HYPOTHESES NON FINGO

WITH A START OF PURE DISMAY, ELIZA LURCHED awake.

She was trapped. Immobile. A hot smothering prison, no light, no air . . .

Gasping, she forced sticky eyes open. Gray daylight leaked in the window of a small wooden room. Cushions hugged her body, and a coarse quilt exuded the sweet fey scent of flowers. She was in bed. Warm and safe, wrapped in strong arms.

A man’s arms. Naked.

Oh, Lizzie. Eliza’s skin burned. She held her breath. Didn’t dare move.

No reaction. So far, so good. Now what?

Carefully, she extricated herself. Unclasped a set of fingers—uncommonly long ones, with one too many knuckles, and how was that possible?—and inch by inch, eased the man’s arm from her body.

He just murmured, contented. Didn’t move. Didn’t awaken.

She exhaled and sat up, sliding her bare legs from beneath the quilt. Lizzie’s gentleman friend—Jonathan, she remembered, a crooked-eyed fellow who seemed a pleasant sort, when he wasn’t housebreaking or picking pockets—just snuggled deeper, black hair spilling over the pillow.

She crept to her feet in a shaft of light, and wobbled, dizzy. Dark-mirror images swirled and shattered, shards of a lurid nightmare. A knife cold in her hand, stabbing down, the squelch of popping flesh, a scream . . . Her stomach felt as if it had been scoured out with sandpaper—drinking again, Lizzie?—and her skin broke out in bumps where moments ago she’d cradled that warm body. Something sticky bothered her between her thighs, and she spared a moment’s thanks for whatever magic lurked in the elixir that undid such things.

The coal fire had died, and the chill soaked rapidly into her bones. Weariness washed her thin. It was long past dawn. She’d be late to the Palace. Worse, she’d be forced to walk the street in Lizzie’s clothes again. Exposed. Nowhere to hide.

Coins littered the floor. The place smelled of breath, sweat, and intimacy, and that flowery scent clung to her loose hair. At least she still wore stockings. Lizzie’s corset lay tossed over a chair, her chemise on the floor. Shivering, Eliza struggled into first one and then the other, fumbling with clips and laces. At least Lizzie’s larger, um, dimensions made it easy . . .

Breathless, she halted in mid-pull.

A scraggy lad in dirty unmentionables gaped at her from his mat before the cold grate. Ashes crusted his white hair. “Pretty,” he whispered, wide-eyed. “Pretty lady.”

Carefully, Eliza lifted a finger to her lips. Shh!

The lad giggled and copied her. “Shh!”

She smiled and made a show of tiptoeing to the door, where Lizzie’s satin skirts lay discarded.

“Shh,” whispered the lad, entranced, “Jacky shh,” and started to sing under his breath. “Ring-a-ring o’ roses . . .”

Hurriedly, Eliza fastened her bodice, skipping buttons in her haste. Her hair was a disaster, the dress creased. Her mouth tasted foul, of gin and this strong new elixir and stale saliva that didn’t belong to her.

She swallowed a curse. Lizzie, why today? She couldn’t meet the Philosopher like this. She’d need to go home and clean up. At her earliest, indeed. It’d be midday before she arrived.

Finally, she yanked on Lizzie’s boots, grabbed the first coat to hand (a voluminous thief’s frock in mustard yellow) and crept out onto the dirty landing, closing the door on Jacky’s rambling melody. “We all fall down . . .”

Out in the street, the rain had thinned to a drizzling mist that rinsed everything gray, as if overnight all the color had leached from the world. Dull-eyed folk hurried by in grim apparel, splashing drab mud. Even the electric coils of passing carts seemed subdued, their bright purple dimmed by the fog.

Eliza splashed across the road, huddling in her yellow coat. She felt wrung out, exhausted. Her throat burned, as if she’d swallowed too much gin or spent the night shouting—probably both—and her lips felt chapped from ill use. But that was impossible. The change healed all wounds, didn’t it? Still, in this gloom no one would see anyone. She’d remain anonymous.

For now.

Frustration bit at her fingers. She’d kept her end of the bargain, but Lizzie wasn’t honoring hers. We can’t go on like this, Lizzie. How can I trust you?

But no sharp retort came. Just silence. As if Lizzie slumbered, sated after her night’s exertions, that bright new elixir drained away, leaving her soul empty.

Where was this? Soho, she supposed, or Seven Dials, though she recognized nothing. It could be Spitalfields or Bethnal Green. Her memory clogged like a scab, and every time she tried to peel back the surface, it stung and bled.

A ragged costermonger couple dragged their sodden vegetable cart through squelching mud. In the gutter, dirty children shivered. Under a darkened gin palace’s window slept an old woman, her soaked dress dripping. Boarded-up shops moped, forlorn.

She reached a tiny crossroads. Courts and lanes led off every which way into a maze of dark passages that looked identical. The gray sky gave no hint of the sun’s angle. Soon, she’d be lost. Her impatience prickled. She’d no time for this.

A filthy-dressed woman stumbled by, rolling her eyes and tearing at seaweed-like hair. Eliza approached her. “Excuse me, can you tell me which way to Oxford Street?”

The woman cackled, pointing—but towards what?

She’d no choice. Gathering her skirts, Eliza set off. The street narrowed. Drunken buildings lurched, ready to fall. No electrics or gaslight here, nothing that smacked of prosperity, only rotting wood and mud and starved groans. Misery like ale, and starvation into cakes. The dimming light threatened, its shadowy hands coveting her.

Eliza hurried on. Stinking mud sucked at her boots. A sweaty fellow in a faded pink coat chortled unpleasantly, baring rotted teeth. “A-hee-hee! Topsy tart! A-hee-hee-hee!”

Shivering, she broke into a trot. Taunting voices followed her. Run, you topsy tart. Where’s your sister? You don’t belong here. She stumbled, caught herself with stinging palms. Splink! Splink! Footsteps approached. She flung a glance over her shoulder. Just a shadow, a crazed giggle.

A House of Correction loomed, its brick wall topped with electrified wire. Frightful wails echoed from within. A hound snarled, guarding a lump of gristle. Down some steps, through a darkened court, around a bend. A whore spat at her. Hungry children fought in the mud. Another dog—or was it the same?

Panic clawed her throat. She was going in circles. She’d never get out of here.

“Lost, my lady? Let me guide you.” That chortling fellow lurched at her from nowhere. His breath slimed her cheek, and sharp metal pricked her waistline. “The Dodger says how-do. A-hee-hee!”

She swung her boot hard at his shins, and ran.

Whoosh! A carriage thundered by three feet away, drenching her with freezing puddle slop. She skidded to a stop, heart galloping. Rain-spattered windows, rushing vehicles, scurrying pedestrians huddled beneath umbrellas. Oxford Street.

And the laughing fellow was gone.

Shaken, Eliza hurried home. It took an hour to wash, dress, and choke down a cup of tea, and by the time she arrived at the electrified gate to Buckingham Palace, armed with doctor’s bag and umbrella—and dosed to the gills with her remedy to keep Lizzie at bay—she was soaked, her head was pounding, and it was a quarter of eleven o’clock.

A pair of armed Enforcers confronted her beneath the gilded iron archway. Hulking brass brutes with grotesque flesh-and-plaster faces, electric eyes glinting red. One had a dead gray human hand grafted onto one arm. These machines weren’t made for beauty or grace. Rather, to engender fear and obedience, and they performed their purpose pitilessly.

She proffered the Regent’s crumpled letter. Hippocrates swaggered alongside her, a clicking bundle of self-importance. She hadn’t had time to polish him, and dirt streaked his little face. “Entry,” he squeaked proudly. “Palace business. Make greater speed.”

The Enforcer digested the letter’s contents, and pointed to her bag with its fleshy hand. The skin was rotting at the edges. It didn’t smell good.

She clutched her bag close. She had medicines in there. Unorthodox ones. “I say, no need for that—”

The machine’s hand snapped to its electric pistol, red eyes dilating black.

“Fine.” She handed the bag over with ill grace, only partly feigned. “You can explain to your Philosopher why I’m late.”

The Enforcer just walked its fingers through the bag—searching for what? Weapons? Aqua vitae? Mistakes in her arithmetic? Next time she’d hide an electric eel in there—and lingered over her phials, opening one to sniff the contents. Did Enforcers have a sense of smell? Some electrical sensor for explosives and noxious fumes? With anarchists and anti-sorcery vigilantes blowing up buildings and railway lines all over the city, the Palace couldn’t be too careful.

Still, her nerves wriggled. Her private things. Her remedies. Alchemy. Good God, the thing would shoot her on the spot.

But it handed the bag back, and waved her through.

Breathless, she trotted across the wide gravel yard to the service door. A clockwork footman in black and gold livery admitted her, marching her through bustling corridors and busy stewards’ rooms, the preparations for the king’s birthday party in full swing.

“I say,” she called, running to match its scything brass stride, “why am I summoned? Has His Majesty fallen ill?”

But the impassive servant didn’t speak. She followed it up the back stairs, dodging equerries, liveried stewards, and hall boys, until they reached the exquisitely plastered piano nobile, where all was empty and silent.

Eliza shivered under the towering painted ceiling, feeling like a miniature Eliza who’d strayed into a giant’s world. Hipp dashed ahead, raindrops flying. “Down, Hipp,” she snapped, and he skidded into a sheepish tiptoe.

Portraits gazed sternly down, ladies in court finery and gentlemen in archaic military uniforms. Spotless red-and-gilt couches lined the corridor. Not a mote of dust invaded. The floorboards didn’t creak. No drapes flapped, no servants whispered. Even the electric lights kept their hum and crackle to a minimum. The only sounds were raindrops pattering on the curved glass clerestory, and the soft thud-thud of the footman’s brass feet on the carpet.

His Majesty’s study door was shut. The footman knocked twice. No answer. It knocked again, louder.

Inside, furniture crashed—a chair hurled across the floor?—and the door yanked open.

“God’s blood, what is it?” Sharp colorless eyes stabbed her from a flurry of unkempt hair, and lit up. “Dr. Jekyll! Excellent! Come and look at this.” A thin hand shot out and dragged her inside, and the door slammed shut, leaving the hapless servant—and Hippocrates—languishing in the corridor.

The room was dark, gilt-rich plaster receding into gloom. The fire had died, and the tall bay window was shrouded in velvet drapes. Somewhere two clocks ticked, an unsettling fraction out of phase. The only illumination remained a cardboard-covered electric lamp on the desk, from which emanated a steady, horizontal beam of white.

“See here,” insisted the Philosopher, plonking down a flat triangular prism the size of a dinner plate and adjusting it with a twist of his wrist, so the light beam shot into the prism, turned about, and splashed back onto his ink-stained hand. “Total internal reflection,” he pronounced. “It’s in my Opticks. No doubt you read of it in school.”

Eliza couldn’t help a smile. This was the Philosopher at his most endearing. His brocaded coat was missing, his shirtsleeves smudged, as if he hadn’t changed for a day or two. His long hair hung loose and unbrushed, his eyes glittering with excitement. One almost forgave him a hundred years of hypocrisy and lies. “The critical angle of incidence,” she recited, “beyond which all light is reflected and no light passes through—”

“Yes, yes. But look! I position this like so.” He grabbed a convex lens and set it behind the prism, so they touched—and a second beam sprang out, slicing through the lens to stab into the curtains across the room. “And egad! Now light is passing through.” He shot her a sidelong glance. No cynicism. Just pure scientific excitement. “Fascinating, yes?”

Eliza faltered. As per usual in his presence, she felt slow, stupid, the dullest girl in class. “I’m afraid I don’t see.”

“Whence that light, Doctor?” An impatient edge sliced his tone. “Have I created it from nothing? Total internal reflection, it appears, is no such thing—but only when I place this lens like so, creating a tiny air gap. Without it, I get nothing.”

“Oh.” She frowned. “That does seem odd.”

“It’s positively diverting.” His delighted smile subtracted years of cynicism from his face. “I’ve thought about this off and on for decades. Imagine your bedroom window at night, wherein no doubt you admire your pretty reflection in the candlelight.” A disconcerting chuckle, as if he’d observed her doing just that and was preparing to prosecute. “But an observer outside can still see in. Why do some corpuscles reflect, and some pass through? Why, Doctor? Do you imagine each corpuscle knows what to do? Is it even conceivable that these phenomena are based purely on chance?”

“I—”

“And even if,” he stressed, returning to his prism and lens without missing a beat, “light were acting as a waveform—and if there’s nothing but aether in that gap there . . .” He tapped his teeth with a thoughtful fingernail. “I built a larger-scale one of these down at Greenwich. I measured how long it takes the light to move from one end to the other. To the best of experimental error, of course. It’s quite a surprising result.”

“I see.” She didn’t see at all. She fidgeted, that scrap of paper crumpled at the bottom of her bag suddenly wriggling to be noticed. If anyone could make sense of Miss de Percy’s fragmented equations—but what if the science were forbidden? She didn’t want Mr. Starling—or this Professor Crane, for that matter—in trouble with the Royal. Eliza’s credit with Sir Isaac took her only so far.

He chuckled at her bewilderment. “Never mind. I merely make the observation. Whatever isn’t forbidden is inevitable. There is doubtless some fundamental law of the universe requiring light to behave in such bizarre fashion. But I do not hypothesize as to what it is.” He pulled on his charcoal tailcoat and heaved the curtain aside, squinting into wintery gray glare. “Morning, is it? How time flies when one’s having such excellent fun. You’re late, Dr. Jekyll,” he added sharply, and whirled on his heel.

And to that, she had nothing to say as she meekly followed him through the door into the king’s inner audience chamber.

A merry fire crackled in a marble hearth beneath a glittering electric chandelier. Somewhere, a multi-phonic music box tinkled, an aria from Mozart’s Die Zauberflöte. A silver tray of tea and cream cakes sat on a side table. In the corner, a liveried nurse bobbed a curtsey to the Philosopher. A low hubbub of conversation filtered in through the closed doors from the main chamber. Important people, no doubt, politicians and lords waiting to see the Regent and the king.

The young man sat cross-legged on the floor, rolling his toy train over the thick red carpet. Someone—the nurse?—had dressed him painstakingly in a beautiful morning suit, white collar and cuffs and iron-gray coat. No mourning band for his mother, of course. One didn’t mention death and the sovereign in the same sentence. But cream splattered down his front, the clips torn from his cuffs. He nodded compulsively, fair hair bobbing, and drool slipped down his chin.

Edward VII was seventeen with the mind of a six-year-old. He looked far too big to be playing with trains. Rumor whispered that the Philosopher addled his brain with poisons to keep him under control. But Eliza had examined the boy, and found no evidence of drugs, medical or alchemical. The king was simply absent, his mind locked away where no one, not even he, could find it.

At his side bent a thin fellow in a drab suit, all knees and elbows like a stick insect. He wore iron-rimmed spectacles with a retractable metal magnifier attached. Sweat dampened his sparse gray hair. On the floor, his hinged leather bag held brass calipers, screws, bellows, and a vile-looking funnel.

Eliza’s guts churned. That tube from her nightmare, wriggling down her throat with cold medicine spurting forth. This fellow was an alienist of the worst sort. Was she being fired?

“Your Majesty.” Sir Isaac bowed curtly. “Dr. Jekyll is here.”

Eliza did her best curtsey. The king made no sign. Just kept rolling his wooden train back and forth.

“At last.” From the window seat rose a lady in a vivid blue brocade gown, hair pinned under a hat of curled white lace. Victoria, the Princess Royal, elder to the king by five years. A capable young woman, who would have been king if she’d been born a boy. She motioned Eliza aside, her face dark with concern. “His Majesty is worse, I’m afraid, since last you came. That medication you prescribed was promising, but it’s run out. Bertie, stop that, dear. You’re spilling it.”

The king giggled, gleefully banging his train into his cake plate. The nurse ran to the rescue, wiping up cream and retrieving broken china.

“Sorry to hear that, ma’am.” Eliza kept her expression grim, but inside she brightened. If her medication was working even a little, that was progress.

“This alienist is a lunatic,” whispered Victoria, out of the Philosopher’s earshot. Suddenly she looked ten years older, a sister fearful for her brother’s welfare—or his life. “I humor him for my late mother’s sake, but . . . can’t you do something? It’s Bertie’s birthday this week and he must appear at the banquet. And the Foreign Secretary is outside. I don’t want that reptile to see my brother like this.” She glared at the sweating stick-insect fellow, and raised her voice. “Dr. Savage here seems to regard His Majesty as a species of wild beast to be tamed.”

Dr. Savage—a physician, then, not a surgeon or apothecary—gave a rotten-toothed smile and took a tin of evil-looking green snuff from his box. “Just the ticket for this type of mania, ma’am.” He applied the snuff to the king’s nose. The child sneezed violently half a dozen times and began to hiccup and weep, his nose turning purple.

Crestfallen, Savage squinted at the king through his magnifier. “The acid seems to have stung Your Majesty’s eyes. How unexpected.” From his bag he took a pair of sharp-edged steel handcuffs chained to a spiked collar. “Here we are, sir. We’ll soon have you cured.”

The Regent made a moue of disgust. “Savage, your interpretation of the term ‘natural philosophy’ makes one shudder. I ought to have reasoned her late Majesty’s favorite would be an idiot.”

“But restraint, Sir Isaac. That’s what’s required.” Savage rattled the horrid cuffs. “It’s the only treatment for these feeble-minded recalcitrants, when the strongest drugs don’t work.”

Politely, Eliza cleared her throat. “Forgive my presumption, sir, but perhaps Dr. Savage is confusing His Majesty’s state with violent mania. I’ve found that if the heavier narcotics are left off, in cases of sullen dementia the patient eventually awakens into a state of calm, whereupon more specific treatments can be attempted without any restraints at all.”

Savage scowled. Not at her, oh no. Heaven forbid he should inadvertently acknowledge she existed. “In inferior institutions such as Bethlem Hospital, Sir Isaac, the most wretched medieval quackery was perpetrated by so-called doctors in the guise of honest medicine. We can only be grateful that antediluvian relic burned to the ground.”

She smiled sharply. “Did you ever actually visit Bethlem, Dr. Savage? If you’d bothered, you’d know that Mr. Fairfax was a fine surgeon and his treatments—”

“If your honor would allow me,” cut in Savage loudly, “to transport His Majesty to my new state-of-the-art facility, where we can chain him securely and commence regular beatings.”

Sir Isaac’s eyes flashed stormy warning. “That will be all, Savage.”

“But we must whip him, sir! Flog him! Release those troublesome choleric humors! It’s the only way—”

“Out, fool.” The Regent’s voice sliced like a guillotine blade through fog. “Before I lose my temper and turn that whip on you.”

Savage lost no time in grabbing his bag and marching for the door. “Mark my words, Doctor,” he muttered as he passed. “Leave that one unchained and you’ll regret it.”

Eliza checked a sigh. Surely professionals ought to be able to co-consult without jealous sniping? Had she unwittingly made another enemy?

But she shivered, too, recalling her nightmare, the manacles, that horrid tube. She hadn’t liked the look of Savage’s treatments. When you finally drive me mad, Lizzie, let’s hope we don’t end up in Savage’s “facility.”

Princess Victoria gave a satisfied humph. “What a perfect idiot. On that, Regent, at least we can agree.”

“Such a pity your opinion troubles me none.” Pointedly, Sir Isaac referred to some letters on the desk. “Proceed, Dr. Jekyll. I do have other appointments.”

Eliza knelt by the king’s side, setting down her bag. The music box finished its melody and began again, slower. “Your Majesty?” She stroked back his fair hair. A pleasant young face, if slack. “Sir, how are you feeling?”

He just stared dully, without recognition.

She made swift mental notes, needles stabbing into her back as Sir Isaac watched her with hawkish interest while he pretended to read. Low fever. Eyes glassy, pupils dilated. Pallor exaggerated. Saliva clear. “What’s he eaten today?”

The nurse curtseyed again. “Cake, ma’am. I couldn’t get the porridge down.”

The clockwork music box wound down, its final chord fading. “Try again, if you please,” said Eliza. “He won’t improve if he doesn’t eat . . . I say, whatever’s the matter?”

The king clawed at his face, wheezing for breath. “Murder!” His eyes gleamed like poisoned darts, no longer vacant but afire. “Murder! They’re trying to kill me. Run for your lives!”

Princess Victoria ran to wind up the music box. Crink! Crank! The melody started again. The boy was weeping now, rocking back and forth, blood oozing from scratched cheeks. “There, Bertie,” soothed Victoria, “it’s playing again now. He really does like his Mozart.”

As always, his condition twanged loose wires in Eliza’s memory. Sometimes a docile child, taking his supper and playing his little mandolin for hours on end. On other occasions, his rage lapsed into cunning, and he tore the wings from flies and twisted the fat Palace cat’s tail until it yowled. Yet others, he rolled wet eyes at her with what she could only describe as a thoroughly lascivious grin.

Not unlike the polar states of another unstable fellow of her acquaintance. Almost a transcendental identity.

Sympathy tugged at her heart. He ought to be out playing polo, hunting, flirting with heiresses, all the things titled young gentlemen did. Not languishing here, trapped in his own mind, playing with a train set while others carried on his kingdom’s business without him.

Her courage quailed. She’d never treated the king in the Philosopher’s presence before. Was her dangerous choice of remedies justified? She hoped so, for the king’s sake—and for her own.

From her bag, she took a glass phial. Inside, the medicine she’d developed—with Mr. Finch’s assistance, naturally—bubbled and sang, a thick grassy color. Its bitter smell drifted, reminiscent of her elixir, and inside her, Lizzie thrashed like a trapped serpent. This wasn’t the elixir itself. Merely some of the same ingredients. Lux ex tenebris: to make light from darkness. Scientific heresy, of course, but she’d judged it worth the risk. A patient like Bertie had forbidden corridors in his mind, locked rooms he couldn’t open. If she could encourage those locks to break . . .

Ha! yelled Lizzie in her head, a bright shock. I’ll break you, my pretty Eliza. Dissolve you, like Eddie did Henry. Transparent like god-rotted glass. See how you like it!

The liquid splashed over Eliza’s hand, icy and burning.

Victoria eyed the bottle, abruptly suspicious. “What’s that?”

“Similar to last week, ma’am. A tonic I’ve developed.” Casually, she wiped away the spillage.

“Ah.” A glimmer of interest. “What exactly does it do?”

“It should calm his jittery nerves, and encourage him to, er, communicate more lucidly. I’ve had some success with it with similar patients in institutions—”

“Madhouses, you mean.” Victoria’s mouth set hard. “My brother is not a lunatic, Dr. Jekyll.”

“Of course not—”

“And I won’t have it put about that he is. Do you hear me?”

“I assure you, ma’am, I keep the strictest patient confidentiality—”

“You doctors are all the same. Think you know everything.” Victoria worked herself into a rage, skirts swirling as she paced. “You’re not the first quack to attend on His Majesty’s affliction, and I promise you shan’t be the last.”

Nothing to do but keep her eyes down. But the word quack stung Eliza’s skin like an angry wasp. A moment ago the princess had practically begged her for help. How had she disappointed? Numbly, she waited for Victoria to dismiss her for good. So much for her opportunity to shine.

“Give me that.” Victoria swiped the phial from Eliza’s fist. “I’ll have it tested by my own reputable physicians before he drinks a single drop. Think you can feed my brother whatever snake oil takes your fancy? I shan’t allow it!”

Sir Isaac stepped deliberately into Victoria’s path, oozing lean menace. “I’ll decide what we shall and shan’t allow, ma’am. I have studied such things. You have not. Dr. Jekyll’s medicinals are of the finest efficacious quality.”

Eliza felt faint. Was he being sarcastic? Playing with her, a sleek gray cat batting about its favorite timid mouse? A guilty mouse who could summon no legal defense. A mouse who, if he chose, was as good as dead.

Victoria’s face suffused. “I am a princess of this realm, sir, and you are a farmer’s son. Dare you presume—”

“Must we go over this again?” Sir Isaac’s rain-gray eyes threatened murder. “I am Regent. The king is in my charge. Dr. Jekyll has my full confidence, and you are an irrelevance standing in my way.” He beckoned sharply. “Now hand that over, if you please.”

Victoria fumed, outraged—but with ill grace, she thrust out the phial.

He snatched it, cut her a razor-sharp smile, and turned away. At his feet, King Edward nodded and drooled, silent once more.

“You haven’t heard the last of this.” Victoria flung open the double doors and stalked out into the main audience chamber. Unseen deferential murmurs from the petitioners—your royal highness, princess, ma’am—rippled down the hall and faded into the distance.

Eliza waited, sick and shuddering.

The Philosopher held Eliza’s phial to the light. Inside, the tell-tale green liquid bubbled and hummed. “Ah,” he said lightly, “the famous medication. My curiosity knows no bounds.”

Surely the stuff reeked of alchemy. Sir Isaac would tire of his games, dismiss her in disgrace. Worse, summon his Enforcers to drag her to the Tower, where a dank electrified cell awaited her, complete with rusted electrodes and agony. She might never be released. Day after day, locked up without elixir, enduring Lizzie’s writhings and screamings to be free. And when she could endure the turmoil no longer . . .

He popped the cork, and sniffed. Frowned. Sniffed again. “Egad,” he remarked dryly, “how peculiar. What’s in it?”

She smiled weakly. “Numerous ingredients. I hardly know. As I say, I’ve had success with small doses in the more tractable lun— Er, patients at Bethlem.”

“Extraordinary. One would almost say transcendental?” He tipped a drop onto his thumb. Rubbed it. Touched it to the tip of his tongue.

She nearly retched. “I’m afraid I don’t—”

“Don’t insult me, Dr. Jekyll. I’ve been preparing aqua vitae for a century or more. I know alchemy when I see it.” A cold smile stretched his lips. “My, my. A shame if your unorthodox dabblings should offend me somehow. If the king’s condition should improve too drastically, for instance. Do you understand?”

Her stomach knotted, cold slimy terror. So that was it. The Philosopher didn’t want the king cured. He wanted him kept useless and pliable. Under control.

What part was she expected to play in this charade? Poison the king, keep him witless and drooling?

Or just . . . do nothing? Primum non nocere, said the ancient physicians’ creed. First, do no harm. But how could she justify withholding treatment when she knew it helped? Didn’t it?

Thump! The doors flew open, and Hipp barreled in and hurled himself eagerly at her skirts. She stumbled to her knees against the gilded red sofa. Footsteps slipped over the carpet, a sudden forest of legs. “Hipp, for heaven’s sake—”

“Foreign Secretary,” said Sir Isaac blandly, and in a twinkling hid her incriminating phial behind his back. “Good of you to come, my lord.”

Hurriedly, Eliza gathered Hipp in, glancing up with trepidation at the Secretary and his entourage—into sparkling eyes of clear electric blue.

Remy Lafayette winked at her, his scarlet-and-gold cavalry officer’s coat dazzling as ever. It only made his chestnut hair glisten harder, if that were even possible, and his eyes glow deeper.

She couldn’t smother her delighted grin. She’d imagined from his letter that he wasn’t returning for weeks. Just like him to want to surprise her.

Languidly, the Foreign Secretary—namely the 1st Earl of Beaconsfield—sat. Dark and sardonic with a neat goatee, a green coat, and striped yellow trousers. Fastidiously, he crossed his legs, arranging himself to best advantage, draping one hand over a glittering diamond-headed cane. “Regent. Good of you to see me.” His tone was dry, as if he didn’t mean it in the slightest and didn’t care who knew.

Eliza—still kneeling on the floor—couldn’t help a curious stare. With Parliament dissolved on the old queen’s assassination, and the general election halfway done, the papers said this vain, provocative little man would be the next Prime Minister. A career politician, and raised from the Commons to boot, his title newly minted by the late, besotted queen. Doubly disturbing to the establishment.

That reptile, Princess Victoria had called him. Certainly his eyes were narrow and heavy-lidded, his thin mouth perennially mocking. Not a man to be trusted.

But she couldn’t concentrate on that now. Not with Remy’s gaze on her, coaxing away her every glimmer of attention. Was it only that she’d missed him, or did he look even more unreasonably spectacular than usual?

“—your man here informs me the Paris sorcerers are deploying mesmerism and mind control to suppress their unruly citizens,” Lord Beaconsfield was saying in his exaggeratedly bored drawl. “Mind control. I mean, really. Their Committee of Public Safety have gone certifiably insane.” He fluttered a limp hand. “And apparently the incumbent set of lunatics are about to be stabbed in the back by an even more rot-brained outfit, who want nothing less than outright anarchy. Com-mo-tion, sir. Pure chaos. It’s 1794 all over again.”

The Regent smiled sharply. “Heaven forbid. This group Liberté du Sang—”

“La Belle et la Bête, their two leaders call themselves. Beauty and the Beast. Villains from an overwrought Italian opera, if you ask me. ‘Liberty of blood,’ indeed. What does that even mean?” Beaconsfield sniffed, dabbing his nose with a scarlet handkerchief. “Shapeshifters, Sir Isaac. It’s insufferable. One almost wishes that half-wit Louis Philippe back again. At least he knew the value of an honest war.”

The king crawled under the Regent’s chair, and absently Sir Isaac stroked his hair, shushing him as one might a nervous puppy. “And the meeting with our envoys?”

Behind the Foreign Secretary, Remy cleared his throat. “All arranged, sir. Security is in hand. La Bête is a coward, but I think he might be persuaded.”

Beaconsfield arched his manicured eyebrows at the Regent. “Good fellow, your Lafayette. When he does as he’s told, which isn’t often. Supposed to be spying on them, my boy, not joining their ranks.”

Remy didn’t flicker. “Only way to gain their trust, my lord.”

“I’m sure,” said the Regent dryly. “And what of their agitators in London?”

Beaconsfield sniffed. “Damned radicals. This government of ours may indeed be an organized hypocrisy, but at least it is organized. I hear they want women’s suffrage and no income tax. Democracy,” he declared with a delicate shudder, “is a perfect drain on parliamentary resources. What an abject bore.”

Newton yawned. “His Majesty will receive your reports, I suppose?”

“Naturally.” Beaconsfield admired the sparkling diamond-studded unicorn atop his cane. “Lafayette, be a darling, do. Just remember you’re writing for royalty. They live to be flattered, my boy. Make ’em think they’re the smartest person in the room. None of your damned regimental straightforwardness.”

Remy bowed. “I’ll lay it on with a trowel, my lord.”

“Good man.” The earl waved languidly. “Off you go, leave the adults to talk. We’ll discuss your other matter later. At the Carlton, of course. Proper Tory stronghold. One can’t use the privy at Whitehall these days without spies bursting in.”

Eliza rose, taking up her bag. “Regent, may I also be excused?”

The Foreign Secretary stared archly at her interjection. Perhaps he’d imagined her a servant. But Sir Isaac winked conspiratorially at her—a disconcerting experience—and placed her phial on the desk. “Be on your way, Doctor. I’ll administer this curious medicinal as per your instructions. What were your instructions, precisely?”

She forced a smile. “A drachm now, and another before supper, sir.”

“Bated breath, I’m sure. Good day.”

“I say,” drawled Beaconsfield, “young madam, are you a physician? Is that allowed?” His heavy-lidded eyes were lazy on her face, but interest smoldered, too, as if she’d offered him some delicacy that watered his mocking mouth.

As if he’d imagined a tantalizing use for her, and intended on putting his plan into practice without delay. This man was no foppish idiot. Far from it.

Flustered, she curtseyed to the king and hurried out, Hipp galloping at her side. She pushed through the crush of grandees and civil servants, searching for Remy. “Oh, there you are—”

“And there you are.” He flashed that ridiculously brilliant smile. “Hello, Dr. Jekyll. Did you miss me?”

She laughed, drinking in the sight of him. Irrational, how her pulse fluttered. Most unscientific. For once, she didn’t mind. “I might have noticed you were gone. Dare I hope Paris has improved your manners?”

“Glad to disappoint.” He tucked his hands behind his back, and bent closer to whisper. “Imagine I’m kissing you.”

“Oh?” She inhaled, closing her eyes. “Hmm. I see.”

“Yes. And again, you fascinating woman. Do you feel it? You can barely breathe. It’s perfectly scandalous. You’re practically fainting in my arms.”

She popped her eyes open, grinning. She wanted to grab his hair, draw his mouth to hers for real. “Stop that, you pirate. People will stare.”

“Let them.” As usual, his ridiculously blue eyes undid her. Nothing but truth. “Let them marvel at how beautiful you are.”

“Ha! If you’d only written ahead, I’d have had my hair done.” She resisted the need to tidy imaginarily disheveled skirts. “I hardly expected you back so soon. Whatever will my husband say?”

“The wind was good, and I have ways of traveling swiftly.” A mysterious wink. “I wanted to surprise you.”

His presence made her ache, both sweet and bitter. She wanted to laugh in bliss, but a darker, more shameful mood seized her, too. Living alone was so much simpler. Only herself to care for, only her own affairs to worry about.

But that was a joke, wasn’t it? Since he’d left for Paris weeks ago, she’d struggled to fall asleep each night, fearing for his safety. Imagining all the horrible things that could be happening to him. And always, like a wicked worm coiled in the blackest depths of her heart, there lurked the creeping certainty that she’d be found out, slammed down, stripped of her illicit joy.

She sighed. Was this love, then? Because it came burdened with cartloads of unpleasant baggage that no one ever spoke about. Hmph. Those sonnet writers had a lot to answer for.

Remy touched her chin. “You look as if someone stabbed your ghost in the heart. Did I say something wrong?”

She smiled sweetly. “Given your usual addle-mouthed antics? I expect irate antagonists are scattered in your wake all the way from the place de la révolution. No wonder we’re on the brink of war.”

An unreasonably charming smile. “Is it wrong that I just swooned a little? Madam, if forced to trade away either your kiss or your wit, I’d be in agonies of indecision.”

“The former, I should hope. Ought I to agree with your every idiotic remark, and surrender to your un-gentleman-like ravishment without a blink? Imagine how vain and indolent you’d become.”

A gleeful glint of eye. “Imagine.”

Hipp dashed up, blue light blinking madly and cogs whizzing. “Ee-e-e-e-e-e-EH!” he shouted, too excited to make any sense.

Remy petted Hipp’s boxy head. “As eager as I.”

“And even more articulate.” She edged towards the exit, eager to leave this suffocating hall where they were public property. Where they couldn’t touch or share confidences or be themselves. “I got your letter. How was Paris?”

He made a face. “Awful. A bloodbath. I still can’t get the stink of sorcery out of my clothes. I’m only surprised the Philosopher didn’t arrest me on the spot.”

“And the mission goes well?” She kept her voice light, though she desperately wanted information. What was his mission, anyway? For whom was he working—the Royal, or this unsettling Lord Beaconsfield?

“Swimmingly. The Philosopher has me ferreting out crackpot scientists all over Paris. Wants to catalogue their contribution to the French war effort. Truly, it’s mind-numbingly dull and I don’t understand the half of it.”

Uneasily, she recalled Mr. Finch’s tinfoil hat. “Do they really have mind control machines?”

“It would explain a lot. You wouldn’t credit the nonsense these people believe.”

“And the Foreign Office? What do they want?”

“Oh, you know,” he said cheerfully as they picked their way down the stairs through a forest of servants and petitioners. “Political machinations, Machiavellian plots, bloody coups d’états in the Tuileries. Up to our necks in it. Oh, I almost forgot. I’ve a present for you.” He handed her a feathered cockade. Black edged with scarlet, the colors of Liberté du Sang.

She whisked it out of sight. “Put that away, you anarchist. Are you trying to get us arrested?”

An irreverent blue twinkle. “What? It’s what they’re all wearing in Paris this season.”

“Honestly, do you take nothing seriously?” But she couldn’t help laughing. He didn’t. Never had. “How you ever succeed as a covert agent is a mystery. It’s a wonder your tragic sense of humor doesn’t give you away as soon as you open your mouth.”

“Doubtless it would, my petal, if they didn’t already know exactly who I am. All part of the fun.” At her expression, he sobered. “It was inevitable, my sweet. This appalling fellow la Bête knows François was my brother. That’s the whole point. It’s a double game. Perhaps I, too, can be lured to the ways of darkness.”

He said it lightly, but she knew that even the mention of François’s treachery still hurt him deeply. The brothers Lafayette had both fought wars for the Empire, spilled too much blood—their own and others’—in the service of the late queen. The notion that François, a decorated Royal Navy captain, had thrown it all away for nothing was too much for Remy to bear. He was convinced François had been turned. Warped into a traitor by sorcerers’ lies.

They emerged into the wet gray courtyard, where flowerbeds ran sodden and puddles ringed the ornate memorial to the dead Prince Consort, who’d supposedly been poisoned by sorcerers. “And are you well? With the, er, moon phases, I mean.”

“Well enough. I’ve barely time to worry about it.” He shrugged, unconcerned. “Don’t fret, my sweet. There are worse things than a night spent in a cage.”

“It’s only that I’ve made some progress with my cure, and . . . no, let’s not speak of it,” she finished hurriedly, seeing his expression. “No doubt you’ll be leaving again soon. Let’s just enjoy each other?”

“Perfectly.” His eyes glowed, and he kissed her gloved hand, warm and safe. “Tell me everything that’s happened. You and Griffin making short work of that Soho Slasher business?”

“Not yet, sadly. But I do have another interesting matter.” She explained about Antoinette de Percy’s murder, the defaced ledger, the inexplicable equations. “There’s a demonstration this afternoon of the new aether engine. I’d like to meet this Professor Crane, see what kind of people these scientists are. I don’t suppose you can spare the time?”

“For you, I can spare all the time.” A vintage Lafayette smile. “Lunch first?”

“Shirker. What of your reports for that ghastly Foreign Secretary?”

“As if he’ll read them anyway. Too busy stabbing hapless Tories in the back on his way up the greasy pole.”

“What a dreadful man. I thought he was a Tory.”

“Precisely why they never see him coming. If they don’t cover their flank, he’ll be Prime Minister once the polling’s in. Then those bunglers down at Horse Guards will see some action.”

She smiled uneasily. If it came to war, Remy might return to his regiment. Leave her behind, helpless along with all the other women. The army needed doctors, surely. Would she be allowed to go? “But surely the Empire wouldn’t risk such a shattering defeat. The French coalition army is too vast. Seems reasonable to build up our military capability first. Rebuild the skyship fleet, that sort of thing.” Immediately she winced at her carelessness. The skyship fleet had been François’s project, terminated in a hail of flame and treason.

But Remy just shrugged. “Reason rarely comes into it, my love. They say this mysterious la Belle character is a double agent, a man with influence at the War Office. Perhaps we’re all doomed. But you needn’t worry your pretty head about unladylike politics,” he added airily. “Leave the voting to the men. We’re so much cleverer.”

She swatted him, earning a strange look from the Enforcer at the gate as Remy collected his weapons: sword and electric pistol, both polished to perfection. “I liked you better when you were just an arrogant Royal Society investigator. This civil service nonsense is giving you airs.”

“Oh, I’m still an arrogant Royal Society investigator. I’m just sharing my talents. Seeing as I’ve so many to go around.”

“Don’t spread them too thinly, Captain.” She eyed him sternly as they crossed the wide avenue and turned towards Hyde Park Corner. “I should be disappointed if none remained for me.”