Chapter Twenty

Vesta LaMotte found the duke in the Albion Abbey chapel, wandering from one stained glass window to the next. His shoulders slumped. Even from across the space, she felt his despondency and wished with all her heart she could ease it. She slipped down the aisle to join him as he stood before a depiction of the miracle at Cana.

“Turning water into wine. Now there’s a truly useful miracle for you,” she said, trying to lighten his mood.

“All miracles are useful. Why would they happen unless they were needed?” Camden sighed. “We could certainly do with one. I can’t sense Westfall at all.”

“Well, that could simply mean that he’s using the skills you taught him and is shielding his mind. Which also shields his gift from you.”

Camden massaged his temple, obviously trying to stave off one of his horrendous headaches. They always accompanied times when he overtaxed himself, trying to locate the source of psychic energy emanating from another Extraordinaire. Or in this case, trying to sense a missing viscount.

“Or Westfall is no longer among the living,” he said wearily. “I’ve yet to be able to sense the presence of the dead.”

Vesta bit back the retort that danced on the tip of her tongue. She sympathized with Edward’s loss of his wife and child, but the longer he continued to seek a medium to force a way to communicate with Mercedes, the longer he put off dealing with the fact that she was gone.

“Edward, you don’t have to do everything yourself. You have other assets, you know.” She linked her arm with his and started to walk back up the aisle. Even though Vesta was a courtesan, she wasn’t the least uncomfortable in churches or chapels. After all, some of Christ’s best friends had been the worst sinners. She fit into that category with ease, but Edward wasn’t as at home in sacred spaces. He still blamed the Almighty too much for his losses.

“Miss Anthony could search for Pierce,” she suggested. “You sense your Extraordinaires based on their psychic abilities. But Meg can Find people and objects regardless of whether they have any supernatural attributes.”

He shook his head. “Since we know how dangerous using her gift is, I can’t order her to search for him.”

“Perhaps not. An order would be heavy-handed in this instance, even for you, but you might ask her if she’d be willing to try. She and Pierce are friends, you know.”

His raised brows said he didn’t. “I wasn’t aware that Westfall had made any such attachments. Is there…a romantic element to their friendship?”

“Heavens, you truly are oblivious, aren’t you?” Vesta rolled her eyes. “Our dear Pierce is hopelessly smitten with Lady Nora.”

“Ah, and his fondness is returned,” Camden nodded as if a candle of understanding had just been kindled in his mind. “No wonder the lady was so upset when he absented himself from Albion Abbey suddenly and inexplicably. Does Lord Albemarle suspect his mistress’s affections are elsewhere engaged?” Camden’s brows lowered in a frown. “Do you suppose the baron might have done something underhanded to Westfall?”

“No, I’m sure he hasn’t. Benedick isn’t the jealous type.”

“Benedick? I had no idea you were on such intimate terms with the man.”

“Now who’s sounding jealous?” Vesta chuckled. “But you have no need to be. Intimate is not a word I’d use to describe my friendship with Albemarle. We share a love of poets and other starveling artists, nothing more.”

If Edward hadn’t heard the rumors about Benedick’s sexual preferences, Vesta saw no need to enlighten him. What two adults did in private was their own business. It should have no bearing on the public aspects of their lives. Of course, she knew her opinion was in the minority and not likely to become more generally endorsed by the ton any time soon, but one of the lovely things about being a courtesan was that she was expected to have a few outrageous opinions.

“But back to Miss Anthony,” Vesta said as they neared the nail-studded door that led out to the open cloister. “You need to give her a chance to help you. She wants to be useful. Lud, I’ve never seen such a puppy of a person as she. She lives to please you, Your Grace.”

And so would I. If only you’d let me.

…

A gentle rain fell on the cloister, painting the statue of the saint dark gray and leaving all the shrubbery in the enclosed space a slick, vibrant green. Camden turned away from the window in one of Lord Albemarle’s parlors to survey his remaining Extraordinaires. Since Benedick and his household retainers were still knee-deep in the search for Westfall, Camden and his associates were able to assemble in privacy.

“LeGrand, you’ve been posing as Westfall’s valet,” he said. “Did he give any indication that something odd was afoot?”

“Monsieur le Viscount, he did not confide in me, Your Grace. In truth, he rarely allowed me to even pretend to serve him,” the water mage said. “I do not think he enjoys the company of others. Perhaps he has merely gone away to seek solitude for selfish reasons.”

Lady Easton shook her head. “Lord Westfall is one of the least selfish individuals I’ve ever known. If he were leaving the Order for personal reasons, he would have told someone. He is far too mannerly not to extend us that courtesy.”

“Which means he thinks he is advancing the Order’s cause by his absence somehow,” Camden said. “What are your thoughts on the matter, Miss Anthony?”

Meg startled a bit at the sound of her name, and Camden might have suspected the Finder had been wool-gathering if not for the look of concern on her face.

“If we knew where he was, we’d be closer to knowing why he left. Let me Find him for you,” Meg said. “I know you’re concerned for me, Your Grace, and I’m ever so grateful for it, but I can do this without too much risk. I feel certain of it.”

Now that he knew Meg courted death each time her spirit flew free of her body, Camden was torn. If anything happened to her, he’d never forgive himself. But if he didn’t let her Find Westfall and something harmed the viscount, he’d be burdened with just as heavy a load of guilt.

“How can we minimize the danger to you?” he asked.

“If you all come around and put your hands on me. Somehow, the physical contact creates a stronger anchor for me,” she explained. “It will help me return more quickly, once I Find his lordship.”

Camden arched a brow at her. “I believe I should not ask how you discovered this.”

“That’s good, Your Grace, because I believe I shouldn’t want to answer.” She moved to the center of the tufted settee and waited while Vesta and Lady Easton settled themselves on either side of her and took her hands in theirs. Camden and LeGrand stood behind the settee and placed their palms on Miss Anthony’s shoulders.

“Pierce Langdon, Viscount Westfall,” she said, repeating his name. When she sought an object, a description of the item was more helpful to her, but when she launched her soul skyward in search of a person, it was the name by which they were known that pulled her essence to them. She stiffened suddenly. Then her eyes rolled back in her head and her body slumped.

Camden wished he could follow her spirit’s progress. Wished he could take the risk she ran on himself, but Vesta was right. He couldn’t do it all. He needed to let the members of the Order exercise their gifts. Just as a cord of many strands was stronger than a single one, the Order was stronger together than any of them were apart.

The seconds ticked by. They turned into minutes and still Miss Anthony didn’t return. Her lips had gone bloodless, and there was a blue tinge around her sightless eyes.

“Enough, Miss Anthony,” Camden whispered. “Come back at once.”

“She can’t hear you, Edward,” Vesta said, but he noticed she gripped Meg’s hand tighter.

“It is almost two minutes, Your Grace,” LeGrand said. He flicked his hand at Meg and droplets of water shot from his fingertips to land on her unresponsive face. The water mage shook his head ruefully. “That is usually enough to revive a lady in a swoon.”

“This is no swoon,” Camden said, resisting the urge to give her a shake. This was death. Without her spirit, Meg’s body was dying by inches. Why had he ever allowed her to conduct this search?

Then, without warning, Meg shuddered. She gasped, dragging in a lungful of air, as her eyelids fluttered uncontrollably. Vesta hugged her tightly. Lady Easton was up at once, fetching a glass of sherry for the Finder from the liquor cabinet in the corner.

“Here you are, dear, safe and sound,” Lady Easton said as she pressed the glass of fortified wine into Meg’s hand.

“Where is—” Camden began.

“Not yet,” Vesta interrupted. “Give her a moment to collect herself.”

Meg continued to breathe heavily between sips of sherry. Her hands shook. “I don’t need a moment. I have nothing to report. I couldn’t Find him, and I thought I knew exactly where to look,” she said disbelievingly, “but I couldn’t Find him anywhere.”

…

Plink. Plink. Plink.

Pierce curled tighter into the fetal position and covered his ears with his palms.

He could still hear the incessant drips. They landed near, but not on him. He seemed to feel them in any case. It was as if the drops were boring into his forehead, wearing a hole in his skull. It wasn’t so daft a fancy. Water would eat away at even granite given enough time, and his head surely wasn’t as hard as that.

Water sloshed over his whole world. He was never dry. Either he was in the chair where the deluge rained down without mercy or in his dank cell in the basement of the hospital where moisture condensed on the ceiling and pattered to the stone floor with soul-deadening constancy. Then there was the watery soup that comprised his daily meals and the slop bucket in the corner that served as his latrine.

Water everywhere.

But none to bathe with and precious little to drink.

He tried to sleep as much as possible because keeping up his mental shield taxed his strength at every turn. In a moment of weakness, he lost the fight and the voices from nearby cells rushed into him.

Pick a posy, pick a pocket, pick a peck of pickled pumpernickel, peddler’s pockmarks, pimples and piss…

Wicked boy. Nasty boy. You’ll get yours. Then the voice turned sugary. Where’s that mother’s angel?

Did you see that knife? God, the blood, so much blood. The blade still drips with it.

He sat up and put all his effort into rebuilding his shield. The voices became muted, but he could still hear them, buzzing at the edge of his consciousness like a hornet’s nest. “As long as I can tell which thoughts are mine, I am not mad,” he muttered.

“Oh, I greatly fear you are not competent to make that assessment, Signor Mycroft,” came a voice from the slot in his door. He’d not realized he was being watched until he saw the pair of dark eyes that stared through the opening.

Dr. Falco.

“If you are thinking thoughts they are, of course, yours, capisci? Scusi, I mean, you understand?”

He understood. The Italian doctor expected him to agree. He expected him to admit that he couldn’t hear the thoughts of others. In fact, Falco was thinking it so loudly now, it drowned out the other voices and became the only one he could hear.

Pierce thought he could deceive his doctors easily enough. All he had to do was say what they wanted to hear.

How hard could it be?

Very hard, as it happened.

“The truth is all I have.” Westfall repeated the phrase under his breath like some yogi’s mantra. He could hear the thoughts of others. He couldn’t surrender his truth. If he denied this fact about himself, something inside him would break, and he didn’t think he’d ever be able to put it back together again.

“Ah! Veritas,” Falco said. “The search for that elusive quality, it is the search of the ages, no? But if it is the truth you seek, I have something that might help—a new treatment.”

Pierce couldn’t stifle his groan. Dear God, not a new one. The water chair was torture enough.

“Do not fear, my troubled friend. It is not so…strenuous as the water chair. It involves the simple ingestion of a mushroom.”

Pierce had heard of such things. Before his friend Stanstead had joined the Order of the M.U.S.E. he had regularly medicated himself with opiates to try to rid himself of the nightmares he dreamed that inevitably came true. Could a cure for him be as simple as taking some mind-altering substance?

“You think it will work?” he said, ashamed of the naked hope in his voice. If there was a chance to be normal, he’d jump at it.

“After the curative properties in the mushroom have worked its way into your system, your senses will be enhanced,” Dr. Falco said. “Patients report being able to smell colors and taste words.”

“That’s ridiculous.” And of no benefit whatsoever. Hearing thoughts was bad enough. He didn’t need to smell colors or taste words, too.

“Of course it is. Utterly ridiculous. And it is a good sign that you recognize it. Bene. This level of self-awareness makes you the perfect candidate for the treatment.”

“What if I refuse?”

“During the time you have bided here, have you successfully refused any other treatment? Ah, I thought not.” Falco cast him the thin-lipped smile of a cat before a mousehole. “Once you have had a few sessions with this miraculous substance, perhaps you will also see that it is equally ridiculous for you to believe you hear the thoughts of others. According to my colleagues in France, they are seeing great changes in their patients.”

Colleagues in France. The Fides Pulvis. For a few moments, the real reason he’d allowed himself to be taken into Bedlam again had flitted from his mind. He’d allowed himself to hope, however briefly, that there was a way for him to lay aside what the duke called his “gift.” Now his true purpose slammed back into him. He had to find those incriminating letters in Falco’s office and escape with them. Then he would trade them for Lord Albemarle’s Trust Powder, free Honora from her patently false relationship with the baron, and hire the Hobarths at his country estate so Honora could see her daughter anytime she wished.

Then, maybe, she would marry him.

And it wouldn’t matter if he heard other people’s thoughts or not, so long as he could hear hers every day.

“Dodsworth,” Dr. Falco said to the orderly who hung on his every word. “Prepare Mr. Mycroft for a dose of Myconia Fantasma.”

He might have a troubled brainpan, but he was not going to let this Italian quack take who he was from him. “I’m not Mycroft.”

“You will be,” Falco assured him. “After floating with the mushroom for a while, you will be anyone or anything I tell you to be.”