A Scandal in Battersea (Elemental Masters #12)(15)

And as for mentally . . . well, Sarah could break her out of that.

She closed her eyes, and opened her mind, and saw what Amelia was seeing—and more importantly, felt what Amelia was feeling.

Absolute terror.

Nan was used to this game by this point, however, and she did not allow Amelia’s terror to become her own. She walled it off, kept it at bay, and continued to observe.

London, but a London transformed into . . . not a hellscape, because there were no flames, and no devils . . . but a place where no sane human would care to dwell. Dark, boiling clouds hung over the city. Lightning lashed the ruined buildings beneath them. Debris tumbled in empty streets, blown by an icy wind that carried with it the scent of decay; misshapen, shadowy creatures skulked just on the periphery of Amelia’s vision, scuttling among overturned cabs and carriages, darting out of sight when Amelia tried to look squarely at them. As Nan watched, a man bolted from cover, trying to cross the street—he had not gotten more than halfway across before inky tentacles erupted out of a shattered shopfront, engulfed him, and before he could utter more than a strangled cry, pulled him into the ruined shop and out of sight.

“The Book,” Nan heard Amelia whisper. “The Book—”

What that meant, Nan could not tell. There was no room for anything in Amelia’s mind but fear, and certainly no sign in her thoughts of any books.

Although Nan viewed the vision as if it was at one remove, she could tell that Amelia was completely immersed in it—and afraid to move, lest some horror stretch out tentacles or claws, seize her next, and drag her away.

Amelia, Nan thought, firmly, making her thoughts a lance to pierce through Amelia’s vision. This isn’t real.

Nan felt a sort of mental jolt. The scene wavered for a moment, as if someone had passed a piece of flawed glass between her and it. Then it solidified again, but now she felt that Amelia was aware of her presence.

Who . . . are you? she heard.

My name is Nan Killian. I am here to help you. This isn’t real.

The scene dimmed, and wavered again, then solidified, just as vivid as before. Not . . . yet.

I told you. I am here to help. But this is not yet real, and hopefully, will not ever become real. She interjected a feeling of warmth and humor. It had better not. I shall be very cross if I cannot visit my shops.

That broke through Amelia’s terror, as Nan had hoped it would. The scene vanished, and the bed shook a little as Amelia started, then weakly laughed—and then as Nan opened her eyes, she burst into tears and threw herself on Nan’s shoulder. The fear was still there, but it was no longer all-encompassing terror. Nan closed herself down again, now allowing herself to feel a bit shaken by the strength of the girl’s emotion, and by what she had seen in Amelia’s mind. Just at the moment, she didn’t want to think about it too much. It would be better to try to analyze it after they knew the girl was not going to be caught in it again.

Nan put her arms around the distraught girl, and looked back at Huntley. “I believe she will be all right now. A nice strong pot of tea, I think, and something to eat. She’s going to be very hungry when she stops crying, and then she will probably want to sleep.”

And I am of two minds about telling him that I saw what she saw.

Huntley looked both stunned and unspeakably relieved. “I’ll see to it myself,” he replied, and hurried off.

“Good,” Nan muttered under her breath. “Now we can learn what’s really going on here.”



It appeared that Huntley was impressed enough by how Nan had broken through to Amelia that he was willing to leave her and the rest of the group in charge of the girl while he took care of other business. There was a modern bathroom available on this floor, and the ladies took advantage of it, since Amelia was, to put it bluntly, a fright. Once she was clean, Mary, Nan, and Sarah helped her into a fresh nightgown, helped her comb out and braid her hair, and got tea, toast, and soft-boiled eggs into her from a tray brought up by an attendant.

That was not what Nan would have chosen, but at least it wasn’t barley water, or beef tea, or something equally useless.

Amelia was mostly silent until still another of the blue-uniformed attendants—a woman, with a white, starched apron over her blue dress—came and took the tray away. John Watson took up a position by the window farthest from them. Mary sat in the bolted-down chair beside him. Amelia had tucked herself back into the bed, sitting up, with the covers pulled around her like armor, while Nan and Sarah sat on the edge, Nan closest to her. Finally, she actually looked at them, as if seeing them for the first time, and asked, “Who—are you?”

“My name is Nan Killian,” Nan said, taking the lead. “These are my friends, Sarah Lyon-White, Doctor John and Mary Watson. Doctor Huntley asked us to come help you when he could not.” She paused. “It seems you fell into a rather horrific vision that you could not be pulled out of. He says you have been awake and suffering for two days. That was me you heard, helping you find your way out of the vision. As you can see things happening at a distance, I can see what others are seeing and thinking, and speak to them in their thoughts. That was how I called you back. Would you like to talk about that?”

Amelia trembled, her eyes brimming with tears. “No,” she replied. “I would not like to. But I feel I must.” Her hands were shaking as she clenched them in the bedcovers. “I can accept that I can see things that are actually happening, terrible as they are—but that! London, in ruins and full of monstrous things! That was never real! Am I finally going mad?”