The Forgotten

  I stare at the toast on my plate, but I honestly can’t think about eating it. “What happened? Did Morelock have someone else with him?”

  “No, he was quite alone. I have a feeling the club had abandoned him. Those are the people that most likely have that device of your father’s.”

  “But …” I look between my cousins, confused. “That cannot be right. Eddie was injured—I saw him—and Branwell was … Do you mean to tell me that one man caused such injuries?”

  Jeremy nods. “I’m afraid he was trained in combat.”

  “Where is he now?” I ask, fury beating through me. “Tell me where he is and I will make him sorry.”

  “Bennet,” says Carolina gently. “Calm down. Everything is alright now.”

  “No,” I snap. “No, it is not alright.”

  “He’s dead, Benny,” Jeremy says bluntly. “I made quite sure of it.”

  My shoulders drop, violent anger fleeing me. “How did you know where to go?” I ask instead.

  “Ah,” Jeremy breathes with a small smile. “Ever since Caro wrote to me I have been doing a little digging of my own. I found a great deal about the Olympiae but nothing at all about what they actually do. Some articles mention developments in the sciences, some speak of industrialisation, and others speak of advancements in medicine. Nobody seems to know what exactly their purpose is.

  “I meant to visit Morelock’s residence for a simple talk. I was intending to write an article—a genuine one, as a cover for my investigation. And then I heard that the building had been vacated. There were more men than Morelock living there, you know? I’m told there were ten men all in the one house. Of course it was all secret and confidential, but whispers do echo among certain people. As soon as I heard it had been deserted I got myself out there, expecting to find nothing but dust.”

  “Plus, I activated my wedding ring,” Carolina adds, as if her words aren’t completely incongruous.

  “Ah.” Jeremy smiles at my confusion. “I admit, I’m a little paranoid of my … enemies, shall we say, hurting my wife. When twisted a certain direction, Carolina’s ring gives off a signal.”

  “Which does this,” Carolina finishes, turning her ring; a red flashing light appears inside the face of Jeremy’s watch. Bran would love this, I think, and then I’m sad and worried and wanting to run to him all over again.

  I push my chair back and stand. “I’m going to see my brother.”

  Neither of them stops me as I hurry out of the dining room. I stop in the hallway, feeling useless. I don’t know if my brother will be in his room in the basement or in one of the more comfortable rooms on this level. I think the latter—they wouldn’t have carried him down the stairs last night when he was bleeding. The thought of him coming out of the carriage last night makes me dizzy and I reach out to brace myself against the wall, but instead my hand meets a warm body and strong arms support me.

  I turn in surprise to find Joel looking pale and sallow but with a smile lighting his face. I’m about to pull away from him but I decide to allow him to hold me up.

  “You should be resting,” I say, the urge to herd him back to bed rushing up in me. “You were hurt.” I think. I don’t know. I didn’t see him, was stupid and cruel and didn’t even think to ask after him when I woke.

  He laughs, a warm rumble that smooths the rough edges of my panic. “I’m patched up, as good as new.”

  “That’s a lie,” I say and he smiles—wide, his eyes so bright. I notice now, as his face changes, that that he has a jagged cut on his face, right across his cheekbone. “Oh, Joel, your face!”

  His smile vanishes for a second before it’s replaced with forced brightness. “I know. I’m hideous.” He shrugs as if he’s joking, a move made awkward by his arm still holding me up. “But it could be worse.”

  My fingers trace the edge of the cut that will surely scar, as lightly as if I were not touching him at all. “You’re not hideous,” I assure him. He doesn’t reply. “Joel, this is all my fault,” I cry, dropping my hand to my side. “If I’d listened to father and protected Bran like I was supposed to, he would never have been hurt and neither would you.”

  He squeezes my waist, freezing me with an intense look. “Nothing that has happened is your fault. If you’re looking for someone to blame, choose Morelock, or another one of that infernal club, but not yourself. Nothing you could have said or done would have swayed Branwell out of going for your cousin.”

  “Nothing at all?”

  “No.” He smiles, easy and charming, softening his face.

  My heart tumbles in my chest, bringing clarity back to me. I can’t be looking at Joel with soft eyes. He’s my … he’s … Joel. He’s Joel. Pulling away from him, I begin trudging down the corridor, not paying attention to where I’m going. He follows, of course. “If I were a better sister, I’d have been able to persuade him to stay. I would have made him. I would have ensured his safety, and then called Jeremy to rescue Carolina.”

  “And that would have been a damn sight safer than running into the night after her.” He catches my arm and refuses to let go, halting me. When I stop, he spins me to face him. “But when faced with something like that—your cousin’s life in danger—could you, in all honesty, have thought sensibly?”

  “No,” I admit, hanging my head.

  “And would anything—anything in the world—have stopped you from running into danger if you thought it would save her?”

  “No.”

  “Then please, Bennet, stop blaming yourself.”

  I search his eyes for a long moment, not entirely sure what I am looking for, but all I find is warmth and genuine concern. My heart is a crumpled mess. I’m sure everything is written in my eyes. “You called me Bennet.”

  He laughs at that, a big, loud, laugh that makes me feel okay for the first time since my father’s death. Tensions and tightness I didn’t even know had me in their fists loosen their hold, even if only for a second.

  “Thank you,” I say, touching his wrist.

  His wide eyes find the place where my fingers brush his skin. “What are you thanking me for?”

  “For bringing me back into myself.”

  He shakes his head, but there’s a softness to him, a happiness, like he’s about to start laughing again.

  I smile, unable to tear my eyes from him, but then I remember the previous night, my brother, the blood. The smile falls off my face. “I don’t know where my brother is, Joel.”

  “Luckily for you, I do.” He offers me his arm and takes me back the way we came.

  09:19. 01.10.1878. London.

  Jeremy, Carolina, and I are gathered around Branwell. He’s much improved today—he’s up and about, wandering around the bedroom and holding energised conversations. I just wish he’d eat more. For breakfast he only tore off a corner of dried toast before launching into some rant or other about Morelock. Carolina and I share a wordless conversation while Jeremy is absorbed in whatever it is Bran is saying.

  “My father’s journals say differently,” Bran argues. “He wrote that there was an American branch and that is where the most influential members were.”

  “But it is entirely likely that there are other branches he was unaware of. Groups like The Olympiae Club tend to establish themselves in China. The opium business always draws the wealthy and greedy alike, and these clubs consist of an equal amount of both. They assume that if they have the optimum amount of wealth, power will follow—which, more often than not, turns out to be the case.”

  “You know an awful lot about this,” Bran comments, his eyes narrowed.

  “My father was a member of something similar. It was less about elitism and more about greed, but the principles are the same.”

  “Were you ever asked to join?” Carolina asks, looking at her husband with a furrowed brow.

  “I was,” Jeremy confirms, ruffling his golden hair, “but I’ve never been interested in secrets or organised hatefulness or whatever else it is that they
get up to. I only have a vague idea, but I have no desire to be part of it.”

  “I don’t understand why this matters.” I sigh and take a sip of tea.

  “It matters because if we can find out where the Olympiae have gone, we might be able to find the Lux,” says Bran. His cheeks are flushed, either with sickness still or excitement. Both, probably.

  “And the Weapon,” Jeremy adds. “I’m very interested in getting that away from these men. They can play with their fake influence and their imagined power, but after a while they will garner an audience and interest. These groups always do. I’ll bet you anything The Olympiae Club is much larger than we think, and that they’re capable of things we haven’t even thought of yet.”

  “Like what?” I ask, a bad feeling in the pit of my stomach.

  “You say the Lux, when used with their own device, will create unimaginable destruction. The journals speak of scorched earth and terror. I daresay that is correct, but the Olympiae must have a way of controlling it, deciding which parts of the world they might destroy.”

  “Jeremy, what on Earth you saying?” asks Carolina. She clutches a teacup with white hands, looking equal parts fearful and enraged.

  “I think the Olympiae will attempt to bring destruction to our world, and they may indeed succeed in killing a great deal of us. Perhaps they believe people of lesser money and birth should be eradicated, or at the very least controlled; an unsettling number of these organisations do. This, I think, is what your father meant—that the Weapon won’t end the world altogether, but it will change it beyond recognition.”

  “We need to tell someone,” Carolina exhales, setting her cup down hard. “This has gone on long enough. At first, when it was simply about our family, that was our concern, but if what you say has a chance of truly happening—or something different, worse—we need to inform the police.” A canny glint fills her eyes. “Or someone else who could stop this. Jeremy, you know someone who can help us, I’m sure.”

  Jeremy runs a hand through his hair. “Who would believe us? What proof do we have?”

  “The journals!” Bran bursts out. “Nobody can deny their words.”

  “They could be dismissed as the ramblings of a dying man. I’m afraid nobody will help us with only that.”

  “We should at least try,” I say, wishing I didn’t agree with them, wishing I could keep my family out of danger. But if those men are going to use my father’s device and their own weapon to erase people from the earth, for whatever reason, we’re not safe even if we stay home and do nothing. I lace my fingers together and grip them until they turn white. “You should tell the person you trust the most and see if they will help us. If even they will not offer us help, nobody will.”

  Bran frowns. “I agree. We need to tell someone. I thought we could do this—whatever this is—alone. But after Morelock … it’s too dangerous.”

  “Have you read this?” Jeremy asks, looking to my brother. He’s picked up one of the journals that lay on the bed.

  Bran nods. “More times than I can remember.”

  “But have you truly read them?” There’s a light in Jeremy’s eyes.

  “I don’t understand what you mean.”

  “Certain words and letters are italicised. It’s not particularly noticeable, but then I knew your father so I knew to search for it. In the entry where he talks about the higher sectors of the Olympiae there’s an embedded message—an address. It must be significant or he wouldn’t have gone to the length of putting it in code.”

  “Is it an English address?” I ask, leaning forward.

  Jeremy nods. “A London one—close to the Holborn Viaduct. It wouldn’t take long to travel there.”

  “No,” Bran protests immediately. I close my mouth on my own protest, a little shocked that my reckless brother is saying no. “Nobody is going off to anymore unknown buildings.” I can see the mark that night has left in him, a tension in his shoulders, a flit of fear in his eyes. He’s scared.

  “I wasn’t going to suggest going alone,” Jeremy says. As soon as he’s spoken, his jaw snaps shut and a vacant look comes over his eyes. Carolina leans across the distance between them to shake his shoulder but he’s already retreated to the inside of his mind.

  Jeremy has always been a little strange. Scatter-brained, some people call him. Others call him worse. Carolina once explained that when he has an idea or a spark of brilliance, his mind protects itself from distractions by cutting off his awareness of the outside world until he has produced a plan or solution.

  It takes fifteen minutes for Jeremy to return to the room, during which the tray of biscuits and tea that Nancy brought in for us a while ago is emptied, and we sit in nervous quiet. I think we all know that whatever Jeremy suggests when he comes back to consciousness will be the course of action we take.

  “I have to go,” he says finally, darting up. “There are things I must do, people I need to contact.”

  “Jeremy.” Carolina catches his arm, looking up into his face. “What is it?”

  “I’m alright, Cara,” Jeremy assures her, pressing a lingering touch to her face. “And I know what we need to do to get the devices into safe hands. All of you—” He glances around the room. “Well, perhaps not Branwell. But Bennet; you be ready to leave the house in an hour or so.”

  “Why?” I ask, my stomach tripping. “Where are we going?”

  “To the address in the book. But, don’t worry, we won’t be going alone.”

  “Then who’ll be going with us?”

  “The Goldens.”

  Bran groans noisily and flops onto his back. “God save us all. Anyone but them.”

  ***

  Honour

  10:10. 01.10.2040. Forgotten London, Shepherd’s Bush Zone.

  Today I overheard two Officials talking. They were hanging around my work, waiting to catch anyone for stealing or doing their job ineffectively. They spent the whole time gossiping.

  One of them, a thirty year old, superior-looking Official was boasting about the apartment he had saved for him in States’s capital and all the fancy things it had: electric heating, running water, and some stuff I didn’t recognise. The other Officials reeled off their own plans for the coming winter. It sounded like none of them planned to be here come Christmas.

  But then one of them said something careless, the other two hissing at him to keep his mouth shut, but I’d already heard.

  Soon enough no one’ll remember Forgotten London. I’ll be happy to never hear the name of this shithole ever again.

  All the hairs on my body stood on end.

  Now I know States and their military are planning something. F.L. won’t exist anymore. They’re going to kill us all. But I knew that already.

  And now I know it’s close.

  ***

  Branwell

  11:02. 01.10.1878. London.

  No sooner have I walked into the sitting room than Bennet says, “No.”

  “What?” I ask with an air of innocence.

  “I know what you’re planning, so I will repeat what I said: No.”

  “What’s going on?” Carolina glances between the two of us. She’s dressed in a dark red dress, almost black. It hangs loosely around her legs and fits tightly over her upper body, of a thin material I know is not in style. Bennet is in something similar. I almost ask why but then I realise that they’re in a weak attempt at fighting attire. I suppose if they do have to fight, it would be difficult in half a million skirts.

  “He wants to come with us,” my sister says on a sigh.

  “That is out of the question.” Carolina purses her lips. “You’re hurt, Branwell, don’t be an imbecile. I know that’s difficult for you but do try.”

  I narrow my eyes. “I can walk and run and do everything as normal—I’ve tested myself. I don’t see why I should stay here while you’re out there doing God only knows what.”

  “It’s the ‘God only knows what’ that you won’t be partaking in. Do the s
mart thing and return to your room.”

  My glare clashes with Carolina’s. “I’m going with you.”

  “Go back to bed,” she says, steely, just as Jeremy walks through the door, two familiar people beside him. I scowl, shoving my hands into my trouser pockets.

  “Ah, Bran, you’re up,” Jeremy notices cheerfully. “Are you coming with us?”

  “No, he is not!” Bennet shouts.

  “Still allowing your sister to order you around I see, Branwell,” remarks one of the newcomers; Ernest Golden—an old ‘friend’ of our family, though certainly not of mine. He’s a tall man—barely—with black hair, dark eyes, and a perpetual snicker in his voice. He’s a mere year older than Bennet and me but he acts as if there’s a decade of age and wisdom separating us.

  His sister, the second new-arrival, is much more tolerable. Like her brother’s, her hair is dark, flowing in unrestrained waves around her arms today. She’s beautiful but in a way that assures everyone she very much knows that fact. She stands tall and looks at everyone as if she is the most important person in the room, but when she’s away from her brother she’d been known to have fun.

  “Humouring her,” I reply to Ernest.

  He smiles coldly. “Of course.”

  “What are they doing here, Jeremy?” I look to my cousin who’s now fixated on the journal in which he discovered the address. He doesn’t raise his eyes from the page when he answers me.

  “They’re helping us, of course. The gentleman who lives at the address we’re to visit is a member of a prestigious social circle. Ernest here will set up a meeting with him under false pretences—of following in his grandfather’s footsteps as a member—and we shall go with him. That will give us access to the house and from there … well, I rather think we’ll make it up.”

  “Don’t we always?” Bennet mutters.

  I fold my arms over my chest. “How much have you told them?”

  “As much as they need to know,” Jeremy replies calmly. “They have their own interest in the matter—they won’t betray our trust.”