The Time Corps Chronicles (Complete Series)

by Heather Blackwood

  “No. Mr. Connor has given me equipment to set up near the cathedral, and Hazel is going to help me. Better to give her something safe to do. I doubt she’d be able to keep herself in the house if we left her. I’ll watch out for her.”

  Felicia wasn’t particularly satisfied with that answer, but he was probably correct. Hazel wanted to see the Professor’s midnight clockwork show, and more importantly, she knew something else was likely to happen at the cathedral. Besides, she’d sneak out if they left her home alone.

  Hazel came down the hall with a freshly picked stem of sweet Joe Pye weed, presumably from the backyard. It was a sickly sort of lavender color with hundreds of tiny spiky petals, and Hazel walked straight up to Seamus with it.

  “For your buttonhole,” she said.

  To his credit, he did not refuse the ugly plant, but allowed her to slip the stem through his buttonhole. The flower was too large and strange-looking to be a proper decoration for a ball, but Seamus stood up and pulled his coat straight. Hazel nodded in approval.

  Hazel and Mr. Grey lugged the wheeled trunk of machinery to the hired carriage and Seamus tossed his leather case onto the seat. He had hired a fancy carriage since the two of them would be appearing at the ball in it. Felicia wondered if the thing was the equivalent of a limousine in her own time. It hardly mattered. What was important was getting to McCullen and finding out what he had planned for Mardi Gras besides the innocent festivities. The formal invitation that had arrived the previous afternoon indicated that the event was to take place at a ballroom in the French Quarter. It would allow the partygoers to walk to Jackson Square for the automaton display and then return to the ball to dance until dawn, drunkenness or exhaustion overtook them.

  As the carriage reached the edges of the French Quarter and drove down Dauphine Street, the crowd grew thicker and thicker until the carriage pulled to a full stop. The driver managed to turn around and get away from the crowds, but while trying to move down Burgundy Street, they again were held up by the throngs of people. The driver slid open the little hatch near his seat and leaned down.

  “You want me to leave you here? It’s that or we drive all the way around and go down Ursulines Avenue. But I don’t think I can get to Jackson Square at all.”

  “Here will do,” said Seamus. The four climbed out and Mr. Grey pulled out his wheeled trunk. Seamus paid the driver, who had to get off his seat and lead his mare by her bridle to get her turned around. He jumped back into his seat and cursed at a cart that stopped directly in front of him.

  The crowd gathered for the first official Mardi Gras had taken the spirit of celebration to heart. It was full dark now, but the streets were illuminated with gaslights, hanging purple and yellow paper lamps and hand-held lanterns carried by merrymakers. Here and there were carts selling coffee, lemonade, pastries, apple turnovers or toasted sugar almonds served in paper cones. Once they reached Bourbon Street, Hazel stopped at a nearby booth carrying little colored flags and mechanical toys.

  “Look,” she said and pressed a tiny button on the side of a crocodile. Its mouth opened slowly and then snapped shut while its eyes glowed red. The eyes did not dim while Hazel picked up another, this one a sleek black cat with green eyes. It gave a metallic meow and its paw waved up and down.

  “How do the eyes glow?” Felicia asked Seamus.

  “A tiny battery generates an electrical signal,” he said. But he sounded distracted. The booth was doing a brisk business, and Seamus scooped up a crocodile, a cat and a hawk and paid the proprietor.

  Felicia saw Hazel look at him hopefully, thinking he had bought them for her, but he turned aside and led them down a side street. The crowd was thick, but they could stand up against a wall without being elbowed and shoved. Mr. Grey rolled the trunk against the wall and sat on it. Seamus gestured to offer Felicia the other end of the trunk, but it was too low to risk soiling her gown, so she declined.

  Seamus dug through his leather case, but didn’t find whatever it was he was searching for. Hazel picked up the hawk and was making it screech and flap its wings.

  “Don’t get too attached to it,” Seamus said. “I’m going to disassemble it in a moment.”

  “But why? I like it, and you have those two,” said Hazel.

  “Because I have an idea. Now, I need something small and thin, like a needle,” he said. He narrowed his eyes and scanned the street, but most of the shops were closed. The only ones open were ones that could sell food or beverages or little strings of beads and trinkets for the parade. “Or a pin!” He jumped up and faced Felicia. “May I?” he asked.

  “My pins?” she said. It had taken Mrs. Washington so long to do her hair. She knew it was silly to resist, but she didn’t want her careful hairdo undone. “Fine. But try not to mess it up too much.” She untied her bonnet and carefully removed it.

  Seamus reached hesitatingly for one pin, then changed his mind and moved to another. “I don’t know which to take,” he said.

  Felicia reached up, grabbed a random pin and pulled. Her hair shifted, and a long tendril fell and curled past her collarbone, the end resting on the top of her breast. From the corner of her eye, she saw Seamus look down and a little thrill went through her. A moment later he had taken the pin and was back on his trunk, bent over the mechanical crocodile.

  “I understand!” said Hazel. “These are all Egyptian animals. Is that right?”

  “At the far end of that booth, I saw a little gold sarcophagus,” said Mr. Grey. “But someone bought it.”

  “Do you suppose it opened?” said Hazel.

  “Got it!” said Seamus. “I knew it!” He held aloft the tiniest glass tube Felicia had ever seen. It was filled with less than a drop of glowing blue fluid.

  “A McCullen engine in miniature?” she whispered.

  “Thousands of them, and sold so cheaply that even the poorest citizens can purchase one. Can you imagine all the children, the people, pressing these buttons over and over?”

  “Even if we managed to stop the floats, all of these tiny engines will still be going.”

  “That’s one third of the question answered then,” said Seamus.

  “What are the other two thirds of the question?” asked Felicia. But Seamus was tearing apart the tiny cat and wasn’t listening.

  Mr. Grey waited before saying, “What signal is being transmitted, and to whom?”

  It was nine o’clock at night already, which meant the parade was already starting somewhere. It would snake through the French Quarter and end at the cathedral about an hour and a half later. By then, the ball would be in full swing until nearly midnight.

  “Look at it while we walk,” said Felicia to Seamus. “Or we’re going to miss everything.”

  Felicia and Mr. Grey led the way, parting the crowd so Seamus could examine the tiny devices as he trailed behind. They turned down St. Peter Street and once they reached Jackson Square, they found a spot that wasn’t too crowded. Mr. Grey opened the trunk and began working on assembling one of the devices contained within.

  “I’m a daft bloody idiot!” Seamus yelled.

  Felicia couldn’t stop herself from laughing and he looked at her in surprise.

  “Energy,” the Professor said. “McCullen has always been the idea man. He told me that some day, he wanted to work on a way to send energy from one place to another.”

  “Like over electrical lines?” asked Miss Sanchez. “We use those. They send electricity through wires. We run them on poles or underground.”

  “McCullen talked about doing it without wires, sending energy through the air.”

  “My people can’t even do that,” said Miss Sanchez.

  “There was a man,” said Mr. Grey as he worked on the device. “He claimed he could send electricity through the air without harming anyone. He managed to illuminate lamps at
the Chicago World Fair without using wires.”

  “And what year was that?” asked Hazel in a casual tone.

  “Eighteen ninety-three,” he said, looking her straight in the eye.

  She grinned with delight and hopped up and down. “I knew it! Ha! You’re from eighteen ninety-three!”

  “No,” he said. “I wasn’t even born yet.”

  “From after that? From Miss Sanchez’s time?”

  “Later, Hazel, if you please,” said Seamus as he worked on assisting Mr. Grey. “If he’s transmitting power, then my tripod sensors will detect it. You should set them up, say, there,” he pointed, “there and there.” Seamus gave Mr. Grey other instructions and Hazel stood by his side, listening raptly and nodding in unison with the man as if taking the instructions herself. Felicia was glad to see that Hazel seemed to have gotten over any apprehension she had about Mr. Grey, although she herself didn’t fully trust the man. He had known she was from another time, yet had kept his own state a secret, forced Seamus to help him and had generally been too secretive to be trustworthy.

  The moment Seamus picked up his leather case and offered his arm to Felicia, Hazel started peppering Mr. Grey with questions. Felicia took Seamus’s arm, and his proximity was both familiar and a little uncomfortable, but in a pleasant way. Even through his sleeve, he felt warm. He gave her a little smile before they started in the direction of the ball.

  Felicia didn’t hear Hazel’s last question, but she did hear Mr. Grey’s answer.

  “There are others, yes,” he said.

  Chapter 29

  Seamus checked on Miss Sanchez as they pushed through the masses of people separating them from the ballroom several streets away. The sidewalks were clogged with all manner of carts and vendors selling food, flowers, paper pinwheels and ribbons on sticks for children to wave. The owners of the carts with the little mechanical animals were selling the creatures as quickly as they could take the money for them.

  A group of children leaned over the railing of a home’s upper gallery, tossing bits of colored paper over the side. It drifted down like snow onto the people below and clung in their hair. The wrought iron railings themselves were festooned with ribbons and paper banners, and colored glass bottles hung by their necks. They sparkled emerald, ruby and topaz in the lamplight. How had McCullen gotten so many people to take part in his parade? Was it all a matter of funding it, or were the people of New Orleans so starved for some excitement?

  When they could no longer walk side-by-side, Seamus took Miss Sanchez’s hand and led her along, parting the crowd so she would not be jostled too badly. Her hand, which was so small and delicate, was warm and soft and he found his mind wandering to other parts of her exposed skin that were also warm and soft. He tried to distract himself by focusing on getting them through the crowd.

  A shout rose from the people up ahead, and Seamus caught sight of the first float. He turned to point it out to Miss Sanchez, but she had already seen it. Her skin was lit softly by the glow of the overhead lanterns, and her eyes glowed amber in this light, giving her an otherworldly look, like a dark fae maiden, come to dance in the firelight. Her lips, darkened by a bit of cosmetics, were parted. They were full without being overtly sensual, and they turned up at the corners, just a little. She was listening to a strolling band, enjoying herself. A little glow of warmth filled Seamus at the thought.

  Before the float reached them, rows of dancers and acrobats tumbled and whirled into view. Female dancers spun and bobbed while trailing gauzy red and yellow scarves through the air. Male acrobats with bells on their ankles and wrists flipped and cartwheeled, even stopping to make a human pyramid. Drummers and tambourine players beat out a rhythm and the people clapped and whooped. The air pulsed with the sound of drums. Miss Sanchez, much to his disappointment, pulled her hand from his in order to clap along. But after a minute, she slipped it back into his. He stepped closer to her so her shoulder touched his arm.

  The first float was in the shape of a giant crocodile, and like the little toy, its mouth gaped open. A willowy young woman sat inside its jaws, dressed all in gossamer greens and pale blues. Seamus thought she looked like a water spirit. She waved and tossed trinkets to the crowd. Gaslight torches flickered on either side of the crocodile’s long body, the flames dancing. The engine beneath the float rumbled, and he thought he spied the little window through which the driver must be looking.

  Seamus gave a gentle pull on Miss Sanchez’s hand. They needed to get to the ball if they were going to have any chance of speaking with McCullen. Miss Sanchez followed, but he felt her pull back a time or two when a particularly interesting float went by. It looked like the little toys were made to be souvenirs of the parade, as a regal black cat and a flower-garlanded ox went by. Later on came a hawk, a jackal and a white bull. All of them were decorated in an Egyptian style.

  Half an hour later, Seamus and Miss Sanchez had only progressed a few blocks. A huge float approached, a Nile barge with enormous sails and rows of automated oars swaying back and forth. A man sat on one of two golden thrones on its deck. A scalloped purple and gold canopy held up by four posts hung over the thrones, though there was no sun from which to be shielded. Two men and two women waved giant palm fans and periodically reached into baskets to toss trinkets to the crowd. On either side of the barge, a white staircase led from the barge’s deck to street level, and two women in Egyptian costumes descended, waving, and then sashayed slowly back up. All of the women on the float had black plaited wigs with gold headbands and bracelets up their arms. Their dresses were the white, form-fitting sleeveless things that McCullen had said he liked.

  “That’s him,” Seamus said to Miss Sanchez. “It’s McCullen.”

  “Where?” she asked, tiptoeing to catch a glimpse of the distant float. She was not as tall as he was and could not see over the crowd as easily.

  McCullen sat on the throne, dressed in purple with a golden crown upon his head. For an imitation crown at a gaudy parade, it was surprisingly modest, as if he somehow wanted to display his humility with it. He was a king of the people, happy to share his largesse.

  Miss Sanchez caught sight of him. “He’s the king of the Mardi Gras,” she said. “And he’ll be selecting a queen.”

  The float stopped before them. The two women who had been climbing up and down the stairs retreated to flank McCullen. He stood and waved slowly to the people on both sides of the street.

  “It is time, my good people,” McCullen said, pronouncing each word in a perfect American accent, “to choose my queen. The Queen of the Mardi Gras!” He threw his hands up over his head and the crowd stomped and screamed. He moved down the stairs on Seamus’s side of the street. “But there are so many beautiful ladies here tonight. How shall I choose?”

  “Choose her!” someone yelled and pointed at a woman nearby. The crowd pulled away from her, and she looked around, her cheeks reddening. A second woman staggered forward, already drunk from the festivities. The crowd roared their approval. She clapped in glee, either oblivious to their mocking or enjoying the attention, Seamus could not tell. Other women came forward or were pushed forward, until eight stood before the float. McCullen took a turn kissing each of their hands and looking deep into their eyes. He displayed the right amount of sincerity to make him look like he enjoyed the task, while the whole display was overdone just enough to excite the crowd.

  “There were girls at the mummy party who acted like they’d love to be queen,” said Miss Sanchez. “I wonder where they are.”

  “A girl of good breeding would never be allowed to be part of such a spectacle,” Seamus said into her ear. “Her parents would forbid it.”

  McCullen had not looked at either Seamus or Miss Sanchez, but Seamus knew that he was aware of them. Why else would he have stopped just there and gathered these women just yards from their position?

  �
��As all of the ladies here are of equal beauty and charm, I must find another method of choosing my queen,” he said. The crowd was confused. What did he mean? How else could a parade queen be chosen?

  “It shall be a contest of wit!” McCullen bellowed.

  A few of the women giggled and some looked genuinely afraid.

  “You might have to help me,” said Miss Sanchez.

  “With what?” Seamus said.

  But McCullen was waiting for the crowd to be silent so he could administer this contest of wit. The eight women formed a rough line before him, some of them glancing at each other or whispering. The masses finally quieted.

  “Please name all of the planets in our solar system,” McCullen said.

  Seamus was glad that McCullen did not single out any one woman to ask, and thus spared her the humiliation of not knowing the answer. The poor things were looking, one to the other, in dismay.

  “I think I know this. There was this little mnemonic device we learned. Something about pizzas,” said Miss Sanchez.

  It was then that Seamus understood what she was up to. “You can’t go with him!” he hissed. “I can’t be there to protect you.”

  “Shush,” she waved her hand. “I’m trying to think.”

  “I will not shush. McCullen is a dangerous man, and he means no good for you. He is far too curious about you.”

  “That’s why I should go. You haven’t been able to learn anything, but maybe I can. And I’ll be up there in front of everyone, then at the ball. Is he going to slit my throat in front of hundreds of witnesses?”

  Seamus could think of no sensible reply. “Well, I forbid it,” he said.

  The maddening woman actually snorted. “Good luck with that. Wait. I think I remember it. My Very Educated Mother Just Served Us Nine Pizzas.”