A hard hand squeezed her upper arm, dragging her away from the window. “What have you done?” Mr. Ruskin demanded. Fear and anger warred within him. He pressed the back of his other hand to his nose, which streamed blood, and leaned against the wall where he could not be seen from the street to look out the window. “You have ruined everything.”
Lydia could not speak. The sight of that still figure lying in the street would not leave her imagination. Lord Craythorne shot. Impossible. Any minute now he would fling the door open and demand the Ruskins surrender.
Mr. Ruskin swore viciously under his breath and dragged Lydia away, shoving her at the sofa. He knelt beside his wife and shook her. “Hannah, we must flee. They are coming,” he said. “Hannah, collect yourself.”
Mrs. Ruskin groaned and rose to support herself on one elbow. “That chit of a girl spoiled my aim, but I am sure I got the shot off in time.”
“The Viceroy lives. We must go, do you not understand?” Mr. Ruskin hauled Mrs. Ruskin to her feet and put his shoulder beneath her arm for support.
“No,” Mrs. Ruskin said. Her emotions, which had ebbed while she lay semi-conscious, surged into anger and then a terrible vicious glee. Lydia was on her feet in an instant and racing for the door. She barely managed to avoid Babbage’s body, sprawled in a pool of blood; she could not tell if he was dead or merely dying and found she did not care.
She had her hand on the knob when Mrs. Ruskin grabbed her by the hair and hauled her backward. Lydia screamed at the unexpected sharp pain and clawed Mrs. Ruskin’s hand, trying to get free. The grip tightened. Desperate, Lydia stopped trying to pull away and instead slammed into Mrs. Ruskin, knocking her back a few steps.
The pain in her head subsided. Mrs. Ruskin grabbed her by the shoulders and shook her until she cried out. Both the Ruskins’ anger suffused her, and she tried to make herself a void and could not. Emotions, her own and the Ruskins’, rose up with her, overwhelming her, and she cried out again, this time in fear for herself.
“Yes, scream if you must, it makes your pain sweeter,” Mrs. Ruskin snarled. Lydia, barely aware of her surroundings, could not resist as the woman dragged her to the window. Cold air blew briskly through the open hole, bringing with it spatterings of rain. Lydia struggled again to get free, but Mrs. Ruskin’s grip was tighter than a clamp and as implacable.
“Hannah, leave her. We must make our escape,” Mr. Ruskin said.
“I will not be satisfied unless I have my revenge,” Mrs. Ruskin said.
From some distant, sane corner of Lydia’s mind came the understanding of what Mrs. Ruskin intended to do. She could no longer see anything for the colors that tumbled about her vision, red and yellow and deep, passionate green that had nothing to do with love. Blindly, she swung her elbow into Mrs. Ruskin’s stomach, and the woman released her with a great ooph of breath.
Lydia could not remember what she had meant to do. Run, fight, run, fight—and then once more the figure of Lord Craythorne lying in the street presented itself in stunning clarity, and rage built up within her, a natural rage that entwined with that of Mrs. Ruskin until it filled every part of her. She screamed and launched herself at Mrs. Ruskin, bowling the woman over with her attack.
Mrs. Ruskin was taller than she, outweighed her, but Lydia in her fury fought like a maddened cat, clawing and kicking and tearing at Mrs. Ruskin’s hair until Mrs. Ruskin screamed as well. Harsh breaths tore from her lungs, abrading her throat, or possibly she was still screaming. Then other hands were pulling her away, and Mr. Ruskin’s voice came from a point near her right ear: “Hannah, for God’s sake—”
Mrs. Ruskin got heavily to her feet. Her face was bloody from long, deep scratches, her bonnet was gone, and her hair was tangled beyond redemption, but in her heart there was nothing but a fury that matched Lydia’s own. Lydia strained against Mr. Ruskin’s hands, desperate to bash her enemy’s head against the floor. She was breathing so hard her chest hurt, but it was a distant pain, far removed from the anger thrilling through her.
Swaying slightly, Mrs. Ruskin walked forward until she was face to face with Lydia. “You dare,” she whispered. Then she slapped Lydia so hard it knocked her head back and left her temporarily stunned, unable to resist when Mrs. Ruskin once more took hold of her. She wrestled Lydia free of her husband’s hold and dragged Lydia to the window. Lydia recovered and struggled for freedom, but the rush of power her anger had given her was fading, and she felt weaker than she ever had before.
“We haven’t failed,” Mrs. Ruskin said in a hoarse, raspy voice. “But it will not matter to you, ever again.”
The open window gaped at Lydia’s back. Her legs pressed against the wall beneath it. Mrs. Ruskin shoved, and Lydia lost her balance. For a moment, her legs clung to the windowsill and she imagined herself hanging from it upside down, watching the street spin over her head. Then she was falling.
She had enough time to wonder if dying would hurt less if she maneuvered herself to land on her head rather than her back, and then she struck the ground. But it did not hurt at all. The street was not hard, but soft, with give like a good mattress.
She opened her eyes and looked up. There was the window she had fallen from, far closer than it should be, and a short distance above that, a man hovered in midair. He was dressed in the dark grey of an Extraordinary Mover in the War Office and looked very concerned. “Miss, you look as if you were attacked,” he said. “Who are you?”
“Mr. and Mrs. Ruskin are escaping,” Lydia said, as hoarsely as Mrs. Ruskin had sounded. “Do not mind about me. You must capture them.”
“Who are Mr. and Mrs. Ruskin?” the Extraordinary Mover asked, puzzlement joining his concern.
Lydia felt like screaming again, but her throat did not wish to cooperate. “Lord Craythorne will—” she began, and a terrible aching misery filled her chest, one she tried desperately to ignore. He would not thank her for being overwhelmed when it was imperative the Ruskins be caught. She refused to remember that he was no longer in a position to thank anyone for anything.
“Lord Craythorne was shot,” the man said. “I must set you down, miss, so I can investigate where the shot came from.”
“They are already gone,” Lydia said with as much force as she could muster. “You must Fly now to capture the Ruskins, they tried to kill the Viceroy and shot—” She swallowed tears. “Why do you not understand?”
The man glanced at the open window, and Lydia fell an inch or so before he caught her again. “The shots came from inside,” he said.
Lydia ground her teeth. “You are a marvel of perspicacity, sir. Set me down and go after them!”
“You need not be rude,” the man said, embarrassment and anger taking the place of concern. Lydia did not care if he felt insulted.
The Extraordinary Mover rotated her into an upright position and brought her gently to stand on the ground, then released the invisible grip he had held her with. Lydia staggered, catching her balance, then ran for the mansion’s front door. Inwardly, she screamed at herself for her foolishness. She had no weapon and was not strong enough to apprehend the Ruskins. But she could not bear to do nothing, not when Lord Craythorne—
She slammed the door open and then held still, listening, watching. She heard no footsteps, saw no change in the ground floor such as open doors that had previously been shut or lanterns guttering in the wind of someone’s passage. Then, down the dark hall that led past the staircase, she saw a distant light. Without considering what it might be, she ran toward it.
The light took shape as the outline of a door the farther she ran. Lydia pushed herself harder, and then had to stop as the light vanished, leaving her in near-total darkness. She turned to look back at the foyer, where the lanterns burned, then groped her way along the hall until she bumped into a wall head first. Rubbing her forehead with one hand, she patted the wall in search of a door frame or a knob.
Her hand finally fell on the curve of a latch. She tugged at it, managed to depress the mechanism, and pulled the door open. Grey, stormy light blinded her for a moment, and she blinked her eyes until they cleared.
She stood in an alley that ran behind the houses, narrow and stinking of animal waste and urine. At the far end of the alley, two figures were just disappearing around a corner. Lydia raced after them.
She pelted around the corner at full speed, slapping one hand against the wall to steady herself as she pivoted, and jerked away instinctively as a shot cracked the still air and a pistol ball struck the wall near her head, sending chips of stone flying. Mrs. Ruskin stood several feet away, lowering the pistol. A terrible animalistic snarl emerged from Lydia’s throat, and she sprang after her prey, fury once more filling her. That woman had killed Lord Craythorne, and she would pay for that and all her other crimes.
Mr. Ruskin was urging his wife to move, move now, and then all of them were off running again. The alley let out on a wide street, not as wide as the one fronting Government House, but one filled with pedestrians and carriages who were not inclined to move aside for running strangers. Lydia dodged through gaps between passersby with ease, feeling fleeter of foot than a deer and more agile than a mink. She realized she was gaining on her prey just as Mrs. Ruskin shoved an elderly woman, hooking her ankle so she fell to the ground with a cry of pain right in Lydia’s path.
Lydia did not pause; she gathered herself and leaped over the woman, dodging two men who came to the old lady’s aid. For a moment, her eyes met Mrs. Ruskin’s, and a clear note of fear edged out the cunning anger that characterized the woman. Lydia smiled. Mrs. Ruskin turned and ran, faster than before. Not fast enough.
But now Mr. Ruskin had seen Mrs. Ruskin’s ploy, and he too began shoving pedestrians so they would stumble into Lydia’s way. Lydia had to slow to avoid the obstacles. Inwardly, she cursed, as she had no breath to spare for words. Thunder rumbled, and seconds later lightning speared across the sky, heralding the rain that began to fall in hard, stinging drops.
Lydia ran wide of the crowd, into the street, where all she had to dodge were carriages and horses. Now she ran faster, once more gaining on the Ruskins. Her feet ached, her chest hurt from the pounding of her heart and the rapidity of her breath, and she was beginning to feel the pain from her fight with Mrs. Ruskin, but she refused to give up even though she had no idea what she would do when she caught them.
Then she saw Mr. Ruskin wave his hand at a passing hackney, and her heart pounded with fear as well as exertion. If they rode instead of running, she would lose them entirely, for she could not outrun a carriage. She pushed herself harder, but they were climbing inside, the driver had snapped the reins, and the carriage accelerated away from the curb. Lydia slowed to a halt and stood watching the carriage disappear, conscious of the Ruskins’ triumphant glee. The rain beat upon her head, not yet a downpour but harder than a sprinkle, dreary and discouraging.
Then, to her astonishment, the hackney stopped abruptly some fifty feet away. Lydia waited for the Ruskins to emerge. Instead, the horse and carriage rose slowly into the air, coming to a halt about twenty feet off the ground. The horse jerked its head, tossing its mane and making distressed noises, but its legs were as still as if they were bound together.
Stunned, Lydia drifted forward along with dozens of other people, all of them watching the miraculous carriage. The driver sat as if frozen, though the shifting of his legs and the way he covered his head with his coat said he was not held the way the horse was. Muffled cries came from within the hackney, and its doors rattled but did not open.
“I hope you are right about this, miss,” said a voice from behind Lydia. She whirled around to see the Extraordinary Mover, hovering at the same height as the floating carriage, his gaze fixed on it. He did not look as if he noticed the rain. “I can be severely punished for interfering with civilian transport.”
“You stopped them,” Lydia said, still stunned.
“You were pursuing those two, and you did suggest it was Lord Craythorne’s desire to see them apprehended,” the man said. He descended to alight next to Lydia. The carriage remained where it was, though now hands were gesticulating through the carriage windows.
“These are the leaders of the Libertymen,” Lydia said. “Capturing them was Lord Craythorne’s purpose.” She belatedly recalled that Lord Craythorne’s involvement in rooting out the conspiracy was at the very least not spoken of, and was possibly a great secret, but it no longer mattered.
“Then I should report their capture,” the man said. “If you will permit me, I will carry you as well, miss.”
Lydia shook her head, then realized how very tired she was, and that moreover she had once more not paid attention to her route and was lost. “Yes, thank you—I beg your pardon, we have not been introduced. I am Miss Wescott.”
The man’s eyes widened. “Miss Wescott? I recall your name. You are engaged to marry Lord Craythorne.”
Are engaged. Not were engaged. “Lord Craythorne was shot,” Lydia said, feeling stupid. “I saw. He looked—I believed him dead.”
“He may be—I beg your pardon, Miss Wescott, that was insensitive.” The man’s contrition was visible as well as palpable. “I do not know what happened, but the bustle surrounding him was not the sort of attention one gives a corpse. I do not believe the shot killed him outright.”
Relief tried to overtake Lydia, and she suppressed it, not wishing to hope and have that hope dashed by cold reality. “Please, let us hurry, Mr….”
“Hammond,” the Extraordinary Mover said. “Hold still, and do not resist, as that makes Moving more difficult.”
Lydia obeyed. Hammond Flew back into the sky, and moments later the same pressure that had caught her when she fell out the window gripped her, hugging her legs and hips but leaving her upper body free. The force wrapped her gown tightly around her legs, preserving her modesty, though she found she did not care much who saw her. Lord Craythorne might yet be alive. Once more she suppressed the giddy happiness that tried to overwhelm her.
Hammond Moved her to where he could keep everything in sight, carriage and Lydia and all, and they flew very high, higher than the tops of the buildings. It astonished Lydia that all her running had brought her only a few streets away from Government House. She shielded her face against the rain that battered her more strongly and watched Hammond Fly close beside the hackney, apparently speaking to the driver, who nodded now and again as if in agreement. The horse’s eyes were wild, and it quivered, inspiring pity in Lydia. She knew little of horses, and animals did not feel emotion the same way humans did, so she could not Discern its fear, but it was visible nonetheless.
They reached Government House, where the street in front of the building was empty save for a dark red stain in front of the doors gradually turning pink with rainwater. Lydia looked at it once and then refused to see it again.
The carriage descended, causing the passersby to scatter, and Lydia sank lower until she and the horse and the carriage all touched ground together. No, that was not accurate; the horse continued to float a few inches above the pavement. Hammond alit and called to a man standing nearby. The man looked startled, but in moments he and Hammond were gathering other men to stand around the horse, calming it as Hammond gently released his grip on its legs. The horse continued to quiver, but did not fall, and shortly its master stood beside it, soothing it.
Lydia walked to where she could see the Ruskins within the carriage. They had stopped waving their arms and trying to break down the doors and now sat staring straight ahead, apparently emotionless. Anger and humiliation surged through Mr. Ruskin as well as jealousy, presumably because he now had time to contemplate his wife’s infidelity. Mrs. Ruskin’s fury raged within her, but Lydia now had control of herself and did not fear being overwhelmed.
She considered speaking to them, taunting them at being captured, demanding they reveal the details of their plan or the names of other Libertymen, declaiming noble sentiments about real freedom that would be memorialized for history. But her knowledge that Lord Craythorne might not be dead made all those other desires tawdry. So she merely turned away and entered Government House.
The entrance hall was unexpectedly cold, nearly as cold as outdoors. Lydia shivered and rubbed her arms, which reminded her that she was nearly wet through. Now that the crisis was over, she felt sore and bruised and weary beyond belief.
She looked about her, hoping for direction. The place looked more like a mausoleum than a mansion, its pillared hall greyly lit by windows above the front door and the walls a blank, unadorned white that also looked grey. Rain beat a tattoo against the windows, loud enough to echo through the room. She was alone in the foyer, though two of its four doors were open and she saw movement within each of those rooms and Discerned the presence of others.
Uncertainly, she pushed open the left-hand door and then stood in the doorway, waiting to be noticed. The three men within did not at first look up. One sat at a table, pen in hand; another sat nearby, reading from a sheaf of papers he held; the third rummaged in a desk drawer, muttering to himself. He was the first to see Lydia, and his reaction made her feel even more conspicuous and out of place; he dropped the seal he held so its wooden handle bounced as it hit the floor, and his eyes widened as if Lydia were a specter and not a human woman.
“Miss, you look—” He collected himself and came toward her with his hand outstretched. “Who did this to you? Sit, pray, and permit me to call Dr. Wootton.” He removed his frock coat and placed it around her shoulders.
“I—” Lydia caught herself before she could protest she was uninjured. “It was Mrs. Ruskin. She and Mr. Ruskin are the leaders of the Libertymen Lord Craythorne was pursuing. She pushed me out of a window.”
The other two men had risen and were staring at Lydia in horror. The man with the pen set it aside and hurried to offer Lydia his chair. “Walker, see to it,” he said, and the man who had mentioned a doctor left the room. “Miss—I beg your pardon, but may I ask your name?”
“It is Wescott,” Lydia said. “Please, tell me—”
“Miss Wescott,” the man said, sounding even more horrified. “You are—that is, Lord Craythorne announced his engagement to a Miss Wescott this morning—are you she?”
Lydia nodded. The chair was hard and angular, but she had never felt anything so comfortable. “Please, I must know. Lord Craythorne was shot, but is he…?” She could not bring herself to finish that sentence.
The two men exchanged glances. “Lord Craythorne is still under the care of the Extraordinary Shaper Dr. Mansfield,” the first man said. “I fear we cannot reassure you. Dr. Mansfield is quite competent, however.” That he did not say everything would be all right filled Lydia with cold dread.
Footsteps heralded the appearance of the third man, Walker, who was accompanied by an elderly man dressed in an ugly frock coat and pantaloons that had seen better days. “This is Dr. Wootton, miss,” Walker said. “He will see to your care.”
Dr. Wootton, for all his slovenliness, had a kind smile, and his hand was gentle as it took hers to help her rise. Lydia did not like to lean heavily on someone so old, but his step was firmer than she expected, and she found that, like it or not, she needed assistance.
They walked slowly up the stairs and down a long hall that smelled of astringent cleanser and tallow candles to a door that, when Dr. Wootton opened it, turned out to lead to a bedroom. It smelled of disuse rather than tallow, and when the doctor opened the drapes, the grey light revealed a four-poster bed with no drapes covered in a patchwork quilt and an armchair pulled up before a small round table, both covered in a light layer of dust.
Dr. Wootton guided Lydia to the chair and helped her sit. “You were quite badly beaten, my dear,” he said, frowning. “But it appears you gave your assailant a fight.” He raised Lydia’s hand and examined the nails, which Lydia now realized were bloody.
“I am not so bad off,” she said.
“Nevertheless,” the doctor said, and proceed to examine her. He tutted over her arm when it proved she could not raise it higher than her chest, but eventually said, “That shoulder should be looked at by Dr. Mansfield, to be safe, but otherwise I see nothing wrong with you that Time will not repair.” He smiled, an expression twenty years younger than he was, and added, “Ah, the resilience of youth!”
Lydia did not return his smile. “I believed Dr. Mansfield was attending to Lord Craythorne. Do you know anything of his condition?”
Dr. Wootton’s smile vanished. “I have complete faith in Dr. Mansfield,” he said, “but you must know, a shot to the chest is quite complicated to Heal. Are you acquainted with Lord Craythorne?”
Superstition gripped her, the feeling that if she said she was engaged to marry Lord Craythorne, that admission would cost him his life. “Yes,” she said. “I am Lady Craythorne’s companion.”
Dr. Wootton patted her hand. “You should rest,” he said. “Lady Craythorne has been summoned, and she will arrive shortly.”
Lydia nodded. She stood, feeling as old as Dr. Wootton, and removed Walker’s frock coat and draped it over the armchair. When Dr. Wootton was gone, she pulled the patchwork quilt off the bed and wrapped it around herself, then lay on the bed and curled into a ball. The quilt warmed her, though she was not completely comfortable thanks to her wet gown and draggling hair. It was still enough to stop her shivering.
Her aching body kept her from drifting off to sleep, and memory made her even more wakeful. Lord Craythorne shot, and possibly dying. She could not stop herself remembering how she had spoiled Mrs. Ruskin’s shot, and how that meant she was responsible for Lord Craythorne’s death. She indulged in that misery for a moment or two before controlling herself. She had stopped Mrs. Ruskin from killing the Viceroy, and it was pure bad luck that the wild shot had struck anyone. Lord Craythorne’s death was Mrs. Ruskin’s fault, not Lydia’s.
Here in the still room, with rain against glass the only sound, Lydia could not avoid facing what she had managed not to consider: Lord Craythorne might be dead. Her dear friend, gone forever. How he had become so dear in such a short time, she did not know, but she had so many memories she could not believe they had not known one another forever. The way he looked when he teased her about her abominable lack of poetic sensibilities. The library table set on fire when she had accused him of killing his wife. How he never treated her like a child or an inferior, even when he might justifiably have done so.
Grief welled up in her chest, and her throat ached with unshed tears. The unmistakable sensation of emotion threatening to overwhelm her surged, and she suppressed it desperately, embracing the void so completely she had no sense of herself. There was no Lydia, just the terrible, aching misery of loss.
She did not know how long she was lost to herself, but eventually she jerked awake to a hand on her shoulder. Lady Craythorne stood over her, her face very still. The room was darker than it had been, and it was difficult to see more of Lady Craythorne than her face. “Miss Wescott, wake up,” she said.
Lydia blinked away the dried residue of her tears. Lady Craythorne’s emotions were muted with tiredness, but she was not cheerful or relieved, and Lydia’s heart constricted once more. “Is Lord Craythorne—” she said.
Relief suffused the Dowager Duchess. “He lives,” she said. “He will require more Healing, and he has not yet woken, but—Miss Wescott!”
Lydia gripped Lady Craythorne’s hand in stunned surprise. Blackness flooded her vision, and she heard no more.