Ticker (26 page)

“She’s gone to adjust the main generators.”

“I think I owe her an apology.” My vision remained blurry about the edges, diffusing the light from the gas globes into soft, golden clouds. Though I tried to blink it away, doing so only produced a curious moving-picture effect. “I spoke with Dimitria. Beyond the veil. Which looked curiously like my dining room.”

“You spoke with your sister?” Marcus adjusted his grip upon me.

“Yes. You and Mama were right. It
is
possible.” Turning my head toward him, I nuzzled my face against his jacket. “Did you get any other information we can use?”

He cleared his throat before answering. “Nothing of further use, no. It was a success that we even got her to speak, but it’s going to take more research and fine-tuning of the equipment to make it function the way we’d like.”

“My mother will be able to fix it.”

“I know she will.”

“You can put me down,” I protested, realizing I must be considerably heavier than Cora.

“No need, we’re almost there.”

“I really do feel better.” More than that, actually. With the fog in my brain dissipating, I felt empowered.

He kicked open the door to his office and set me in the chair before the fire. “Can I get you some brandy? Or tea, maybe?”

“Tea, please.”

Moving behind his desk, Marcus barked an order into the intercom. That done, he rubbed a hand over the stubble on his chin. “I nearly forgot in all the excitement, but we need to locate Cora’s next of kin. I’ll have someone at the Bibliothèca messenger up the necessary records.”

I stared into the flames, seeing the stuff of a child’s nightmares dancing across the embers. “What do you suppose it’s going to be like for her, growing up knowing that she would have died if her mother hadn’t hidden her?”

Marcus shifted a stack of papers to the side, looking through the intelligence reports that had piled up since his last debriefing. “It’s going to be easier if we can tell her that Warwick is back in prison and shackled within an inch of his life.”

“I wish you could have known him . . . before. He was a different man then. A good man.” Unable to sit still, I strode about the room until I found myself staring up at the maps and plans pinned to the wall.

“We’ve all had terrible things happen to us,” Marcus said without looking up. “Only the weak use it as an excuse to prey upon others.”

I didn’t argue with him. Instead, I studied a blueprint of the courthouse that was marked where incendiary devices were found and rooms were reduced to rubble. I untacked the diagram and moved back to his desk. “So let’s show our strength. We need to organize a ceremony at the courthouse, dedicating the areas that will be rebuilt and celebrating the restoration of justice. Something we can broadcast into all the homes in Industria. Something Warwick won’t be able to resist attending.”

Marcus’s frown doubled when I swept some of his files aside to make room for the map, and not just because I was making a mess of his workspace.

“You can’t possibly think a gathering of any size is a good idea,” he said. “There’s a madman on the loose.”

“And this will be an excellent opportunity to lure him in,” I said, weighing down the four corners with his letter opener, an ink pot, a single-stroke staple press, and my hand.

“There are other ways of catching him.”

“Not ones that have as high a chance of succeeding.”

Marcus tamped down his visible frustration before trying again. “I understand your enthusiasm, but I know you a bit better than I did a few days ago, Penelope Farthing, and you’ll want to be right in the thick of it, won’t you? Fainting spells and assassination attempts on your person be damned?”

“I won’t sit here fussing and fretting while your soldiers do all the dirty work, if that’s what you mean.” The next words gushed out of me like blood from a wound. “Warwick has already gotten to Sebastian, to Nic, to my parents. Who’s next? Violet or Cora? You? We have to stop this now.”

Marcus studied me for a long moment, his gaze tracking over my face. “Can’t you spare a bit of care for yourself?”

“I think you already know the answer to that,” I said.

“Yes, but hope is an ever-blooming flower.” He turned, crossed to the drinks cabinet, and poured out two generous tumblers. Returning to the desk, he offered one to me. “To your good health, Tesseraria. May it endure past noon tomorrow.”

“And to yours, Legatus.” I clinked my glass against his, then emptied it. False warmth snaked through my veins and lent me a desperately needed air of bravado.

“I have to get in touch with the chancellor.” Marcus set his cup down on the blotter, leaving a wet ring on the paper.

I pored over the diagram of the courthouse, noting the entrances and exits, the major streets and small alleys that surrounded it. “If he gives us the go-ahead, we can’t let ordinary citizens anywhere near the site.”

“All the deployments I recalled from Bhaskara and Aígyptos will be here by the morning.” Following me step for imagined step, Marcus pieced together a potential battle plan. “If we go through with this insanity, and that’s a very big if, every person on site will be plainclothes military.” He pointed to the area at the top of the exterior staircase. “We’ll lock down this central area here and put explosive-sniffing dogs at these four locations.”

I continued to study the diagram, wanting to know it as well as he already did. “No matter our preparations, Warwick will be three steps ahead of us.”

In the absence of the tea that he’d ordered, Marcus poured out another measure of brandy. “I’ll have my incendiary crew mix up personal powder-flashes. Everyone will carry at least two of them.”

“Everyone, Legatus?” I slanted a look at him.

“Yes. They’re fairly simple to operate. Light the fuse and throw it at the enemy.” After a pause, he added, “
Away
from you.”

I would have been insulted, save the fact that his mouth was twitching with inappropriate amusement. “I’m glad you felt compelled to specify that. Light it. Throw it. Then what?”

His smile disappeared. “Then, you run.”

“If you think I’m leaving you to the mercy of Warwick’s mercenaries, you can just think again—”

“You’ll light the powder-flashes, throw them, and run like your shoes are on fire.” He put his arms around my waist and drew me against his chest. The soft tribute that followed was no more than the brush of a Butterfly’s wing against my mouth.

If my Ticker were going to stop forever, I almost wished it would be now, in this quiet moment, the two of us together. But it beat on, knowing we had yet more work to do.

“I don’t like this worse-case-scenario thing,” I whispered, my arms slipping up to encircle his neck. “It feels very ominous.”

“An ounce of prevention,” Marcus said as he bent to kiss me again.

“And large quantities of black powder,” I finished the old saying for him just before his lips met mine.

TWELVE

In Which Our Heroine Hits the Ground Running

It took a significant amount of scrubbing and soap, but I got the brown dye out of my hair by the appointed hour the next morning. With help, grander plans for my appearance at the Dedication Ceremony unfolded as rapidly as an opera fan in a socialite’s practiced hand.

Once upon a time, I might have preened a bit.

Once upon a time seemed like a very long time ago.

Assuming the most professional manner possible, I rapped twice at the door of Marcus’s office. His “Come in” might have sounded distracted, but as I entered, I knew I commanded the whole of his attention.

“Legatus.” I paused to enjoy the moment.

“That,” he said with careful consideration, “is some heavy artillery.”

“Philomena sent out for it.” I turned to afford him a better view of the gargantuan bustle and train of coquelicot-colored silk brocade. The crimson skirts were particularly appropriate to my
role as a red herring, soon to be crisscrossing the hunting trails to draw the hounds to me. “I must tell you, this ensemble borders on cumbersome.”

Marcus let an appraising gaze drift over the gold embroidery on every pouf, puff, and pleat. Heavy Aígyptian-style bangles clinked against my iron bracelets. “You look like a dragon going in for the kill.”

I glided forward, accompanied by the gentle sway of the colossal wire hoops supporting the weight of my skirts. They also concealed a pair of highly practical trousers. “Stop teasing and tell me what you really think.”

“I think it’s a good thing I commissioned a hat worthy of such a dress,” he said, producing a box stamped “Exemplar Millinery” in gold lettering. “If you’re wearing this, I’ll be able to spot you in the crowd.”

The item he withdrew from the tissue paper elicited a gasp, which was all I could manage with my tight lacing. “That, sir, is no more a hat than you are a footman.”

He held it just out of my reach. “Does that mean you approve?”

“That means your taste is both extravagant and ridiculous, and I commend you for it.” Grasping my prize, I went to the nearest mirror, eager to perch it atop my ginger ringlets. The brim dipped low over my forehead, a bloodred rose blooming just at the center. On the left side, a diamanté chrysanthemum anchored a cockade of cream-and-black-striped pheasant plumage. It was, perhaps, the most expensive thing I’d ever worn, and I was only half joking when I said, “This almost makes endangering my life worthwhile.”

He handed me a diminutive umbrella. “The finishing touch, Tesseraria.”

“I won’t be able to raise it over the hat,” I protested. “It would hardly help in a downpour, anyway.”

“Allow me to demonstrate its practicality.” Marcus held out his hand, and I returned the precious bumbershoot with my eyebrows already raised. When he depressed two flanges and pulled the curved ebony handle, a short sword emerged. “Are you suitably impressed now?”

“Perhaps just the slightest bit.” I took back the weapon and demonstrated that I could extract it without injuring myself. “I think I can do some damage with this.”

“With luck, you won’t have to. You’re going up in the SkyBox.”

Held aloft by eight Montgolfière balloons, the air gondola was luxuriously appointed, fully staffed, and used for occasions of state as well as the annual Eight Bells Steeplechase. It also meant that I was going to be far from the action.

“So I’m dressed within an inch of my life only to be wholly useless?”

“Not necessarily.” Marcus completed my arsenal by handing me two powder-flashes. I tucked them into my reticule as he slid two MAGs into their holsters and reached for his uniform cap. “But even you cannot argue with a thousand feet between your boots and the ground, Tesseraria.”

The parasol became an immediate weather vane of my mood. Walking out to the landing platform, I lifted it up to jauntily ride my shoulder, hoping to charm Marcus into changing his mind about my priority seating arrangement. When he wouldn’t hear a word of my argument, I let the parasol droop. By the time we arrived at the Bazalgate airfield, I employed it as a machete with which to chop at the hedge.

Part of my unease could be traced back to Violet. Still conducting a citywide manhunt for Sebastian, she’d taken a secondary unit of guards to investigate his properties. The search proved fruitless as yet, but she promised to apprise us of her progress and her
continued safety. Except now she was three minutes late checking in, and I was ready to send the cavalry after her.

Our surroundings didn’t exactly promote tranquility of the mind, either. Despite the fact that crews worked around the clock to clear the main square, heaps of rubble still decorated the perimeter. Half the columns spanning the front of the courthouse had crumpled in the explosion, taking the portico with them. They had carted the worst of the damage away, but the memories of the eleven dead lingered, and it was easy to imagine their blood decorating the stones. Uniformed officers milled about the grounds. Explosives-sniffing hounds searched Combustibles, carts, and conveyances. Dressed in a realistic variety of aristocratic satins and workaday cottons, the soldiers gathered on the stairs could easily be mistaken for Bazalgate civilians.

“This is ludicrous,” I told Marcus. “I should stay with you.”

“You’re too easy a target on the ground, Penny. I won’t risk it. Not after what happened to Nic.” He signaled to an approaching motorcar, waving it into the restricted area.

Philomena descended from the vehicle, decidedly out of uniform in a butter-yellow frock. At least a dozen amber beaded necklaces dangled about her neck, and a heavily fringed cape striped in honey and black fluttered over her shoulders. Rather than a hat, she’d chosen to wear her countless braids twisted about her head. The enormous knot at the back was fixed with mechanical Bumblebees kept on short gold chains.

“Perfect,” Marcus said. “There will be no overlooking either of you.”

“That was precisely the idea, wasn’t it?” With the brightness of my own dress doubled against the yellow of Philomena’s attire, I suddenly felt very conspicuous, which was discomfiting for a girl who didn’t give a second thought to ripping about Bazalgate on
a motorized cycle. “Thank you for the escort, Legatus. We’ll see ourselves in.”