The Strangely Beautiful Tale Of Miss Percy Parker (17 page)

“Hello, dear girl,” said the faint, raspy voice.

“How in heaven—? How did you come here?”

“I’ve only a moment before my weary wisp be finally laid to rest. But ye shan’t take me, said I to the heavens, before my girl’s first dance!” The wizened face widened into a smile.

Percy laughed. “Indeed, my dearest Gregory, how dare you not be my first?”

Cold air found Percy’s left side. It touched also Percy’s outstretched right palm, and with a nod she led the spirit in the new waltz beginning to be played below—a dance an Elizabethan would not know, but as there were no corporeal feet for her to trip on, it proceeded without flaw.

“Hast thou found happiness, my child?”

“Sometimes,” Percy replied, as she and the ghost glided across the marble floor.

“Dost a brave young lad own your heart? Thou wert lost in reverie when I found thee, and—”

“Hush! None of that. Your hopeless romantic of a girl has merely grown older, not wiser, I’m afraid. My desired match is…unlikely.”

“Foolish girl! Thou art mad, to fix thy heart on what cannot be, when thou hast so much to give!”

“Don’t chide, dear Gregory. My fate is my own to choose…” Yet Percy faltered and slowed, looking into her friend’s transparent eyes.

“But who shall care for my little swan?”

“God shall provide,” Percy replied—the words Reverend Mother always used to assure her. She hoped they were true.

The waltz drifted to its dainty end. After a moment, a new and stronger tune began. Gregory reached out a translucent hand, and Percy felt a cold trickle of air down her cheek.
“Percy, my time hath run its compass.” The ghost’s voice was far off; he was beginning to fade. “My little one is now a lady. Dost thou relinquish me?”

“With all my heart. Good night, sweet prince, I wish you peace!” Percy blew her friend’s diminishing figure a kiss. Gregory began to hum along with the music, until he was nothing but a lingering sound and a cool patch of air. “‘Flights of angels sing thee to thy rest,’” she added, her voice breaking, hoping their familiar, final benediction could carry him home.

Suddenly, she realized that she’d never before been so terribly alone. Tears sprang forth, and Percy let them come.

“Now, now, Miss Parker, what’s this?” a voice scolded from behind.

Percy whirled at the familiar, stern sound. A figure broke from shadow, clad in an elegantly tailored frock coat trimmed with ornate embroidery, and a white silk cravat. His black hair was combed neatly, framing that noble, stoic face at which Percy had spent countless hours staring. Percy’s heart throbbed in her throat.

“Oh, Professor! Good evening!” She nearly coughed out her words, feeling all grace drain away, cut to the quick by his unexpected appearance. She tried to bat away her tears but his firm hand caught her pale, lace-covered fingers. He took her hand, their entwined fingers bridging the cold chasm between their bodies.

“May I have this dance, Miss Parker?”

“Oh…of course, sir.” A blush bloomed ferociously in her cheeks but she was helpless to stop it.

As his hand grasped hers, she examined his full lips, which had just enough curve to make his expression inviting. There was just enough light in those dark eyes to make Percy wholly forget about breathing, and without words or even a nod he drew her hand to his side. He slid his opposite hand around layers of smooth lavender satin and placed the fullness of his palm assuredly upon her waist.

Percy’s hand flew to his shoulder, alighting like a lark on a branch. She saw his nostrils flare, as if he took in the intoxicating scent of the heather she wore, and if her mind did not play tricks he stared at her as if she was his peer. But her mind did play tricks, and these were dangerous thoughts.

They began to waltz—slowly at first, their circles precise and narrow, their gazes locked. Percy, who had already memorized the professor’s features, now savored each pore, crease and eyelash. The study of his sculpted lips forced her to close her eyes or else, truly, her knees would have buckled. In turn she knew she was being parceled; but from
him,
she welcomed the scrutiny.

Their bodies were one with the music, and Percy found she didn’t have to think about the correct steps any longer. In and out of the moonlight they floated, silent save for the deft clicks of their heels, the whispers of the music rising from below and the occasional sigh escaping Percy’s lips. Their orbit grew, expanded. Her sighs grew into giggles and laughs.

Professor Rychman spun her, and Percy swept fully against him, lingering there for just a moment. Her face brushed his chest and she took a deep breath. He smelled faintly of clove tea and leather-bound books. She did not want to remove her cheek from the thick black lapel of his jacket; she could have nestled in that warm darkness indefinitely. Perhaps, at least, until class. A giddy scream welled up inside her. This was surely a dream!

Had they not been interrupted, they might have danced till dawn, time slowing as they stared breathlessly into each other’s eyes and dreamed volumes they could not voice. But their magical moment out of time was fleeting. A raucous squawk sounded. The professor’s brow furrowed and his eyes clouded. He broke away, and a hand went to his temple as if he was pierced by a sharp pain. It was like a spell had broken.

They both turned to the noise at the window, staring at
the large black bird upon the branch outside. “Professor…?” Percy said.

He turned, focusing on her, then sighed as if heavily burdened. “Pardon me, sweet girl. I must go.”

Percy blinked, enraptured by his endearment and at the same moment distraught at his retreat. “My apologies, Professor. I did not mean to keep you—”

“It was I who asked you to dance, Miss Parker, but I’m afraid it may have been in error,” he explained, raking his hand through his hair and taking another moment to stare at her.

“Oh.” Percy stepped awkwardly out of his way and looked at the floor, her blush reignited. Was he sorrowful that they had broken the school rules of conduct, though this night was unique?

Perhaps he sensed her fear, for he reassured her with weary gentleness, “You’ve done nothing wrong, Miss Parker, only provided a welcome distraction. But work calls.”

The raven squawked impatiently. Percy glanced over. There was something strange about the bird; something glistened upon its black breast, a tiny patch of blue. Was it not the same raven that had perched outside the headmistress’s office?

Percy shuddered. What strange omens were these? What exactly did her professor hide?

A crisp evening wind blew through the open window near Lucretia Marie O’Shannon Connor, the woman commonly known as Jane. Her fellows in The Guard were never sure if her name was actually her own or rather a romanticized invention, but they fondly blamed it on her Irish heritage. They enjoyed her eccentricities where her actual family did not. Such as, her fondness for solitude: she was not a social creature, and certain secrets increased her proclivity for isolation. One of those particular secrets, if he had been present, might have warned her of the coming danger, but Jane’s
ghostly paramour was gone and so she was more vulnerable than she believed.

A white cat padded around the fireplace, as if looking for something misplaced. The wind whipped more strongly through the open window, blowing the damask curtains and rattling the pages of Jane’s open book. She saw the cat stop pacing and stare past her toward the door, ears erect and tail pointed.

“What is it, Marlowe?” The cat looked up with flashing, intelligent golden eyes, and wrapped a long tail around her ankle, and Jane realized, “Ah, something’s here, is it?” She closed her book and stood. “Well, Marlowe, we’ll just have to encourage it to leave, won’t we? We’ll just…” She turned to face the open doorway and there was a pause. “Holy Mother of—”

“I’ve work to do,” Alexi repeated hastily, backing to the stairs. “And you have a ball to attend. You must return.” As Miss Parker moved forward, unconsciously maintaining their proximity, he held up a hand. “
Good night,
Miss Parker.”

“G-good night, Professor Rychman.” A hand rose to her lips but the girl caught herself, never actually blowing him the kiss. Exchanging such a token of affection would have been wholly inappropriate on any night, but Alexi allowed a flickering smile to nonetheless toy at the corner of his mouth. Then he bowed slightly and turned to hurry down the stairs.

“P-Professor?” she called. He turned back. “Thank you. Thank you so much.”

“What else was I to do?” he replied, letting her interpret as she would. Then he turned and was off again, leaving her where she stood.

There was no choice but to abandon her. Alexi’s temple throbbed, his chest tightened and his stomach churned, and he knew some evil had come to one of his companions. He
was being punished for his foolish indulgence. Taunting Prophecy came with consequences. He was moving too fast, not waiting for the appropriate sign.

Rushing out the door into the cool evening air, past giddy partygoers and whispering couples, Alexi’s anxiety was only heightened by thoughts of Miss Parker, who had stood unabashedly enraptured by the touch of his hand. Percy’s laughter, the radiance of her sweet, innocent soul—every aspect of her had been aphrodisiac, gently alleviating years of weight upon his soul. Her eyes had betrayed both of them: they shouted her feelings and stirred up his own, unfamiliar and unsettling as they were.

Rebecca was awaiting him on the steps of the academy, tapping her foot in supreme irritation. “Where have you been?” she snapped as a carriage sped around the corner and shrieked to a halt.

Alexi shrugged as he climbed inside, following her. “Waltzing.” The carriage set off.

“Waltzing? Are you ill?” Rebecca asked.

“Fevered, perhaps,” he agreed. “Do we know what we’re in for?”

“Marlowe came to my window.”

“Really? You ought to have asked him to dinner. I have a question about Faustus—”

“Shut up.” Rebecca scowled. “Marlowe, Jane’s familiar. She’s in trouble.”

“She’ll stave it off, whatever it is. I have complete faith in—”

“Remember the dog?”

Alexi’s mind returned to the last encounter the group had suffered with the forces of Darkness, and he blanched. “I assume the others are on their way and will meet us there. Oh! Elijah was attending Miss Linden,” Alexi recalled, seized with sudden guilt. “I assume he’ll offer her some grand excuse and find us?”

“You mean, you weren’t waltzing with her? Who, then?”

Alexi rolled his eyes. “What does it matter?”

Rebecca clenched her fists but said nothing.

Alexi stared at her. “I know you all think she’s our seventh, but nothing’s yet proven. If—”

Josephine’s cry outside the carriage and the pounding of horse hooves beside them alerted him that their time was short. They were almost at Aldgate, and Alexi prayed they weren’t too late.

“‘Work calls…’” Percy repeated the professor’s words, standing alone once more in the moonlit foyer. She wanted to laugh and cry all at once, but mostly she wished to scream. Had there indeed been a spark between them? Could she trust her memory and senses? She shook her head, feeling faint. Surely it had been imagination.

Darting down the stairs, she was out the front door before her mind caught up. “What sort of work at Saturday midnight?” she asked herself. “And what am I doing?” A guard called out to her to ask why she was running, but she was inside Apollo Hall before she even knew the answer, darting up the stairs and knocking on Professor Rychman’s door with no idea of what she was going to say if he answered. Her heart thundered. She had no right to inquire of him, yet here she was following, compelled to question. She knocked again. There was no answer.

The door was unlocked. Boldly she opened it. The room was dark and uninhabited.

“What work has he to do?” she asked the empty chamber. “Please tell me your mysteries, Professor Rychman. Perhaps they shall illuminate mine…”

“My God. Not you again…”

Jane was not a weak woman. She trekked down the Minories to the Tower of London on a regular basis to face the local spectres. While none of her illustrious group could ever completely confine or expel the tower’s many spirits, with a
gentle Celtic admonition she policed its boundaries, keeping the antics of centuries of ghosts inside the ancient, worn stone walls, bidding poor Margaret Pole and her brutal, axwielding executioner remain within their usual bounds of the Tower Green lest they disrupt the whole of Tower Hill with the gruesome repetition of her death was a daily routine. But this black cloud floating before her was more terrifying than any of the tower’s offerings, were there a hundred Margaret Poles and a thousand chasing executioners and were the flowing silver blood of ghosts to turn red. This blackness was terror itself. It hovered at the threshold, taking up her entire doorway. When last Jane had seen it, she’d had the aid of her companions. Even then, it had almost taken Elijah’s life.

The cloud congealed into the form of a single-headed canine. That head then multiplied, and the beast stalked forward and began to circle her chair. From its feet, which hovered a good six inches from the ground, blood appeared to drip. Blood culled from Whitechapel. Blood drawn from single, unaccompanied women…

The monster opened a hellacious maw and growled: the whispers of a thousand damnations. It sniffed her then struck. Jane screamed as blood poured from a deep rent across her forearm, and a shriek flew from her lips as she pressed back hard against her chair. The incantation worked, if only for a moment; the abomination jumped back as if scalded.

“What do you want?” Jane demanded, as the infuriated beast slashed her curtains. “Damned Ripper. What are ye looking for?”

The monster turned and its invisible force lashed out. A shallow wound began in each of Jane’s cheeks, drawing downward, stinging and creating tearlike trails of blood. Like the Ripper’s other victims, Jane would die ignominiously, cloven and torn. She prepared herself, knowing that wars always had casualties. She had just expected to remain safe, a healer—

Her front door suddenly burst open and the back of her library exploded in flame. The beast turned, startled. Alexi Rychman, voice like thunder, chanting in an ancient tongue rich and beautiful, entered the room. A whirlwind surrounded him, and his dark eyes were blazing; with a wave of his hand, he extinguished the fire.