Emma Holloway - A Study in Ashes

She heard the scuff of a boot behind her. “Your visitor has left, I take it?” said Professor Moriarty.

Tobias was almost to the gate, and was lifting his hat to a bevy of giggling students. Her heart ached for him. What will his decision be?

“We have a conversation to conclude, Miss Cooper.”

She answered without taking her eyes from Tobias’s retreating form. “These are my conditions. I won’t hurt anyone for you. I won’t commit a crime for you. There will never be any romantic favors between us.”

“Done. I have others who can provide for all those needs already.”

She spun to regard Moriarty. He wore a mask, too, but she could see the eagerness behind it. It made her feel unpleasantly edible. “Just get me out of here.”

He gave a short nod. “I can see the paper for your leave is signed, but there is little I can do about the bracelets. Except for this,” he held up a tiny glass vial, and then pressed it into her palm. “This is the element the bracelets use. The common name is salt of sorrows.”

She held it up to the light. It didn’t look like much—just dark gray crumbs that rattled when she shook the vial. “How can a salt be a rare element?”

“The element forms part of the compound. This crystal is what they use in your restraints. I don’t know any more than that, but here is where you can begin your researches.”

She pocketed the container. “Thank you. Narrowing it down helps.”

“Good luck,” he said. “If I do not see you again before you leave, know that I will think of you in the days to come.”

Her mood, already somber, dipped another degree. “Will you be leaving Camelin soon?”

“Soon.” He touched the brim of his hat. “ À bientôt , Miss Cooper.”

As he left, Evelina began to feel the cold seeping through her dress. It was October now, and she would need at least a shawl to venture outside. Isn’t winter supposed to be a bad time for war? She turned and hurried up the stairs, more than ready to huddle in the solitude of her room.

Except Deirdre was in the hall, waiting for her. “What’s going on?”

“You’ve seen my mystery caller now,” Evelina said lightly, realizing she’d come full circle to their earlier conversation. “Sadly, he only comes on business.”

“Business?” Deirdre raised her eyebrows in amusement. “I will do business with him at any time.”

Somehow, Evelina managed a laugh. “Once upon a time, I’m sure Mr. Roth would have appreciated that offer.”

“Not any longer?” Deirdre asked, clearly disappointed.

“No.” Evelina sobered, thinking of the rake with the fallen angel smile he once had been. She would have done anything to give Tobias a little of his younger self back. “None of us are who we used to be anymore.”

London, October 2, 1889

STEAM MAKERS’ GUILD HALL

3:10 p.m. Wednesday

TOBIAS POUNDED UP THE STEPS OF THE STEAM MAKERS’ Guild Hall, the Gold King’s summons crumpled in one hand. He was overtired, jumpy, and in a temper. Irritation prickled like a rash. With all the larger problems in front of him, he didn’t appreciate having to dance attendance at the snap of his employer’s fingers. It wasn’t as if he was sitting about drinking tea all day.

Tobias approached the double doors with a brisk stride, putting on his best public face. Late afternoon sun warmed the stone edifice, giving a grace the place otherwise lacked. The building was a bad imitation of the Roman style, with purposeful pillars and a triangular pediment above the door bearing a frieze of gears and wheels—an anachronism Tobias found ridiculous. Or perhaps pompous was a better word. The Steam Council fancied itself an industrial senate, every member a long-winded Caesar waiting for an empire of his own. And I hate every one of them .

“Afternoon,” said another of Keating’s men, this one exiting the doors at a trot. The man tipped his bowler as he jogged toward the streets. “Himself is in his office. He’s waiting for you.”

“Thanks,” Tobias replied, though he felt far from grateful. Waiting was a bad sign. Brilliant. Keating’s plotting something for certain . And despite Evelina’s patient counsel, he still wasn’t certain what to tell his employer.

Or maybe he was, when he faced the question squarely. Speaking out would be like putting a match to a pile of gunpowder and he simply didn’t want to do it. The moment he did, people would die. But Evelina was probably right in that war would come one way or another. Informing Keating now would tip the scales in favor of those close to him, and his heart said to put them first.

Armed servants opened the double doors before he reached them, bowing as he strode past. Even without his father’s title, Tobias had status there. As the Gold King’s maker, he was in and out of the building several times a week. Despite his sour mood, he gave them a friendly nod as he passed. They probably didn’t enjoy groveling any more than he did. Perhaps because of that status, or because he was civil, they never searched him for a weapon. The Webley hid under his coat once more.

Inside, the black marble walls of the cavernous foyer ate the wan sunlight. More armed guards stood at strategic points, their expressions shuttered in deliberate neutrality. These Tobias also knew by sight and passed without stopping, earning slight bows from a few. The deference soothed his mood, and his step sounded gratifyingly loud in the empty space—rifle shots wrapped in shoe leather.

Keating’s offices were on the second floor, up a grand sweep of stairs. Here the decor changed from stark grandeur to bureaucratic opulence. Gaslights flared in amber globes, casting a sulfurous glow over dark green walls. Bleak Highland landscapes—with many portraits of hairy cows—only added to the gloomy atmosphere.

The door to the Gold King’s suite was ajar, his secretary absent. All the guards, it seemed, were stationed on the ground floor, because there was no one to announce Tobias’s arrival. Impatient, he barged through to Keating’s office. He’d barely made it to the doorway when a voice assailed him.

“Ah, Roth, there you are,” the Scarlet King said jovially. He was lounging in Keating’s favorite leather armchair, legs crossed and a lit cheroot in one hand. “How pleasant to see you. How fare your lovely sisters?”

Surprise made Tobias pull up sharply. He reached for his gun before he knew what he was doing. “Where’s Keating?”

Reading held up a gloved hand, the cheroot trapped between two fingers. Smoke curled lazily in the gaslight, somehow as insolent as the Scarlet King’s smile. “I wouldn’t pull that if I were you. I might misinterpret your intentions.”

“Where’s Keating? I thought he was waiting for me. Why are you in his private office?” And where was the secretary who was supposed to be guarding the door? Tobias’s fingers lingered on the butt of the gun, twitching with tension.

“He is not here,” Reading said very distinctly. “I arranged a small ruse to bring you here because I felt it was time that you and I had another private word.”

“I gave you my answer. What could we possibly have to say to one another?”

Reading gave him a caustic look. “I know Keating well enough to be certain he pulls your strings as much as he does anyone else’s. That is his nature, rather like that tiresome fable about the scorpion and the frog. Please, sit.” He indicated another chair.

Tobias sat and waited. “What do you want now?”

“When we talked before, you made a brave show of loyalty, and I respect that. I see your worth, Mr. Roth. But to be perfectly honest, I also saw that you were no happier in your situation than I am in my alliance. As peculiar as it may sound, seeing that despair in your eyes gave me hope. It is time we made common cause.”