His gaze drifted away. His hands shifted ever so slightly on the chair arm.
"What is it?" I asked. "What aren't you telling me?"
He seemed surprised that I'd picked up on his cues. "The order wasn't originally formed to find and harbor those who knew magic, but destroy them."
I drew in a breath. "People like me?" I whispered.
He nodded. "The order thought anyone who performed magic, as they called it, was unholy, unnatural."
"Like Anselm Holloway does."
"A thousand years ago, the church declared all supernatural people abominations against God, and that put a price on their heads, so to speak. It gave ordinary folk free reign to burn witches, lynch necromancers and anyone else who displayed magical abilities. The order grew from those times of persecution here in England and, for hundreds of years, it thrived as it hunted down anyone accused of witchcraft."
"How awful," I whispered.
"Yes and no. Not everyone has a good heart and conscience like you, Charlie. Magicians and witches have been known to cause great harm. They're people, after all, and as with any group of people there are good and bad. Some did terrible things. The order, however, didn't discriminate. Good and bad supernaturals all fell victim to their form of justice. Innocents were persecuted alongside the guilty."
"So…magicians and witches are real," I said carefully.
"They are. You're one."
I scoffed. "I'm a necromancer. It's hardly magic or witchcraft. I can't change into a bat, or turn you into a frog. I can only do one thing, and it's only moderately useful."
"From what I've read in the ministry archives, that still qualifies you for being a witch. Most witches and magicians seemed to have a specialty, only one trick they could perform. I found no records of turning anyone into a bat or any other animal, but I did find accounts of mind control, changing one's own appearance, speaking to ghosts, that sort of thing."
I shook my head slowly, not because I didn't believe him, but because it was so fantastical. It was difficult to understand the scale of what he was telling me. "Why do we know nothing about witches and magicians now? Well, except for me, that is."
"I've observed others who possess strange powers. They're not hard to find, if one listens to rumors and talks to the right people. I expect they keep to themselves for precisely the reason you did—fear of reprisal. Society would ostracize them at the least, and hurt them at the most."
"I suppose so." Holloway had tried both ostracizing me and hurting me. He'd succeeded at the former and only failed at the latter thanks to Cook and his meat cleaver.
"The order accounted for many, many deaths of supernaturals in those early centuries," he said. "Times have changed drastically, fortunately. You have nothing to fear from the ministry. No one wants to eradicate supernaturals now."
Except, perhaps, Lord Gillingham. "The others wanted to exile me."
"Exile is not death."
"No," I said drily.
"And I won't let that happen to you, unless you wish to relocate to a tropical island paradise."
I smiled, despite myself. "Lichfield will do nicely for now."
"I'm glad to hear it." His rich, deep voice washed over me, and my smile broadened. He blinked once, then looked down at his lap where his hands bunched into fists. The tender moment was over so quickly, I wondered if I'd misread him this time.
"Why did the order become dormant?" I prompted. "Did it destroy so many supernaturals that few were left and it was no longer needed?"
"That's one theory, but it's more likely it suffered the same fate as the Roman Catholic church here. It was closely tied to the faith, so when England navigated the Reformation in the sixteenth century and ousted Catholics, the order fell into disarray. It was forgotten by everyone but a few who kept the records and stories alive. A handful of caretakers were appointed in each generation, passing on the information to their sons, who would pass it on to their sons, et cetera."
"The current committee members are descendants of the original caretakers?"
He nodded. "I had no choice in their selection. No one did."
"You said sons. What about Lady Harcourt? Does she not have brothers?"
"Lady Harcourt's late husband was the committee member. He didn't pass on the information to his sons, but to his wife. She doesn't know why, but it's possible he didn't trust his sons to be discreet."
Having met Andrew Buchanan, I could see why he thought that. "Why didn't one of the generations resurrect the old order and put it to use again? Why wait until now?"
"They were waiting for me."
I raised my brows.
"Apparently there was a prophecy, spoken by a seer in the mid fifteen hundreds. She foresaw the long years of the order's dormancy, which would come to an end in this century, when a new leader was appointed. She gave particular details about him." He held out his hands, palm up. "It turned out to be me."
How extraordinary, and rather intriguing, too. It made me think of old fairytales with curses, prophecies and evil witches. It even had a knight in shining armor—Lincoln. The story only lacked a princess.
"And so you were brought up in the general's home, trained from birth to be the leader."
He nodded. "He was the eldest member. He had no family of his own and so was considered the ideal candidate."
"But he was never home."
"Precisely. It was deemed best if I didn't become attached to anyone."
I blinked at him. Not become attached? But little children
needed
to feel a sense of belonging and nurturing. I'd seen it in the gangs, with the youngest members. They often attached themselves to a champion who took care of them and provided for them, even loved them. It was human instinct. "Were the servants like a family to you?"
"They were often moved along before I could make friends."
"Oh, Lincoln."
His hands balled into fists on his knees. His lips flattened and I decided not to tell him that I thought his childhood sounded desolate. He would hate my pity. So I asked a more impersonal question instead. "Wouldn't a seer be considered a supernatural and therefore a target of the caretaker committee?"
"That's the irony. Her prophecy not only kept the order dormant for so long, but it perhaps had a hand in changing the position of the caretakers. I couldn't find any reference in the archives to her being punished for her prophecy. It stated the new leader would even use magic to defeat dark forces that want to bring the realm to its knees."
"Good lord. Do you think she meant Frankenstein?"
"Perhaps. He certainly could have caused great harm if he'd managed to build an army of strong corpses."
"And if my necromancy is considered magic, then that fits too." I waited for him to add more, but he didn't. It seemed I would have to broach the subject instead. "Did your mother let you go freely?"
"I don't know. The general has told me so little about her."
"What
do
you know?"
"That she fell pregnant at a young age and wasn't married. That removing me from her was a blessing, for both her and me. She couldn't have afforded to raise me, apparently, and I would have lived a life of squalor."
I wondered if the general could be believed. Lincoln seemed to, although he spoke stiffly, formally, as if he didn't want to think too much about it. If he'd led a lonely, unhappy childhood, it was no wonder he had difficulty expressing himself and showing kindness.
"You were raised to be a killing machine, weren't you?" I hedged.
He looked at me with wide eyes that quickly narrowed again. "Among other things," he snapped.
"I…I'm sorry. I didn't mean to offend. I just meant that you're supposed to save the world from dark forces, so you must have been prepared accordingly."
"I speak a dozen languages fluently and another dozen moderately well. I've memorized entire books, know advanced mathematics, and can put together an engine as efficiently as any engineer. I can create poisons and antidotes, have a thorough understanding of medicine and the workings of the human body. I've traveled across Europe and through parts of Asia and America. I can dance as well as any gentleman, recite poetry, and play the violin. Do you want me to go on?" It wasn't boastful, but matter of fact; as if he wanted me to know that he was more than a killing machine, more than his nickname of Death. As if he
needed
me to know. That only made me ache for him more.
"Your catalog of skills is very impressive," I whispered. "I feel rather provincial now."
He clicked his tongue and unclenched his fists. "That wasn't my intention. Forgive me."
"It's all right." I wanted to smile to let him know it didn't matter, but he wouldn't look at me. It was best to return to the topic of the ministry again. Safer. "The committee are still wary of magic and the supernatural, on the whole," I said. "But you don't seem to be. Why is that?"
He cleared his throat. "I mentioned before that I've observed some people who possess powers. They were all harmless, good folk, and I had no reason to fear them or worry that they wanted to take over the country."
"They were not the dark forces the seer spoke of?"
"Not in the least."
I rose and bobbed my head. "Thank you, Mr. Fitzroy. I appreciate your candor. I won't tell a soul what you've told me."
"I know you won't." He rose too. "Gus and Seth will be busy tonight," he added. "So there's something I need you to do for me."
"Would you like me to clean your rooms?"
"Nothing like that. Can you check my tailcoat to see that it's in good order? It's been some time since I wore it. My formal shirt will need starching too."
It took a few moments for my dull brain to realize he was talking about the clothes he would wear to the ball. "You're accepting Lady Harcourt's friend's invitation?"
"You seem surprised."
"I didn't think it your sort of thing."
"It's not."
"Then why are you going?"
"The answer matters to you," he said flatly.
"Yes. No!" I sighed. "I'm curious as to why you would go if you think you'll hate it. Is it because Lady Harcourt wishes it?"
One dark brow lifted slowly then lowered again. "No," he said as he walked away. "Because people I want to see will be there."
"Your family," I murmured, surprising myself. My mind was leaping in all directions, and I wasn't entirely sure if I believed what I'd said or was merely throwing it into the mix to gauge is reaction.
And he did react. He stopped suddenly and turned to face me. I gulped.
"I…I'm sorry." I waved the polishing cloth in dismissal. "You're a gentleman, so I assume your family must be gently bred too and would perhaps attend balls. That's all I meant."
"I told you my mother was a pauper."
"And your father?"
"I was never informed who he was." With his hands clasped behind him, he strolled out of the parlor.
I watched him go, a curious feeling in my chest. It was partly sorrow for the little, lonely boy he'd once been, but it was mostly a sense of triumph. I'd realized something during our exchange—I'd begun to decipher the small cues he sometimes gave away without realizing it. It might be a twist of his mouth, a quirk of his eyebrow, or hardening of the muscles in his jaw. Or it could be an abrupt stop and a defiant, challenging glare—as he'd just given me. A glare that dared me to tell him what I suspected. What I did know now from those minute cues was that I'd been right—his family would be at the ball tomorrow night. His father's side of the family, that was. Just because Lincoln claimed never to have been told who'd fathered him didn't mean he hadn't found out by some other means. He was resourceful. If he wanted to discover something, I had no doubt that he could.
I wondered which noble family he belonged to, and who else knew. The committee must. Lord Gillingham had once alluded to knowing secrets about Lincoln, and Lady Harcourt had said he was protective of his family. She could have meant his mother, but I somehow suspected she meant his father. She'd also known precisely which ball to invite him to, one where his family would be in attendance, therefore increasing the chances of him going.
He must like to keep his eye on them from time to time, perhaps even talk to them. I could understand the allure.
I wondered if his father knew that Lincoln was his son.
***
The only mending Lincoln's formal tailcoat required was for a loose button to be removed and sewn back on. I ironed his best shirt and made a note to send the collar out to a nearby laundry for starching into a circular shape on their special steam iron. In the evening, I read in the library for a little but grew lonely and went in search of Cook. Everyone else had gone out to make inquiries at opium dens.
I found Cook stropping a knife blade on a cleaning board at the kitchen table. I must have startled him because he glanced up quickly. The moment's inattention caused him to cut his thumb.
He swore like a sailor and swiped up a cloth, wrapping it around his thumb. Blood soon seeped through.
"Are you all right?" I dropped the sewing I'd brought with me on the table and tried to get a look at his thumb, but he wouldn't unwrap it. "Let me see."
"It bloody hurts."
"I'm sure it does. Is it still attached?"
He gingerly unwrapped the cloth. The cut oozed blood, but after a close inspection, I was satisfied the thumb wasn't going to come off. The cut was deep, however, and required stitching. Fortunately I knew where the medical kit was kept, and how to suture a wound. Lincoln had shown me soon after we'd met. I'd not done it since, and not without supervision, but I was sure I could manage.
Cook wasn't quite so certain. It took some convincing, and half a bottle of Lincoln's best brandy, before he would unwrap it for me again. He couldn't bear to watch as I threaded the sterile needle and sewed up the cut. He whimpered like a child the entire time.
"And here I thought you were a big, strong beast of a man," I told him as I tied the thread ends. "You're nothing but a baby."