Isabella Rockwell's War (20 page)

As she put a
foot on each stair, it creaked, and then creaked again when she
took her feet off. The skin on the back of her neck pricked, but
when she looked behind her, there was nothing there, just shadows,
which seemed to move in the bright light of the moon. She waited,
but all was still. Not even the watchman was calling the hour,
probably asleep.

A guard sat,
dozing on the chair outside the Blue Salon, but he did not wake as
she passed. She left the door ajar. The room lay silent in front of
her, robed in shades of midnight blue and grey.

She opened her
satchel, placed it on the sofa, and lifted the little picture down.
Carefully she replaced it with one she’d taken from her room, one
of a similar colour and size. Then she got out her old jacket in
which she could wrap the picture. The painting was in her bag, in a
trice. It was as she lifted the bag’s strap to lie across her
shoulder that she caught the faintest scent of chocolate; and an
iron grip closed on her nose and mouth. Something was thrust into
her mouth. Before she had time to breathe, or spit, or fight, her
mouth was flooded with a bitter liquid, some of which went down her
throat before the iron grip was released. The pain in her head was
something she’d never experienced before, as if someone had put her
head in a tiger trap and then released the spring, and her knees
gave way.

The carpet of
the Blue Salon pressed into her cheek, she moved her head to bring
the room into focus, but it was impossible. Her eyesight seemed to
wander in and out, like a cat between someone’s legs. What had
happened to her? Her limbs were leaden, she couldn’t feel them and
she certainly couldn’t move them. A high, tight taste of metal was
in her mouth and up her nose. She felt herself gasp for breath.

She must not
panic, she must not lose her head. Fright was muddling her.

What was it
her father had always said to her? She thought of when she’d been
cornered by a cobra in the bathhouse. She could see her father’s
face, white but calm, at the open window:

“Breathe,
Isabella, breathe…! Don’t let fear get the better of you. If you
move he will strike. Focus on me! We can do this….” And focusing on
his face she’d found a way out of her panic and remained still, the
cobra had passed her by and she had survived. She summoned up his
face now.

Was she dying?
It certainly felt like it. The tightness of her limbs was creeping
upwards and now her hips felt stiff and her shoulders. Soon the
muscles, which controlled her breathing would be affected. Her
father’s satchel lay on its side on the floor next to her head,
Abhaya’s pouch hanging out of it, half unravelled.

Abhaya’s
voice:

“
The
Calabar Bean, beautiful, but deadly. Don’t push your nose in it
like that, even though it smells of chocolate.”
Abhaya had
swatted the top of her head, one quiet afternoon during the
rains
. “It induces paralysis. The only cure is to chew Deadly
Nightshade, but again, only the tiniest amount otherwise the
Nightshade will kill you too. Always remember, a powerful poison
will always need a powerful antidote.”

In one breath,
calling on Abhaya, Isabella rolled her head towards the pouch and
grabbed it with her teeth, shaking it so as many of the little
leaves, pods and seeds fell onto the moonlit carpet next to her.
Which one, which one? Lemon verbena white as a bride, Hemlock with
leaves as black as Deadly Nightshade’s but with a grey line around
the outside, Mulberry, a midnight purple but smelling strongly of
blackcurrant.

Where were
they?

Her poor
twisting vision moved this way and that, until she stopped trying
and closed her eyes.

She would try
one more time.

She could feel
her eyelids getting heavy. Wait, pause, conserve your strength.

With one last
effort she opened them.

The Deadly
Nightshade leaves lay tiny and heart-shaped with serrated edges,
their black so deep, it made every other colour look insipid. The
leaf that had brought about the downfall of kings lay on its back,
right next to her head.

How could she
not have seen them?

She turned her
head and licked up two of them. Their bitterness stuck to her
bone-dry tongue, but she forced them down into her stiffening
stomach. Waves of sickness swept over her, but her body hadn’t the
strength to bring them back up. A clock struck four and then played
a tiny tune from the music box beneath it. The song was beautiful
and it tinkled over her like a sparkling stream, whilst she lay on
the ground and waited to see if she lived or died.

Despite her
fear, anger hardened inside Isabella. She mustn’t die now, not like
her father so far away from home. The faces of Abhaya and her
father flashed before her and Bumblebee and all the men of her
father’s regiment and lastly Midge, Zachariah and Ruby. Isabella
smiled.

As she did so,
she saw her left little finger start to move.

It took two
hours for her to fully regain the power of her limbs and it was as
if, as she healed, her feelings about Alix became clear and
solidified. The thought of leaving Alix was no longer an option.
Isabella was now sure she was in great danger. The painting would
have to wait.

Finally she
could push herself into a sitting position. She gathered the
scattered herbs and packed her father’s satchel. The door was no
longer ajar, but closed. Who ever had poisoned her, had closed it
behind them. As she tiptoed through it, the guard shot to his feet,
muttering sleepily, “Your Majesty,” as she passed him.

Who else that
night, had thought she was the princess?

The great
doorway to the courtyard overlooking Hyde Park stood in front of
her. Outside she could see eight guards in bearskins. Though it was
still dark, the morning star glittered on the horizon to the east
and she could hear the rumble of carts from far away on Kensington
Gore. Life seemed suddenly cut from crystal, clear and lovely as
the dawn.

A carriage
pulled into view and the guards stood to attention. Isabella pushed
herself in behind two suits of armour and watched as the Russian
Ambassador and Hassan Al Hassan crossed the hallway to be greeted
by John Conroy, who ushered them into his study. It wasn’t the
oddness of their arrival at five o’clock in the morning which took
Isabella by surprise. No. It was the four grooves, red and deep, on
Hassan’s cheek which had not been there that afternoon.

Grooves, which
looked as if they could only have been made by fingernails.

As the study
door closed, Isabella tiptoed to the staircase and made her way to
Alix’s room. She nodded at the guard and entered. After checking
Alix slept safely, Isabella locked the door from the inside, and
lay down on the sofa in Alix’s living room. Too tired to think, and
shock having left her limp, she needed to sleep. Answers would be
sure to present themselves in the morning.

“Wake-up
sleepy head!” Alix sat on the edge of the sofa. “Ughh, you look
dreadful. Are you ill?”

Isabella sat
up, feeling as if she’d been run over by a carriage.

“Umm not
feeling brilliant, no. I’ll feel better later though, I’m
sure.”

Alix felt her
forehead.

“Don’t you
dare get sick for the ball. I know you’d do anything to get out of
it, and I’m not going without you.”

There was a
knock. “Come in.”

The door
handle rattled. “I can’t open it!” came Bea’s voice from
outside.

Isabella got
to her feet and unlocked the door. “Bea, sorry. I must have locked
it out of habit last night. I think I was doing a bit of
sleepwalking.”

“Ooh Miss,
don’t do that, that’s spooky that is. There’s people that says
you’re possessed when you do that.” She dropped a curtsey to Alix
and placed her breakfast tray on the little round table in the
window, then she left.

“Come and have
something to eat.”

Isabella sat
down opposite Alix. Would her breakfast be poisoned? Surely not?
The murderer wouldn’t have been planning on the princess still
being alive this morning, would they?

Isabella drank
some juice. Alix’s face took on a serious look as she reached into
the pocket of her dressing gown.

“I’ve got
something for you.” She brought out a little piece of yellowing
paper, folded over and wrapped with a fraying white ribbon. It was
addressed to Isabella in a fine spidery hand.

Alix looked a
little nervous. “I had Mr Barker visit India House. I’d hoped there
might be news of your father, but there wasn’t. There was this,
however. Mr Barker persuaded them to give it to him. Well, go on,
open it.” The paper was a heavy vellum, such as the ones the
travelling writers used when villagers would pay them a rupee to
write a legal letter, or a love letter, or a letter to a beloved
child who had settled far away, one that wouldn’t fall apart as it
travelled along dusty roads, up mountains and down streams. As she
opened it she smelt heat and dust.

It was from
Abhaya.

“
Dearest
Isabella-Bai

It is my
dearest hope you will come to read this in time, for that will mean
that you live. You have been missing for three weeks and though
others believe you dead, I do not agree, for I should surely feel
it if you were. I understand why you have left and I hope, in some
small way, you may have had success in the venture you have
undertaken. I wanted you to know, and I sincerely hope this letter
finds you so you will know, how much I love you and how much
happiness you brought to my life. I do not want you to feel guilt,
which you may, if you survive and I do not. Our paths are laid
before our feet even as we are born and death must come to us all.
It is this, which is sometimes our greatest sadness, but should yet
be our greatest happiness for it means we will all eventually meet
again. I will look forward to meeting you very much, once more, my
Isabella-Bai. Become the person you were born to be, and cause no
hurt or harm to any living thing. You will have a fine future.

Your Mama-gi,
Abhaya Singh.

Tears ran down
Isabella’s nose and dropped onto the paper and her head dropped.
Alix’s arm snaked gently around her shoulders and Isabella found
herself crying herself out against the softness of Alix’s dressing
gown.

“She must have
written it whilst she was waiting for me….”

“What a lovely
thing for her to have done,” said Alix in a gentle voice. “It’s as
if she knew how you would feel, if you ever found out she had died.
She knew you well. How lovely to have had that.”

Isabella
thought of Abhaya and her father and the relationship she’d had
with them. She might have lost them both, but at least they’d loved
her. Alix hadn’t ever had that luxury… and now someone was trying
to kill her, she was sure of it. She wiped her nose with her sleeve
and walked over to the mirror. Her eyes were red and swollen, her
lips bruised, but she suddenly looked older than her twelve years,
as if she now had one foot in adulthood and only one in childhood
and there could be no going back.

She hugged
Alix.

“You are
right. I was very lucky.”

A weak ray of
sun came in between the curtains. “Thank you so much. I cannot tell
you how much it means to me.”

Alix smiled.
“You don’t need to thank me. It’s the least I could do. Now, I must
dress.”

“What? For the
ball already?” Isabella looked horrified.

Alix laughed.
“Oh no, not yet, it’s a bit early even for me. No, I said to Mrs
Jolyon we could take a walk around the grounds after breakfast, if
it were still fine. I want to say goodbye to the place, as I have
no intention of returning.”

Isabella
nodded, determined not to let Alix out of her sight for long.

“I’ll dress
and come with you.”

A few minutes
later she was knocking on John Conroy’s study door. As much as she
didn’t want to, she felt it was right to tell someone about her
suspicions. She couldn’t tell of what happened to her last night,
otherwise it would mean owning up to theft, but she felt if she
told John Conroy, he might be of some help. After all it was in his
interest to keep the princess alive.

“Come in,”
John Conroy’s round face was tired as he looked up from his desk.
“Yes?” His face fell. “Oh, it’s you. I thought you were to leave
this morning. Why are you still here? It’s money I suppose… how
much do you want?” He rooted in his waistcoat pocket as Isabella
approached the desk. How typical of him to judge everyone by his
own standards.

“The princess
is in danger.”

John Conroy
pushed a hand through what was left of his hair.

“We’ve been
through all of this Isabella. Her majesty has had two unfortunate
accidents close together. Nothing more. You would do far better
giving her some reassurance, rather than planting ideas in her head
which make her go running off to her uncle’s, when her place is
here with her mother.”

“But her
mother doesn’t love her. Why should she care?”

“That is none
of your concern.”

“No, it’s not,
but I am telling you now, she is in grave danger…”

“You have
proof then do you?” he said coldly.

“Um, no…no I
don’t,” she finished, realizing how lame this sounded, even to her
own ears. John Conroy slammed his hand on the desk and there was
the tinkle of glass as something fell and broke.

“I’ve had more
than enough of you, Isabella. You may have the princess’s
protection, but if you don’t get out of my sight now, I may do
something I regret.”

Isabella
regarded him for a moment. What a fool she’d been to think he would
take her seriously. The responsibility for Alix was going to be
hers and hers alone. The familiar smell of chocolate came through
the air, warm and distant. Her gaze fell on the marble floor behind
John Conroy’s desk. A tiny silver stopper spun slowly and a clear
liquid pooled amongst tiny shards of glass.