street, Phaeton inhaled a mélange of pungent scents, burning opium layered with joss-sticks and tobacco. The sidewalk bustled with a crush of West Enders diverting themselves in the East End.
The doctor grimaced. “One can always find something morally reprehensible and unhealthy to do in Pennyfields.”
“Do you have an entertainment in mind?” Phaeton lifted a brow along with a lopsided grin. “Or would you like me to suggest something?”
America spoke up. “I must say I’m suddenly rather thirsty.”
Exeter studied the street scene. “No hurry I suppose. The world is quite safe for the time being. Whoever has the stone can’t do much with it. There is only one person in the entire world who can unlock the powers inside the Moonstone.”
A prickly tremor moved through Phaeton’s body. His eyes rolled upward in a moment of silent prayer. “And that person would be—please don’t say—”
Exeter’s smile was radiant. In fact, he had never seen the man look more pleased with himself. “You, Phaeton.”
Chapter Six
“S HALL WE HAVE A PINT AT THE S ILVER L ION ?” America noted the look exchanged by Phaeton and Exeter. “Must I remind you, gentlemen, I’ve hauled crew out of the lowest, scum-ridden sinkholes of humanity?”
Phaeton swept her away from a tottering drunk. “Might be worthwhile to formulate a strategy before we meet with Gaspar.” A colorful assortment of soiled doves draped themselves against the doorway of Madame Chaing’s, a brothel famous for its exotic whores and accomplished flagellators. A rouged-up doxy gave a wink. “Have a good swish, sir—half a crown.”
“Another evening, love.” Phaeton steered them down the narrow row. Looking back, America rolled her eyes. Doctor Exeter trailed behind for one last ogle at the imported prostitute. A motley collection of foreign scents and sounds greeted them—two Orientals deep in argument. The acrid stink of lime and ash wafted out of a Chinese laundry. She twitched her nose.
“About this Moonstone legacy . . .” Phaeton wove a path through a crowd of pleasure seekers. “Assure me this is nothing more than a theory of yours, Jason.” He shook his head. “I examined the Moonstone extensively—to little or no effect.”
Exeter caught up in a few long strides. “Think back, Phaeton, to the day we packed our Egyptian gods into the sarcophagus. I thought Qadesh’s message was—”
“Cryptic.” Phaeton muttered.
Exeter raised a brow. “She could hardly have been more clear.”
Slowed by the ever-present gawkers surrounding the British and Foreign Medicine Shop, they sidestepped their way through the milling onlookers. The strangely respectable storefront was a popular East End freak show. The doctor craned his neck for a look through the murky, multi-paned windows. “The usual apothecary jars stuffed with an assortment of horrors. Nothing new—the two-headed fetus of course,” Exeter reported back, “as well as the small dragon excised from the bowels of a sailor.”
America waited with Phaeton to one side of the crowd. “I could have sworn it was vice versa, a miniature sailor taken from the innards of a dragon.” Amused, Phaeton nodded to the tall gray-haired man in the doorway clad in a loose chinoiserie dressing gown and silk opera hat. The proprietor’s name was Magister Swinbourne. The man exuded fakery.
Exeter harrumphed. “Wax figures, suspended in mineral oil.” The wily Swinbourne pointed his long stemmed opium pipe at them. “Dare ye to come in and have a look—I did most of these extractions myself.”
“Not bloody likely,” Exeter scoffed, as Phaeton grabbed hold of the doctor’s arm and headed them all down the cobbled lane.
Away from Swinbourne’s ghastly shop of horrors, Phaeton confessed. “The last time I looked in that window, I’d had a bit of pipe. All those specimens opened their eyes and began to speak.”
America shuddered at the thought. Her overactive imagination
The doctor grimaced. “One can always find something morally reprehensible and unhealthy to do in Pennyfields.”
“Do you have an entertainment in mind?” Phaeton lifted a brow along with a lopsided grin. “Or would you like me to suggest something?”
America spoke up. “I must say I’m suddenly rather thirsty.”
Exeter studied the street scene. “No hurry I suppose. The world is quite safe for the time being. Whoever has the stone can’t do much with it. There is only one person in the entire world who can unlock the powers inside the Moonstone.”
A prickly tremor moved through Phaeton’s body. His eyes rolled upward in a moment of silent prayer. “And that person would be—please don’t say—”
Exeter’s smile was radiant. In fact, he had never seen the man look more pleased with himself. “You, Phaeton.”
Chapter Six
“S HALL WE HAVE A PINT AT THE S ILVER L ION ?” America noted the look exchanged by Phaeton and Exeter. “Must I remind you, gentlemen, I’ve hauled crew out of the lowest, scum-ridden sinkholes of humanity?”
Phaeton swept her away from a tottering drunk. “Might be worthwhile to formulate a strategy before we meet with Gaspar.” A colorful assortment of soiled doves draped themselves against the doorway of Madame Chaing’s, a brothel famous for its exotic whores and accomplished flagellators. A rouged-up doxy gave a wink. “Have a good swish, sir—half a crown.”
“Another evening, love.” Phaeton steered them down the narrow row. Looking back, America rolled her eyes. Doctor Exeter trailed behind for one last ogle at the imported prostitute. A motley collection of foreign scents and sounds greeted them—two Orientals deep in argument. The acrid stink of lime and ash wafted out of a Chinese laundry. She twitched her nose.
“About this Moonstone legacy . . .” Phaeton wove a path through a crowd of pleasure seekers. “Assure me this is nothing more than a theory of yours, Jason.” He shook his head. “I examined the Moonstone extensively—to little or no effect.”
Exeter caught up in a few long strides. “Think back, Phaeton, to the day we packed our Egyptian gods into the sarcophagus. I thought Qadesh’s message was—”
“Cryptic.” Phaeton muttered.
Exeter raised a brow. “She could hardly have been more clear.”
Slowed by the ever-present gawkers surrounding the British and Foreign Medicine Shop, they sidestepped their way through the milling onlookers. The strangely respectable storefront was a popular East End freak show. The doctor craned his neck for a look through the murky, multi-paned windows. “The usual apothecary jars stuffed with an assortment of horrors. Nothing new—the two-headed fetus of course,” Exeter reported back, “as well as the small dragon excised from the bowels of a sailor.”
America waited with Phaeton to one side of the crowd. “I could have sworn it was vice versa, a miniature sailor taken from the innards of a dragon.” Amused, Phaeton nodded to the tall gray-haired man in the doorway clad in a loose chinoiserie dressing gown and silk opera hat. The proprietor’s name was Magister Swinbourne. The man exuded fakery.
Exeter harrumphed. “Wax figures, suspended in mineral oil.” The wily Swinbourne pointed his long stemmed opium pipe at them. “Dare ye to come in and have a look—I did most of these extractions myself.”
“Not bloody likely,” Exeter scoffed, as Phaeton grabbed hold of the doctor’s arm and headed them all down the cobbled lane.
Away from Swinbourne’s ghastly shop of horrors, Phaeton confessed. “The last time I looked in that window, I’d had a bit of pipe. All those specimens opened their eyes and began to speak.”
America shuddered at the thought. Her overactive imagination
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