off-days without complaint. Aunt Minta makes the best of the compromise.
Father doesn’t speak as we hurry down the steep streets of Midtown, nor does he say anything as we board the trolley to Chimera Park. I try to keep my expression as neutral as possible, though sometimes I put my face out in the glowing drizzle and grin like a fool.
We wind down Industrial Way, past the entrance to the Night Emporium which spans the length of the Vaunting Bridge over the River. Little humps of land rise here and there like the back of an old sea serpent. Houses climb up and down them and the Empress’s Tower sits like a ragged crown on the tallest one.
It’s said that when Saint Tesla’s Grand Experiment in the London Of Which We Do Not Speak (Old London for short) tore a hole in the Universe, buildings from every era were miraculously transferred here to New London. That, I suppose, accounts for all the different architectural styles and various states of disrepair from the Night Emporium to the Imperial Tower. It’s a bleeding mess, if you ask me.
Some people whisper the Old Londoners called this place Fairyland or Arcadia or Elysium, that Saint Tesla drew our ancestors all through a door that should never have been opened. They say we don’t belong here. But people say lots of things. And whatever is true, it’s a fact that we’re here now and have been for nearly six hundred years. And it’s also a fact that if Old London isn’t just a tale, we can never go back to it. It’s been tried many times and many men have died in the trying.
Still, I do love the swirling colors of the onion domes, and looking up at the ravens wheeling around the Empress’s Tower always gives me a creeping thrill.
We alight at the last stop and make our way around the square to the University grounds. I smile when we pass under the great archway with its ever-watchful statues of Saint Bacon and Saint Newton. A scroll stretched between their stone hands bears our motto in Old Scientific:
We pass into the domed atrium and I’m surrounded by my own handiwork, all the glimmering wings, the glass-eyed faces, the milkweed-tuft hair. I think of the little sylphid Piskel glaring at me from Pedant Lumin’s pocket, and for the first time shame wars with pride as I look upon my displays.
Father stops by one case and something about his manner keeps me silent. We both stare through the glass. I’m wishing for the key to this display so I can straighten one of the placards near a desert sylphid, when Father says, “I allowed you to come for a reason today, Vee. I’ve an errand that I cannot trust to anyone lightly, and I unfortunately can’t spare Charles.”
I brighten at the thought that Father once again has important work for me to do. Perhaps if I do this well, I can regain his trust and all these silly notions of ladylike behavior and making a good match and so on will be forgotten.
“I’m happy to do it, Father,” I say.
He nods and pulls a thin envelope from the breast pocket of his robes. The neverseal tingles as it passes into my palm. Only the recipient of this letter may open it or else the letter will dissolve in hissing green flames. Yet another necessary, if alarming, invention of the Refineries.
I look at the address.
Father is sending me alone to Lowtown? Excitement battles with dread. Though I love adventure, Lowtown is dangerous, especially for an unescorted young lady.
“Don’t tell anyone. Your Aunt would have my head, but there’s no one I trust more than you, Vee.”
He embraces me, resting his chin on the top of my head, while I curl against him. Father is so tall and gangly, it’s like being hugged by a tree. When he releases me, I secure the letter in my pocket. This is a way for me to redeem myself for the failings of the other day, even though Father has never accused me of anything openly. Just how I shall get there and back is another thing entirely.
“Send word of your return, eh?”
“Yes, Father,” I say.
He pats me on the shoulder and hurries off toward his office.
I look back into the case at the sylphids among the dried mosses and stones. There’s a little one I’m particularly proud of that I managed to pose light as a leaf on a branch, but Piskel again has me wondering if I should be proud at all. I push those thoughts out of my mind with trying to think of the best way to Lowtown, as most drivers from this section of Midtown would simply refuse to take a young lady there. The notion of walking down there is even less appealing. Perhaps I should disguise myself as a Scholar. . . .
A shadow slides across the glass. I stiffen, thinking of that mysterious push the other day that sent me through the paralytic field.
Pedant Lumin’s face appears behind mine. I can see in my reflection that the damp breeze on the trolley has sent my curls springing everywhere, but I refuse to tidy them. At least my gown is still neat and my bootlaces are tied this time!
His eyes meet mine. I see his face clearly, and the shock of his handsomeness initially takes my breath. I had not thought him handsome before; somehow his features have been difficult to discern. But in this moment, it’s as though the sun has come from behind a cloud. I manage to plaster a frown on my face before I turn.
“Miss Nyx,” he says bowing. I peer at him; he’s plain and unobtrusive again, his features indistinct. I recall the Church instructing us in detecting glamours should we ever fall into the clutches of a rogue Architect. But the Church always said that glamours were used to make the warlock exceedingly handsome so that he could seduce young women. Not the other way round. Part of me wants to shout his true identity aloud and have him carted away for heresy. And yet, another part of me is thrilled to know his dangerous secret and even more thrilled to be included. My frown deepens.
“Pedant Lumin.”
Pedant Lumin clears his throat and says, “I couldn’t help overhearing your conversation with your father as I was passing. If there is some important errand, I would be happy to escort you, as my lecture isn’t until this afternoon.”
“To Lowtown?” I say, hoping my raised brow looks ironic rather than silly. “Thank you, but I think I can manage, Pedant.”
His expression darkens. “You shouldn’t go alone there, Miss Nyx. It could be quite dangerous for one such as you.”
“One such as me?”
Pedant Lumin nods. “I can protect you as no one else can. Did I not do so the other day?”
I glance toward the Grand Exhibit Hall. The edge of the field that holds the Sphinx captive pulses a vivid blue. I remember the ticking of her claws, how he stood boldly between her and me. If events had transpired in a logical way, I should be dead now. I look back at Pedant Lumin, unsure. His gaze holds mine and, for just a moment, it feels as if the atrium inhales around us, as if some secret breeze stirs the still wings of the sylphids into life. I can imagine them, floating around us in a shimmering column. . . .
A patron tries to squeeze between me and the display case, jolting me back to the now. “Very well,” I say. “I’ll trust you just this once, Pedant Lumin. Let us hope you show yourself equal to the task.”
Pedant Lumin bows again, his expression carefully neutral. “Thank you, miss. You will not have cause to regret it, I assure you.” He looks up at me and grins. For just one moment, I consider running away to my laboratory and locking myself inside, but the nevered letter pulses its slim warning in my pocket.
“Shall we, then?” he asks.
I nod and together we pass through the doors out into New London’s glimmering gloom.
The hansom we hire is cramped, its cushions dusty and threadbare. I find myself picking at the seams, trying to ignore the fact that Pedant Lumin’s knees are nearly touching mine, so close is our confinement.
The curtains are drawn and so his face is mercifully hidden from me. That is, until a tiny, glowing head pops up from his waistcoat pocket.
Piskel floats toward me, lighting the entire hansom cab like a little sun.
“Don’t make any sudden movements,” Pedant Lumin says. “Just let him have a look at you.”
“He won’t bite me again, will he?” I ask, barely breathing.
The sylphid makes a face at me. Then he darts back into Pedant Lumin’s pocket, where he shakes a shining fist before crossing his arms and glaring at me.
