Twincy Quinn and the Eye of Horus Part One (28 page)

‘
Then perhaps you will come to Lord Ridley’s directly
afterwards, for I know he is keen to discuss matters with you.’ The
butler took a brief moment to assess me, his darting gaze
travelling all over my form, and with a tick of his left eyebrow,
it was clear he did not approve of what he saw. ‘And I imagine, in
your current state, you are keen for answers. If you want to know
what Twincy Quinn is, and why it is so devastatingly important for
us to capture her, you must come to see Lord Ridley.’

I nodded. It
was an automatic move. After all, this man was promising me
answers, something I desperately needed.

With another
barely concealed, withering look, the butler finally took his leave
of me, though he asked, somewhat snidely, whether I was okay to
walk on my own. After I assured him I was, I stood there in the
street for several minutes.

Eventually I
realised I was late, plucked my watch out of my vest pocket, cursed
myself, somewhat unsteadily, and finally set off in a jog.

. . . .

Could
she . . . could she be alive?

Was that too
fantastic to believe? Was that too hopeful? Did it make sense? She
had survived the fall off the three-storey building, granted, but
that clock tower was enormous.

Just who was
this woman? Frustrated at myself, guilty, and so confused my mind
filled with a raging headache, I finally forced myself to head to
the restaurant.

It was
suicidal. It really was. I was in no condition to meet with fine
company, especially not Elizabeth. I had to head home, get my wits
about me, and figure out what to do next. I needed a drink, I
needed a lie down, and I needed to be, quite frankly, alone with my
thoughts.

Yet I walked
into the restaurant. I was directed to Elizabeth, I sat down, and I
tried for a smile. It was stiff, automatic, and I hoped desperately
that the dim, romantic lighting in the restaurant hid the majority
of my shock from view.

She talked of
her week, I mentioned the weather had been strange, she ordered
wine, then I ordered another, and we ate.

Yet I wasn't
there. My body certainly had sat itself down in that chair, and my
hands were more than capable of carving up my food, my fingers
expert at bringing my glass of wine to my lips. But my mind was
gone.

Twincy
Quinn

This was
unbelievable. What a day.

Everything
that could go wrong was going wrong.

Yet at least
now I had managed to get away from Michael Stanford. And, quite
hopefully, he thought I was dead.

Which, I could
freely admit, wasn't as pleasant a thought as I hoped it would be.
To get Michael Stanford permanently off my tail sounded like a
blessing, right? To have that man permanently think I was out of
the equation would relieve some of the mounting stress that was
assailing me.

So why did I
feel so . . . cold and guilty?

Had it been
his expression? Had it been his desperate attempts to pull me back
into the safety of the clock tower?

If I closed my
eyes, I could still see his expression. In fact, I fancied, that in
a week’s time, in a month’s time, in a year’s time, I would still
be able to see it in as perfect detail as I did now.

The only way
to describe it, was complete shock. From the tight, drawn look of
his brow, to the wide rim of white around his irises, he had been
overcome by the prospect of me jumping off that clock tower.

‘
Put it out of your mind,’ I demanded of myself firmly. Yet I
could demand that same sentiment over and over again, and never be
able to satisfy it.

With every
step I took, the thought of Detective Stanford rang clear in my
mind.

What had I
done to him?

It was an odd
sentiment, for I spent most of my time blaming others for what they
did to me. From the doctor to Lord Ridley to the very citizens of
London who had hounded me my whole life, I blamed others. Yet right
now I felt as if I were stabbing myself repeatedly in the heart as
I remembered Michael's fear and shock at watching me jump off that
clock tower.

He had offered
to help me, hadn't he?

Though perhaps
he had been unaware of his words, he had said them.

He had
promised me he could help.

Of course I
had assured him there was no way he could, yet that offer was one
that did strange things to my mind.

Help.

Something I
desperately needed. Though I had the assistance of the children,
and I could rely on my own body at all times, that was it. There
was nobody else to fight Esquire, and nobody to stop Lord Ridley
either. With more resources, with more people, with more influence,
and with more time, Esquire was assured inevitable victory.

It would be a
slow, drawn-out defeat. And an ultimately tragic one.

In moments
like this—moments of deep, resounding melancholy—I usually tried to
pull myself up and remind myself that I had to soldier on, no
matter what.

Yet sometimes
the odds would hit me.

The
probability was simple. It was unlikely I could win.

Not alone.

That was
something Vanessa often emphasised. Being as conscious of security
and planning as she was, she always told us that we required more
resources. More people, more Twincies, she had often pointed out
quietly. If we wanted to win this war, we would require more than
myself and a few children who spent most of their time
bickering.

Depressed, and
wanting nothing more than to head home to collapse into my rocking
chair and stare out the window, I also realised I had to keep my
wits about me.

I was not home
yet, and while I had certainly put Michael Stanford off my chase,
Butler was a different matter.

Why had he
been out, away from his master, potentially in the public eye?
Ridley would have not sent his prized possession away without
reason. With Butler being found out always a possibility, he really
would have had a very strong reason to send him knocking at
Fairmont’s door. And I doubted it was simply to relay a message.
Ridley had numerous, numerous people working for him, and he could
get some simple message boy to achieve the task, without
threatening his prized possession.

No, Ridley was
up to something, and that something required him to send out his
strongest weapon.

Realising I
was hardly going to get a break any time soon, I quickened my pace
as I walked along the street. I still had not headed back up to the
rooftops, but I would do so soon.

I wanted to get home as quickly as I could, yet I also wanted
to find out what was going on in this city. I wanted to hone myself
sufficiently that I could use my senses to figure out if I felt any
more
suitables
or
devices in the area.

If I felt
some, however, I didn't exactly know what I would do.

I wasn't sure
if I was in a condition to fight Butler.

I was still
cold. In fact, I was practically frozen. I shivered, and couldn't
help but collapse my arms tight over my chest, rubbing my thumbs
back and forth into my arms.

I was also too
confused.

If Vanessa
were here, she would tell me the following: in my current state, it
was unwise to take on Butler. He was too canny, he was too strong,
and he was never too far from backup. I, on the other hand, had no
backup. I would never, ever bring one of the children into a fight.
While I relied on John’s devices, and I certainly benefited from
Vanessa’s wisdom and tactics, they could not help me when it came
to the actual nitty-gritty of battling the doctor and his demons.
Which meant, if I faced Butler tonight, and I, inevitably, stuffed
up, that would be it.

There could be
a real possibility of me losing. And if I lost, I could guarantee
one thing: I would not lose my life. Just my freedom. Butler would
take me back, kicking and screaming, into the arms of my
oppressor.

That thought
steeled me.

It was not the
bravest thing to do, yet I realised I had to run away for now. If I
wanted to keep on fighting, I had to ensure I did not take on any
situation that would lead to my logical failure.

Esquire had
taught me to be intelligent, not just a fighting machine.

A little
happier now that I'd made my decision, I finally spied a free
alleyway, ducked inside, and climbed my way up onto the
rooftops.

As soon as I
reached the gutter, I pulled myself up, and walked confidently
forward. I let my hands fall from around my middle, and I let out a
powerful sigh, allowing my eyes to flick closed for a brief
moment.

I was suddenly
aware I could not keep this up forever. Days like these certainly
wore on a girl, even if that girl was as strange as myself.

The point was,
with this much intrigue, danger, and unpredictability, it was too
much of a psychological burden to continue as I was.

Help.

That one word
came up in my mind again, and I felt like turning from it, like
hiding from it, as if it were dirty, as if it were a sin.

I could live
my life on my own, and though I had the children to rely on and to
protect, that was not the same. I had never gone out seeking help.
No charity, no donations, I had never pleaded, and I fancied I
never would.

For I
understood that no one would help me. It was a futile attempt to
ask and to try, wasn't it?

As I walked
along the rooftops, I tried to pay no heed to the frozen sensations
rushing through me. When I got home, I promised myself that I would
have to check in with John to see if my devices were acting up.

Clutching
tight at my bonnet, shunting it as hard over my head as I could, I
walked forward. As I did, I listened, I watched, and I smelt. I
reached out with every sense I had. Tracking, observing, waiting. I
had to be incredibly careful not to inadvertently lead Butler back
to the warehouse and the children.

I could do
that as long as I ensured that I stayed as far away from that sense
of his technology as I could.

I could hear
the streets below. Here and there the hiss of steam, the bustle of
cartwheels over the cobble, soft voices as they wafted up from
below. Doors opening, people shouting, Windows grating open.

It reminded me
there was a city down there. Beyond my own mind and my own
troubles, London continued as always.

It didn't take
me long. Though I tried to pay as much attention as I could to my
surroundings, my face inevitably tipped upwards.

To the stars
and moon. To the night sky above.

To
freedom.

To a place
beyond this city, beyond this country, and beyond its issues and
troubles and squabbles.

A place that
did not change no matter how much the world around me did.

I continued
on. For I could not stop.

Michael F.
Stanford

I couldn't say
I was up for much conversation.

Though I
nodded when I felt it was correct to, and I tried to make as many
intelligent comments as I could, after a while I could see that
Elizabeth was withdrawing. ‘You look ever so tired, Michael,’ she
reached out a hand and clasped mine as it rested on the table.

It was a very
intimate move, and the other guests around us noted it.

I was a fool
to think that Elizabeth thought of me as only a friend.

Yet right now
I could not deal with this. I tried to offer her a reassuring
smile, but it would not have convinced a child. ‘I'm fine. It has
simply been a long day.’

‘
The kidnappings?’ her voice dipped low, her elegant tousled
hair tipping slightly in front of her ever watchful, large brown
eyes.

I took a deep
swallow, realising my gaze drifted off her and fixed on the table
before us.

No doubt I
looked dazed, as no doubt I was.

‘
You should let my father help you,’ she whispered, tipping her
head slightly to the side as she watched the patrons nearby to see
if they could overhear. When apparently she was satisfied they were
too far away and the sound of merry chatting and the clink of
glasses and cutlery was too loud, she turned back. ‘I have offered
before, and I know he would be more than happy to help. I'm sure he
can come up with some kind of device, or already has one that he
has invented, that could assist you.’

At the mention
of the word device, I felt my cheek twitch up as my eyes stiffened
with a lost look.

‘
Michael,’ she still had her hand pressed lightly over mine,
her gentle, warm fingers pressing down against my callused
skin.

‘
It's fine,’ I mumbled.

‘
My father would be happy to help you. It's the way of the
future,’ she finally leaned back, letting her hand fall from mine,
but her gaze was still locked onto my eyes, those wide brown eyes
of hers never blinking.

The way of the
future.

‘
These devices, this technology,’ for a moment she got a
wondrous look in her eyes, as if she were speaking of heaven
itself, ‘they can take us to places we have never been,’ her voice
became a little croaky, as the emotion of her topic got the better
of her. Whenever Elizabeth spoke of her father's inventions, she
did so with obvious and unfaltering adulation. It was clear that
she, like her father, and like most of England, thought the
modernity being thrust upon us was not just the most logical path
we could take, but the greatest. The most moral.

‘
We can overcome all of our problems. From poverty to sickness,
to war,’ she added, her eyes sparkling wider at that
point.

She was aware
I had fought in two wars; I had told her so myself.