Oubliette

by M J Moores

  Startled, the gentleman stepped back from the door. The shadows still masked his finer features, but the jaunty curls and strong jawline confirmed her suspicions. Louisa’s heart leaped into her throat as she rasped, “I need to speak with you.”

  He leaned forward as if trying to see her in the dark. “Phoenix?”

  She sighed. “Yes.” It would be the last time she admitted such, and it pained her more than she expected.

  Morrison glanced over his shoulder and reached for the door. “Right, then, come on in.”

  This time, an eerie quiet filled the air and Louisa found herself yearning for the haunting music that clung like honey to her soul. Glasses clinked and hushed conversation buzzed as they walked past the archway to the public house, one Louisa was certain wasn’t actually open to everyone. She glimpsed the small stage and the player piano tucked against the side wall. Two empty wooden stools sat bathed in soft overhead-lantern light. The majority of patrons were slaves. The Queen may have fully abolished slave trading in ‘33, but owning a slave was still allowed, and the predominant cultures remained those of darker skin. A tall, thin, black man stood behind the bar, serving.

  Morrie opened the door at the end of the hall and motioned for Louisa to enter. She obliged, her heart jumping when he closed it behind her. Morrie motioned to the chair while he sat on the cot. She remained standing by the door.

  “You still don’t trust me?” The unspoken words, after everything I’ve done, hung in the air—wet laundry to her closed mind.

  “But I do. More than anyone else. At least in this regard. That’s why I’m here.”

  His gaze flitted about her face. “New mask?”

  She absently touched two fingers to the sore side of her head, her own gaze flickering to the ribbon of pale scar tissue lining the side of his face. “The goggles hurt.”

  Louisa had used the worn leather of her old boots to fashion something a bit more forgiving than the metal driving wear. It covered as a masquerade feature might. Between that and coaxing her unruly curls out of their confinement, her finer features remained hidden. Even if this was her last night as the Phoenix, she couldn’t risk exposing her identity to anyone, let alone a reporter.

  “I guess they would. You seem well, all things considered. What can I do for you?”

  “I have information.”

  “Is that so?”

  She narrowed her eyes. He hadn’t acted like this three nights ago. There’d been a measure of concern woven in with a desire to do what’s right. Maybe she was wrong after all.

  “But if you’re not interested, I can offer it to someone else.” A hollow threat, since she really had nowhere else to go.

  “What do you want, Phoenix? I’m tired. There was another incident tonight, and I’d like to get my notes in order for the story.”

  “What happened?”

  He raised his eyebrows at her.

  “Never mind. Look, I’ve pieced some things together and—”

  “Then write a letter to the constabulary.” His grating disinterest bristled along her spine.

  “I can’t,” she snapped, planting her lace-gloved hands on her hips. “They’re part of the problem. In your article covering the cloud-seeding test, you said they wouldn’t share my sketches of Bug and Scythe because there were no witnesses—not true. The patrolman that night did see who was there. He was one of Inspector Hersh’s men. I had to go looking for the bloke after he’d been assigned to watch Bennett’s property. Then, the night—the night you saved me, we both figured out someone would hit Collingworth’s warehouse based on what happened with Bennett, and yet, you had to go looking for a bobby to lead him to the scene of the crime. A man should have been placed on patrol, yes?”

  Morrie’s eyes lit up as she ranted. He leaned forward, arms on knees, really listening to her now. A hot rush of excitement built in her chest. He believes me.

  “So, I asked myself, how is it possible the thieves knew when each location would be without protection? And then it hit me—the night I followed the thieves after their failed attempt at Bennett’s warehouse, they didn’t lead me back to their hideout but to the backyard of an upscale estate. They demanded of a young woman, about my age, to ‘see him.’ A well-to-do older gentleman came out and spoke, warning them to ‘never step foot on his property again.’ Later, I helped the young woman out of a bind—fingers in a vice—but we exchanged names.”

  “What’s her name?” Tweed teetered on the edge of the bed.

  “Princess Brynna Tamerlane Fitzhugh. So, I got to thinking. If she lives on the estate and the overlord claimed it was his property—”

  “By God, Phoenix! Do you know what that means?” He stood up and grasped her shoulders. Louisa’s heart leaped with his enthusiasm, or was it his nearness?

  “Yes. I looked into her last name at the hall of records before coming here, and the name of the gentleman who owns the estate. Morrie, the new syndicate overlord is Viscount Leslie William Fitzhugh the second. London’s premier judge.” Louisa carefully extracted Morrie’s hands from her shoulders. He didn’t even notice, just shifted to pacing the small room.

  “So, you see, I can’t take this information to the constabulary. Clearly, they’ve been compromised, either willingly or due to an inside man. And if Inspector Hersh is claiming my sketches are unpublishable evidence, then this potentially goes all the way to the top. Or, it starts at the top with the Viscount and everyone else is falling in line. I came to you because I don’t know what to do with this information.”

  He cocked his head to the side and narrowed his eyes at Louisa. “You know my hands are tied, too, right?”

  “What? Why?” Every fiber of her being stiffened.

  “There’s no proof. It’s your word, on circumstantial hearsay alone, against the most notable judicial figure of our time. You need proof. Will his daughter turn him in?”

  Louisa thought of their conversation that night. “No.”

  “Are you anyone of import that could reveal your identity and be seen as a trusted witness?”

  Certainly, both of her parents’ family names demanded respect, but she was just the unclaimed bastard child of a disowned woman with no right to either name.

  “No.”

  “Then all we have is Phoenix.”

  “Excuse me? No, we don’t. Look at me—what they did to me. I’m not the city’s guardian. I’m just a simple girl who thought she could make a difference. Surely, if you brought this information to Glasgow or directly to 1st Viscount Cross, they would listen to you.”

  Morrie folded his arms across his chest and stared at her. “Again, with what proof? They’d never believe me. I’d need hard evidence before I could claim that a respected London judge was the mastermind behind a new criminal syndicate. The first thing they’d ask me, after proof, would be why? Do you have the answer to that, Phoen—lady?”

  That word bulleted through Louisa’s chest and lodged in her heart. She had a hunch as to the “why,” and if she’d thought of it, Tweed likely had too.

  “I don’t need to tell you what you already know.” She crossed her arms. “That incident tonight you mentioned. It had to do with an inventor or an engineer or a businessman with a competing design, didn’t it?”

  His gaze burned into her as electric fire reignited within her veins.

  “It did.”

  “So, then, you know the answer to your own question.”

  “Viscount Fitzhugh is manipulating the system for his own gain. I bet if I do some digging, I’ll find he’s backed Stirling on the cloud-seeding project and Collingworth’s rival … He’s manipulating the outcomes in his favor and, in turn, manipulating development despite the Crown,” Morrie summarized.

  Louisa hadn’t connected it all back to Queen Victoria, but he was right—the judge sought to control the advancement of society and force the Crown into accepting only the projects he deemed worthy. This was so much bigger than she ever thought possible, and the only two people
who could expose the truth would be eaten alive without proof. Morrie had been right all along—this city needed a guardian …

  She cast her gaze down and took in her borrowed clothes and battered body, then slowly looked up at Morrie with a strength of resolve she’d never known.

  “Then we get the proof we need,” she said.

  “How?”

  Her body absorbed the deep, masculine growl. She squared her shoulders. “Form a partnership.”

  “I thought you quit.”

  She gave a curt nod. “I can’t do that now. But I’ll need your help if this stands a chance at working.”

  “Oh? And how’s that?”

  “The Shadow Phoenix needs to be reborn.”

  Fall down Seven Times, Get up Eight

  R ain soaked through Louisa’s black chemise. It clung to her form, clearly marking her as a woman, not that anyone would notice at this time of night. Her foot slipped on the broad wooden pole. She sank into a bend with the opposite knee and wobbled.

  “Get yo ahms out. Birds fly, not fall,” Joe drawled, his deep, southern accent dancing between the drops of rain.

  “Bloody hell,” she muttered.

  “How are you goin’ ta sneak up on someone if dey can hear you?”

  “Only you can hear me.” Louisa scowled. The rain disappeared as fast as it had come—not nearly enough to sate the drought, but more than enough to cause havoc on her training course.

  Now steady, she used her arms to keep balance as she finished crossing the equestrian jump-bar—set to the highest run. Louisa leaped off the end in front of the bartender.

  Joe closed the umbrella and leaned on the handle. One dark eye stared at her, the other looked through her even though its blank white orb professed a lack of sight. Louisa shivered and adjusted her leather mask. The pheasant feathers molded to her hair in the damp.

  “Head into the barn and give me twenty,” Joe said.

  Louisa clenched her teeth, turned, and did as she was told, biting back a sigh and another curse. She slipped past the man door and wiped her hands on her wet hose. The leather of the corset bit into her sore ribs, but only a dull throb remained of last week’s ignorance. Joe insisted if he trained her, she had to learn to move in it even when injured. Morrie’s bartender kept her to task, something she was certain he’d experienced under far worse conditions.

  She waved her hands in the air as a warm snort greeted her over the first stall door. Louisa moved to the empty stall beside Kisber, the thoroughbred racer, and across from Prancer, the first British horse to participate in the show at the Agricultural Hall in Islington this past summer. Of course, only the horses knew she and Joe were there, and they didn’t mind the company. Once in position, Louisa jumped up to hang from the metal pole spanning the breadth of the open stall door.

  “Turn ‘round,” Joe crooned, his voice matching the earthy tones that came from the piano at the bar.

  She scowled but did as instructed and rotated herself in the air, moist hands slipping on the slick metal.

  He beat the wooden floorboard with the umbrella, a strong, steady rhythm, and chanted.

  Hoe Emma Hoe, you turn around dig a hole in the ground, Hoe Emma Hoe.

  Hoe Emma Hoe, you turn around dig a hole in the ground, Hoe Emma Hoe.

  Emma, you from the country.

  Hoe Emma Hoe, you turn around dig a hole in the ground, Hoe Emma Hoe.

  Emma help me to pull these weeds.

  Hoe Emma Hoe, you turn around dig a hole in the ground, Hoe Emma Hoe.

  Emma work harder than two grown men.

  Hoe Emma Hoe, you turn around dig a hole in the ground, Hoe Emma Hoe.

  It didn’t matter that her name wasn’t Emma, nor that she wasn’t digging. She was working hard and had yet to live up to working harder than two grown men. Louisa focused her breath, lifted her chin to the bar and back down again. Her toes dangled a good couple feet off the ground.

  The familiar burn laced across her muscles. He’d said twenty, but it never was. Her first night she’d barely done three. Louisa knew not to bother counting—he’d tell her to stop when he was ready.

  She gave a little hitch-jump with her legs to help her rise high enough to touch her chin to the bar, preparing herself for when her muscles gave out completely.

  “Nuf doin’,” Joe said.

  Louisa dangled there a moment, not quite registering she was done.

  “Ov-ah to da dance, now,” he drawled, a new edge to his southern tone.

  She dropped to the ground and worked the stiff claw form from her fingers as she walked over to the old carriage wheels lying flat on the straw in the middle of the barn.

  Joe started a new, syncopated rhythm with a sound from the back of his throat. Louisa bounced low twice at the knee, then popped up onto her tiptoes. The memory of Joe’s voice commanded her steps. She could not perform the same routine twice, but each sequence had to incorporate both wheels and a series of moves.

  Louisa hopped, dodged, sprang, slid (along the spokes instead of between them), feinted, doubled back, crouched, jumped high knees … all without stepping between or on the same spire more than once.

  Her heart soared as she dodged an invisible foe who looked and moved an awful lot like Scythe. When Louisa landed outside the opposite wheel, a sheen of sweat coated her. Her heart rate gradually re-claimed its rhythm. She risked a small smile, her eyes alight with the dance.

  “Right, let’s go.” Joe shuffled out the back man door. Louisa shook off her confusion and jogged after him.

  “Where are we going?” she asked, walking a half step behind him to show respect.

  “Testin’ ground.”

  Her heart ignited. “Already?”

  “Mmhmm.”

  A bounce heightened her step until they drew closer to the repair barn. Warm lantern glow spilled between every crack in the boards and flooded out the main double doors.

  Louisa’s pulse quickened the closer they got. Male voices floated out on the cool evening air.

  “What is this place?” Louisa adjusted her mask, her wild locks and leather bodice dead-giveaways to her female status. Inside, a large circle of men surrounded two fighters grappling with one another.

  Louisa leaned toward Joe and whispered, “I don’t understand. What’s going on?”

  “Dey’s blowin’ off steam.”

  “They’re fighting each other on purpose?”

  “Mmhmm.”

  “This is allowed?”

  He looked at her and the set of his expression said, so long as no one finds out. “We all need ta find a way ta release the frustrations of the day. By bein’ here, we’re agreein’ to abide by da rules.”

  “And those are?”

  A few of the men closest to them gave her a hairy eyeball. She didn’t see any other women around. Joe had brought her into an anointing den.

  “No weapons. Don’t kill no one. Try not to break anythin’.”

  “Anything? Does that refer to the barn or bones?” she asked, removing her work apron and handing it to Joe.

  “Mmhmm.”

  She absently crossed her hands before her, linking and unlinking her fingers, wishing she’d just given him the lightning spheres and kept the leather apron. One less layer meant easier access to the fleshy parts of her body.

  Louisa inhaled. Thank God, I can breathe again. The slight pressure on her ribs wasn’t preferred but it was manageable.

  The fight in the ring ended with the bigger, curly-haired bloke landing on his derrière, holding a hand over his bloody nose. A cheer rose among the din of voices as a small man with bright green eyes, who looked a lot like a leprechaun, raised the arm of the winner. Two other workmen helped the big guy off to the side. The winner limped over to the opposite side and disappeared into the crowd just as the small, trim Irishman in the center stared right at Louisa.

  The crowd parted.

  She tensed, shifting a half step closer to Joe, who stood there grinning like a fool
.

  “What are you doing, Joe?” the little man asked, hands on hips.

  “Brought some-it who needs a bit o’ trainin’ up.”

  “No women allowed. You know that.”

  “No, I don’t. Rules just say about da fight, not who’s doin’ it.”

  “You’re ignoring the unspoken rules—they’re unspoken for a reason.”

  “I’m not worried about her. She’s here ta learn. Anyone in da mood to do a bit o’ teachin’?”

  “Let’s get this over with.” A bloke, not as broad as Brick but larger than most of the men present, walked out into the middle of the ring to stand with the leader. The big guy stood quietly.

  Louisa’s heart threatened to crash into the worn floorboards at her feet.

  “Looks like you’re in luck. We have a challenger after all,” the leader quipped.

  Joe nudged Louisa forward. She glanced over her shoulder, eyes betraying her fear.

  “What am I supposed to do?” she whispered between clenched teeth.

  “Not get hit,” Joe said.

  As the crowd closed in behind Louisa, they corralled her, nudging her into the ring up to her challenger and the Irishman. She kept her head straight but glanced all around at the gruff, unfamiliar faces. Even the young men in the crowd scowled at her.

  A silent warning shredded her soul—talk and we’ll know. The leader raised Louisa’s elbow and her arm at the same time as the challenger’s, then dropped them and disappeared from the ring.

  The din of heavy breathing and silent aggression stifled Louisa as thirty or more sets of eyes stared at her. The bear of a man standing before her stepped closer and lazily swung a paw.

  She froze.

  Don’t get hit.

  Joe’s warning defrosted her mind. Louisa ducked and pivoted out of reach. A few men shuffled in place but still no one said anything. The Irishman sat on a crossbeam just under the loft toward the far side of the crowd, one leg up, studying her while chewing on a length of straw.

  Louisa was surprised he’d relented to Joe so easily. But, before she could wonder about the barman’s affiliations, the bear swung two paws at her. She dodged, crouching low into her slide across the worn floorboards.