The Double Life of Incorporate Things (Magic Most Foul) (2 page)

“Then I’ll live a life in love with you,” he replied.

There he went again, with words to make me weak in the knees. Such words meant I threw myself at him for another kiss, this one longer. We heard a step on the stair. He broke away with a moan and stepped back a few paces. We looked, but no one approached the pocket doors of the parlor so he didn’t cross the room entirely.

“I must meet Brinkman. Straightaway. Just as he’s said,” Jonathon said brightly, fishing in another pocket for a box of matches. He’d been enjoying Mr. Northe’s den of fine cigars a bit too often, it would seem, to have matches so easily on hand.

I raised an eyebrow. “You seem rather cheerful about it.”

“Help, Natalie, my love. We finally have
help
.”

“We’ve always had Mrs. Northe.”

“And bless her for all that she’s done. But remember, we’ve not always had her. She ran off to Chicago in the hour of our need—”

“And in doing so saved your friend, and who knows what else she got up to out there, she was up to something—”

“Natalie, we’ll need all the help we can get. And if it’s from Her Majesty herself? Well then, color me a bit patriotic and proud!” Jonathon cried, and if I wasn’t mistaken, he almost puffed out his chest a bit. He struck a match and suddenly the note from Brinkman was in flames per the agent’s request.

“How will you know Brinkman, Jonathon? An elaborate path to the park hardly helps you identify him. How do you know he’s not one of
theirs
?”

Jonathon tapped between his eyes. “If nothing else, the curse gave me second sight. It has proven true that I see auras of brimstone, like hellfire, upon sight of a Society operative. But around Knowles there is a faint pale light. Mrs. Northe too. And you? Simply angelic. I’ll get one look at Brinkman, and friend or foe will be immediately evident.”

“Just... take your pistol.” I folded my arms. “And I’m going with you. I hope you memorized those instructions because I don’t remember the details of what you just burned.”

Jonathon sighed. “I copied them down, Natalie. Will it do me any good to say that I don’t want you to come with me or be placed in any possible danger—”

“Teams work together and that’s final.”

“I supposed as much—”

“But what do I tell Father?” I asked earnestly. The ongoing question that would plague us until we could make our relationship more permanent was what to tell my father. The truth? Or a pleasant lie that would harm no one and keep him from worrying? But considering we were unable to shield Father from the horrors that had befallen me on Denbury’s account, I didn’t know what he’d accept or reject. Before I could wonder further, Jonathon answered.

“That it’s a lovely day for a walk,” Jonathon said with even brighter cheer, this time forced, moving to stand a further pace apart from me and looking toward the open pocket doors.

“Indeed,” my father said, startling me with his entrance behind me. “It’s a lovely day for you, Natalie, to show your lord here your precious Central Park!”

I had wanted to celebrate our recent victory over the demon by spending days luxuriating in my beloved park, sharing my favorite place on earth with the incredible man who had fought with me, through hell and back, to be by my side. But fear of “they’re coming for you” had us keeping more indoors, with Mrs. Northe’s private guards on the watch. We hadn’t told my father about that note. We were scared he’d forbid me from seeing Jonathon again, as he’d done just before I nearly died. My throat still bore the faint traces of the demons’ bruises.

“Don’t you think so, Lord Denbury?” my father said, his eyes bright. “A beautiful day in the park to set things on the
proper
course?”

“Yes, Mr. Stewart,” Jonathon said. I could have sworn a nervous shudder rippled through him.

I had grown intimately accustomed to body language during my many years suffering from Selective Mutism due to the trauma of my mother’s death. Years of silence meant I could read physical cues like a book, and I read Jonathon uncannily well. And while I had only perused a part of that particular library and I wanted to pore over every page, something about his nervousness had butterflies launching into flight within me too. Something about my father’s phrase and tone kindled a little spark of hope...

Jonathon fidgeted with his coat sleeves. He never fidgeted. I bit my lip.

Father at long last broke the tense silence. “Evelyn has excused herself I know not where,” he said mournfully. “I was hoping to promenade with her, alas, I must leave it to the young.” He wagged his finger. “Though I shan’t be
too
far behind...”

“Ah. Yes.” Jonathon said, patted his breast pocket, moved crisply into the entrance hall, checked his reflection in the tall wardrobe mirror, and turned to me with his most winning smile. “Miss Stewart?” He held out his arm.

“My lord.” I smiled, my heart hammering, and we set off, Jonathon suddenly acting as though he’d seen a ghost...

There is nothing so beautiful in all the world as Central Park in autumn. I’ve been known to make bold and declarative statements that I will later temper if I’m in less dramatic of a mood. But this is a statement I can put my full weight behind no matter my state of mind.

Central Park is heaven. And even more so if you’re in love.

I had been nearly killed several times in the past few months. There’s nothing that gives a person perspective as much as facing death, and nothing that gives as much liberty to speak dramatically as having survived. I had not known Jonathon Whitby, Lord Denbury, for long. And yet, we had saved each other’s lives several times now. Nothing shows truth of character or purity of heart more than saving another soul. I daresay Jonathon and I knew more of one another in a mere few months than those who have spent untroubled years side by side. We had seen death side by side, and our mere survival had shed a deal of light on love.

Descending the stoop and drawing onward toward the grand expanse of the park ahead of us, I had hopes in my heart, as any young romantic might. My father had his pressures and concerns. Denbury’s lineage had still further strictures. I was a nervous wreck, wondering if this might be the day that he would ask for my hand or if some heretofore unknown obstacle would yet keep us apart. He was eighteen, as I would be within a few months, and we were no longer children. Society placed demands upon a man and woman who enjoyed each other’s company in the way that we did.

My preoccupation was overtaken, as it always was, by the charm of the park. My racing thoughts calmed once surrounded by lush green, over eight hundred acres worth, in winding vistas and charming expanses. The park has been over thirty years in its construction, with improvements yearly. It is a man-made Eden sculpted and curated to present myriad poetic compositions and countless breathtaking views, built to be like a living salon of landscape portraits. A thousand different parks live within one long central rectangle. Eden lives at the heart of Metropolitan chaos. In any and all directions, the view is beautiful. And the park brings out the beauty in people, wanting to wear their Sunday best even on a Tuesday. The park remains an event in and of itself. Not barred or gated like royal gardens of old, this was built as, and will remain, a park of the people. And the people are devoted to that which is theirs.

We entered the park from one of the transverse open gates; many of them had begun to have names etched in stone, but this open mouth had yet to be named. Jonathon and I strolled arm in arm, my light yellow lace parasol cocked at an angle to block as much of the hazy autumn sun as possible. My father hung back many paces, pretending not to be looking at us, a newspaper tucked under his elbow. I felt strained and scrutinized, and my natural urge to relax against Jonathon’s hand that so often liked to wander freely over my back was held in check. My muscles were rigid against my corset boning, Jonathon’s hand stiff upon the stays; all the effortless ease of our relationship felt stifled by all that was expected of us.

Once we were inside the park Jonathon looked to me to guide him, and I gestured forward, curving slightly downtown along a winding path, one I knew well.

Jonathon took in the surroundings. “Lovely place. It looks like the English countryside.”

“I believe that was rather the point,” I replied.

Jonathon shook his head. “Americans. You child imitators.”

I scowled. “Don’t tease my favorite place. You just wait until you see her...”

Ahead of us lay my patron saint, my angel, the crux of the park’s magic.

The Bethesda Terrace was the park’s new crown jewel, an enormous arched stone terrace with finely hewn stairs and elaborate stone carvings on vast rails leading in a grand descent to a brick courtyard below, stretching generously out toward a still pool of water where gentlemen rowed parasol-bedecked ladies in rowboats about a curving inlet, a more thickly forested patch of the park beyond.

At the center of this grand plaza was the Angel of the Waters, tall and gloriously presiding atop her fountain; a vast circular basin and uplifting cherubim lay below her. She represented that biblical story of fresh spring bubbling up from the rock she touched, her step bringing forth life and renewal, her wings outstretched, the folds of her skirt billowing, her form of powerful grace serving as a memorial for the Union dead. The fountain poured water from a basin at the angel’s feet toward a larger basin below, and then dropped further unto a vast wide circular pool, its basin at knee level.

“This is admittedly spectacular,” Jonathon murmured.

This got a smile out of me, and I squeezed his hand before breaking away. Bending to touch my fingers into the water, I instinctively brought my wet finger to my forehead and made the sign of the cross as if in renewal of baptism. The angel had become, from the moment I first laid eyes upon her, my patron saint. I brought all my troubles and joys unto her. Today I had brought her my greatest joy, this man at my side. Despite all the troubles he’d inadvertently laid at my feet. I begged the angel’s blessing as if she were my mother, and I hoped that my mother indeed was watching now, as she’d been present in my last battle. I could only hope she was with me now when life was so gloriously alive, not only when death was so perilously close.

“We’ve been through so much, you and I,” Jonathon began hesitantly, taking a seat upon the rounded basin ledge of the fountain. “I don’t know where to begin. How could I capture the last few months?” He spoke as if he weren’t sure he were in the right tense or even language. A decisive conversationalist in normal circumstances, this was an odd departure.

“My diary helped frame my thoughts. At first. But then, in gaining my voice, I no longer needed a diary in the same way. Then I had you to talk to... So just...talk to me,” I offered with a little smile. Jonathon stared into the water, his handsome reflection looking up at him with wide eyes. He didn’t seem able to look at me so I looked at all the glory around him.

Behind Jonathon marched the beautiful Romanesque arches of the terrace platform where painted tiles graced the ceiling and led couples promenading, children running, contemplative souls wandering on their own, underneath the transverse road and toward another grand staircase beyond that led up unto the Great Mall where trees arched in one long avenue toward Manhattan’s bustle once more. The clop of horse hooves atop the terrace, beyond its grand balcony, was a gentle, lulling rhythm as fine carriages, open calashes, and carts rolled past in steady streams.

Jonathon was oddly still, but the park around him burst with life and activity. Boys ran about in clusters on the grass, couples reclined upon blankets in the shade of the rolling hills that sloped up beyond the terrace walls, the occasional bird fluttered about from tree to tree, a few notes of music were carried on the breeze from a balladeer or from a boat passengers serenading on the water.

“There is so much expected of me,” he murmured. “So much I’m afraid I’ve failed at because of everything that’s happened to me. I don’t know if I can fix it, Natalie. Can I be the lord I’m meant to be in this lifetime anymore?” He pierced me with a wide, panicked stare that unsettled me. I wasn’t sure what answer he wanted out of me, and his nerves were affecting my own confidence.

“I believe,” I said, trying to keep my voice calm. This was not helped by the sight of my father. He stood far beyond on the terrace balcony and looked away when I looked up. “That you, Jonathon Whitby, can do and be anything you wish.”

“All that’s been taken from me, Natalie. It’s maddening. Every day the anger and injustice of what’s been done builds. I’ve had no resolution. No justice. I don’t want to be driven by revenge.” He looked up at the beautiful surroundings, and I kept hoping he would take comfort in them as I did, but he looked back into the water again, and I could see the expression of his reflection darken. “I hate when hate consumes me... That’s not who I want to be.”

These were hardly the words of affection, promises, or question I was hoping he’d ask.

“No, hateful isn’t who you are,” I said, trying to be soothing. I understood his pain, his loss, never allowed to grieve his parents, his estate, all that had been stolen for no comprehensible reason. But I couldn’t change what had been done to him. “Look around you, at this beautiful space, none of what happened to you matters here—”