Amanda Quick - Quicksilver

“Why would he do that?”

“To savor the energy of the kill,” he said absently.

There was a short, awful silence behind him. He closed the drawer and looked at Virginia.

“The killer comes here to savor the energy of death?” Virginia asked uneasily.

“In my experience it is not uncommon.”

“I see.” Virginia turned back to the mirror. “There were rumors after Mrs. Ratford died. She made her living claiming to communicate with spirits through mirrors. There are some who are convinced she really did manage to summon a malevolent entity from the Other Side. They believe it killed her.”

“We know one thing for certain: If Mrs. Ratford claimed to communicate with the dead, she was, by definition, a fraud.”

“No, not in her own mind.”

“I thought we agreed that there is no such thing as communicating with the dead,” he said flatly. “All those who claim to be mediums are, by definition, frauds of the lowest order, because they prey on the gullible and those who are made vulnerable by grief or a weak mind.”

“I was acquainted with Mrs. Ratford because she was a member of the Institute.” Virginia contemplated the mirror on the dressing table. “We were not close, but we had what you would call a professional connection. We occasionally had tea together in the Institute’s tearoom. We talked. I am convinced that she actually did have some degree of genuine glasslight talent.”

“Then why the devil would she claim to speak with spirits? Why not use her talent in an honest fashion, as you do?”

“Probably because she did not understand what she saw in the mirrors, let alone know how to interpret the visions and images. I told you, her talent was only middling at best. She did not comprehend that what she was viewing was the psychical residue that is absorbed by a looking glass. She was convinced that she really did see ghosts. One cannot blame her.”

“It’s true that most people with psychical abilities lack a scientific understanding of their talents,” he said. “I will concede that some with certain forms of clairvoyance might mistakenly believe that they are, in fact, sensing ghosts or spirits.”

“That is very broad-minded of you, sir.”

“Gabriel Jones is right. One of Arcane’s primary missions in the years ahead should be to educate the public on the physics of the paranormal.”

Virginia raised her brows. “You refer to the new Master of the Society?”

“Right. Jones is convinced that until there is a scientific understanding of psychical energy, those who possess talent will continue to be treated at best as entertainers. At worst, we will be regarded with fear and suspicion.”

“I wish Mr. Jones luck with his plans to inform and enlighten the public.”

Her dry tone caught his attention. “You don’t think it can be done?”

“I suspect it will be very long indeed before attitudes change. Meanwhile, those of us with a little talent must rely on our wits.”

“You have more than a little talent, Virginia Dean. And we are wasting time. If you would be so good as to examine the looking glass?”

“Yes, of course.” She turned her attention to the dressing-table mirror. Once again he felt currents of energy pulse in the atmosphere. He heightened his own talent so that he could watch Virginia with all of his senses.

She concentrated intently for a long moment.

“There are some images here,” she said at last. Her brows came together in a baffled frown. “I can see the afterimage of the victim. It is burned deeply into the mirror. But there is something else in there as well.”

“What?”

“There is raw energy trapped in the mirror. It is very odd. Like frozen fire.”

“Take your time. Describe the victim.”

“She is sitting at the table, gazing into the mirror. She is dying, and she knows it. She clutches her chest and looks to the right. She is both terrified and bewildered by whatever she sees.”

Owen glanced to the right of the dressing table. “The bed. The killer hid the device underneath it. The dragon, or whatever curiosity was used to commit the murder, emerged when it sensed the victim enter the room and sit down at her dressing table.”

“She never had a chance. She died just at the instant she began to comprehend the means of her death.”

“Is there any indication that she knew her killer?”

“No. I think all she can see is the device that is murdering her.”

“It is, nevertheless, quite possible that she did know the killer. She simply was not aware that he was the one who placed the clockwork device under the bed.”

“I think you’re right.” A visible shudder went through Virginia. In the mirror her eyes were wide and haunted.

Owen crossed the room and stopped behind her. Instinctively he put his hand on her shoulder. He could feel the heat generated by the use of her talent through the fabric of her cloak and gown. He knew that particular fever in the blood. He had experienced it often.

“That’s enough,” he said gently. “We have discovered what we came here to find, the cause of death. It is time to go home.”

They found a hired carriage two streets over. Both horse and driver were asleep. The coachman roused himself when Owen opened the door of the carriage and ushered Virginia up inside.

“Garnet Lane,” Owen said.

“Aye, sir.” The driver collected the reins.

Owen had wrapped the dragon in a quilt. He set the shrouded automaton on the floor of the carriage and sat down across from Virginia. His senses were still flaring. That was only to be expected, he thought. A close brush with danger or violence always resulted in an edgy tension that lingered, sometimes for hours or even days. But the events in the Ratford house had left him physically as well as psychically aroused. He knew that part of what he was feeling now was directly linked to Virginia’s presence. Something had happened when they had held hands to battle the clockwork dragon, something as intimate as it was inexplicable.

He was certain the experience had strengthened the growing bond between them. He longed to ask Virginia if she was aware of the connection, but he was worried that the intimate question would alarm her. She was already wary enough about their association.

He did not know how much longer he could wait for her to acknowledge the link between them. For now the bond was of a psychical nature, but the need to seal it with the hot energy of physical passion was stirring his blood.

He looked at her. In the low glow cast by the carriage lamps he could have sworn that he saw some heat in her eyes. She feels it, too, he thought. But perhaps the energy he perceived in her was simply the remnants of the fever that had resulted from the use of her talent tonight. It always took one a while to cool down after such an intense burn.

“Are you all right?” he asked, unable to think of anything else to say.

“Yes,” she said. She pulled her cloak more snugly around herself. “But I must admit that my senses are still rattled. I have never before encountered anything like that storm of hallucinations.”

“Neither have I. If it is any consolation, my nerves are also badly frayed.”

She smiled. “It would take more than a clockwork dragon to shatter your nerves, sir.”

“Or yours. You are the one who slew the dragon tonight.”

“I could not have done it without you.” She looked down at the blanket-wrapped dragon. “It is very powerful. Unlike a human, it would not tire until it winds down. It is a machine, capable of radiating that high level of energy for a considerable length of time. No person of talent, regardless of the degree of that talent, could control such a device for long before exhausting the senses.”