Magnetism
Isabel puts her eye to the gap between the boards. Warder is seated outside of her frame of vision, seated on a chaise by the parlor door. All she can see are his shoes, well-made of fine leather but badly scuffed at the toes, perched at the edge of the rug.
Lady Breckenridge sits down just to the left of the gap, smoothing her skirts. What little Isabel can see of her movement is refined and reserved. This is the Lady’s domain, and nothing is out of place. A maid in a pressed uniform brings out a tray of tea, leaving it on a side table before lighting a fire in the hearth on the back wall and disappearing out of view. The fire bathes the room in warm orange, the same shade as the setting sun coming in through the window.
“Your home is lovely,” Warder is saying, “but you are quite close to the city center. I hope the disturbance last night didn’t put you at risk.”
“Thank you so much for your concern. I was quite safe,” Lady Breckenridge says.
There is the sound of tea being poured and cups clinking against saucers. “It’s my understanding that you own an estate in the countryside,” Warder continues.
“Yes. It was my late husband’s. I still maintain it, though I only spend time there in the summer.”
“I’m curious as to your interest in my device. Do you have trouble with the undead there?”
Isabel keeps her breathing slow and quiet. She’s not sure what to do with her hands—they clench awkwardly, holding her coat, and she doesn’t want to move them for fear of making a sound.
“We did, once, when Lord Breckenridge was still alive,” the lady says. “He paid the Church of Ondir quite a hefty sum to have the grounds warded. I haven’t had any trouble since.”
Warder gives a polite chuckle. “So this is a philanthropic interest, then?”
The space behind the wall is close and warm. Isabel is acutely aware of Berend standing right beside her. She can feel his chest expand when he breathes.
There is a smile in Lady Breckenridge’s voice as she answers. “Certainly. Though I will admit to having some selfish motivations. My business interests haven’t gone entirely unthreatened by the troubles in the countryside.”
Warder leans forward, pulling his feet in toward the couch. His face edges into view. “So your investment will pay back twofold. Excellent! Shall we show you the device?”
“Please do.” She gestures to the table in the center of the room.
Warder’s assistant crosses the room, carrying a leather case secured with well-worn straps and polished buckles. He’s much younger than Warder, maybe twenty-five, tall and broad-shouldered with a slender waist. His complexion looks as though he didn’t see the sun all summer, and his black hair is slicked down and shiny. He is dressed to match the setting, but it’s obviously uncomfortable—he tugs at his starched collar and cuffs as he sets the case down on the table. Isabel can just see the end of a familiar set of scratches on the inside of his forearm, now almost completely healed.
Arden Geray. Where has she heard that name before?
It doesn’t matter. This is the murderer. All the evidence points to him.
His face is closed and expressionless as he opens the case. The buckles hit the surface of the table with a series of dull rings.
“How does it work, exactly?” Lady Breckenridge says.
Warder gets up and goes over to the table. In contrast to Geray, he’s all excitement. “I must preserve some trade secrets, you understand, but I’ll give you an overview,” he says with an extravagant gesture that encompasses the entire case.
Geray lifts out the device. Isabel isn’t sure what she expected, but it wasn’t this. It’s an ugly hunk of metal, decorated with gears and levers and a thick, semi-transparent lens jutting out from one side. Two coils of wire, like a pair of rabbit’s ears, stick out from the top.
“Essentially,” Warder begins, looking down at the thing and beaming proudly like it’s a beloved child, “the device is a generator. The energy it creates can nullify the energy created by what we would call a wayward spirit. Earlier prototypes merely displaced the spirits, and they would return over time.”
Lady Breckenridge stands and walks over to take a closer look. Her movements are natural, even casual, but she leaves a clear line of sight between the table and the gap in the wall. “Fascinating.”
“This design, however,” Warder continues, “has shown great promise in its preliminary tests. Thus far, every spirit dispelled has yet to return and cause problems. In addition, there is no magic involved in its construction. It returns consistent results with every use.”
“What is involved, then?” Breckenridge asks.
Warder chuckles. “Magnetism, mostly. The internal movement of the device creates a static phenomenon that is directed through the lens. It attracts the energies of the spirit, forcing it to manifest, and then when the lever is thrown, the static is released. The discharge dissipates the spirit.”
Behind the wall, Isabel straightens her back, slowly and carefully. Her neck is starting to ache. She listens, but the conversation continues on the other side, with no indication that they’ve heard anything.
“It’s a stroke of great fortune that you contacted me when you did,” Warder is saying. “I’m working on a second device now. One day, I’d like them to be in widespread production. Think of the applications—the military, the frontier, anywhere there is unexpected death.”
Isabel can hear something else, as well—a quiet ringing in her ears, or a faint, high-pitched hum. There is magic in this house, and it wasn’t here before. The men must have brought it in with them.
It must be Geray. She knows he’s a sorcerer. But it feels different than the thick haze she felt in the warehouse. It’s sharper, brighter, like the taste of lightning before it strikes.
Even a necromancer doesn’t walk around in a haze of blood-magic at all hours, but the sense is distinct enough that Isabel is reasonably certain it has a different source. Is it Warder, then? Or perhaps the device? Warder said it wasn’t magical, but Isabel has her doubts.
It could, she thinks, contain some kind of enchanted artifact under the gears and wires, but she dismisses the thought as soon as it arises. Something like that would be all but impossible to obtain—enchantment, like most other magical feats, is the stuff of storybooks, and the imbued objects that arcane laboratories manage to create are dangerously unstable. It has been some time since the device was removed from its case, and it hasn’t exploded into metal shrapnel yet, so the chances of actual enchantment are slim.
She bends down again, her shoulder brushing against Berend’s chest, and looks through the gap. From this distance, and with the light from the windows fading, there isn’t much more she can tell about the device. She wants a closer look, but she’s not going to get one anytime soon.
“And what happens to the spirit after this process?” Lady Breckenridge is asking.
Warder smiles. “It goes wherever spirits go, of course. At least, that is what my tests have shown thus far. The energy—the remnant of the spark of life—disperses, like heat in the winter.”
“I’m not sure I understand.”
“I’ll let you in on a bit of a secret,” Warder says, leaning in conspiratorially. “The spirit itself, the soul of the person who once was, has already gone. You’ve likely heard that old ghosts lose their memories and identity over time, yes? It is my belief, based on the evidence I have found, that a ghost is only the imprint of a soul—the energy it leaves behind.”
This isn’t a trade secret to be protected from the competition. It is blasphemy. Isabel steps back, startled. Everyone knows that the spirit is the person, and that it cannot be divided or damaged.
Well. That was true up until a few days ago. She isn’t certain what she knows now.
Berend places a steadying hand on her back. It’s an odd gesture; she isn’t going to fall. He leaves it there long enough for her to find her place by the gap again.
“Now,” Warder continues. “I understand my views aren’t popular. But the device works. I believe we are at the precipice of an era of discovery and scientific advancement. This isn’t only an investment opportunity—it’s a chance to be a part of history.” He finishes with an emphatic gesture, grasping the air and holding his fist in front of his chest.
Lady Breckenridge’s answer is even-toned, betraying nothing about her thoughts. “I can certainly see the opportunity. Shall we retire to the dining room? We can discuss this further over dinner.”
Geray places the device back in the case and fastens all the straps. He carries it with him as the three of them leave the parlor. Isabel had hoped he would leave it unattended.
When no one reappears for another moment, Berend touches her shoulder. “Come on,” he whispers.
With careful steps, they leave the back hallway and enter the parlor. The table is empty, but both men’s coats hang from the tree by the door. They are both fine wool, one in brown and the other in gray.
“So?” Berend asks, his voice low. “Was that our man?”
That’s not how Isabel would have put it, but she gives him a wordless nod.
“And what about the device? Is it what…what did that to Mikhail?”
He’s looking at her, his eyes wide. A tense, nervous energy runs through his body, and he tries to hide it by crossing his arms over his chest.
He wants revenge, Isabel remembers. She hopes he isn’t stupid enough to challenge both men here. True, they’re far enough away from the necromancer’s lair, but she’s had enough trouble with the constabulary to last her quite some time.
“I don’t know,” she says, and it’s the truth. “I have no idea what the device does. It shouldn’t be able to do anything. I’m as lost as you are.”
Berend crosses the room and leans into the hallway for a moment, listening. When he comes back, he says, “I’m worried about Lady Breckenridge in there with them. What should we do?”
Isabel needs a plan, and she needs one fast. This business dinner won’t last forever, and then, she suspects, Geray will return to the place of his power. She has to stop him before he can do that.
Nothing is coming to her. She could lock the doors, trap Geray in here—though that would put Lady Breckenridge, as well as the possibly innocent Warder and all of the unsuspecting staff, in grave danger.
She is considering risking discovery by covering the entire apartment in protective sigils when Berend reenters her line of sight. He picks up one coat, the brown one, and then the other, testing their weights.
“What are you doing?” Isabel asks.
Berend shrugs. “Might as well go through their pockets. See if we find anything.” His hand emerges from the inside pocket of the gray coat. “Like this.”
He places a small, hard object in Isabel’s hand. She holds it up to the nearest lamp.
At first, she thinks it’s a seal, for pressing into wax on envelopes. It’s made of wood, crudely carved, with splinters peeling from the corners. A symbol is carved into the base.
She recognizes the symbol. In a larger, more elaborate state, it had been replicated in every text she studied during her apprenticeship.
It’s a binding sigil. The necromancers of old used it to command hordes of the walking dead, or to trap a spirit and torment it, preventing it from leaving this plane. In this miniaturized form, it likely wasn’t powerful enough to do that. It could, however, bind a single corpse or, perhaps, one living person. All one would need was a little ink—or blood.
Isabel closes her hand over the seal. Geray, and perhaps Warder as well, had come to this meeting intending to do more than demonstrate the device.
“We need to keep them from leaving,” she tells Berend. “And get them away from Lady Breckenridge.”
Forward to Chapter Twenty-Three
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