he must follow. So he did, and let her shut the lift door behind him.
S IX
F OR A MOMENT, Freddie doubted herself. That moment fell when the lift sank into the earth and she saw the bare rock walls beyond the fragile brass framework in which she and Lord Smith-Grenville stood. The light flickered a few times as they descended, and more than once she felt her mind flirt with panic when she thought they might be plunged into subterranean darkness.
But clever Smith-Grenville kept his pocket torch out, occasionally spinning it back into brightness as they clattered downward. If the lift motor was electric, the torch wouldnât help much, but at least they would be buried alive with enough light to see by. Or they would discover something new, something she hadnât been meant to find. A familiar rush of energy seized her, the impending thrill of exploring the forbidden.
She risked a longish look at her companion when he seemed distracted by the passing geological display, and wondered at her first assessment of him. Although he looked somewhat ghastly in the harsh light, she could also see every minute action of his faceâs musculature, each subtle change in expression in that visage sheâd thought so calm and bland. Perhaps it was exhaustion, not just lighting, that laid Smith-Grenville so bare now, but whatever the reason Freddie liked the outcome. The subtle hint of curiosity and fear in the fine lines beside his eyes, the puzzled tension of the corner of his mouth. Even in profile she could see the almost-furrow of his brows, as the lightbulb sputtered and he gave his torch another crank.
He wouldnât hang. She was almost certain of that. Even if her father did find out what a horrible spy Smith-Grenville made. Still, perhaps it had been harsh of her to drag him along for this eveningâs work. She had no idea what she was doing, which was all very well and good for her, but hardly fair to someone who was practically an innocent bystander. Usually she worked alone.
âCan I help you, Miss Murcheson?â
âSorry?â
He met her gaze, and a long moment ensued during which Freddie could feel herself blush, and Smith-Grenvilleâs face went through an array of minute expressions she couldnât quite read.
âYou were, um . . . you were staring. A bit. Or so it seemed to me. Do I have something on my face?â
Your lovely soul.
âNo, nothing. I apologize. I didnât mean to stare.â But she kept doing it. He was the first to look away.
âWe seem to have arrived.â
The lift settled into place with a grumbling thump, and Barnabas slid the door open and practically threw himself out of the tight space.
Following more cautiously, Freddie saw a large chamber that was clearly a work in progress. Hewn from the bedrock, the lift vestibule was twice the height of a large man and as long and wide as her bedchamber in the manor house outside Le Havre. The floor was polished native stone, and the corners were full of the detritus of construction. Tools, finely milled wood planks, lengths of copper tubing, and what appeared to be a partially assembled lift cage of much more elegant make than the simple model theyâd traveled in. Glass panels with a frosted pattern at the edges, held in place by a hardwood frame with elegant brass fittings. When it was completed it would rival the lift in any fine hotel.
At the far end of the room an archway led to a broad corridor with two pairs of narrow grooves carved into the floor along each side. The pile of lanterns and wiring at its entrance suggested it was as yet unlit, and this turned out to be the case. Barnabas fired his torch again and they set off into the darkness.
âIt looks like a track for some sort of vehicle,â he ventured after theyâd walked for several minutes in silence. His whisper echoed harshly against the stone walls. âThereâs a metal rail in there.â
âI wish we
S IX
F OR A MOMENT, Freddie doubted herself. That moment fell when the lift sank into the earth and she saw the bare rock walls beyond the fragile brass framework in which she and Lord Smith-Grenville stood. The light flickered a few times as they descended, and more than once she felt her mind flirt with panic when she thought they might be plunged into subterranean darkness.
But clever Smith-Grenville kept his pocket torch out, occasionally spinning it back into brightness as they clattered downward. If the lift motor was electric, the torch wouldnât help much, but at least they would be buried alive with enough light to see by. Or they would discover something new, something she hadnât been meant to find. A familiar rush of energy seized her, the impending thrill of exploring the forbidden.
She risked a longish look at her companion when he seemed distracted by the passing geological display, and wondered at her first assessment of him. Although he looked somewhat ghastly in the harsh light, she could also see every minute action of his faceâs musculature, each subtle change in expression in that visage sheâd thought so calm and bland. Perhaps it was exhaustion, not just lighting, that laid Smith-Grenville so bare now, but whatever the reason Freddie liked the outcome. The subtle hint of curiosity and fear in the fine lines beside his eyes, the puzzled tension of the corner of his mouth. Even in profile she could see the almost-furrow of his brows, as the lightbulb sputtered and he gave his torch another crank.
He wouldnât hang. She was almost certain of that. Even if her father did find out what a horrible spy Smith-Grenville made. Still, perhaps it had been harsh of her to drag him along for this eveningâs work. She had no idea what she was doing, which was all very well and good for her, but hardly fair to someone who was practically an innocent bystander. Usually she worked alone.
âCan I help you, Miss Murcheson?â
âSorry?â
He met her gaze, and a long moment ensued during which Freddie could feel herself blush, and Smith-Grenvilleâs face went through an array of minute expressions she couldnât quite read.
âYou were, um . . . you were staring. A bit. Or so it seemed to me. Do I have something on my face?â
Your lovely soul.
âNo, nothing. I apologize. I didnât mean to stare.â But she kept doing it. He was the first to look away.
âWe seem to have arrived.â
The lift settled into place with a grumbling thump, and Barnabas slid the door open and practically threw himself out of the tight space.
Following more cautiously, Freddie saw a large chamber that was clearly a work in progress. Hewn from the bedrock, the lift vestibule was twice the height of a large man and as long and wide as her bedchamber in the manor house outside Le Havre. The floor was polished native stone, and the corners were full of the detritus of construction. Tools, finely milled wood planks, lengths of copper tubing, and what appeared to be a partially assembled lift cage of much more elegant make than the simple model theyâd traveled in. Glass panels with a frosted pattern at the edges, held in place by a hardwood frame with elegant brass fittings. When it was completed it would rival the lift in any fine hotel.
At the far end of the room an archway led to a broad corridor with two pairs of narrow grooves carved into the floor along each side. The pile of lanterns and wiring at its entrance suggested it was as yet unlit, and this turned out to be the case. Barnabas fired his torch again and they set off into the darkness.
âIt looks like a track for some sort of vehicle,â he ventured after theyâd walked for several minutes in silence. His whisper echoed harshly against the stone walls. âThereâs a metal rail in there.â
âI wish we
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