Hot and Steamy

by Jean Rabe

  “I’m looking forward to being your friend, Miss Eleanor,” Ellie said, and she performed a perfect curtsey.

  Eleanor lifted her hands to her mouth. When she turned to Christopher, she had tears in her eyes.

  “Oh, Christopher,” she gasped. Leaping forward she wrapped her arms around him, laid her head on his chest, and hugged him tight. The feeling of her pressed against him, her delicate hands on his back, her cheek to his heart—it was the most wonderful thing he’d ever experienced. Without thinking, he put his arms around her as well. He wished, desperately, that the moment would never end.

  “Miss Eleanor,” Ellie interrupted. “Would you like to play a game?”

  Christopher felt a sense of helpless panic as Eleanor pulled away.

  “Oh, yes, Ellie,” Eleanor said. “That would be wonderful.”

  Eleanor turned to Christopher one last time, and going up on tip-toes she kissed him on the cheek.

  “Thank you so much, Christopher,” she said. “This is the most wonderful birthday present anyone has ever given me.”

  With that, she spun around, ran to Ellie, and took her by the hand.

  “Come on, Ellie!” she cried, and the two scurried out of the room.

  For a long time after they left, Christopher just stood there, unable to move. He didn’t know how he felt, but the emotions that caught in his throat were a bit like joy but strangely like sadness at the same time. He couldn’t have dreamed of a better response from Eleanor, yet he felt as if he’d lost something very important.

  At last, with nothing else to do, Christopher returned to his workshop.

  The boom that awakened Christopher rattled the windows so violently that one of them cracked. Christopher leaped from his little cot in the corner of the shop and stumbled over to the window. The water between the island and the mainland was afire with specks of wavering orange light. At first, his half-sleeping mind thought that it was odd for there to be so many fireflies this time of year, but then he understood.

  Ships. An armada of ships.

  Christopher raced across the room and grabbed a lighting stick from the embers of the stove. He lit his little lantern and tossed the stick back into the fire. He ran to the door, shoved his feet into his boots, and threw on his coat. Another boom shook the workshop and sent dust raining down from the rafters.

  Christopher bolted out the door. The distant thunder of a hundred churning steam engines thrummed in the air. Streaks of fire tore across the sky. From somewhere far away, he heard a woman scream. He sped to the house, nearly falling twice in his haste before he reached the back door. He didn’t knock or ring the bell but charged into the darkened kitchen. Reaching for one of the gas lamps, he tried to light it, but no gas came out.

  “Mrs. Arbogast!” he shouted.

  His voice echoed in the darkness. No reply came.

  “Eleanor!” he cried.

  Christopher charged down the hall and into foyer, but he found only darkness and silence. Another explosion thundered, and the foyer chandelier tinkled and swayed. Up the stairs he ran, cringing at the sound of more explosions, each one nearer than the one before.

  When he reached Eleanor’s room, he found the door open. Forgetting his place he rushed in. “Eleanor! Eleanor! Where are you?”

  “She isn’t here,” a soft, tinny voice said from the darkness.

  Christopher spun around and found Ellie sitting on a chair in the corner. She was wearing one of Eleanor’s day dresses and had her hands folded neatly in her lap.

  “Ellie!” Christopher cried. He rushed over and pulled her to her feet. “The island is under attack! Where is Eleanor?”

  “They left not long ago,” Ellie said. “A man in a navy uniform came. He said they had a dirigible and were evacuating everyone.”

  “What?” Christopher said, aghast. “But they didn’t wake me. Where are they going, Ellie?”

  “I heard him say the airship was moored by the old boathouse,” Ellie said.

  Christopher shot from the room. He could hear Ellie’s footsteps behind him. He had to get to the boathouse before the dirigible left. What if he were already too late? What would the Saxons do to him?

  Down the stairs, across the foyer, and out the front door he ran. He sprinted down the lane, his feet crunching on the gravel, punctuated by thunderous explosions from the water’s edge. A fiery flash went up somewhere on the mainland, filling the sky with orange light. Christopher ignored it and hastened along the winding trail.

  The flash of another explosion lit the sky, and he spotted the dirigible, just beyond the trees. It was still quite low, and he felt hope rise in his chest.

  “Wait!” he shouted, still running. He knew it was foolish, that they couldn’t hear him from there, but he was unable to remain silent. “Please! Wait for me!”

  Down the hill, through the little stand of trees. Within moments he stood on the wide concrete patio above the boathouse where, in happier times, revelers danced and music played during the Professor’s summer parties. Above him floated the dirigible, but already it was ascending into the sky. Its massive engines rumbled with a low throb he could feel in his chest.

  “Wait! Wait!” Christopher shouted, his panic rising. He saw that a sailor was pulling up the dirigible’s rope ladder.

  “No! I’m here! Please! I’m here!” he cried. He dashed over under the ladder, jumped, tried to reach it, but fell short.

  The ladder stopped. Christopher looked and saw the sailor begin lowering it, but a moment later another man came and put his hand on the sailor’s arm. The second man shook his head, motioning for the sailor to raise the ladder again. The sailor looked surprised but followed the order.

  “NO! Oh, no! Please! I’m here!”

  The ladder rose and rose until it was pulled in the door. The sailor stepped back, and the door swung shut. Slowly, the dirigible turned and began to float away. Christopher chased it, waving his arms.

  “Eleanor! Eleanor!” he cried.

  He saw her, just for a moment, her hand pressed against the window, her face lit by a dim light from within the gondola. He thought she looked sad, and she mouthed something to him, but he couldn’t tell what. A hand reached out and pulled her away, then pulled the shade over the window.

  “Eleanor!” Christopher cried.

  A crushing wave of noise and light shattered Christopher’s senses, and a force struck him in the chest like a hammer. It lifted him off his feet and tossed him through the air before gravity sent him crashing back to the ground. Like a marionette with its strings cut, he slid and rolled across the jagged slabs of concrete that were once the patio.

  When he came to a stop, a high-pitched screeching filled his ears. Heat swept over him, and fire burned all around. Christopher tried to move, but his limbs refused to respond. Another boom, a little further off, shook the ground.

  “Eleanor,” he murmured.

  It was too late. Christopher slumped. The world began to fade, shadows creeping in along the edges of his vision. Sound faded. The explosions fell silent. His eyes closed.

  A hand grasped his and pulled, and the world came flooding back with it. Up from the ground it raised him, out of the ruin and the flames, and then an arm wrapped around his waist. It pulled him close and held him with a firm, comforting grip.

  “We have to go,” Ellie said. “They’ll be here soon.”

  Christopher looked at the dirigible. Like a dark cloud against the night sky, it slowly floated away, growing smaller with each passing moment.

  “They left me, Ellie,” he said.

  “I know. I’m sorry, Christopher. Please. We need to go.”

  “Why would they leave me?” he said, turning to her. “Why would they . . .”

  He caught sight of himself in the reflection of Ellie’s polished copper face. Parts of his skin were torn away, revealing smooth, polished copper underneath.

  Christopher pulled away from Ellie, stumbled, and fell hard to the ground. Shaking, he looked at his
body. He ripped away the shreds of his shirt and found a torn layer of something like skin over an elaborate copper shell. Here and there, the copper had peeled back to reveal spinning, whirling gears.

  Christopher opened and closed his mouth. Unable to breathe, unable to think, a wave of despair washed over him. With a force as powerful as the blast that had destroyed the patio, the truth crashed down on him. He gasped, and air and burning acrid smoke poured into him. Shaking, shuddering, coughing, he lifted his hands and looked at the torn, bleeding flesh. Human flesh. He turned them over. Copper shone beneath the shredded skin of his palms.

  More explosions rocked the ground.

  “Christopher?” Ellie asked, her voice calm. “Christopher?”

  Christopher put his head in his hands and squeezed as if he could crush the truth, force things back to the way they were. But, of course, nothing changed. Slowly, so slowly, the sobs faded. The hole in his heart, however, remained a dark, empty thing.

  “That’s why,” Christopher murmured.

  Ellie, standing behind him, said, “That’s why what, Christopher?”

  Christopher lifted his head, and stared vacantly at the wreckage of the patio where he’d once watched dancers spin while the orchestra played.

  “That’s why she never loved me, Ellie.”

  Another boom, this one farther off, echoed across the grounds.

  “I’m sorry, Christopher,” Ellie said.

  The sobs threatened to overwhelm him again. He fought back the worst of it, but the tears still came. “That’s why no one will ever love me.”

  Ellie touched his shoulder, lightly, tenderly.

  “I love you, Christopher.”

  Christopher turned to her. The firelight glowed on her perfectly sculpted, copper face, glittering along its graceful curves. Her blue, porcelain eyes shone, and the ribbon of her lips reflected the love of her creator.

  He reached out and took her hand. Hinged, metallic fingers intertwined.

  Climbing to his feet, Christopher took Ellie in his arms. He looked into her eyes and raised a hand to her lovely cheek. The gentle whir of the reason engine’s discs purred beneath his palm, and Ellie inclined her head, ever so slightly.

  “You’ll stay with me?” Christopher asked.

  “Of course, Christopher,” Ellie answered.

  Together, hand in hand, they disappeared into the darkness.

  CASSANDRA’S KISS

  Mary Louise Eklund

  Mary Louise Eklund grew up near Asheville, North Carolina, and frequently went to Biltmore House and Gardens on school field trips. Since then she has made pilgrimages back to see more rooms as they have opened. A special thanks is extended to them for their inspiration of daydreams growing up and for Mr. Johnny’s home in “Cassandra’s Kiss”. Mary Louise now lives in Wisconsin where she’s working on her own multitomaton to shovel snow once her teenage son leaves for college. If that should fail she’s attempting to convince her husband on the virtues of a snow blower.

  Johnny flopped onto the blue leather chaise, gingerly holding a flannel ice pack to the left side of his face. The cool flannel formed to the cuts expertly stitched by Tom, his multitomaton butler.

  “I should have just thrown him out.” Johnny spoke to the bust of Molière peering down from his perch on ornate bookcase. Rolling his good eye away from the smirking marble face, Johnny glared at the white mock ribs of the blue ship keel ceiling. “Sure old man, you’d find humor in this situation, but Syd is going to kill me.” He closed his eyes. “Like I said, I should have just thrown Cheeky out instead of punching him for wagging his pow.”

  There was a soft scrape of the heavy mahogany door on the plush Karabagh rug, followed by the gentle hiss of well oiled joints moving. “The dirigibles carrying our guests are now visible. The ground crew is in heliographic communication with them. Lady Espear is in the lead and shall be landing in a quarter of an hour. Will you go out and greet her?” Tom’s expressive brass eyebrows moved fluidly; he’d never been able to keep them as noncommittal as the rest of his copper countenance.

  Johnny dropped the ice pack onto the silver butler’s tray next to him. Looking out the door to his library table covered in material only twenty-four hours ago he’d been anxious to share with Sydney, he screwed up his face in disgust.

  “Dammit, Tom! Why am I such a shortsighted sod?” Johnny stood and stomped over to the window that looked over his estate. He slammed a button on the wall with his palm. The linen shades dropped, diffusing the light. No one could see in without pressing their face to the glass.

  “Sir, what you did was a chivalrous act—defending the honor of Lady Sydney from the disparagements of Sir Cheekbalm. I understand from your other guests you gave him a chance to retract such unpleasant innuendoes, but the man didn’t take your gracious offer.” Tom picked up the ice pack and emptied it into a champagne cooler. He lifted the lid to the ice bucket, picked up large chunks of ice, and crushed them to snow allowing it to fall into the pack.

  “Thanks for your unwavering support, Tom. I should have only thrown him out and not let it get to fisticuffs.” Johnny angrily shoved his desk chair out of the way as he watched the landing field from the window. “No, I won’t meet her out there. I think it best she get the shock in private before we explain it to the guests. Show her here.” He took the refreshed pack and collapsed on the chaise. “I am NOT letting her know what vile gossip a drunkard spewed about her. I’ll just have to skirt the truth as best I can and deal with my appearance rather than the cause of it.”

  “Very well, sir, I shall convey her directly from the landing green.” Tom exited with a quiet whirl of cogs punctuated by the click of the door.

  The dirigibles circled the estate in large lazy ovals awaiting their turn to land on the south terrace. Lady Sydney Espear was the first to disembark.

  “Good morning, Tom!” Sydney approached the butler in wide confident strides. “Where’s Mr. Johnny?”

  Tom’s brass eyebrows lifted with a soft swish. “Mr. Johnny would like to speak to you in his office while I tend to our guests.” He proffered his arm to escort her up the broad stairs and deftly guided her across the terrace and into the library. One brass eye clicked in a conspiratorial wink before he departed into the wisteria shade of the terrace once again.

  “So that’s it.” Lady Sydney sighed heavily, pulled off her ostrich leather gloves, and slapped them across her palm before grasping the door to Johnny’s private office. Her eyes landed on the knife-carrying friar panel in the door. “You men and your drinking . . . even when in the service of God!”

  As she entered, ready to bluster at Johnny for getting into his cups, her words were cut short upon seeing his face. It was framed by the familiar parenthesis of black hair, but the left side was swollen. It bore multihued bruises and stitched cuts. He raised a flannel bag in apologetic greeting.

  “Syd, I’m so sorry. I’ve been trying to ice it to keep it to a minimum.” He shrugged. “I’m not sure it’s working.”

  Tossing her gloves onto the sofa, Sydney rushed to sit on the ottoman next to him. “Johnny, what happened?” She proffered her hand to his cheek, but he waved her away, taking her slender hand in his.

  “Let’s just say I fell while playing cards last night and leave it at that.” He squeezed her hand before letting it go. “I’m sorry this happened just as you bring society to my door. I was on the verge of being acceptable again due to your efforts.”

  “It seems I’m doing the job of Sisyphus.” She leaned back, removing her wide brimmed hat. After sticking the gray pearl tipped hat pin into it, she tossed it onto the sofa next to her gloves. “So was anyone else injured in this fall?”

  “Lord Cheekbalm sends his sincere regrets that he will be unable to attend.” Johnny did his distinctive head tilt and grinned, flashing his gold teeth.

  “Oh Johnny, if you weren’t such an excellent investigative partner I’d not try to reform you.” She heaved herself up from the ottoman. “I’m
glad you didn’t attempt to greet the guests looking like this.” She removed her ostrich leather coat and tossed it onto her hat without noticing it crushed the black egret feathers. Her traveling suit was the usual dark heather gray to match her eyes.

  “I’m so grateful for your attempts at reformation and pledge to be a better pernor of your efforts.”

  He put the compress back to his face. “You look lovely today. Perhaps your radiance shall make my deficiencies less noticeable.”

  “At least you’re contrite. But flattery won’t get you out this mess; we need to offer something more plausible than a fall.” Sydney walked over to the long window facing the landing green. “The guests are busy being shown to their suites, and that will distract them for now. So tell me, was Cheeky’s fall worse than yours?”

  “I certainly hope so, considering he’s got thirty years on me. Syd, as I said I deeply regret this and will do anything you say to make amends and improve the situation.”

  Her heels clicked on the Italian tile as she paced off the edge of the carpet. “What started all this?”

  “I’d really rather not say. It’s offensive to even think about. Let’s just move forward from this unfortunate lapse, shall we?”

  Taking his seat behind the large desk she pulled out a sheet of paper, then drew the pen from its inkwell. “Very well, either you had a misadventure exploring or a riding mishap; which shall it be?” The nib began making soft scratching sounds on the paper as she wrote.

  “I like the misadventure. I’ll inform Tom and we’ll go from there.” He went to the brass call plate behind his desk and pushed the butler call. “What are you writing?”

  “Your apology note to Cheeky.” Sydney said without looking up. “You will copy it into your own hand and have it delivered to him. He’s to understand that you regret the events that led to his unfortunate riding accident and extend him an open invitation to enjoy the hospitality of the Plebeman estate once he is well.”

  “I won’t do that. He’s no longer welcome here or anywhere that I have a say.” Johnny tossed the ice pack onto the desk with a clatter. “He deserved what was dealt to him and a great deal more in my opinion.”