Chapter Nineteen

“Patrick, I need your help.”

Topaz had come to Nellie’s after another interminable afternoon spent greeting her father’s clients, which she found unexpectedly taxing. Not only did Frederick wish her to conduct them into his presence but also to offer tea and conversation to those awaiting their sessions. Hardly the woman to provide tea and sympathy, she found the assignment awkward and uncomfortable.

Besides, her psychic senses, apparently freed when she unleashed them to search for Romney, refused to go back into the mental box she had long ago constructed for them. She could all too clearly feel the emotions of those who waited to see the great man, from anxiety to wracking grief. The grueling experience drained her emotionally.

A terrible price to pay for her attachment to Romney, she thought as she moved through the dark streets to Nellie’s Bar, her dark cape rendering her very nearly invisible. But this seemed a time of reckoning.

Kelly, sitting at his favorite table with the inevitable whiskey in his hand, looked up at her, expressionless. Or was he? Curiously, her newly-sharpened acuity seemed to extend even to him. She could sense something—surely not emotions as such, but consciousness.

She sank into the chair opposite him. How did Father deal with the awareness, all the feelings coming at him—and the spirits battering at him, demanding to be heard? How could he open himself to just the ones he sought to assist for filthy lucre or any other reason?

“What is it, Miss Topaz?”

Topaz leaned across the scarred table. To her horror, tears filled her eyes. “Pat, I’m in a most desperate situation.”

His hand came out and cradled her elbow gently. “You are upset. We cannot speak here.”

“No? Where, then?”

“If you will do me the honor of accompanying me to my room, it is not far.”

And wouldn’t that just turn some heads—the big automaton leaving with the scandalous gypsy, melting into the night. Imaginations would run wild.

Did she care? Her life had been ripped from its moorings. True, Topaz had let herself experience the dark side in the past, but only when she deemed fit, as if playing the part Sapphire described. Now, aspects of herself she barely recognized—and dreaded—had roused to life.

She nodded. Kelly got up and, keeping hold of her elbow, escorted her back out into the inky night.

“This way.”

And how curious it felt moving with him through the streets. Leaning into him as might any woman into her escort, she could feel his warmth, finding it difficult to remember it came from the coal-fired boiler situated in his chest and that he exhaled only steam. For an instant reality threatened to slip away from her, and she stumbled on the pavement.

Kelly’s strong arm caught her up. “Careful. It’s just here.”

His room proved to be a spacious accommodation on the ground floor of a tall house that stood dark when they arrived. Topaz sensed no other consciousnesses in the building.

“Who else lives here?”

“Other members of the Irish Squad, men like me. Either out now or…resting.”

He lit the steam lamps as they went in. Did he also rest here? Sleep? Shut down like an ordinary steamie? He was her friend, and she felt ashamed to admit she didn’t know.

A bed occupied one corner of the high-ceilinged space, but it looked as if it had never been slept in. A cavernous armchair appeared more well-worn; Topaz could picture Kelly sitting there like some ancient lord. A narrow settee lined one wall, and a table with two chairs stood by the windows, but there was no food—Kelly did not eat, as such. She wondered where he got the nutrition to keep alive his skin and the one or two organs he retained.

His uniform hung neatly from a peg on one wall, and on a shelf Topaz saw a collection of what looked like antique firearms. Besides those, she saw books—books everywhere, in stacks and piles and crowding the rest of the shelf space.

“You read?” she asked, surprised.

“I do. I must have a way to pass the time, and reading is edifying. Through the written word I am able to experience things I never actually will.” He emitted the grinding sound that, for him, denoted laughter. “I have traveled the world, Miss Topaz, and studied the human condition.”

What must it be like, having once been human and being human no more? He had attained a state other than but not necessarily inferior to humanity.

“Was the ability to read something you retained from your past life?”

“No. I taught myself. It is a facility that increases with use. Now it might be said I worship the written word. Sit down, Miss Topaz. Would you like a drink?”

“Yes, thanks.” She needed one. She chose the settee; sitting in the armchair would be tantamount to stealing a throne.

“I have whiskey.”

He would. “Whiskey’s fine.”

He poured her a glass, took a second for himself, and appropriated the armchair.

Did the other automatons congregate here? Did they sit about not drinking their whiskey?

“Tell me what has upset you.”

Topaz did. It helped that he already knew part of it—they had speculated together about what went on in her father’s cellar, and he had investigated Grayson. Now she strove to explain how she had contacted Romney on a spiritual level and discovered he was being held against his will.

“It would be difficult,” she concluded, “for me to go to the police. So I’ve come to you instead.”

Patrick did not move; he sat with his glass of whiskey resting on the arm of the chair, face blank. But she could feel him thinking.

“Do you come to me in an official capacity?”

“Well, I—I’m not certain. Could the police raid the asylum? Pull my friend out? There may be others there also held against their will for all I know.”

“There may. But it might be argued that all mental patients are held against their will, with very few exceptions. Who would choose to reside in an asylum?”

“True.”

“In order for me to approach my superiors and suggest a raid, I would need to present proof—significant proof—something beyond a psychic connection established by the daughter of one of the most notorious men in this city.”

“I see.” Topaz’s heart fell. “I was afraid you’d say that.”

“You must understand, Miss Topaz, many consider your father a charlatan. I know, because you have told me, that his abilities are genuine no matter how he may barter them. Those who denounce him are not likely to lend credence to any ability you might have inherited, either. I believe you in all that you say because you are my Friend.” He capitalized the word by virtue of the way he spoke it.

Topaz nodded wretchedly. “I appreciate that, Patrick, and I do understand. But I can’t leave him there. He’s suffering both mentally and physically. Whatever tortures they subjected him to have once separated his body and spirit. What if that happens again and he is lost to me? I would do anything—anything to prevent that.”

“You love him.”

Topaz stared at Patrick Kelly while she weighed the assertion. Impossible. Preposterous. She was not the kind of silly woman who fell in love precipitously—it had never happened yet. Unlike much of the female population, Carlotta apparently included, she did not need a male to make her complete. She could fight better than most men and prided herself on her fearlessness.

Patrick raised an eyebrow at her.

“I can’t be in love with him,” she objected. “Technically, I’ve never even seen him—at least not in the flesh.” Had never touched him, never kissed him if she didn’t count that quick fumble in the alley through the poor medium of the young sot’s body and that wondrous interval in her bed, after.

Yet she could not deny Romney Marsh—by whatever name—had taken hold of her spirit.

Spirit versus body: Which demanded love? Ideally, she supposed, it should be a combination of both, raising the connection to the sublime. But as Sapphire had pointed out, that all too often failed to happen. Sapphire had chosen the flesh and his self-professed addiction to little Carlotta.

To Patrick she said, “What is love?”

“You ask me? I am ill-equipped to answer.”

“As am I. My brother likes to say we Hathors may be gifted in some areas but we are maimed when it comes to that singular emotion.”

“You think so? I know only what I have read.” He nodded toward the bookshelves. “There is a wide range of opinion.”

“Do you read romance?”

“I read everything I can. It adds up to human experience.”

How sad, Topaz thought with a sudden rush of compassion—and how immeasurably admirable. Should her heart bleed for an automaton? Why not? He was her Friend.

She asked simply, “Can I love a man I’ve never met?”

“In my view, you have encountered him, exchanged thought and emotion. Therein, I would venture to suggest, lies love.”

Topaz got to her feet, suddenly restless. “All I know, Pat, is I barely recognize myself since I, as you put it, ‘encountered’ him. You know me. I have little time for foolishness or sentiment. I’ve worked hard at relying on no one. Now I feel vulnerable, as if I’m the one being held hostage.”

“As I understand it, love makes one vulnerable, since the object of one’s concern is suddenly outside oneself.”

“Well, I don’t like it. At the same time, it’s the most marvelous feeling I’ve ever known. Marvelous, terrible, powerful, and frightening.”

“I can only envy you. I believe I have achieved loyalty—not love.”

She spun on her heel and looked at him. “Loyalty is a form of love, Pat. Never underestimate yourself.”

He sat there, his big form far too motionless, all but his green eyes, in which Topaz saw…what?

Abruptly he said, “You are far too kind, Topaz Hathor.”

“Me?” She laughed incredulously. She who bled would-be abductors and suspected her own father of terrible misdeeds?

He nodded.

“Listen, Pat.” She hunkered down beside his chair. “There must be a way to get Romney out of Grayson.”

“Tell me about your father’s new partner.”

She blinked at the sudden change of subject but answered readily, “Danson Clifford.” Even speaking his name sent an involuntary shiver down her spine. “Do you think there’s a connection? Because he’s from England, just like Romney. I haven’t been able to reconcile the fact that the place from whence he says he comes is the same as the name Romney gave me. Romney Marsh.”

Patrick tipped his head, which meant he consulted his artificial intelligence. “That is, indeed, an actual place in the southeast of England.”

“Clifford refers to himself as an undertaker.”

“And the Egyptian goddess Hathor was known for escorting the souls of the dead to the afterlife. An intriguing combination. You say your brother gave you the key to the cellar?”

“Yes.”

“If you could get a look at what is down there, it might prove most enlightening. I would not wish you to take any chances with your safety, Miss Topaz. But I cannot help believing there must be a correlation between the cellar and your lover’s return to Grayson.”

My lover.

Topaz nodded. “I can try, but my father’s already missing his key and may change the locks. He might also set some units as guards. It will be difficult.”

“As I say, do not take any chances. But if you could find sufficient cause for a raid, I will act upon it.”

“And Romney? What of him?”

“Give me the best description you can.”

“He’s fair-haired, about five foot ten or eleven and with light-colored eyes, very handsome, and has an English accent. I know it’s not much to go on—”

“Held against his will, you say?”

“Very much so.” Topaz swallowed hard. “And very nearly broken.”

The green gaze met hers. “Leave it with me, Miss Topaz.”

“But you’ve said you can’t go to your superiors—”

He gave her a solemn wink. “Leave it to me.”