Phoenix Rising (43 page)

CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO
In Which Miss Braun Says Goodbye
and Wellington Books Discovers
the Shrew Is Far from Tamed

I
t should always be raining when one is standing in a graveyard crying over the headstone of a friend. London, however, was being her usual contrary self with not even a cloud in the sky and the kind of heat that might be found in the tropics. In short, hardly the best weather to be wearing black.

The children who stood around her had tried so hard to tidy up for this visit—though their clean clothes were hardly tailored for them and were mismatched in colour. Probably stolen. Regardless of their ill-fitting attire or the means in which they had acquired it, it was the gesture that mattered. All of the Ministry Seven were around her, and very proud to be asked to accompany her to the graveyard.

Eliza readjusted her black veil over the bandage across her temple and stared down at the fresh grave. “They buried him so quickly.”

“Always do from Bedlam,” Christopher piped up, stuffing his hands into his pockets, “At least the doctor shelled out for a proper grave, so he didn't end up dumped out the back with all the rest of 'em.”

Eliza flinched at his rough assessment, but knew it was true. She wiped away more tears and managed to stifle a sob.

Serena's little hand slipped into hers. “I'll miss the lollies he'd bring us.” The eight-year-old, who had taken some care to do her hair up, started to cry. Her tears left little track marks in their wake, revealing that maybe she hadn't been all that successful at getting the grime from her face. Eliza pulled her close and let the distraught girl sob into her side. She petted Serena's head and looked down at the fine granite headstone.

H
ARRISON
T
HORNE,

FELL IN SERVICE TO HIS COUNTRY.

LOVED AND MISSED BY ALL.

I wonder what they would put on mine
, she thought, and the idea chilled her. She'd always imagined being buried back home. As much as she enjoyed her work, she craved New Zealand.
Aotearoa
. She missed her hills, the Pacific, the great green forests, and her people.

“He was a good sort, Miss Eliza,” Colin's voice jerked her out of her reverie as he snuggled in on her other side. For once she was positive he wasn't going to be helping himself to what was in her purse.

It was hard for the children, but not in ways that the pampered darlings of the upper classes would understand. The Ministry Seven were used to death all around them, in horrible and offhand ways. What they were not used to was outward displays of grief—when Eliza had started crying some hidden well of their own emotion had cracked open. It was also difficult for the Seven as Harry had regarded them as part of the team.

Eliza felt her breath taken away with the gentlest of sobs as the silent twins, Jonathan and Jeremy, placed two roses by the gravestone. For the children, they had lost a friend; and that was an emotion hard to contain.

All except for Christopher: as a tough young man he would not allow any tears to fall.

“Yes,” Eliza finally whispered, “Harry was a good man.”

She had been dwelling on those days in Paris since waking up in the hospital. The image of Harry's laughing face on their boat ride along the Seine was painful. Would things have been different if instead of turning away from the moment he had leaned in to kiss her? Would he have not pursued those missing women if he had her instead? Might she have, in fact, been with him that night? Maybe he wouldn't be lying in a cold grave if she had.

She swallowed hard and then brushed tears from her eyes with the back of her hand. “Children, I hope you remember something—if you ever have a chance to be happy, pursue it. Without hesitation.”

“You mean like when a mark has this nice dangling pocket watch?” Eric, who at ten years old was probably the best pick-pocket in the East End, looked up at her with wide disbelieving eyes. “ 'Course we'd go for that, quick smart-like.” The others were looking up at her, their expressions so confused that Eliza found words jamming in her throat.

She went to explain but thought better of it. Their chances of finding happiness were probably as impossible as her own. “Never mind.” She ruffled the red-headed boy's hair, “Silly old Mum is just feeling a bit soft today is all. You'd best be off back home.”

They crowded around her, giving her a rough hug that wasn't entirely sweet-smelling but was well meant and well received. They had come because she was sad and Harry had been kind to them: they had certainly not been expecting compensation. It didn't matter. She wouldn't be able to sleep tonight if she imagined them without a roof or food.

“Here, Christopher,” she slipped him a handful of coins, “I don't want this wasted on gin.”

“Can we get some ices on the way back, mum? It's awful hot.” The older boy being polite meant a lot to Eliza—it happened so very rarely.

“Very well then, but the rest must go on hot meals for all of you tonight.”

“Yes, mum!” They loved to call her that, and Eliza didn't do anything to dissuade them. The Ministry Seven were different from the other urchins on the street. They had hope. They had her.

Eliza watched them run out of the graveyard, leaping over the lower headstones and running around the tall obelisks, easily forgetting the grief as only children with the prospect of a treat ahead could do. Unfortunately the possibility of a cool refreshment on this baking day would not do the same for her.

Yet, she too had to move on. Eliza undid the Cheshire Cat locket from around her neck, and placed it carefully on top of the new slice of granite. For a moment she rested her hand there. “We did it Harry—
you
did it. Rest now.”

She tilted her head up, looking at the clear blue sky. Faith was something she once had; but if there was a God, then she hoped Harry would be in heaven, flirting up a storm with the angels.

“I'll never forget Paris, Harry,” she added, kissing her trembling fingertips and touching the headstone again. “Never.”

Eliza turned and walked slowly back to the gates. Her eyes flicked over the headstones as she passed. Unfortunately Harry's name was not the only one she recognised. This was where many agents of the Ministry ended their days. It wasn't like there was some delightful seaside cottage in the South of France where her sort of person retired; mostly what they got was a fine piece of lawn and a reasonably priced granite headstone.

And there he was—standing underneath the gates of the cemetery, just as he had outside Bedlam. Wellington Thornhill Books was dressed in a charcoal grey suit, complete with matching bowler hat and tinted spectacles to ward off the day's glare. With the assistance of a silver-topped, ebony cane, he stood up to his full height to greet her. He was dressed very smartly for a work day. Not that he was ever anything but dapper—yet today he appeared to have taken special care.

“Welly!” she called, and though he did not wince at the shortening of his name, she did see him roll his eyes behind the darkened lenses. Eliza had begun addressing him that way to get under his skin, but now she was quite fond of it. Her pace quickened until she was beside him. “You could have come in, you know.” Eliza flipped up the fine layers of her veil and found she still had a smile in her.

“Quite all right, Miss Braun,” Wellington replied, tipping his hat to her. “It didn't seem appropriate to intrude as you said your goodbyes.” He paused, glanced down at his feet and then held something out to her. It was something quite unexpected.

Two white roses, with a spray of lily of the valley. As Eliza stood still in shock, Wellington tried pinning the little offering to her jacket.

“I know it isn't a necklace of diamonds, but I thought you'd like it.” Wellington stabbed himself at least once before securing it on her lapel. “And it is far more appropriate for a gift between partners. An urchin was selling them on a street corner, and I thought it would bring you . . . a bit of cheer.”

Eliza glanced down at the flowers. He mustn't be aware of their meaning. The Archivist was not one for the gentle arts, more intrigued by steam and clockwork, than something as mundane as the language of flowers.

Trust. Sweetness. I am worthy of you.

A far more appropriate gift between partners, indeed.

Instead she bit her lip, concentrating on what she was sure of: while she had mourned Harry, Wellington had been giving the account of their actions at the Havelock estate.

“I came straightaway, after my meeting with the Director, so I have not check—”

“Per your instructions, I dismantled the phantasmagoria. It is boxed up and concealed in the crypt alongside a few other dead cases. No one will notice it.”

He nodded. “Ah, good. Well then . . .” Wellington cleared his throat and peered over his glasses. “Per my instructions?”

“To the letter.” Eliza gave a chuckle. “I did watch it for a minute or two before dismantling it. Quite a clever gadget you had there, Welly. Nicely done.” Her head tipped to one side. “Is that why you came out here, straightaway?”

Gripping his cane's silver top and rapping the sidewalk lightly, he finally said, “I came to escort you home.”

The shear ridiculousness of that statement and his arm extending outward would have made her laugh out loud only a few weeks before. Things however had changed. Rather than bristling at her partner's attempt at gallantry, Eliza took his offered elbow. “That would be lovely, Mr. Books.”

Together they turned and began walking down the street, under the trees that offered some shade from the relentless heat.

At the corner a penny ice truck had just rolled to a stop and was already surrounded by the laughing Ministry Seven. The low three-wheeled transport was not much bigger than a velocipede, but the little barrow it towed behind sprouted a collection of pipes, valves, and even an exhaust that would shower the children with a cool blast of air and snow. The children, the Ministry Seven and others gathering swiftly, all roared with delight as the brief semblance of a distant winter swept across their skin. Along with the magical display of misplaced seasons, the barrow sported a delightful miniature calliope—its jaunty music kept time with the clockwork that clicked at a steady pace. The music, the children's laughter, and the vendor's pleasant demeanour were a delight to Eliza's somewhat battered soul.

“Ingenious,” Wellington remarked with a child-like wonder. “The exhaust not only allows for a circumventing of excessive pressure, but it also works as a guarantee for the coolness of the barrow's contents.”

Eliza shook her head at Wellington's analytical assessment. “It is also quite fun for the children.”

His brow furrowed, and then he looked back at the sounds of the children's cheer. “Oh yes, I suppose it is.”

“Wellington Thornhill Books,” she scolded, “I worry that you may be a hopeless cause.”

“Really?” He stopped for a moment, considered the truck, and then sniffed. “Would a penny ice restore your faith?”

Eliza's mouth twisted into a wry grin and she tugged on his arm. “It's a start.”

They watched as Serena jumped up and down until Christopher handed over her scoop of cool goodness. Simple pleasures were so easy to supply to the children—maybe that was why Eliza enjoyed doing it so much.

“You know,” she mused, “I have very little recollection of what happened in the cellars of the Havelock house. I really have no idea how we made it out alive.”

“You were magnificent,” Wellington assured her, “Quite the most miraculous thing I have ever seen. I am only sorry you cannot recall it, what with the knock on the head and all.”

She gingerly touched the spot. “Well, it's the training I suppose—it just kicks in when you need it most.” Eliza shot him a sly look, “Nice to know that the adventure ended as it began, with me saving your arse once more.”

As soon as the words were out of her mouth they felt . . .
wrong
. The gap in her memory was not only annoying but also frustrating.
Something
had happened, and her instinct said she could never have stopped all those men, let alone the Mechamen Mark IIs. If Books knew cataloguing, then she knew combat—and as he would have said, something was severely misfiled.

But this was Wellington Thornhill Books, Esquire, a man obsessed with the facts, illustrated brilliantly just a moment ago. What he recounted to her, and no doubt to Doctor Sound, was certainly consistent with what she would do in a situation like that. The only problem here was she couldn't remember a bloody thing. That had never happened to her before in the field. Yet the Archivist would never tell a tale that fantastic.

Would he?

Up ahead the Seven had finished their fun with the penny ice man—though if she were him Eliza might have checked his pockets before letting them go. The boys all waved to their “mum” as they crossed the street, but little Serena was far too engrossed in her treat for any of that.

When they reached the truck, still playing its cheery tune, Wellington slipped his hand into his pocket and surprised Eliza by ordering one
each
of the little scoops of ice.