Clara tempered a surge of glee and peered demurely into the telescope’s eyepiece. In a blink, every celestial map she’d ever studied became three dimensional in a juxtaposition of darkness and dazzling light. Constellations she’d only ever observed on parchment and globes, due to London’s impenetrable smog, now glittered before her eyes, stitching images across the heavens with silver thread and stardust. There was Draco to the west, the slain dragon tossed into the skyupon his defeat, and there, near the dragon’s looping tail, sat Ursa Minor. The little bear constellation composed of seven stars. Polaris, the brightest of all seven, winked at her from the very tip of the bear’s tail.
Clara’s chest swelled at the polar star’s brilliance—at its shining promise to bring those who wandered home again. Even absentminded grandfathers with a penchant for flights of fancy. A fine mist of tears blurred her vision. She stepped away from the telescope, blinking furiously. “Grand would wish you to see this, I think.”
Mr. Arthur stepped forward and took her place at the telescope. “That bright one is Polaris, I take it?”
“Yes. ‘The most comforting star in the heavens,’ as Mum calls it.” With Mr. Arthur suitably distracted, Clara quickly dried her eyes with the fingers of her cotton gloves. “When Papa used to travel on long sea voyages, before he’d built up Stanton Shipping to what it is today, I used to thank God for Polaris every night because I knew that even if Papa were to find himself lost, he could always follow the guiding North Star back to us.”
Mr. Arthur’s lighthearted tone dimmed. “I suppose that would be a comfort. For those with a home and family waiting for them.”
She tilted her head, curiosity pitted against her better judgment. “Have you no family, Mr. Arthur?”
He stepped back from the telescope and into the shadows hanging about the tower. The darkness masked Mr. Arthur’s expression, but she could feel him closing off. Withdrawing, as though he were a bat hiding from the light of day, wrapping himself in wings of silence.
“Come now, Mr. Arthur. Surely you have someone, somewhere, who misses you. Even if it’s only a distant cousin who pops by to grate on your nerves and empty your larder every twenty-fifth of December.”
Mr. Arthur’s darkened silhouette removed an object from one of his pockets, made a quick study of it, and then, fisting his hand, shoved it back into the depths of his overcoat. “I’m just a spare part in this world, Miss Stanton.” His prosthetic boot clanked on the stone balcony. “And a faulty one at that.”
Brushing past her, he headed into the tower without a single smile or flippant pun.
Clara watched his retreating overcoat until it disappeared down the stairwell. Why was Mr. Arthur so reluctant to speak of his family? What had occurred to make the mere mention of his past alter his countenance so completely?
She shook her head, scattering her questions and desire to pry. To know. That was one desire she could not allow to flourish. For knowing had the potential of leading one to care, and while she no longer had any qualms about showing Mr. Arthur kindness, she couldn’t allow herself to begin to care about him, especially with Mum and Grand scheming to entangle her emotions. Though she knew they meant well, the pair simply didn’t understand that caring for another person would only give her overburdened shoulders yet another load to carry.
CHAPTER
17
The nightmare was back, and it was changing.
Theodore stood once again on the battlefield of Balaklava, but this time, the carnage was already at its end. This time, he remained standing on one leg of flesh and one of bronze. Eerie silence and billows of black smoke choked the air. Bodies littered the ground around him, friend and foe alike, slumped atop sabers and crumpled over cannons. Death was the only victor here, and he didn’t want to find out what its lingering shadow had in store.
Wake up, man. Youhave to wake up.The thoughts pounded his mind like frantic fists upon a prison door. He strained and twisted, yanked and pulled, trying with all his might to wrench his boots from the thick mire of sweat, tears, and blood. Yet his striving was to no avail.
The nightmare would have its way.
A slap came out of nowhere and knocked him to his knees. Plush carpet cushioned his fall, but the familiar Turkish pattern of crimson vines and golden birds raised gooseflesh on his skin. He was back at Kingsley Court.
A perfectly polished black shoe stepped upon the nearest woven bird, crushing its head. “Try to live up to your name, if you can. And if you can’t ... don’t bother coming back.”
Father’s words landed on Theodore like an anvil, cold and crushing.I have to wake up. I have to get out ofhere.Theodore struggled to his feet and discovered that his seven older brothers now stood behind Father, their gazes as cold as his.
“You can’t mean that.” Theodore’s voice cracked, shattered. “I’m your son as much as they.”
Disdain dripped from Father’s expression. “You’re just a spare, and a faulty one at that. I’ve no use for broken pieces.” Plucking a gear off a nearby desk, Father examined its missing teeth with revulsion and then tossed it at Theodore.
The gear struck true and lodged in Theodore’s chest like a bullet. Pain exploded through his ribs. Kingsley Court vanished, and the nightmare dropped him back on the battlefield. Utterly alone beneath the noonday sun that glared without mercy. With trembling hands, Theodore attempted to cover the fresh wound above his heart, to apply enough pressure to stop the blood from seeping between his fingers.
Yet his striving was to no avail.
His feeble efforts healed nothing, mended nothing.
He collapsed to his knees as a shout tore itself from his chest. “I can’t fix it!”
Something struck him hard, and he jerked awake.
Gentle sunlight peeked through gauzy curtains and warmed Theodore’s skin where he lay amid a tangle of sheets upon a scuffed wooden floor. Though the inn they’d found last night had obviously seen better days, this morning it was a bit of heaven. He leaned against the room’s shaky cot—now at shoulder level—and a shudder racked his sweat-drenched body. Rolling out of bed was sweet mercy. There was no telling how long the terror would’ve gone on otherwise.
“It’s over.” He repeated the phrase between deep breaths,trying to ground himself to reality, but today, the exercise did nothing to shake the nightmare’s residual effects. Because it wasn’t really over. It wasn’t really a dream. Not the parts that hurt most.
