The Deathsniffer’s Assistant (The Faraday Files Book 1) (5 page)

always strive for sense of style though clothes are old I present a sense of togetherness to the world or at least I’d like to think I do

dressed in dark trousers dark coat light blue waistcoat white shirt black shoes hats are in style now but don’t suit shape of my face only wear occasionally

The words poured out of his head and onto the page in scarcely more than the time it took to blink.

have Rosemary’s eyes blue deep both got them from Mother

got most of my looks from Mother, hair color face fine wavy hair eyes and Gods I mi

It was harder than he thought it would be to put together a fair, comprehensive description of himself without delving into thoughts and pouring out feelings. It was all too close to old hurts and personal observations. He sharpened the edge, cut it down to just the image. Just the image in the mirror.

cleanshaven high cheekbones barelyvisible adam’s apple slender build short side of average high collar hair cut short combed down look always striving for the right image. nice coats nice pants nice shoes I always try to have nice shoes ohGods in the heavens thenannys shoeswere so awful I thoughtid

He broke away from the page, a flush spreading across his cheeks. Olivia was hunched over his shoulder, staring with interest down at the words. She turned her eyes over to him when she realized he was done, raising her eyebrows slightly. Their faces were very close together. “All done?” she asked.

“Yes,” he murmured.

“Now that
is
a crying shame,” she said, and drew back from him, plucking the book from his hands as she did so. “I was
so
curious where you were going with that.”

His ears burned.

She slid the book onto the surface of the desk and closed it after another moment of study. The whole transcription had taken less than ten seconds, and he’d completely filled a page.
That
had to have impressed her. Her hand lay flat on the cover, then her fingers steepled so it looked like a spider crouched there. She had lovely fingers, like a flutist or a pianist.

“It’s a full time position,” she said finally, seeming to forget the book. “Be here at this time
every
weekday. You’ll be home for dinner, usually, but it could be later. No complaining.” She continued to move as she spoke, going back around the desk, dropping into the chair. “Some days, you’ll be behind a desk. You’ll welcome guests to the office, receive the post, collect the paper, do piles and piles of boring paperwork. That’s between cases. But when one comes…well. This
isn’t
a job that leaves you in the office. Oh, you should be so lucky.” The pen was in her hands again, but she wasn’t writing. Instead she was spinning it about with two fingers, juggling it like a fool at a circus. “You’ll be following a Deathsniffer around, smelling more death than you can handle and getting every detail of every horrible, horrible thing you see down on paper. You understand all of that…don’t you?”

“Yes,” he said quickly.

She focused her attention fully on him, then, the pen stilling. “You’re
sure
?” she asked severely. “It’s something you might want to take a minute to think about, instead of just jumping into.” Her expression went mocking. “After all…you’re climbing into bed with death, Mister Buckley.”

He wondered if this woman had been bright and cheerful and innocent before coming to work for O. Faraday, Deathsniffer, instead of this twisted, arch, difficult to touch creature who didn’t seem to notice the strange environment she spent her days in. He wondered if he would be like her in a year, maybe two. Would his smile set people on edge? Would every word be a strange barb? He wondered if he could really afford to bring that home to Rosemary.

And then he had to bottle up a hysterical bout of laughter. Could he really afford not to? The money
was
running out. It was an exhaustible source, and it would be exhausted very, very soon. Fernand had been perfectly clear, and he’d never been wrong before. Their grace period was coming to an end, hard times were ahead, and Chris needed this job.

He had no choice.

“I’m sure,” he agreed.

Olivia sat back in her chair and let out a deep breath of satisfaction. She looked as though she’d just finished a grand meal. “All right,” she said. “You’re hired.”

He coughed politely. “Don’t you mean to say you’ll recommend me to Mister Faraday?”

She laughed. “No,” she said. Then sighed and shook her head. A smile spread across her lips. “You see, Mister Buckley, you seem a little naive, so I’m not going to hold it against you. But really, you shouldn’t have made such assumptions, and you
should
have put it together as soon as you heard my name. Olivia. O. Faraday.” She leaned over the desk to hold out her hand in a pleasant greeting, and the smile widened, feral and cheerful and horrible all at the same time. “Deathsniffer.”

he encounter was still fresh in Chris’s mind when he stumbled, dazed, up the front steps of his home. He closed the front door and leaned back against it.

Employment. Finally, at long last, employment.

Employment under a woman who appeared to be mad. Employment with a Deathsniffer who wore the name like a badge of honour. Employment earned in an interview where he had humiliated himself to depths he had hitherto not known he was capable of.

But it was employment.

He closed his eyes.
Be in at 8 o’clock tomorrow, Mister Buckley,
the Deathsniffer had told him, teeth gleaming through her smile.
No later. I’ll run you through the ropes, and soon enough you’re going to be right at home here.

The thought was far more unnerving than it was comforting.

He didn’t hear the sound of approaching footsteps. In fact, he didn’t notice anyone else was in the room at all until he heard a tentative clearing of a throat, and then a tight, professional voice saying, “Mister Buckley. I see you are home.”

Chris’s eyelids flickered open. The room swam in tones of too-blue and too-white. He blinked and focused his gaze on the horribly dressed woman standing in the alcove off the staircase. The governess, yes. He’d forgotten about her in the face of Olivia Faraday’s…everything. He straightened, brushed what may have been a piece of lint off his topcoat, and gave the woman a polite nod. “Miss Albany, yes, of course.” She still didn’t smile. “You’ll be pleased to know I have been offered the job I interviewed for today. Assuming you want it, your position here at the estate can be permanent.”

“Ah. Yes,” the woman said. “Of course.” Her prim nod came a moment too late, and she reached up to push a few loose strands of hair back behind her ears.

For the first time, Chris noticed how pale she was, how her hand trembled ever so slightly as she lowered it back to her side. It seemed quite out of character that her tight bun was anything but immaculately maintained. He frowned. Something had spooked her.

His thoughts immediately leaped to the worst of all possible conclusions. He scanned the foyer, panic rising in his throat. “Where is Rosemary?” he asked. It wasn’t like her to not be right at the door the moment he returned from an errand. After all of his previous interviews, he’d had to fend her off with two hands, hiding his disappointment as well as he could. Where was she now? If something had happened to her…

But Miss Albany shook her head. “She is fine,” she assured him. “In the kitchen, just where I found her.” Her eyes flickered in that direction and Chris saw something pass beneath her carefully maintained expression. Fear…but awe, as well.

That was when he knew what she’d seen.

“…she’s not as powerful as she appears,” he said. He shifted into the practiced lines with ease. He’d been repeating these lies for nearly six years, after all.
Gods, Rosemary, again?
“Really, it’s just minor wizardry. Very minor. She likes to show it off, but her control is mostly an illusion. She has a naturally beautiful voice, is all.”

Miss Albany started. She looked away from him. One of her hands reached up to grip the bannister of the staircase towering over them. “I just didn’t expect,” she said in a small voice. “One never expects to meet a wizard of any sort, but a binding wizard…” She looked back at him and composed herself. “It was just a surprise, that is all. I expected a normal girl.”

“She is a normal girl,” Chris stressed. He tried as hard as he could to make himself seem dismissive. Flippant. Like someone being gifted with a proficiency before having it awakened in Categorization was a daily occurrence. “She’s hardly the first wizard in history, and she won’t be the last.” When the governess did not immediately reply, Chris peered at her. She stood straight and appeared coolly professional. He swallowed “It’s…” he fumbled. She knew now. The last thing he wanted was to make her any sort of enemy. If she told the wrong person…Visions of Hector Combs’s lackeys at Lowry flooding into his home to seize his sister flashed across his mind. He struggled not to show his distress. “If this makes you uncomfortable, you can feel more than free to decline the offer and―”

Miss Albany’s eyes widened slightly. “
No
,” she exclaimed, and then her cheeks flushed red hot. She did not blush prettily. “No,” she repeated, with more restraint. “No, Mister Buckley, I would be glad to accept this position. I find myself fond of the girl. She is difficult, but I appreciate a challenge. And times being what they are, she could be a demon from the hells and still be worthy of the risk. Royals are royals.”

“Good, I’m glad.” Thank all the Gods. He had no attachment to this severe, grey woman, but her response implied she had no intention of making life difficult for the Buckleys. And he hated the thought of sending her back to her agency like an undercooked chicken. “Tomorrow then? Eight o’clock?”

“Eight o’clock,” Miss Albany confirmed with another tight nod, and then dipped a shallow curtsey before pushing past him on her way to the door. She wore neither hat nor wrap, but it was a warm spring day, and she would doubtless be fine. Christopher watched her go until the door shut behind her, and then he went in search of Rosemary.

“It was just a dryad,” she snapped, her angry footsteps on the stairs like rolling thunder.