Outside the open office door, men grouped and broke apart.
“Assault—”
“Find the man—”
Policemen had started working in Kingston nearly five years ago. Aubrey and her friends had told each other stories about them: handsome detectives who tracked down stolen jewels, who rescued kidnapped girls. The policeman versus the soldier: which to choose? Most of her friends voted for the beribboned soldier, but the policeman exuded a sort of romance. Soldiers belonged to troops and fought battles in far off countries; policemen operated in pairs and their job was to protect people very like themselves in their very own capital.
Tradesmen with the right to be rude, Mother’s set called the police. Of course, Aubrey’s family was a bare step up from trade; still, it was true that the police mostly hunted muggers and prostitutes.
At least I’m safe.
A slight man in glasses entered the office and headed for the room’s desk. She said, “Have you sent a message to my family?”
“No. Who is your family?”
“St. Clairs. My oldest brother’s name is Richard.”
“Are they in Kingston?”
“I don’t know. Maybe Rostand. I was transformed in Sommerville.”
He swiveled, desk forgotten.
“What do you mean—transformed?”
“It was a philter in the punch. I became a cat.”
“You’re the girl from Lady Bradford’s ball?”
“Yes. I—I reverted.”
“Good Lord Almighty,” he said. “Smithy—”
An immense policeman filled the doorway.
“Has Patrick left for headquarters yet?”
“Just out the door.”
“Catch up with him, will you? He needs to send Charles over here.”
“Sure,” Smithy said unperturbed and ambled away. Mac called after him:
“Tell him to tell Charles there’s a woman here claiming to be the transformed girl from Sommerville.”
A short silence. A harrumph. The outside door banged.
“I am the girl. Aubrey St. Clair,” Aubrey said. “I have claws—”
Mac started as her claws unsheathed. He whistled softly, eyes rising to her face.
“Academy students—is that right—put the philter in the drink?”
“I guess so. That’s what Dmitri said.”
“Dmitri—?”
“The man I scratched,” Aubrey said. “He kidnapped me—and his uncle, Kev.”
“Kev Marlowe. Slum magician.”
“Yes. He works for Lord Simon.”
Mac went very still, hands flattened on the desktop.
He said, “How do you know that?”
“I saw him there.”
“Ah.” He studied her, then clapped his hands together on a soundless whistle. “Perfect.”
He beamed at her and finally seemed to take in her appearance.
“Uh, would you like to tidy yourself?”
A small washroom opened off from the office. It used running water that rushed out in cold spurts. Aubrey washed her hands—claws sheathed—and face. She combed at her hair with her fingers, flinching at the oily, tangled strands.
She returned to the office where Mac sat sideways at his desk. He watched her until she sat, then motioned to a tray of cheese and bread perched atop a heap of documents.
“If you’re hungry.”
She was ravenous. She ate all the bread and part of the cheese, then sat back, looking about the small office while she licked her fingers. The desk—a monument to paperwork—sat perpendicular to her chair facing a low, worn sofa below bay windows. The windows’ panes, unpapered, non-curtained, openly displayed the busy boulevard outside. Aubrey sighed in relief as people—her kinds of people—strolled by, dappled by the mild spring sunshine.
She said, “We’re in Shops.”
“Yes.”
She nodded. Kingston was a series of districts linked by the old highway: Docks merged into Trades; from there, the highway turned in-land, meandering through Shops and Residence before circling Palisades, where the old palace—now the Academy—sat. The highway then dipped back towards the coast and Vale District, home of Government House and the new government offices.
Aubrey had spent almost every fall season of her life in Kingston. She would visit Shops, attend garden parties in Residence. After last summer, she was supposed to start attending Kingston dances and—if Mother could wrangle invitations—balls in the more magnificent mansions on Palisades.
Mac said, “What does Lord Simon look like?”
“Cruel. Tall. Thin. About sixty, I think. He didn’t believe I was Aubrey either—” a strike at Mac, who simply nodded “—but he wouldn’t have cared. He didn’t try to help me.”
Mac nodded again. It occurred to her that he was testing her story. I don’t lie, she wanted to protest, but she was too tired, muscles collapsing, eyes closing.
I mustn’t sleep. I’m not home yet.
Still—I got away. Dmitri can’t get me now or Kev.
The fear beneath her ribs pulsed. She ignored it.
Her eyelids were drooping when the outside door banged, and a compact man entered the room. He didn’t wear the usual green kerchief, only a mid-calf coat of dark brown. He stopped beside the desk and looked down at Aubrey with cloud-gray eyes.
“Hullo,” he said in a low voice that sounded deeper than it was.
Mac stood.
He said quietly, “She claims she was kept by Kev Marlowe, that Lord Simon was there.”
“Unholy alliance. Would you track down David Duclaire, ask him to stop by?”
Mac’s voice fell even lower: “She has claws.”
“Does she? Leave Smithy then.” Charles sounded amused but surely not; amusement made no sense.
Mac nodded and went out, glancing back once at Aubrey. He had the look of a man eyeing a curiosity.
I guess I am.
The man in the brown coat said, “I’m Charles Stowe. You’re Aubrey St. Clair, the girl who was transformed at Lady Bradford’s ball?”
“Yes.”
“My people say you attacked a man, that you drew blood.”
“Dmitri. He was trying to take me back.”
“To his uncle, Kev Marlowe?”
“You know about Kev?”
“We know about all Kingston magicians. Dmitri’s merely a swindler. He and his uncle don’t usually work together. How long have you been human?”
She had no idea. It was an astonishing realization.
“A week, maybe two. I reverted in a storeroom. Dmitri—he and Kev wouldn’t contact my family. Will you?”
“Of course.”
“When?”
He eyed her set face, then turned to the desk. Pushing aside stacks of paper, he pulled out a loose sheet and scrawled a note.
“Smithy,” he called, and the immense policeman loomed in the door again. “Take this note to Bradley at Government House. Mr. Bradley is our liaison with high society,” Mr. Stowe told Aubrey. “He'll know who to ask.”
The Government House seemed as good a place to unearth Mother's contacts as the Academy. Aubrey nodded.
Smithy said, “Mac thinks she’s dangerous.”
“Are you dangerous?” Mr. Stowe asked Aubrey.
No.
“Perhaps,” she said, lifting her chin, and he smiled.
“We’ll be alright,” he told Smithy. “After you deliver the note, stop by headquarters and tell Perry what’s happened. Then, come back here.”
“Fine.” Smithy ambled out.
Mr. Stowe leaned against the edge of the desk.
“Why was Lord Simon gracing a slum magician’s dwelling?”
“I think Kev does research for him.”
“On you?”
She heard the question. She didn’t want to respond. She didn’t understand her reluctance; it wasn’t a difficult question. She looked at Mr. Stowe and saw nothing in his face but calm expectancy.
“Kev experimented on me,” she said. “When I was a cat. I think he was going to start more experiments—to find out why I reverted.”
“You brought along some keepsakes. May I see your claws?”
She hesitated, held out her hands, claws unsheathed. He neared without hesitation, sliding his palms against hers. He turned her hands, stroked the claws. She shivered.
“I also have fangs.”
“Show-stoppers.”
“I don’t want them. I didn’t want any of this.”
He said gently, “I know."
“I want to go home.”
“Your family—the St. Clairs are members of the festivities circuit, yes?”
She’d never thought of her family’s yearly cycle (balls, races, fêtes) in that way. She couldn’t help smiling.
“Yes.”
“They should be in either Rostand or Braesmouth right now.”
Braesmouth was on the way to Sommerville, which meant summer was not that far off.
I’ve lost almost a year of my life.
The outside door banged; a cheerful voice called, “Mr. Stowe? Where’s the policemen's fearless leader?” and a young man burst into the office, his energy making him seem taller, larger than any of the policemen so far.
“David. Do you recognize her?”
Once he’d stilled, the newcomer coalesced into an average young man, rather like Bobby Hant who had danced with Aubrey at Lady Bradford's ball.
He peered at her.
“David Duclaire," he said and glanced over his shoulder at Charles. “Should I know her?”
Mr. Stowe said, “Have you ever encountered the St. Clairs?”
“The older brother Richard once or twice. He hangs around Government House, hoping for a post. Doesn't like to give comments though. Wait—is she claiming to be Aubrey St. Clair?”
“Not claiming,” Charles Stowe said.
“Will she transform again?”
“No,” Aubrey said, hearing her negative before she thought it.
She couldn’t transform again. Mustn’t. She’d reverted.
“Did Kev say you couldn’t transform?” Mr. Stowe said.
“He never mentioned it. He didn’t know about—”
She waved her hand, claws sheathed, and Mr. Stowe nodded.
“Kev Marlowe?” Mr. Duclaire said sharply. “Slum magician, right?”
“And Lord Simon.”
“Really?” Mr. Duclaire whistled. “Well, well. That will make a nice editorial.”
“As long as you stay on the right side of the libel laws,” Mr. Stowe said mildly. “Lord Simon wasn’t responsible for the philter at Lady Bradford’s ball.”
“The police should have been allowed to investigate. You could have been looking for the girl.”
“We were,” Mr. Stowe said. “Leo and Frank had her description. I questioned Kev Marlowe amongst others.”
“For what? You can't question him about magic.”
“Vagrancy.”
“He’s got a stow-hold somewhere.”
“He didn't mention it.” Charles turned to Aubrey. “We’ll need a description of where you were held.”
“I’ll try. I saw the inside more than the outside.”
“But you saw Lord Simon inside this place?” Mr. Duclaire said.
“Yes. That is—he spoke like an aristocrat. Kev called him Lord Simon.”
“What a windfall.” Mr. Duclaire whistled like Mac had done. “The government will have to agree now: all Kingston magicians subject to police interrogation and arrest.”
“They’ll single out magicians like Kev Marlowe first.”
Aubrey said, “Good,” and watched Mr. Stowe smile, laugh lines gathering at the corners of his eyes.
He was not that old: in his late 20’s, perhaps early 30’s. He moved about the room in a spare way that wasn’t quite elegant—he was no languid aristocrat—but wasn’t quite not.
He said, “Miss. St. Clair, we have a room upstairs where you can rest.”
“I thought—shouldn’t I wait for Mr. Bradley?”
“It may take a few days before he discovers your family’s current location.”
Aubrey supposed he was right. He sounded entirely reasonable.
Like Dmitri.
“And I’d like to take your deposition,” he added.
“Of course.”
“I'd appreciate an interview,” Mr. Duclaire said.
“General information only,” Mr. Stowe told him. “Nothing personal.”
“Editorial condemning the Academy.”
“I have no problem with that.”
Mr. Duclaire departed, calling a cheerful goodbye. Mr. Stowe beckoned for Aubrey to follow him out of the office to the back of the house. They mounted narrow stairs to an open upper floor. A plain four-poster sat between two large windows opposite a folding screen. The floor was uncarpeted, just bare wood. The entire room was clean but sparse.
“A toilet and washbasin are behind the screen,” Mr. Stowe said.
Aubrey stepped across the room to the nearest window. It looked towards Belemont Park that stretched between Residence, Shops, and Palisades; Aubrey could see nearly leafed oak trees pressed against the iron fence. Glancing down, she saw that the room’s windows were bolted and nailed shut.
No one can get in. I’m safe.
“We'll talk later, Miss St. Clair.”
“You won’t leave the station?”
“Not until Smithy gets back. Have you eaten?”
“Yes.”
“Try to rest. I’ll come back.”
She watched him descend, went and sat on the four-poster’s bedspread. It was musty but not dirty. She didn’t want to taint it, so she went behind the screen where she stripped off her clothing a piece at a time, all the while listening for feet on the stairs. She didn’t want to be caught naked, but she hated the clothing almost as much as she hated the risk of being seen.
She filled the washbasin with water, then soaped every part of her body and still felt dirty, smelly, oily. There was a tin mirror over the basin. She glared into it, disgusted at her mass of tangled hair. She looked around for scissors or a nail file but found neither.
The bottom of the washbasin was chipped. Squatting before it, Aubrey used her claws to create a more jagged edge, then scraped the longest part of her hair across it. Strands fell to the floor. When she’d pared most of it, she collapsed backwards on her bottom. She almost fell asleep on the floor but managed to creep across the room to the bed. She rolled herself into between the blankets.
I'll be home soon. This will all be over.
She wanted desperately to believe herself.
Continued in Chapter 5 "Leavings" on September 13, 2013 . . .
©
Katherine Woodbury
