Emma Holloway - A Study in Ashes

The land sloped down to the right, long russet grass waving between patches of gorse and rowan. Captain Niccolo was at the bottom of the valley, digging with his bare hands at the base of a granite boulder. Despite his very ordinary suit of clothes, the man’s olive skin and long black hair set him apart from the others. But more than that, he moved with the controlled grace of a hunting cat. No one would have difficulty believing him a pirate. The Schoolmaster was very glad he was on their side.

He stopped beside Penner. “How goes it?”

Penner exhaled a cloud of smoke, looking bemused. “We’ve been over at least a mile of road. He says little, frowns at the trees, stops and walks around the rocks, and talks to the birds. It’s been fascinating—a bit like dealing with St. Francis turned highwayman.”

“Can you tell if there’s been progress?”

Penner shrugged a shoulder. “This is the first time he’s started to dig.”

The Schoolmaster immediately started down the slope, walking sideways to keep from slipping. A squirrel burst from the underbrush, chattering curses as it bolted up a tree.

Niccolo was kneeling in the fallen leaves, pulling handfuls of dirt and debris from a dent in the earth. His hair had fallen around his face, hiding his eyes. The Schoolmaster stopped a few yards away. It was obvious that the captain had found his buried treasure, because he was tenderly pulling something from the ground, every angle of his body proclaiming his relief.

The object wasn’t much to look at. There was a crude fabric sling, now filthy, that the captain cast aside. The metal cube within it appeared to be a mess of different metals melted together. Bits of rust splotched the surface, disguising what might have once been gears.

“Is it supposed to look like that?” the Schoolmaster asked, wondering if the device had been destroyed in the crash.

The captain looked up, dark eyes bright with happiness. “Once she was covered in gold and gems, but that was just ornament. Everything that needs to be here is intact.” He rose, holding the cube between dirty hands. “This is Athena’s Casket.”

The Schoolmaster drew near, underwhelmed by its appearance. He had expected something more … sparkly. But then, just as he grew close enough to touch the cube, he felt it. There was a drop of the Blood in most of the royal houses. He couldn’t work magic, but he could sense a tingling over his face and hands that said it was pouring from that cube. He looked up with a feeling of excitement. “It is real.”

It was a foolish statement, but Niccolo just smiled. “It will be a long time before she forgives me for putting her in the dirt.” And then he stopped, staring at the cube, a frown creasing his brow.

Then he looked up with a pleased expression. “Athena bids you fair greeting.”

“Um,” the Schoolmaster said, looking at the lump of dirty metal and trying to relate it to the Greek goddess that was its—her—namesake. “Tell her fair greetings from me?”

The captain’s eyes narrowed, some new emotion thinning his lips. “She says she sees the Blood in you.”

Cold surprise rushed over the Schoolmaster, and he could not hide a flinch. He stared at the lump in the man’s hands and could feel the intelligence almost touchably present around it.

“I did not know you carried magic,” Captain Niccolo said evenly, keeping his voice low.

“I don’t,” the Schoolmaster replied tersely. “It’s such a small amount that it means nothing.”

“Yet it is enough for her to see it.”

The Schoolmaster was beginning to dislike this talking cube. “She has good eyesight and possibly a magnifying glass. But I suppose half the population has a drop of the Blood somewhere in their family tree.”

The captain nodded. He had brought a leather satchel—or rather, appropriated it from the Schoolmaster’s closet—and now he stowed the cube inside and dusted off his hands. “Perhaps someday you will tell me why Athena calls you vasiliás .”

It was Greek for king. There was a moment of stunned silence on the Schoolmaster’s part as he gathered his wits. “Perhaps.”

Niccolo gave a low laugh. “I know the word, but I don’t pretend to know what it means in your case. Give me a chance at revenge, and I do not care if you are Edmond Baskerville or the queen of Sheba. I will keep your secrets, whatever they are.”

“Thank you.” There would be a time when he had to reveal himself, but he prayed it wasn’t quite yet. He knew how to be Edmond Baskerville. Prince Edmond was—he wasn’t quite ready for that.

The captain was watching him, self-contained as ever. “You should know that devas see through to our essence.”

“What are you saying?”

“Just that. The land is watching.” With that, the captain started up the slope to join the others, taking the incline in long, easy strides.

The Schoolmaster watched him go for a moment before following, now sensing a thousand pixie eyes boring into the back of his head. The land is watching . He could well imagine it. He’d grown up on the moors, with their moody, austere personality. And a king has to answer to the land .

The Schoolmaster pondered the conversation as they walked back to the roadside inn, where they hired a conveyance back to the train station. He turned Niccolo’s words over and over like a tool he couldn’t figure out how to use. He’d known about devas all his life—magic clung to the countryside like stubborn brambles. If the spirits could identify him, it was a minor miracle that no woodwife had pointed him out on the street. But he also knew it took more than a drop of the Blood to speak to the nature spirits, and there were hardly any of the old families left. Who besides Captain Niccolo and a handful of unlucky prisoners spoke to the devas anymore? More to the point, who spoke for the devas who tended the land?

The notion plunged him into deep thought. But while he was quiet, the others were merry. Even Penner and Smythe set aside their mutual dislike to enjoy Niccolo’s success. Victory augured well for the future.

In boisterous spirits, the party reached the train station in good time. The platform was tiny, but there was a tearoom across the way. Penner, Smythe, and the captain went in search of something to eat. The Schoolmaster lingered outside the station, head still spinning with questions.

Suddenly, Edgerton was at his elbow. “I have the afternoon edition of the county paper.”

The Schoolmaster looked up, not really caring. “And?”

His friend’s face was pained. “I’m sorry. I’m shocked that no one contacted you before this came out, but then you’re a hard man to find.”

“That’s kind of the point of my lifestyle,” he said cautiously, wondering what Edgerton had found in the paper. Did the crown prince die? He took it, reluctance hitting him the moment his fingers touched the page.

And then he saw the headline. Shock made him fumble the folded sheet, and he had to snap it taught and read the words again. Heat crept up his cheeks in the same instant his whole body went cold.

SIR CHARLES BASKERVILLE FOUND DEAD AT FAMILY HOME

He skimmed the rest of the article, his memory supplying details of place and personalities as he read. Sir Charles had been found dead in the yew walk. The authorities were prepared to claim it was simple heart failure, except for a handful of details—including the look of abject horror on the dead man’s face. Sherlock Holmes had been engaged to investigate. Murder .

Words caught in his throat, snagged there by sorrow and anger, and it was a full minute before he could get them out. “They found out Nellie Reynolds went to my father for help.”