The Clockwork Dagger Page 7

  He frowned, brows knitting together. “It looks like a tattoo.”

  “Well, fifty years without maintenance will erode most enchantments. Maybe something was once there, or maybe it’s a peculiar birthmark and this is all footle.”

  He continued to study her, and Octavia looked at Mrs. Stout instead, fearing he would see through her deceit. Could this truly be the princess? The daughter of King Kethan, a man her parents spoke of with a reverence otherwise reserved for God?

  There must be some other reason, some justification.

  Octavia finished buttoning Mrs. Stout’s gown and grabbed the fresh sheet from the floor. How would Mrs. Stout react when she knew they suspected?

  A heavy hand lay on Octavia’s shoulders. Mr. Garret’s hands were broad and strong, his fingernails groomed with care. “I will keep your secrets,” he said, his voice soft and lilting. Everything he said was a poem. “I vow that to you upon my life.”

  She felt a twinge of guilt at holding back information. “If Mrs. Stout is really . . . you know who, I doubt your assurances will hold weight. A woman in her position doesn’t stay alive by having others know her true identity.”

  His hand lifted from her shoulder. “I agree.” They sat there in uncomfortable silence. She fidgeted with the sheet on Mrs. Stout.

  “I should finish cleaning in here,” he finally said.

  “Yes.” Octavia didn’t look at him.

  Octavia and Mr. Garret exchanged few other words as he tacked a fresh carpet into the floor. When they set Mrs. Stout onto her fully remade bed, she quivered in her sleep. Her consciousness was rising.

  “Thank you for your assistance, Mr. Garret,” Octavia whispered at the door.

  He offered her a short bow. His crimson uniform looked even more worn and rumpled after a full day of wear, but his eyes were keen. “I will monitor matters lest you be disturbed again.”

  “Thank you,” she repeated.

  She latched the door shut and then eyed the room. Any substantial furniture was bolted to the walls, so she grabbed their heavy baggage and stacked it against the door. Octavia plucked the pillow from her bunk and dropped it on the floor. The new carpet reeked of bleach and mustiness, the pile chilly from wherever it had been stored. She lay down with the light still on and glaring. From her vantage point on the floor, she could see Mrs. Stout’s pasty arm dangling over the edge of the cot. It twitched on occasion, loose flesh jiggling at the elbow.

  Octavia unlaced her boots and pulled down her threadbare stockings. Tucking her feet together, sole to sole, she angled her knees out in the diamond Al Cala position. She placed her hands together against her lower belly and inhaled to fill her lungs.

  The chaos of the city, the search for the airship, Mr. Drury. Sweet little Leaf, the lone survivor of his flock. Mrs. Stout. Tears burned her eyes, and she breathed out, expelling the full burden of air along with her anxieties of the day. She closed her eyes, the world within her eyelids lit by the moon.

  The Lady’s Tree, taller than any mountain. Its bark green with algae, its branches burdened by vines and a hundred kinds of life. Waterfalls trickle through wide gaps in the bark; goats and deer bound up the slopes to hide within the thick brush.

  “You know the sorrow of a woman’s heart,” Octavia whispered, the words slurred with tiredness. “Be with me, Lady.” She breathed in again, her vision homing in on a single branch, a single leaf. She imagined the scent in her nostrils, musty and verdant. The single leaf, green and five-pointed, bobbed on its twig. As if she flew, Octavia reached out her hands to cup the leaf as it fell. It only wobbled on the twig, a single drop of dew coursing along the membranes and falling to her hands. Coolness and peace tingled from her palm and prickled the hairs on her arms, swirling in her chest. Pleasant pressure weighed against her like a stack of five quilts on the coldest winter’s eve.

  Octavia’s soul radiated its thanks to the Lady as her body drifted to slumber.

  THE SHRILLNESS OF A bell jarred her awake. Octavia bolted to sit upright, heart racing. Oh. She lay on the floor. The light was on. Muffled voices and reverberations from footsteps thudded through the flooring. Morning, already? Her fingers fumbled for her watch and she squinted bleary-eyed at the numbers upon the face. Exactly seven. Her eyes widened as memories of the previous evening flooded her mind. Mrs. Stout.

  Mrs. Stout lay there with chapped lips agape like a fish. Her eyes were wide with shock, her silvery brow furrowed.

  “What . . . ?” Mrs. Stout asked, the word slurred.

  “Move slowly, Mrs. Stout. You endured a terrible trauma last night.” Octavia braced her hands against Mrs. Stout’s shoulders to force her down.

  “I . . . oh.” She pressed a trembling fist to her chest, to where the scar lay. “I dreamed . . . I thought it was memory.”

  “During a healing, it’s common to flash back to early memories of pain,” Octavia said. “I once knew a young man who lost part of his leg on the field, but when he awoke from surgery, he insisted that it was only broken. In his mind, he had returned to a childhood incident when he had fallen from a tree and broken that same leg.” She shrugged. “Perhaps that’s the Lady’s way. There’s some comfort in the familiar, even in pain.”

  “The Lady.” Mrs. Stout licked her dry lips.

  Octavia filled a small cup at the tap and assisted Mrs. Stout in sitting up to drink. “I’m a medician.” She lowered her voice to imply secrecy.

  “I know.” Mrs. Stout leaned back against the wall.

  “Do you remember anything about what happened when you retired to bed last night?”

  Mrs. Stout opened one eye. “You’re not going to ask how I knew, or when?”

  “You mentioned my sensing abilities earlier, and I wondered what may have given me away.” She paused, recalling Mr. Garret’s aggravating statement. “Was it my satchel?”

  “No.” A smile softened her face. “But to answer your first question, I remember going to bed last night. I remember worrying over you and that little gremlin of ours, but you seemed in good hands with that steward.”

  Octavia’s breath caught. Leaf! With Mrs. Stout’s attack and the ensuing cleanup, she had forgotten all about him.

  “Our cots were set up,” Mrs. Stout continued, “I went to sleep. Then . . . footsteps. I thought you were back, and then there was pain. Such terrible pain.” She pressed a fist to her chest again, shuddering. “I tried to scream. I know I did. But all I remember is blackness and . . . and memory . . . and then . . . It became cozy, soothing. What happened, Miss Leander?”

  “You were attacked. Most brutally.” She helped Mrs. Stout drink again. “Someone stabbed you. When we came in, you were near death.”

  “We?”

  “Yes. Myself and Mr. Garret. The steward.”

  “Oh.” Mrs. Stout frowned into space.

  “We . . . cleaned up. We deemed it best to keep this attack a secret for now, but if you disagree—”

  “No. I do not.”

  Octavia’s tongue floundered in her mouth. She had to bring this up. She had to know, and yet . . . “I . . . we . . . couldn’t help but notice your scar. On your chest.”

  Mrs. Stout’s eyes flared open. “You . . . what?”

  “It’s probably nothing. Just a scar. We know that.”

  “You . . . and that steward?” Mrs. Stout glared toward the door. If she were an infernal, that entire wall would be a molten heap.

  “It’s okay, Mrs. Stout, really. Just say it’s balderdash. A coincidence.”

  The older woman seemed to shrivel against the wall, both hands pressed to her face. “Lies. Do you have any idea how sick I am of lies and subterfuge? It’s all good and well when reading a copper novel, but when it’s your own life, it becomes so old and tiresome.”

  Octavia’s tongue felt as dry as cotton. “You . . . what are you saying, Mrs. Stout?”

  “I don’t mind you knowing. I owe you my life, and you’re one of Nelly’s girls. But for a man to know, a servant . . . God, d
o you know how those people gossip?” Her skin resembled vellum, translucent and frail. Octavia offered her a drink and Mrs. Stout jerked her head in refusal.

  “Mr. Garret has an appalling way of finding out these things,” Octavia said. “He knows I’m a medician traveling incognito as well, but he doesn’t know that the enchanted tattoo on your foot—”

  “The enchanted what?”

  “You have magic inlaid on a mark between your toes. I imagine it was done when you were quite young. It . . . it states who you are.”

  Mrs. Stout’s throat creaked like an old door. “Oh my goodness. I didn’t know. All these years, it would have been that easily revealed?”

  “Well, no. How many magi have probed between your toes?” Octavia asked. Mrs. Stout managed an anemic smile. “You knew what I was and that I’m a Percival girl and Nelly . . . that’s Miss Percival’s true first name, but no one ever calls her that.”

  “Most people haven’t known her for over fifty years either. I knew her when she was Nelly Winters, before she became headmistress and adopted the name Percival. She asked me to be here on the Argus, you see. Sent me a letter. Offered her condolences on my husband’s death, and said that she had a new girl about to set out in the world. Her most brilliant student, though rather sheltered. She knows I love to travel. I volunteered to ride along, watch out for you.”

  “Miss Percival actually asked this of you?” Awe softened Octavia’s voice. She cares! She just didn’t know how to show it. “But . . . I’ve never known of any other girls . . . I mean to say, we’re all rather sheltered in regard to society. Have you done this before?”

  “Never.” Mrs. Stout chortled. “Are you flattered, or aghast?”

  “Which should I be?” Octavia shook her head in a daze. “I know yesterday I fumbled around a bit, but surely I don’t need a babysitter for the full trip.”

  “Now, now, child. Don’t look at it in such a severe light. I’m sure Nelly regarded this as a healing journey for both of us. I’ve been lost since Donovan died. This gives me an excuse to get out of the house. My daughter lives near Mercia and she’s pregnant with my first grandbabe. This is the perfect excuse to drop by and see her! And what I told you yesterday was the truth. I was like a lost puppy during my first few journeys by airship. I don’t think Nelly has been airborne in her life, so I doubt she could teach you much of it.”

  “No. I don’t think she has either. Miss Percival has no fondness for machines, how they’ve driven people from faith to science. But now, if she knew you fifty years ago, that means . . . she knows who you are?”

  Mrs. Stout sobered again. “Until today, she was the only living person who did. Back in the day . . . she was the one who healed me.” Her fingers splayed against her chest. “I was near death, hiding in the brush. Those Wasters hunting for me, even as my father’s soldiers hunted them. A wagon drove by with the Miss Percival of that time, and Nelly. They had worked on some special case together down in Mercia and were heading back north. They found me. Miss Percival whipped those horses into a froth while Nelly stayed in the back, working on me.”

  “Your condition must have been very grave to leave a scar like that. Miss Percival is a very gifted healer.” The best I’ve ever known.

  “She was also a mere ten years of age.” Mrs. Stout’s face crinkled in amusement at Octavia’s gasp. “We were the same age, the two of us. She did what she could, though her skills and herbs had their limits. My recovery was long, not because of what my body endured, but here.” She tapped her temple. “I was . . . they were going to smuggle me from the academy and back to Mercia when . . .”

  The fire-bombing of the palace. “I’m so sorry.”

  “I’d say I’m over it, but . . .”

  “I understand.” All too well.

  “That’s my sordid story. I stayed at the academy for years, but the Lady and her Tree were not for me.” She shook her head, loosened blue hair bobbing against her forehead. “I met Donovan when he brought his father for a healing. Forty years pass in a blink when you manage a business and children.” She frowned. “Now, what was it you asked me again?”

  Octavia smiled in apology. “Restoration does that to the mind. It’s hard to focus. And I asked you if Miss Percival knew who you were, and you answered me.”

  “Yes, well, and the old Miss Percival knew, of course, and I told Donovan before we married. Scariest night of my adult life, saying those words to him.”

  “Your children don’t know?”

  Mrs. Stout shook her head. “No. That’s what scares me now, if the truth comes out. I’m old. If I die, well, I die. But my children, their children . . .” Fear crept into her eyes. Octavia squeezed her hand. “It’s not just about our lives. It’s about Caskentia. Evandia . . . dear God, look how she’s mucked up everything! If she had even more power, I dread to think what would happen.”

  “More power? How . . . ?”

  “The vault.” Her voice lowered to a hoarse whisper. “The access is magicked to my bloodline, through my father. Evandia and her lot . . . there are things in there that aren’t to see the light of day.”

  Octavia stared, blinking. The royal vault? It was treated as a joke, to say something was locked as secure as the royal vault. It was said to be the only thing standing after the Wasters fire-bombed the palace.

  “Are . . . you talking about weapons? Things that can be used against the Waste?”

  “Yes.” Mrs. Stout’s lips were thin and pale. “Books. Artifacts. I was but a slip of a girl, of course, so I only understood so much. But there are . . . what would you say if I told you I had seen parts of the Tree? The real Tree?”

  Octavia’s jaw fell slack. “What?”

  Smugness touched Mrs. Stout’s expression, and awe. “I’ve seen them. Touched them. A leaf of the Tree—said to bring back the dead, you know. A seed—Father wouldn’t let me near that. It sat up on a pedestal. A branch, long as most tree trunks, its bark green and alive. To this day I remember the smell of the thing, all musty like fresh rain. It’d been locked in there for God knows how long—centuries, certainly—without any dirt, light, or water.”

  I’d do most anything to see those relics with my own eyes, and to think they’re in Mercia, mere days away! For that, I’d brave the horrors of the city.

  Octavia brought her hands to her chest in a gesture of respect, to which Mrs. Stout blew a raspberry.

  “Child, really. There’s no need of that.”

  “Yes, there is! So few people know about the Lady these days. If they could—”

  “No.” Mrs. Stout’s voice was sharp. Octavia reared back in surprise. “Bringing people to your faith would be a glorious thing, I understand that well. But there’s a reason those artifacts are locked away, child. And I’m telling you, just as I told Nelly when she was your age, that there was something dark about that place. When my father walked me through, he pointed to books of ancient magi, the swords and wands of a past age, even bullets of particular enchantment. But then he motioned to those pieces of the Tree and said, ‘And these are the most dangerous of the lot.’ ”

  “That’s ludicrous! To say the Lady—”

  “Your Lady is the protector of the living, yes? She’s powerful?”

  “Of course she is, but—”

  “If she controls life, then what can she do with death?”

  “I . . .” Octavia didn’t know how to rebut that.

  “Those bits of the Tree scared me. Even though they smelled of dirt and rain, I could feel their power. They crackled like a lightning storm, as if they were angry to be there. Maybe that’s why I never had promise as a Percival girl. I never had any issues with being around medicians, mind you, or their healing, but something about the Lady herself . . . perhaps she’s too mighty for my liking.”

  The Lady should be mighty. “Queen Evandia can’t access the vault?”

  “No. She’s kin through my mother. No one can get in but me and mine. That door is sealed with the life’s blood
of a Clockwork Dagger–sworn magus. It’s the sort of enchantment that won’t wear off in time. I’m a key, child. What would Caskentia do with the contents of the vault?” She lowered her voice to a shaky whisper. “What would the Waste do? You have to promise me, Miss Leander.” Mrs. Stout’s hand grasped hers, suddenly strong and desperate. “If you are with me and I’m betrayed, you must . . .” With her free hand, she slashed across her neck.

  “Never!” That’s melodramatic, even for a woman with a blue streak in her hair. “I couldn’t do that. Don’t even think about such things, Mrs. Stout. Your secret is safe.”

  “Is it?” Mrs. Stout’s bloodshot eyes narrowed and she glared toward the door.

  CHAPTER 6

  Despite solid hours of sleep, Octavia staggered down the quiet hallway. Perhaps she should have kept her mouth shut and acted like they hadn’t seen Mrs. Stout’s scar at all. Mrs. Stout . . . the princess, grown into a flamboyant enigma with bright blue hair.

  Octavia felt an excited tingle at the very thought of her roommate; in truth, she was more awed that Mrs. Stout had been graced with the presence of the Tree than that she was the fabled lost princess.

  She heard the cacophony as she hopped down the last few steps onto deck B. She stopped, one hand on the wall. The sound wasn’t the wild thunder of instruments that warned her of Mrs. Stout’s perilous condition, but something milder, made more potent by the numbers of the suffering. Steps hurried, she rounded the small hallway into the tiled privy.

  The wailing symphony of bodies in agony was accompanied by a chorus of groans, retches, and other bombastic intestinal functions. Her hand reached for her satchel and she forced her fingers into a fist. This was probably influenza spread through the confined quarters aboard the airship. Not dire. It’d pass on its own within a few days.

  A man stampeded past, almost shoving her aside in his urgency. She retreated to the corridor. How widespread is this illness? If I set a patient in a circle . . .

  No, no, no. I’m a businesswoman, not a charity worker. I can’t save everyone. She forced herself to walk away, both hands brushing against the parasol handle strapped to her bag. Her priority needed to be breakfast for herself and Mrs. Stout, and then to sneak food to Leaf.