Oubliette

by M J Moores

  “He would have killed you had I not roused those bobbies to follow me back to the warehouses.”

  “Same thing happened at the last attempted theft. I had to coax one to”—she inhaled sharply as he set the cloth against her head—“follow me too. I can only imagine the damage they caused.”

  He shifted back and dropped the cloth into the now rust-colored water. Louisa took another sip of tea—maybe more of gulp.

  “How did you know they’d be there?” he asked, more than a hint of curiosity clinging to his words.

  “A … colleague of mine mentioned another break-in. It sounded a lot like what happened to—to that inventor, Bennett. The thieves went from destroying his workshop to looting his warehouse. It only made sense to check it out.”

  “Turns out we were both right. I had a similar hunch. Did you get a good look at the cutpurses?” Morrie asked.

  “Yes, same pair as before.”

  “What about the Brick?”

  “No. Just his outline. Never saw his face. Never even knew he was there … Bobolyne.”

  “You’re not a fool.” Morrie’s hand slid from Louisa’s shoulder, down her arm, and under the duster to her waist. She dropped the tea and shoved him back. The echo of china shattering brought footsteps.

  “It’s all right,” Morrie called, not to Louisa but to whomever stood on the other side of the door.

  “I’ll be leaving now, thank you.” Louisa stood and caught her breath, hugging her ribs with one arm and steadying herself against the wall with the other. She only hoped whoever had been on the other side of the door was gone now.

  “That woman, Scythe you call her? She kicked you hard. I wouldn’t be surprised if she bruised your ribcage or even fractured something. I was checking to see how tender they were. Let me bind your thorax for you. It’ll help. Then, you can call for a doctor in the morning.” A shadow crossed his face.

  “What in God’s name is a thorax? You’re a reporter, not a physician. I’ll take my chances.” She staggered to the door, jolting at the pain, dulled but still very much there.

  “I wasn’t always a reporter, Miss. Phoenix. At the very least, let me wrap your corset so you can breathe easier. Then, I’ll hail a Steamie for you.” He side-stepped her and pulled a zipped bag from under the cot. Morrison removed thin strips of fabric, likely from an old sheet. Louisa glimpsed other medical-related items too. Whoever Morrie was, she wasn’t the first person he’d helped after a fight.

  Louisa leaned her back against the door, her grip on the handle looser. Maybe it was what he’d said or the sober look in his eyes, but something told her she could trust him. Maybe it was the alcohol he’d put in her tea or the fact that he could have taken advantage of her numerous times but hadn’t. She blotted out her mother’s warnings, her mother’s choices, and forced herself to focus through the pain on the here and now.

  “All right.” She gingerly removed the duster and dropped it onto the cot, raising her arms less than a foot from her sides—any more and the pain threatened to overwhelm her again.

  He gave his trademark nod, tied several lengths of the cloth together, and stepped toward her. Morrison stared directly into her eyes as he reached his arms around her torso, his breath feathering the bridge of her nose. The sides of his arms grazed her bodice, and her heart thundered in her chest and ears. Still, she refused to look away, seeing him fully for the first time—scars and all.

  Morrison tied off the first section across the back of her corset, the front snugged tight under her bosom, and proceeded to wrap. Length after length of fabric cinched her ribs and, just as he’d promised, this made it easier to breathe.

  He tied the last of the strips at the side of her waist, picked up her long coat, and placed it around her shoulders, never breaking eye contact.

  Finally, he bent down, tucked his bag away, and collected the largest shards of her teacup, placing them in the red-tinged water bowl. Without a word, he opened the door and motioned for her to exit.

  Louisa took a few tentative steps, keeping her breath shallow. She walked along a dim corridor, past an entryway into a saloon, mostly darkened except for a single walking candle and holder placed on a table near the bar. She gripped the railing on her way up the stairs, straining from the effort, and pushed open a solid, unmarked door at the top of a small landing.

  The cold night air smacked her, waking her from whatever spell she’d been under. Morrie did as he said he would and hailed her a Steamie. She didn’t say thank you, squeeze his hand, or even look at him as she climbed into the cab of the public landau—nor did she stay in the vehicle for more than a block.

  “Let me off just around the corner, please,” Louisa called to the driver once they were out of earshot.

  “Are you certain? The gentleman will pay the full fare.”

  I’m certain he will, and slide you a little extra for revealing where I live too. Whatever else the man might be, he’s still a reporter who tended to the Shadow Phoenix. “I’m certain, thank you.”

  She gingerly pulled herself out of the vehicle and disappeared into the shadows.

  It took Louisa over an hour to walk home and just as long to climb the stairs to her room. She dropped her duster, pried off her headband and goggles, and descended, fully clothed, into a pain-riddled nightmare.

  Hens and Chicken

  “ Uh!” Louisa gasped, her arms poised to unwrap her ribs as she sat on the edge of her bed the next morning. “Ohh …” She gave in to a low groan that scalded her throat. She tried to swallow past the swelling, her head throbbing. Louisa gave up trying. Every inch of her body protested movement of any kind, but she had a job to do. Her night excursions couldn’t impact her day-to-day schedule. She couldn’t risk losing the one job she could still do.

  Louisa plucked a dark blue chemise off the coverlet and moved as little as possible to shrug it on over her leather corset and wrappings—a fashion faux pas, but she hoped with the darker waist no one would notice. Besides, her mother’s teachings related to high society, not work attire. She stopped twice to rest before attempting to button it all up to her chin. No sense in shouting her failures to the world … or worrying her boss about bruises on her neck.

  After choosing a loose skirt, Louisa sat with her hand-held mirror at her bureau and applied a heavy cream topped with powder to her already pale face. Her hand shook but she managed to hide the marks. She pictured the band of mottled skin running along the side of Morrie’s face from ear to jaw. It reminded Louisa of the burns on Isabel’s hands and arms from hot pots and liquids in the kitchen.

  What on earth happened to him? She blinked away the thought and forced herself to stand. It didn’t matter. She wouldn’t let herself analyze why, just focus on the moment—one foot in front of the other.

  Louisa gripped the railing as she walked down the stairs, aware she no longer had time for breakfast, and sighed. Miss Margaret bustled out of the common room, turning with militaristic precision at the bottom of the stairs, and looked up just in time to see Louisa.

  “Good heavens!” her landlady exclaimed. “Back to bed with you, child. If death hasn’t warmed over, it soon will. You’ll not be leaving this house in that state.”

  The woman twirled Louisa around, supporting her under the elbow, and guided her back up the stairs before she could utter a garbled word of protest.

  “No, I’ll not hear it. I’ll send your Master Bennett a letter straight off. He’ll not want you making his household ill, so no more protests. To bed with you.”

  Louisa winced as she flopped down onto her coverlet, and Miss. Applewood unclasped and removed the boots Louisa had slept in.

  “Now, you slip back into your nightdress, and I’ll be right back with some porridge.”

  Louisa did as she was told and stayed that way for two days.

  #

  Half-listening as Bennet hummed to himself, Louisa couldn’t determine the song or even if it was recognizable tune. He poured over requisites and contr
acts for next week’s follow-up test of the dispersal orbs. She reached across the workbench for a new sphere and inhaled sharply. The humming faltered. Louisa coughed to cover her reaction. She’d managed to remove her Phoenix corset and re-wrap her ribs with the lengths of material again—not as tightly as Morrie had, but still far tighter than her usual undergarments.

  A large yellow and black bruise covered her left side, and the middle of two ribs ached at even the slightest touch. She took a slow, steadying breath, collected the orb, and measured out the correct ingredients. After setting the cork, she added it to the morning’s pile.

  Bennett hummed again.

  Louisa released her breath.

  They were behind. Two days without her to make spheres meant Bennett had to remain focused on paperwork and logistics and money. But having affairs in order meant nothing if he didn’t have the product to back up his claims. Louisa’s evening preoccupations were not supposed to interfere with her day job. She’d broken the cardinal rule. Her only consolation was knowing it wouldn’t happen again because the Shadow Phoenix was no more. Clearly, she wasn’t cut out for it.

  Bennett’s pencil clattered to the table. Louisa jolted and looked up. He pushed away from the desk, rubbing his face and leaning back into his chair.

  “I need a break.”

  Louisa nodded and reached for another orb. A drawer scraped open before the telltale flick of the newspaper made her nerves sizzle. So much of who she thought she was started with a simple news report. But that wasn’t her—it was just some character a bored reporter made up. It didn’t matter what the words on the page said anymore. This was where she belonged.

  “Did you hear about the wharf thefts?”

  “Hmm? Pardon, sir?”

  “I suppose not, having been laid up. The police aren’t saying they’re connected to Collingworth’s bad luck. Poor sot,” he said, referring to the engineer whose warehouse Bug and Scythe had burgled. “I asked Hersh about it when he stopped by the other day.”

  “Inspector Hersh came by?”

  “Yes, to let me know they hadn’t given up on finding the vandals but that resources were needed elsewhere.”

  Louisa carefully cleared her throat. “And what became of Collingworth’s lot?”

  Bennett smacked the paper down, stood, and paced behind his desk. Louisa continued to fill the spheres she’d made that morning.

  “Bad situation, that. He lost a prototype. Looks like he’ll have to drop out of consideration for the new design modification at the race. Had a brilliant idea for generating more power.”

  “For the airships?”

  “The Micros, that’s right. Darn thieves took his notes too. I don’t think he’ll be bouncing back from this one.”

  Louisa’s heart pounded. She knew it didn’t matter. The constabulary would puzzle it out—it was their job after all, but—

  “They think that Phoenix woman might be in on it.” He turned and looked out the open window, craning to see the small slice of street at the front of the house between the two buildings.

  Louisa choked on a dry throat, bungling the mixture for the orb. “They—they think what, now?”

  “The reporter mentioned that the police were not excluding anyone present the night of the theft as a possible suspect. He said Shadow Phoenix was there, but she had no backup this time, and the thieves outnumbered her.”

  “And what are the wharf thefts?” she asked.

  “I’ll leave the paper here for you. Take a look over lunch.” He glanced at his pocket watch, snapped it shut, and clapped his hands together. “I need to meet with the manager of the airfield to see about using one of the weather hangars as a makeshift launch point for the Micro.”

  “The pilot came through for you, then?” Louisa watched him gather his leather satchel and place various files and notebooks inside before hurrying to the door.

  “Yes, very much so. Now, we just need to convince management that access from the Sky Port isn’t necessary and our way would be more efficient.

  Louisa frowned at his emphasis on “convince.” Was Stirling stirring up trouble again? Was the overlord? Bennett didn’t have the same kind of backing to be able to just throw money around. If the pilot was of some renown, maybe he would be heard better than Bennett …

  Her master lingered a breath at the door and leaned into the workroom, hanging from the framing. “You sure you’re all right, Lou? If you need another day to get over your cold—”

  “No! I—I mean, don’t worry about me. We have work to do, and I felt ever so useless lying in bed unable to help. I’ll work on another batch of spheres this afternoon and stay late to get caught up. I’ve got this. You go.”

  He did, giving her a conspiratorial wink as he left. Under normal circumstances, she’d be surprised and flush at the attention, but not today.

  Louisa tried to focus on her job. Three ounces of … a pinch of … a teaspoon of …

  “No! Codswallop.” She’d messed up the ingredient list again. Louisa disposed of the mixed measurements inside a metal box for unignited powder, picked up the sphere and her spoon and froze with each held aloft.

  It will only happen again, you know.

  She glanced at the newspaper lying on the desk.

  Go look already and be done with it. You have work to do.

  Louisa set her supplies down on the crocheted doily Bennett had liberated from the sitting room—it helped keep the orbs from rolling around on the table. She strode across the room on her toes, gliding in time to measured breaths. Louisa picked up the paper and thumbed back to the front-page headlines.

  She scanned the report on her failed attempt to catch the cutpurses—it read just as he’d described. Louisa focused, instead, on the wharf thefts, scanning the story. A dry read compared to Morrie’s writing, but astute as any reporter’s work should be. Her pulse quickened and her hand twitched, crinkling the page as she read.

  “Miss. Wicker,” Courtright’s voice boomed into the room, her equally voluminous body following. “What do you think you’re doing?”

  Louisa couldn’t deal with the housekeeper right now. The woman’s issues were insignificant at the moment.

  “My job, Missus.”

  “You were asked to stand idle and read the master’s paper?” Her gaze shifted to the orb and spoon on the doily. “Shouldn’t you be focusing on more important matters? Master Bennett doesn’t pay us to do nothing.” She made to step into the room but halted at Louisa’s tone.

  “No, he does not. And what would he say about you being on the second floor at this time of day? If you recall, I’m still getting over a frightful bout, and if you must know, my hands were shaking and I needed a short break. I could very well have stayed home another day and played to Master Bennett’s soft nature, but I did not. He is well aware that I am doing what I can, when I can, and even suggested I read the paper on my break to keep up with news related to our vandals. Now—” Louisa snapped the paper so it folded evenly and set it just so on Bennett’s desk—“if you’ll excuse me. The moment has passed and, yes, I do have work to do.” She strode over to the table and picked up her tools.

  Courtright blanched, turned on her heel, and left grumbling.

  “Well, at least I managed not to curse at the poor woman.” Louisa knew the housekeeper was just doing her job, and part of her ached not from painful ribs but from the white lie she’d told. It wasn’t “proper,” as her mother used to say, but it was sometimes hard to mind the words of a hypocrite.

  Somehow, Louisa’s body fell into a rhythm, likely jolted into action by Courtright, even as she mentally reviewed what she’d read:

  Three thefts. No witnesses. One horse, one crate of tobacco, one shipment of women’s dress shoes. All new businesses. No witnesses … That’s what they claimed with Bennett’s warehouse break-in, and why they wouldn’t release my sketches of Bug and Scythe to the papers. By the time I lured Hersh’s man back to the scene of the crime, he had his hands full with
the horses and didn’t get a good look at the thieves … but I was sure he had—

  Louisa corked the last sphere and set it in the padded box on the floor. She held the measuring device in one hand and her other hand hovered over the area where the empty orbs had been.

  That night Scythe had said something to Bug outside the estate. And Ryn, that engineering princess she’d rescued from the vice last week, commented on the thieves …

  “Oh, Lord, no. I must be mistaken.” But what if she was right?

  The only thing that kept Louisa focused for the rest of the afternoon and late into the evening was the constant revolution of five simple words through her brain: I have to find Morrie.

  Broken Promises

  F atigue clung to Louisa’s shoulders, the chill of night’s embrace and her mission all that kept her alert. Another shadow approached along the main street, but her heartbeat remained steady. The small, curved human opened the side door. A pale splash of light welcomed a haggard black man into its midst as piano keys repeated a now-familiar twelve-bar tune. The song was never the same, but the melody didn’t change. It kind of reminded her of life, at least hers, anyway.

  The gas lamps illuminating the street flickered as yet another bobby sauntered past on patrol. Louisa pressed her body into the brickwork where two shops met at the back of the short lane—meant only to allow access to the side door. The high caliber of the neighborhood belied what transpired beneath its cobblestones.

  Louisa gave a small sigh and rested the back of her head against the wall. The new pressure point pulled the dull ache away from the side of her still-healing noggin. She adjusted the pheasant-feather headband holding her new mask in place before running her palms over her bare legs, hoping the friction would warm them. She hadn’t bothered with leggings since this would be the last time she wore the Phoenix garb.

  Another silhouette extracted itself from the street and turned into the lane. Louisa straightened. This was the first one that stood tall and walked with a privileged gait. She stepped forward as he reached for the handle.