The Time Corps Chronicles (Complete Series)

by Heather Blackwood

  “If you invented it, then why is McCullen selling the engines?”

  “Because he found a way to make them put out more power than they should. Now, that’s interesting.” He squinted down into the machine into the hole where the small box had been detached. “A transmitter. Aww, McCullen, you crazy old bastard. Only you.”

  “A transmitter?” Felicia looked where Seamus pointed.

  “It, er,” he waved his hand in the air, “it sends messages, signals, though the aether to another machine that receives them. Another thing McCullen and I were working on. That one was his idea.”

  “So it sends radio waves.”

  She almost laughed at the astonished look on his face.

  “They do have radios in my time,” she said.

  “Right. Of course.”

  “So who is it signaling, and why?”

  “It’s signaling that we took apart the machine and opened up the proprietary piece that no one is allowed to see.”

  “So what happens when they receive the signal?”

  “My guess? They come pay us a visit.”

  Chapter 7

  Hazel Dubois clutched a crumpled paper bag close to her body. Inside were the remains of a baguette and a half-empty bottle of milk. She slid silently into the alleyway, climbed over a shaky pile of discarded bricks and wood planks and slipped into the window of her abandoned building. It wasn’t truly her building, she thought. There were other children who lived here, as the place was large and mostly free of drafts and roof leaks. As of yesterday, two boys lived there with her, each of them in a separate room of the old paper factory.

  She had already consumed most of the baguette and milk, not wanting to have to share with the two boys. She often shared her gains, as did they, but this time she had been too hungry to wait. And if she wanted to make the Professor’s money last as long as possible, she needed to keep things to herself.

  Hazel passed through the lower story where the main machinery had once produced giant rolls of paper. The looming machines, what was left of them, rusted silently in the gloom. She climbed the rotting wooden stairs to the upper story where there once had been offices. Most of the furniture was long gone, but there were boxes, shelving and a few discarded items that she and the other children sometimes found useful.

  Hopefully, she could slip into her room and hide the bread and milk. In a few hours, she planned to finish off both. Going to sleep with a full stomach would feel just like heaven.

  She stopped at the top of the stairs at the sound of someone moving in her room. The person must have heard her also, because he opened the door. It was Alistair, one of the boys staying there. His eyes fixed on the paper bag.

  “What you got there?” he asked.

  Alistair was taller than she was, though he was a year younger. He was brutish, lanky and uneducated. But he was decent enough company, and he had shared pork pies and sweet buns on the occasions when he could get them. Hazel never asked if he had stolen or bought them. If he had purchased them, it would have been with pick-pocketed money anyway. It was better not to know.

  “What are you doing in my room?” Hazel demanded.

  “I can’t believe what happened! Toby cleaned me out and left. I was wondering if he did the same to you, and turns out he did.” He shoved the door the rest of the way open with his foot and let Hazel pass by him.

  Toby had been the other boy who stayed with them. He had only been there two weeks and had seemed a decent sort. But street children stealing from other street children was not unheard of. It was a crime punishable by a severe beating, so Toby would make sure to steer clear of Hazel and Alistair in the future. After stealing for a living long enough, Hazel supposed it got into your blood. She wondered how long it would be before she succumbed and took up Alistair’s offer to teach her to pickpocket.

  Hazel’s bedroll and an old coat she used as a pillow sat in the corner, though it looked like someone had pulled them up and then tossed them back down. She set the milk and baguette on top of the blanket.

  “Go ahead and have it,” she said. She couldn’t hide the bread and milk now, and seeing how Alistair’s eyes never left the bag, she knew he hadn’t eaten that day. He sat on the blanket and dug in.

  Hazel crouched and looked inside a box she used to store her few belongings. Everything she owned was either on her person or in the box. Everything except her violin, of course. The box was empty.

  Her stomach sank. Toby had taken her only dress, the one she had been wearing when she ran away. She knew she couldn’t wear it, not out where she might be recognized, but it had been a last link to being a girl. Naturally, Toby did not hope to wear the dress himself, but he would sell it to a rag and scrap man for a few coins. Also missing was her pair of girl’s shoes which would meet the same fate as her dress. A small box in which she had kept a few tin toy soldiers was gone. So was a single men’s leather glove she had found, too large for her hand, but warm enough on cold nights.

  Alistair was watching her. “I went out to the river, as usual,” he said through a mouthful of bread. “And when I got back, Toby had gone. He didn’t take everything, but he got that pair of shoes I found and the china cup.”

  Along with being a pickpocket, Alistair scavenged along the river bank. Sometimes, he found something like a china cup, a coin or two, or other things that could be cleaned and salvaged. His china cup had sat on a table beside his door. Propped behind it had been a worn and much-folded holy card of the Blessed Virgin and a burned out stub of a candle, like a little shrine.

  Hazel wanted to check on the violin, to make sure that Toby had not found it. It would be worth more than a few coins, she knew that. She had always been careful to hide it when no one was around or to sleep with it clutched to her. The fewer people who knew about it, the better. She would have to wait until Alistair was gone before she checked on it.

  She rose, and a few of the coins in her pocket, the ones she had hoped to secret away, clinked against one another. Alistair’s mouth stopped mid-chew and he stared at her.

  “You got some money!” he said around the bread.

  “I was going to share it.”

  “Were not. You were going to keep it.”

  She pulled out the coins and slapped them onto the top of a crate that sometimes served as a table. The children usually ate sitting on the rotting floorboards, but occasionally they’d pull up boxes and eat at the table when there was enough to share. It made all of them sad to do it, perhaps because it reminded them of better times at other tables. Hazel never analyzed the feeling too closely.

  Oddly, the lid of the crate was ajar. She scooped up the coins and slid the lid aside. Inside, thrown in a heap were her shoes, her dress and the box with the tin soldiers. She didn’t see the glove, but it could be buried somewhere underneath.

  “You bilge rat!” she said, spinning to face Alistair. “You were robbing me when I came home!”

  “Was not!”

  Hazel raced to Alistair’s room, and sure enough, the china cup was in its place in front of the holy card. The Virgin Mary’s eyes were raised and her palms were pressed together in prayer.

  “Hard times make a monkey eat pepper, cher,” Alistair said from behind her with an evil smile. He popped the last bite of her bread into his mouth and wiped his lips with his sleeve.

  “You were going to wait until I left again and then take everything, weren’t you?”

  “A man’s gotta eat. I can’t be taking care of a tagalong little snip like you.”

  “I paid my way! I brought you that food just now.”

  Alistair was unmoved. “Just tell me where the fiddle is, and I’ll go.”

  “Go to hell.”

  He grabbed her arm and twisted, pulling it expertly behind her. She yelped. “You’ve been keeping it somewh
ere here,” he hissed into her ear. “I know you have it. But you hid it clever. Did you think I was stupid? It’s worth money and here I am going hungry while you have that thing hid somewhere.”

  She yanked and managed to kick her foot backward like a mule, hitting his shin. He grunted and shoved her away. She spun around to face him and he hit her hard in the mouth. Pain shot through her lip and a moment later she tasted blood. She blinked hard.

  “Now tell me where it is,” he said. “Either I take it and go, or I beat you senseless, search for it, take it and go. Take your pick.”

  “You’re a thief.”

  He laughed. “What of it? What am I supposed to do, starve?” But she saw him glance at the holy card as he said it. She knew he had been raised by a devout family, but then, that meant little. Her own family had been religious.

  “Why can’t you go home? Or to the sisters? What happened?” she asked.

  If she could distract him long enough, remind him of their common plight, maybe he would calm down. She could give him the coins and ask him to go get more food and bring it back. While he was gone, she’d grab her violin and run.

  “Nothing happened!” he yelled and slammed her against the wall. Her head rang from the impact. “Now where is that fiddle?”

  “It’s in my room. Hidden though. Under the floorboard under my bed.” She looked at the floor, hoping he would believe the sincerity of her words. She did not need to fake the fear and the pain that made her voice tremble.

  “There now,” he said, sweeping invisible dust from the shoulders of her jacket and pulling it straight. He turned and left.

  The moment Hazel was sure he was searching her room, she tore down the hall in the opposite direction. She had been on the streets long enough to know that children stole from each other. And she knew the habits of those other children. They tended to hole up in one spot, concealing all their little treasures in one place which was usually the same one where they slept. It was human nature. She had not kept the violin as long as she had by giving in to human nature.

  She rushed into an old storage room, now covered in dust, rat droppings and cobwebs. Up high was a piece of wall board that was not nailed in properly. She reached up on tiptoes and pulled at it.

  “Where in hell is it?” bellowed Alistair down the hall.

  Should she answer him, go and pretend to help him? No, that was folly. Her only chance was to run. She stayed silent. He didn’t know which room she was in. That would buy her some time.

  The wall board was stuck, and she dug her fingers in. A splinter stabbed her, but she pried harder. She wrenched the board off as she heard Alistair pounding back to his room to look for her.

  She took the extra moment to set the board down carefully instead of throwing it to the floor where it would make a racket. Inside the hole, she saw the neck of her scuffed violin case. She pulled it up and out and ran. She tore down the stairs and was at the window when she heard Alistair stomping up behind her.

  She didn’t look back, but jumped out the window, staggered over the pile of bricks and wood planks and sprinted into the night.

  Chapter 8

  “They’re here,” said Miss Sanchez from her spot in front of the laboratory window. “Two men are coming up the front walk.”

  Seamus glanced up for just an instant before reminding himself that he had to work fast. He rooted through drawers and boxes until he found a part that would suit his purpose. He slipped it into the place that had been occupied by the glowing blue tube of liquid and the tiny mechanism and rushed to put the peroxide engine back together.

  He had already asked Mrs. Washington to delay anyone who came from the McCullen Manufactory, but the men could always insist upon seeing him and there would be little the housekeeper could do to stop them.

  “Is there anything I can do to help?” asked Miss Sanchez. She came up beside him, glancing anxiously at the interior of the engine. He slid in another piece and snapped it into place.

  “You can hide this,” he said, handing her the small glass tube with its attached mechanism.

  He heard a clinking sound from Miss Sanchez’s vicinity, but couldn’t stop and look up. Already, he heard footsteps and voices in the hallway. Mrs. Washington sounded agitated. Seamus shoved the spherical cover over the engine, and got in two of the four screws before Mrs. Washington knocked on the door.

  “I told you he’s busy and cannot be disturbed. I wouldn’t be surprised if he stepped out and isn’t even here,” Seamus heard Mrs. Washington say on the other side of the door. She was giving him the opportunity to slip out through one of the floor-length windows to the upper gallery of the house. He could move across and enter into another room or simply wait outside. But he knew what he needed to do. He dropped the last two screws into his pocket.

  Miss Sanchez stood with her back against the far work table. She had the guilty look of someone who had just hidden something important. Well, he knew he would not have such a look. He had spent enough time gambling at taverns and on riverboats to know that, when he had to, he could make his face and mannerisms display whatever he wished.

  He tugged down the bottom of his waistcoat, gave Miss Sanchez what he hoped was a reassuring nod, and opened the door.

  Outside stood two men, both of them middle-aged, though one was significantly taller than the other. The larger man was completely bald but had a fine, thick black moustache and beard. The short one had wire-rimmed glasses perched on a hooked nose. He carried a black leather case with the words McCullen’s Manufactory of Fine Engines in metallic lettering on the side. It was an expensive case, and both men wore suits that did not come from a working-class shop. Their hats, which they had removed indoors and held, would cost Seamus a week’s wage. Well-paid visitors from McCullen’s shop could be nothing but the infamous concierges.

  “Hello, gentlemen,” Seamus said. “Did you wish to see me?”

  Mrs. Washington moved off behind them, throwing a glance back. She made eye contact with Seamus, and he saw her mouth the words, “I’m sorry,” before she retreated to the other end of the hall. Seamus knew that she would wait there to show the men out or to fetch him anything he might require. The dear woman was not going to force him to ring for her and cause a delay if he needed her. At that moment, he was grateful enough to kiss her.

  “Mr. McCullen sent us to ask you how your new engine is performing. He is committed to the absolute satisfaction of each and every customer,” said the shorter man.

  “Oh, fine. Fine,” said Seamus. “The engine is just what I needed. Thank you for stopping by.”

  He wanted to bid them good day and close the door, but the shorter man had already stepped through the doorway. The larger man followed, pushing the door all the way open and standing against it with his arms crossed.

  “Hello, miss,” said the shorter man, and Miss Sanchez gave a curtsey and inclined her head. It looked awkward, but considering that the poor woman had been raised in a world lacking in decent manners, it was the best he could hope for.

  “Allow me to introduce Miss Sanchez,” said Seamus. “I apologize, but I did not catch your names.”

  “I am Mr. Gouedard,” said the smaller man. “And this is Mr. Kemp.” He motioned toward the man at the door who gave a nod.

  Mr. Gouedard walked to the machine and took in the disarray of papers and parts around it. Seamus had gotten all the parts, except for the tube, back into the machine. So this man would see none of the engine parts lying about.

  “How is it performing?” asked Mr. Gouedard, blinking at him through his spectacles. They magnified his eyes, giving him an owlish appearance.

  “Works like a charm. I apologize for not offering refreshments, but I need to be getting back to my work. Gentlemen.” He moved toward the door.

  “Mr. Connor, we at the McCullen Manufactory wan
t to ensure that each and every engine we sell is of superior quality and performance. I see that you have taken this one apart.” He indicated the places where the two missing screws should have been.

  “Well, see, I was having a bit of bother with it. But nothing too terrible. It was just making a little noise. Got it all repaired right as rain now.”

  “You should have called us.”

  “It was just a loose casing on one of the motivators making a rattling sound. I got it all sorted.”

  Mr. Gouedard set his case on the floor beside the machine and opened it. Inside were various tools, small mechanical objects, and something with rubber tubing protruding from it like octopus tentacles. “We can’t have an engine misfunctioning, can we?” he said. He pulled out a screwdriver and worked on removing the casing.

  “Excuse me, gentlemen,” said Miss Sanchez, moving beside Mr. Gouedard. “But if this engine is Mr. Connor’s property, then he should be allowed to decide what happens to it. Didn’t he purchase it from you?”

  Mr. Gouedard looked at Miss Sanchez as if he had not seen her before. “Technically, yes. But the legal documents Mr. Conner signed when he took possession of the engine clearly state that the McCullen manufactory retains certain rights to the machine. Mr. Connor keeps ownership under certain circumstances and the Manufactory regains ownership in others.”

  “What kind of legal nonsense is that?” Miss Sanchez said. Seamus pulled her aside.

  “They’re well within their rights,” he whispered.

  “So you are essentially renting the machine.”

  “In a sense.”

  “But you’re listed as the owner, right?”

  “I own it as long as it functions. But if the Manufactory needs to repair it, they take possession. They also take possession of the used fuel cores. There are other times they can take ownership as well. It’s all legal.”