Emma Holloway - A Study in Ashes

For all her trials, Nellie Reynolds had lost none of her presence. Evelina hung on every word. “Tell me, what happens in those laboratories?”

The actress flinched, and it clearly wasn’t for effect. “The scientists employed by the Steam Council are interested in one thing. They want to understand how magic works, and why those of the Blood inherit the ability to use it. And once they find that out, they want to replicate the effect for their own use.”

“Especially with machines,” added Miss Barnes. “Whoever discovers how to control machines with magic will render all other forms of power irrelevant.”

Which was in part why Jasper Keating had Evelina—a magic user with a technological bent—at his beck and call. “So they use the prisoners as experimental subjects?” Evelina asked. “Just like all the old rumors?”

Nellie Reynolds held up a gloved hand, as if warding off the question. “Yes. Dissection, vivisection, augmentation—nothing is beyond them. And it does not matter overmuch if a prisoner has been falsely accused. They found a purpose for me, too.”

She lifted her skirt—mildly shocking from the viewpoint of modesty, but what it revealed was far worse. “They cut off my legs and gave me these instead, just to see if they would take.”

“Oh, dear God,” Evelina blurted out before she could stop herself.

Beginning just above the knees, the woman’s legs were a tangle of open wires, cables, and gears. “They left me my feet,” she said in a carefully neutral voice. “They preserved enough pathways for the nerves and blood to keep the flesh alive. They wished to study the possibilities for mechanical integration with the human body.”

As her stomach rose, Evelina felt herself growing dangerously hot. How many prisoners were there? What happened to the ones who couldn’t get away?

She was relieved when Mrs. Reynolds dropped her hems and hid the ghastly sight. “I see,” Evelina said, knowing it sounded inane. She didn’t understand at all.

“And that was far from all. The scientists at the laboratories went unchecked by law or common decency, and their researches strayed down whatever path imagination decreed. When the quest for the key to magic stalled, they pursued other projects. Some sought to create the perfect soldier, others wished to defy mortality. Still others created monsters for their own sake, and tortured animals out of pure curiosity. There was a hound,” she said, pausing long enough to gulp back her emotion. “It was a huge, brindled beast. They attempted to build a clockwork creature within its living flesh. It escaped once, but they dragged it back and locked it away. After that it became utterly savage and unmanageable—no doubt in utter agony. But the poor mad thing showed me the weakness in their security, and I used that knowledge to escape. It did not suffer in vain.”

“Why are you telling me this?” Evelina asked, barely able to speak.

“We want to destroy the laboratories,” said Miss Barnes in a down-to-business tone. “Your uncle claims it’s something of a specialty of yours, and we don’t have enough powerful magic users.”

“And Madam Thalassa wishes me to help?”

“Yes,” said Miss Barnes. “News of Mrs. Reynolds’s escape arrived just days before you came to the séance. Madam Thalassa began making plans to follow up the intelligence at once. It seems that the laboratories have magic users as part of their guard. Those who would rather serve than be tortured.”

“Collaborators?”

“Yes. However, you have a kind of magic the scientists have not found a means to completely control. You will be an effective weapon for our side. In fact,” Mrs. Reynolds said, glancing at the bracelets, “those are the only means they have of even dampening dark magic. I’ve seen them at work plenty of times. They had to go far beyond just draping sorcerers in silver.”

Evelina remembered Moriarty’s words. I’ve never examined the mechanism, but both clockwork and magnetism are involved, as well as a rare element that reacts with magical energy to produce a chemical discharge .

Miss Barnes gave a vaguely bloodthirsty smile. “Once you get them off, there’s no telling what you might be able to do.”

It was true that the dark magic had been stronger at the séance, when Tobias had deactivated the mechanism. Evelina fingered the bracelets, thinking about having the full use of the dark power back. Fear tingled through her as she remembered her hunger rousing a strength and ferocity she’d desperately wanted to indulge. What if I can’t control it once these are off?

But the labs needed to be stopped, and Imogen needed help. And she had made a promise to Nick. As much as it terrified her, she had to be mistress of her magic, not its thrall. Otherwise, she was crippled. “I would help, but these bracelets keep me here. Can you get them off?”

“If you’re willing, we might be able to devise a means of setting you free,” said Miss Barnes.

“I’m willing,” she said, hoping she hadn’t gone utterly mad.

Both Miss Barnes and Mrs. Reynolds stirred, clearly relieved. “Good,” said Mrs. Reynolds, rising to her feet. “We’ll find some way of getting you to Dartmoor. We’re marshalling our forces there.”

Evelina’s heart started to pound with excitement and trepidation. “Where in Dartmoor are the laboratories?”

It was Miss Barnes who answered. “Near an estate that belongs to the Baskervilles. Sir Charles holds it, but he has an adopted son by the name of Edmond. Quite an engaging young fellow. Very fond of dogs.”

London, October 1, 1889

DUQUESNE’S RESTAURANT

1:55 p.m. Tuesday

“SO AM I TO UNDERSTAND THAT YOU HAVE TAKEN A fifteen-year-old girl for a client?” Dr. John H. Watson asked as he watched his teatime companion demolish each dish of eggs, pies, chops, crab bisque, sandwiches, and tea cakes as rapidly as the white-coated waiters of Duquesne’s could bring them to the table.

“Not precisely,” Holmes replied. “I merely did young Miss Roth a good turn. She reminds me a little of Evelina. In fact, she wrote to request the cipher of that clock of theirs. You know the one.”

“Did you give it to her?”

“Why not? It’s their clock. And I have always been of the opinion someone needs to watch Lord Bancroft, even if it is his youngest daughter. She is the last of his children at home, other than her ailing sister. I’d rather Miss Roth knew that she could come to me for assistance.”

And with that, the detective began piling his plate full once more. There was a shocking lack of vegetables involved, but Watson had to concede that getting something inside the Great Detective was better than the chemical substitutes that had been swirling through Holmes’s bloodstream until a few weeks ago.

Alternating bouts of overwork and idleness had led Watson’s old roommate back into the arms of recreational stimulants. The absence of his niece—Holmes behaved himself whenever he assumed his quasi-parental role—had only worsened the problem. The man didn’t require a companion, he needed a leash, and perhaps a wrangler. Fortunately, Watson had learned to provide both without Holmes—for all his vaunted powers of cerebration—figuring it out.

“Shall I order more tea?” he asked brightly.

Holmes tossed his napkin aside and surveyed the wreckage of the tea cakes in a way that called to mind Wellington at Waterloo—satisfaction edged in sorrow at the loss of life. “Perhaps a French coffee. Something strong and bitter to temper the sweetness.”

The man had to have ironclad digestion equal to one of Brunel’s engines. Watson signaled a waiter and placed the order. Holmes picked at the cheese plate.