Page 64 of Confounding Oaths
“Well, you have failed,” snapped Mr. Caesar. “Had you not, Mary would still be—”
“Would still be what?” asked his father as if those four words were the most he could manage without cracking.
And belatedly, the regret came. Of all mortal emotions it is the one that tastes sweetest to my kind, although in this instance I found my palate oddly dulled. “I didn’t mean—”
“Perhaps not,” replied Lady Mary. “Or perhaps you meant exactly what you said.”
A sour taste was growing in Mr. Caesar’s mouth. “I do not—I did not—there’s just so much in my life, in Anne’s and Mary’s lives, that was decided for us before we were even born and—”
Lady Mary regarded her son with a look that bordered on the edge of betrayal. “We know,” she said, softly. Though as she continued the softness ebbed away. “We have always known. And yes, when your father and I chose each other we chose for you as well, and I would tell you I was sorry if I could, but I will not because it would be a lie.”
Beside her, the elder Mr. Caesar was silent. Two steps from defeated.
“You and your sisters,” Lady Mary continued, “are the only things that matter to us. The truest things in our world. And we need you now, this family needs you.”
A serpent was crawling beneath Mr. Caesar’s skin, a sense like nausea moving with it. “And I—” he said, hesitantly. “I need space. I need to think.”
The elder Mr. Caesar found his voice at last. “John,” he said. “I have always trusted you to know what is right. For you, and for those around you. I trust you to make the right decision now.”
The younger Mr. Caesar looked at his parents and sister, and what he saw looking back at him was twenty years of hope and love and expectation and disappointment that in that moment he could not face up to. So he said, “I’m sorry.”
And he left.
And so did I.
London is a dangerous city for a young woman alone, and whether it becomes more so or less so if that young woman is also made of a notoriously fragile substance and illuminated with an inner glory that by turns entices and ensnares is left as an exercise for the reader.
I caught up with Miss Caesar as she was wandering from a mildly dangerous part of London-by-night into an extraordinarily dangerous part of it. Were I given to speculation (and I am not; I speak only truth in its most absolute and unvarnished sense) I might also have thought some force was guiding her, be it destiny or something more sinister.
And this time it reallywasn’tme.
Not that it was any of those other times either.
The streets were narrower now, and lit only by the moon. So the light that radiated from within Miss Caesar stood out like a candle in a darkened field. And like a candle it drew moths.
And by moths, I mean men with knives.
I should of course take this opportunity to remind my enlightened, modern readers that the average inhabitant of the London slums in this era was no less moral than the average inhabitant of Mayfair or the Houses of Parliament. Or indeed of your own great halls of power in your own countries in your own age. But then I suspect you will also need little reminding of how low a bar that truly is.
Thus it should not come as too great a surprise to know that the arrival of an obviously magical being with vast potential resale value encouraged at least some of the denizens of the less seemly parts of the city to put self-interest above self-preservation and try to acquire her.
“Lost, lady?” was the somewhat unoriginal opening line of their leader, a short, quick-eyed man with a mole on his left cheek.
Sheltered though her life had been, and young though she was, Miss Caesar was no fool. She took a step back and watched the stranger warily. “I am quite all right, thank you.”
Taking a step back, it transpired, was not the wise precaution it seemed, because it brought her into contact with another gentleman,this one taller, more scarred, and more heavily built. “You don’t seem all right. What do you say we find you somewhere to stay?”
Vulnerable as a glass girl intrinsically is, Miss Caesar had one advantage that she would not have possessed were she still flesh. Surprised by the arrival of the second man, she turned her head sharply, causing one of her glass roses to slash a thin red line across his face. And vulnerable, sheltered, and out of her element as she was, she had the wherewithal to take the opportunity afforded when he swore and recoiled in pain to take at once to her heels.
She had not, unfortunately, had the wherewithal to remain in the parts of the city she knew. So she fled blindly through unfamiliar streets, pursued by rough gentlemen who would not let a little thing like lacerating glass deter them for long.
Those of you who read my last novel might recall the surprisingly dramatic but assuredly very genuine moment when Miss Mitchelmore, being pursued by otherworldly enemies, stumbled at the last moment and fell, only to be rescued by an individual of dubious character.
Would you believe that it happened again? One would imagine that such charming parallelism could not possibly occur in real life. But as I watched, I saw Miss Caesar stumble, fall, find herself helpless as the men with knives closed in upon her.
What are the chances?
Except as she fell, she fell forward, and rather than crashing onto the cobblestones, she found herself caught in the arms of a woman she had never met. Tall and dark-skinned, she wore a headdress in the Egyptian style that had been briefly popular some fourteen years earlier when Napoleon moved into Alexandria. Her dress was long and decorated in white and gold, which, frankly, did not make it especially suitable for London’s muddy streets. For amoment, I thought her eyes found me, but she made no mention of my presence.
