly, that’s the assignment.”

“Will it get me out of the college? Bracelets notwithstanding?”

“I’ll make sure of it.”

“Then I am utterly at your disposal.”

“I’m glad to hear it.” Tobias dug in a pocket, pulling out a leather notebook that had worn through on the corners. It would be the one he used for his work, and it gave her an odd feeling to think her business was mixed in there. He flipped it open to a dog-eared page. “They’re called the Parapsychological Institute. It’s quite fashionable at the moment.”

Now Evelina was curious. “If they’re a bunch of dabblers, why does Keating care? They can’t possess actual magic. Table rapping is all wires and hidden springs.”

“Keating believes it’s a cover for rebel sympathizers, and your uncle Sherlock confirmed it. You know, Baskervilles hiding under the bed.”

Uncle Sherlock? “Are you certain?” Her uncle’s involvement complicated everything.

Tobias shrugged, his expression haunted. Whatever was going on, he was caught in the middle. “The word is that the society is hiding Madam Thalassa. Keating wants to find her. He thinks it’s time for an arrest and execution on either political or paranormal grounds. He doesn’t much care which.”

Evelina’s jaw dropped. “And you want me to find out if she’s actually there?” What about Imogen?

“I’m informing you of what Keating wants.” And Tobias’s expression told her precisely what the Gold King had in mind. “You can get close to these people in a way others can’t.”

Evelina lost the power of speech. You mean I can win their confidence and betray them . Her heart was in her throat. No bloody way!

And she saw the jaws of Keating’s trap close. She had no choice but to become Tobias’s enemy.

SOMEWHERE IN ENGLAND

September 26, 1889

MANUFACTORY THREE

11:05 a.m. Thursday

NICK’S LIPS CRACKED IN THE HEAT, SORE AND SWOLLEN with thirst and unspent curses. A kerchief tied over his face, he sweated in the scorching murk, one more shackled prisoner laboring among hundreds. He was used to hiding, to seeking anonymity, but this was oblivion. Ash veiled the air in a false dusk, motes swirling like souls lost in the updrafts of hell. On every side flames roared, the furnaces like hungry devils demanding fuel for their red-hot bellies. For the prisoners shoveling coke and pig iron, those furnaces might as well have been sucking down their souls.

There were bigger and better steel plants in the Scarlet King’s territories, some with machines that did the work of dozens. Here, though, in the place Nick only knew as Manufactory Three, mortal labor was cheaper than any machine. Incarceration was a death sentence—eventually. The heat alone killed many of the men, sweating them day after day until their bodies gave in.

Ironic that Nick found his way into this fire pit right after surviving a fall from his flaming airship. He had gone overboard locked in a death struggle with a sorcerer, their fight over the metal cube that housed the air spirit named Athena. Without a parachute, Nick should have been smashed to pulp, but Athena had used her power over the winds to cushion the fall.