Legacy of the Clockwork Key (10 page)

If this was the baron’s means of murdering me, he was doing a good job. The streets were dangerous.

I’d have to face them alone.

I gripped the key hanging openly in the center of my chest now that I no longer had my apron to hide it.

“Send me word through the vicar once you are safe.” Mrs. Pratt lifted my chin. I looked her in the eye, and through the hurt, the disappointment, I saw something else there.

Sympathy.

I embraced her. She held me tight with the strength and rigidity she always carried.

“I’m sorry,” I whispered. The truth was, I hated myself, too. I’d gotten so caught up in the book, I’d become careless.

She nodded. “Go.”

I ran out into the night with nothing but my shawl, the
key, and the small satchel. In the mist, the wrought iron gate and decorative filigree along the top of the garden wall looked like the twisted gates of Hades. The lions appeared to laugh as I approached. I looked into their gleaming eyes and glared. If Rathford could see me, I wanted him to know how much I despised him.

With all my strength I wrenched open the heavy gate, the hinges creaking with my effort. I slipped through and let the iron bars swing shut behind me.

I found myself adrift on the side of the wide cobblestone road. For months I had longed for the freedom to stand on this side of the gate. Now that I was here, I felt sick with bitterness and fear. Large houses and garden walls boxed me in, creating a great and terrible maze before me. I found it difficult to breathe, impossible to run. The weight of my anger and sadness pressed down on my shoulders until I felt crushed by it.

My parents were gone, burned, along with everything I ever loved. For six months I’d worked to the bone, but I never had the chance to properly mourn them. I looked down at my dress, the mourning dress my neighbor had given me out of pity. It was supposed to show the world my sorrow for the loss of my parents. Beneath my apron, it had only showed my servitude.

To what?

To an insane murderer.

Now I had nothing.

The pain of it welled in me so strongly, all the loss. All the sorrow, it swallowed me whole, like a great dark whale, carrying me down into the depths.

The streets became a blur of darkness and glowing pools of light. Ornate houses leered at me. I had no home, no food, no money, no shelter. I’d have to throw myself on the mercy of the church and confess sins I’d never committed.

I had no one. No one I could trust.

I didn’t know how long I walked, or how far. I kept blindly putting one foot in front of the other. Somewhere, people chattered at some fancy ball, their voices ringing like bells in my ears. The merry laughter seemed to mock me. Through the windows of the house, I could see the ladies in pretty ball gowns, drinking, flirting, not a care in the world as they bartered their reputations like a cheap bet in a game of cards.

Yet I, in my modest mourning dress, was the one turned out for my lack of moral character.

I turned down a side street where a row of hansom cabs lingered, waiting for the drunken revelers to emerge. I had barely noticed them as I hurried down the lane.

“What’s this, lovely?” A cabdriver stepped out from behind one of the horses. “Hey, Bill! Take a gander at the pretty little pigeon what come our way.”

I stopped in my tracks and looked up just as the cabbie lunged toward me. I jumped back and spun around as a second came up from behind.

He smiled and his tongue poked out from the gap of his missing tooth.

“What’s wrong, miss? Lost? Just say the word and Eddie here’ll give ya a ride.” They laughed, barking like mad dogs.

“Leave me be,” I snapped, trying to take a quick step around them. One grabbed me by the shoulder, his grubby fist catching my shawl.

He pulled me closer. “Maybe a kiss’ll cheer you up.”

I slapped him as hard as I could, my palm burning from the blow and his grubby stubble. Then I kicked him in the knee, but he held me fast. I couldn’t escape.

“C’mon, miss. One little kiss. And if ya like that, there’s more I can show ya.” I froze as he pulled me toward him.

A shot rang out, the round crashing into the side of the cab with a loud
crack
. The cabbies jumped away, ducking for cover. They cursed as I regained my senses.

I ran, leaving my shawl behind.

My heart pounded. Never had I been so afraid. My feet flew over the paved stones. I didn’t know where I was, but I had to keep running. A second shot rang out, this one whistling past my ear.

I screamed, nearly falling to the street, but I picked myself up and dodged down a narrow lane to the left.

Whoever was shooting, was shooting at me.

My corset was too tight. I couldn’t breathe in.

The heavy sound of boots drummed on the pavement behind me. A rush of heat flooded up through my face to my hair. My head pounded with it. I could taste my fear like the sharp tang of blood. My lungs burned. I tried to keep running but I stumbled.

My head swam. I couldn’t move my feet. I tried to breathe. The stays of my corset gripped too tight.

I just couldn’t breathe.

Desperate, I ran down the lane, but the fog confused me. I found myself in a small, quiet square. There was no place to run. I turned to face my attacker.

A man in a dark coat stalked down the lane beneath the skeletal trees. His face remained hidden behind his high collar and the brim of his hat. Mist swirled around him as he slowly raised the gun.

I was going to die.

A shot rang out, and I shut my eyes, unable to find the voice to scream. I had expected the round to rip into my chest, but when I opened my eyes, I saw the man in black had turned, his coat fluttering as he ran into the mist.

One moment he was there, the next, gone.

I fought for breath as a second dark form emerged from the fog. He strode toward me with purpose. The glow from a streetlamp spilled over his face.

“Will,” I whispered as I exhaled. A dizzy rush overtook me and I fainted.

I WOKE TO WILL JOSTLING ME AND URGING ME TO STAND
.

A short gasp pushed much-needed air into my lungs as I struggled against him in my panic. He held me tight and helped me to my feet.

“Who was that?” I shook from head to toe. I hadn’t been so close to death since the night of the fire.

“There’s no time. Quickly now.” Will pulled me forward and I stumbled along beside him, clinging to his arm.

His grip remained tight as he made a turn toward the trees peeking over the London rooftops. We must have been near one of the parks.

“The park isn’t safe,” I protested, as I stared at the pistol in his hand.

“Nowhere is.” Will loosened his grip on my arm, sliding his hand into mine as he led me down the street. “There will be less light, and we can conceal ourselves in the fog.”

We ran until we crossed into Green Park. Together we flew down the path and ducked behind a large tree. Heavy mist rose off the damp grasses and the lake, concealing us, but also giving perfect cover to the man in black.

“I think I scared him off,” Will said. He was breathing heavily, and his face looked pale in the moonlight. “Are you harmed?”

“I’ll be fine.” Even as I spoke the words I didn’t believe them. I didn’t think I would ever stop shaking. “Who was that?”

“I don’t know,” Will admitted as he looked back over his shoulder.

“We need to find shelter,” I insisted. Suddenly I missed the high stone walls of Rathford’s house and the fearsome lions guarding the heavy gate.

“How did you know I had been sacked?” I asked.

Will took my hand and pulled me deeper into the mist. “Mrs. Pratt came to the carriage house and gave me a piece of her mind.” He rubbed the back of his neck. “Then she threw the grooming pail at my head.”

“At least you can go back. The baron didn’t toss you out into the cold.” I crossed my arms and rubbed them.

“I told you this would happen.” Will turned suddenly at the sound of a snapping branch. “You should have listened to me,” he whispered.

We settled into a brisk walk, fear driving each step forward. I kept glancing at Will’s pistol, realizing I knew hardly anything about him at all.

A shudder racked my shoulders as I thought about the cabbies. I could feel them tugging on my clothing, smell the stench of rancid male sweat.

Sometimes a weapon could be useful.

In the distance I could see the glow from Buckingham Palace through the fog and the looming dark branches of the London plane trees.

Will started down another path, changing our direction. I still didn’t know where we would find shelter.

“We’ve no place to go,” he said.

“I think . . .” My voice cracked and I cleared my throat. “I think it might be a good time to find the Widow Pricket.”

He turned on me. “Dammit, Meg. Someone just tried to murder you. You have to let it go.”

“I can’t.” I threw my hands up and walked away from him.
What other choice did I have? “I have to see this through.”

“I swear you are the most stubborn, willful, obstinate creature I’ve ever met,” he muttered.

“You’ve been in the stable too long.” I took the book out of the satchel. “I’m in this too deep. Will you help me see it through?”

He looked uncertain, as if battered about by two swiftly churning tides. He let out a resigned breath. “Pricket had a shop up on Bond Street. Perhaps his widow is still there.”

The rush of elation and relief overwhelmed me, and I nearly threw myself into Will’s arms. I felt the urge to embrace him as I gazed into his eyes. Suddenly I didn’t feel so alone anymore.

Yet we were walking into the unknown.

• • •

Dawn broke as we made for Pricket’s Toys and Amusements. I was exhausted. I didn’t know how long we’d wandered through the mists in the park, but it seemed as if the night had passed too suddenly.

After skirting Hyde Park heading north, we had wandered down countless streets of terraced houses, all neatly conforming like obedient schoolchildren lined up in a proper row. The ornamental stonework put lacy frills on the otherwise boxlike squares.

We saw no sign of the man in black, and eventually Will put his pistol away.

When we reached Bond Street, only a short distance from where I grew up on Oxford, I sighed. Here each building had its own personality, but they still stood shoulder to shoulder, with no room for anything but stone and lampposts. Every awning felt familiar, even in the dark. This was my home, yet walking through it, I felt as if I had no place to enter.

My eyes burned and the skin on my cheeks felt tight and itchy. I needed someplace to rest, but as we approached Pricket’s shop, I didn’t think we would find rest there. During the night, the fog had cleared. Now the shadow of the buildings stretched over the street in the new morning light.

The shop was closed and dark, a thin layer of dust coating the carefully arranged toys in the window. A doll smiled at me, the weak sunlight dull in her lifeless glass eyes.

Did the widow even live here?

Will ran a tired hand over his face. If I felt tired, I had no right to complain. He’d been up all night as well.

I noticed a stylized flower with three petals incorporated into the uniform of the tin soldier painted on the sign above the door. A faded
CLOSED
sign had fallen askew in the window.

I knocked.

Nothing.

“Maybe she’s not yet awake?” Will peeked in the window, but the interior of the shop was too dark to see.

I knocked again.

This time we heard shuffling within the shop. Slowly, the door cracked open. “We are closed until further notice.”

I shot my hand in the door hoping she’d have enough mercy not to shut it on my fingers.

“Lucinda Pricket?” I implored.

The door opened a little wider to reveal a slender woman dressed from head to toe in a glorious full-mourning dress. Black lace hung from an elegant bonnet trimmed with jet and the shining feathers of a raven. It obscured her pale face, and I could barely discern her expression. Yet the veil couldn’t hide the radiance of the beautiful lady before me. She couldn’t have been much past twenty, with golden-red hair, eyes the blue of distant tropical seas, and the air of aristocracy.

“What do you want?” she demanded. Her voice, slightly husky, sounded as if she hadn’t used it in years.

“My name’s Meg Whitlock. I’m George and Elsa Whitlock’s daughter.” Even as I said it, I feared the man with the black coat was sneaking behind us on the avenue and in that instant another shot would ring out.

Mrs. Pricket placed a single finger under my chin and lifted my face. I looked her in the eye through the veil. Her eyes widened in shock. “Gracious, get inside!”

Her gloved hand clasped mine and pulled me in. Will followed, then the widow slammed the door.

A shiver overcame me as I looked around the dusty shop. Marionettes with jeering faces hung from the rafters. Cobwebs had collected between their strings. On the shelves, a plethora of wonderment sat silent and motionless. Music boxes, tin soldiers, clockwork animals, it was the magic of a thousand Christmastimes faded and still, lying lifeless.

My eyes lingered on a doll that looked just like one I had as a girl. Had my toys come from this very shop? The thought tainted my memories, like seeing an old friend in tattered rags and not knowing what to do to help.

We followed the widow to a cozy sitting room in the back. Will haunted the door as I gratefully sank onto the settee. A modest fire warmed a simple teakettle. It seemed only the shop had been neglected.

The widow swept across the room but did not lift her veil. It had been over three years since Pricket’s death. Surely she wasn’t still mourning him?

I cleared my throat. “I apologize for disturbing you so
early, but I fear we are in danger. A man shot at us in the park.”

“Did you see his face?” she asked as I placed the satchel at my feet.

“No. But he was wearing a black coat and top hat.” I twisted my fingers together.

“Along with half of London,” the widow said as she poured the tea. “So, he wasn’t some street ruffian. That is one clue at least.” Then she turned to Will. “Now who are you?”