Chapter 15 #2
Norton passed the table and heard no more, but his lip curled at Jack’s demanding nature. His men obeyed him because of his cruelty and his strength, not because of his brilliance or his abilities.
According to Dr. Ward, Jack was merely a passable gardener and an even worse chemist. It was known that he borrowed the abilities of his friend, Dr. Heddetch, to make the Root, and Jack had likely created the Root by accident.
Without it, Jack would be merely a caretaker for Dr. Ward’s Goldensuit plants.
In this, Norton felt Dr. Ward might be underestimating Jack.
While Dr. Ward saw the larger pattern of things in this world, Jack saw the darkness in men’s hearts quite clearly and knew what could manipulate them.
Norton was almost certain it was the reason Jack had created the Root, and that it had been Mr. Maxham who proposed selling it to Napoleon to fill their draining coffers.
A man stood at the base of the stairs at the back of the tavern, not so much guarding it as keeping watch.
He was unfamiliar to Norton, and he expected some sort of altercation before he would be allowed upstairs, but after squinting at his face a moment, the man simply bowed and stepped aside.
Perhaps he had been shown a portrait of Norton’s face.
Mr. Maxham was a surprisingly skilled artist, although Norton had not known that fact until Maxham revealed it by showing him an excellent charcoal drawing of Mr. Septimus Ackett.
Norton had not known Mr. Ackett personally, but upon discreetly showing the drawing to one or two gentlemen at his club, the Runny Knees, the father of one of Mr. Ackett’s brother’s friends had recognized him and given a name for the face.
Mr. Maxham had thanked Norton, for his own resources had not been able to discover the man’s identity.
Norton had not realized it at the time, but Mr. Ackett’s fortunes had changed dramatically from that moment. Mr. Maxham had coerced the young man’s cooperation—in much the same way Norton convinced Mr. Bradbrook—which enabled them to kidnap Lady Wynwood.
The stairs smelled of spilled ale and urine, and Norton grimaced as he climbed.
If the odors were so repulsive to him, with merely a normal man’s senses, they must be overpowering to Jack.
And yet Jack had no wish to move to another, more isolated set of rooms, more like the sub-basement under the Kitten Theater, where he had conducted his business for several months.
Norton had not even knocked on the door when Jack called, “Come in!”
The smell of the Root filled the room, a rotting stench stronger than that of the Blood Nectar, and over it all, the sharpness of Jack’s cosmetics.
There was a lone dressing table in the center of the bare room with a large ornate mirror.
On the table sat a wooden chest, surprisingly delicate, open to reveal open jars of various colors of face paint.
Norton guessed Jack had entered the tavern from the only other method possible, which was the roof.
It would have been a simple jump for a man with Jack’s strength, and upon entering through the window into this chamber, he then applied his face paint before showing himself downstairs.
None of his men had ever seen him without his cosmetics.
Jack was crouched in front of a battered dresser in the corner, fussing with vials of dark red potion, the glass clinking. He mumbled to himself as he moved each vial slightly, then paused to scribble something on a piece of paper in front of him with a tiny stub of a pencil.
Norton closed the door and waited patiently, reflecting that in this, Jack was exactly like Dr. Ward. But even in his mind, he hesitated to equate Dr. Ward’s intelligence and passion with Jack’s violence and mad mutterings.
At last, without looking up from what he was writing, Jack barked, “What is it, Norton?”
“Dr. Ward has requested your presence at the house.”
Too late, he realized his phrasing was poor.
Jack’s pencil dropped to the floor with a soft wooden clatter as he rounded upon Norton. “Ward requests? Ward requests? It is my house!”
Norton immediately bowed. “I beg your pardon. He and Mr. Maxham have received an unusual business proposition which they felt needed to be discussed with you.”
“Business proposition?” Jack’s anger disappeared as quickly as it had been roused. “What sort of business? And who made the proposition?”
Norton hesitated, unsure if he was allowed to reveal such information.
Jack loudly stamped his foot, making Norton jump.
“You are here, in this room—” Jack emphasized his point by jabbing a finger at the wooden floor.
“—by my sufferance. You’ll answer me, or you won’t leave this building.
And before you start mewling about how you’re Ward’s favorite pet,” he said, before Norton could barely open his mouth to reply, “I’ll tell you that I care nothing for Ward, or his possessions, or even his little tantrums. He needs to remember that he wouldn’t be able to afford to continue playing in his little laboratory in the country if not for my work here in London. ”
Jack was surprisingly sane and logical, although he delivered these words in a low, growling voice like a wild animal.
Norton suddenly felt as though the room had plunged into the depths of winter. His hands trembled, his throat grew dry and tight. His heart slammed in his chest, and yet he had difficulty drawing breath. He had felt this way once or twice before, in the presence of Mr. Maxham.
Jack so often played the demented fool that Norton had forgotten that this man, also, took the Blood Nectar. And yet he had not Dr. Ward’s intelligence or Mr. Maxham’s sense of control to hold back the immense strength behind his rage.
Norton bowed deeper, and he saw his knees shaking. “Forgive me,” he squeaked.
The immense wave of cold power continued for another few moments, and then it died away as if a door had been shut on a howling wind. “What business, and whose proposition?” Jack repeated, his words clipped but his tone low and cold.
Norton swallowed painfully, then rasped out, “A petite young woman who claims she is Bianca’s younger sister.”
A short, violent intake of breath made Norton look up.
Jack’s eyes had grown wide. He had painted splotches of yellow, orange, and dark red around his eyes and the upper part of his face like a domino mask, with vertical white, gray, and brown stripes down the rest of his face, reminding Norton of a forest of trees in autumn.
Jack’s lips barely opened a crack as he whispered, “Zephyra?”
“I believe that is what Mr. Maxham called her.”
Jack’s eyes suddenly narrowed, and the chill began to return to the room. “What does she want?” His words were like icicles flying at Norton.
Norton flinched, but he managed to reply, “She claims to possess some of Bianca’s notes and seeds.”
Jack’s lips pulled back in surprise, baring his yellowed teeth. His eyes stared at Norton for a long moment.
Norton felt trapped by that gaze and only realized he had been holding his breath when Jack finally blinked.
Jack turned back to the dresser and shoved the glass bottles inside, some falling to their sides, but he did not bother to pick them up. “I must be there, or Ward will try to take all the seeds.”
It was surprisingly similar to what Miss Irvine had said, although Norton wished to refute that the seeds would surely do the most good in Dr. Ward’s hands.
Jack suddenly paused. “I am expected at the Coulton-Jones residence tonight,” he said, as if he had been invited to a dinner party.
He stabbed a finger at Norton, the nail yellow and encrusted with dirt.
“You! Go there and tell my men I shall be late. They are to follow orders and wait until the family is asleep, unless …” He tilted his head. “… unless something is happening.”
Norton clenched his jaw at how vague the instructions were, but he damped down his frustration and merely asked, “What should they do in that instance?”
“They are not to let his mother and sister escape,” Jack snapped impatiently. He picked up his cloak, which hung carelessly over a chair in the corner, and then he brushed past Norton and out the door.
With no choice but to comply, Norton followed in his wake and hailed another hackney. The shadowy London streets outside of the windows began to grow lighter as the vehicle entered Mayfair with its numerous streetlamps and gaily illuminated rooms, but his mood grew darker and more resentful.
He was not a messenger boy. The Citadel had been the one to put him in this position where he might be placed in control over all the Ramparts, and yet they sent him on meaningless errands rather than allowing him to do his job and find Drydale and his team.
But as he rode in the carriage, this one smelling of hay and rancid turnips, his mind began to calm. After all, Drydale’s team were aware of the fact that their loved ones were in danger.
Mr. Maxham had discovered only yesterday that Lord and Lady Stoude had abruptly left town. No one knew where they had gone.
Drydale and his team would surely be attempting to secure Coulton-Jones’s mother.
The man Mr. Maxham had hired to watch the house—he had insisted on a single man, who would be more likely to go unnoticed—had not reported anyone attempting entry besides the visitors at the front door, but since he was not on the Root, he may not have known if Drydale’s team were also nearby.
Perhaps Drydale and his team would attempt it tonight. If that were the case, Jack’s men would find them and capture them.
The hackney had neared the square, and Norton gathered his cloak about him, glad to soon be leaving the confines of the carriage. Just before turning the corner, a movement out the window caught his eye.
He did not understand why he happened to notice this particular figure, except perhaps that its movements were familiar to him. At first he thought it was a young man, but something about the elegant posture made him sit up in his seat and stare more intently out the grimy window.
No, not a young man. A young woman dressed as one, with short cropped dark hair and a plain hat on her head.
The figure waited until the carriage rumbled past, then crossed the street behind it. Norton moved to the other window, which was open, and partially stuck his head out. The woman quickly headed down the steps into the front area well of the house with darkened front windows.
Norton quickly sat back in his seat before she could see his head hanging out the window. A long, low breath escaped his mouth. Because he was in a carriage—no, perhaps because he was not on the Root, she had not noticed him.
Miss Sauber. Here, near the square.
Up until this afternoon, the lone man watching the house had belonged to Mr. Maxham, and not Jack.
But in anticipation of invading the home tonight, Jack had placed his men in position in the early evening.
Norton thought that was too early, but Mr. Maxham had mentioned that Jack’s men had a tendency to be late, and this was too important for any mistakes to be made.
Why was Miss Sauber here? Did they know about the attack, or was she here merely as a precaution?
But she had entered the front area well of that house, so Norton suspected she was not alone.
If there was only one other with her, it was unlikely they would have hidden themselves in that way.
It must mean there were more with her than one or two others.
It was past ten o’clock at night, and the family would be going to sleep soon, assuming they had not stepped out for an evening’s entertainment.
Jack’s men were instructed to wait until the family went to sleep, but would Miss Sauber herself sneak into the house?
Would Jack’s men be facing an ambush consisting of her and Mr. Coulton-Jones?
Norton felt this was the “something” that Jack had mentioned.
Instead of dropping him off at the entrance to the square, it continued to the mews road that ran behind one of the rows of houses, as he had instructed it to do. Norton exited the carriage onto the darkened road, and he hastily paid the driver.
As the carriage trundled away, he headed down in the darkness, whistling in three short bursts to alert Jack’s men.
They would not wait for evening. They must attack the house now.