CHAPTER 9

For a moment, there was stunned silence in the back room of the Wind and Sail as the cluster around Winslow Robertson sat gaping at him in fleeting disbelief. Then, Savage finally spoke up.

"What the hell is the Hand of Midas?" he demanded.

Mercer rolled his eyes, and Cat looked disgusted. "You have absolutely no classical education, do you?" she said disdainfully.

"Never seemed important," Savage chuckled

"Well, it's important now," Cat said irritably. "Mr. Robertson, would you care to elaborate?"

"Certainly, Miss Welborne," Winslow said with a polite incline of his head. "An ancient Greek legend tells of the great King Midas, who loved wealth and money so much that he wished that everything he touched would turn into gold. His wish was granted, but he soon discovered that the food he ate turned to gold before he could swallow it, as did the wine he wanted to drink. He knew he would starve, but he stubbornly refused to see his folly – until he embraced his beloved daughter and she turned into gold. Then he begged that the gift be rescinded, and supposedly it was."

Savage whistled appreciatively. "Damn, but that's a gift I would never ask to rescind," he said. "I'd be rich for the rest of my life without ever having to work for it."

"That would be your dream, wouldn't it?" Mercer said contemptuously. Money neither interested nor motivated Mercer, and he couldn't begin to fathom how it could have such draw to others.

"So, if the curse was withdrawn from Midas, then how does the Hand play into the story?" Cat asked curiously. Mercer smiled slightly at her choice to use the word "curse" rather than "gift."

Winslow leaned forward secretively. "There is another legend about that – an addendum, if you will, to the first," he said in a low, excited voice. "That legend claims that the gift was never actually taken from Midas; that Midas' hands themselves turned to gold, and that in his despair at his daughter's transformation, he had both of them cut off. Nobody knows for certain where the Hands have gone to, but some are better able to guess than others."

"Miss Bussiere being one of them, I assume," Mercer murmured thoughtfully.

Winslow nodded. "I believe so, yes," he said.

"So there are two of them, then?" Savage said, a greedy glint in his eye.

Winslow shook his head slowly. "There used to be two of them, according to the legend," he said. "But apparently there's some secret organization after the total destruction of both the Hands. According to every rumor I've heard, they destroyed the first Hand about a hundred years back. The second Hand, however, is still in existence somewhere – where, I don't know, and how it's escaped the Gold Eaters I'll never understand…"

"The Gold Eaters?" Mercer repeated.

"They're the organization to which I referred earlier," Winslow explained. "They hunt down particularly valuable artifacts in this part of the world and destroy them, to keep greedy Europeans from getting their hands on them – and to make certain their own people don't break trust and sell them to become rich. They hate the rich among us – so you'd best watch yourself, Mercer. If they hear who you're working for and what you're after, they'll be out for blood. They despise the Company – and they've heard Beckett's name more than once before now."

Mercer wasn't particularly concerned with the threat, but he was irritated. It sounded as though there was yet another barrier to prevent him from completing his mission – and that was the last thing he needed. If it all possible, he wanted to return to London alive, with all his body parts intact, hopefully with Catherine in the same condition, and with the Hand safely in Beckett's possession. That was beginning to seem less and less likely already.

Deciding to ponder the logistics of the mission later, Mercer said, "We're looking for some other people, as well."

"Christ, Mercer; how many people are you looking for?" Winslow snorted. "Who else?"

"Captain Tyris Burton and his crew," Mercer informed him. "They're pirate scum, the lot of them. They sail onboard the pirate ship Redemption, which you made have heard of. Beckett wants their heads."

Winslow raised both brows at that. "Beckett wants every pirate's head," he pointed out. "Why these ones particularly?"

"Company business, Winslow, and therefore not yours," Mercer said shortly. "Just tell me where they are, and you'll be well compensated."

At the mention of compensation Winslow leaned forward eagerly. "How much will I be compensated?" he questioned.

Mercer casually laid his pistol on top of the table and pointed it at the inn's proprietor. "The price," he said evenly, "Is not negotiable. It's plenty, I'll promise you that."

Winslow eyed the gun and Mercer in turn, uncertain if he should challenge Mercer's pledge. Wisely, he opted not to. "They've been through here every now and again the past few months, asking after Miss Bussiere like you," he said. "But they keep leaving to plunder some more. They've got to live, after all, and they need money to do so. I imagine they'll be back soon, though; we haven't seen them for nigh two months now. Miss Bussiere has asked me to keep a lookout for them. I suppose you want to intercept her before she meets with them?"

Mercer nodded shortly. "We'd rather she was on our side," he said with a small grin. "She's apparently been hired to lead Tyris and his crew to the Hand. Obviously such a treasure should not fall into the hands of filth like them."

"Obviously," Winslow said dryly. "God forbid they actually become wealthy enough to stop plundering and thus become part of the aristocracy."

"That's the hell of the matter," Mercer said, glaring dangerously at Winslow. "They wouldn't stop plundering, no matter how rich they got. It's in their blood, Winslow; they like breaking laws and spitting in the King's face. It brings them a sick sort of joy. They like to call it 'freedom.'"

"Doesn't sound so bad to me," Savage said.

"Then you can join them," Mercer said, casting Savage a wrathful glance. "And you can die with them, too, if that's your wish."

"I'd like to live a bit longer, thanks," Savage muttered sullenly. "But how, exactly, are we going to get this Bussiere girl to help us?" He grinned widely. "I can seduce her if you like," he offered.

Cat laughed raucously at that. "Oh, yes, that'll be brilliant," she said sarcastically. "You'll use your completely nonexistent wit and charm to woo her until she can't possibly be parted from you, and thusly she'll agree to help us, and pirate gold be damned." She stopped laughing and shook her head disparagingly at Savage. "Don't be daft, lieutenant," she said, serious now. "I doubt she came here – and came to be known here – through fits of feminine passion. And anyway, I've rarely found that women fall instantly in love with men like yourself."

Savage glared narrowly at her. "I could get information out of her without her love," he snarled.

"And leave her for the pirates to use as well?" Winslow demanded. "That's bloody brilliant, Savage."

"I didn't say she'd stay alive," Savage said darkly.

"You're a sick bastard, and I hope you die," Cat spat, pushing her chair back and standing up. "I'm going upstairs to see how Jayant's faring. You'll find me there if you need me."

Before she could depart, Mercer leapt up and grabbed her arm. "You're not going alone," he growled.

"Oh, for pity's sake, David!" she exclaimed. "It's just in the inn! Can't you trust me enough to let me alone even in here?"

"It's not you I don't trust," Mercer said ominously, glancing at Savage again.

Winslow stood up quickly. "Mercer's right, Miss Welborne; this is a dangerous place for a young woman who's alone. I'll go with you." He looked over at Mercer. "May I assume that will be acceptable to you?" he asked.

Mercer didn't look particularly pleased with the arrangements, but he nodded after a moment's consideration. "I suppose I can trust you with her for a bit," he sighed. After looking her over for another moment, he stepped very close to Cat and took her other hand in his. She felt something cold and hard pressed against her palm – a dagger in a small sheath. Mercer's body blocked it from being seen by the other two men. He embraced her quickly and hissed in her ear, "Inner pocket of your coat. Hide it there. And for God's sake, use it if the need arises." With that, he stepped back and asked, in a completely level voice, "And in what room might we find Miss Bussiere?"

"Third floor, furthest room down the left hand side of the corridor," Winslow said automatically. He gently took Cat's arm and brought her towards the door. "Come along, Miss Welborne. We'll check on Jayant together."

Cat shivered slightly at the strange weight on the right side of her coat even as she tried to nod in a natural manner. She glanced back nervously at Mercer, hoping to read something comforting in his expression – but his face only reflected the same apprehension in hers. She didn't believe she could come to any harm in the inn, but she didn't like the thought of having to defend herself with the weapon Mercer had handed her…

Silently she followed Winslow out, praying to God she would never have to.

Victoria paced anxiously inside the Rose House, hands twisting and tangling the skirt of her shift as she walked. Bloody hell, bloody face, bloody pirates, bloody God… Her mind whispered a thousand angry oaths in her ear while she desperately attempted to ignore them. Her impatience and her fear were palpable forces in the room, almost as real and present as she.

She jumped and looked up with wide eyes when the door to the Rose House swung open. Beckett stepped inside the door, swathed in a dark black cloak that was dripping with rain, his wig protected by a wide-brimmed tricorner hat. He swept off the cloak in one smooth gesture, a shower of silvery raindrops falling to the floor as he did so. He removed his hat, then set down both the hat and a package he had under his arm on a small table by the door. He glanced over at Victoria with a small smirk beginning to grow. "I haven't seen you look so nervous in my presence since the first day I brought you here," he laughed. "Frightened, are we?"

"Oh, of course not," Victoria said bitingly. "It's just my face."

Beckett chuckled. "It's going to be perfectly fine, Victoria," he assured her, shrugging off his frock coat and tossing it atop the soaking cloak – a gesture that made Victoria wince.

"Why do you always have to be so careless with your coats?" she demanded in irritation. "Those things are bloody expensive!"

"And since you're not the one paying for them, I hardly see how it matters," Beckett said, but he bent and swept the coat off the floor anyway, setting it with considerably more care on the small table beside the door. With easy and measured steps, he turned and walked around the divan, removing Morgan's Book from the crook of his arm and opening it, starting to flip through its multitudinous pages for the spell he intended to use. Victoria bounced impatiently on the balls of her feet, now twisting her shift even more than before.

"Careful, dear, or you'll tear your shift to shreds," Beckett said in amusement. "Ah, here we are." He looked up at her almost eagerly, almost apprehensively. "Are you ready, then?"

She sucked in a deep breath, smiled and nodded, the picture of the beautiful faerie maiden she had seen in the Book firmly planted in her mind. You'll be beautiful when he's through, she assured herself. You'll be beautiful, you'll be stunning, don't be afraid, you'll be beautiful…

He knelt on the floor, setting the book before him, and carefully lifted his walking cane. He looked up and stared intently at her, eyes narrowed in concentration. He said nothing, but Victoria knew he was picturing her face, and what he wanted it to become. Her skin started to tingle, and she let her eyes flutter closed as the sensation overtook her entire body. Scars that had been left elsewhere were being mended; her face was knitting itself back together perfectly. It was an odd feeling; it didn't exactly burn or freeze, but she felt as though her skin were melting and shifting about. She could almost listen to it as it worked itself back into place, shifting and changing.

After a few long moments, the sensation ceased, and Victoria felt incredibly – normal. Elated, her eyes flew open, and she lifted the small mirror in her hands upwards to look at her face – and froze.

She looked exactly as she felt – normal – except for one thing: there, running from her eye to her nose, was one long, silvery scar.

She looked up at him with deeply disappointed eyes. "Maybe you should try again," she said fearfully. "It didn't really work."

"Actually," Beckett said hesitantly, "It did."

She stared blankly at him. "What do you mean?" she asked. "I still have a scar, and anyway I look -!" Realization slowly dawned on her. "What spell were you using?" she demanded icily.

"Tori -!" Beckett started.

"What spell were you using?"

He sighed. "I just felt that the spell for beauty was a bit… unnecessary," he said, carefully avoiding her gaze. "I understand that you'd like to be beautiful – most women would – but I don't know if that's the best decision for you."

Victoria's eyes narrowed, and she studied him coldly. "You thought it would be better," she said slowly, her voice laced with rage, "To leave me looking like this?"

"There's nothing wrong with the way you look," Beckett said tartly, glancing up at her.

"Oh, of course not!" Victoria said shrilly, trying to choke back her fury. "There's only an enormous, ugly scar slashing across my face! What in God's name is wrong with that?"

"Absolutely nothing," Beckett said firmly. "You were attacked by pirates. They scarred you spiritually, and the mark on your face reflects that. Nobody can expect you to emerge from a pirate attack looking perfect – and I do intend to share your kidnapping with the aristocracy, finally, as an explanation for your seclusion over the past months."

"And won't they all be so delighted to see the damage done to me?" Victoria spat, bitter tears starting to spill down her cheeks. "I thought this was about good appearances for the aristocracy."

"Victoria, you have one scar," he said in exasperation. "One scar. Compare that to the thirteen you had before on your face. Don't you think that's an improvement?"

"But I could have been improved even further if you'd used the right spell," she cried. "What the hell did you do to me, anyway?"

Beckett sighed and ran a hand over his eyes. "There's a spell here for healing old wounds – scars, broken bones, anything," he explained. "It was infinitely simpler for me to cast and was far less taxing on me personally, for starters; and furthermore it mostly restored your face to its state before the pirates attacked you, which is how everyone you know besides Rose and Presbery will remember you. The one scar makes your attack, your suffering, and your seclusion sound infinitely more plausible. I think they'd all be rather skeptical if I told them you'd been attacked by pirates and then turned up at the next opera with some faerie goddess whom I claimed was you, don't you agree?"

All of what he'd said made sense, but that only nettled Victoria. She'd been thinking about the page with the exquisitely beautiful woman for months, silently hoping that soon it would be her; to find that Beckett didn't want to cast the spell and hadn't, without even informing her of the change first, was beyond infuriating. "You could use my good looks to your advantage," she insisted. "Don't you think all the other lords will be jealous when they see what I've blossomed into over the past months?"

"They hate me enough as it is," Beckett said, rolling his eyes slightly. "God knows I don't need to give them another reason."

Victoria clenched her fists wrathfully – she was not willing to let go of her dream so easily. "You're not objecting out of concern for me at all, are you?" she snarled. "You're doing it for some personal advantage that I can't even begin to fathom!"

"I do everything for my personal advantage," Beckett drawled. "Surely you knew that by now, pet."

The infuriating nickname put her over the edge. "Oh, that's rich," she sneered. "Lord Beckett wants his wife to be a hag, because it works to his advantage."

Now it was his turn to get angry. "That's not at all the reason," he snapped.

"Well, what is the reason, then?" she demanded, crossing her arms over her chest and glaring challengingly at him. "Do you like having me ugly, so I can't outshine you? Or are you keeping some pretty little whore somewhere on your property that I don't know about?"

"You're being ridiculous, Victoria," Beckett said heatedly, starting to turn away from her.

"Am I indeed?" Victoria said tartly. "You'll forgive me, however, if I don't understand your logic. I would think that you would want your wife to be extraordinarily beautiful."

"She is beautiful," Beckett said furiously, turning back to her with such speed that she took a step back. There was fire in his blue eyes as he stared her down. "She was before and she is now, whether or not she realizes it. And I'd rather have my old Victoria back than create a new, vain, proud, and insufferable one, if you don't mind. I didn't marry you just to watch you become another Emma Clark!"

Victoria stared at him, thunderstruck. His hands were clenched at his sides, and he was looking back at her with the most peculiar mixture of anger, adoration, and sadness. She had never thought of how such a transformation might affect her vanity, but she could picture it now that Beckett had presented the possibility to her – her ethereal, faerie-like appearance, her sudden confidence in her own looks, her admiration of her own face. She would forget that it was fabricated and think of it as her own; she would boast and brag about beauty that should never have been hers. She would primp and preen and flaunt it to those who had mocked her before, and she would become the empty, selfish woman that Beckett had spent most of his bachelorhood avoiding. "You… you really think that's what would happen?" she asked tremulously.

His eyes were still smoldering as he looked at her. "I believe in you enough to think it wouldn't happen immediately, but you wouldn't be able to wait to gloat," he said, his voice calmer now. "And you'll already be staring at yourself in the mirror enough, even with the simple changes I've made for you now…"

Well, that was probably true enough; but one quick glance in the mirror confirmed her disappointed dreams – there was only her old face there, not beautiful really, just nondescript Victoria with a scar on her cheek. "But, Cutler, wouldn't it -?" she started, but he cut her off imperiously.

"No, Tori," he said vehemently. "I don't want some new, strange, faerie-blessed Victoria; I want you, just as you are – human imperfections and all."

The words were astonishingly tender for Beckett, and the feeling behind them mollified her. Still, it was hard to let go of the image of the beautiful faerie maiden. "You could have at least taken away all of the scars," she said despondently. "If you'd wanted to you could have altered the reports and said the pirates didn't attack my face."

"I liked your scars," Beckett informed her. She cast him an incredulous glance, and he smiled wanly. "I did," he assured her. "They're as much a part of you as your noise or your hair or your hands. I was only willing to change them because I know how the aristocracy would have reacted to them – and I don't think you deserve that." He tilted his head slightly to the side and examined her. "You're not convinced."

"Not entirely, no," she admitted.

He turned and went to the table by the doorway where he'd set his coat and hat. She'd been so nervous before that she hadn't really noticed the other book he'd brought with him, carefully wrapped in fabric to protect it from the elements. He unwrapped it and brought it over to her, laying it in her lap. "Look," he ordered.

She flipped it open the first page and found herself starting at – herself. She looked up in surprise at Beckett. "Sketches? Of me?" she said. "I knew Rose had found them, but I didn't look at them while she was here."

"Rose found them, did she?" he said softly. "I'm surprised you didn't peek. But I suppose now is a better time to see them."

"Perhaps," Victoria murmured. She considered her mirror image on the page before her. She had counted the thirteen scars on her face innumerable times, traced them with her eyes until they were almost familiar, old friends. She could trace them now on this penciled face with her eyes closed. She smiled a little sadly and said, "I named all of the scars at one point… just out of boredom."

"Did you," Beckett said with a laugh. "What did you name them?"

"Oh, I forgot all their names the first time I did it," she said with a wry chuckle. "I had to rename them a week later when my journal was on hand. I can't remember them at the moment, but the list is in there."

Beckett looked both amused and slightly disdainful at the idea of naming scars, but rather than commenting further he said, "Mercer told me once that the scars added a certain character to your face – that they made you into something entirely unique. And the first night I sketched you, I wanted to capture the movement of your scars when you smiled and play it over and over again. It was just… serene. Beautiful, in its own way."

"It felt odd, though," she said, wrinkling her nose. "I could feel them stretching sometimes. I hated it at first, but I got used to it." She turned several pages, pondering different portraits in silence. Abruptly, she continued, "Oscar told me they made him think of shooting stars streaking across my face – like faeries had left star trails there after planting tiny kisses on my skin." She touched the sketched scars with delicate fingers. "I hated them," she said angrily. "I hated them, and I embraced them, depending on the day and who I saw. I struggled with them, and I wanted nothing more than to be free of them."

"And yet, you learned from them."

She considered that with a thoughtful frown, brows furrowed as she turned the page to study another sketch. "Yes, I suppose I did," she said softly.

And with the casting of a spell, they were gone without a trace. Almost an entire year of her life had been erased; the evidence of the crime against her, the reason for the hardening of her heart, the sole sign of the event that had forced her to grow and mature in a matter of days – had just disappeared… except for that single scar that Beckett had left on her cheek.

She touched the scar with soft fingers as she traced the other, penciled scars on the page. She heaved a sigh and flipped the sketchbook closed, letting her hand drop away from the scar on her face. "Being plain human-looking Victoria won't be so bad, I suppose," she said with a little laugh.

"You've been her before; I can't imagine it will be too difficult to step into the role again," Beckett said, an oddly gentle edge to his voice.

She bit her lip and nodded slowly; then, after a moment, she said, "You're right, of course. You always are."

He smiled widely. "Ah, you've finally learned," he said in slight amusement. "I'm always right about everything."

She cast him a sly glance. "Except for the sex of your baby," she said, a mischievous twinkle in her eyes. "You can't begin to hope to be right about that."

He touched her now-swelling belly with loving fingers. "We'll just see about that, won't we?" he said with a dangerous smirk.

Victoria grinned widely. "Oh, yes," she agreed, "We will."

And, oddly enough, she felt lighter somehow – more settled, more herself than before. She had her old face back, and one scar to remind her of what she'd suffered. Two parts, merged into a whole.

She was Victoria, completed.