Clemency woke to a moment of blissful stillness, a dream of running through a field of buttercups fresh in her mind. She stretched, and the moment vanished as her muscles contracted in pain. Everything ached as if she had been beaten, with the pains greatest in her right shoulder and hip. She had landed on that side while escaping the Scorcher’s fire, she remembered—and with that, the events of the previous night returned in a rush.
She lay still so the aches would hurt less and stared at the underside of her bed’s canopy. What would the world make of what had happened? The sound of a bomb detonating was unmistakable, but for one to explode in midair over the Thames—that would take a Mover. And she had left the unconscious would-be bombers at the cathedral. True, they had probably recovered and fled, but if they had not, they would be able to tell the world about the mysterious Extraordinary Mover who had assaulted them. Clemency refused to dwell on the possibility that they had not recovered.
She closed her eyes and made herself breathe, in and out in a regular rhythm, until she was calm. Even if the story of an Extraordinary Mover preventing the bombing of St. Paul’s became public, there was no way anyone might trace that story to her. Tatton was intelligent, and might put the clues together, but she was also loyal and would bring her suspicions to Clemency rather than spreading them abroad. Clemency was safe.
She had no appetite, but her body demanded food, so she rang for chocolate and toasted bread and ate in bed, a luxury she rarely indulged in. Food revived her, made the aches less, and eventually she was able to rise and dress with only a few twinges when she moved her shoulder incautiously. Tatton made no reference to the previous night, but Clemency caught the edges of the looks she gave her mistress when she believed Clemency was not watching, and Clemency’s worries resurfaced. Perhaps she should bring Tatton in on the secret. It was something to consider, at any rate.
The morning newspapers were neatly folded in a stack at the end of the dining table, indicating either that Mercy had not yet come downstairs or that she had suddenly become tidy. Mercy was as fond of news as a Seer, and Clemency subscribed to many publications for her sake. Now she took up The Times and unfolded it. She found the story about the bomb halfway down the front page.
The journalist had had the report second hand, and many of the details were wrong, such as the size of the explosion—if the news article was correct about that, the blast would have killed her—but it was otherwise frighteningly accurate in its conclusions, down to the assertion that an Extraordinary Mover was seen fleeing the site. There was no mention of St. Paul’s being the original target, and no mention of any criminals being apprehended. An unexpected, confusing emotion filled Clemency, a mixture of relief and affronted pride. Her identity was still secret, but she had saved who knew how many people by her actions, and no one knew to give her credit!
She riffled through the other papers, which all reported more or less the same facts. It was not until she reached the Morning Herald that she read an accusation that stopped her cold. “The authorities are searching for the Extraordinary Mover who was responsible for the failed bombing,” the article read. “That his bomb detonated prematurely does not absolve him from culpability in this bombing and perhaps in others.”
Spots danced before Clemency’s eyes, and she finally remembered to breathe. Outrageous. That she could be blamed for the bombing she had prevented…! Her anger overrode the quieter voice that said she might be in danger from the law. They believed the Extraordinary Mover was a man; no one would link Lady Ashford to this incident. And fear was irrelevant in the face of such shocking injustice.
She could not wish the bomb to have detonated as the criminals intended, for that might have caused great loss of life in addition to damaging an important London landmark. But things would be much simpler if the authorities, whoever they were, knew where they should be looking for the bombers. If the same people were responsible for every bomb in the past few weeks, this one was part of a pattern, and Clemency’s intervention had muddied the waters, so to speak. Again she reminded herself that none of this was her fault.
For a moment, she struggled with herself. She wished to remain anonymous; she wished the bombers to be apprehended. Those wishes were incompatible. Briefly, she considered keeping the secret, and decided she was not craven. She would have to reveal the truth to someone with the power to do something with that knowledge.
Absently folding the papers, she considered her options. She should tell Mr. Wescott what had happened. He had already been questioned by someone connected to the investigation; he would know whom she should speak to and what that person ought to know.
She was most of the way to her bedroom when she remembered it was Friday, and Mr. Wescott would be at his place of employment. Scowling, she alit on the second floor landing and trudged to her room. She would have to send a message, and wait on his return. Until then, she would Fly and let the activity stretch her sore muscles out.
Tatton again said nothing as Clemency changed into her Flying gear and tucked her hair under her white cap. Impulsively, Clemency said, “Thank you for your discretion. I am certain you are bursting with curiosity.”
Tatton smiled and shrugged in the odd way she did, hunching one shoulder higher than the other. “My lady’s business is her own,” she said, “though if I may speak boldly, I am aware that you often go Flying at night, and I have mentioned this to no one.”
“It is not that I don’t trust you,” Clemency said. “This is a matter I cannot speak of to anyone—but if that changes, well, you know I depend on you, Tatton.”
Tatton curtseyed. “I do, my lady.”
Clemency retreated to her private drawing room, where she penned a quick message to Mr. Wescott. As she was signing it, Slater appeared in the doorway with a small silver plate upon which lay a card. Clemency deposited her note on the salver and picked up the card. “Oh, Jane,” she exclaimed. “Slater, do have her shown in.”
Jane, when she arrived, was wearing her Flying gear, which was identical to Clemency’s except for being a somber maroon instead of navy blue. “Good morning, Clemency,” she said cheerfully. “Are you going somewhere?”
“Just for a flight around town,” Clemency said. She found she did not wish to tell her friend about her message to Mr. Wescott. Quite aside from her involvement with the bombing, she felt tender of her growing attachment to the man. Jane would not mock her for being attracted to someone not of their social class—though Mr. Wescott was a gentleman, so what did it matter if he was neither wealthy nor titled?—but she would feel entitled to tease Clemency, and however friendly the teasing, Clemency did not wish to endure it.
“Oh, then you must come with me, I am paying calls this morning and they will be more entertaining if you are present.” Jane threw herself into a chair and fanned her face ostentatiously, though she did not appear over-warm. “No one will wish to talk of anything but this mysterious Extraordinary Mover, and it will be delicious gossip.”
“But I know nothing of the matter,” Clemency lied.
“Oh, bah, how is that relevant? It is gossip, Clemency. We will speculate wildly and laugh a great deal. And on that subject—” Jane sat up in her chair and leaned forward, clasping her hands on her knees. “I am hosting a party on Tuesday next, and you must come, because it is due to you that I discovered the Cabinet of Curiosities.”
Clemency raised her eyebrows. “That is a mysterious and confused sentence I beg you to untangle.”
“It is nothing so confusing. The ground floor of the building is almost entirely taken up by an astonishing mechanical garden that Mr. Wescott does not display to the public. But he is willing to hire it out for gatherings, and I have engaged it for Tuesday. It is remarkable, Clemency! Mr. Wescott showed it to me and I was simply astonished. Do say you’ll come.”
Clemency suppressed a flash of irrational jealousy that Mr. Wescott had done something so potentially intimate as showing the garden to Jane. “Of course I will. Do you invite only our Mover friends?”
“Oh, no, I intend this to be the social event of the season. Everyone who is anyone will be invited.” Jane rose and put a confiding hand on Clemency’s arm. “And Mr. Wescott will benefit from the publicity. He is quite fascinating, don’t you agree?”
The jealousy returned, hot and burning. “I agree,” Clemency said, exerting herself to be pleasant, though she could not help but consider Jane’s many swains and resent Jane wishing to attract yet another. “I enjoy speaking to him.”
“Of course you do.” Jane smiled and patted Clemency’s arm. “Let us go, and we will have a race to Elizabeth’s house. She serves the best refreshments. I swear I shall someday lure her cook away from her. Father cares nothing for food if it is not the cuisine of some foreign country to the far East, and how am I to find such a paragon?”
Clemency returned to Emeraude House after three o’clock, exhausted in spirit and aching in body. She had not realized how difficult it would be to refrain from telling her friends the truth of the failed bombing. She also could not bring herself to lie, to reveal details and pretend she had heard them elsewhere. So in the end, she remained mostly silent, except when it came to speculation on the identity of the Extraordinary Mover.
“I cannot believe he was involved in the bombing,” she had said to Lady Deirdre when that woman had voiced the Morning Herald’s opinion. “It is much more likely that he interrupted the real bombers and removed the bomb before it could destroy their target.”
“That is highly coincidental,” Lady Deirdre had said in her high-pitched, somewhat nasal voice. Clemency had never found her voice annoying until that moment. “You expect us to believe that an Extraordinary Mover happened to be Flying past at just the right moment to observe someone setting a bomb?”
“Which of us do you suppose would be capable of bombing London?” Jane had said. “It is not just a matter of coincidence or accident. It is a matter of motive. We all know one another, perhaps not equally well, but enough that I cannot believe one of us might do such a horrid thing.”
“People are not always what they seem,” Lady Deirdre had said, lowering her voice so it sounded more like the coo of a pigeon than the twitter of a wren. “Imagine the dark secrets one of us might be hiding!”
“I refuse to believe it,” Clemency had said. “Lady Deirdre, did you see in the newspaper that the authorities are investigating? Which authorities do you suppose those are? Not the Bow Street Runners?”
“Oh, certainly not,” Lady Deirdre had said, “because who would pay them? Now, I have heard tell of a clandestine government organization that investigates crimes. Remember that rash of counterfeiting a few years ago? They operate in secret, and I have heard that many gentlemen and even a few ladies are in its employ.”
Knowing Lady Deirdre could talk about unlikely conspiracies such as that one for hours, Clemency had been satisfied at successfully deflecting her. Now, however, she remembered Lady Deirdre’s words and wondered if there was some truth to them. If one could imagine a group of Extraordinaries secretly defending the city against criminals, was it any more preposterous to posit a group within the government doing the same thing?
She left Jane at the front door and waved to her as her friend Flew heavenward, then Moved the door handle rather than touching it, more to remind herself that she could than because she needed to. She had not yet lost the memory of being unable to Move the poker and the bell pull last night. The last time her Moving talent had been suppressed, she had been seriously injured with a head wound that had nearly killed her. That the injury had broken Napoleon’s Coercion of her made her remember it, not exactly fondly, but with a resigned satisfaction. Enduring her talent’s suppression was the second worst thing she could imagine.
A note lay on her bedside table when she entered her room. She snatched it up and opened it. You intrigue me, Mr. Wescott had written. I will be at home after four o’clock and look forward to discussing the matter. He had not signed it, but his distinctive handwriting—not even handwriting, but printing—was as good as a stamped insignia.
Clemency read the short message twice more, her eye lingering on the bold lettering. She was well and truly smitten, was she not? She dropped the note on the table and crossed to the window to look out across the city. Should she Fly, or ride? Flying would make her appear windblown, but it was faster and more satisfying. And it was not as if Mr. Wescott did not know she was not exactly ladylike in her behavior at times. On the other hand, she had a new gown of printed cotton that flattered her complexion, and a wool spencer that complemented the gown perfectly…and now she was behaving like a simpering maiden fresh from the schoolroom. Flying it would be.