The Dirigible Airship Disaster Page 3

  “I got you something,” he says, his voice tinged with the memory of what was once a heavy, oriental accent. He rubs his thumb against the back of her hand.

  She shivers at the caress of his breath against her ear. “You didn’t have to.” She glances down at her hand in his. “Your hands are always stained with ink, now.” She giggles and a look of warm delight crosses his Arabic features.

  “I’ve been busy with an amicus brief.”

  She smiles and lets him go, heading toward her room. “In that case, you must have an unlimited supply of amicus briefs to write.” She opens the door to a floral, secretive paradise. Quiet and airy, botanic wallpaper covers the plaster walls in shades of pink and Paris green. A mauve, Persian rug covers the floor which creaks as they escape into the room from any obtrusive eyes and ears.

  “I love how ambitious you are,” Elyse says, turning around right as Rueben shuts the door. He takes the harp from her and places it on a marble console. A rose wilts in a vase, its petals falling onto the surface in defeat. The harp strings clang like pebbles in a waterfall. Elyse blushes, looking down, unable to maintain eye contact. Her sight roves over the many books on the shelves, their spines cracked from use, and the gold dusting on the ends of their pages faded from familiarity. The couple’s besotted reflection fills the gilded mirror as Rueben takes her hands in his. His face softens at the warmth of her fitting perfectly in his grasp.

  “You never play for me,” he says.

  She smirks. “You never ask.”

  “That is a terrible lie, darling.” He brings her knuckles to his lips. “It’s on the bed.”

  Her eyes narrow for a moment, forgetting why he’d come.

  He laughs. “You never listen to a word I say.”

  On the damask patterned duvet, in the glare of the setting sun creeping through the muntined window pane, is a closed, Battenberg lace parasol. Her face ignites like a candle in a lantern at dusk, and she picks it up, admiring the metal tips. With a snap, she unfastens the clasp and searches for the handspring.

  Rueben crosses his arms. A grin pulls at the corners of his lips. “Careful. It’s bad luck to open it inside.”

  “I don’t believe in bad luck,” Elyse says, pushing in the handspring.

  The parasol opens, and in the fading daylight, the ivory lace darkens to lavender at the top spike. She twirls it and simpers. “How do I look?” she asks, posing with it at the foot of the bed.

  “Like my good luck charm.” Rueben uncrosses his arms, closing the space between them. He cups her face in his hands, and kisses her deeply, like a diver in need of oxygen that lingers just above the unbreakable surface. Reaching for the handle of the parasol, he takes it from her and drops it to the floor. She moans into his kiss, and he pulls away with a painful longing in his deep green eyes. Their breath comes quick on their lips.

  “I need to speak to your father.”

  “Oh.” She sighs, and swallows hard. “Is it about work?”

  He nods.

  Relief floods her. “I was worried for a moment it had something to do with the wedding.” She presses her cheek into the palm of his hand.

  “No, darling.” He kisses her forehead. “We’ll be married after Venice, and before your father, Arthur and I go in front of Judge Cochran.”

  Tears fill her eyes and she takes a deep breath. “I’m afraid-”

  He presses his lips to hers. “Everything will be all right, I promise.”

  With her index finger, she traces the red, puckered outline of a scar on his temple.

  Late one evening many months ago, after Mangus and Pembroke had retired to their respective homes, Rueben had stayed late at the office, filing evidence and poring over smudged and coffee- stained reports. The streets were dark and empty at such a late hour that day mid-week, and Rueben had not heard the harried footsteps filled with unbridled malice just beyond the office window. The glass had shattered, and the brick lobbed through the window by a gnarled, black-nailed hand had hit the tireless law clerk right at the temple, slicing the tender skin.

  As he sat bleeding with the pain of a bursting, pounding gavel in his brain, a piece of torn parchment, tied to the brick, fluttered in the draft. He’d pulled a kerchief from his breast pocket, and staunched it to the wound. While the blood dripped into his watchful eye, he glanced out the window to nothing but silence and fog. Pulling the parchment from its tether, he read the notice in black, flowery scrawl:

  Our intent is like an open grave, our barrel a smoking, empty tomb; we are all tireless warriors. We shall consume your sons and daughters. We shall feast on the famine of your lands, and you shall serve strangers in the land you once inherited. Behold, our pale horse! We are Death, and the Gadarene Swine follow.

  Now, the cut had faded, but its fearful origin remained; the blood flushed to ice in her veins as she regarded the physical evidence of the sacrifices he’d made for his career. He takes her fingers and presses them to his lips once more.

  “We must talk of other things; happier things,” he says, releasing her, and an indulgent smile plays upon her face.

  “Like Venice?” Elyse asks, sitting on the edge of the bed. The springs creak and the gloom that had filled her face begins to lift at the edges.

  “Yes, let’s talk of Venice.” Rueben joins her, and pulls down the lace edge of her dress collar, exposing the brass chain of a hidden necklace.

  She tilts her chin, inviting his caress, and without hesitation, he accepts. He traces the outline of the chain with his mouth, slowly bringing a shiver to her soft skin. He breathes in the floral, powdery scent of her, reaching his hand down below the cleft of her collar. She sighs, and he pulls out a glass skeleton key pendant in swirling hues of deep green and ocean blue. He holds it in his palm, still warm from her body. He chuckles under his breath.

  “We’re going back to that glass shop.”

  She laughs. “Oh? I refuse to go back to that shack on the shores of Murano where you nearly pushed me into the surf.”

  He shrugs. “I wanted to see what you looked like in a wet, white dress.”

  She slaps his arm. “For such a buttoned-up law clerk, you sure are an inveterate cad.” Her eyes sparkle.

  He releases the necklace and pulls her to him. His breath is quick, hot on her cheek, as hers catches in her lungs. His strong, ink-stained hands are tight on her waist.

  “I want to see you tonight, no dress.” His eyebrow quirks as his eyes scan her figure.

  She pulls away from him, a smirk on her lips and looks down at her feet. She absently twists the left one at the ankle.

  He lets her go and stands. “Your father awaits.” He sniffs, and smooths down his suit jacket. “I’ll meet you in the garden, at the foot of the twisted white oak.”

  Elyse clears her throat. “I’ll be out with Patience and Jane until late, though.”

  “Then it will be late, then.” He nods, turning on his heel. “I’ll be waiting,” he says, opening the door and promptly closing it. The pictures on the wall shake at his departure. She exhales, not even realizing she’d been holding her breath.

  As the frames cease their rattle, she stands, and places the necklace back under the collar. The ungainly mass of it always bumped into things—the arm of her harp, the bowl of her soup, the syrup of her pancakes. In the solitude, she giggles at the memory of inadvertently dipping the head of the key in a vat of sticky maple syrup, ruining her shirt front. Ever since that morning, she’d kept the key tucked away, unobtrusive. And besides, it was a testament to his lock on her heart, and hers on his. She didn’t want it on display for the bitter world to see, to remark, to uncover and mar and expose to unkind oxygen, like an angelfish brought up gasping for air in exposed mockery.

  She eyes the clock on the wall, ticking away like the fading daylight. She’d promised Patience they would meet their friend, Jane for a late evening soiree. Patience, with her curly blond hair and the grey eyes of their father. Elyse envied Patience, not only her visage, but h
ow it matched her disposition, like she was light and fun and carefree cheer embodied in some lithe figure that every eligible man coveted, and longed to cozy up to. Regardless, she did love her sister. She was happy and never had a harsh word to say of anyone.

  Elyse, with a languid step and a bit punch-drunk with the lingering heat of Rueben’s fingers on her collarbone, saunters up to the floor-length, gilded mirror behind the marble console, and adjusts her clothes, although they are intact. She looks over at the silhouette of the harp beside the closed door.

  The sophisticated, insightful Persephone had discerned her eldest’s penchant for rhythm at Christmas dinner when she was a mere three-year-old. Elyse, a precocious child, had gone searching the candlelit, tinseled halls looking for the presents, and had stumbled upon her maternal grandmother’s old harp; dusty, rusty and sorely out of tune, shut away in an old wardrobe. Although the harp was nearly her size, Elyse had managed to set it upright and plucked at the strings, enamored with the effervescent sound that came from it when Persephone had found her. Her mother had had the strings retied, and presented the harp to Elyse on her birthday the following year. She’d graced the local music halls ever since, and had never been one to sing the accompaniment, for it was far too intimate. Her soul could hide within the oak soundboard, peer through the grommets and up the harmonic curve, and whisper a faint call to the emotions of the listener through the pedal gut strings.

  A knock sounds at the door and she opens it.

  “Ms. Jane is in the parlor,” Mrs. Vera Ewee says, hands in her apron pockets and leaning up on the balls of her feet.

  Elyse eyes the clock once more with an eyebrow slightly lifted. “She’s a bit early, then. Is she feeling all right?” Her raised eyebrow gives way to a mocking grin.

  Vera steps aside as Elyse leaves her room and the door latch clicks closed. “Yes, it is a bit weird that she is early, but I suppose she wants to maximize her time with you before you depart.”

  Elyse nods as they descend the stairwell to the first floor.

  “I hear she and Patience fear that you and that fiancé of yours will elope and never return.”

  Elyse scoffs and her eyes shine. “That’s nonsense; the invitations have already been printed.”

  Vera’s face darkens and she lowers her voice, “I wouldn’t blame you, although I know Mr. Ezekiel would never go for it.” She puts her hand on Elyse’s arm and they stop on the bottom step. “Ever since that brick incident.”

  Elyse’s jaw tightens. “He assured me that things will work out and I have to choose to believe it.”

  Vera nods and drops her hand. “Well I’ll leave you three alone, then. The never-ending well of washing calls.” Vera rolls her eyes and flashes a rueful grin, disappearing down the hall.

  A peel of laughter like tinkling bells beckons Ms. Delafayette into the parlor, but she continues to linger on the bottom step, the premature wrinkle at the left corner of her lip deepening along with her thoughts. Her bank account, fattened by the holiday concerts she’d headed prior to the infamous ‘brick incident,’ had slowly dwindled since. The day following the incident, while Rueben had dozed late into the morning with Vera compulsively changing the compresses on his bruised and swollen forehead, Elyse had ridden into town on the pretext of a visit to the local haberdashery. With the strings of the empty hatbox clutched tight in her gloved hand, she’d gone to the edge of the Waterfront district to the seedy little front “Praetorian’s,” a service of local muscle for hire. Since then and to no one’s knowledge, least of all Rueben’s, he’d had round-the-clock security detail.

  The sharp sound of two pairs of heeled boots clicks against the floor, snapping Elyse to full attention.

  “There you are. Are you ready yet?” Patience asks, pushing a loose blonde curl from her eyes.

  Jane’s smile falls. “What’s with the wan look? You’d think you were planning a funeral and not a wedding. Is everything all right?” Her aquiline nose crinkles as she searches her friend’s face. Her curly auburn hair flies in unruly wisps from under her navy hat.

  Elyse pushes aside her dark thoughts. “I’m just tired is all.” She looks at the floor and smooths down her dress. “Let’s head out then.”

  The girls leave the house, hook arms, and dash into the street on their way to the coffee house.

  Jane stirs a flaking sugar cube into her iced tea, the corners of her mouth downturned and blue eyes becoming tinged with red. Elyse takes a gulp of her coffee, hiding her stinging eyes behind the rim of the cup. The area below her ribs tightens as Jane speaks.

  “This is going to be one of the last times we get to spend together.” Jane sniffs.

  Patience rolls her eyes and giggles. “Don’t be silly. She’s just getting married, not moving half way across the world.”

  Jane sets down her glass with a grimace, and the liquid spills over the edge, staining the white table cloth caramel. “Marriage is like moving half way across the galaxy. Remember Maleficent? Of course not. She got married and we never saw her again.” Jane wails, drawing the attention of a few other patrons.

  Elyse clears her throat and takes another drink to cover her face. Her cheeks tinge redder than her eyes.

  “Well, Elyse is only moving across town, whereas Maleficent moved to the French Quarter of New Orleans, which might have something to do with us never seeing her again,” Patience says, squeezing a lemon wedge into her tea.

  Jane takes a sip and stares wistfully out the window at the flickering gas street lamp. “I suppose I am making a scene.” She sighs. “Venice must be so romantic, yes?” Her bright eyes shine on Elyse, who can’t help but grin.

  Patience laughs. “Look at you.”

  “Stop,” Elyse says, her cheeks turning bright red.

  Jane’s eyes darken. “I must say I am a bit put-out you didn’t invite me on the voyage. I’ve always wanted to ride in a dirigible.” Jane sighs. “It looks like riding a giant, comfortable, plush sofa in the sky.”

  “Well, it is a family affair, you know, before Elyse moves across the universe,” Patience’s face lights up with mischief.

  Jane slaps her elbow with the back of her hand right as Elyse takes a drink and coffee almost shoots out of her nose.

  “Lord knows I just need an adventure is all. Being a librarian is hardly the height of excitement.” Jane’s shoulders droop and she takes another drink, eyeing the room over the rim of her glass. She wipes her chin with the back of her hand. “Say, let’s go find us some excitement. Like old times, before we’re old.”

  Patience scoffs and shakes her head. A flicker of amusement and curiosity stirs within Elyse, and she eyes her sister, who stares out the window. Jane’s mouth opens in a wide grin, her eyes darting from one friend to the next. She tugs on Patience’s sleeve.

  “C’mon then,” she says.

  “No,” Patience says.

  “Yes.” Jane tugs harder and glances at Elyse.

  Elyse nods and Jane gives a cheerful whoop. “We must take Elyse out before she moves across the universe.”

  Patience grumbles. “Fine then. Where? And don’t say The Dead Pheasant!” She pulls her sleeve from Jane’s grasp and points an accusing finger at her.

  Jane lifts her hands in mock surrender. “Where else but The Dead Pheasant?”

  “Oh no, we are not. Remember what happened last time?” Patience frowns.

  “It was fantastic,” Jane sighs,

  “Best night ever.” Elyse grins and thrust out her mug to Patience in a mock cheer before draining it.

  Patience’s eyes grow wide as she regards her sister and Jane. “No, no no no.”

  “Absolutely, we’re going.” Jane pulls Patience up by her sleeve and Elyse follows, pushing her sister out of the coffee house despite her flimsy protestations.

  The Dead Pheasant, the best kept secret this side of Savanah. Part alehouse, part squalid theater, and once the sight of the town’s oldest papermill, was hardly the place for reputable young ladies, and tha
t’s why they loved it. The last time, they’d nearly been involved in fisticuffs when Jane, too full of ale and far too short on sense, had depantsed some moll in a dim hallway on their way to a half-baked rendering of The Magic Flute. The moll had fixated on Patience instead of Jane and nearly ripped her beautiful flaxen locks out.

  The girls now waited outside the entrance, shivering with excitement, and for Patience, a fair bit of dread.

  “Leave the molls’ pants alone this time, Jane,” she says, shaking her head.

  Jane puts her hand on her chest. “Why, I would never do such a vulgar thing. In fact, I believe it was you who depantsed that moll.”

  Patience’s jaw drops.

  “At least,” Jane grins, “that’s what the moll thought.”

  Patience crosses her arms and Elyse stifles a laugh. She raps on the door, and a small window in the center slides open. A rheumy blue eye peers out at them, dashing from one to the next, and growing wide in its assessment. The girls smile and wave and the window slides shut. A latch clicks and the door swings open. Cigar smoke, spilled ale, and the musty scent of sweat wafts from the opening. An old man with wild gray hair and unruly stubble on his chin stands aside and licks his lips as they move passed and down the hall.

  “Avert your eyes, coffin dodger,” Jane glares over her shoulder.

  Patience quickens her pace down the dark corridor and Elyse follows suit. Amber-hued sconces line the musty, crooked and narrow passageway, flickering in half-lit attempts at illumination. Their spindly, disproportionate shadows paint the walls like the inside of an eerie kaleidoscope.

  “A bit overdressed, ain’t you?” The old man calls in a reedy, thin lisp, his voice echoing faintly through the labyrinthine hallways.

  “Bless your withered old heart,” Jane says, catching up to her friends.

  The man snorts and mumbles an unintelligible, yet unmistakable curse. A band tunes up somewhere in the vast, dark space. Raucous laughter rumbles down the hall. Jane inserts herself between Elyse and Patience, hooking her arms in theirs. “Let’s get a drink.”

  “We’ve just had one,” Patience growls.