She reached the drive’s end. Ahead of her, on the other side of the main thoroughfare, two policemen loitered; she could make out their green kerchiefs in the dim light. They leaned against a cart, arms folded, eyes on the end of the drive. Mr. Stowe’s doing—he'd sent them to spy on her. Or rescue her.
She didn’t think they could see her, perhaps just her shape under the trees. She opened her mouth.
A hand gasped her neck.
“Kitty, kitty," Dmitri said. “No fangs now.” He pulled her fiercely against him, one hand clenching her wrists until they ground together. “And no claws. I have a bidder.”
She couldn’t call out, couldn’t even beg.
“Personally, I'm going to recommend declawing.”
No. Please.
“Let's go home, Puss.”
The policemen had straightened to peer at the tussle in the shadows. Aubrey kicked backwards with her legs as the bubble found the underside of her skin. She knew what it was and thought, Let it come. Let me change. Anything is better than this.
Voices shouted from the lodge end of the drive. The policemen started forward. Dmitri lost his grip on her neck.
Get me away from this life.
The world blurred, dropped upwards. Aubrey rolled inside her gray gown, kicking frantically at its weight. She was free of it, running close to the ground: a long, slim body covered with fur.
She could think, reason even, while her new self struggled with an influx of sights, sounds, smells. Dmitri hadn’t followed. She could hear him cursing far away, and then his voice was lost amongst a thousand more. She left the thoroughfare instinctively, fleeing loud voices, stomping feet, rattling carriages. She darted down the hill behind mansions through stone mews. Something drew her forward: quiet freshness, softly pungent greenery.
She wriggled under an iron bar and paused, one paw lifted as she adjusted to an expanse of verdancy. She was in Belemont Park. Her ears twitched to rustles: birds settling for the night, water rippling in the park's pond.
She must change back. The spell deteriorated: everyone said so. She might end up in another magician’s workshop. Or drowned ignominiously by an advocate of animal control. She didn’t know which fate would be worse.
I’ll never be safe.
Except Mr. Stowe wanted to arrest magicians. Except that.
He was going to detain me at the station, keep me in police custody.
And yet—
He kept the worst of Kev's treatment of me to himself. He warned me the Academy might behave ungentlemanly.
If she'd been human, she would have snorted.
Ungentlemanly! They behaved like bickering urchins.
She loped across the park towards the pond at its center. She'd attended picnics in Belemont Park before, linking arms with Olivia Clyndale as they strolled along the pond's esplanade. From there, she could find her way to the Shops' side of the park.
Bugs droned in the grass. She mustn’t stop and hunt them, mustn’t pounce for the sheer pleasure of the pounce.
One bug. Two. Wiggle. Pounce. Stillness.
She whirled, tail high, aware that the night had deepened although her sight was not diminished. But time had passed. There had been a few couples on the esplanade earlier. Now, there were none.
Don’t forget yourself. Run to Shops, to the police. Go.
She sprinted alongside the esplanade, staying off the fine gravel. The walkway turned back on itself before it reached Shops, but a straight drive linked it to the gate on the Shops’ end.
The gate was locked. She could wriggled under the iron bar at the bottom but slunk instead to the underside of a nearby bush.
Across the pavement was Shops’ main street. There, on the corner, was the brick police station.
I can make it there easy.
Unless Dmitri is waiting.
Dmitri couldn’t be waiting. He wouldn’t know where she’d gone.
He’d known she was at the Academy lodge.
Dmitri knows Academy students. And Sir James drove me away in an open carriage.
Sir James knew where she might go.
The Academy would check everywhere, including the police station. She hunched in the grass and watched the glowing gas lights along the street, one directly outside the station. Her fur was a slick warm pelt against the dew. The ground was a cushion, the dirt comfortable against her belly. She was hidden; she could peer through the bars yet not be seen.
Why should she bother to leave the park, to transform? Out there was nothing but men with agendas and impossible choices. She curled into a tight ball. That ball was aware of soft noises in the park: hoots and squeaks and faint rustlings; it heard footsteps on the pavement outside the park, carts rolling out of backyards. The ball knew when light streaked the horizon. It stretched, yawned.
Aubrey jerked into consciousness.
I can't stay a cat. I'll forget who I am. She scrambled under the iron bar, reaching for the bubble she had felt before her transformation. She found its center, followed a wave of energy to its edge. It stretched tight around her, warping at the ends of her whiskers. She pulled at it with her thoughts, then paused—Not yet. A little longer.
Voices rumbled on the pavement. Two men in loose trousers and short coats crossed the street, arms swinging. They wore kerchiefs, but everything in Aubrey’s vision was a shade of blue-green: she couldn’t tell if the kerchiefs were ordinarily that color.
A hack drove up to the corner. A man jumped down, and the two men turned towards him. The new arrival was Mr. Stowe, and Aubrey pulled frantically at the bubble.
“—in custody,” he was saying as the bubble broke.
It receded inside Aubrey, leaving her human and naked on her rump. She didn't think. She clambered to her feet, surprising two civil servants on their way to work. She dashed across the chill stones of the street.
“Mr. Stowe.”
They all turned, the policemen gawking. But Mr. Stowe didn't show any surprise, and she felt herself relax despite her nakedness, despite the scars. The remaining traces of transformation—her fangs, her claws—retreated.
He shrugged out of his coat—the other men blinked and looked away—settled it around Aubrey’s shoulders, half-pulling her closer. She looked up at him, the firm mouth, the level eyes.
“Will you take me home?”
“Aubrey—Miss St. Clair—”
“Why not? Why won’t somebody just take me home?”
“Because you might not be any safer there.”
“You think Kev and Dmitri would stalk me to Sommerville?”
“They did before. With the Academy involved—”
“Sir James was supposed to help me.”
They were all inside the station now; Mr. Stowe—Charles—pushed Aubrey towards the office. She turned to face him, clutching his coat close around her.
He stopped moving, looked down at her, his face impassive except for the faint crease between his brows; behind him, the policemen lurked in the open doorway, eyes on him as much as on Aubrey.
“What does it matter that I was a cat? Magic is just silly potions. The Academy can transform somebody else—”
“You transformed and reverted again, Aubrey. Vaughn and Leo saw it happen. So did an entire pack of Academy alumni.”
“You posted those policemen outside the lodge.”
“Of course. They caught Dmitri.”
Aubrey cried, “Good!” catching hold of his wrist.
Her claws were out, and they drew specks of blood. The policemen muttered; Charles didn’t seem to notice.
“Yes. He’s caught. And since he attacked you in human form, he’s going to jail. But you were seen—do you understand? By the Academy. They already sent people to Police Headquarters. They will find you.”
“They lied. They were never going to send me home.”
“Maybe they were. Eventually. Now—I don’t know. Lord Simon—”
“One of them wanted to take me to Lord Simon. The others—”
“We could move her to safe house,” one of the policeman called across the lobby.
“Yes,” Aubrey said, but Charles said nothing, his face shuttered, the way it would when he wouldn’t help her.
When he knows an action is useless.
When he’s trying to protect his agenda.
She said, “Aren’t I evidence for your side? Can’t I help the police?”
“There is governmental guilt over your circumstances, Aubrey. But this is magic, and the Academy insists on heading the investigation. The ministers are stalling.”
“More questions.”
“Yes. You’ll get home, Aubrey. Your family has sent a request to New Government House. And the Gazette is on your side. Your story—there’s a great deal of sympathy for you. But it will take a few days.”
While Sir James found her, Lord Simon questioned her.
“In a few days, Lord Simon might kill me,” Aubrey said.
Charles didn’t disagree, his gaze bent to the floor.
“Is he that dangerous?”
“To you, I don’t know. I think—I don’t think he could just fail to produce you, Aubrey. There would be an uproar.”
“He doesn’t care about scandal.”
“He would if it meant deportation. He’s attached to his home.”
“But he is that dangerous?”
“Yes,” Charles said, eyes meeting hers. “I think he killed someone—a long time ago before either of us were born. A woman. Killed her or made her as good as dead.”
One of the policemen, half-turning to gaze out into the street, said, “Fancy carriage coming, Charles.”
Charles pulled Aubrey into the office where morning light gave walls a yellow-white gloss. He backed up out of sight of the lobby, and she went with him beyond Mac’s empty chair.
“Could you change again?” he said softly. “If you changed, I could give you a place to go, to hide.”
“I don’t want to be a cat.”
“But could you? Safely?”
“I might not change back. I could feel myself falling—” into the void.
She was nearly in his arms now, and she wanted to curl herself against him, envelop herself in his warmth, his stability. She wanted to purr.
Outside the office, voices rose: the policemen were arguing with someone who sounded very like Sir James.
“I would keep you safe until you reverted,” Charles said against her hair, “but I think they might take any cat I owned on principle.”
He stepped back, rubbing his wrists. Her claws had sunk deeper, and still he hadn't complained.
Sir James’s large form filled the doorway.
“Mr. Stowe—” and then, “Ah, Miss St. Clair. You are here. You shouldn’t have run—”
“I don’t want to talk to Lord Simon.”
“He has important questions to ask you.”
Charles said, “You gave your word he wouldn’t be there.”
“His word isn’t worth old money,” Aubrey said.
Sir James actually looked hurt.
“Lord Simon was not at the Academy meeting. But he has requested a brief interview. Brief. He can help us understand exactly what happened. Then, Miss St. Clair, I will take you home myself.”
I don’t believe you.
There was no point saying it.
“The ministers are touched by your suffering, Miss St. Clair. And, this will please you, Mr. Stowe, they are even considering regulation.”
“With your blessing?” Charles said, and his voice gave nothing away.
Sir James was the epitome of ruefulness as he said, “The Academy is going to come under close scrutiny. Your tame editors at The Gazette certainly hauled us over the coals this morning,” a hint of antagonism beneath the ruefulness.
Charles said, “The St. Clairs have a great deal of sympathy.”
“No doubt. I’m sure your family is eager to see you again, Miss St. Clair.”
Then send me to them. Put me in your fancy carriage and take me home now.
But nothing would be gained by making demands; in this game, she could only hope for a draw.
Charles said against her ear, “If necessary, use your claws on Lord Simon’s throat.”
It was good advice.
Continued in Chapter 8 "Signs" on October 4, 2013 . . .
©
Katherine Woodbury
