The airship banked in a final plunge to hover over a grassy field at the edge of a village, one of the many that dotted the roads into the city. The early winter had eased and a light rain fell. Morning storms had flooded the landing field with pools that sloshed as a crew on the ground caught the dangling ropes affixed to the balloon. The gondola pitched as they heaved and anchored the airship in place.
Effie waited until it settled, and her stomach after that, before alighting. No sooner had her foot touched the slick grass than a sharp bark of command rang out. She startled and almost lost her footing. Conall caught her. He pulled her behind him as a dozen soldiers marched across the field in tight formation. Their boots pounded the field. Bayonets tipped their rifles. To a man, their faces were hard masks that studied nothing and everything at once.
Lieutenant Walford stepped forward a few paces and waited. His even keel steadied her, and she let go of the breath she held. Forcing herself to relax, she realized the folly of fearing these newcomers. She had arrived in the company of their comrades, after all, and within an army vessel. But something about the way the newcomers carried themselves, the menace in their manner, made her hackles stand on edge.
A rough-looking man with sergeant’s chevrons barked for the newcomers to halt. The men grunted in unison, stomping their boots and snapping their rifles to attention. The sergeant saluted Lieutenant Walford.
“Sir,” said the sergeant as rain dripped from his helmet. “Under the duke’s orders, we are to inspect all those wishing to enter the city.”
Even the queen’s own soldiers. Effie thought to ask after how long the order had been in effect, and if a specific event had caused it, but the deadened stares of the men convinced her to keep her tongue. Lieutenant Walford merely gave a curt nod. If the order surprised him, he gave no indication.
At a wave from the sergeant, the newcomers broke ranks and hurried into the airship under a cacophony of squeaking leather and jangling metal. The sergeant’s stare took in Effie and Conall. Only then did the lieutenant speak.
“They are known to the duke and here at my request,” he said. His voice turned firm. “My orders are to escort them wherever they please. Safely.”
The sergeant’s brow pulled slightly. Effie could tell the man wondered after their names, but he snapped to salute once more. “Sir,” he said.
The lieutenant returned the salute. Spinning on his heel, he left no opportunity for further delay. He ushered Effie and Conall across the airfield at a brisk pace to a waiting steam carriage. The driver, in his jet-black suit and chimney-pot hat, clapped the door shut once they had clambered inside the warm and dry compartment.
“They search for foreigners as much as those afflicted,” said the lieutenant. Metal creaked, and a puff of coal smoke enveloped the windows as the driver put the carriage in motion.
“Have they caught any saboteurs?” asked Conall.
The lieutenant shrugged. “None that I have heard, but that does not rule it out.”
Effie shifted her rump. The thin padding on the bench was an improvement over the bare wood of the airship. But she’d sat for far too long. She longed to walk and stretch her legs. Out the window, the streets looked eerily like those of Aberdeen. It brought a chill to her to see Edinburgh so quiet, as if in the wake of a plague.
Her lips pursed at the comparison. What else could the banshee’s touch be called?
In the quiet streets, the wheels of the carriage thundered across the cobblestones. The boiler whooshed puffs of smoke that dusted everything with a thin black layer. Soon the smaller wood and plaster structures of the villages gave way to sandstone buildings that rose higher than castle walls. Edinburgh’s own castle she could no longer spy atop its jutting rock as they made their way along the ordered, broad streets of New Town.
They were stopped twice at barricades. Each time the driver answered the challenge. Effie couldn’t see clearly but heard wood scraping and clattering against the cobblestones as they waited patiently. Somewhere in the distance, whistles shrilled.
Conall blew out a deep breath. His brow pulled tight. “I see no coal porters with their wagons, and the shops are all but closed,” he said. “The city will die a lingering death if its industry is not resumed.”
“And with it, the whole of the country,” said Lieutenant Walford. “You Scots are long removed from your agrarian past.”
“Och, don’t let the sheep hear that,” Conall replied. He smirked, but if the lieutenant found any humor in the quip, he didn’t let on.
“Heriot Row,” said Effie in confusion. The carriage squealed and shuddered to a halt. As the driver climbed from its perch, it rocked gently.
Lieutenant Walford raised his hand before she could say anything further. “I will arrange for an audience with the duke and have a carriage call on you as soon as can be allowed,” he said. Reading the expression that came to her face, he added, “There are too many obstacles for you to reach him directly, as things stand in the city. I have no doubt you would manage it, but the time would be costly, even with me by your side.”
The argument rankled Effie, but she nodded all the same. She trusted the lieutenant. She always had. Not only did he favor reason over ego, but he strove for the same greater good as she, no matter the personal cost. It reminded her of the very men who dwelled within the house where the carriage had stopped. She could sense them now, their auras lingering in the drawing room, she judged by the distance.
She gave her parting from the lieutenant and along with Conall alighted from the carriage. She knew Thomas Stevenson’s residence within the city well and greeted the maid who received them at the door with a cheery reception. By the time she had shrugged from her coat, a booming voice echoed through the house. The slap of footsteps on the floorboards followed.
“Effie!” Stuart Graham’s round cheeks glowed red, and Effie guessed his nose would soon follow. She smelled the whisky on him as they embraced. When he pulled away, he looked at her askance. “We had no word of your coming. Is all all right?”
She snorted. “If you mean are there still barricades blocking the streets and parts of the city on fire, then aye.”
Graham’s gaze sobered. He patted her arms with a fatherly tenderness before greeting Conall. “Come now,” he said. “He sits by the hearth to warm his legs.”
Thomas Stevenson had aged since the last time Effie had seen him. The spots on his cheeks and pate had darkened, and his hair had thinned into silken strands, where it remained at all. But it was the way he slumped, as if weighted down by an endless exhaustion, that brought a lump to Effie’s throat.
He sat in a chair by the fireplace, the wood as sturdy and proper as its inhabitant. A couch with a floral pattern brought color to the drawing room, and a tall window let in light from the street. Effie crossed to the man who had raised and protected her after the passing of her mother. She took his hand and felt an echo of memories flood through her.
“There ye are, lass,” he said. “Miss Salisbury did tell us the moment your carriage arrived at the door.”
“Hi’ya, Effie,” said Abigail Salisbury. The ex-librarian of the university stood near the window. Her honey-colored dress had helped blend her into the curtains, which held a canary hue. Her once-black hair had greyed. Ink stained her fingertips, a result of years of ledgering among stacks of books.