‘Where the blazes am I?’ Her voice was no more than a rasp. Cedar and eucalyptus created an incongruently pleasant scent in the hellish space no larger than her own bedroom. Wooden benches lined the cedar-planked walls. She pushed down the panic that wanted to crawl from her belly up her throat to strangle her. Breathing was difficult enough when every inhalation singed her lungs and each exhalation depleted her of more precious moisture. She needed to escape, find Hamlet, and send Sinclair into the depths of the English Channel on a geyser of witchwater powered by her rage.
Forcing herself to focus, she reached into her core where her magic waited. The cool rush of power, more familiar to her than her own heartbeat, was gone. In its place was nothing but mist and memory.
‘Oh dear goddess.’ Fear, real and terrifying, filled the void where her magic had always lived.
Her element was water. It was where she drew her strength and fuelled her magic. And the Devil of Seven Dials had somehow constructed a room that stole every last drop.
24
Cynthia sank onto her bed, exhausted by her final packing and preparation. The duchess’s ball was only a day away. She left for her country manor the morning after and had no plans to return to London. Tears filled her eyes as the haunting scent of bergamot from the tea she asked for and would not drink surrounded her.
Her handkerchief was folded neatly in the chest packed for her trip. Needing to distract herself from maudlin thoughts of doomed love, Cynthia imagined the chest opening. Creaking hinges encouraged her as she carefully pictured the white linen embroidered with bees buzzing over cherry blossoms. It rose into the air and flew through the dark room like a ghost, landing gently on Cynthia’s lap.
Picking it up, she wiped her wet cheeks and sniffed. If she were destined to live alone in the wilds of the Cotswolds, she could comfort herself knowing she didn’t need a soulmate to fetch her slippers on a cold night or get her favourite book from the library. She could do that all by herself without ever leaving the bed.
The tears came faster as she flopped back on soft pillows. Before she could completely dissolve into despair, her bedroom door banged open, and Ellie came rushing in with an outraged footman fast on her heels.
‘Cynthia! Thank the goddess you’re here.’ Ellie turned and flicked her wrist. A gust of wind inexplicably rose from nowhere, pushing the poor footman out of the door and slamming it in his shocked face.
‘Of course I’m here. This is my home… for two more days, at least. Why are you here?’
Banging ensued on the bedroom door, but the wind held it firmly shut.
Ellie wore a long jacket that she’d hastily buttoned. The diaphanous material streaming from beneath was clearly a nightgown. Something was terribly wrong for Ellie to not have even taken the time to dress.
‘It’s Helena. She’s in trouble. She needs your help.’
Fear shot Cynthia from her bed. ‘What did you see?’
‘Sinclair has her.’
‘Does Aunt Rowan know?’
‘She went to Bath with Uncle Lachlan. Something about a friend there who needed her help.’ Ellie closed her eyes and shook her head, her golden curls spiralling wildly from a messy bun that lost its battle of creating order from chaos.
‘Where is Helena? What did you see?’
‘I saw you both, facing Sinclair together, so she must be close. There was a large pool.’
Ophelia chittered from Ellie’s coat pocket as Ellie helped Cynthia strip out of her nightgown. Cynthia threw on a chemise that she had only draped over the bedpost a few hours ago, Ellie wrestled a corset over Cynthia’s head, spun her with strong hands, and began lacing the torture device in hard jerks.
‘A pool… there can’t be that many pools in London.’
There were only two dresses hanging in Cynthia’s empty dressing room. Her travel dress and the gown the duchess had sent over that very day for the ball. Cynthia dragged the sensibly simple travelling costume from the hanger and spun, almost crashing into Ellie, who had followed her.
Ellie raised a brow at the elaborate gown left hanging in the closet. ‘That is certainly not a mourning gown.’
Cynthia didn’t have time to discuss fashion when the woman she loved was in danger. ‘Inside or outside?’
Ellie blinked. ‘Pardon?’
‘The pool.’ Cynthia endeavoured not to shake the answer out of her. ‘Was it inside or outside?’
Ellie shut her eyes and scrunched her face. If Cynthia hadn’t been terrified, she would have found the expression undeniably endearing. Much like Ellie herself. ‘Inside. Lots of white stone and colourful tile. It reminded me of a drawing I saw inThe Gentleman’s Magazineof those Turkish baths they opened in Dublin a few years ago.’ Ellie’s eyes popped open, the blue nearly blinding. ‘Do you remember? It caused quite a stir. Men bathing naked together. But then, I suppose it is supposed to be remarkably healthy.’
‘Five Bell Street!’ Cynthia had read about a Turkish bath house scheduled to open in a few months. It was creating a stir in the beau monde because the designer, Roger Evans, was determined it would cater primarily to the working class. The article mentioned the bath house would only charge a shilling to ensure that any man, regardless of his station, could frequent the baths and benefit from their healing properties. The duchess had been quite in fits over the whole thing.
Ophelia’s chittering grew louder. She scampered out of Ellie’s pocket, ran up her coat, along her arm, and in a dramatic feat of ferret acrobatics, managed to leap from Ellie to Cynthia. She circled her long body around Cynthia’s neck and squeaked quite frantically.
