The Black Rose by James Bartholomeusz Page B

beckoning attention to the plotting within.
    Frost gripped the furnishings. Nimue reclined on her throne of ice, her twelve companions standing in a semicircle before her. Moments earlier, they might have formed a tableau of Albion society, a cross section of the class strata from newly inherited earl to forgettable workhouse resident. Now, however, like their mistress’s, their parochial garb had faded into the swishing of twelve hooded black cloaks. Behind Nimue’s seat stood the mirror, the dark-skinned girl still frozen in its depths.
    â€œAll the components are ready, then?”
    â€œAll of them, madam. They have been sourced from different firms so as to not arouse suspicion, and all have had the appropriate alchemical adjustments.”

    â€œExcellent. Then we shall begin assembling them this very night. Bring them to the cellar beneath this house. It links to a subterranean canal which emerges onto the river. We will then make our move tomorrow night.”
    The twelve figures nodded in unison.
    â€œAnd what is our plan once we reach the forest?” one inquired, but Nimue held a finger to her mouth. She turned her head towards the door and flicked her palm. The lock clicked and the wooden frame sprang open, a middle-aged woman in servant clothes tumbling onto the carpet. She pulled herself up, eyes wide with fright, scanning the ice, the mirror, and the collection of dark figures before her.
    Her mouth opened in a scream but, after another flick of Nimue’s palm, nothing emerged but a frost-clouded breath. The door slammed behind her, and the lock clicked. The maid was hoisted off the floor by her throat and flung across the room, dropped hard before the mistress’s throne.
    â€œListening in, were we?” Nimue whispered, her jaw set in a cold smirk. “Now that wasn’t very polite, was it? I don’t expect a provincial type like yourself to understand the magnitude of what we are attempting, but even so, whispers might find their way to the wrong ears…”
    The maid’s gaze was fixed on Nimue, but she became aware of something shifting behind her. The shadows thrown by the lamplight were congealing, rising off the floor and twisting upwards. Nimue’s smirk broke into a tinkling laugh as the shadow reared and leapt. The maid’s scream was never heard.

    Jack, Bál, and Ruth returned to work the following morning unenthusiastic but energized. Jack still found the duration, fatigue, and hot conditions of the factory work nearly unbearable, but at least he knew their group would’ve progressed closer to their goal by the time he returned to The Kestrel’s Quill. Now that he knew of his employer’s association with Lady Osborne, the metal poles he and the other men were shaping intrigued him. Could these have some part in the Cult’s plan, whatever it was? He saw an opportunity to delve a little deeper when he found himself on a workstation next to the uncommonly amicable boy he had exchanged a few words with on the first day. The boy evidently recognized him too because he smiled—highly unusual in the factory environment.
    â€œHow’d your pay stretch the other day, then?” the boy asked in the thick Cockney accent Jack had become used to over the last week.
    â€œNot very far at all.” Jack laughed. “But I managed to get drunk off it last night.” He didn’t try too hard to keep the boasting edge out of his voice.
    â€œWell, that’s something at least. I saved up for a Sunday roast—definitely worth it.” The boy grinned. “I’m Dannie, by the way.”
    â€œJack.” They shook hands. “You don’t have any idea what we’re making, do you?”
    â€œNone at all.” Dannie shook his head, glancing at the contraption before him in bewilderment. “Apparently this Goodwin fellow’s a nasty piece of work though. Forbids any trade union membership among his