The Baskerville Tales (Short Stories) by Emma Jane Holloway Page A
Authors: Emma Jane Holloway
Ads: Link
darkness.
Evelina saw Tom’s dark form lurching around the far corner of the building, his odd side-to-side gait even more pronounced than it had been the night before.
A faint glow flickered above.
I am here, girl-in-the-tree
.
They had already made their plans earlier that day. Evelina now used her hand to hide theflare of the match from anyone in the garden. She lit one candle, placing it in the gondola of the tiny wind-up balloon, and put a tiny glass chimney on the gondola to shield the flame. She wound the key, and released the toy. A tiny propeller carried the balloon swiftly into the air. “Now.”
I am there
. The birch deva sailed down, catching the top of the balloon. To Evelina’s eyes, it looked like a bright green mist surrounding the red and white stripes, but the balloon swiftly tilted to the right, shooting toward Tom’s approaching form. A tiny deva like this one didn’t have enough substance to lift something, but it did have the power to steer an object already in motion.
“Go, go, go,” Evelina muttered under her breath, almost dizzy with the beauty of her plan. This was the ideal solution, without risk. If this worked, no one would be in danger. Tom would be gone. Neither she nor Violet would ever have to confess to using magic. And best of all, it combined clockwork and magic, two things she adored. Short of undoing the spell directly—something only a real sorcerer would know how to do—it was the perfect answer.
One of the men standing on the lawn had already noticed Tom. She saw him straighten, his shoulders squaring in the automatic gesture of a male defending against an unwelcome intruder. Then she saw his shoulders hunch as distaste, disbelief, and revulsion set in.
Others were joining him, a semicircle of men in cutaway coats shifting uneasily as Tom approached, every line of their bodies screaming the need to attack and run at the same time. The little balloon zipped close to Tom, tipping its payload just as it whirred past and then vanished into the darkness. The candle fell, dripping hot wax and flame on the shambling figure.
According to Rector Larch’s book, the merest spark would ignite the walking dead in an instantaneous pillar of cleansing flame. Evelina leaned forward, chewing her lip.
A fire sprang to life, licking down the sleeve of Tom’s coat. He roared in anger, slapping at the flame. One of the men chose that moment to grab the heavy stake supporting a sapling apple tree, yanking it from the earth and swinging it at Tom.
Tom snatched it from his hand, snapping it into kindling. The men turned and ran for the safety of the ballroom. Tom roared, heaving bits of wood after them. His coat still smoldered, but the flames had gone out.
Curse it to the worm-eaten grave and back again!
Maybe the spark had to hit the flesh directly to cause spectacular ignition. Maybe the seventeenth-century author of the book had missed an important detail. Maybe, like so many books about the supernatural, it confused fact with legend.
The deva reappeared at Evelina’s elbow, bobbing with agitation.
We must try again
.
She hurried to prepare the clockwork armchair for action.
The dead creature doesn’t burn well. Perhaps this plan of yours is flawed
.
Well, she didn’t have another idea, so there was no room for failure. “Maybe wait for just the right moment to let the flame drop. Maybe the clothes are a problem.”
A band of apprehension tightened around her chest and made her fingers clumsy. Inevitably, she would have to face facts. What was she going to do if she couldn’t stop Tom? What would he do to Violet?
Then the chair was in the air and the deva dove after it. The second toy arced through the darkness. She watched it go, sure the simple elements of the deva and the fire and the clockwork
should
come together effectively—and yet suddenly certain that it would never work. Trial and error was the process of invention, but she had been given no chance to work out
Evelina saw Tom’s dark form lurching around the far corner of the building, his odd side-to-side gait even more pronounced than it had been the night before.
A faint glow flickered above.
I am here, girl-in-the-tree
.
They had already made their plans earlier that day. Evelina now used her hand to hide theflare of the match from anyone in the garden. She lit one candle, placing it in the gondola of the tiny wind-up balloon, and put a tiny glass chimney on the gondola to shield the flame. She wound the key, and released the toy. A tiny propeller carried the balloon swiftly into the air. “Now.”
I am there
. The birch deva sailed down, catching the top of the balloon. To Evelina’s eyes, it looked like a bright green mist surrounding the red and white stripes, but the balloon swiftly tilted to the right, shooting toward Tom’s approaching form. A tiny deva like this one didn’t have enough substance to lift something, but it did have the power to steer an object already in motion.
“Go, go, go,” Evelina muttered under her breath, almost dizzy with the beauty of her plan. This was the ideal solution, without risk. If this worked, no one would be in danger. Tom would be gone. Neither she nor Violet would ever have to confess to using magic. And best of all, it combined clockwork and magic, two things she adored. Short of undoing the spell directly—something only a real sorcerer would know how to do—it was the perfect answer.
One of the men standing on the lawn had already noticed Tom. She saw him straighten, his shoulders squaring in the automatic gesture of a male defending against an unwelcome intruder. Then she saw his shoulders hunch as distaste, disbelief, and revulsion set in.
Others were joining him, a semicircle of men in cutaway coats shifting uneasily as Tom approached, every line of their bodies screaming the need to attack and run at the same time. The little balloon zipped close to Tom, tipping its payload just as it whirred past and then vanished into the darkness. The candle fell, dripping hot wax and flame on the shambling figure.
According to Rector Larch’s book, the merest spark would ignite the walking dead in an instantaneous pillar of cleansing flame. Evelina leaned forward, chewing her lip.
A fire sprang to life, licking down the sleeve of Tom’s coat. He roared in anger, slapping at the flame. One of the men chose that moment to grab the heavy stake supporting a sapling apple tree, yanking it from the earth and swinging it at Tom.
Tom snatched it from his hand, snapping it into kindling. The men turned and ran for the safety of the ballroom. Tom roared, heaving bits of wood after them. His coat still smoldered, but the flames had gone out.
Curse it to the worm-eaten grave and back again!
Maybe the spark had to hit the flesh directly to cause spectacular ignition. Maybe the seventeenth-century author of the book had missed an important detail. Maybe, like so many books about the supernatural, it confused fact with legend.
The deva reappeared at Evelina’s elbow, bobbing with agitation.
We must try again
.
She hurried to prepare the clockwork armchair for action.
The dead creature doesn’t burn well. Perhaps this plan of yours is flawed
.
Well, she didn’t have another idea, so there was no room for failure. “Maybe wait for just the right moment to let the flame drop. Maybe the clothes are a problem.”
A band of apprehension tightened around her chest and made her fingers clumsy. Inevitably, she would have to face facts. What was she going to do if she couldn’t stop Tom? What would he do to Violet?
Then the chair was in the air and the deva dove after it. The second toy arced through the darkness. She watched it go, sure the simple elements of the deva and the fire and the clockwork
should
come together effectively—and yet suddenly certain that it would never work. Trial and error was the process of invention, but she had been given no chance to work out
Similar Books
