Red, White and Blue (Book Two of The Powder Trail)

Chapter Forty One: The Deep Breath

Oxford, 4th July 1881: 

A collective shudder prickled through the crowd of dancers at the River Club. Someone dropped a glass, one of the violins screeched to a halt in the middle of a solo, but it was otherwise quiet. It was the deep breath – the exquisite, heightened moment of calm – before the scream, and Jack couldn't help relishing it. He couldn't help that his heart leapt. It was just the way he was made.

The spell of calm broke suddenly – and, oddly enough, it was the gargoyles who broke it. The denizens of the River Club had been looking at them with polite incomprehension, as though they were a group of late arrivals who hadn't quite observed the dress code, but when they started to lurch into the crowd, the silence shattered.

There was a great mass of sound – screams, chairs scraping back, dropped cutlery. The gargoyles gave a kind of sniffling screech and charged forward, two of them bounding across the ceiling like spiders, one ploughing through the middle of the floor, knocking over the suddenly-deserted chairs and tables. Their wings were half-unfurled, as though they wanted to fly, but didn't quite have the room to manage it.

And that refined old man continued to linger in the doorway, drinking it all up. His face was slightly too tanned for his colouring, Jack thought. The orange-brown skin next to the white hair looked somehow grotesque.

A few revolvers were fired, but they had no effect, other than to make the ladies scream with fright. Jack wasn't surprised. They should have been aiming at the old man, rather than the gargoyles. The latter were charging blindly – they couldn't see where to go, and there was no hint of sandalwood perfume to guide them. It had to be the old man who was directing their rampage.

It was actually quite clever, now he came to think about it. If you were hoping to catch Ellini, the way to draw her out would be to hurt other people in her place. And this man had anticipated her perfectly. As soon as she had recovered the ability to speak, she turned to Jack and whispered, "Make sure everybody gets out."

She tried to walk forwards, but Jack was still keeping a firm hold on her waist.

"Boring," he said cheerfully. "And exactly what he expects you to do. Look around, will you? The only way they could catch you was if he was standing behind them, screaming 'left a bit – now two steps forward – extend your right arm, and – oh, damnit, she's run away.'"

Ellini sighed. She was losing patience with him at last. Was it wrong that he found the idea unbearably exciting?

"Well, what do you suggest?" she demanded.

"I suggest that you trust me. Is that so hard?" He didn't give her time to answer, though – he didn't want her to say anything that was going to spoil his good mood. "Am I right in thinking you need to avoid capture until a certain moment?"

"Until midnight," she said, glancing in through the French windows to the clock above the bar. "But it's only an hour – I'll keep him talking--"

"And, while I'm sure we'd all love that, my way is better." He waltzed her back among the screaming, stumbling dancers, to the gateway at the end of the pier, where most of them were pouring out into the street. "I can give you an hour. I can give you the world, mouse – all you have to do is trust me."

He gave her a little shove, pushing her into the throng, and ensuring that she got tangled up with them as they scrambled to get out.

"I'll meet you at the University Church as soon as I can," he said, as she was carried away by the momentum of the crowd. She looked back at him the whole time.

Then, when she was out of sight, he turned to the scene of chaos behind him, almost rubbing his hands with anticipation. Oh, this was going to be so much fun. His only regret was that she couldn't have stayed to watch.

***

It was a torment rather than a window. It gave the most restricted glimpses of the night outside. If Danvers craned his neck, he could just about see Tom Tower, with its arabesque, powder-blue dome. If he brought his head so close that his breath was misting up the glass, he could see the pavement down below. But Folly Bridge and the River Club were out of sight. Anything could have been happening there. Even the best-case scenario – that Jack and Miss Syal were dancing quite happily together – made his stomach writhe.

And he didn't dare open the window, for fear that it would worsen the condition of – well, he supposed he should call her Miss Cricket, as that was how she had introduced herself to him. 

It would be very dangerous to call her Eve – especially when the sun rose, and people started to gather round the shattered glass case that had once contained their idol.

And all the while, Miss Cricket muttered in her sleep, occasionally repeating the phrase "What am I?" But sometimes departing from the realms of comprehension altogether, and whispering something about a princess called Vasilisa, and how she turned into a frog.

Danvers had bound a cloth around her eyes to prevent those empty sockets from staring at him, but he hadn't felt qualified to do anything else. He needed a doctor – and, moreover, a doctor with some background in demonic physiology. There was only one of those in the city, and Danvers had reason to suspect that he might resent being called out of his house tonight.

Still, he had chosen. This creature couldn't survive without him, whereas Miss Syal might. It hadn't been a nice choice, and he wasn't sure Dr Petrescu would make the same one, but he could only try. And, while he was trying, he could only stare miserably out of the window.

***

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