Original: "Trafalgar & Boone, The Tale of the Ghost Club," Part 1
Sort of a sneak-peek at the next installment before it goes up on AO3. This story was inspired by a real-life person who I thought would be an ideal tool to show the alternative-ness of this world. In Trafalgar and Boone's London, magic is real and widely acknowledged as such. It made me wonder about who might have changed the most with this new factoid, and I thought of someone whose life would have taken a much different path if magic was indeed confirmed and run-of-the-mill. So I decided to frame a story around him. And yes, poor Lady Boone once again winds up tied up. If this was a comic book, someone might accuse me of having a bondage fetish (for the record, no... not even a little bit. But I do like getting them OUT of the ropes, it seems).
Summary: Miss Trafalgar and Lady Boone are caught between two fires when a maniac determined to discredit spiritualists attacks a gathering of London's infamous Ghost Club.
The Tale of the Ghost Club
by Geonn Cannon
http://www.geonncannon.com
Copyright © 2013 Geonn Cannon
AO3
1922
Philadelphia
“You’re making a damned fool of yourself.”
“Well it is mine own self to do with as I please, and I happen to enjoy fools.”
The man misplaced his step and stumbled, saved from plummeting into the mud only by the sure grip of his compatriot. The two gentlemen wobbled against each other as if conspiring against the rotation of the world. The less-drunk man steadied his friend and resumed their forward momentum through sheer force of will. He knew that, if not for his friend, he would have required assistance of his own. But needs must when the devil drives, and right now Ehrich needed him. Ehrich, the human punching bag, the man who never met a fist his face didn’t like, was not only drunk but beaten and abused, oxygen-deprived, and woozy from exertion. His clothes were rucked up and tangled about his thin frame as if he’d put them on backwards and tried to pull them around to the right position. His hair stuck out on either side of his head like ram’s horns, the salt-and-pepper color only adding to the illusion.
“You must stop this foolishness,” Hugo said as he steered his wayward companion back onto the straight path. “One day you will find someone who does not understand mercy and they will not be as forgiving as those men we just left.”
Ehrich sputtered and spit, rising as if to a challenge before he swooned and gripped Hugo’s lapel to keep from toppling over backward. “Trickery and, ahm, um. Trickery and the other thing! Poppycock and shenanigans.” He barked a laugh and swooned, forcing Hugo to catch him. “There is a trick. A trick to the trick, and I shall have it. Mark my words, friend Hugo, I will enlighten this world beyond mere superstitions and I will prove wrong those who quake when the moon vanishes from the sky.”
Hugo rolled his eyes. “People no longer cower in their beds when there’s an eclipse, Ehrie. Magic is real. Your skepticism is ludicrous when you’ve seen evidence with your own eyes time and again!” He stepped in front of Ehrich and patted him on the chest with both hands. “Look at yourself, man. Look at the state you’re in. These so-called challenges are only against yourself. Your opponents laugh at you, and they easily best you. You’re a joke.”
“Everyone is fooled,” Ehrich said, suddenly melancholy. He looked out across the street, lower lip jutting out. “Belief is so strong, so vital, and everyone believes so strongly that the illusion is gaining a hold on reality.”
“Then doesn’t that make the illusion reality?”
“No. No! There was a time when magic was feared, as it should be. Mankind should not have the power of the gods. It is unnatural. I will shake the foundations of their beliefs and I will save this country. I swear it. I swear by... all that is...” He hicced, and then rocked his entire upper body forward to purge into the gutter.
Hugo grimaced and held his hands out to either side, speaking in the bold oration of a ringmaster. “Behold, ladies and gentlemen, the wonderful Harry Handcuff Houdini! Beaten and humiliated, effusing the night’s excess in the gutter. You are a mess. You wish to return America to glory when you should be focusing on your own. Forget the world, my friend. You should focus on your own renaissance.” He buttoned his jacket and, refusing to further associate with his mess of an acquaintance, he turned on his heel and stormed away.
London
Burlap, hemp, and water. Dorothy Boone absolutely refused to be done in by such mundane items, even if they were combined in a treacherous manner. She was upside down - at least she thought she was - with her arms crossed over her chest. The wrists were bound by a rope, the same rope that looped her neck and trailed down the middle of her back and then circled her ankles. Two more ropes were coiled around her midsection to restrict the movement of her arms. The burlap sack in which she was imprisoned quickly filled up with water from the river, and she managed to grab one final breath of air before it covered her head. Fortunately the water wasn’t very deep, and her shoulder sank into the soft sediment of the river bed after only a few seconds of sinking.
She tugged and twisted against the bindings, careful not to tighten the rope around her neck as she struggled to free her hands. She had often tested her lung capacity, timed the length she could go without breathing by submerging herself in the tub and only surfacing when absolutely necessary. A few years ago she had discovered the difference between practice and real-world applications were vast. The stopwatch in her head clicked ever onward as she struggled to see the ropes around her wrists through the murky, dirty water. She remained still, closed her eyes, and thought carefully through her options before she acted. Panicking might have seemed like a quicker way out of her predicament, but it would only exhaust her faster and she risked getting further tangled. She needed a rational plan.
When she was being tied up, she had arched her back and taken a deep breath to give herself a bit of wiggle room. She drew her arms close to her chest and used the loose sand underneath the bag to get leverage. She straightened out and then raised her legs as she pushed her upper body forward. She hooked her fingers in the ropes around her ankles and held the position even though it forced a glissando of bubbles to be squeezed out of her lungs. The air escaped past her face, obscuring her vision for a moment as she untied her shoes and pushed them off, grateful she hadn’t worn her boots to the meeting.
Her feet were now small enough to slip out of the ropes and she did so, giving her arms a bit of leeway. She used her toes to push through the sealed end of the bag, squirming out like a whale being born, pushing her hips and shoulders through the opening until she emerged in open water. A body was floating nearby, one of the men who had bound her, and she kicked her way over to him. He was unconscious so he didn’t put up a fight as she patted him down with hands that were fastened to her chest like mutated fins. She found a knife, carefully inverted the blade, and sawed through the hemp until her arms fell free.
Another man broke the surface of the water, this one’s head shrouded in ribbons of blood that quickly dissipated as he descended. Dorothy freed herself of the loose coils and propelled herself up, breaking the surface and bobbing like a cork as she tried to assess the situation on solid ground. The tails of Trafalgar’s black duster flipped up to reveal the red lining as she spun to avoid a blow from one of the smugglers. He was thrown off-balance by the miss and, as he was recovering, Trafalgar planted her foot on the side of a container and brought her staff down on the head of his cohort.
Dorothy swam to the edge and pushed herself up, her waterlogged clothing forming a waterfall in her wake as she surged forward. Her tunic hung from one shoulder and her trousers felt like they were about to fall down, but she’d fought in far less clothing and it hadn’t hindered her. The stumblebum was coming back for another attack, this time aiming for the back of Trafalgar’s head. Dorothy grabbed his club when he brought it back for the blow, and she pulled as he tried to follow through. He looked back to see what it had been caught on, and Dorothy punched him in the face as she relieved him of the weapon.
Trafalgar looked back to see the cause of the disturbance once she had disposed of her opponent. When she saw Boone had rejoined her, she nodded a greeting and slipped out of her coat. “I trust you had a relaxing swim?”
Dorothy slipped her arms into the sleeves of the offered coat. “I find it often helps to splash some water on my face in the middle of a fight. Quite refreshing, in fact.”
“I’ll keep that in mind. Baert fled in that direction. If we hurry we still have a chance to catch him before he gets away.”
“Pursue. I will take an alternate tactic.”
Trafalgar raised one curious eyebrow but said nothing before she ran off. Dorothy had seen where Baert’s carriage was parked, and she knew that he had only one route of escape from the dock. No matter what evasive maneuvers he utilized to escape, he would have to end up there at some point. She had kept alert when they drove to the meeting and she had a fair idea of its layout. She ran parallel to the quayside and used the crates as stairs to elevate herself enough that she could make a leap for the catwalk. The metal grids arranged for dock workers to service ships and assist the cranes in unloading cargo, but they also formed a network of spider webs above the labyrinth of passageways.
She ran to the center, took a side path, and pounded barefoot toward the far side of the building. Trafalgar’s coat billowed out behind her like a cape, and the grid hurt her bare feet, but she didn’t have time to concern herself with the pain. The catwalk cut to the left, then quickly again to the right. Before long she saw smooth black roof of Baert’s car as it took a sharp corner with a protesting squeak from its tires. Dorothy had a straight path to the exit whereas her opponent was winding through lanes barely big enough to accommodate him. When she was close enough to risk slowing down, Dorothy poised herself on the edge of the catwalk and waited.
The car sped by beneath her and she leapt. She landed with a heavy thud, her weight denting the metal, and her left foot slid down over the glass of the back window. She hooked her fingers on the edge of the roof and slid to one side, reached down, and hooked her fingers under the door handle. She flung the door open, forced to push it open as the car’s forward momentum continually tried closing it on her as she snaked her way inside.
She dropped onto the back seat, forcing Baert to retreat so that she wasn’t in his lap. The bodyguard in the backward-facing seat reached for her, but Dorothy stuck her foot in the middle of his chest and kicked him back. She pulled a pistol from the pocket of Trafalgar’s coat and aimed it at the bodyguard so he wouldn’t make a second lunge, then looked at the man who had ordered her to be drowned like a sack of unwanted kittens.
“Now Mr. Baert,” she said sweetly. “I believe you and I were in the middle of a negotiation.”
#
They allowed Baert to leave with his dignity intact and all of his extremities still attached, although Dorothy was of two minds about that, once they had come to an agreement. They paid a fraction of their agreed-upon price, taking a percentage off for the inconvenience of attempted murder. He limped away with his remaining crew, although the two men Trafalgar had disposed of in the river were beyond rescue. Baert was understandably perturbed by the development but seeing as he had started the shooting, he couldn’t very well blame the women for the outcome.
Dorothy was just grateful to have the entire mess behind them. They had arranged for Mr. Baert to bring a package to London aboard one of his cargo ships, since their ordinary methods of smuggling wouldn’t work for this particular item. Baert had a reputation for being an untrustworthy halfwit with more brawn than brains, but she’d been against the wall. He agreed to transport the item but broke the contractual stipend that neither he nor any of his crew would open the box to see what was inside.
To his men, it was a golden statue with accents of jade, emerald, ruby, and sapphire. Even if they were unable to fence it as-is, since they assumed it was stolen even before they cheated Dorothy out of the item, they could remove the gems and melt the gold down until it was untraceable. It wouldn’t have taken long before they discovered the idol’s true purpose was protection. It became bound for life to the first person to hold it, who then became the idol’s “focus”. Once the bond was formed it was nigh impossible to break, and those around the focus were driven to homicidal lengths to protect him from coming to harm. Many a warlord and prince had been forced to witness bloody rampages by his closest confidants who lashed out with sword and pistol at the slightest provocation.
Trafalgar confirmed the idol was in the crate, then loaded it into the back of the car. Dorothy started to return her coat, but Trafalgar refused it with a wave of her hand.
“Wait until we’re home and you can change into something clean and unsullied by the river.”
“I appreciate it. I may owe you a clean lining when all is said and done.”
She got into the front seat of the car while Trafalgar settled in the back. They drove through the quiet streets of London, back to the townhouse where Dorothy pulled around to the back of the house. They had recently had the ground floor of the adjacent house altered into a garage, and she stowed the car there. Trafalgar took the crate housing the idol out of the trunk and carried it into the main house.
Dorothy gestured at the crate. “Leave that near the stairs. I’ll deal with it properly before I bed.”
“As you wish. Shall I fix you some tea? It wouldn’t do if you caught ill from your submersion.”
“Very kind. Thank you.” She folded the borrowed coat, draped it over a chair, and went upstairs to her chambers so she could get out of her soaked clothing. She went into her private bathroom and washed the silt and salt out of her hair, combing it carefully into plaits. It could have done with a complete washing but she was quite too exhausted to bother. Perhaps in the morning she would take care of that, but for the moment she was satisfied. She washed her hands and face, grimacing at the grit that was sluiced away, and rubbed a bit of moisturizer into her skin.
It was late enough that she passed on choosing another outfit and simply changed into her nightclothes. She put on a robe so Trafalgar wouldn’t feel scandalized, then finally acknowledged the elephant in the room. Or rather the still and silent woman lying in her bed, draped on either side by the curtains of the four-poster frame. Dorothy drew back the curtain and sat on the edge of the mattress to check Beatrice’s condition.
She was dressed in a collarless white blouse, the buttons done all the way up, and her black hair was fanned out on the pillow like the wings of a fallen crow. Her eyes occasionally moved behind the lids as if she was dreaming, but so far she’d shown no signs of waking. Dorothy smoothed the hair away from Beatrice’s forehead. For the past five years, Trix had been her sidekick, her partner, her majordomo, and her protector. It was this last title that caused her current predicament, and not a day went by that she wasn’t reminded of her culpability.
“I hope you’re resting well, Trix. You’ve certainly earned it these past few years. Our lives have been hectic to say the least. If anyone deserves a lie-in...” She struggled to keep her tone jovial. “I do miss you. So whenever you’re ready to get back to work, I’m certain Trafalgar will relinquish the position and you may resume your duties. Not that she’s doing a poor job, far from it. She’s quite adept when it comes to fisticuffs. Her cooking is... coming along, slowly but surely.”
Beatrice’s hand was resting on top of the blankets, folded on her stomach in a casual pose that managed to not convey a funereal pose. Dorothy reached over and took one of them. The fingers were cold, so she held it until the flesh became warm. She knew it was only cold because the furnace hadn’t been stoked. Anyone would have been cold in this room. It meant nothing, and yet she brought the hand to her lips and blew across the fingertips until they felt less like ice.
“Nurse Adeline tells me you squeezed her hand the other day. Of course I know it could have just been a twitch or a spasm, yet... if you would be willing to reassure me with just a little squeeze. I would be satisfied with anything. Just a quick pressure.” She brushed her thumb over Beatrice’s skin, watching her face for signs of wakefulness as she had every night over the past few weeks. It was hard to believe she’d been so long without hearing Beatrice’s voice. Although even when she was conscious she hardly spoke three words per day. She chuckled and then pecked Beatrice’s cheek. “Well, perhaps tomorrow. I’ll leave you to your sleep. Goodnight, Trix.”
She got out of bed, replaced the curtain, and went downstairs. Trafalgar had taken off her vest and her weapon belt, dressed as casually as she ever got in a linen shirt under a black doublet with gold buttons running down the center. She was standing at the stove with the teapot, and Dorothy slid onto the padded bench of the breakfast nook.
“How is she faring?”
“Still much the same.”
“She is strong. The human mind has limits, and she reached hers in a fairly violent manner. It will take some time for her to process what happened to her.”
Dorothy nodded and then accepted the teacup Trafalgar offered her. “I believe I’ll retire for the evening, unless there’s something else I can do for you.”
“No, no. Of course not. Thank you for your assistance this evening, Miss Trafalgar. Were it not for you buying me time, I’d have never been able to escape from the bag before they riddled me with bullets.”
She smiled. “Next time I will endeavor to arrive before your submersion and save you the laundry bills.”
Dorothy lifted her glass in a silent toast and took a sip as Trafalgar left the kitchen to go upstairs. She drank the tea slowly, savoring each sip and letting it overwhelm the chill the Thames had left in her bones. When she was finished she rinsed out the cup and carried the idol upstairs. She secured it along with her other artifacts, locked the door to the collection, and went to Beatrice’s room. She’d willfully surrendered her bed to Beatrice’s recovery, but she couldn’t bring herself to sleep in the same bed with her. She crawled under the blankets and propped her head up with a pair of pillows, hands folded on her stomach in unconscious mimicry of Beatrice’s position, and waited until exhaustion took her.
Summary: Miss Trafalgar and Lady Boone are caught between two fires when a maniac determined to discredit spiritualists attacks a gathering of London's infamous Ghost Club.
The Tale of the Ghost Club
by Geonn Cannon
http://www.geonncannon.com
Copyright © 2013 Geonn Cannon
AO3
1922
Philadelphia
“You’re making a damned fool of yourself.”
“Well it is mine own self to do with as I please, and I happen to enjoy fools.”
The man misplaced his step and stumbled, saved from plummeting into the mud only by the sure grip of his compatriot. The two gentlemen wobbled against each other as if conspiring against the rotation of the world. The less-drunk man steadied his friend and resumed their forward momentum through sheer force of will. He knew that, if not for his friend, he would have required assistance of his own. But needs must when the devil drives, and right now Ehrich needed him. Ehrich, the human punching bag, the man who never met a fist his face didn’t like, was not only drunk but beaten and abused, oxygen-deprived, and woozy from exertion. His clothes were rucked up and tangled about his thin frame as if he’d put them on backwards and tried to pull them around to the right position. His hair stuck out on either side of his head like ram’s horns, the salt-and-pepper color only adding to the illusion.
“You must stop this foolishness,” Hugo said as he steered his wayward companion back onto the straight path. “One day you will find someone who does not understand mercy and they will not be as forgiving as those men we just left.”
Ehrich sputtered and spit, rising as if to a challenge before he swooned and gripped Hugo’s lapel to keep from toppling over backward. “Trickery and, ahm, um. Trickery and the other thing! Poppycock and shenanigans.” He barked a laugh and swooned, forcing Hugo to catch him. “There is a trick. A trick to the trick, and I shall have it. Mark my words, friend Hugo, I will enlighten this world beyond mere superstitions and I will prove wrong those who quake when the moon vanishes from the sky.”
Hugo rolled his eyes. “People no longer cower in their beds when there’s an eclipse, Ehrie. Magic is real. Your skepticism is ludicrous when you’ve seen evidence with your own eyes time and again!” He stepped in front of Ehrich and patted him on the chest with both hands. “Look at yourself, man. Look at the state you’re in. These so-called challenges are only against yourself. Your opponents laugh at you, and they easily best you. You’re a joke.”
“Everyone is fooled,” Ehrich said, suddenly melancholy. He looked out across the street, lower lip jutting out. “Belief is so strong, so vital, and everyone believes so strongly that the illusion is gaining a hold on reality.”
“Then doesn’t that make the illusion reality?”
“No. No! There was a time when magic was feared, as it should be. Mankind should not have the power of the gods. It is unnatural. I will shake the foundations of their beliefs and I will save this country. I swear it. I swear by... all that is...” He hicced, and then rocked his entire upper body forward to purge into the gutter.
Hugo grimaced and held his hands out to either side, speaking in the bold oration of a ringmaster. “Behold, ladies and gentlemen, the wonderful Harry Handcuff Houdini! Beaten and humiliated, effusing the night’s excess in the gutter. You are a mess. You wish to return America to glory when you should be focusing on your own. Forget the world, my friend. You should focus on your own renaissance.” He buttoned his jacket and, refusing to further associate with his mess of an acquaintance, he turned on his heel and stormed away.
London
Burlap, hemp, and water. Dorothy Boone absolutely refused to be done in by such mundane items, even if they were combined in a treacherous manner. She was upside down - at least she thought she was - with her arms crossed over her chest. The wrists were bound by a rope, the same rope that looped her neck and trailed down the middle of her back and then circled her ankles. Two more ropes were coiled around her midsection to restrict the movement of her arms. The burlap sack in which she was imprisoned quickly filled up with water from the river, and she managed to grab one final breath of air before it covered her head. Fortunately the water wasn’t very deep, and her shoulder sank into the soft sediment of the river bed after only a few seconds of sinking.
She tugged and twisted against the bindings, careful not to tighten the rope around her neck as she struggled to free her hands. She had often tested her lung capacity, timed the length she could go without breathing by submerging herself in the tub and only surfacing when absolutely necessary. A few years ago she had discovered the difference between practice and real-world applications were vast. The stopwatch in her head clicked ever onward as she struggled to see the ropes around her wrists through the murky, dirty water. She remained still, closed her eyes, and thought carefully through her options before she acted. Panicking might have seemed like a quicker way out of her predicament, but it would only exhaust her faster and she risked getting further tangled. She needed a rational plan.
When she was being tied up, she had arched her back and taken a deep breath to give herself a bit of wiggle room. She drew her arms close to her chest and used the loose sand underneath the bag to get leverage. She straightened out and then raised her legs as she pushed her upper body forward. She hooked her fingers in the ropes around her ankles and held the position even though it forced a glissando of bubbles to be squeezed out of her lungs. The air escaped past her face, obscuring her vision for a moment as she untied her shoes and pushed them off, grateful she hadn’t worn her boots to the meeting.
Her feet were now small enough to slip out of the ropes and she did so, giving her arms a bit of leeway. She used her toes to push through the sealed end of the bag, squirming out like a whale being born, pushing her hips and shoulders through the opening until she emerged in open water. A body was floating nearby, one of the men who had bound her, and she kicked her way over to him. He was unconscious so he didn’t put up a fight as she patted him down with hands that were fastened to her chest like mutated fins. She found a knife, carefully inverted the blade, and sawed through the hemp until her arms fell free.
Another man broke the surface of the water, this one’s head shrouded in ribbons of blood that quickly dissipated as he descended. Dorothy freed herself of the loose coils and propelled herself up, breaking the surface and bobbing like a cork as she tried to assess the situation on solid ground. The tails of Trafalgar’s black duster flipped up to reveal the red lining as she spun to avoid a blow from one of the smugglers. He was thrown off-balance by the miss and, as he was recovering, Trafalgar planted her foot on the side of a container and brought her staff down on the head of his cohort.
Dorothy swam to the edge and pushed herself up, her waterlogged clothing forming a waterfall in her wake as she surged forward. Her tunic hung from one shoulder and her trousers felt like they were about to fall down, but she’d fought in far less clothing and it hadn’t hindered her. The stumblebum was coming back for another attack, this time aiming for the back of Trafalgar’s head. Dorothy grabbed his club when he brought it back for the blow, and she pulled as he tried to follow through. He looked back to see what it had been caught on, and Dorothy punched him in the face as she relieved him of the weapon.
Trafalgar looked back to see the cause of the disturbance once she had disposed of her opponent. When she saw Boone had rejoined her, she nodded a greeting and slipped out of her coat. “I trust you had a relaxing swim?”
Dorothy slipped her arms into the sleeves of the offered coat. “I find it often helps to splash some water on my face in the middle of a fight. Quite refreshing, in fact.”
“I’ll keep that in mind. Baert fled in that direction. If we hurry we still have a chance to catch him before he gets away.”
“Pursue. I will take an alternate tactic.”
Trafalgar raised one curious eyebrow but said nothing before she ran off. Dorothy had seen where Baert’s carriage was parked, and she knew that he had only one route of escape from the dock. No matter what evasive maneuvers he utilized to escape, he would have to end up there at some point. She had kept alert when they drove to the meeting and she had a fair idea of its layout. She ran parallel to the quayside and used the crates as stairs to elevate herself enough that she could make a leap for the catwalk. The metal grids arranged for dock workers to service ships and assist the cranes in unloading cargo, but they also formed a network of spider webs above the labyrinth of passageways.
She ran to the center, took a side path, and pounded barefoot toward the far side of the building. Trafalgar’s coat billowed out behind her like a cape, and the grid hurt her bare feet, but she didn’t have time to concern herself with the pain. The catwalk cut to the left, then quickly again to the right. Before long she saw smooth black roof of Baert’s car as it took a sharp corner with a protesting squeak from its tires. Dorothy had a straight path to the exit whereas her opponent was winding through lanes barely big enough to accommodate him. When she was close enough to risk slowing down, Dorothy poised herself on the edge of the catwalk and waited.
The car sped by beneath her and she leapt. She landed with a heavy thud, her weight denting the metal, and her left foot slid down over the glass of the back window. She hooked her fingers on the edge of the roof and slid to one side, reached down, and hooked her fingers under the door handle. She flung the door open, forced to push it open as the car’s forward momentum continually tried closing it on her as she snaked her way inside.
She dropped onto the back seat, forcing Baert to retreat so that she wasn’t in his lap. The bodyguard in the backward-facing seat reached for her, but Dorothy stuck her foot in the middle of his chest and kicked him back. She pulled a pistol from the pocket of Trafalgar’s coat and aimed it at the bodyguard so he wouldn’t make a second lunge, then looked at the man who had ordered her to be drowned like a sack of unwanted kittens.
“Now Mr. Baert,” she said sweetly. “I believe you and I were in the middle of a negotiation.”
#
They allowed Baert to leave with his dignity intact and all of his extremities still attached, although Dorothy was of two minds about that, once they had come to an agreement. They paid a fraction of their agreed-upon price, taking a percentage off for the inconvenience of attempted murder. He limped away with his remaining crew, although the two men Trafalgar had disposed of in the river were beyond rescue. Baert was understandably perturbed by the development but seeing as he had started the shooting, he couldn’t very well blame the women for the outcome.
Dorothy was just grateful to have the entire mess behind them. They had arranged for Mr. Baert to bring a package to London aboard one of his cargo ships, since their ordinary methods of smuggling wouldn’t work for this particular item. Baert had a reputation for being an untrustworthy halfwit with more brawn than brains, but she’d been against the wall. He agreed to transport the item but broke the contractual stipend that neither he nor any of his crew would open the box to see what was inside.
To his men, it was a golden statue with accents of jade, emerald, ruby, and sapphire. Even if they were unable to fence it as-is, since they assumed it was stolen even before they cheated Dorothy out of the item, they could remove the gems and melt the gold down until it was untraceable. It wouldn’t have taken long before they discovered the idol’s true purpose was protection. It became bound for life to the first person to hold it, who then became the idol’s “focus”. Once the bond was formed it was nigh impossible to break, and those around the focus were driven to homicidal lengths to protect him from coming to harm. Many a warlord and prince had been forced to witness bloody rampages by his closest confidants who lashed out with sword and pistol at the slightest provocation.
Trafalgar confirmed the idol was in the crate, then loaded it into the back of the car. Dorothy started to return her coat, but Trafalgar refused it with a wave of her hand.
“Wait until we’re home and you can change into something clean and unsullied by the river.”
“I appreciate it. I may owe you a clean lining when all is said and done.”
She got into the front seat of the car while Trafalgar settled in the back. They drove through the quiet streets of London, back to the townhouse where Dorothy pulled around to the back of the house. They had recently had the ground floor of the adjacent house altered into a garage, and she stowed the car there. Trafalgar took the crate housing the idol out of the trunk and carried it into the main house.
Dorothy gestured at the crate. “Leave that near the stairs. I’ll deal with it properly before I bed.”
“As you wish. Shall I fix you some tea? It wouldn’t do if you caught ill from your submersion.”
“Very kind. Thank you.” She folded the borrowed coat, draped it over a chair, and went upstairs to her chambers so she could get out of her soaked clothing. She went into her private bathroom and washed the silt and salt out of her hair, combing it carefully into plaits. It could have done with a complete washing but she was quite too exhausted to bother. Perhaps in the morning she would take care of that, but for the moment she was satisfied. She washed her hands and face, grimacing at the grit that was sluiced away, and rubbed a bit of moisturizer into her skin.
It was late enough that she passed on choosing another outfit and simply changed into her nightclothes. She put on a robe so Trafalgar wouldn’t feel scandalized, then finally acknowledged the elephant in the room. Or rather the still and silent woman lying in her bed, draped on either side by the curtains of the four-poster frame. Dorothy drew back the curtain and sat on the edge of the mattress to check Beatrice’s condition.
She was dressed in a collarless white blouse, the buttons done all the way up, and her black hair was fanned out on the pillow like the wings of a fallen crow. Her eyes occasionally moved behind the lids as if she was dreaming, but so far she’d shown no signs of waking. Dorothy smoothed the hair away from Beatrice’s forehead. For the past five years, Trix had been her sidekick, her partner, her majordomo, and her protector. It was this last title that caused her current predicament, and not a day went by that she wasn’t reminded of her culpability.
“I hope you’re resting well, Trix. You’ve certainly earned it these past few years. Our lives have been hectic to say the least. If anyone deserves a lie-in...” She struggled to keep her tone jovial. “I do miss you. So whenever you’re ready to get back to work, I’m certain Trafalgar will relinquish the position and you may resume your duties. Not that she’s doing a poor job, far from it. She’s quite adept when it comes to fisticuffs. Her cooking is... coming along, slowly but surely.”
Beatrice’s hand was resting on top of the blankets, folded on her stomach in a casual pose that managed to not convey a funereal pose. Dorothy reached over and took one of them. The fingers were cold, so she held it until the flesh became warm. She knew it was only cold because the furnace hadn’t been stoked. Anyone would have been cold in this room. It meant nothing, and yet she brought the hand to her lips and blew across the fingertips until they felt less like ice.
“Nurse Adeline tells me you squeezed her hand the other day. Of course I know it could have just been a twitch or a spasm, yet... if you would be willing to reassure me with just a little squeeze. I would be satisfied with anything. Just a quick pressure.” She brushed her thumb over Beatrice’s skin, watching her face for signs of wakefulness as she had every night over the past few weeks. It was hard to believe she’d been so long without hearing Beatrice’s voice. Although even when she was conscious she hardly spoke three words per day. She chuckled and then pecked Beatrice’s cheek. “Well, perhaps tomorrow. I’ll leave you to your sleep. Goodnight, Trix.”
She got out of bed, replaced the curtain, and went downstairs. Trafalgar had taken off her vest and her weapon belt, dressed as casually as she ever got in a linen shirt under a black doublet with gold buttons running down the center. She was standing at the stove with the teapot, and Dorothy slid onto the padded bench of the breakfast nook.
“How is she faring?”
“Still much the same.”
“She is strong. The human mind has limits, and she reached hers in a fairly violent manner. It will take some time for her to process what happened to her.”
Dorothy nodded and then accepted the teacup Trafalgar offered her. “I believe I’ll retire for the evening, unless there’s something else I can do for you.”
“No, no. Of course not. Thank you for your assistance this evening, Miss Trafalgar. Were it not for you buying me time, I’d have never been able to escape from the bag before they riddled me with bullets.”
She smiled. “Next time I will endeavor to arrive before your submersion and save you the laundry bills.”
Dorothy lifted her glass in a silent toast and took a sip as Trafalgar left the kitchen to go upstairs. She drank the tea slowly, savoring each sip and letting it overwhelm the chill the Thames had left in her bones. When she was finished she rinsed out the cup and carried the idol upstairs. She secured it along with her other artifacts, locked the door to the collection, and went to Beatrice’s room. She’d willfully surrendered her bed to Beatrice’s recovery, but she couldn’t bring herself to sleep in the same bed with her. She crawled under the blankets and propped her head up with a pair of pillows, hands folded on her stomach in unconscious mimicry of Beatrice’s position, and waited until exhaustion took her.