Zan stood in the National Bank’s lobby staring up at the mural on the ceiling. The edges were gilded with flourishes of natural elements such as leaves and berries and nuts. The mural itself was in a classical style filled with figures clad only in flowing white sheets barely covering the essential parts. A multitude of cherubic angels with tiny golden wings flocked the larger figures like an uprising of birds.
Waiting for one of the bank officials to return with information about a possible account her uncle could have opened with the National Bank, her mind wandered from those perfect, angelic beings to the previous evening just as she was leaving Caradon’s residence on Shepherd’s Lane.
It’s a pity she’s not willing yet.
The low, masculine voice had whispered in her mind. Startled, she had said, “Did you say something?”
And he had raised a dark brow and replied, “Excuse me?”
She then second guessed herself. Perhaps her mind was playing tricks on her, she was too tired, too preoccupied with recent grief. Perhaps she had breathed in too much of whatever he had been burning. A drug she was sure. What kind of drug, she had her suspicions.
“A word of advice if I may,” she had said instead.
“You think I would listen to your advice?”
She had ignored Caradon’s faintly sneering tone. “Breathing in noxious vapors is not good for your health.” She had raised a hand indicating the bronze censer on the bookshelf. “No matter how you may feel, damage can be done to your lungs.”
“Perhaps you have been attending one too many of those medical lectures at the Academy. You’re beginning to sound like my doctor.”
“Your doctor sounds like a sensible man.”
He had risen from his armchair as she moved to the study door. A dark angel, she had thought. Or rather, the devil. “Oh, no doubt he’s sensible. I should dare say that you and he would find a lot in common. A man and woman of science—sensible and logical.”
“You make fun of me, Mr. Caradon.”
“That is not my intention.” He took a step towards her and she felt her muscles freeze in place. “Do you have transportation home, Miss Hu?”
“I was planning to call a hackney.”
“No, that won’t do. It isn’t safe for young ladies outside at this time of night. Let me offer you my own carriage.”
“That is very kind of you, Mr. Caradon, but…”
“I insist.” No, I demand…
The intrusion of his voice in her head sent her reeling and instinctively, she backed out the door and nearly ran over the butler who was passing by.
Caradon had sent her one final hard glance before turning to his butler to tell him to prepare the carriage.
“Miss Hu?”
She blinked, faintly shaking her head from the memory. A man in a dark striped suit and severe tie—the uniform of a bank official—stood before her, waiting. The staid suit, however, did not conceal the man’s shifty, impatient expression. “Yes.”
“You were correct, Mr. Elliot Waterstone did patronize the National Bank by opening an account. It consists solely of a safety deposit box.”
“I have a key.” Quickly, Zan opened her reticule and withdrew the envelope she had obtained from Mr. Naupolis. She took out the key. “Would this be from one of your deposit boxes?”
“I would appear so. Do you wish to see Mr. Waterstone’s deposit at this time?”
“Certainly.”
She followed the bank official through the lobby to the main room, past the clerks and bank tellers, to an area near the back where an enormous round metal door opened into one of the National Bank’s auxiliary vaults. Stepping inside, she found herself surrounded by ceiling to floor rows of boxes locked into the wall.
“Do you have the box number?”
She glanced at the envelope. “Eight oh two.”
The bank official pointed out a box at mid-level with the numbers hammered in gleaming brass. She thanked the official who left the vault for her privacy and then inserted the heavy iron key into the lock.
At first, it didn’t turn, but then with a creak, it moved and she was able to pull both the key and the box out of the wall. She placed the safety deposit box on top of a narrow, high table in the vault and flipped open the lid.
The first things she saw were two green pieces lying on top of a sheaf of papers. Both were jade. One was a small circle carved to resemble a fox curled in on itself as if it was sleeping. Long red thread was looped around it. She remembered that she had seen it before in a photograph of her father before he married her mother. He had been sitting on a bench in a garden in traditional scholar’s robes. The charm had hung, dangling on his wrist. Zan put it on and the jade charm hung lightly just below the hollow of her throat. She slipped it underneath the neckline of her blouse and turned her attention to the rest of the contents in the box.
The other jade piece was a large medallion etched with swirls and embellishments. Writing of the Far East variety was also etched on the surface, starting from the center and spiraling counterclockwise outward. Zan frowned, wishing that she could read the writing.
She set the medallion aside and riffled the papers. The writing appeared to be Uncle Elliot’s handwriting. Zan peered closer and began reading the first page. Her hands faintly shook. Her uncle’s notes.
But he had destroyed them, burned them in the kitchen. She had seen it with her own eyes, questioning her uncle on his suddenly odd behavior, trying to understand. Simkins had stood by in disapproval, keeping an eagle eye on the proceedings, making sure that Elliot didn’t burn down the house. Boreas was loudly complaining about Mr. Waterstone’s abuse of the kitchen hearth and Mrs. Philomon and Isadora were attempting to get them to bed. After all, it had been after midnight.
She rubbed her fingers against the paper feeling a bit of weak energy running across the fibers. A remnant of her uncle’s spirit? Then she remembered. The Museum. If Gustav Kruntz knew she was in possession of a copy of her uncle’s notes, he would be knocking down her door to have it.
Zan opened her reticule and stuffed the papers inside. Then more sedately, she closed the safety deposit box and put it back into the wall. She dropped the key into the reticule, closed it, and then picked up the jade medallion before exiting the vault.
“Did you find all that you needed?” the bank official inquired as she took a step past the vault entrance.
“Yes, thank you.”
“Do you wish to keep the account since it has passed on to you from Mr. Waterstone?”
“Actually, yes. That would be very good.”
The official insisted on escorting her out again. But as she passed the sea of clerical desks, a flash of bright red caught her eye.
“Ah, Miss Hu, what a pleasant surprise in finding you here!”
Zan stopped and slowly turned around. Jebediah Southmore was wearing his finery as the Church’s emissary, a brilliant red cloak lined in white ermine and thick golden chains about his neck. He smiled at her as three priests in unrelieved black flanked him.
“Good day, Mr. Southmore. Are you here on official business?”
“Unfortunately, yes. But it must be done, in official costume and all. I’m here to meet the bank president on business on behalf of the Church.”
She nodded politely.
“Are you here on personal business, Miss Hu?”
“I was simply checking up on a personal account.”
“Of course, of course. Oh and by the way, have you had time to think about my offer?”
“As a matter of fact, I have. I’ve given it due consideration, Mr. Southmore, but I regret to say that I must decline your generous offer for patronage. I’m continuing the agreement my uncle had with Mr. Caradon.”
“Caradon!” Southmore suddenly burst out. “The very devil himself. Do you have any idea who you are associating with?”
Truth be told, she thought to herself, she knew very little about Caradon besides the fact that he was willing to fund her regardless of the subject of her studies and that he was quite possibly a drug addict. “I know enough, Mr. Southmore. Now if you will excuse me, I must be off. I have an appointment elsewhere.”
“Mark my words,” Southmore said as she turned her back to him. “Caradon is the very devil.”
