The Doomsday Vault Page 8

  He piled the crates under the window as a makeshift staircase and crawled cautiously back into the alley. His stomach growled, reminding him that he hadn’t eaten at all that day. Furtively, Gavin moved the loose boards back into place and hobbled away. He deserved lunch, at least.

  Gavin spent the next two weeks playing Hyde Park for farthings in the afternoons and evenings. After nightfall, he spent a precious penny to ride an omnibus to the West End, where he played for people entering and exiting the music halls and theaters. He arrived in his cellar long after dark, feeling his fearful way down the alley away from the gaslights and toward potential plague zombies. Fortunately, he didn’t encounter any. Unfortunately, even this frugal lifestyle didn’t allow him to save much. Some days he didn’t earn the two pennies it cost him to get to the theater district and back. Some days it rained, preventing him from playing at all. The dampness in the cellar finally forced him to buy a blanket, which ate up several days’ money. He had to buy food, of course. And sleeping in the cellar seemed to stop his back from healing completely. Every afternoon he jerked awake, stiff and sore, every muscle on fire. He never woke slowly or peacefully anymore, not since his encounter with Madoc Blue and the first mate’s lash. One day he spent nine pence at an apothecary’s, and the medicine helped with the pain, but only for a time, and then he was right back where he started. Gavin was beginning to feel desperate. Eventually, spring and summer would end, bringing the chill winds of winter. He would be in deep trouble then.

  One soft afternoon in Hyde Park, he had managed to wash up a bit in one of the ponds and was feeling a little better. Gavin’s skin itched terribly under his clothes—he hadn’t even rinsed them since the Juniper. Maybe today he would catch sight of the Red Velvet Lady. She had shown up twice more with her automaton to listen to him, and both times he had found a shilling in his case, though she never said a word. If she came today, maybe he’d use the money to visit a bathhouse and have his clothes laundered to boot.

  A fog rolled in from the Thames and mixed with the ever-present coal smoke from the chimneys and streetlamps, creating a thick yellow mist that covered the park in a sulfurous cloak. Gavin sighed as he walked. So much for optimism. Fewer people would be out in weather like this—the chill kept people indoors and lack of sunlight let the plague zombies roam. The damp also worsened his back. Clip-clop hooves and quiet voices mingled with the mist, seeming to come from everywhere and nowhere. Men in coats and women in wide dresses ghosted in and out of view. The itching under Gavin’s coat was growing worse, and he pulled his jacket off to scratch vigorously once he arrived at his usual corner.

  At that moment, a commotion broke out somewhere in the distance. A woman squawked in fear or outrage. Voices shouted, and a pistol shot rang out. Gavin froze. Footsteps pounded down the walkway toward him, and out of the yellow mist emerged a boy a year younger than Gavin. With a start, Gavin realized he was Oriental and dressed in a red silk jacket and wide trousers. He tore down the footpath with angry voices coming behind him, their owners still hidden by fog. The boy skidded to a halt in front of Gavin and grabbed his elbow.

  “Help me!” the boy begged in a light Chinese accent. “Please!”

  Gavin didn’t pause to think. He pushed the boy to the ground in a crouch and flung his filthy jacket over him. Then he sat down on the boy’s covered back and opened his fiddle case just as half a dozen angry-looking men came into view, sliding out of the mist like sharks from murky water.

  “Where’d the little Chink go, boy?” one of them snarled. He brandished a pistol.

  Gavin could feel the boy shaking beneath him. “That way, sir,” he said, pointing down a random path.

  The man flipped Gavin a small coin as the others tore off. Gavin caught the coin and pulled his fiddle from its case as if nothing interesting had happened. The boy didn’t move. Once the noises of pursuit died away, the boy shifted a bit.

  “Don’t,” Gavin murmured. He set bow to strings and played as if he were simply perched on a rock covered by his jacket. Not much later, the men materialized out of the mist again.

  “Did the little bastard come back here?” the man with the pistol demanded.

  Gavin shook his head and continued playing a bright, happy tune, though his fingers felt shaky. The men conferred a moment, then rushed off in another direction. When their footsteps and voices had faded completely, Gavin whipped his jacket off the boy, who leapt to his feet.

  “Thank you,” he said, pumping Gavin’s hand. “Thank you so much.”

  “What happened back there?” Gavin demanded.

  “A misunderstanding with the lady,” he said.

  Gavin squinted at him. “That usually means the man did something he shouldn’t have.”

  “No, no.” The boy put up his hands. “She kissed me. But then her husband jumped out of the bushes with friends. I didn’t even know she was married. She screamed, he fired that pistol, and I ran. You were wonderful.” He fished around in his pockets and thrust something into Gavin’s hands. “Take this.”

  Gavin looked down. He was holding a tiny mechanical bird no bigger than a pocket watch. Its silver feathers gleamed in the pale light. Tiny sapphires made up its eyes and tipped its claws.

  “It’s beautiful,” Gavin breathed. He touched the bird’s head. It opened its little beak and trilled a miniature melody, a perfect replica of a nightingale’s song, then fell silent.

  “I can’t accept this,” he said. “I don’t even know your name.”

  But when he looked up, the boy was gone.

  Although a carriage horse clopped in the distance, crowds in the park were nonexistent, so Gavin put his fiddle away, perched on a bench, and examined the bird. Its wings were etched with tiny Chinese pictograms, and more tiny gems were hidden among the strange icons. Whenever he pressed the head, it trilled the same song over and over, without fail. The first few times, it was beautiful, but after a while Gavin realized it was really nothing more than a music box—very pretty, but lacking the soul of real music. Still, the bird was immensely valuable. The money he’d get from a pawnshop or fence would be five times the cost of a ticket home, though it would be only a fraction of the bird’s true worth.

  Gavin stroked the nightingale’s smooth feathers again. It seemed a dreadful shame to sell something so beautiful for so little money.

  Footsteps shuffled through the yellow mist. Gavin stuffed the nightingale in his pocket and leaned casually back on the bench as two well-dressed young men strolled into view. They were engaged in an animated discussion that involved a great deal of hand waving. Gavin whipped out his fiddle and set to playing—no sense in losing a chance. The men stopped just in front of Gavin and continued their discussion.

  “This is the best time to invest in China,” the first man was saying. “War always makes money. That little tiff they had over the opium trade proves that—I made a mint. And now it’s flaring up all over again. When the conflict ends, China will become much more open to foreigners, and those of us with money on the inside will make our fortunes.”

  “The Treaty of Nanking was an unequal proposition,” the second retorted. “Why do you think the locals are in revolt again? Once Lord Elgin puts the Chinks down, he’ll do something dreadful to Emperor Xianfeng to ensure this never happens again, and that will send your speculations into a downward spin.”

  “You’re always a pessimist, White,” the first man said. “Tell you what. Let’s ask this enterprising young man what he thinks.”

  Both men turned to Gavin, who stopped playing, startled.

  “A street player?” White said. “You can’t be serious, Peterson.”

  “Completely. We can make a bet of it.” Peterson fished around in his pocket. “Young man, would you like to earn a sovereign?”

  Gavin’s eyes widened. It seemed to be a holiday for flinging enormous amounts of money at him. “A sovereign? For doing what?”

  “For failing to pay attention, I’m afraid,” Peterson replied.
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  “I don’t understand,” Gavin said. “What’s—”

  A cloth bag flipped down over his face and hard hands grabbed him from behind. The bag had a sweet, chemical smell. Gavin struggled and tried to shout, but the hands held him firmly, and the fumes made him dizzy. Soft cloth filled his mouth, muffling his voice.

  “Sorry, my boy,” said Peterson. “We’ll try to make this painless.”

  The man’s words swooped and swirled and faded. Gavin felt a pinprick on his upper arm just before he lost consciousness entirely.

  Time stretched and bunched. Voices rushed at him and slid away. Hands prodded him, then forced him upright. Tones and chords burst into his ear, and a voice demanded that he give each one a name: C, B-flat, D-sharp augmented. The voice ordered him to sing, and he sang, the notes falling from his lips in an uncontrolled torrent. He sang songs and changed keys in midmelody as the voice ordered. It never occurred to him to disobey. In fact, he was only vaguely aware of his surroundings. He seemed to be sitting on a soft chair, and he had a vague impression of stone walls. Twice, he caught a flash of wine red velvet. The mysterious lady? Then he fell asleep.

  Gavin awoke with a dry mouth and a vague headache. He sat up with a groan and put a hand to his forehead for a moment, then looked around. The stone room was round and small, but brightly illuminated by the light from two electric lamps fastened to the curving walls. A carpet covered the floor. The bed he was lying on felt springy and comfortable, and the blankets were thick. A single narrow window looked out on a darkening sky. Gavin decided he must be in a tower. But why? Slowly he got to his feet. A nightstand near the bed bore a pitcher of water and a glass. Gavin poured and drank, too thirsty to care if the water was drugged. When he bent his arm, he noticed the bandage on his left bicep, and he remembered the needle pricking him in the park. He checked underneath and found a tiny red wound, nothing more.

  “Hello?” Gavin called. “I’m awake! Is anyone here?”

  No response. Nervously, he searched the room more closely. The heavy door was locked, no surprise. The lights could be turned off by means of a switch near the door. Interesting. He knew a little about electricity, but only a little. Why give something so expensive to a prisoner? Against one wall stood a radiator, which heated the room and drove the dampness away, another odd luxury. He turned his back to it and let the heat soak in.

  Hanging off the foot of the bed was a set of clothes—blue work shirt, black trousers, socks, boots. His airman’s jacket was gone, as were the coins he had saved. Gavin looked at the filthy rags he’d been wearing since the pirates took the Juniper and stripped them off. With a cloth he found near the pitcher, he gave himself a sponge bath. Being clean made him feel amazingly better. The new clothes fit perfectly. A part of him felt he should rebel, refuse gifts from people who had kidnapped him, drugged him, and held him prisoner. But the more practical part of him said it was stupid to wear rags when perfectly good clothes were sitting right there. The window swung outward over a dizzying drop to a cobblestoned courtyard several stories below. Beyond that lay a high wall with gargoyles on it, then green fields scattered with trees. The sun wasn’t visible, but the gathering dusk told Gavin it was near night. He looked down at the smooth tower walls. No ledges or gutters to climb down on. What the hell was he doing here? He tried to remember more about the park. The men—Peterson and White—must have been a distraction for someone sneaking up behind him. But why would someone go through all that trouble for a street musician?

  A pang went through him. His fiddle! What had happened to his fiddle? A moment later he found its case under the bed. Inside was the instrument, undamaged, along with a fresh supply of rosin for his bow, and the little silver nightingale. Gavin touched the bird’s head, and it sang. That they hadn’t taken it had made it clear he could keep it.

  A clatter brought his head around. A cleverly fitted piece of the door slid upward, allowing just enough room for a mechanical brass spider to click through. It towed a covered tray on wheels behind it. The door piece snapped shut, and the spider tugged the tray around to the foot of the bed, where it whipped off the cover with one spindly leg. Gavin’s mouth watered at the smells of beef, potatoes, bread, and gravy. He snatched up the fork and knife provided and ate quickly while the spider gathered up Gavin’s discarded clothes and vanished out of the little door hole with them. Gavin, still chewing, wondered if he could fit through it. He also remembered the flash of red he had seen while he was half out of his mind from... whatever it was that had happened to him. Was the Red Velvet Lady responsible for all this?

  “Hello?” he shouted again. “Can anyone hear me? What do you want?”

  No response. He tried the door again. Still locked. He pushed it, then rattled the knob. Frustration poured out of him, and after a moment he realized he was screaming and pounding on the door with his fists, kicking at it with his new boots. He forced himself to stop and backed up, panting. A drop of sweat trickled from his white-blond hair, and the room suddenly felt small and stuffy. He opened the window and perched on the edge with his fiddle. It occurred to him that he had no idea how long he had been here. It could have been hours or days or weeks.

  It was time to breathe, take stock. From a certain perspective, he was better off than he had been before. He had good clothes, good food, and a good bed. Whoever had captured him clearly wanted him alive and in good condition. Eventually, the Red Velvet Lady or whoever it was would show up and tell him more, and he would deal with the situation then. In the meantime, he could enjoy comforts such as those he had never known and he could play his fiddle.

  He set the nightingale on the windowsill next to him for company and played to the empty night.

  Chapter Five

  “Miss Michaels? I say, Miss Michaels, are you all right?”

  Alice came to herself with a start and shook her head. “Oh my goodness!” she trilled. “My mind went wandering for a moment, Mr. Williamson. How rude! What were you saying?”

  “I was observing how the mist seems to both muffle sound and extend it,” said Norbert Williamson. “One can hardly tell if we’re in Hyde Park or on a country estate.”

  “True,” Alice observed. “It’s very eerie. I’m glad you’re nearby to keep me safe.”

  “Now that was blatant flattery, Miss Michaels,” Norbert pretended to scold, “however much I enjoyed hearing it.”

  “You’ve caught me, Mr. Williamson,” she replied with a small smile. “I’m a dreadful person.”

  The open-topped carriage moved sedately over the gravel pathways of Hyde Park, currently obscured by thick yellow fog. Norbert had suggested cutting their afternoon drive short, but Alice wouldn’t hear of it. It gave them a chance to enjoy the park with fewer people about, and, with a set of lap robes covering them, they could remain perfectly comfortable. It also gave Norbert the chance to be shockingly daring by pressing his muscular thigh against hers under cover of the robes. Alice made herself blush, but let her leg remain for quite a long moment before shifting away. Norbert’s expression didn’t shift as he changed the subject.

  “I hear the Hats-On Committee is proposing more legislation regarding child labor in factories,” he said. “As if I don’t have to deal with enough regulations. I already can’t hire children under the age of ten, and they can’t work more than ten hours per day. Now they want to cut the time back to eight hours and institute a minimum wage.”

  This time Alice was ready for him. “Why hire children at all?”

  “They work for less than adults. And their hands are smaller, which makes them better at assembling certain machines.”

  This time as he talked, Alice was careful to pay attention so she could insert the proper comments in the proper places. It was a bit audacious of them to be out without a chaperone, but they were in public and both of them were older, so Alice found it acceptable. The driverless carriage wound through the park, the automatic horse that drew it clopping with mechanical precision. Steam snorted from the
horse’s gleaming muzzle at regular intervals. Then another sound caught Alice’s attention. She laid a hand on Norbert’s arm to interrupt.

  “Was that a pistol shot?” she asked.

  He cocked his head. “I didn’t hear anything.”

  “I’m quite certain I heard a shot.”

  “In Hyde Park in broad daylight? You must be mistaken. The mist is playing tricks. But we could leave, if you’re fearful of your safety.”

  “Certainly not,” Alice replied. “I won’t—”

  The high, sweet sound of a violin slid through the fog, now close, now far away. Unable to help herself, Alice fell silent to listen. The melody was complicated and quick, happy with a hint of something else. Uncertainty? Fear?

  “That’s lovely,” Alice breathed, entranced. The music pushed all fear of the phantom pistol from her mind. “Like a spirit asking to be set free.”

  “You have a delightful turn of phrase, Miss Michaels,” Norbert was saying. “Truly.”

  Alice sighed. “He sounds festive and frightened at the same time. How does he—” The music stopped, and Alice felt crushed. Her face fell. “Oh. How disappointing.”

  “We could try to find him, if you like,” Norbert offered gallantly. “I’m sure he’d play if you asked.”

  She almost took him up on it—but no. What would she do if she found the musician? Fawn on him with Norbert looking on? “You’re very kind, Mr. Williamson, but we’d never find him in this mist.” She patted his hand. “Best to leave it a fond memory. Still, I’m finding it a bit chilly.”

  Norbert took the hint and leaned forward to flip levers and twist dials on a control box set into what would be the backward-facing seat of the carriage. The mechanical horse paused, then set off at a brisk trot. In a short time, the conveyance arrived at the small row house Alice shared with her father. Their little meetings were taking on a regularity. Each one involved a simple activity—a drive through the park, a walk in London, a picnic at the river—and each one lasted no more than two hours. This was exactly the case today.