Drowning Lessons: Pt II
Part I
**
"Salem's Pocket," McCoy said, not looking away from the window of Gerard's study. "That's at least twenty miles from the nearest harbor."
"And twenty miles from anyone who might know his face, or his reputation." Gerard rearranged a couple of the piles of letters on his desk and sat back in his chair.
"And now he fancies himself both a friend to the downtrodden and a dramaturge," McCoy murmured. "Mikey said you had received word Korse was planning a grand masqued entertainment for the end of the summer. I take it you plan to attend?"
"The master of Wolfhame would never presume to impose where he was likely to be unwanted," Gerard said, reaching for his cup of tea. "But I have some cousins who have become estranged from the family; they maintain an abiding interest in the improvement of the poor, and who might cadge an invitation."
McCoy turned and gave Gerard a long, narrow look.
"Cousins," McCoy said slowly. "Have I met them?"
"No," Gerard said, struggling to keep his mouth straight. "They are quite virtuous and respectable ladies who would not lower themselves to associating with pirates or the sort of blackguard who writes for the stage. Mikey and I are a plague upon the house, in their estimation."
"I see," McCoy murmured. "And yet they would attend a frivolity like a masqued ball? Put on by a, how did you say, blackguard who writes for the stage?"
"A blackguard with ten thousand pounds a year and the ear of the King," Gerard said, making a wry face in response to McCoy's dismayed expression. "And who makes quite a show of his generosity to the less fortunate. Whatever his sins, he would not embarrass them by engaging in trade, as Mikey and I do."
McCoy was silent for a long time. "If he catches wind of the deception, he'll kill you."
"I know," Gerard said, and took another drink of his tea. "But there is some intelligence that cannot be gathered from afar, or by others, and it is expected to be quite a large affair. Meanwhile, tell me, how are your patients faring?"
McCoy frowned, but didn't challenge the shift in the direction of the conversation.
"Mending, slowly," he said. "Smith's fever broke late last night, and Ross' early this morning. We may yet continue to enjoy their company."
Gerard permitted himself a small sigh of relief. He had spent most of the preceding week either holed up with his brother discussing strategy, or deeply enmeshed in a drawing, but even he had noticed the anxiety that had permeated the house and the way his men were hovering over the two small forms in the big bed.
"Actually, I should return to them," McCoy said. "If you will excuse me?"
"Of course," Gerard said, then rose out of politeness, and stood until the door to his study was closed.
**
The next time Ryan opened his eyes there was a little bit more light in the room. Heaven looked a lot like a bedroom. Spencer was asleep next to him (still? again?) , but there was also a tabby cat curled up between them with its tail draped over its nose. Ryan could hear an angel singing somewhere nearby. Ryan let go of Spencer to pet the cat, and -- Ryan decided it is a she -- as soon as he touched her, she stood up, stretching prettily and butting her head against his fingers at the same time.
Ryan pressed his fingers against her muzzle and obediently scratched her ears when she dipped her head. She was warm, too, but Ryan supposed everyone must be warm in Heaven, or Purgatory, or wherever they were. (Spencer continued to insist they were alive, but Ryan refused to believe him.) Though Ryan was surer that they were in Heaven now, since he really couldn't imagine what a cat would have done to end up in Purgatory.
The cat tested his belly with one paw, then two, before arranging herself on his sternum, neat as a breadloaf. Ryan rubbed his fingers under her soft chin and she began to rumble. Her warm weight and the noise were easing Ryan off to sleep again when the floor creaked and the angel's voice grew closer. The angel was singing a particularly bawdy drinking song. Ryan couldn't decide if he was amused or vaguely horrified that someone had taught an angel the words to the Maid of Hamptontown.
The cat turned toward the angel's voice and meowed loudly. The angel stopped singing, and Ryan could hear the click click click of boots on wooden floors, which brought up the larger question of why an angel would bother with boots. Ryan curled his fingers around Spencer's hand and lay as still as he possibly could. Ryan didn't know what was going on - where they were, or who had taken them, or anything - but he did know he wasn't going to let Spencer be taken from him again, by the heavenly hosts or anyone else.
The angel, when he came to the side of the bed, looked male. Ryan still couldn't see very well but he got the impression of dark hair and fair skin. The angel put a hand out and scratched the cat behind her ears; she arched into the touch briefly, then rose and jumped down, which woke Spencer up. He grumbled into the pillow and sat up, rubbing at his eyes.
"The Captain would be grateful if you would join him in his study, Mr. Smith," the angel said, his hand the barest pressure on Ryan's belly. It, too, was oddly heavy and warm.
Ryan pushed that thought aside for the moment, more concerned about who the Captain might be as well and why he had need of Spencer. In Ryan's experience, being invited to an audience with the master of the house did not end well.
"Take me instead," Ryan mumbled, and his voice was more a growl than a purr, nothing like it used to be, but he was glad he could speak at all.
The room went very, very quiet.
"No, Ryan, no," Spencer said, sounding more distressed than Ryan could ever remember.
"Yes," Ryan insisted.
"No," Spencer said, and then fell silent, and darkness came up to claim Ryan before he could argue the point.
**
"Mr. Smith," Gerard said, blotting the piece of paper he was drawing on carefully. "I take it you are feeling better?"
"Yes, sir, thank you," Smith said. Gerard could see his fingers twitching, as if he wanted to clench his fists and was thinking better of it.
"Sit down, Mr. Smith," Gerard said, when it seemed like the boy was determined to linger awkwardly in the doorway. "And how is Mr. Ross?"
"Recovering, sir," Smith said, his entire posture tightening. "Mr. McCoy said he might soon be fit for light duty."
Gerard made a pleased noise, though McCoy had given him a much more dire prediction in private. He'll be lucky if he walks again, had been his exact words.
"So what can you tell me about Mr. Korse?" Gerard asked, as Toro arrived with tea things. "What is his business these days?"
Smith took a mug when it was offered, but was otherwise quiet for some time. Gerard didn't press him, just sat back in his chair and enjoyed his afternoon snack.
"He didn't let us out much, but from what I could gather, mostly he advertised himself as a charitable gentlemen," Smith finally said. "The troupe was just for the entertainment of himself and his particular friends, but there was also the workhouse. Though he didn't call it that."
"Oh? What term did he prefer?" Gerard asked, leaning forward.
"He called it Better Living Industries - put it about that he was running a school, to help the unfortunate." Smith explained. "Said it was for particularly intractable and hopeless cases. People who couldn't get on anywhere else."
"I see," Gerard murmured.
"We used to see the boys now and again," Smith continued. "They always looked half-dead. And we heard terrible stories about the girls and the wardens as well. But whenever the toffs came to tour the place they brought the sick ones in with us, and scrubbed everyone else up, made it look all bright and shiny. But as soon as they were gone, all of that was done, back to business as usual."
Gerard made a thoughtful noise. He had other, more detailed reports of Korse's outrages, but Smith's comments were useful corroboration.
"Sir," Smith began, then stopped.
"What is it, Mr. Smith?" Gerard asked, though he had a feeling he already knew. Both Mikey and Iero reported that there had been a certain amount of anxious whispering in the sickroom of late.
Smith ducked his head, a vain attempt to hide the dark pink flush spreading slowly over his face. "Mr. Ross -"
"He is quite welcome here, as are you," Gerard cut in. "I have already cancelled his debt, and when he has regained his strength I will offer him the same choice as I did you, to stay or go as he desires. If he chooses to stay some useful work will be found for him."
Smith raised his head, his expression equal parts relief and disbelief, and Gerard marshalled a smile. He had listened to McCoy's dire predictions with a sober face, but Ross had defied expectations before, and could well do so again. In any case, there was plenty of room in the house, and besides, the men had grown attached to them, Iero and Mikey in particular.
"Thank you, sir," Smith said, and returned his gaze to his knees.
"You're welcome, Mr. Smith. Please give Mr. Ross my best wishes for his continued recovery, and do let me know if you have any further insights on Mr. Korse in the future." Gerard stood up with Smith, and watched him depart.
**
"What do you think, Mikey?" Gerard asked, patting his wig into place and turning around slowly.
The skirts were a heavy and unfamiliar weight, and the corset quite thoroughly constricting. He felt like he might tip over at any moment.
"That you and Great-Auntie Rosicrucia have much the same moustache," his brother said around his cheroot. "Also, that yellow does not favor you, and the style is quite painfully outdated. No cousin of ours would embarrass herself by wearing it to a ball."
Gerard frowned and turned to the mirror again, smoothing his hands over the fabric bunched around his hips. He supposed Mikey had a point; even to his own eye he looked remarkably like a lemon.
"The blue damask has been much eaten by moths," Gerard said. "Mr. Iero has done his best but it cannot be salvaged."
"And the red brocade?" Mikey asked, taking another drag on his cheroot.
"Mr. Bryar observed it might be more appropriate to call on the neighbors in Tortuga," Gerard said, and looked affronted when Mikey choked on a laugh. "I suppose I am consigned to the purple."
Mikey coughed a few more times then beckoned Gerard over to assist him with his stays.
**
The next time Ryan surfaced, the room was full of light and angels, and the angels were singing Whisky in the Jar. Spencer was gone, but the cat was curled up in his place. Ryan realized he must have made a noise when she raised her head and meowed and the angels broke off and one of them -- taller than the other one, but also dark-haired and fair-skinned, if the blur was anything to go by - came over to the bed. Ryan tried to sit up but he couldn't get his limbs to move.
"Shhhh, be still," the angel said, and Ryan felt a hand on his arm.
Ryan froze, fighting the urge to curl in on himself, and tried to ask where Spencer had gone.
"Mr. Smith's having a bath," the angel said, stroking Ryan's arm, his hands more rough and calloused than Ryan would have expected from an angel.
While that news did not make Ryan feel any better - baths were also never a good sign - the angel kept up a steady stream of nonsense clearly meant to soothe. Eventually the angel stepped away, and when he came back, he helped Ryan move so he was propped upright against his pillows, then gave him some water and chicken broth, and a slightly less bitter drink than usual.
Ryan obediently consumed all of it, and was just starting to doze off when the bed dipped, dislodging the cat, and Spencer climbed up in her place. He was pink-cheeked and smelled strongly of saddle soap. Ryan rested a hand on Spencer's knees - still solid, still warm -- and the ache in his stomach eased.
"My turn," he said, or tried to say; his mouth still didn't work quite right sometimes. But whatever Spencer had had to be washed for, Ryan was not letting him go alone.
Spencer frowned and leaned closer; Ryan repeated himself. Spencer's eyes widened briefly, and then he left the bed and had a conversation with the angel, who had retreated to a far corner of the room, too distant from the bed for Ryan to follow the exchange.
Ryan forced himself to look away, and concentrated to examining the rest of his surroundings. His vision was still maddeningly blurry, but he could pick out the dark wooden bulk of a dresser, as well as the rounded outlines of chairs. He had just turned his attention to the windows when Spencer returned with the angels trailing behind him. Ryan squinted, but he couldn't make out their wings, which was an additional disappointment.
"Mr. Bryar is going to help you get to the bathroom," Spencer said, and the second, broader angel stepped closer to the bed.
Ryan frowned - since when did angels have proper names? - but didn't fuss as Bryar lifted him out of the bed, sheet and all, and carried him out of the room. Ryan could tell the angel was moving as slowly as possible, but after so long a-bed the movement made Ryan horribly dizzy, and he clung to Bryar's shoulder with his eyes shut, praying he wouldn't disgrace himself.
After a minute his stomach settled, and he was able to open his eyes a fraction. Heaven also had long corridors lined with portraits of forbidding-looking ladies and gentlemen and lit by guttering candles mounted in sconces. The bathroom, when they got there, was bright and airy, and was wholly unlike the dim, cold room Korse had provided. Bryar set Ryan down on a chair and stepped away to attend to the tub, leaving Spencer to help Ryan undress.
Ryan consented to being stripped to the skin, but clung to the sheet to preserve his modesty, only letting it go once Spencer had lowered him into a tub full of hot, soapy water. Ryan closed his eyes and sagged against the smooth copper at his back, then stretched his limbs as much as he could, reassured by the low rumble of Spencer's idle conversation with Bryar and almost too comfortable to be frightened.
He would have been content to just soak for a while, but he took the sponge when Spencer handed it to him, then held still while Spencer washed his hair. The water had cooled considerably by the time Ryan declared himself finished, and let Spencer lift him out of the tub and wrapped him in a big towel. Bryar produced a soft dressing gown and bundled Ryan into it, then gathered him up for the journey back to bed. Ryan tried to stay awake, intent on being conscious for whatever horror might be coming, but he dozed off again.
The next time Ryan surfaced he was dry, dressed and in bed, and Spencer was sleeping next to him, his breathing slow and easy. Ryan stretched some more, and was idly surprised when his head was mostly clear and his limbs didn't ache in any new ways. He clenched his teeth and his fists and pushed himself up into a sitting position. The room looked the same as when they had left it earlier.
Ryan clenched and unclenched his undamaged fingers and tried to remember what happened after they had left the bathroom. The warm water had felt good, perfect, soothing away aches that he had forgotten didn't just belong as part of him. He couldn't remember anything bad, no tongues or teeth or cocks or wandering hands. He pushed the blankets aside carefully, and took a good look at Spencer.
Whatever else the not-angels might be up to, they were feeding him. Furthermore he had some color, like he had been out in the sun, though not so long as to burn and blister, so probably not in the fields. And he was breathing deeply, no hitching and no wincing. Ryan was almost afraid to touch him, sure that everything would disappear, and he would wake up in Korse's cellar. Still he rested his fingertips on Spencer's arm, the weight of the touch deepening as he relaxed.
Spencer sighed, "Ryan?"
Ryan pulled his hand back. Spencer was quiet for a moment, then moved closer, curled in, and went back to sleep.
At some point it started to rain, and Ryan permitted himself to be lulled into a doze by the water hitting the windows. He wanted to know where they were, and why they weren't in the servants quarters, and most of all what kind of bargain Spencer had struck and with whom, but he was unwilling to wake Spencer up to ask him. Ryan wasn't quite tired enough to sleep; instead he lay quiet but awake, listening. Heaven sounded like an old house creaking and settling, and cats snoring.
Though if he was honest with himself, Ryan had to admit he knew that wherever they were, it wasn't Heaven. And the people looking after them were not angels. A part of him was disappointed; a larger part of him was terrified. He doesn't linger too long on the fact that a part of him was filled with savage joy to be alive, and with Spencer, both of them not-dead together.
Distracted by the the softness of the bed and Spencer's warmth, Ryan didn't notice the not-angel was in the room until he started singing -- What Do You Do With A Drunken Sailor, this time -- and felt hands on him, smoothing the blanket over his shoulder. Ryan jerked away, unthinking, and almost fell off the bed.
The not-angel seems to be just as startled, because he jumped backward, almost knocking over the candle and the cups on the bedside table. The movement woke Spencer, and as Ryan watched his expression change from sleep-grumpy to alarmed to a careful mask, he felt sick. This must be Master, or, as Spencer insisted on calling him, the Captain. Ryan tried to apologize and Spencer shushed him.
"I'm sorry," the man said. "I didn't mean to wake you - " he paused, and Ryan relaxed a little bit. Probably not the Captain, then, despite the heavy velvet frock coat. "I - my brother was called into town suddenly, and asked me to look in on you - would you like some water?"
"Yes please," Ryan murmured, and the man picked up one of the cups and held it out.
He had dark hair and a pale face, like the first not-angel. Or maybe he was the first not-angel, Ryan wasn't sure. Spencer took the cup carefully and brought it to his mouth, his swallowing loud in the quiet room. The man blinked a couple of times, then flapped his hands and sneezed into his ruffled cuffs. Spencer turned and made Ryan drink; the man sneezed twice more, with increasing volume. Ryan could hear him muttering about cats.
When Spencer turned back, the man reached into the pockets of his coat and produced a largish parcel wrapped up in a napkin, which he set next to Spencer on the bed. It smelled like sugar and some spice.
"Mr. Toro will bring your tea up later," he said. "But I thought you might like a sweet."
"Thank you, Captain Way," Spencer said, very softly.
Ryan managed to turn a gasp into a cough. They had not been taken in by a random kindhearted sailor, but by Captain Way, the pirate playwright. They were at Wolfhame.
There was an awkward silence. Finally Captain Way excused himself and departed.
Spencer flopped back against the pillows for a minute, then untied the napkin and broke a biscuit in half. Ryan shook his head when Spencer offered him one. Wolfhame. Everyone knew what happened there, and had heard the tales of servants vanishing in the night, never to be seen again.
"Spencer," Ryan hissed. "Have you taken leave of your senses, or have you been lying to me to save my feelings? Wolfhame is no safe harbor!"
"Captain Way is not the monster he's painted. He sets people free." Spencer said, tapping Ryan's arm with the end of the biscuit.
Ryan blinked at him. Free He could understand dead as kind of free, but he was pretty sure that was not what Spencer meant. Ryan took the half of a biscuit and mouthed at a corner of it.
The biscuit was soft and sweet and it was the first real solid food Ryan had eaten in -- well, he didn't know how long. He lay back against the pillows and watched Spencer break the biscuits into small parts, and tried to organize the questions in his head.
"Those stories Mrs. Pepper used to tell weren't true," Spencer said, not looking up. "Captain Way doesn't eat babies, and they don't kill anybody, they send them to the colonies. Or wherever they want to go."
Ryan nibbled on his biscuit. Korse had had a map of the ocean in his bedroom. There had been a enormous drawing of a sea-serpent in the middle, and HERE BE DRAGONS written in loose, flowing script over its head. The colonies had been little circles on the map to the left of the dragon, decorated with palm trees and tiny canoes.
"They're pirates," Ryan said.
"Privateers," Spencer corrected him mildly. "And not any more, though they do still have ships, the Revenge and the Black Parade. They use them to help people get away, if they want to go. We can go to the colonies, if we like, or we can stay here."
Ryan was pretty sure going or staying was kind of a moot point right now, since he wasn't certain he could get out of bed by himself. He also suspected the ships were a lie, or a code for something else.
"Stay here and do what?" Ryan asked, easing his damaged hand closer to his chest.
Ryan longed to see Spencer's parents almost as much as Spencer himself, but the idea of making his way in the colonies when he was barely fit to carry a beggar's cup made his stomach roll uneasily.
"Iero said he would be pleased to be relieved of duty as the Captain's secretary," Spencer said. "And it is not so bad in the kitchen."
Ryan made a thoughtful noise, and took another biscuit when Spencer held it out.
"Tell me more about the kitchen," Ryan said, and settled back against the pillows. Eventually he dozed off in the middle of a story about Scylla and Charbydis' thieving ways.
**
"Well?" Iero asked, tipping his head back to peer up at Mikey from under the hat.
"The feather is - quite distracting," Mikey said. "But your hands will give us away."
"No more so than his leg, and he can wear gloves," Gerard chimed in from the corner, where he was perched on a chair, practicing sitting in stays.
"All night?" Mikey asked, sticking his cheroot in his mouth. He couldn't light it in the room, with the window closed against the spring chill, but the bitter taste on his tongue was soothing.
"I'll tell people I met with a terrible accident during the war," Iero offered, waggling his inky fingers and rotating on his peg to face Gerard. "Captain?"
"Dashing," Gerard pronounced, standing up and shaking out his underskirt. "Would you care to dance, Mr - ?"
"Ghoul," Iero replied, making a dramatic leg and sweeping the heat off his head. "Fulmine Ghoul. My friends call me Fun. And now you have the advantage of me, my lady."
"Geraldine," Gerard said, dropping a perfunctory but graceful curtsey. "Geraldine Way."
Iero took Gerard's proffered hand and lead him through a perfectly serviceable waltz. Mikey sucked on his cheroot and stretched his legs. With a little bit more practice, they might just pull it off.
**
The next time Ryan opened his eyes, the first - man, Ryan reminded himself, man, not angel -- was sitting in a chair next to the bed, reading a book. He had on a heavy frock coat like Captain Way, but it was absolutely covered in animal hair. Ryan could only suppose that Captain Way was very free with his castoffs, if his servants were dressed so well.
Ryan did not want to think too carefully about what it meant that careless Captain Way had apparently set a servant to minding himself and Spencer. Ryan tried to push up on his elbow to get the glass of water on the bedside table, but movement amplified the throbbing in his knee from a dull ache to a fiery burn and he fell back panting and trying to swallow a scream.
Spencer jerked awake, disturbed by Ryan's flailing. Meanwhile the servant dropped his book and moved quickly to give Ryan some water, and then some thin, sweet gruel in an invalid feeder. Ryan took two mouthfuls and then curled his good hand around the feeder and eased it away from his face. It wasn't full, but there was some left for Spencer.
The servant frowned -- puzzled, not angry, Ryan could tell -- and Ryan breathed carefully for a minute before sliding the feeder over to Spencer, pushing it gently against his fingers.
"No," Spencer said, carefully moving it back up to Ryan's belly, "That's for you, you finish it."
Ryan frowned at him, a little bit annoyed but mostly anxious that Spencer wouldn't eat, and doubly so that he was being foolish and refusing food in front of the servant, who might tell Ma - the Captain, and -
The servant cleared his throat. When they turned to look at him, he produced a napkin full of bread, cheeses and rolled meats from one of his pockets, and handed it to Spencer. Ryan could see that Spencer was startled, which produced a fresh jolt of anxiety. Unexpected extra food was also never a good sign.
"Mr. Toro is making pie right now," the servant said. "Apple and blueberry, I think. He said he would be obliged if you would come down for a taste in an hour or two."
"Yes ma - ," Spencer began, and stopped. "Yes, Mr. Way."
Way's mouth quirked up at the corners and he made a little half-bow before departing. Ryan turned to look at Spencer, now thoroughly confused, and Spencer pressed a pinch of cheese into Ryan's mouth. It was soft, sharp and delicious and Ryan tucked it under his tongue to savor it.
"The Captain's younger brother," Spencer explained, grinning as Ryan's eyes widened. "I know, it is most irregular, but Toro tells me he has always been keen to tend the wounded."
Ryan regretfully swallowed the lump of cheese, and accepted a cup of water. Spencer broke off tiny pieces of meat and bread and dropped them into Ryan's hands, then ate the remainder himself.
Ryan pretended to sleep after eating because he needed to think, and his thoughts were sluggish and slow. He knew, though, what the bath, the room, the medicine and the extra food meant: Spencer had obviously made some sort of a deal, either with the Devil or Captain Way, but to what purpose, Ryan wasn't sure.
Ryan was a little bit afraid to look at himself too closely, but he could feel all the places where his body was twisted and torn. He'd even accepted that he was still alive, though it didn't make any sense. He wouldn't be crippled this way if Korse had meant for him to return to the stage. While Spencer has insisted that the brothers Way did not deserve their bloodthirsty reputation, Ryan reckoned pirates, reformed or otherwise, were always on the lookout for treasure. And two half-grown boys, one also half-dead, did not remotely qualify.
But yet there they were, in the big soft bed, being given medicine and food and tended by the Captain's own brother. Ryan was still turning it over and over in his mind when sleep pulled him under for real.
**
"Any joy?" Gerard asked before Mikey was even half-way through sorting his morning post.
Mikey sat back in his chair and continued to sort the envelopes. The very last one, a small, cream-colored article, also bore one of the two addresses he had been hoping to see.
"Miss Ivarsson," he said, opening it with his butter knife and skimming the contents. "She would be delighted to assist."
"Tell her she has to leave her knives at home," Gerard said, neatly stabbing a piece of ham with his fork. "And the garrotte."
"She will be so disappointed," Mikey murmured, reading the letter a second time, and more carefully. "She says she has some friends visiting. Mr. Korse is known to them as well, and they are eager to join the affray."
Gerard set his fork down and narrowed his eyes.
"Naturally she doesn't give their names," Mikey reported after a moment, fighting a smile at her arch description of a man that could only be Saporta. "Though I believe we are already acquainted."
"Did we meet on opposite sides of a burning deck?" Gerard asked warily.
"No," Mikey said absently, flipping the second page over. "Though it's possible we robbed them of a prize or two."
Gerard sighed heavily and went back to his breakfast.
**
The next time Ryan woke, he found himself alone. He didn't know what day it was, but the light coming in the window suggested it was probably evening. Spencer had not been especially forthcoming about the Captain's habits, but Ryan had gathered from the chatter that went on over his head that the Captain preferred to spend his evenings alone in his study with his sketchpad, and was rarely disturbed by the rest of the household. If there was a time for Ryan to seek a private audience, it was probably now. Ryan hauled himself into sitting position and began inching his legs around.
"Stop," Captain Way called from somewhere behind him.
Ryan's focus blurred for a moment, but then it sharpened again, and the first thing he saw were Captain Way's shaking hands hovering near him. Ryan associated that kind of trembling with rage, but the Captain's expression was more anxious than infuriated.
"I've frightened you," the captain murmured. "My apologies. But Mr. McCoy has issued strict orders that you are not to put any weight on the knee for at least one more month."
Ryan blinked at him, completely at a loss for words. The Captain handed him a cup of water from the bedside table, unbidden, and Ryan took a deep but careful drink.
"You should have a bell," the Captain said, frowning at Ryan's empty bedside table. "I will ask Mr. Iero to find one for you."
"Master, what is it that you want from us?" Ryan asked. "Why do you do this?"
Captain Way went very still, and Ryan braced himself as best he could for impact, silently berating himself for having been so stupid. Two breaths later, he was enormously surprised to realize the Captain hadn't hit him and was, in fact, giving him a thoughtful look.
"I prefer to be called Captain, and I - we - want for you, both of you, to be well," Lord Captain Way finally said, softly but firmly, straightening his shoulders. "I - have worn chains myself, and I remember how they chafe."
Ryan looked down at the Captain's hands, as if he would see ghostly manacles lurking amid the ruffled cuffs. Instead there were just ink stains on his fingers and paint smudges on his sleeves.
"But how do you want me - us - to serve you?" Ryan asked, rubbing his claw-like left hand on the blanket.
He could feel it, mostly, but his fingers wouldn't work. Between that and his knee, Ryan was useless for heavy labor, and possibly for lighter housework as well and - Spencer had been very clear on this point - the household had no use for his other skills.
"I-" Captain Way began, then stopped.
Ryan reminded himself to breathe, and to not think of the possibilities -- himself sold away from Spencer, Spencer sold away from him, both of them sent on to a more traditional house, or to be eaten by dragons on the way to the colonies -- lest he disgrace himself by falling at Captain Way's feet and begging for mercy.
"This is a large house," the Captain said. "There is always work to be done. And, too, my brother and I have a print shop in town. You have been on the stage and must know your letters - a place can be found for you there, when you are feeling better, if that would suit you."
Ryan blinked at him, startled, because Spencer had not mentioned anything about a print shop. Captain Way's pocket chimed loudly and they both jumped. The captain fumbled his watch out to turn it off, then made his excuses and hurried away amid promises that he would send Spencer up with food.
**
"One, two, three, one, two - that was my foot - one, two - stop." Gerard caught Iero an in extremely unladylike grip and held him still.
Iero shook loose, flopped down on a nearby chair, and yanked his wig off. Gerard fussed with his skirt for a moment then turned to Mikey.
"That was better," Mikey opined. "It almost looked like a proper gavotte."
Gerard sighed heavily; Iero's face settled into a mutinous expression.
"You will have to stop for today anyway, Mr. McCoy will be arriving any minute now to check on his patients, and I need Mr. Iero to accompany me to town," Mikey said. "I have several shops besides our own to call in on. Miss Ivarsson has suggested a few volumes worth reading and Mr. Armstrong has written from Bridgetown requesting a lengthy list of provisions to be prepared for his next voyage."
Gerard gave him an eyebrow, but Iero jumped up, clearly grateful for the reprieve.
**
The next morning Ryan was awakened by a terrific clatter in the hallway and thumping overhead. He tried to get up, but when that made him too dizzy he curled up as tightly as possible and squeezed his eyes shut. The clamor had barely faded when he heard the door pop open. Ryan burrowed further into the bed and tried to steady his breathing. Spencer had said they could trust these people, but -
"Ryan," Spencer said, as the bed shifted under his weight. "Look what I found in the attic."
Ryan uncurled a little bit and opened one eye, and then the other. Bryar was standing in the doorway, and in front of him was a large wheeled chair. There were blankets draped over the seat and back. Ryan stared at it and then at Spencer, his terror slowly replaced by confusion.
"The doctor said you can get out of bed, but you still musn't try to walk," Spencer said, his mouth curving into a grin.
Ryan pushed himself upright, and Bryar came and moved him into the chair. Spencer fetched a robe from the armoire and bundled Ryan into it. Sitting upright after so long abed was a little bit dizzying, but that soon passed.
"Set us a course, Mr. Ross," Mr. Bryar rumbled when they emerged into the hallway. It was brighter than Ryan remembered
Ryan tilted his head back to look at Spencer, not quite sure how to answer the man. Spencer, when he looked back, seemed equally baffled.
"Cook's tour it is, " Bryar said, and Ryan clutched the arms of the chair as it started to move.
"This is the captain's room," Bryar said, stopping at an ornately decorated door in the middle of the corridor.
"Mr. Way is next door," he continued, gesturing at a different heavily decorated door on the other side of the hall. "The rest of us bunk abovedecks."
Ryan frowned, but Bryar moved them on before he could ask any questions.
"This was the Lady's room," Bryar said, carefully pronouncing the capital letter, when they came to plain black door. "It's not to be disturbed. Iero does the mending in her study - " he pointed to the next door down " - and you're welcome to join him if you like."
When they got to the top of the stairs, there was a man sitting on the top step, hunched over a music box. He seemed to be fiddling with the gears.
"Mr. Ross, this is Mr. Toro," Mr. Bryar said, tilting his head towards the stranger. "He makes the best turtle soup this side of Tortuga."
Toro actually blushed a little bit at that comment, which Ryan filed away for later consideration. Getting on the cook's good side was key to survival in any house, and Toro showed no obvious signs of a cruel nature.
"Would you like to venture belowdecks?" Bryar asked, his eyebrows arching slightly.
"Yes please," Spencer said, and Ryan squeezed the edges of the chair once before Bryar gathered him up.
Bob took the stairs one at a time, humming under his breath. (Maid of Fife-e-o, Ryan noted absently.) Spencer and Toro came down behind them with the chair, just as slowly, and Bryar lowered Ryan back into it.
"We have other tasks we must attend to now," Bryar said, once Ryan was settled. "We will see you in the kitchen later."
With that, Toro and Bryar left Ryan and Spencer alone. Ryan's body was starting to protest being upright for so long, but he clenched his teeth and ignored it as best he could. He was both startled and grateful when Spencer pulled a bottle of laudanum out of his pocket and put a drop under Ryan's tongue, which soon dulled his aches and pains so that they were bearable.
They went through the house slowly, passing through the parlour and the dining room - "No-one eats here," Spencer said, matter-of-factly - and then Spencer pushed him into a book-lined room that could only be the Captain's study.
"Spencer, I don't think - we shouldn't be in here," Ryan began as they crossed the threshold, panic rising in his chest.
"We have our liberty of the house," Spencer reminded him. "And Captain Way has said you might have a book, if you wanted one.
"A book?" Ryan repeated, barely daring to believe it.
The books smelled so good. It had been so long since Ryan had been near so many, or even one, really. He wanted to touch every one of them, to lie down somewhere and curl up and read until his eyes slipped shut.
"Or several, if you like," Spencer confirmed. "What's your pleasure?"
"Are there any about the shop?" Ryan asked.
"Hm." Spencer squinted at the shelves, then drifted over to a low table where papers were piled. "There are some advertising pamphlets here, I think."
"Those," Ryan said, and then decided to push his luck. "Does he have any novels?"
"Tom Jones," Spencer reported, tugging several volumes off the shelf. "Mysteries of Udolpho?"
Ryan made a low noise of pleasure and Spencer grabbed those volumes as well as a handful of broadsheets and pamphlets. He set the lot of them in Ryan's lap, then continued into the kitchen. Ryan wrapped all of it carefully in the edges of one of the blankets and wedged it between himself and the side of the chair.
In the kitchen they found a familiar scene: one person - Toro, Ryan realized, when he turned around - turning a brace of chickens on a spit over the fire; Bryar, who was cutting vegetables; and one more -- dark hair, heavily tattooed, peg leg -- cutting up cheese.
"Mr. Smith," Toro called out, sounding pleased. "And Mr. Ross. You know Mr. Bryar, and that is Mr. Iero at the cheeseboard."
Spencer rolled Ryan closer to the table and left him alone for a little while, before reappearing with two mugs of beer and a plate of bread, cheese and sliced meats. A few minutes later Iero came over with a bowl of soup and a broad smile. Ryan regarded both soup and smile warily.
"It's chicken," Iero said. "Turtle is only for special occasions now that we're beached."
Ryan stared at him briefly, then leaned forward and took a cautious spoonful. It was chicken, rich and salty, and there were potatoes and carrots as well. He ate the rest slowly, and stole some of Spencer's bread to dip in and clear up the dregs.
When he finished Ryan burrowed into his blankets and closed his eyes, intending to rest for just a moment, until Spencer had finished eating. Instead he fell asleep, lulled by a full belly and the warmth of the fire.
**
The next day, or at least the next time he woke up -- Ryan had no idea how much time had passed, but the light outside was bright, suggesting midday, and he felt a distant spike of terror for oversleeping - it was to the muffled thudding of Iero's leg on the carpet as he carried a tray of food and steaming tea across the room.
Ryan sat up, rattled but also hungry, and kicked Spencer awake with his good leg.
"Fine morning to go ashore!" Iero said, flashing him a grin. Ryan blinked, still too muzzy with sleep to untangle his meaning, and then he was gone.
When they were finished, and as presentable as they were going to be, Spencer brought the plates down to the kitchen. He came back with Mr. Bryar, who carried Ryan down the stairs and out to the back garden, where the chair was waiting. The paths were hard packed dirt, and the flower beds were a riot of color.
Ryan could see how they must have been proper English gardens once, the shapes of the boxes were neat and trim, but they were full of wild flowers and heavily mixed with weeds, except for a section at the middle that was entirely composed of roses of all different colors. Spencer wheeled him around slowly, stopping periodically for Ryan to smell things that were particularly pretty, and roll petals gently between his fingertips.
Ryan was just starting to feel a little pain-sick and sleepy when they rounded a corner and came upon a man Ryan didn't recognize. He was stripped to the waist and barefoot, and seemed to be singing an encouraging song to a row of hollyhocks. His back was broad and lightly tanned under a massive tattoo of a ship in full sail. Ryan could see a couple of whip scars on his ribs, but they were pretty obviously old.
Spencer cleared his throat and the man spun around, his face relaxing into a broad, friendly grin when he saw Spencer, then settling into a carefully controlled expression when he noticed Ryan.
"Ryan, this is Jon Walker," Spencer says, his voice clear and untroubled. "He attends to the gardens and assists Mr. Conrad with the horses."
Walker tipped an invisible cap and made a lazy leg in Ryan's direction.
"You're looking well, sir," Walker says, and it didn't sound like a lie to Ryan, though he was sure it must be.
"Thank you," Ryan said. "Your roses are beautiful."
"Why thank you, sir. The secret is I feed them the finest horse shit," Walker said, the wide grin coming back.
Spencer snorted a laugh and Ryan managed a smile.
"The gorse is all run wild," Spencer said, not quite scolding but close - Ryan's stomach clenched with alarm - but Walker just grinned wider.
"Well, then, I reckon you'll have to tame it," Walker said, then turned to face a stand of dogwoods. "Belle, you lazy creature, come here and do your duty."
The largest dog Ryan had ever seen ambled out of the trees and over to Walker's side. He patted her broad shoulders, and then she crossed the ground between Walker and Ryan in couple of steps. Ryan held out a hand when she got close enough and she sniffed it with great deliberation before sitting down and laying her massive head in his lap.
Ryan rested his fingers on her satiny-soft head. She nudged his wrist with her cold nose, then licked it, and he scratched her behind the ears, grinning when her eyes slid shut.
"Belle," Walker said mildly. She made an exasperated noise, but got up and started walking toward the trees, swinging her head around and whuffling at them until they followed her.
She led them to a hammock slung between two trees. Spencer scooped Ryan out of the chair and lay him in it, settled his blanket around him, then produced the laudanum bottle from his pocket and gave Ryan two drops under his tongue. Meanwhile, Belle flopped down on the ground next to the hammock, and watched Walker with her ears tilted forward. When Spencer turned as if he meant to leave, Ryan grabbed his wrist with his good hand.
"It's okay," Spencer said. "I'm just going over to the edge, there - " he pointed to a flower bed not far away, where indeed the gorse was running wild. "You just rest now. Belle is going to stay with you, she'll come get me if you need me."
Ryan just stared at him. Spencer lowered himself into the empty wheelchair and started prying Ryan's fingers off his wrists, murmuring assurances the whole time, and gradually, between the laudanum and the lingering terror of what might happen if Spencer didn't do his chore, Ryan let go and fell back against a pillow in the hammock. Spencer kissed Ryan's temple, then stripped his shirt off, and joined Walker in by the flowerbeds. Ryan eventually dozed off watching Spencer and Walker hack at the gorse.
**
"Miss Ivarsson has suggested a course correction," Gerard said, laying the letter aside and setting his tea cup down gently in the saucer. "Mr. Korse has apparently decided to spend the season in Bath. Miss Ivarsson has lodgings there - I believe you know the house? - and suggests I - or rather, our cousin - should visit for a fortnight. I think I shall accept - I'll need Mr. Bryar to escort me and Mr. Conrad to drive the coach."
Mikey speared a piece of sausage with his fork, popped it in his mouth and chewed it thoughtfully. It was a bit spicier than normal; he made a mental note to tell Toro he appreciated the change. He swallowed carefully and took a mouthful of tea before answering.
"All right," he said. "But what of our other cousin? And what about Mr. Ghoul? Mr. Iero will be quite sad if you have reduced his role."
"The lady cannot stop away from home for so long, as she is needed to keep the house in order and tend to a relative who is delicate and often unwell," Gerard said. "But she will, of course, attend the masque. As for Mr. Ghoul he is still in the script - he will make a more dramatic entrance later. Mr. Bryar is more suited to the complexities of this voyage. He does excel at drawing people into indiscretions."
Mikey made a thoughtful noise into his crumpet, and was quiet while Gerard made short work of his eggs.
"Go canny, brother," Mikey said a bit later, spearing another piece of sausage. "Korse has a shrewd eye, and knows your face. He may remember Mr. Bryar from previous engagements as well."
"Mm, but only one, and he tends to fix it on comely young ladies," Gerard said. "A matron of my advanced years, however painted and primped, is unlikely to be the object of great scrutiny. The lure I offer is the promise of annoying his enemy. If necessary I shall make complaint about the trial of being so like my ne'er-do-well cousin. And as for Mr. Bryar, at the rate he has been growing his beard lately, his own mother might not recognize him."
Mikey ate some more sausage. "And if Korse asks you to dance?"
"I shall take a page from Mr. Iero's book and tread constantly upon his toes," Gerard said, his lips twitching upwards into a smile.
Mikey cut off a bit of egg with his fork and ate it slowly. He could nearly see the logic of it - Gerard on his own, however he was dressed, was sometimes generally less remarkable than the two of them together, and anyway, someone had to mind the house - but he felt the sting of the change quite keenly. He consoled himself with the knowledge that there would be other battles to fight.
**
The first time Ryan tried getting up on his own, he managed to remain upright for a whole thirty seconds before his knee gave out and he hit the floor with an echoey thud. He was so startled by his abrupt descent he didn't immediately notice the pain that followed. He was still processing the experience when both Spencer and Iero arrived to gather him up and put him back to bed. He accepted both Spencer's scolding and offer of extra laudanum, and dozed fitfully for the rest of the afternoon.
The second time Ryan was, he thought, a little bit smarter: he dismounted the mattress towards the foot of the bed, where he could grab the posts, rather than the middle, and he was careful to put more weight on his good leg. That time he managed a brief circuit between two posts before his knee betrayed him again. He was gathering his strength to haul himself up when Mr. Way appeared, as if out of thin air, his face set in an expression of alarm.
"I'm all right," Ryan said, shifting quickly, trying to get his good leg underneath him and hoping Mr. Way wouldn't notice his ragged breathing.
Mr. Way arched one eyebrow and crouched down, the tails of his coat fanning out behind him. Ryan forced himself to meet his gaze. Mr. Way studied his face briefly, and his expression softened. When he held out his hand Ryan took it, and did his best not to flinch away when Way put another hand on his ribs in the course of helping him up.
He was surprised when, rather than ordering him to bed, Mr. Way allowed Ryan to steady himself using his arm, and stood quietly, as if he had no more pressing task for the afternoon then to serve as Ryan's walking stick. Ryan froze, awash in conflicting instincts.
"Iero reports the garden is quite fine today," Way said, softly, as if he were the servant and Ryan were the master, deciding where his whimsy might lead.
Ryan snuck a glance at his face; his expression was blank but friendly, his eyebrows barely arched. Then a fiery bolt of pain shot up Ryan's bad leg, making him gasp and curl forward and almost fall again. Way caught him and settled him on the bed, and Ryan squeezed his spasming muscle with one hand and pressed the heel of the other against his face. Suddenly he could smell himself, and feel the weight of the grease in his hair.
"I hear immersion in hot water sometimes has a good effect on cases such as yours," Way said. "Shall I ask Mr. Iero to run you a bath?"
"Yes, sir," Ryan managed, still a little bit overwhelmed, and then Mr. Way was gone.
Some time later Mr. Iero arrived, Spencer trailing behind him, and with them as support Ryan was able to take a few agonized, stumbling steps down the hall before he collapsed again. He lay still, too exhausted and ashamed to face them, until Spencer gathered him up and carried him the rest of the way.
"It's all right," Spencer murmured, squeezing Ryan gently as he stepped into the bathroom. "We'll try again later, or tomorrow."
Ryan curled his bad hand against his chest, and pressed his face into Spencer's warm shoulder. He wasn't so sure about that at all, but he couldn't bear to contradict Spencer when he used such a certain, hopeful tone.
**
Gerard woke up when the carriage jerked to a halt, and barely had time to straighten his hat before the door swung open. He stood up awkwardly, a little muddled by the weight of the skirts around his legs, and took Bryar's proffered hand.
Once safely on the steps - well scrubbed, he noted - he tilted his head back to study the front of what would be his home for the next two weeks. Mikey had said very little, only that it was a handsome house. He had only enough time to get an impression of gleaming brickwork before the door swung open and a lady emerged. She was wearing a rich green brocade long-sleeved morning dress, and her hair was piled on top of her head in a riot of ringlets. Gerard was sure he had never seen her before in his life.
"Miss Way," she called out, sounding pleased, then grasped her skirt with one hand and descending the stairs at a stately speed. "I trust you had a pleasant journey?"
"I - Miss Ivarsson?" Gerard stammered, for he did recognize her once she was within closer view.
"None other," she grinned, then turned briefly to greet Mr. Bryar and Mr. Conrad. "Come, let us not stand around on the street like common rabble. It is much finer indoors, and besides I have abandoned Miss Asher at the tea table."
"Yes ma'am," Gerard said, and hastened to follow her into the house.
She moved as quickly as ever - Gerard felt a brief surge of jealousy that a woman he knew to be long-accustomed to trews should have so little trouble with skirts - but he was mostly able to keep pace with her. Inside, the house was neat and, it seemed to Gerard, almost delicately furnished. He would not have expected as Maja Ivarsson, the scourge of Gibraltar, to have quite so many lavishly embroidered throw-pillows.
"It is well you have arrived today, I suspect Miss Asher grows weary of my company," Ivarsson whispered as they approached the dining room. "We have had to keep her concealed in service of our plot, and it grates upon her nerves."
"Captain Way," exclaimed the lady in question, rising to greet them as soon as they entered the dining room. "Why, I almost didn't recognize you."
"Miss Asher," Gerard said, dropping a careful curtsey. "Tell me, what gave me away?"
"You have quite a distinctive and piratical grin," Asher answered promptly. "Later I shall teach you how to look fashionably bored and pleased at the same time. Meanwhile, come and have some pie. Mr. Suarez has quite outdone himself today."
Gerard lowered himself into a nearby chair and did as he was told.
**
"Himself's pacing in the study again," Toro said, tilting his head upward for emphasis, and Iero made a low thoughtful noise.
Spencer picked a potato off the pile in front of him and set about peeling it carefully. The steady creak creak creak of the floor under Mr. Way's feet had been going on long enough that it had become part of the music of the house. He was more focused on the periodic thudding crashes that marked Ryan's attempts to get around by himself.
"He had a thick letter from the Captain this morning," Iero offered a bit later. "Came from Bristol as well."
Toro's only response was to be less gentle than usual with the tea cups and saucers, so that they rattled loudly as he loaded Way's breakfast tray.
Spencer was about to volunteer to take the tray up - mainly so he could look in on Ryan on his way back - when the kitchen door creaked open and Ryan appeared. He was pale and shaking, and leaning heavily on Belle, but he was also fully dressed, and his hair was tied back neatly.
"Mr. Ross," Toro exclaimed, and Iero started forward, then stopped, perhaps dissuaded by the grim expression on Ryan's face.
Spencer, immune to such tactics, got up and forced Ryan to take his arm and be helped to the table. Iero brought over a cup of tea, and Ryan drank it in three quick gulps. Spencer felt Belle's warm bulk near his knees as she settled under the table, and stretched a leg out to rub her shoulders with his foot. She whuffled softly and licked his ankle.
"My apologies for my tardiness," Ryan said, snagging Spencer's paring knife with one hand and appropriating a small mound of potatoes with the other.
Spencer just stared at him; Iero's eyebrows shot towards his hairline, but he said nothing.
"You are precisely on time, Mr. Ross," Toro murmured, then cleared his throat pointedly. "Mr. Smith, Mr. Way's tray is ready. Iero, go and find Mr. Walker and see if there are any peppers for lunch."
Iero saluted and thumped off; Spencer grabbed the tray and hurried up the stairs.
**
The kitchen appeared empty when Mikey opened the door, but he could smell apple pie in the oven, so Toro was likely nearby.
"Mr. Toro," Mikey called out, pitching his voice loud enough to be heard in the scullery.
He waited a moment, straining his ears for sounds of activity, then repeated his call. That time Toro appeared, drying wet hands on his trousers and waving Mikey to silence at the same time.
Mikey closed his mouth and arched one eyebrow, and Toro gestured at the fire, where, Mikey abruptly realized, Mr. Ross was napping on what appeared to be a dog bed. Belle was curled next to him on the floor, also surprisingly well concealed, given her size.
Mikey turned back to Toro and arched the other eyebrow. Toro made a wry face and walked back into the scullery, motioning for Mikey to follow him.
"We went out to catch chickens for dinner while he was peeling apples and when we came back he was already settled," Toro whispered. "Smith offered to return him to his quarters but I said to leave him be, since he's not in the way."
Mikey blinked at him a couple of times. "You're getting soft, old man."
Toro made a low, amused noise and shrugged one shoulder, then straightened up, his face all business. "Has the captain sent new orders?"
"No," Mikey said, not whispering but still careful to keep his voice low. "Just word that Korse has finally fallen into one of their traps and captured two of the Cobras - Mr. Suarez and Mr. Blackinton - and in a day or two he and Miss Ivarsson will start have to start work on getting them paroled, so he must extend his stay in Bath by at least fortnight. Also he went up to Bristol to look in on the Black Parade, and Mr. Cortez is keeping her in fighting trim. "
Toro went through several facial expressions before settling on grim resignation. Mikey gave him a look of wry understanding in return. Going by the recent subtle increase in the level of noise required to carry out simple tasks like washing the dishes and tidying the study, being left at home rankled with Toro and Iero as much as it did with Mikey himself.
"He also noted that he and Miss Ivarsson have hatched a fresh plot," Mikey continued. "Apparently detailed costumes will be involved, and he has demanded we dispatch as much velvet as we can spare."
"I'll have Mr. Iero and Mr. Walker conduct a raid on the attics," Toro replied, the corners of his mouth twitching up into a grin.
Mikey smiled back, a little relieved that Toro had taken all of the news with good humor, then excused himself to his study.
PART III
**
"Salem's Pocket," McCoy said, not looking away from the window of Gerard's study. "That's at least twenty miles from the nearest harbor."
"And twenty miles from anyone who might know his face, or his reputation." Gerard rearranged a couple of the piles of letters on his desk and sat back in his chair.
"And now he fancies himself both a friend to the downtrodden and a dramaturge," McCoy murmured. "Mikey said you had received word Korse was planning a grand masqued entertainment for the end of the summer. I take it you plan to attend?"
"The master of Wolfhame would never presume to impose where he was likely to be unwanted," Gerard said, reaching for his cup of tea. "But I have some cousins who have become estranged from the family; they maintain an abiding interest in the improvement of the poor, and who might cadge an invitation."
McCoy turned and gave Gerard a long, narrow look.
"Cousins," McCoy said slowly. "Have I met them?"
"No," Gerard said, struggling to keep his mouth straight. "They are quite virtuous and respectable ladies who would not lower themselves to associating with pirates or the sort of blackguard who writes for the stage. Mikey and I are a plague upon the house, in their estimation."
"I see," McCoy murmured. "And yet they would attend a frivolity like a masqued ball? Put on by a, how did you say, blackguard who writes for the stage?"
"A blackguard with ten thousand pounds a year and the ear of the King," Gerard said, making a wry face in response to McCoy's dismayed expression. "And who makes quite a show of his generosity to the less fortunate. Whatever his sins, he would not embarrass them by engaging in trade, as Mikey and I do."
McCoy was silent for a long time. "If he catches wind of the deception, he'll kill you."
"I know," Gerard said, and took another drink of his tea. "But there is some intelligence that cannot be gathered from afar, or by others, and it is expected to be quite a large affair. Meanwhile, tell me, how are your patients faring?"
McCoy frowned, but didn't challenge the shift in the direction of the conversation.
"Mending, slowly," he said. "Smith's fever broke late last night, and Ross' early this morning. We may yet continue to enjoy their company."
Gerard permitted himself a small sigh of relief. He had spent most of the preceding week either holed up with his brother discussing strategy, or deeply enmeshed in a drawing, but even he had noticed the anxiety that had permeated the house and the way his men were hovering over the two small forms in the big bed.
"Actually, I should return to them," McCoy said. "If you will excuse me?"
"Of course," Gerard said, then rose out of politeness, and stood until the door to his study was closed.
**
The next time Ryan opened his eyes there was a little bit more light in the room. Heaven looked a lot like a bedroom. Spencer was asleep next to him (still? again?) , but there was also a tabby cat curled up between them with its tail draped over its nose. Ryan could hear an angel singing somewhere nearby. Ryan let go of Spencer to pet the cat, and -- Ryan decided it is a she -- as soon as he touched her, she stood up, stretching prettily and butting her head against his fingers at the same time.
Ryan pressed his fingers against her muzzle and obediently scratched her ears when she dipped her head. She was warm, too, but Ryan supposed everyone must be warm in Heaven, or Purgatory, or wherever they were. (Spencer continued to insist they were alive, but Ryan refused to believe him.) Though Ryan was surer that they were in Heaven now, since he really couldn't imagine what a cat would have done to end up in Purgatory.
The cat tested his belly with one paw, then two, before arranging herself on his sternum, neat as a breadloaf. Ryan rubbed his fingers under her soft chin and she began to rumble. Her warm weight and the noise were easing Ryan off to sleep again when the floor creaked and the angel's voice grew closer. The angel was singing a particularly bawdy drinking song. Ryan couldn't decide if he was amused or vaguely horrified that someone had taught an angel the words to the Maid of Hamptontown.
The cat turned toward the angel's voice and meowed loudly. The angel stopped singing, and Ryan could hear the click click click of boots on wooden floors, which brought up the larger question of why an angel would bother with boots. Ryan curled his fingers around Spencer's hand and lay as still as he possibly could. Ryan didn't know what was going on - where they were, or who had taken them, or anything - but he did know he wasn't going to let Spencer be taken from him again, by the heavenly hosts or anyone else.
The angel, when he came to the side of the bed, looked male. Ryan still couldn't see very well but he got the impression of dark hair and fair skin. The angel put a hand out and scratched the cat behind her ears; she arched into the touch briefly, then rose and jumped down, which woke Spencer up. He grumbled into the pillow and sat up, rubbing at his eyes.
"The Captain would be grateful if you would join him in his study, Mr. Smith," the angel said, his hand the barest pressure on Ryan's belly. It, too, was oddly heavy and warm.
Ryan pushed that thought aside for the moment, more concerned about who the Captain might be as well and why he had need of Spencer. In Ryan's experience, being invited to an audience with the master of the house did not end well.
"Take me instead," Ryan mumbled, and his voice was more a growl than a purr, nothing like it used to be, but he was glad he could speak at all.
The room went very, very quiet.
"No, Ryan, no," Spencer said, sounding more distressed than Ryan could ever remember.
"Yes," Ryan insisted.
"No," Spencer said, and then fell silent, and darkness came up to claim Ryan before he could argue the point.
**
"Mr. Smith," Gerard said, blotting the piece of paper he was drawing on carefully. "I take it you are feeling better?"
"Yes, sir, thank you," Smith said. Gerard could see his fingers twitching, as if he wanted to clench his fists and was thinking better of it.
"Sit down, Mr. Smith," Gerard said, when it seemed like the boy was determined to linger awkwardly in the doorway. "And how is Mr. Ross?"
"Recovering, sir," Smith said, his entire posture tightening. "Mr. McCoy said he might soon be fit for light duty."
Gerard made a pleased noise, though McCoy had given him a much more dire prediction in private. He'll be lucky if he walks again, had been his exact words.
"So what can you tell me about Mr. Korse?" Gerard asked, as Toro arrived with tea things. "What is his business these days?"
Smith took a mug when it was offered, but was otherwise quiet for some time. Gerard didn't press him, just sat back in his chair and enjoyed his afternoon snack.
"He didn't let us out much, but from what I could gather, mostly he advertised himself as a charitable gentlemen," Smith finally said. "The troupe was just for the entertainment of himself and his particular friends, but there was also the workhouse. Though he didn't call it that."
"Oh? What term did he prefer?" Gerard asked, leaning forward.
"He called it Better Living Industries - put it about that he was running a school, to help the unfortunate." Smith explained. "Said it was for particularly intractable and hopeless cases. People who couldn't get on anywhere else."
"I see," Gerard murmured.
"We used to see the boys now and again," Smith continued. "They always looked half-dead. And we heard terrible stories about the girls and the wardens as well. But whenever the toffs came to tour the place they brought the sick ones in with us, and scrubbed everyone else up, made it look all bright and shiny. But as soon as they were gone, all of that was done, back to business as usual."
Gerard made a thoughtful noise. He had other, more detailed reports of Korse's outrages, but Smith's comments were useful corroboration.
"Sir," Smith began, then stopped.
"What is it, Mr. Smith?" Gerard asked, though he had a feeling he already knew. Both Mikey and Iero reported that there had been a certain amount of anxious whispering in the sickroom of late.
Smith ducked his head, a vain attempt to hide the dark pink flush spreading slowly over his face. "Mr. Ross -"
"He is quite welcome here, as are you," Gerard cut in. "I have already cancelled his debt, and when he has regained his strength I will offer him the same choice as I did you, to stay or go as he desires. If he chooses to stay some useful work will be found for him."
Smith raised his head, his expression equal parts relief and disbelief, and Gerard marshalled a smile. He had listened to McCoy's dire predictions with a sober face, but Ross had defied expectations before, and could well do so again. In any case, there was plenty of room in the house, and besides, the men had grown attached to them, Iero and Mikey in particular.
"Thank you, sir," Smith said, and returned his gaze to his knees.
"You're welcome, Mr. Smith. Please give Mr. Ross my best wishes for his continued recovery, and do let me know if you have any further insights on Mr. Korse in the future." Gerard stood up with Smith, and watched him depart.
**
"What do you think, Mikey?" Gerard asked, patting his wig into place and turning around slowly.
The skirts were a heavy and unfamiliar weight, and the corset quite thoroughly constricting. He felt like he might tip over at any moment.
"That you and Great-Auntie Rosicrucia have much the same moustache," his brother said around his cheroot. "Also, that yellow does not favor you, and the style is quite painfully outdated. No cousin of ours would embarrass herself by wearing it to a ball."
Gerard frowned and turned to the mirror again, smoothing his hands over the fabric bunched around his hips. He supposed Mikey had a point; even to his own eye he looked remarkably like a lemon.
"The blue damask has been much eaten by moths," Gerard said. "Mr. Iero has done his best but it cannot be salvaged."
"And the red brocade?" Mikey asked, taking another drag on his cheroot.
"Mr. Bryar observed it might be more appropriate to call on the neighbors in Tortuga," Gerard said, and looked affronted when Mikey choked on a laugh. "I suppose I am consigned to the purple."
Mikey coughed a few more times then beckoned Gerard over to assist him with his stays.
**
The next time Ryan surfaced, the room was full of light and angels, and the angels were singing Whisky in the Jar. Spencer was gone, but the cat was curled up in his place. Ryan realized he must have made a noise when she raised her head and meowed and the angels broke off and one of them -- taller than the other one, but also dark-haired and fair-skinned, if the blur was anything to go by - came over to the bed. Ryan tried to sit up but he couldn't get his limbs to move.
"Shhhh, be still," the angel said, and Ryan felt a hand on his arm.
Ryan froze, fighting the urge to curl in on himself, and tried to ask where Spencer had gone.
"Mr. Smith's having a bath," the angel said, stroking Ryan's arm, his hands more rough and calloused than Ryan would have expected from an angel.
While that news did not make Ryan feel any better - baths were also never a good sign - the angel kept up a steady stream of nonsense clearly meant to soothe. Eventually the angel stepped away, and when he came back, he helped Ryan move so he was propped upright against his pillows, then gave him some water and chicken broth, and a slightly less bitter drink than usual.
Ryan obediently consumed all of it, and was just starting to doze off when the bed dipped, dislodging the cat, and Spencer climbed up in her place. He was pink-cheeked and smelled strongly of saddle soap. Ryan rested a hand on Spencer's knees - still solid, still warm -- and the ache in his stomach eased.
"My turn," he said, or tried to say; his mouth still didn't work quite right sometimes. But whatever Spencer had had to be washed for, Ryan was not letting him go alone.
Spencer frowned and leaned closer; Ryan repeated himself. Spencer's eyes widened briefly, and then he left the bed and had a conversation with the angel, who had retreated to a far corner of the room, too distant from the bed for Ryan to follow the exchange.
Ryan forced himself to look away, and concentrated to examining the rest of his surroundings. His vision was still maddeningly blurry, but he could pick out the dark wooden bulk of a dresser, as well as the rounded outlines of chairs. He had just turned his attention to the windows when Spencer returned with the angels trailing behind him. Ryan squinted, but he couldn't make out their wings, which was an additional disappointment.
"Mr. Bryar is going to help you get to the bathroom," Spencer said, and the second, broader angel stepped closer to the bed.
Ryan frowned - since when did angels have proper names? - but didn't fuss as Bryar lifted him out of the bed, sheet and all, and carried him out of the room. Ryan could tell the angel was moving as slowly as possible, but after so long a-bed the movement made Ryan horribly dizzy, and he clung to Bryar's shoulder with his eyes shut, praying he wouldn't disgrace himself.
After a minute his stomach settled, and he was able to open his eyes a fraction. Heaven also had long corridors lined with portraits of forbidding-looking ladies and gentlemen and lit by guttering candles mounted in sconces. The bathroom, when they got there, was bright and airy, and was wholly unlike the dim, cold room Korse had provided. Bryar set Ryan down on a chair and stepped away to attend to the tub, leaving Spencer to help Ryan undress.
Ryan consented to being stripped to the skin, but clung to the sheet to preserve his modesty, only letting it go once Spencer had lowered him into a tub full of hot, soapy water. Ryan closed his eyes and sagged against the smooth copper at his back, then stretched his limbs as much as he could, reassured by the low rumble of Spencer's idle conversation with Bryar and almost too comfortable to be frightened.
He would have been content to just soak for a while, but he took the sponge when Spencer handed it to him, then held still while Spencer washed his hair. The water had cooled considerably by the time Ryan declared himself finished, and let Spencer lift him out of the tub and wrapped him in a big towel. Bryar produced a soft dressing gown and bundled Ryan into it, then gathered him up for the journey back to bed. Ryan tried to stay awake, intent on being conscious for whatever horror might be coming, but he dozed off again.
The next time Ryan surfaced he was dry, dressed and in bed, and Spencer was sleeping next to him, his breathing slow and easy. Ryan stretched some more, and was idly surprised when his head was mostly clear and his limbs didn't ache in any new ways. He clenched his teeth and his fists and pushed himself up into a sitting position. The room looked the same as when they had left it earlier.
Ryan clenched and unclenched his undamaged fingers and tried to remember what happened after they had left the bathroom. The warm water had felt good, perfect, soothing away aches that he had forgotten didn't just belong as part of him. He couldn't remember anything bad, no tongues or teeth or cocks or wandering hands. He pushed the blankets aside carefully, and took a good look at Spencer.
Whatever else the not-angels might be up to, they were feeding him. Furthermore he had some color, like he had been out in the sun, though not so long as to burn and blister, so probably not in the fields. And he was breathing deeply, no hitching and no wincing. Ryan was almost afraid to touch him, sure that everything would disappear, and he would wake up in Korse's cellar. Still he rested his fingertips on Spencer's arm, the weight of the touch deepening as he relaxed.
Spencer sighed, "Ryan?"
Ryan pulled his hand back. Spencer was quiet for a moment, then moved closer, curled in, and went back to sleep.
At some point it started to rain, and Ryan permitted himself to be lulled into a doze by the water hitting the windows. He wanted to know where they were, and why they weren't in the servants quarters, and most of all what kind of bargain Spencer had struck and with whom, but he was unwilling to wake Spencer up to ask him. Ryan wasn't quite tired enough to sleep; instead he lay quiet but awake, listening. Heaven sounded like an old house creaking and settling, and cats snoring.
Though if he was honest with himself, Ryan had to admit he knew that wherever they were, it wasn't Heaven. And the people looking after them were not angels. A part of him was disappointed; a larger part of him was terrified. He doesn't linger too long on the fact that a part of him was filled with savage joy to be alive, and with Spencer, both of them not-dead together.
Distracted by the the softness of the bed and Spencer's warmth, Ryan didn't notice the not-angel was in the room until he started singing -- What Do You Do With A Drunken Sailor, this time -- and felt hands on him, smoothing the blanket over his shoulder. Ryan jerked away, unthinking, and almost fell off the bed.
The not-angel seems to be just as startled, because he jumped backward, almost knocking over the candle and the cups on the bedside table. The movement woke Spencer, and as Ryan watched his expression change from sleep-grumpy to alarmed to a careful mask, he felt sick. This must be Master, or, as Spencer insisted on calling him, the Captain. Ryan tried to apologize and Spencer shushed him.
"I'm sorry," the man said. "I didn't mean to wake you - " he paused, and Ryan relaxed a little bit. Probably not the Captain, then, despite the heavy velvet frock coat. "I - my brother was called into town suddenly, and asked me to look in on you - would you like some water?"
"Yes please," Ryan murmured, and the man picked up one of the cups and held it out.
He had dark hair and a pale face, like the first not-angel. Or maybe he was the first not-angel, Ryan wasn't sure. Spencer took the cup carefully and brought it to his mouth, his swallowing loud in the quiet room. The man blinked a couple of times, then flapped his hands and sneezed into his ruffled cuffs. Spencer turned and made Ryan drink; the man sneezed twice more, with increasing volume. Ryan could hear him muttering about cats.
When Spencer turned back, the man reached into the pockets of his coat and produced a largish parcel wrapped up in a napkin, which he set next to Spencer on the bed. It smelled like sugar and some spice.
"Mr. Toro will bring your tea up later," he said. "But I thought you might like a sweet."
"Thank you, Captain Way," Spencer said, very softly.
Ryan managed to turn a gasp into a cough. They had not been taken in by a random kindhearted sailor, but by Captain Way, the pirate playwright. They were at Wolfhame.
There was an awkward silence. Finally Captain Way excused himself and departed.
Spencer flopped back against the pillows for a minute, then untied the napkin and broke a biscuit in half. Ryan shook his head when Spencer offered him one. Wolfhame. Everyone knew what happened there, and had heard the tales of servants vanishing in the night, never to be seen again.
"Spencer," Ryan hissed. "Have you taken leave of your senses, or have you been lying to me to save my feelings? Wolfhame is no safe harbor!"
"Captain Way is not the monster he's painted. He sets people free." Spencer said, tapping Ryan's arm with the end of the biscuit.
Ryan blinked at him. Free He could understand dead as kind of free, but he was pretty sure that was not what Spencer meant. Ryan took the half of a biscuit and mouthed at a corner of it.
The biscuit was soft and sweet and it was the first real solid food Ryan had eaten in -- well, he didn't know how long. He lay back against the pillows and watched Spencer break the biscuits into small parts, and tried to organize the questions in his head.
"Those stories Mrs. Pepper used to tell weren't true," Spencer said, not looking up. "Captain Way doesn't eat babies, and they don't kill anybody, they send them to the colonies. Or wherever they want to go."
Ryan nibbled on his biscuit. Korse had had a map of the ocean in his bedroom. There had been a enormous drawing of a sea-serpent in the middle, and HERE BE DRAGONS written in loose, flowing script over its head. The colonies had been little circles on the map to the left of the dragon, decorated with palm trees and tiny canoes.
"They're pirates," Ryan said.
"Privateers," Spencer corrected him mildly. "And not any more, though they do still have ships, the Revenge and the Black Parade. They use them to help people get away, if they want to go. We can go to the colonies, if we like, or we can stay here."
Ryan was pretty sure going or staying was kind of a moot point right now, since he wasn't certain he could get out of bed by himself. He also suspected the ships were a lie, or a code for something else.
"Stay here and do what?" Ryan asked, easing his damaged hand closer to his chest.
Ryan longed to see Spencer's parents almost as much as Spencer himself, but the idea of making his way in the colonies when he was barely fit to carry a beggar's cup made his stomach roll uneasily.
"Iero said he would be pleased to be relieved of duty as the Captain's secretary," Spencer said. "And it is not so bad in the kitchen."
Ryan made a thoughtful noise, and took another biscuit when Spencer held it out.
"Tell me more about the kitchen," Ryan said, and settled back against the pillows. Eventually he dozed off in the middle of a story about Scylla and Charbydis' thieving ways.
**
"Well?" Iero asked, tipping his head back to peer up at Mikey from under the hat.
"The feather is - quite distracting," Mikey said. "But your hands will give us away."
"No more so than his leg, and he can wear gloves," Gerard chimed in from the corner, where he was perched on a chair, practicing sitting in stays.
"All night?" Mikey asked, sticking his cheroot in his mouth. He couldn't light it in the room, with the window closed against the spring chill, but the bitter taste on his tongue was soothing.
"I'll tell people I met with a terrible accident during the war," Iero offered, waggling his inky fingers and rotating on his peg to face Gerard. "Captain?"
"Dashing," Gerard pronounced, standing up and shaking out his underskirt. "Would you care to dance, Mr - ?"
"Ghoul," Iero replied, making a dramatic leg and sweeping the heat off his head. "Fulmine Ghoul. My friends call me Fun. And now you have the advantage of me, my lady."
"Geraldine," Gerard said, dropping a perfunctory but graceful curtsey. "Geraldine Way."
Iero took Gerard's proffered hand and lead him through a perfectly serviceable waltz. Mikey sucked on his cheroot and stretched his legs. With a little bit more practice, they might just pull it off.
**
The next time Ryan opened his eyes, the first - man, Ryan reminded himself, man, not angel -- was sitting in a chair next to the bed, reading a book. He had on a heavy frock coat like Captain Way, but it was absolutely covered in animal hair. Ryan could only suppose that Captain Way was very free with his castoffs, if his servants were dressed so well.
Ryan did not want to think too carefully about what it meant that careless Captain Way had apparently set a servant to minding himself and Spencer. Ryan tried to push up on his elbow to get the glass of water on the bedside table, but movement amplified the throbbing in his knee from a dull ache to a fiery burn and he fell back panting and trying to swallow a scream.
Spencer jerked awake, disturbed by Ryan's flailing. Meanwhile the servant dropped his book and moved quickly to give Ryan some water, and then some thin, sweet gruel in an invalid feeder. Ryan took two mouthfuls and then curled his good hand around the feeder and eased it away from his face. It wasn't full, but there was some left for Spencer.
The servant frowned -- puzzled, not angry, Ryan could tell -- and Ryan breathed carefully for a minute before sliding the feeder over to Spencer, pushing it gently against his fingers.
"No," Spencer said, carefully moving it back up to Ryan's belly, "That's for you, you finish it."
Ryan frowned at him, a little bit annoyed but mostly anxious that Spencer wouldn't eat, and doubly so that he was being foolish and refusing food in front of the servant, who might tell Ma - the Captain, and -
The servant cleared his throat. When they turned to look at him, he produced a napkin full of bread, cheeses and rolled meats from one of his pockets, and handed it to Spencer. Ryan could see that Spencer was startled, which produced a fresh jolt of anxiety. Unexpected extra food was also never a good sign.
"Mr. Toro is making pie right now," the servant said. "Apple and blueberry, I think. He said he would be obliged if you would come down for a taste in an hour or two."
"Yes ma - ," Spencer began, and stopped. "Yes, Mr. Way."
Way's mouth quirked up at the corners and he made a little half-bow before departing. Ryan turned to look at Spencer, now thoroughly confused, and Spencer pressed a pinch of cheese into Ryan's mouth. It was soft, sharp and delicious and Ryan tucked it under his tongue to savor it.
"The Captain's younger brother," Spencer explained, grinning as Ryan's eyes widened. "I know, it is most irregular, but Toro tells me he has always been keen to tend the wounded."
Ryan regretfully swallowed the lump of cheese, and accepted a cup of water. Spencer broke off tiny pieces of meat and bread and dropped them into Ryan's hands, then ate the remainder himself.
Ryan pretended to sleep after eating because he needed to think, and his thoughts were sluggish and slow. He knew, though, what the bath, the room, the medicine and the extra food meant: Spencer had obviously made some sort of a deal, either with the Devil or Captain Way, but to what purpose, Ryan wasn't sure.
Ryan was a little bit afraid to look at himself too closely, but he could feel all the places where his body was twisted and torn. He'd even accepted that he was still alive, though it didn't make any sense. He wouldn't be crippled this way if Korse had meant for him to return to the stage. While Spencer has insisted that the brothers Way did not deserve their bloodthirsty reputation, Ryan reckoned pirates, reformed or otherwise, were always on the lookout for treasure. And two half-grown boys, one also half-dead, did not remotely qualify.
But yet there they were, in the big soft bed, being given medicine and food and tended by the Captain's own brother. Ryan was still turning it over and over in his mind when sleep pulled him under for real.
**
"Any joy?" Gerard asked before Mikey was even half-way through sorting his morning post.
Mikey sat back in his chair and continued to sort the envelopes. The very last one, a small, cream-colored article, also bore one of the two addresses he had been hoping to see.
"Miss Ivarsson," he said, opening it with his butter knife and skimming the contents. "She would be delighted to assist."
"Tell her she has to leave her knives at home," Gerard said, neatly stabbing a piece of ham with his fork. "And the garrotte."
"She will be so disappointed," Mikey murmured, reading the letter a second time, and more carefully. "She says she has some friends visiting. Mr. Korse is known to them as well, and they are eager to join the affray."
Gerard set his fork down and narrowed his eyes.
"Naturally she doesn't give their names," Mikey reported after a moment, fighting a smile at her arch description of a man that could only be Saporta. "Though I believe we are already acquainted."
"Did we meet on opposite sides of a burning deck?" Gerard asked warily.
"No," Mikey said absently, flipping the second page over. "Though it's possible we robbed them of a prize or two."
Gerard sighed heavily and went back to his breakfast.
**
The next time Ryan woke, he found himself alone. He didn't know what day it was, but the light coming in the window suggested it was probably evening. Spencer had not been especially forthcoming about the Captain's habits, but Ryan had gathered from the chatter that went on over his head that the Captain preferred to spend his evenings alone in his study with his sketchpad, and was rarely disturbed by the rest of the household. If there was a time for Ryan to seek a private audience, it was probably now. Ryan hauled himself into sitting position and began inching his legs around.
"Stop," Captain Way called from somewhere behind him.
Ryan's focus blurred for a moment, but then it sharpened again, and the first thing he saw were Captain Way's shaking hands hovering near him. Ryan associated that kind of trembling with rage, but the Captain's expression was more anxious than infuriated.
"I've frightened you," the captain murmured. "My apologies. But Mr. McCoy has issued strict orders that you are not to put any weight on the knee for at least one more month."
Ryan blinked at him, completely at a loss for words. The Captain handed him a cup of water from the bedside table, unbidden, and Ryan took a deep but careful drink.
"You should have a bell," the Captain said, frowning at Ryan's empty bedside table. "I will ask Mr. Iero to find one for you."
"Master, what is it that you want from us?" Ryan asked. "Why do you do this?"
Captain Way went very still, and Ryan braced himself as best he could for impact, silently berating himself for having been so stupid. Two breaths later, he was enormously surprised to realize the Captain hadn't hit him and was, in fact, giving him a thoughtful look.
"I prefer to be called Captain, and I - we - want for you, both of you, to be well," Lord Captain Way finally said, softly but firmly, straightening his shoulders. "I - have worn chains myself, and I remember how they chafe."
Ryan looked down at the Captain's hands, as if he would see ghostly manacles lurking amid the ruffled cuffs. Instead there were just ink stains on his fingers and paint smudges on his sleeves.
"But how do you want me - us - to serve you?" Ryan asked, rubbing his claw-like left hand on the blanket.
He could feel it, mostly, but his fingers wouldn't work. Between that and his knee, Ryan was useless for heavy labor, and possibly for lighter housework as well and - Spencer had been very clear on this point - the household had no use for his other skills.
"I-" Captain Way began, then stopped.
Ryan reminded himself to breathe, and to not think of the possibilities -- himself sold away from Spencer, Spencer sold away from him, both of them sent on to a more traditional house, or to be eaten by dragons on the way to the colonies -- lest he disgrace himself by falling at Captain Way's feet and begging for mercy.
"This is a large house," the Captain said. "There is always work to be done. And, too, my brother and I have a print shop in town. You have been on the stage and must know your letters - a place can be found for you there, when you are feeling better, if that would suit you."
Ryan blinked at him, startled, because Spencer had not mentioned anything about a print shop. Captain Way's pocket chimed loudly and they both jumped. The captain fumbled his watch out to turn it off, then made his excuses and hurried away amid promises that he would send Spencer up with food.
**
"One, two, three, one, two - that was my foot - one, two - stop." Gerard caught Iero an in extremely unladylike grip and held him still.
Iero shook loose, flopped down on a nearby chair, and yanked his wig off. Gerard fussed with his skirt for a moment then turned to Mikey.
"That was better," Mikey opined. "It almost looked like a proper gavotte."
Gerard sighed heavily; Iero's face settled into a mutinous expression.
"You will have to stop for today anyway, Mr. McCoy will be arriving any minute now to check on his patients, and I need Mr. Iero to accompany me to town," Mikey said. "I have several shops besides our own to call in on. Miss Ivarsson has suggested a few volumes worth reading and Mr. Armstrong has written from Bridgetown requesting a lengthy list of provisions to be prepared for his next voyage."
Gerard gave him an eyebrow, but Iero jumped up, clearly grateful for the reprieve.
**
The next morning Ryan was awakened by a terrific clatter in the hallway and thumping overhead. He tried to get up, but when that made him too dizzy he curled up as tightly as possible and squeezed his eyes shut. The clamor had barely faded when he heard the door pop open. Ryan burrowed further into the bed and tried to steady his breathing. Spencer had said they could trust these people, but -
"Ryan," Spencer said, as the bed shifted under his weight. "Look what I found in the attic."
Ryan uncurled a little bit and opened one eye, and then the other. Bryar was standing in the doorway, and in front of him was a large wheeled chair. There were blankets draped over the seat and back. Ryan stared at it and then at Spencer, his terror slowly replaced by confusion.
"The doctor said you can get out of bed, but you still musn't try to walk," Spencer said, his mouth curving into a grin.
Ryan pushed himself upright, and Bryar came and moved him into the chair. Spencer fetched a robe from the armoire and bundled Ryan into it. Sitting upright after so long abed was a little bit dizzying, but that soon passed.
"Set us a course, Mr. Ross," Mr. Bryar rumbled when they emerged into the hallway. It was brighter than Ryan remembered
Ryan tilted his head back to look at Spencer, not quite sure how to answer the man. Spencer, when he looked back, seemed equally baffled.
"Cook's tour it is, " Bryar said, and Ryan clutched the arms of the chair as it started to move.
"This is the captain's room," Bryar said, stopping at an ornately decorated door in the middle of the corridor.
"Mr. Way is next door," he continued, gesturing at a different heavily decorated door on the other side of the hall. "The rest of us bunk abovedecks."
Ryan frowned, but Bryar moved them on before he could ask any questions.
"This was the Lady's room," Bryar said, carefully pronouncing the capital letter, when they came to plain black door. "It's not to be disturbed. Iero does the mending in her study - " he pointed to the next door down " - and you're welcome to join him if you like."
When they got to the top of the stairs, there was a man sitting on the top step, hunched over a music box. He seemed to be fiddling with the gears.
"Mr. Ross, this is Mr. Toro," Mr. Bryar said, tilting his head towards the stranger. "He makes the best turtle soup this side of Tortuga."
Toro actually blushed a little bit at that comment, which Ryan filed away for later consideration. Getting on the cook's good side was key to survival in any house, and Toro showed no obvious signs of a cruel nature.
"Would you like to venture belowdecks?" Bryar asked, his eyebrows arching slightly.
"Yes please," Spencer said, and Ryan squeezed the edges of the chair once before Bryar gathered him up.
Bob took the stairs one at a time, humming under his breath. (Maid of Fife-e-o, Ryan noted absently.) Spencer and Toro came down behind them with the chair, just as slowly, and Bryar lowered Ryan back into it.
"We have other tasks we must attend to now," Bryar said, once Ryan was settled. "We will see you in the kitchen later."
With that, Toro and Bryar left Ryan and Spencer alone. Ryan's body was starting to protest being upright for so long, but he clenched his teeth and ignored it as best he could. He was both startled and grateful when Spencer pulled a bottle of laudanum out of his pocket and put a drop under Ryan's tongue, which soon dulled his aches and pains so that they were bearable.
They went through the house slowly, passing through the parlour and the dining room - "No-one eats here," Spencer said, matter-of-factly - and then Spencer pushed him into a book-lined room that could only be the Captain's study.
"Spencer, I don't think - we shouldn't be in here," Ryan began as they crossed the threshold, panic rising in his chest.
"We have our liberty of the house," Spencer reminded him. "And Captain Way has said you might have a book, if you wanted one.
"A book?" Ryan repeated, barely daring to believe it.
The books smelled so good. It had been so long since Ryan had been near so many, or even one, really. He wanted to touch every one of them, to lie down somewhere and curl up and read until his eyes slipped shut.
"Or several, if you like," Spencer confirmed. "What's your pleasure?"
"Are there any about the shop?" Ryan asked.
"Hm." Spencer squinted at the shelves, then drifted over to a low table where papers were piled. "There are some advertising pamphlets here, I think."
"Those," Ryan said, and then decided to push his luck. "Does he have any novels?"
"Tom Jones," Spencer reported, tugging several volumes off the shelf. "Mysteries of Udolpho?"
Ryan made a low noise of pleasure and Spencer grabbed those volumes as well as a handful of broadsheets and pamphlets. He set the lot of them in Ryan's lap, then continued into the kitchen. Ryan wrapped all of it carefully in the edges of one of the blankets and wedged it between himself and the side of the chair.
In the kitchen they found a familiar scene: one person - Toro, Ryan realized, when he turned around - turning a brace of chickens on a spit over the fire; Bryar, who was cutting vegetables; and one more -- dark hair, heavily tattooed, peg leg -- cutting up cheese.
"Mr. Smith," Toro called out, sounding pleased. "And Mr. Ross. You know Mr. Bryar, and that is Mr. Iero at the cheeseboard."
Spencer rolled Ryan closer to the table and left him alone for a little while, before reappearing with two mugs of beer and a plate of bread, cheese and sliced meats. A few minutes later Iero came over with a bowl of soup and a broad smile. Ryan regarded both soup and smile warily.
"It's chicken," Iero said. "Turtle is only for special occasions now that we're beached."
Ryan stared at him briefly, then leaned forward and took a cautious spoonful. It was chicken, rich and salty, and there were potatoes and carrots as well. He ate the rest slowly, and stole some of Spencer's bread to dip in and clear up the dregs.
When he finished Ryan burrowed into his blankets and closed his eyes, intending to rest for just a moment, until Spencer had finished eating. Instead he fell asleep, lulled by a full belly and the warmth of the fire.
**
The next day, or at least the next time he woke up -- Ryan had no idea how much time had passed, but the light outside was bright, suggesting midday, and he felt a distant spike of terror for oversleeping - it was to the muffled thudding of Iero's leg on the carpet as he carried a tray of food and steaming tea across the room.
Ryan sat up, rattled but also hungry, and kicked Spencer awake with his good leg.
"Fine morning to go ashore!" Iero said, flashing him a grin. Ryan blinked, still too muzzy with sleep to untangle his meaning, and then he was gone.
When they were finished, and as presentable as they were going to be, Spencer brought the plates down to the kitchen. He came back with Mr. Bryar, who carried Ryan down the stairs and out to the back garden, where the chair was waiting. The paths were hard packed dirt, and the flower beds were a riot of color.
Ryan could see how they must have been proper English gardens once, the shapes of the boxes were neat and trim, but they were full of wild flowers and heavily mixed with weeds, except for a section at the middle that was entirely composed of roses of all different colors. Spencer wheeled him around slowly, stopping periodically for Ryan to smell things that were particularly pretty, and roll petals gently between his fingertips.
Ryan was just starting to feel a little pain-sick and sleepy when they rounded a corner and came upon a man Ryan didn't recognize. He was stripped to the waist and barefoot, and seemed to be singing an encouraging song to a row of hollyhocks. His back was broad and lightly tanned under a massive tattoo of a ship in full sail. Ryan could see a couple of whip scars on his ribs, but they were pretty obviously old.
Spencer cleared his throat and the man spun around, his face relaxing into a broad, friendly grin when he saw Spencer, then settling into a carefully controlled expression when he noticed Ryan.
"Ryan, this is Jon Walker," Spencer says, his voice clear and untroubled. "He attends to the gardens and assists Mr. Conrad with the horses."
Walker tipped an invisible cap and made a lazy leg in Ryan's direction.
"You're looking well, sir," Walker says, and it didn't sound like a lie to Ryan, though he was sure it must be.
"Thank you," Ryan said. "Your roses are beautiful."
"Why thank you, sir. The secret is I feed them the finest horse shit," Walker said, the wide grin coming back.
Spencer snorted a laugh and Ryan managed a smile.
"The gorse is all run wild," Spencer said, not quite scolding but close - Ryan's stomach clenched with alarm - but Walker just grinned wider.
"Well, then, I reckon you'll have to tame it," Walker said, then turned to face a stand of dogwoods. "Belle, you lazy creature, come here and do your duty."
The largest dog Ryan had ever seen ambled out of the trees and over to Walker's side. He patted her broad shoulders, and then she crossed the ground between Walker and Ryan in couple of steps. Ryan held out a hand when she got close enough and she sniffed it with great deliberation before sitting down and laying her massive head in his lap.
Ryan rested his fingers on her satiny-soft head. She nudged his wrist with her cold nose, then licked it, and he scratched her behind the ears, grinning when her eyes slid shut.
"Belle," Walker said mildly. She made an exasperated noise, but got up and started walking toward the trees, swinging her head around and whuffling at them until they followed her.
She led them to a hammock slung between two trees. Spencer scooped Ryan out of the chair and lay him in it, settled his blanket around him, then produced the laudanum bottle from his pocket and gave Ryan two drops under his tongue. Meanwhile, Belle flopped down on the ground next to the hammock, and watched Walker with her ears tilted forward. When Spencer turned as if he meant to leave, Ryan grabbed his wrist with his good hand.
"It's okay," Spencer said. "I'm just going over to the edge, there - " he pointed to a flower bed not far away, where indeed the gorse was running wild. "You just rest now. Belle is going to stay with you, she'll come get me if you need me."
Ryan just stared at him. Spencer lowered himself into the empty wheelchair and started prying Ryan's fingers off his wrists, murmuring assurances the whole time, and gradually, between the laudanum and the lingering terror of what might happen if Spencer didn't do his chore, Ryan let go and fell back against a pillow in the hammock. Spencer kissed Ryan's temple, then stripped his shirt off, and joined Walker in by the flowerbeds. Ryan eventually dozed off watching Spencer and Walker hack at the gorse.
**
"Miss Ivarsson has suggested a course correction," Gerard said, laying the letter aside and setting his tea cup down gently in the saucer. "Mr. Korse has apparently decided to spend the season in Bath. Miss Ivarsson has lodgings there - I believe you know the house? - and suggests I - or rather, our cousin - should visit for a fortnight. I think I shall accept - I'll need Mr. Bryar to escort me and Mr. Conrad to drive the coach."
Mikey speared a piece of sausage with his fork, popped it in his mouth and chewed it thoughtfully. It was a bit spicier than normal; he made a mental note to tell Toro he appreciated the change. He swallowed carefully and took a mouthful of tea before answering.
"All right," he said. "But what of our other cousin? And what about Mr. Ghoul? Mr. Iero will be quite sad if you have reduced his role."
"The lady cannot stop away from home for so long, as she is needed to keep the house in order and tend to a relative who is delicate and often unwell," Gerard said. "But she will, of course, attend the masque. As for Mr. Ghoul he is still in the script - he will make a more dramatic entrance later. Mr. Bryar is more suited to the complexities of this voyage. He does excel at drawing people into indiscretions."
Mikey made a thoughtful noise into his crumpet, and was quiet while Gerard made short work of his eggs.
"Go canny, brother," Mikey said a bit later, spearing another piece of sausage. "Korse has a shrewd eye, and knows your face. He may remember Mr. Bryar from previous engagements as well."
"Mm, but only one, and he tends to fix it on comely young ladies," Gerard said. "A matron of my advanced years, however painted and primped, is unlikely to be the object of great scrutiny. The lure I offer is the promise of annoying his enemy. If necessary I shall make complaint about the trial of being so like my ne'er-do-well cousin. And as for Mr. Bryar, at the rate he has been growing his beard lately, his own mother might not recognize him."
Mikey ate some more sausage. "And if Korse asks you to dance?"
"I shall take a page from Mr. Iero's book and tread constantly upon his toes," Gerard said, his lips twitching upwards into a smile.
Mikey cut off a bit of egg with his fork and ate it slowly. He could nearly see the logic of it - Gerard on his own, however he was dressed, was sometimes generally less remarkable than the two of them together, and anyway, someone had to mind the house - but he felt the sting of the change quite keenly. He consoled himself with the knowledge that there would be other battles to fight.
**
The first time Ryan tried getting up on his own, he managed to remain upright for a whole thirty seconds before his knee gave out and he hit the floor with an echoey thud. He was so startled by his abrupt descent he didn't immediately notice the pain that followed. He was still processing the experience when both Spencer and Iero arrived to gather him up and put him back to bed. He accepted both Spencer's scolding and offer of extra laudanum, and dozed fitfully for the rest of the afternoon.
The second time Ryan was, he thought, a little bit smarter: he dismounted the mattress towards the foot of the bed, where he could grab the posts, rather than the middle, and he was careful to put more weight on his good leg. That time he managed a brief circuit between two posts before his knee betrayed him again. He was gathering his strength to haul himself up when Mr. Way appeared, as if out of thin air, his face set in an expression of alarm.
"I'm all right," Ryan said, shifting quickly, trying to get his good leg underneath him and hoping Mr. Way wouldn't notice his ragged breathing.
Mr. Way arched one eyebrow and crouched down, the tails of his coat fanning out behind him. Ryan forced himself to meet his gaze. Mr. Way studied his face briefly, and his expression softened. When he held out his hand Ryan took it, and did his best not to flinch away when Way put another hand on his ribs in the course of helping him up.
He was surprised when, rather than ordering him to bed, Mr. Way allowed Ryan to steady himself using his arm, and stood quietly, as if he had no more pressing task for the afternoon then to serve as Ryan's walking stick. Ryan froze, awash in conflicting instincts.
"Iero reports the garden is quite fine today," Way said, softly, as if he were the servant and Ryan were the master, deciding where his whimsy might lead.
Ryan snuck a glance at his face; his expression was blank but friendly, his eyebrows barely arched. Then a fiery bolt of pain shot up Ryan's bad leg, making him gasp and curl forward and almost fall again. Way caught him and settled him on the bed, and Ryan squeezed his spasming muscle with one hand and pressed the heel of the other against his face. Suddenly he could smell himself, and feel the weight of the grease in his hair.
"I hear immersion in hot water sometimes has a good effect on cases such as yours," Way said. "Shall I ask Mr. Iero to run you a bath?"
"Yes, sir," Ryan managed, still a little bit overwhelmed, and then Mr. Way was gone.
Some time later Mr. Iero arrived, Spencer trailing behind him, and with them as support Ryan was able to take a few agonized, stumbling steps down the hall before he collapsed again. He lay still, too exhausted and ashamed to face them, until Spencer gathered him up and carried him the rest of the way.
"It's all right," Spencer murmured, squeezing Ryan gently as he stepped into the bathroom. "We'll try again later, or tomorrow."
Ryan curled his bad hand against his chest, and pressed his face into Spencer's warm shoulder. He wasn't so sure about that at all, but he couldn't bear to contradict Spencer when he used such a certain, hopeful tone.
**
Gerard woke up when the carriage jerked to a halt, and barely had time to straighten his hat before the door swung open. He stood up awkwardly, a little muddled by the weight of the skirts around his legs, and took Bryar's proffered hand.
Once safely on the steps - well scrubbed, he noted - he tilted his head back to study the front of what would be his home for the next two weeks. Mikey had said very little, only that it was a handsome house. He had only enough time to get an impression of gleaming brickwork before the door swung open and a lady emerged. She was wearing a rich green brocade long-sleeved morning dress, and her hair was piled on top of her head in a riot of ringlets. Gerard was sure he had never seen her before in his life.
"Miss Way," she called out, sounding pleased, then grasped her skirt with one hand and descending the stairs at a stately speed. "I trust you had a pleasant journey?"
"I - Miss Ivarsson?" Gerard stammered, for he did recognize her once she was within closer view.
"None other," she grinned, then turned briefly to greet Mr. Bryar and Mr. Conrad. "Come, let us not stand around on the street like common rabble. It is much finer indoors, and besides I have abandoned Miss Asher at the tea table."
"Yes ma'am," Gerard said, and hastened to follow her into the house.
She moved as quickly as ever - Gerard felt a brief surge of jealousy that a woman he knew to be long-accustomed to trews should have so little trouble with skirts - but he was mostly able to keep pace with her. Inside, the house was neat and, it seemed to Gerard, almost delicately furnished. He would not have expected as Maja Ivarsson, the scourge of Gibraltar, to have quite so many lavishly embroidered throw-pillows.
"It is well you have arrived today, I suspect Miss Asher grows weary of my company," Ivarsson whispered as they approached the dining room. "We have had to keep her concealed in service of our plot, and it grates upon her nerves."
"Captain Way," exclaimed the lady in question, rising to greet them as soon as they entered the dining room. "Why, I almost didn't recognize you."
"Miss Asher," Gerard said, dropping a careful curtsey. "Tell me, what gave me away?"
"You have quite a distinctive and piratical grin," Asher answered promptly. "Later I shall teach you how to look fashionably bored and pleased at the same time. Meanwhile, come and have some pie. Mr. Suarez has quite outdone himself today."
Gerard lowered himself into a nearby chair and did as he was told.
**
"Himself's pacing in the study again," Toro said, tilting his head upward for emphasis, and Iero made a low thoughtful noise.
Spencer picked a potato off the pile in front of him and set about peeling it carefully. The steady creak creak creak of the floor under Mr. Way's feet had been going on long enough that it had become part of the music of the house. He was more focused on the periodic thudding crashes that marked Ryan's attempts to get around by himself.
"He had a thick letter from the Captain this morning," Iero offered a bit later. "Came from Bristol as well."
Toro's only response was to be less gentle than usual with the tea cups and saucers, so that they rattled loudly as he loaded Way's breakfast tray.
Spencer was about to volunteer to take the tray up - mainly so he could look in on Ryan on his way back - when the kitchen door creaked open and Ryan appeared. He was pale and shaking, and leaning heavily on Belle, but he was also fully dressed, and his hair was tied back neatly.
"Mr. Ross," Toro exclaimed, and Iero started forward, then stopped, perhaps dissuaded by the grim expression on Ryan's face.
Spencer, immune to such tactics, got up and forced Ryan to take his arm and be helped to the table. Iero brought over a cup of tea, and Ryan drank it in three quick gulps. Spencer felt Belle's warm bulk near his knees as she settled under the table, and stretched a leg out to rub her shoulders with his foot. She whuffled softly and licked his ankle.
"My apologies for my tardiness," Ryan said, snagging Spencer's paring knife with one hand and appropriating a small mound of potatoes with the other.
Spencer just stared at him; Iero's eyebrows shot towards his hairline, but he said nothing.
"You are precisely on time, Mr. Ross," Toro murmured, then cleared his throat pointedly. "Mr. Smith, Mr. Way's tray is ready. Iero, go and find Mr. Walker and see if there are any peppers for lunch."
Iero saluted and thumped off; Spencer grabbed the tray and hurried up the stairs.
**
The kitchen appeared empty when Mikey opened the door, but he could smell apple pie in the oven, so Toro was likely nearby.
"Mr. Toro," Mikey called out, pitching his voice loud enough to be heard in the scullery.
He waited a moment, straining his ears for sounds of activity, then repeated his call. That time Toro appeared, drying wet hands on his trousers and waving Mikey to silence at the same time.
Mikey closed his mouth and arched one eyebrow, and Toro gestured at the fire, where, Mikey abruptly realized, Mr. Ross was napping on what appeared to be a dog bed. Belle was curled next to him on the floor, also surprisingly well concealed, given her size.
Mikey turned back to Toro and arched the other eyebrow. Toro made a wry face and walked back into the scullery, motioning for Mikey to follow him.
"We went out to catch chickens for dinner while he was peeling apples and when we came back he was already settled," Toro whispered. "Smith offered to return him to his quarters but I said to leave him be, since he's not in the way."
Mikey blinked at him a couple of times. "You're getting soft, old man."
Toro made a low, amused noise and shrugged one shoulder, then straightened up, his face all business. "Has the captain sent new orders?"
"No," Mikey said, not whispering but still careful to keep his voice low. "Just word that Korse has finally fallen into one of their traps and captured two of the Cobras - Mr. Suarez and Mr. Blackinton - and in a day or two he and Miss Ivarsson will start have to start work on getting them paroled, so he must extend his stay in Bath by at least fortnight. Also he went up to Bristol to look in on the Black Parade, and Mr. Cortez is keeping her in fighting trim. "
Toro went through several facial expressions before settling on grim resignation. Mikey gave him a look of wry understanding in return. Going by the recent subtle increase in the level of noise required to carry out simple tasks like washing the dishes and tidying the study, being left at home rankled with Toro and Iero as much as it did with Mikey himself.
"He also noted that he and Miss Ivarsson have hatched a fresh plot," Mikey continued. "Apparently detailed costumes will be involved, and he has demanded we dispatch as much velvet as we can spare."
"I'll have Mr. Iero and Mr. Walker conduct a raid on the attics," Toro replied, the corners of his mouth twitching up into a grin.
Mikey smiled back, a little relieved that Toro had taken all of the news with good humor, then excused himself to his study.
PART III