Read Online Rise of the Arcane Fire (The Secret Order) by Kristin Bailey - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Kristin Bailey
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ever would. Lucinda kissed me on the cheek, then breezed into the kitchen, where she spoke with Mrs. Brindle.
I knew they were talking about me, and I didn’t want to hear it, so I retreated back into the workshop to straighten it up. One of the open journals caught my attention. It held a list of names, members of the Order. I had a habit of ignoring most of Simon’s random scribblings in margins, as he’d had a tendency to draw whimsical things, I suppose to amuse himself.
This time they drew me in—at least one image did. It was a spiral, like the ram’s horn, exactly like the mark on the bomb. Beside it a name had been hastily blacked out.
That was unusual. The rest of the page looked like a list of personal marks, with symbols followed by names, yet this was the only name that had been struck from the record. Holding the page up to the light, I tried to see what had been written before it had been blacked out, but it had been too thoroughly erased.
Deciding to leave it for a moment when I could delve into it deeper, I retreated from the workshop, closing the shelf that hid the secret door. A tin soldier fell over.
I picked him up and turned him over in my hand.
He was handsomely painted, a Highland fighter with a red kilt. I wondered if Will felt half as terrible as I did.
Lucinda approached my left. She plucked the little soldier from my hand and put him back on the shelf. “I’ll see you soon.” She tucked her gloved knuckle under my chin and tipped it up. “Until then.”
I waved her out the door.
I had a new mystery to ponder.
CHAPTER SEVEN
I HONESTLY COULDN’T FATHOM HOW quickly time could pass, until I felt I needed more of it and it simply wasn’t there. While the constant ache of Will’s absence filled me every day, I had too much to do to allow myself to steep in such thoughts. Instead I invested myself in my studies with greater vigor, hoping that the knowledge Simon Pricket had left in his journals was enough to keep me from making a fool of myself at the Academy.
The summons to appear at the monastery arrived one morning in a plain envelope sealed with bloodred wax. That evening, as I stood in an alley behind the mews, I felt as if someone had released a bucketful of mice down the back of my deep red afternoon dress. I tugged on the tight sleeves of my fitted black jacket. The dressmaker had accused me of having a frightful sense of fashion, but I had insisted that the dress be practical. The last thing I needed was yards of fabric hanging over my hands and wrists. The skirts were bad enough.
Fighting the urge to fidget, I waited as Bob adjusted the harness on his old gray gelding. Then he helped me up into the cart. “Good luck tonight.” The old man smiled as if he were proud of me. For the first time in weeks, I felt I could breathe. Bob gave me a nod. “I’ll be there for you when it’s over. Don’t be too late, or Mother will worry.”
I smiled at him as he snapped the reins, and then the old cart clattered down the streets of Mayfair under the fading sun. It took a frightfully long time to cross London, and Bob’s gelding wasn’t a sprightly horse, to say the least. I looked around to pass the time.
Old London in the light of day didn’t seem as bad as it had when I had first made this journey. Even the scent of the Thames wasn’t quite so overpowering. I listened to the call of the birds on the docks. The streets were crowded, full of the hustle and bustle of London.
A deep and unmistakable sense of foreboding overcame me, and I touched Bob on the arm. “Is that cab following us?” I whispered. It seemed to have been behind us an unnatural amount of time.
He stole a look over his shoulder and frowned. “I wouldn’t worry about it, miss.”
“Need I remind you that someone wants me dead?” I risked another quick glance, but from that distance the driver looked like a heap of dark clothing behind an equally dark horse. I strained to see if a clockwork mask
I knew they were talking about me, and I didn’t want to hear it, so I retreated back into the workshop to straighten it up. One of the open journals caught my attention. It held a list of names, members of the Order. I had a habit of ignoring most of Simon’s random scribblings in margins, as he’d had a tendency to draw whimsical things, I suppose to amuse himself.
This time they drew me in—at least one image did. It was a spiral, like the ram’s horn, exactly like the mark on the bomb. Beside it a name had been hastily blacked out.
That was unusual. The rest of the page looked like a list of personal marks, with symbols followed by names, yet this was the only name that had been struck from the record. Holding the page up to the light, I tried to see what had been written before it had been blacked out, but it had been too thoroughly erased.
Deciding to leave it for a moment when I could delve into it deeper, I retreated from the workshop, closing the shelf that hid the secret door. A tin soldier fell over.
I picked him up and turned him over in my hand.
He was handsomely painted, a Highland fighter with a red kilt. I wondered if Will felt half as terrible as I did.
Lucinda approached my left. She plucked the little soldier from my hand and put him back on the shelf. “I’ll see you soon.” She tucked her gloved knuckle under my chin and tipped it up. “Until then.”
I waved her out the door.
I had a new mystery to ponder.
CHAPTER SEVEN
I HONESTLY COULDN’T FATHOM HOW quickly time could pass, until I felt I needed more of it and it simply wasn’t there. While the constant ache of Will’s absence filled me every day, I had too much to do to allow myself to steep in such thoughts. Instead I invested myself in my studies with greater vigor, hoping that the knowledge Simon Pricket had left in his journals was enough to keep me from making a fool of myself at the Academy.
The summons to appear at the monastery arrived one morning in a plain envelope sealed with bloodred wax. That evening, as I stood in an alley behind the mews, I felt as if someone had released a bucketful of mice down the back of my deep red afternoon dress. I tugged on the tight sleeves of my fitted black jacket. The dressmaker had accused me of having a frightful sense of fashion, but I had insisted that the dress be practical. The last thing I needed was yards of fabric hanging over my hands and wrists. The skirts were bad enough.
Fighting the urge to fidget, I waited as Bob adjusted the harness on his old gray gelding. Then he helped me up into the cart. “Good luck tonight.” The old man smiled as if he were proud of me. For the first time in weeks, I felt I could breathe. Bob gave me a nod. “I’ll be there for you when it’s over. Don’t be too late, or Mother will worry.”
I smiled at him as he snapped the reins, and then the old cart clattered down the streets of Mayfair under the fading sun. It took a frightfully long time to cross London, and Bob’s gelding wasn’t a sprightly horse, to say the least. I looked around to pass the time.
Old London in the light of day didn’t seem as bad as it had when I had first made this journey. Even the scent of the Thames wasn’t quite so overpowering. I listened to the call of the birds on the docks. The streets were crowded, full of the hustle and bustle of London.
A deep and unmistakable sense of foreboding overcame me, and I touched Bob on the arm. “Is that cab following us?” I whispered. It seemed to have been behind us an unnatural amount of time.
He stole a look over his shoulder and frowned. “I wouldn’t worry about it, miss.”
“Need I remind you that someone wants me dead?” I risked another quick glance, but from that distance the driver looked like a heap of dark clothing behind an equally dark horse. I strained to see if a clockwork mask
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