The Ministry of Curiosities, Tome 2 : Her Majesty's Necromancer

CHAPTER 1

London, autumn 1889

"Put your arm around me," I told Lincoln Fitzroy.

He did, and as with every other time he touched me, my blood responded with a throb and my skin tightened. Imagine how I would react if he touched me with desire and not violence.

I hooked my fingers onto his forearm, dropped so that he suddenly held most of my weight, and spun toward his elbow, uncurling myself from the headlock he contained me in. I stepped away and beamed at him. He scowled in return.

It was the first defensive move he'd taught me, and after two months of daily practice, I'd finally succeeded in getting free from his grip. I probably could have managed it a month ago if my opponent had been an unsuspecting thug and not Lincoln. The element of surprise would work in my favor. It might even be my best weapon. Despite fattening up a little since moving permanently to Lichfield Towers, I was still on the small side. Any man would expect to defeat me if he attacked, but I was better equipped to defend myself now, thanks to Lincoln's training.

"That was adequate." Lincoln—I no longer referred to him as Fitzroy in my head—signaled that the session had ended.

He snatched up his waistcoat from the shrub he'd cast it across and marched off toward the house. As usual, his mood had darkened during my training. No matter how even-tempered he was at the beginning of the three-hour sessions, he always ended them by either snapping at me or not speaking at all, then storming away to his private chambers. It wasn't fair. I hadn't done anything to deserve his terseness. Buoyed by my success, I wasn't going to stand for it any longer.

"Adequate?" I called after him. "I got away from you for the first time, and the only thing you can say is 'adequate?'"

"You left yourself open to another attack. You should have run off."

"Or pulled out the knife hidden up my sleeve, but we weren't practicing combat, only getting free from your headlock."

"Weren't we?" He stopped and I almost ran into him. His face wasn't the least flushed from our exercise, whereas my skin felt damp and hot, despite the cool autumn air. Dusk had settled quickly, but there was enough light left for me to see that his features were set hard. "You have a knife strapped to your forearm?"

"Not at the moment, but I would if I were wandering about the city alone."

He walked off again and I trotted beside him to keep up with his long strides.

"'Well done, Charlie' would have sufficed," I said. "Even a simple 'good' is better than 'adequate.'"

He took the front steps two at a time and reached the door before me. He held it open even though he was entitled to enter first, being my employer. I didn't enter, but stopped in the doorway, blocking his entrance. We stood so close that we were almost touching. I tilted my head to peer up at him. He took a step back, crossed his arms, and watched me through thick black lashes.

"You require praise." He didn't pose it as a question, but I nodded anyway. "Very well. You have improved. You were always fast, but now you understand how to apply what strength you possess to greatest effect, and how to use your size to your advantage."

I smiled.

"Yet your skills are merely adequate. You might be able to escape from the average man who attacks you precisely in the manner we've employed in your training, but that's all. There is much to be done, if you want to fight off an opponent who is smart and strong, or one who uses dirtier tactics."

He waited as I thought through my response. In the end, I decided to focus on the positive. He'd not told me anything I didn't already know anyway. "Thank you. Your praise means a lot to me. However, you have a great deal to learn about being a good teacher. Indeed, I'd say you're merely adequate. For one thing, you need to learn when a student requires praise, and when they need to be told their deficiencies. This was a time for praise." I patted his arm. "Don't worry. You'll learn with time and practice."

His eyes tightened. "You're mocking me."

"I wouldn't dare, sir."

The eyes tightened more as they usually did when I called him sir. It was the only sign he gave that he hated me referring to him in the formal manner, even though he'd told me it was one of two acceptable ways to address him. The other was Mr. Fitzroy, which I usually used. I only said sir when I did indeed want to tease him, something I rarely did. We had few opportunities outside of training to speak. I was always too busy with my maid's duties, and he seemed to go out of his way to avoid me. I never called him Lincoln to his face.

"Same time tomorrow, then," I said, walking ahead of him into the house.

"Charlie."

I stopped, and so did my heart. The uncertainty in his voice intrigued me as much as worried me. He was not usually a hesitant man. "Yes?" I asked, sounding a little breathless.

Several beats passed, in which he continued to watch me from beneath his hooded lids. "Have Seth or Gus bring up tea," he eventually said, before striding across the tiled entrance hall to the stairs. He took those two at a time too and was quickly gone from sight.

I remained at the foot of the staircase, blinking stupidly. Had I said something wrong? He was such a difficult man to read that I wasn't entirely sure if I'd heard uncertainty in his voice at all now. I wish I had the courage to ask him what he'd really wanted, but it felt too awkward between us. Ever since he'd noticed my infatuation with him, as he'd called it, we'd grown more distant. Our only communication involved him giving me orders.

"You look like you've seen a ghost," said Seth, approaching from the service area at the back of the house.

"Oh, I…no. Not today."

He winced. "Apologies. I spoke without thinking."

I smiled. "No ghosts, just a master whom I suspect stops himself from saying the things he really means."

"Death?" He glanced up the staircase. "Are you sure? He always seems to say exactly what he means to me. Then again, I'm not a pretty young woman living under his roof." He winked and grinned.

"Ha! I hardly think that's the problem." On the few occasions when I'd thought Lincoln did see me as a woman, and one he would want to know intimately, he would do or say something that made it clear I was mistaken.

"Perhaps he needs his undergarments mended and is too embarrassed to ask you," Seth said.

"That's more likely. Perhaps it's best not to tell him that you pass on all needlework to me."

Whereas I performed the housekeeping duties, Seth and Gus took care of Lincoln's personal needs—except the mending. They even took turns cleaning his rooms. He'd refused to allow me in them, these last two months, even to deliver his meals. The only other employee at Lichfield was Cook, and between the four of us, we managed to keep the house organized, if not perfectly clean. If Lincoln ever decided to host a dinner party, however, we would be in all sorts of trouble. Fortunately, he disliked company. Our only guests were Ministry of Curiosities committee members, who paid calls from time to time. Mostly it was either General Eastbrooke or Lady Harcourt, and once Lord Marchbank had dinner with Lincoln. Lord Gillingham hadn't come at all in the last two months, thank goodness. I might have been tempted to tip the gravy in his lap if he had.

"Come into the kitchen." Seth beckoned me with a jerk of his head, sending his fair hair tumbling over his forehead. The tousled locks made him look even more boyishly handsome. "We've got a surprise for you."

"For me? Why?"

He didn't answer so I dutifully followed him. Cook and Gus stopped what they were doing and all three men broke into applause.

"What's this for?" I asked, laughing.

"For beating the master, fair 'n' square," said Gus. His broken-toothed grin was so broad that the deep crows’ feet wrinkles swallowed the scar at the corner of his right eye.

"You saw?"

"We sometimes watch from a window," Seth said, with a shrug of his broad shoulders.

Cook had disappeared into the adjoining pantry and now emerged with a small round cake. He handed it to me. "Sponge," he announced. "Your favorite."

"You didn't have to bake me something special."

"Didn't. Baked 'em to have tomorrow, but you can eat that one now." He winked one of his lashless eyes at me. "It's only small, so won't spoil dinner."

Gus snorted. "Probably fill her up, the way she eats."

"I eat well now, thank you." Far better than when I first came to Lichfield from the slums. That didn't stop the men from always encouraging me to eat more, however. I suspected I would never eat enough to satisfy them.

Cook returned to the range where his face and bald head soon became shiny from the heat, and I sat at the central table and ate my cake. Gus sat alongside me, mending a broken garden tool, while Seth prepared plates and cutlery for the meal. Doing chores didn't seem to bother them, even though they weren't actually footmen. Perhaps they were bored and the jobs gave them something to do. No one at Lichfield liked to be idle, not even Seth, a gentleman born and bred who must be used to servants doing everything for him. If he resented his lowered position here, he didn't show it. I wasn't yet certain what had led him to work for the ministry. He'd been living in reduced circumstances before Lincoln employed him, and was grateful to have a roof over his head and food in his belly. I understood how he felt. Lichfield Towers was a vast improvement over my previous living quarters of a damp, stinking basement shared with a dozen boys.

A loud knock on the back door echoed through the house. We all stopped what we were doing, but for a moment, no one moved. Who would be making deliveries now?

"I'll get it," Seth said. Gus and I followed him out of curiosity.

We met Lincoln striding along the service corridor. Ragged twists of damp hair framed his face, softening the hard planes but not the sharp gaze that locked with mine. For a moment I thought he was going to order me to remain hidden. My necromancy had made me a target for a madman two months ago, but he was dead now, and few outside the ministry knew what I could do. Nevertheless, I still felt vulnerable, and Lincoln was perhaps aware of it. He did not ask me to leave, however, as Seth opened the door.

The Highgate Cemetery head groundsman stood on the courtyard stoop. The crooked-backed fellow with bulging forearms and long black beard eyed each of us in turn then quickly removed his hat when he spotted Lincoln.