Phoenix Rising (24 page)

The assassin was on her feet, backlit by the footlights, and suddenly—the screams of opera patrons now joining the tenacious performers on stage—her skirts fell away. The Italian's undergarments were hardly proper as they were fashioned of leather and suede. Eliza could easily see the shadows of four small pistols, two strapped on each thigh. There was a strong possibility there were some blades secured there, too.

Eliza charged for her, but Sophia—with her newfound freedom of movement—spun around and delivered a well-placed kick that Eliza felt through her armoured corset. She fell hard against the floorboards and the knife was next to her. Her fingertips did not even brush its hilt before prancing feet kicked it away from her to the other side of the wings.

A scream of outrage from onstage whipped Eliza's head up, and immediately the agent rolled to one side as a pike, most likely liberated from an actor by Sophia, bore down on her. The whirling display was a little unnecessary, but something that Eliza probably would have done as well. She however would have possessed the wherewithal to know that prop weapons—while still dangerous—were not built for a full impact against a solid surface like, say, a performance stage.

On hearing the pike connect with the floorboards and then shatter, Eliza rolled back and kicked, sending Sophia once more into Birnam Wood. Pushing her skirts down and pulling herself back to her feet, Eliza liberated a Scotsman from his sword. It was more of a club than a true sword, but it would have to do.

She then heard Macduff's aria stammer. Not missing a beat, the orchestra continued as the actor moved to the centre of the stage, while Sophia lifted up Macduff's sword. Her smile said this one was nice and heavy—a genuine weapon used for stage combat. The movement may be choreographed, but the weapons were more than authentic, making for high drama on the stage and trouble for Eliza.

Why did it have to be
Macbeth
? Why not
Figaro
,
The Barber of Seville
, or
1001 Arabian Night
s—something with pillows
, Eliza thought as the sword cut for her head. She went to block, but her cheap replica shattered on impact. The momentum of the swing and the broadsword's less-than-balanced weight did manage to throw Sophia off kilter.

“Next time, mate,” Eliza quipped to the actor she had taken the weapon from, “land a bigger part than third git from the left!”

The chorus of men scattered, parting like the Red Sea as the now snarling Sophia whirled the blade over her shoulder and charged. Ducking and dodging, Eliza tried her best to keep beyond the broadsword. How had the woman got so damned lucky to land by the blasted lead of the opera? This weapon could pierce the corset or take her head off, and then there would be far less stage blood required for the finale.

Many of the cast were fleeing to the wings in Sophia's wake, but others held out manfully, singing hard but shooting worried glances at the battling women in their midst. Eliza would have loved to take a moment to appreciate this dedication, had she not been so bothered in fighting to stay alive.

“Bloody hell!” Eliza snapped over the orchestra's crescendo. The pistols were still strapped on her thighs—merely a fabric fold away. Reach in, draw, and aim. She could have at least knocked the wind out of her. A headshot would have been asking for far too much. All she needed was a moment where Sophia stopped charging.

Sophia lunged, missing Eliza and tripping forward.

That was when Lady Macbeth screamed. Right in Eliza's ear.

No one could fault the singer's professionalism.
Good lungs
, Eliza thought as the blast of sound knocked her to the lip of the stage. In the disorientation of prima donna, music, and mayhem, the train on Eliza's skirts caught her foot, turning her less-than-graceful stumble into an ungainly tumble. Behind her, three footlights smashed as Sophia swung with the sharp blade.

The sword was about to connect with Eliza's neck when another stopped it short. Eliza let loose a relieved sigh at the sight of Macbeth's sword.

She'd always loved the Scots.

Sophia was about to take the actor's head but Eliza knocked her back with another elbow to the nose.

“Thanks, mate,” Eliza said, taking the
lead
actor's sword this time. “If I live through this production, first pint's on me!”

The broadsword felt a trifle light in her hand and not as balanced as she would prefer; but it was, at least, made of metal. Both women glared at each other along the edge of their blades, the smell of gas stinging their eyes and nostrils. Around them the gamest of the performers continued singing, though probably not at their proper marks. Eliza and her opponent had cleared a large circle of the stage, making for quite the show closer.

Sophia glanced up to the audience as if for the first time realising where they were. The corner of her mouth twitched.

“I do not like to conduct business so publicly,” the assassin shouted over the music that still refused to end. “And frankly, darling, this would be so much easier if we were in breeches—what say we reconvene when we are both better attired?”

Eliza would have made a snappy comeback to that one, all the while easing her left hand to one of her pistols—when the other woman turned away as if it was already decided. A heartbeat, a split second, passed to see what her real game was: a lit torch from one of the terrified chorus was now in Sophia's grasp.

Damned authenticity was going to make a very big mess.

The flame fluttered as it flew through the air, towards the shattered footlights.
Hell's Bells!
The front of the stage, swimming in gas, didn't require dynamite to explode as the doctor's Charing Cross practice had; but lit so much closer to her, it propelled her a further distance than what had knocked her and Wellington to the ground. The heat was a slap against her body—throwing her into the orchestra pit. The concussion echoed through the opera house, helped by the most excellent acoustics.

Eliza, her once magnificent dress torn and blackened, found herself sprawled across a deeply surprised pair of cellists and their instruments. They eyed each other for a moment, both uncertain of the proper etiquette of the situation. The silence after the explosion was monumental—but for the first time in the evening, no one was caterwauling. The musicians were utter gentlemen, mutely helping her slap out the burnt patches in her once glorious evening gown.

Cautiously Eliza levered herself out of their awkward embrace and stood up gingerly. Readjusting her hair as best she could she glanced up to the box seat. Yes, there was Wellington, and his face was white as Italian marble. It was true—people's jaws did hang open if you shocked them enough.

Eliza gave him a little wave, just as scattered applause began to run through the theatre. Then she called up to him. “Sweetheart, please be a dear and call for the carriage, I think the show is done.”

CHAPTER NINETEEN
Wherein Mr. Books Learns
a Little of Colonial Hospitality

A
melody tripped off the tongue of Wellington Books as he strode through the streets of London, the brisk walk doing his body and his brain a world of good. The tune, he knew, was an echo from the previous night's performance of
Macbeth
, and the quick spring in his step he also knew was on account of what he had heard last night with help from the auralscope.

His shoes scuffed up to the large, ornate door to Eliza D. Braun's building that looked far more impressive in the daylight than it did at night. In fact, the entire building appeared far more imposing than he remembered it. In the back of his brain, a flurry of curious queries percolated. As he made his way up the stairs where he had so recently carried his colleague, he felt the cylinder in the satchel bump against his hip. When he reached his fellow agent's apartments he rapped the pattern of Verdi's “S'allontanarono!” on the knocker.

The door opened, and Wellington took a step back. The face that greeted him was certainly not that of Eliza D. Braun: freckled, cherub cheeks that were naturally rosy, and a riot of red hair barely contained under a mop cap.

And the voice that spoke was definitely not of the colonies—more like the East End. “Mister Wellington Thornhill Books, Esquire, is it?”

He cleared his throat. “Um . . . yes?”

“Very good, sir. Do come in. The Missus is waiting on you in the parlour.”

The Missus? In the parlour? It must have been one of the rooms he hadn't yet explored. Already the vastness of Eliza's abode was impressive. “Ah, yes, of course.” Wellington then snapped his fingers and smiled. “Alice?”

She returned his recognition with a polite grin and a curtsey. “Thank you, sir, I am. Now if you will be following me please.”

“Certainly.” It was only when the maid turned away that Wellington observed the sheath of gleaming, articulated metal that made up both her legs and the slight limp to her gait. In the silence of the hallway he could make out the sound of tiny pistons pumping.

“Quite remarkable,” he commented, while fighting back the urge to lift Alice's skirts and examine her prosthetics more closely.

With the light of morning filling the apartments, Wellington could now enjoy the details of Eliza Braun's private sanctuary. She was hardly a woman of the time, but apparently ahead of it as she collected what seemed to be fine antiques and figurines. How did a woman as abrasive as this field agent from the colonies nurture such fine . . . taste?

Alice called into the sunlit atrium, “Pardon me, mum?”

“Alice,” Eliza's voice replied, gently, but still with a firm tone. “Try again, please.”

The house servant paused, cleared her throat, and then said, “Pardon me, Miss Braun?”

“Excellent. What is it?”

“Mr. Books has arrived.”

“Lovely.” She sighed. “Show him in.”

Alice curtseyed again and beckoned to Wellington to join her in the parlour.

“I must know—
oh my God!
”

He had wanted to hold an interrogation of his own on the subject of her remarkable maid and her luxurious dwellings, but what was waiting for him in the atrium scattered any notion of thought.

Eliza's voice echoed in the small sunlit room for a moment, along with the gentle lapping of water. “Books, if this is the first time you have seen a woman in a bath, then I believe we need to get you out in the field more.”

Wellington turned towards the voice, his eyes covered. “Perhaps modesty is regarded differently in the colonies, but if you would—”

“Welly,” she snapped, “when you're in my apartments, you are on New Zealand soil.” She motioned to the table on the other side of her bath. “So pull up a chair and enjoy breakfast. Unless . . .” And on her pause Wellington peered through his fingers. She was pursing her lips in that way that made him uncomfortable and uncertain all at the same time. “. . . you care to join me?” she cooed, flicking the bathwater.

As he tried to formulate an appropriate answer, someone guided him to a chair. The almost imperceptible hiss of pistons told him it must be Alice. Slowly his hand came away from his eyes, and indeed there she was, hardly fazed by the notion of her mistress enjoying a bath on the other side of the breakfast table. “There you are, sir: toast and marmalade, two eggs, and bacon. Help yourself to kippers or kedgeree. I'll bring you a fresh spot of tea.”

With another slightly awkward curtsey, Alice returned to the kitchen.

“A lovely girl,” Eliza started. “Reminds me a bit of me when I was her age.”

“Did you have brass legs as a wee hellion?” he asked while buttering his toast.

His fellow agent shot him a wicked smile. “Ah, you noticed that, did you? Another fine example of Axelrod and Blackwell's work.” Eliza's gaze tightened on him. “A little off-the-clock job for me. One Sound knows nothing about, and I would prefer to keep it that way.”

Wellington finished his mouthful of warm toast before replying. “I see, but where did you find her in the first place?”

“The workhouse.” Eliza adjusted the towel across her eyes and stirred the water lightly. A delicate bergamot scent tickled Wellington's nostrils. “She was injured in a mill accident, but even so, she attempted to pick my pockets. I offered to help her, but only if she came to live with me here as my maid. And seeing as the Ministry's clankertons were wanting to try a new trinket Sound showed little interest in, it worked out well for all involved. I think it has been a few years since anyone has shown Alice this kind of generosity, and she's coming along well in her education.”

“Education?”

“Oh yes.” Eliza nodded, churning the water lightly as she listed, “kitchen duties, proper addresses, marksmanship, table manners. These are the things a lady should—”

“I'm sorry,” Wellington interrupted, “but did you say
marksmanship
?”

Eliza sighed again. “Tosh, Welly, surely you don't expect a woman of my profession and my occupation not to have another line of defence at home?”

Wellington took a few bites of egg, and then helped himself to a kipper as well and only then did he note the additional setting next to him. Then another. Looking over the round table, there were quite a few place settings all waiting patiently for guests.

“Do you expect other callers during your morning bath time?”

Eliza chuckled. “No, but I do have a later appointment—some people I want you to meet.”

Wellington finished a mouthful of fish before asking, “Will you be joining me, Miss Braun?”

Her fingers idly flicked at the water. “I've already enjoyed my morning's repast, so don't mind me,” she said, giving a slight sigh as she felt sunlight creep into the atrium. “The Phoenix Society can wait until after breakfast.”

Wellington, even with the extraordinary setting of his meal, started feeling hints of comfort wrap around him. Languidly soaking in the exquisite tub, Eliza seemed as if she was about drift off to sleep.

“Do you often bathe in your atrium?” he finally asked.

“Only when I have been in knife fights and tossed into orchestral pits,” she quipped, her eyebrows wiggling playfully above the cloth draped over her eyes. “I'm a young, healthy woman, Welly, but I hurt right at the moment and a hot bath is what is needed. I hope you will allow me to inconvenience you for a few moments in my own home.”

She had him on that point. Her home. New Zealand soil. “Considering the previous night, you have earned this, Miss Braun. As you say,” he replied, turning his attention to the morning's newspaper next to his plate, “you are a young, beautiful woman.”

“Healthy,” she corrected him. “I'm a young, healthy woman.”

Wellington paused. “Yes, that's what I said.”

He noticed the lull in conversation, and looked up from the paper to see Eliza in her bath, her smile something akin to the Cheshire Cat. “Now, while I was getting to know our favourite bitch,” she began, “what did you, my clever Archivist, find out?”

Wellington set down his silverware for a moment and dabbed his mouth clean as he reached for his satchel. “Eliza, perchance would you have a gramophone?”

“Certainly. Just ask Alice to bring it in here.” She snickered. “Do you need an orchestral background to give me the news of what you heard?”

He opened his mouth to reply, but Alice appeared around the corner with the promised fresh pot of tea.

“Actually, Alice,” Wellington said, returning her bright smile. “Would you be a dear, and bring Miss Braun's gramophone in here.”

“Certainly, sir.” She settled the teapot on the table and trotted out on her mission. Soon there came a soft clatter from the main room and Alice reappeared pushing a hansome gramophone, its clockwork gears, tiny engine, and giant twin bells opening like lilies in springtime.

Eliza spoke. “Thank you, Alice. My clothes, if you please?” The maid then gave a quick hiss-accented curtsy and retreated to the master bedroom.

“You must know how much I enjoy bathing to music,” Eliza slipped lower in the bath.

Wellington clicked his tongue as he flipped a switch on the polished brass panel, extending from the casing a tray of gears surrounding a cradle big enough for the cylinder he produced from his satchel. The object snapped easily into the device, and retracted with a soft hiss.

“And what is the musical selection for this morning's bath and breakfast?” Eliza asked.

“Verdi's
Macbeth
,” he replied.

Eliza was silent for a moment, and with a deep breath, she sighed. “I think I know how that ends. The Witches put him up to the deed, they leave him out to dry, and the Scottish king loses his head to Macduff.”

“This,” Wellington spoke over his winding up of the gramophone, “is a new adaptation. In this performance, Macbeth gallantly saves the life of a Maori warrior who blundered onto the stage during the finale.”

The water sloshed, and this time Eliza was correcting him in earnest. “I was born in New Zealand, Books,” she began, her tone definitive, “but I am not Maori—at least, not by blood.”

Extending the player's arm earned him a quick high-pitched burst of steam, its mechanisms
clickity-clacking
softly. He slowly moved the main control lever towards him, and flinched at the rapid notes blaring out of the twin bells.

“Audio controls are to the left, Books!” shouted Eliza over the clamor.

Much like he did with the auralscope, his fingertips adjusted the controls, slowing the gramophone's gears. Between hisses and rapid clicking, the garbled noise shifted and changed, taking on the semblance of voices deep in conversation while Verdi's
Macbeth
continued in the background.

A swell of water, and then Eliza asked, “That contraption of yours
recorded
last night?”

Wellington turned towards her. “The auralscope did just—” His voice stopped as he caught sight of Eliza's posterior just before disappearing behind the towel.

“Did just what, Welly?” she asked, pulling it tight around herself as she slipped behind a blind. “Are you all right?”

“Sorry, was fine-tuning the—volume—on your gramophone. I'm not used to your”—he cleared his throat—“fixtures.” He quickly turned back to the gramophone, trying to force away the startling—and yet delightful—sight he had just caught. Trying, and failing. “The
auralscope
cannot only home in on certain sounds, it also records them for posterior—I mean,
posterity
—on standard-sized phonograph cylinders.”

“Truly?” Eliza asked. “That is—” And then she grunted, “
Fascinating!
”

“You all right back there, Eliza?” he asked.

“Just—fine.” Then Wellington heard the slip of fabric being pulled tight. Alice, it appeared, had returned. “Just—suiting up—in my battle dress. Do—continue!”

“With the quality of earphones you have here, the conversation should ring as true as we heard—”

“
Olivia
,” Lord Devane's voice crackled through the bells, “compose yourself, eyes front. Do not shame my family any more than you normally do. For God's sake, wipe the spittle off your face.”

“This was the point where you had left,” Wellington said, “before you ended the evening in your usual, subtle manner.”

“Don't start, Welly,” Eliza warned from the other side of her dressing screen.

There was the click of a door closing, and Devane's voice spoke again. “Is the enlistment of that . . .
foreigner
. . . truly necessary, Doctor Havelock?”

“She is merely a tool,” he replied coolly, “and like many tools in a work shed, some are very dangerous if not handled properly. You may wish to keep that in mind when addressing her, Bartholomew.” Havelock's voice paused, and then, “So, Olivia, you were about to run down the suitable initiates for this weekend?”