Chapter 24
Cynthia sank onto her bed, exhausted by her final packing and preparation.
The duchess’s ball was only a day away. She left for her country manor the morning after and had no plans to return to London.
Tears filled her eyes as the haunting scent of bergamot from the tea she asked for and would not drink surrounded her.
Her handkerchief was folded neatly in the chest packed for her trip.
Needing to distract herself from maudlin thoughts of doomed love, Cynthia imagined the chest opening.
Creaking hinges encouraged her as she carefully pictured the white linen embroidered with bees buzzing over cherry blossoms. It rose into the air and flew through the dark room like a ghost, landing gently on Cynthia’s lap.
Picking it up, she wiped her wet cheeks and sniffed.
If she were destined to live alone in the wilds of the Cotswolds, she could comfort herself knowing she didn’t need a soulmate to fetch her slippers on a cold night or get her favourite book from the library.
She could do that all by herself without ever leaving the bed.
The tears came faster as she flopped back on soft pillows. Before she could completely dissolve into despair, her bedroom door banged open, and Ellie came rushing in with an outraged footman fast on her heels.
‘Cynthia! Thank the goddess you’re here.’ Ellie turned and flicked her wrist. A gust of wind inexplicably rose from nowhere, pushing the poor footman out of the door and slamming it in his shocked face.
‘Of course I’m here. This is my home… for two more days, at least. Why are you here?’
Banging ensued on the bedroom door, but the wind held it firmly shut.
Ellie wore a long jacket that she’d hastily buttoned. The diaphanous material streaming from beneath was clearly a nightgown. Something was terribly wrong for Ellie to not have even taken the time to dress.
‘It’s Helena. She’s in trouble. She needs your help.’
Fear shot Cynthia from her bed. ‘What did you see?’
‘Sinclair has her.’
‘Does Aunt Rowan know?’
‘She went to Bath with Uncle Lachlan. Something about a friend there who needed her help.’ Ellie closed her eyes and shook her head, her golden curls spiralling wildly from a messy bun that lost its battle of creating order from chaos.
‘Where is Helena? What did you see?’
‘I saw you both, facing Sinclair together, so she must be close. There was a large pool.’
Ophelia chittered from Ellie’s coat pocket as Ellie helped Cynthia strip out of her nightgown.
Cynthia threw on a chemise that she had only draped over the bedpost a few hours ago, Ellie wrestled a corset over Cynthia’s head, spun her with strong hands, and began lacing the torture device in hard jerks.
‘A pool… there can’t be that many pools in London.’
There were only two dresses hanging in Cynthia’s empty dressing room. Her travel dress and the gown the duchess had sent over that very day for the ball. Cynthia dragged the sensibly simple travelling costume from the hanger and spun, almost crashing into Ellie, who had followed her.
Ellie raised a brow at the elaborate gown left hanging in the closet. ‘That is certainly not a mourning gown.’
Cynthia didn’t have time to discuss fashion when the woman she loved was in danger. ‘Inside or outside?’
Ellie blinked. ‘Pardon?’
‘The pool.’ Cynthia endeavoured not to shake the answer out of her. ‘Was it inside or outside?’
Ellie shut her eyes and scrunched her face.
If Cynthia hadn’t been terrified, she would have found the expression undeniably endearing.
Much like Ellie herself. ‘Inside. Lots of white stone and colourful tile. It reminded me of a drawing I saw in The Gentleman’s Magazine of those Turkish baths they opened in Dublin a few years ago.
’ Ellie’s eyes popped open, the blue nearly blinding.
‘Do you remember? It caused quite a stir. Men bathing naked together. But then, I suppose it is supposed to be remarkably healthy.’
‘Five Bell Street!’ Cynthia had read about a Turkish bath house scheduled to open in a few months.
It was creating a stir in the beau monde because the designer, Roger Evans, was determined it would cater primarily to the working class.
The article mentioned the bath house would only charge a shilling to ensure that any man, regardless of his station, could frequent the baths and benefit from their healing properties.
The duchess had been quite in fits over the whole thing.
Ophelia’s chittering grew louder. She scampered out of Ellie’s pocket, ran up her coat, along her arm, and in a dramatic feat of ferret acrobatics, managed to leap from Ellie to Cynthia. She circled her long body around Cynthia’s neck and squeaked quite frantically.
‘That has to be it. Hamlet will be with Helena. You’re trying to tell me I’m right, aren’t you, Ophelia?
’ Cynthia gently extricated Ophelia from her neck and held the ferret in front of her, looking into her pink eyes.
The fear she saw flashing there mirrored her own.
‘Don’t worry. I’ll bring Hamlet back, safe and sound. ’
Ophelia calmed in Cynthia’s hands so Ellie could gently reclaim her familiar.
Cynthia grabbed her half-boots and shoved her feet into them, not bothering with stockings. ‘You need to tell Clio and Thomas right away. Thomas can alert Scotland Yard, and they can bring help.’
‘You aren’t coming with me?’ Ellie’s lips trembled.
Cynthia didn’t have time to comfort her friend. She raced to the door, which was still being held shut by Ellie’s witchwind. ‘You saw it yourself, Ellie. Helena and I face Sinclair together. I don’t have time to waste. I must go to her.’ She looked at the door, then back to Ellie expectantly.
‘Oh dear. Yes, of course. Silly me.’ Ellie waved her hand and the gust holding the door instantly ceased, leaving behind the scent of sugar and sage.
The door flew open and a disgruntled footman fell to the floor in a heap.
Cynthia stepped over him, running for the stairs.
‘Escort Miss Blair to my brother’s house.
Immediately!’ she called over her shoulder, not waiting to see if the man heeded her instructions.
Ellie could handle the footman herself if he didn’t comply.
Cynthia called for the carriage and nearly crawled out of her skin counting the seconds until the landau rocked to a stop in the drive.
Before the driver could jump down to set the step, she flung open the door and leapt inside, shouting directions as she imagined all the terrible things that could be happening to Helena.
Terrible things that she couldn’t prevent because the stubborn, infuriating, ridiculous woman had rejected her.
‘When I rescue you from this mess, Helena Blair, we are going to have a serious discussion about your misguided notions on love.’
Now, she just needed to determine exactly how she was going to rescue her spirit match from the Devil of Seven Dials.
Helena was dying. Her powers seeped out of her, and her vision refused to focus. She didn’t know how long she had been shackled in the hellish room, but she knew she couldn’t withstand the unrelenting heat for much longer.
Her hands were pulled over her head, and the leather ties around her wrists cut into the skin. At least they weren’t metal. In such a hot room, chains would have singed her skin to blackened char.
Surely her aunt and cousins would avenge her. They would ensure Damien Sinclair paid for killing one of their coven, but her heart ached to imagine their grief.
And what of Cynthia? Helena would never see her face again. Never watch her hazel eyes flash with humour, or see her skin turn luminescent with newly found power. She would never kiss her lips, taste the salty tang of her skin, hold her and feel her heart beating in tandem with Helena’s.
She’ll never know how much I love her.
Because as she faced the stark reality of death, she could no longer hide from the truth. She had fallen in love. Despite her oath. Despite her fear. Despite seeing the devastation love left in its wake.
That wasn’t love. What Mother felt for the blacksmith was a desperate desire. And what he gave to her in return was a poisoned need to possess. Not just Mother’s heart or her powers or her magic, but her very soul.
How painfully cruel that Helena only understood the true nature of love when it was forever out of her reach.
Cynthia would never try to possess Helena’s soul.
She didn’t need to. Because their spirits were intertwined.
They were laced together in a tapestry woven before time began.
And the love she felt for Cynthia could never warp or twist into something monstrous.
It was the only source of light in her darkness.
The only reason not to hang her head and succumb to death’s cloying promise of freedom.
When I die here, goddess, let my soul linger. Let me watch over my love until her days are done. I will gladly suffer the hollow loneliness of a spectre’s existence if only I can be near my lady.
A sudden wash of cool air cut through the dry heat, carrying with it precious moisture. Blinking hard, she tried to clear her vision in the dimly lit room as a dark figure stepped in front of her.
Damien Sinclair had shed his coat and waistcoat. He wore only a linen shirt and breeches. Within moments, the furnace of a room had sweat sheening on his brow and dampening his clothes.
‘You bastard!’ Helena meant the words to be full of wrath, but they emerged as a dry croak of sound she barely recognised.
‘Hardly the tone to take with a man who holds your life in his hands, Miss Blair.’
She narrowed her gaze, forcing her focus inward, desperately reaching for the gush of magic within her, and finding nothing but dust. If she had the breath to spare, she would have screamed.
‘I’m sure you’re wondering why I have you here in a room that is hotter than hell and more arid than an Egyptian desert.’
‘Because you’re the Devil’s whoreson.’ The venom got lost somewhere between her parched throat and scorched vocal cords.
‘Did you win your sweet lady with such compliments? Perhaps I should ask ’er.’
Fear welled inside her.
‘Don’t you touch Cynthia. I swear to the goddess if you dare breathe on her, I will rip your lungs through your throat.
I will steal your screams and sharpen your tears into daggers.
I will cut your heart into a thousand bloody pieces and damn your soul to the wastelands for all eternity.
’ A glimmer of power still remained, and her voice resonated with the last vestiges of magic simmering in her blood.
She struggled against the leather holding her hands over her head.
Another blast of cool air washed over Helena. She absorbed the hints of moisture like a desert succulent extracting water from the sand.
A giant stood in the doorway, ducking his head to avoid hitting the frame.
His legs were as large as oak trees, his arms thick with corded muscle.
Helena remembered hearing stories of Benandonner who fled from Giant’s Causeway.
She thought the childhood tales were nothing more than silly legends Aunt Rowan told the girls to get them to go to sleep.
Until now. Surely this man hailed from such myths.
‘We have a problem.’ His voice rumbled like thunder in a dark sky.
‘Can it wait?’ Sinclair glanced over his shoulder, irritation tightening every line in his body.
‘It’s the fox.’
Hamlet!
‘What have you done to him? You monster!’ Fear and anger melded into a wild frenzy in her chest. Her lungs screamed, and her ribs expanded. She couldn’t get enough air.
‘Nothing. Yet. But what ’appens to ’im next depends on you, Miss Blair.’ Sinclair’s dark eyes glinted dangerously.
‘Sinclair, now.’ There was an urgency in the giant’s tone that had Sinclair turning and scowling at the man.
‘Can’t it wait?’
The giant shook his head. Delicate curls, more befitting a young lady than a hulking beast, fell across his brow.
Sinclair muttered a curse and turned. He moved like a boxer, light on the balls of his feet, smooth and lethal in his economy of effort. Pausing at the door, he glared at Helena. ‘I’ll be back soon. And when I return, you will give me what I seek, or you’ll see how monstrous the Devil can be.’
The click of the door was quickly followed by a rush of scalding heat from a vent above her head.
She desperately grasped at the last hint of fresh air Sinclair took with him and willed herself to remain calm.
If Hamlet was in danger, she couldn’t die without first saving him.
Cynthia would need his strength and comfort in Helena’s absence, and she would be damned if she was going to leave her love without the support of their shared familiar.
Pulling with all her strength against the leather ties around her wrists, she lifted her feet to use her body weight as leverage. Hot blood dripped from where the cuffs cut into her skin, but it was useless. She was as powerless as a child.
‘You can’t let me fail in this. I couldn’t save my mother, but I won’t fail Hamlet.
I won’t fail Cynthia. Don’t abandon me, goddess.
Not now. Please.’ Her voice broke as dry sobs shook her chest. While she had no tears to shed, her soul bled as freely as her wrists. Still, the goddess remained silent.
But another voice wavered in her mind, soft and gentle as a summer breeze.
I’m coming, Helena.