Act One
Chapter One
Jette
The Most Serene Republic of Venice
4 March 1865
Moonrise
The air is clammy and cold and thick with the smell of mildew. I keep to the darkness of the sotoportego as I adjust my mantle over my bandolier and staff. My bonnet and heavy skirts feel like a dreadful cocoon, but I have no choice but to wear them now. I must appear like everyone else. Natural.
The chimerical illusion that colors my skin tingles as I look out of the mouth of the sotoportego. It opens into a square busy with Naturals. Moonlight blends with the shine of candelabra gas-lamps and the globes of fire-fungus strung above the tables of a coffee-house. Men and women in fine dress chatter as they stroll across the square, their breath clouding in the chill.
But I do not look their way for long. I only see the Academia.
It is as grand as any other palace in Venice, pillared and topped with statues of winged women representing the five alchemical arts. Its arched windows glow with gold-orange light, but it is not warm, not like the light of a hearth or candle. Out of the corner of my eye its color changes, leaching to gray, but solidifies once I look at it straight on. The Academia Alchemica Venesiana glares out into the night, its windows three burning eyes.
Watching me.
I take my false pocket-watch from my bandolier and wind its crown to extend the fan of lenses. I choose the fourth and hold it to my eye. It magnifies the square like a spyglass as I aim it at the line of Naturals making their way through the Academia’s doors. Brass automata stationed at the entrance guide the guests inside. On either side of the doors stand two placards, each mounted on a gilded easel. They read the same:
On the Use of War Alchemy to Combat the Risen Dead
Mg. Thomas Hesselius, DA, A., Ph. D. Litt., etc.
I lower my lens. This is why I chose tonight. I saw the advertisement in this evening’s newspaper and decided just an hour past to do this. It will be much easier to sneak inside the Academia in the middle of a crowd.
A thorny knot tightens in my throat. This event is open to all Venetians, but there are certain to be dozens of alchemists there as well. Any of them may have been among the fiend’s moroi. I do not know if they can still recognize me, even with my illusion, or how much they may remember.
I remember everything.
Stop it!
I cannot think on that. Not now.
A shout of laugher echoes down the sotoportego. Someone knocks into me. A woman in a dress studded with bows giggles an apology and wobbles away, clutching the arm of a grinning man. They totter off into the square, but not before a streak of darkness flits about them like a bat and darts back into the sotoportego.
“Hamish!”
A tiny patch of ink-black smoke freezes in place, perched atop a brick, a tendril twined about a silver brooch. Five flinty green specks blink at me.
I sigh and hold out my hands. The little wraith darts through the air and gathers in them like a pool of black oil, still clutching the brooch. I raise him to my face. “You must not take things that are not yours!”
Hamish holds the brooch more tightly. I am not certain how to explain things to an otherworldly child who looks like a cloud of smoke, but I must try. “We are only here to investigate. Not to steal pretty things!”
He gives me what seems a sulky look and drops the brooch into my hand. I find a crack in the brick wall and slip the brooch into it. I will work out what to do after we—
“There you are!”
A shadow runs down the sotoportego and becomes Belle, one hand gripping her skirts and the other holding her bonnet to her head. A chimerical illusion tints her blue skin and black eyes brown. She stops beside me, panting. “I…thought…wherever did he get that?”
I follow her gaze and see Hamish on his perch again, examining a silver button. Three of his eyes flit to us. He slowly ripples over the wall to put the button in the crack, and adds two cufflinks, a lavender bow and a jeweled hairpin. He stuffs them into the crack and darts to perch on my shoulder.
I cannot imagine how he pickpocketed all of that in half a second, but that does not matter now. “Belle, how did you—"
“I saw you sneaking away, of course.” Belle kicks mud from her shoe and straightens her bonnet. “You still mean to rob the Academia, don’t you? Why haven’t you told anyone? I didn’t have time to find Ayanda or Yu—”
“No!”
Hamish flinches. Belle’s mouth tightens. “Why not?”
Because it is too…
Because they have had enough to contend with. Because I am the one who needs the alchemical supplies and it ought to be my task. Because I do not want them in any more danger.
Not on account of me.
“I am not robbing it,” I say. “I am…studying it in order to rob it at a time hence.”
Belle shakes her head. “You mustn’t go into a den of alchemists alone. What if Hyde…”
The name hangs in the air.
The bell of the Campanile begins to ring. The knot in my throat pulls tighter. “We…we mustn’t be there long!”
Hamish slips into the new vial on my bandolier, where he stays when not exploring or devouring the souls of rats. Belle smooths her overskirt as we go out into the square. We cross it in only moments and join the line, behind the shabbiest alchemical student I have ever seen.
She seems only a little older than us. Her uniform is the maroon of a different Collegium, with a coat that is far too long for her height. Her dark blond hair is half-fallen from its knot and her fanchon hat tilts crazily, as if she simply slammed it onto her head and stabbed it with a pin. She inches along on unsteady legs, wobbling as though ready to faint.
Belle grimaces. She glances at me sidelong, and I know.
I try to stamp on her foot and miss. Belle ignores me and chirps, “Bona sera!”
The student turns and blinks at us through a pair of thin spectacles, her face deathly pale. “B-bon…bona ser—”
She covers her mouth, about to retch. Before I can dodge she gulps and lowers her hand, her eyes shining with fever.
“What’s your name?” Belle asks.
“Ch-Charlotte Heroux,” the student croaks. “A-Academie Alchimique Royale de Paris. Second year…on exchange…”
“I think it’s best you went home,” Belle says.
“No!” Charlotte pulls a handkerchief from her reticule and dabs her forehead. “I-I must attend the…”
“Why? You look—”
“Academic…credit…”
Charlotte stuffs her handkerchief back into her reticule and tries to straighten her hat. “I thank you most sincerely.” She gulps again and adjusts her spectacles. “B-but I mustn’t miss Magister Hesselius’ presentation.”
“Then…might we stay with you?” Belle asks. I wish I had not missed her foot.
A smile wavers across Charlotte’s face. She turns as the crowd moves, pushing us forward and onto the steps of the Academia. The automata turn their heads to look at us. They are human-shaped, like a pair of brass sculptures. Their hollow eyes glow like windows to a furnace.
They motion us through. The crowd pushes us into a vestibule made of black-veined white marble. Balls of red alchemical fire float above us like will-o-the-wisps, but they spread no warmth.
The Academia is still not right. Even packed with people the place is chilled, like a cavern carved out of a glacier. Beneath clouds of cologne and perfume and musty clothing the smell of alchemy hovers, bitter and biting.
I glare at the bonnet of a woman ahead. The plan is ruined. We may as well just—
“Charlotte looks dreadful,” Belle whispers.
I glare harder at the bonnet. “It is likely only the grippe.”
“Isn’t the grippe dangerous?” She lowers her voice. “What if she falls over dead?”
“I very much doubt that she will—”
Charlotte sways and stumbles against me. Her eyelids flutter. For a moment I have the mad thought that we should drag her away from here and to a hospital…
But the crowd sweeps us from the vestibule and into a grand lecture hall. It is shaped like a half-moon and filled with green velveted seats, with a floor that tilts downwards towards a gleaming wooden stage. The guests stream into the rows, carrying us with them. Charlotte falls into the seat beside me, nearly tipping over into the aisle.
My stomach sinks. Belle is right. We cannot let Charlotte remain like this. We must find her help before her condition worsens….
The chatter fades as a man who must be Dr. Thomas Hesselius emerges from behind the stage and slowly climbs the steps, a tremendous folio of papers in his arms. He does not look like any war alchemist I have ever seen. He is elderly, with unkempt white hair and a pair of pince-nez spectacles balanced crookedly upon his nose. He does not wear an alchemist’s uniform, nor even any insignia, but an ordinary tailcoat and vest.
He sets the folio down on the podium. I fold my hands in my lap and try to look prim. We cannot leave without drawing notice, but perhaps I can combine the contents of vials twelve and twenty-seven to—
“Siore e siori,” Hesselius says. His voice is tight and reedy. “Magistre e magistri. This…” He clears his throat. “Rather…”
He adjusts his spectacles and shuffles through his folio. “As you…that is, as you have no doubt observed, my proposed lecture treats of the ability of alchemia militaria to battle the menace of the risen Dead.”
He straightens, lifting his chin. “But I have decided to do otherwise.”
His voice strengthens. “I shall discuss the moral abomination that is Unnatural research.”
Complete silence crashes down. Belle’s mouth falls open. The Naturals murmur.
I cannot have heard that. It is impossible. No alchemist would reveal anything of their researches to ordinary people. All of it is performed in utmost secrecy. Even the Naturals would not stand for it if they truly knew…
Hesselius’ pince-nez slips. He catches them and shoves them back onto his nose. “I-I speak of actions rivalling even the barbarities of the Frankenstein dynasty."
Belle stiffens. More murmurs wisp through the audience. Hesselius goes on. “I speak of infants grown in laboratories—"
A black-coated alchemist leaps to his feet. “This is an outrage, sir!”
Hesselius raises his voice. “Urchins abducted from the streets—”
Another alchemist jumps up. “Lies!”
A clamor rises. More alchemists stand, yelling back at Hesselius. Hesselius grips the edges of the podium and shouts, “In this very city, only weeks ago, a quartet of Unnaturals destroyed a Dead menace unlike any Venice had ever—”
The noise drowns his voice. Every alchemist rises from the crowd, shouting, as beside me Charlotte Heroux pitches sideways and crumples to the floor.
For a moment I can only stare. Charlotte lies perfectly still, her eyes open but unmoving, her cracked spectacles lying beside her.
I jump out of my chair and kneel beside her. I am too near to clearly see her face, but I can tell that she is not breathing.
I grab her wrist. I can find no pulse.
I feel for her neck and press my fingers against the skin beneath her jaw. Nothing.
The noise slowly dies as an alchemist pushes me aside and crouches beside Charlotte. Guests gather around us. The alchemist reaches into his coat and withdraws a stylus, one whose point glows with a tiny luminant. He holds it before her pupils, studying them.
He extinguishes the luminant. With his other hand, he reaches out and closes Charlotte’s eyes.
No one speaks. Belle is a statue, covering her mouth. Still I can only stare at Charlotte. This cannot be. This is wrong, there is a mistake, she cannot be…she cannot have truly died…
The alchemist rises to his feet, turning to those watching. “Siore e siori,” he says, “I regret to—”
Charlotte twitches.
Gasps burst from the crowd. A man recoils. “What in God’s name…”
Charlotte’s eyelids flutter. A gasp wheezes into her lungs. “Que…que s’est-il passé?”
She sits upright, squinting as she feels about for her spectacles. “D-did…did I faint?”
A woman cries out, “Siorina, you were dead!”
“No,” Charlotte mumbles. She rubs her eyes. “No, I feel much—”
She chokes and covers her mouth. Something thick and blue leaks through her fingers like ink.
She retches onto the floor. White flecks fall amidst the blue and patter against the marble.
Teeth.
She retches again, spewing teeth and blue slime. The surface of her skin fractures, roughening like some sort of mineral. She screams, clutching her face as fangs like spikes of quartz erupt from her gums. Answering screams burst from the crowd. Charlotte flails. The back of her roughened hand slams into my face.
Pain splits my head. Fire roars into my muscles as she thrashes awake and rage, rage, and rage and fear—
Screaming. Charlotte. Naturals. Belle. My skin. My hair. Changing, gray and black…
Naturals running. Charlotte flailing. Alchemists raising califactor gloves. Aiming them at Belle. At me. Attacking. They will attack us and hurt us and I must fight and rip and crush but then gloved palms flash and the world explodes in a burst of light—
And then nothing.