against her will?”
“Indeed, no. The streetwalker went to Mrs. Nemo voluntarily.”
“Well, then. Perhaps unsavory, but not uncommon, I’m sure.”
“But is it common for the abortionist to make off with the aborted fetus?”
Asher’s head jerked up. “Why on earth would she want that?”
“I have no idea, but that’s not all I’ve discovered,” Quigley grimly continued. “Have you heard of the Perenelle Society?”
“I can’t say I have, no.”
“The society is named after Perenelle Flamel. You must have heard about her.”
Asher wrinkled his face. “Flamel, as in Nicholas Flamel? Devil take it! The Flamels dabbled in nothing more than mystical nonsense and superstition. Dangerous superstition.” Perenelle Flamel had been the wife of Nicholas Flamel, an alchemist from four centuries ago famous for his pursuit of the philosopher’s stone and the elixir of life which, according to legend, would grant the drinker immortality. Perenelle, a renowned alchemist herself, was reputed to have assisted her husband in everything he did. “What are the aims of this Perenelle Society?”
“That remains a mystery,” Quigley said. “But Mrs. Nemo has been a member for some years.”
“Hmm, I don’t like the sound of that. The Flamels were nothing more than charlatans pandering to the ignorant masses, but charlatans can be dangerous too.”
“Agreed. It’s one more reason to be on our guard with Mrs. Nemo.”
Asher glanced back at Minerva, observed her listless figure. “I trust you haven’t mentioned any of this to Minerva?”
“As if I would. That woman has caused her enough heartache. Has it struck you that ‘nemo’ is Latin for ‘no one’? A fitting name for such an enigma.”
“Do you think she and Schick colluded to use your chronometrical conveyance?”
Quigley nodded. “It’s possible.”
“The relationship between her and Schick is curious too. Of course she’s his mistress, but what advantage does she get out of the arrangement? He’s neither rich, aristocratic, nor charming. His only reputation is within mathematical circles, and notorious at that.”
“Perhaps he’s wealthier than we think.”
“That could be the only reason.” There was also the matter of Mrs. Nemo’s coquettish advances towards himself, something Asher would never divulge to anyone, and yet another reason to dislike the woman. Asher frowned, suddenly ashamed of the way he was slandering Minerva’s mother. Minerva already had the burden of her less-than-honest father, and now there was the cryptic, degenerate Mrs. Nemo. A surge of protectiveness rose in him. Minerva wouldn’t thank him, but he would do everything in his power to shield her from the poison of her mother. She might initially resent his interference, but perhaps in time she would realize how much she meant to him.
As darkness began to fall, Asher rose to light the oil lamps. Penetrating draughts made the light flicker, and with the generator fallen idle the workshop had begun to cool. He stopped by Minerva. She had fallen asleep in her chair, her head precariously propped up on the heel of her hand. The sight of her wan, slumbering face squeezed his heart. He reached out to touch her hair, but before he could do so the door of the workshop rattled open.
Cheeves, he thought irritably, spinning round. But it wasn’t his butler.
“Good evening,” Mrs. Nemo announced. She had a smirk on her face and a pistol in her hand.
* * *
The sound of the door slamming shut started Minerva awake. She rubbed her eyes. “Mother?”
Her mother stood dressed in a tightly fitted, burgundy velvet jacket and skirt with a modish fanchon-style hat perched upon her immaculate gold hair. The surprise of her appearance took Minerva’s breath away, so it was a moment before she spied the gleaming pistol.
“Mother!”
“I should have known you’d be mixed up in this.” An irked frown skimmed over the older woman’s face. She dropped the small
“Indeed, no. The streetwalker went to Mrs. Nemo voluntarily.”
“Well, then. Perhaps unsavory, but not uncommon, I’m sure.”
“But is it common for the abortionist to make off with the aborted fetus?”
Asher’s head jerked up. “Why on earth would she want that?”
“I have no idea, but that’s not all I’ve discovered,” Quigley grimly continued. “Have you heard of the Perenelle Society?”
“I can’t say I have, no.”
“The society is named after Perenelle Flamel. You must have heard about her.”
Asher wrinkled his face. “Flamel, as in Nicholas Flamel? Devil take it! The Flamels dabbled in nothing more than mystical nonsense and superstition. Dangerous superstition.” Perenelle Flamel had been the wife of Nicholas Flamel, an alchemist from four centuries ago famous for his pursuit of the philosopher’s stone and the elixir of life which, according to legend, would grant the drinker immortality. Perenelle, a renowned alchemist herself, was reputed to have assisted her husband in everything he did. “What are the aims of this Perenelle Society?”
“That remains a mystery,” Quigley said. “But Mrs. Nemo has been a member for some years.”
“Hmm, I don’t like the sound of that. The Flamels were nothing more than charlatans pandering to the ignorant masses, but charlatans can be dangerous too.”
“Agreed. It’s one more reason to be on our guard with Mrs. Nemo.”
Asher glanced back at Minerva, observed her listless figure. “I trust you haven’t mentioned any of this to Minerva?”
“As if I would. That woman has caused her enough heartache. Has it struck you that ‘nemo’ is Latin for ‘no one’? A fitting name for such an enigma.”
“Do you think she and Schick colluded to use your chronometrical conveyance?”
Quigley nodded. “It’s possible.”
“The relationship between her and Schick is curious too. Of course she’s his mistress, but what advantage does she get out of the arrangement? He’s neither rich, aristocratic, nor charming. His only reputation is within mathematical circles, and notorious at that.”
“Perhaps he’s wealthier than we think.”
“That could be the only reason.” There was also the matter of Mrs. Nemo’s coquettish advances towards himself, something Asher would never divulge to anyone, and yet another reason to dislike the woman. Asher frowned, suddenly ashamed of the way he was slandering Minerva’s mother. Minerva already had the burden of her less-than-honest father, and now there was the cryptic, degenerate Mrs. Nemo. A surge of protectiveness rose in him. Minerva wouldn’t thank him, but he would do everything in his power to shield her from the poison of her mother. She might initially resent his interference, but perhaps in time she would realize how much she meant to him.
As darkness began to fall, Asher rose to light the oil lamps. Penetrating draughts made the light flicker, and with the generator fallen idle the workshop had begun to cool. He stopped by Minerva. She had fallen asleep in her chair, her head precariously propped up on the heel of her hand. The sight of her wan, slumbering face squeezed his heart. He reached out to touch her hair, but before he could do so the door of the workshop rattled open.
Cheeves, he thought irritably, spinning round. But it wasn’t his butler.
“Good evening,” Mrs. Nemo announced. She had a smirk on her face and a pistol in her hand.
* * *
The sound of the door slamming shut started Minerva awake. She rubbed her eyes. “Mother?”
Her mother stood dressed in a tightly fitted, burgundy velvet jacket and skirt with a modish fanchon-style hat perched upon her immaculate gold hair. The surprise of her appearance took Minerva’s breath away, so it was a moment before she spied the gleaming pistol.
“Mother!”
“I should have known you’d be mixed up in this.” An irked frown skimmed over the older woman’s face. She dropped the small
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