Amelia stared at her for a long moment. “No,” she said, finally. “Not me.”
“Then who?” prompted Veronica, although she felt a horrible suspicion welling up inside of her.
“Sir Maurice,” said Amelia, quickly. “Sir Maurice wrote them.”
Veronica took a deep breath. What was going on here? “How? Why?”
Amelia shrugged. “He sees things, too, Veronica. Whatever he does, however it happens, he sees the same things as I do.”
Veronica shook her head. “No. He’s not like you. He doesn’t have your … talents.”
Amelia indicated the sheaf of papers in Veronica’s hands. “I’d argue that these papers suggest that he does.”
“But…” Veronica faltered. She shook her head. “No. Perhaps he thinks he does. All those rituals…” She trailed off again. “He must have heard you talking. Did you tell him about this word, this Executioner?”
Amelia shook her head. “No. I did not. I’ve told only you.”
Veronica glanced again at the pages in her grasp. Then, as if her hands refused to hold on to them any longer, she dropped them to the floor. They fell in a landslide across the burgundy rug before the hearth. “Tell me what it means,” she said, in a whisper.
Amelia looked away, unable to meet her gaze. “In my dreams I hear the same word repeated over and over, in a variety of voices. It’s accompanied by a sequence of flickering images, as if everything is taking place in a darkened room, with an inconstant light source. There’s a figure in black, the glint of a blade. And then there is you, lying on the floor. Your face is ashen white and you’re bleeding from a wound in your chest. In the background a thousand clocks are ticking.”
Veronica’s mouth was dry. She tried to swallow, but her tongue felt thick and swollen in her mouth. If this were true … “So, this Executioner … is coming for me?” Was she next on the list? Was this what had happened to the other agents?
Amelia was staring at the heap of spilt papers on the rug. “I think he might be.” She looked up, suddenly, imploringly. “You need to get away. Go somewhere safe, away from here, from London. Somewhere where they can’t get to you.”
“I can’t,” said Veronica. “I’m needed.”
“By the Queen?” said Amelia, barely suppressing a scoff. “Surely you can’t continue to harbour any sense of loyalty to that aged harridan?”
Veronica glanced away, searching the flames in the grate as if they might somehow provide her with guidance. “Not the Queen,” she said. “Not her. Maurice.”
“Sir Maurice can look after himself,” said Amelia. “He’d want you to go. To be safe.”
“It’s not as simple as that, Amelia. He needs me. There’s a chance he’s mixed up in something terrible, and there’s no one else he can turn to.”
“He would want you to get to safety,” said Amelia, her voice strained.
“He doesn’t have to know,” said Veronica, pointedly.
“Even if it means you might die?” replied Amelia, evenly.
“It’s a chance I’ll have to take.” She took a deep breath. “What have you told him? About your dreams. About the meaning of this,” she asked, pointing to the papers.
Amelia shook her head in dismay. “You must listen to me, sister!”
“What have you told him?” asked Veronica, firmly.
Amelia held her gaze for a moment in silence. All Veronica could hear was the crackle of the fire and the sound of Mrs. Leeson banging pots in the kitchen. “Very little,” said Amelia, finally. “I’ve told him very little. Only that I think you might be in danger. That doesn’t mean he won’t have formed his own conclusions, however.”
Veronica nodded. “Very well. We shall speak no more of this, Amelia. Do not even think of it.”
Amelia laughed, bitterly. “I only wish that were possible.” She sighed. “I wish you’d reconsider.”
Veronica shook her head, resolute. How could she? After everything that Newbury had done for Amelia. After what had passed between them in the cells beneath Packwood House, when he’d kissed her and told her how he truly felt about her. How could she abandon him now, at his lowest point, weakened by the rituals he was performing on her sister’s behalf, addicted to the poisonous weed that fed his understanding of the occult, possibly unable even to trust the word of his old friend, Sir Charles? How could she possibly leave him to cope with all of that, alone?
No. She would stay, and she would face whatever was coming. Amelia’s visions were not the truth. They were not the future. They were simply a possible future. And that meant it could be averted. Now that she was forewarned, she could prevent it from coming true. “You know I can’t reconsider,” she said, trying to sound confident, unruffled. “And besides, it’s my job. I face danger every single day. What’s the difference here?” She left the question hanging, knowing that it was inadequate. Both of them were aware of what she was doing-making light of Amelia’s revelations, brushing them under the carpet-and both of them knew the truth: that if Amelia had seen something troubling in her dreams, then it was surely lurking just around the corner.
The sound of heavy footsteps echoed in the hallway outside the door. Veronica and Amelia both turned to look as Mrs. Leeson bustled in, opening the door with her hip and causing the contents of her tray to jangle and clink merrily as she crossed the room. She glanced from one of them to the other. “Tea?” she asked, brightly.
Veronica sighed. “Yes, please, Mrs. Leeson.”
CHAPTER 13
Marlborough House, like so many of the grand houses of the eighteenth century, was an imposing, slab-like edifice that stood proud amongst its palatial siblings in the heart of Pall Mall. Flanked by St. James’s Palace and Clarence House, one might have been forgiven for dismissing Marlborough House as just another unnecessary Royal household, similar to numerous other properties that had been co-opted by the monarchy over the years.
What set Marlborough House apart was its occupant: Albert Edward, the future King of England.
It was, Newbury reflected, a most suitable abode for a Prince. The building had a grand, monumental air, with a sweeping approach and extensive, well-tended grounds. Serried ranks of tall sash windows looked out across the city, and a small balcony over the front portico provided the Prince with the means to make a formal address, should it be required.
The house was brightly coloured, and its red and white brickwork, particularly when compared to the grey austerity of Buckingham Palace, gave the place a sense of vibrancy and life. A statement, Newbury considered, that might be applied equally well to the palaces’ respective occupants.
He glanced at the gated entrance and was struck by a dawning sense of trepidation. How did one go about calling on the Prince of Wales? Should he simply walk right up to the front door and knock? Should he have sent ahead to enquire about making a formal appointment? He was confident the Prince would be willing to assist him, particularly given his unexpected call at Chelsea, but had the informality of that interview somewhat gone to Newbury’s head?
He couldn’t help but ponder these matters as he walked along the outer wall of the grounds, searching for a side entrance-perhaps if he made his presence known at the tradesmen’s entrance it might not be deemed such a liberty-but he found the side gate locked and threaded with a heavy chain, and was forced to resort to his earlier plan.
Steeling himself, he went back the way he had come, then followed the gravelled approach across the grounds, admiring the immaculate front lawns and the neat hedgerows. He was sure someone inside the vast house would have seen his approach and would be there to meet him when he arrived at the portico, but once again, his expectations were dashed. The house was shrouded in silence.