The Crimson Shard (25 page)

“He’s right,” Blaise whispered. “Today is September second, and we’re about to lose eleven days.”

Henry’s words came back to Sunni:
At midnight we shall jump past them, as if they never existed.
She frantically counted on her fingers: 3, 4, 5, 6, 7, 8, 9, 10, 11, 12, 13. “Oh no — tomorrow is September fourteenth!”

Sunni almost staggered and fell as this sank in. Her head began to spin, trying to cope with the enormity of it.

“Correct!” came Throgmorton’s voice. “And it will soon be midnight.” He cupped his hand around his chin. “I am certain your stepbrother, Dean, will help me find the paintings instead. I shall see him very soon.”

“Dean! Stay away from him,” Sunni gasped. “He doesn’t know anything!”

“You shall pay the price for defying me.” Throgmorton’s embroidered waistcoat glinted as he raised one arm high. “Stay in this world and see how you fare.”

He brought his arm down, and several nearby tree trunks seemed to come alive as hunched figures emerged from behind them.

Blaise and Sunni took off in the opposite direction, their satchels flying.

“Run away!” Throgmorton’s laugh faded. “Run away for the last time.”

“Come on!” Blaise pulled Sunni off the path and out of the lantern light. Her feet moved jerkily in her high-heeled shoes, as if some outside force were operating her legs. They cut through brush and round statues, interrupting kissing couples and pick-pocketings in progress, outrunning Throgmorton’s henchmen. At last, they burst onto a brightly lit path full of laughing revelers and merged with a crowd moving like a lazy river. They pushed into its center, camouflaged by people’s tall wigs and outlandish costumes.

“Can you see any of them?” Blaise panted, peering around through his eyeholes.

“No . . .” Sunni tried to catch her breath. “We’ve lost them . . . I think.”

Blaise unbuckled his satchel and squinted at his watch hidden there. “If this is right, we have only a little more than an hour before midnight.”

“No!” Hot tears started down Sunni’s face. “What do we do?”

“We get transport — fast. If we can outrun Throgmorton and get back to the house first . . .”

“Then what?”

“I don’t know, but it’s our last chance. We’ve just got to get back there!” He yanked the mask from his face and tossed it into the bushes.

“Okay.” She cast her mask aside and rubbed the tears from her face. Blaise put his arm around her shoulders and they moved with the crowd toward a long rectangular pool, glittering with reflected light. In the pool’s center was an ornate pavilion, with a pagoda-like roof, connected to land by a short footbridge. People milled around the pavilion, leaning out from its angular corners and waving to others on shore.

When they got to within a few yards of the footbridge, Blaise slowed down and scanned the people inside.

“What?” whispered Sunni.

“We need to find Henry and the others. He’s got a carriage.” His lip drooped in disappointment. “I don’t think they’re here.”

“How are we ever going to find them?” She gestured at the brightly lit Rotunda in the distance. “That place is packed, and they might not even be there anymore.”

“Then we’ll find another way to Jeremiah’s.”

They dodged in and out of the hordes, careful not to be followed, then sneaked through the exit, where a jumble of horse-drawn vehicles vied for space. Once again they had to push past hawkers, porters, and angry drivers; dodge more manure; and slip through gaps between coaches that might shift at any moment.

When they came to the edge of the jam, Blaise began asking drivers to take them to Phoenix Square, but the carriages were either reserved or were asking exorbitant fees. “Let’s find Henry and Amelia’s coach. Maybe the driver will take us if we explain. And if that doesn’t work, there might be cheaper carriages farther away from here.”

As they turned into the back streets of Chelsea, the lights of Ranelagh Gardens and the Royal Hospital disappeared. Nearing Wheatley’s house, Sunni half expected him to leap out at them, but she kept telling herself that he was still at the masquerade. She wrenched her foot on some rubble and cursed under her breath, wishing they were as clever as Sleek at weaving through the dark. Soon, Blaise bent down and tore the fussy ribbons off his shoes.

“I think the Featherstones’ carriage turned here after it let us out,” he said, taking them down a side road just before Wheatley’s dark house.

“Are you sure?”

“Look,” said Blaise, pointing at three silhouettes walking ahead of them. Two men were escorting a woman between them. “Hurry!”

They caught up, getting so close that they could hear one of the men.

“I am delighted I arrived when I did, Miss Featherstone,” the voice said. “For once I was pleased to be delayed, for it meant I could fight that villain off.”

“You have your uses at times, Martingale,” said the other man.

“It’s Henry!” Blaise squeezed Sunni’s arm. “Mr. Featherstone! Miss Featherstone!”

The trio spun around. Even in the dark, Sunni could see that the Featherstones’ masks were gone. Martingale was also barefaced.

“Blaise and Sunniva?” Henry’s mouth hung open. “By heaven, we lost you in the fray! We hoped you were with Wheatley but saw no sign of you.”

“He’s still at the masquerade. Please, sir, we need to go to Phoenix Square immediately!” said Sunni.

Henry hesitated, as though he might demand some explanation on the spot, but Amelia put her arm firmly on his and he relented.

“Come, then,” he said, and they hurried to the inn, where the footman was snoring on the backseat of the carriage.

“Wake now, man,” Henry barked. The man was out and up in his seat like a shot, allowing the party to squeeze inside. “Take us to Phoenix Square immediately.”

The startled footman stuttered, “Y-yes, sir, but I am not certain where Phoenix Square is.”

“By heaven, we should have brought Rowley instead.”

“He might have been recognized from last night. You said so yourself,” said Amelia.

Sunni put her head in her hands. “Now what?”

“Fear not. I know the way,” said Martingale. “Jeremiah Starling lives in Phoenix Square.” He shouted directions from the window, and the carriage clattered out of Chelsea’s village streets.

“You know Jeremiah Starling?” asked Sunni, astonished.

Martingale looked at her curiously. “Featherstone and I are acquainted with Starling from Old Slaughter’s coffeehouse, though we have not seen him in months. But how would you know him?”

“The Academy is in Jeremiah Starling’s house. He made the painted door — and if we don’t get there by midnight, we can never go through it again!”

“The painted door is in
Starling
’s house, made by his own hand?” asked Martingale, aghast.

“Yes, and it’s going to be destroyed on September fourteenth!” said Sunni. “Throgmorton is going to escape before that happens, and we have only one more chance to get through.”

“Destroyed on September fourteenth!” said Henry, pulling out his pocket watch and squinting at it in the gloom. “Are you certain?”

“Yes,” said Sunni. “It’s part of history. That’s why we have to get back through the door before it happens.”

“If I am seeing my watch correctly, it is just after eleven o’clock,” Henry said. “You have little time — and no red elixir.”

“My brother is right,” said Amelia worriedly. “What will you do without the elixir?”

“We don’t even know if it works,” said Blaise. “All we can do is get to the painted door and see if we can find a way through somehow.”

“If you do not succeed tonight, perhaps Wheatley can discover another way when his elixir is ready,” said Martingale.

“We have to go through that door,” said Sunni mournfully. “It connects to one in our time.”

“Besides, Wheatley put too high a price on his elixir,” Blaise said. “He demanded to come with us to the future in return for it.”

“What? Wheatley set a condition upon his assistance?” Martingale was astonished.

“I cannot believe he would do such a thing,” said Henry, outraged.

“He won’t get anywhere without the painted door,” said Sunni.

“That is some comfort,” said Henry. “But I am appalled that Starling let such evil-doing happen under his own roof.”

“I don’t think he had any choice. Throgmorton controls everything,” Blaise said quickly. “He has a hold over Jeremiah. We think it’s about money.”

Martingale shook his head. “This does not surprise me. Starling is a talented painter, but poor as a church mouse and in debt.”

The carriage made a turn into the heart of Covent Garden and stopped abruptly.

“Sir, there is a problem ahead,” shouted the footman from his seat in front. “A blockage of carriages, and something burning in the road.”

“As we feared, there is mischief afoot. I shall have a look.” Henry jumped out of the door. When he returned, less than a minute later, he was breathless. “We can go no farther east through Covent Garden. It is nearing midnight, and a mob has gathered, angry at losing their eleven days. They are moving south apparently, in packs like wolves, intent upon making trouble.”

Sunni reached forward and squeezed Amelia’s hand. “We can’t wait.”

“You must,” Amelia objected. “It is not safe —”

Before anyone could say or do anything, Sunni pushed herself through the narrow door. Blaise jumped out after her, mumbling, “Thanks for everything.”

“You must help Jeremiah Starling after his house is destroyed,” Sunni called over her shoulder, and Blaise added, “Please buy his paintings, or something, so he can rebuild it. None of this is his fault!”

By the time Henry and Martingale leaped from the carriage, shouting for them to wait, Sunni and Blaise had already melted into the nearest dark lane.

S
unni and Blaise moved steadily eastward toward Phoenix Square. Blaise’s homing instinct, and his memory of escape with Fleet and Sleek, said this was the right way. They evaded link-boys wandering about with their glims, offering to show the way for a few pence. They spoke to no one and kept their three-cornered hats low over their faces, ready to lash out at anyone who attempted to divert their attention with a view to snatching their goods.

“We didn’t say proper good-byes back at the carriage,” murmured Sunni. “I feel bad about that.”

“It doesn’t matter,” said Blaise, even though it did matter to him, too.

The sound of high yelping voices and low growling ones floated over the rooftops from somewhere. Sunni and Blaise skirted the edge of the buildings and peered around the next corner.

A motley assortment of men half marched, half staggered along the street, some bearing flaming rushes that had been dipped in fat to make them burn. One or two rabble-rousers called for everyone to go and speak to the king about the problem of their stolen eleven days. Others followed, some smashing windows and others brandishing knives in their teeth, like pirates. Several turned into the lane where Sunni and Blaise were and reeled straight into them.

Just as one of the drunks was about to connect his fist to Blaise’s chin, Sunni yanked her friend away. They had to run clear across the main road, dodging men waving their torches before them like scythes, and urchins who followed at their heels, taunting them. Several men lurched as if to give chase but wobbled to a halt, shouting a stream of abuse at them, as if Sunni and Blaise were responsible for midnight coming and stealing time.

The pair did not stop running till they were four or five streets away, and when they finally stopped, Blaise panted, “Look over there!”

Phoenix Square was within view. Other houses in the street leading into the square half hid it, but Blaise knew this was the right place. A shudder of trepidation ran through him.

“Are you ready?” he asked, and took her hand in his.

“Yes.”

They set off with the unsettling knowledge that they had walked this same way only a few days before, but in the twenty-first century. The square was mostly in gloom, the elm trees planted in its center garden looming like dark giants. Each entrance was lit with a twinkling lantern hung over the top of the door, and Blaise no longer had to guess which one they wanted. He had been here before, with only a map on a paper napkin to guide him.

“Wait,” Sunni breathed. “Maybe we should go in the back way.” She pointed at the candles burning in the front windows of number 36, including the workshop. “People are up.”

They hastened back to the mouth of Phoenix Square and hunted for the alley Fleet and Sleek had taken them through. It was there, like a black tunnel.

When they reached the courtyard door, Blaise felt around under his cloak and fished something out.

“Fleet’s skeleton key,” he whispered, and fumbled to fit it into the lock. The door swung open with a high squeak.

To their relief, Throgmorton’s study window was dark, so they moved past freely and Blaise went at the back door lock. Once inside the dim ground-floor hall, they undid their cloaks and threw them into a corner.

They tiptoed up the stairs, carrying their damp shoes and praying that no boards would groan under their feet. They climbed from murkiness to the dim light of the second-floor landing. A single guiding candle flickered, but no one seemed to be about. The front and back rooms were empty, though well lit.
Had they managed to get there before Throgmorton?