by Geonn Cannon
Beatrice tried to stay away from the third floor, but curiosity got the better of her. The sounds she heard from the other side of Dorothy’s rooms made her blush and retreat downstairs as quickly as stealth allowed. She spent the rest of the night staring at the ceiling, covering her ears with the pillow to prevent even the slightest of sounds from reaching her.
In the morning Dorothy was hungover and slow. She came downstairs in her underclothes, her hair a rat’s nest atop her head, and groggily inquired as to breakfast. Beatrice quietly complied while Dorothy slumped on the dining room table with a napkin draped over her face. Beatrice knew then that instead of being offended by Dorothy’s behavior or scandalized by the fact she’d spent the evening with another woman, she was jealous of the barmaid.
When Dorothy was once again capable of sitting up under her own power Beatrice admitted her feelings. Dorothy listened politely and then tilted her head to one side.
“Have you ever had predilections in that arena before?”
Beatrice smirked. “I’ve not really had predilections in any arena before.”
Dorothy raised an eyebrow. “Interesting.” She sipped her tea, pressed her lips together to spread the moisture across them, and nodded slowly. “Well. If you would like to explore it further, you know where to find me.”
Beatrice spent three days debating the invitation before she took Dorothy up on it. She went to Dorothy’s room after closing up the house for the evening, knocked quietly, and nervously went inside. Dorothy sat in bed wearing a simple nightgown, her hair down in thick waves of golden and red. In daylight she seemed so formidable and larger than life, but here dwarfed by her bed and the grandeur of her room, she was almost mortal. Beatrice lingered in the doorway, wearing a nightshirt that reached her knees. She curled her toes in the carpet and tried to think of something to say.
“I’ve been waiting for you, Trix.” Dorothy held out her hand and curled two fingers in a subtle summons. “Come here.”
Beatrice spent the night with Dorothy, who was tender and attentive with her. She whispered assurances into Beatrice’s ear when her lips weren’t otherwise engaged, fingers trailing feather-light across her stomach and down between her thighs. At one point Dorothy whispered, “If at any point you want me to stop...” but Beatrice silenced her with a desperate groan. Dorothy laughed throatily and went back to what she had been doing.
They fell asleep before they could talk, but in the morning Dorothy asked Beatrice what she wanted. “We can be lovers. We can be friends who occasionally provide each other comfort. We can move on from this and go back to the way things were before. I’m comfortable with any of these options. I leave it up to you.” She kissed Beatrice’s lips. “For what it’s worth, I enjoyed myself very much.”
Beatrice chose the option that left them both free to pursue other interests, and she had yet to regret it. Dorothy occasionally returned home with someone and whiled away the evening with them in her room. Some nights Dorothy would come home alone and appear at Beatrice’s bedroom door with a bottle of wine and two glasses. Their physical relationship wasn’t a duty or commitment. It was a form of bonding and a show of companionship.
She closed the armory and smoothed her hands over the locks. For years she considered the only way to live was breaking locks just like this. But one woman’s trust had changed everything. Now Dorothy left her in charge of the house when she was on expeditions. Weeks, months, one time half a year, Beatrice had basically lived alone in the house while Dorothy was in some tomb or another. No matter how long she was gone, no matter what treasures she left behind, she knew it would be there when she came back. Beatrice wouldn’t trade that faith for the biggest score in London.
Smiling at the memories she had unlocked, Beatrice went downstairs to check on dinner.
Chapter Two
The Pierce-Arrow landau turned off the main drag not far from Threadneedle and onto the narrow streets of Spitalfields, narrowly avoiding the debris littering either side of the lane. Trafalgar sat in the backseat next to Leola and wondered if she could brush her fingers along the brick buildings by stretching her arm out the window. The streets of London were poorly designed to handle modern automobiles, and she feared what would happen to her adopted city if they were forced to make adjustments. Then again, if the march of progress meant slums like this one were eliminated, perhaps it would be for the best.
“And then where would the residents go?” Adeline asked from the front seat. “The undesirables, those who live here because they have no other choice?”
“I didn’t speak my thought aloud, Adeline,” Trafalgar politely scolded. “I’ve told you how disconcerting that is.”
“You’re avoiding the question.”
“Yes. I am.” Trafalgar sighed.
Adeline was a precognitive telepath, a gift that made her exceptionally skilled behind the wheel but an awkward compatriot. She received a constant barrage of what people intended to say, often whether they eventually spoke them aloud or not. She said it was like trying to watch a play while the people behind her constantly whispered amongst themselves. She saw aspects of the future including whether an intersection would be clear or congested in thirty or fifty seconds’ time.
Trafalgar thought about Adeline’s argument. She knew that ignoring the plight of the people forced to live in these slums made her a hypocrite. She had made her home in far less desirable neighborhoods over the past twenty years.
When she first arrived in Cairo she dismissed the crew who still believed she was possessed by some sort of demonic entity. She couldn’t very well quiz them about who she was supposed to be, so she kept her distance and tried to appear consumed by her thoughts. Her first order upon dry land was for the crew to take care of the other children. She didn’t want them sold or bartered away into a life of slavery, so she ordered them to be taken to the police at once. The men balked, but she threatened them with “all the power I can muster” if they failed her.
She set off alone with only the items in Solomon’s pockets to guide her. She sold the items she couldn’t identify but kept the obvious weapons just to be on the safe side. She found maps and journals, the latter of which had pages listing Solomon’s allies with their contact information. She knew it was risky trying to track them down. If they somehow got word that she was the one chosen for his ritual, they might have ways to finish what he started. She couldn’t allow herself to worry about the danger; if Solomon was associated with people who were kidnapping children then they must be stopped.
She had no idea how much it would cost to travel from Cairo to London, but she had overheard enough on the boat to know that was where she had to go. London, England, the capital of the world. She had no life back home, no one to give her shelter in this loud and unruly new world she found herself a citizen of, and London seemed like it would allow her the possibility to find a new path.
When she found the men Solomon intended to meet in Egypt, she was forced to make the first compromise of many: instead of bringing them to task for their human trafficking, she sold them several items she found in Solomon’s coat to fund her journey to the world’s capital. She consoled herself with the knowledge that she could always come back with more resources, but she could accomplish nothing if she was stranded in an alien port-of-call.
The only thing Trafalgar kept was Solomon’s coat. It was far too big for her but she had faith she would grow into it. Years passed before she was able to wear it without trailing the hem along the ground behind her. She still had it, the cavernous pockets now filled with her own tools of the trade. She kept her journal in a pocket of her suit jacket underneath, however. She figured it would be much harder to lose if she kept it close to her body.
She spent the intervening years chipping away at Solomon’s organization. She soon learned he was in charge of one small aspect of a much larger entity. His friends and closest allies were the first people she targeted upon arrival in London in the hopes of working her way u
p to the actual leader of the group. Her first attacks were sloppy and unsophisticated, but she learned from her mistakes and grew more formidable.
She traveled back to Cairo on a handful of occasions to rescue other transports of children being brought back from Africa. Once she met a young girl named Leola who helped her fight off the guards and free the children being kept in the hold. When Trafalgar asked where she wanted to go, Leola said, “You seem like you could use some muscle. How about I stay with you?”
The children were too numerous to be dumped in an orphanage, so she found other homes for them. Some believed the lies they’ve been told about becoming nurses, so Trafalgar took them to hospices in need of extra hands. Others earned their keep at hospitals or maternity wards where simply holding a newborn could mean the difference between the baby living or dying. She soon became well-known in Cairo and its environs, and one nurse would greet Trafalgar every time she arrived.
“You have brought me more angels?” she would ask, and Trafalgar would introduce the newest refugee. “More lives saved by Miss Trafalgar!”
On one of these journeys, a frail girl with a shaved head broke away from the group and followed Trafalgar when she tried to leave.
“You need to stay here,” Trafalgar told the girl.
“I’m supposed to go with you, Trafalgar.”
“Supposed to?”
“I’ve seen it. You and me, riding in a car together. I smelled sea air. I’ve never been to London, but it looks marvelous.”
Trafalgar said, “Where have you seen London?”
The girl touched her temple with two fingers. “What is the building with the big golden dome? Sand Paul?”
“St Paul’s,” Trafalgar corrected. “My name wasn’t originally Trafalgar. Do you know what I was called first?”
“Tall Girl.”
“What’s your name?”
“You will call me Adeline.” She picked up Trafalgar’s bags, giving her no choice but to follow the headstrong young woman.
“But is that your name?”
“It’s what you’ll call me. I’ve heard it.”
Trafalgar said, “But do I call you that because it’s your name, or because your visions say it’s the name I’ll give you?”
“Yes.”
Trafalgar grimaced but knew the girl would prove useful. She also knew someone who could see future events would quickly be discovered at an orphanage and would no doubt find herself snatched up by any manner of unscrupulous folk. She would keep Adeline with her as a precaution, just to make sure she didn’t end up in the wrong hands.
“I knew you’d like me,” Adeline said.
Trafalgar twisted to look at her. “You can hear thoughts, too?”
Adeline shrugged, still smiling.
“We’ll have to work on that.”
“Can’t wait, Miss Trafalgar. Can I have the bedroom at the top by the stairs? It gets the most light in the morning.”
Trafalgar smiled now to remember. When she looked forward she saw Adeline was smiling as well, reliving it right along with her. As annoying as it could be to have her mind be an open book, there was something very nice about sharing a memory with a very dear friend. And since there was hardly any way to keep a secret from the girl, Trafalgar ended up having a more honest relationship with Adeline than anyone else in her life.
Adeline parked in front of a dilapidated building and put an end to Trafalgar’s reverie. It was flanked on either side by trash-strewn alleyways where there lurked vermin of both the rodent and human variety. The front steps were cracked and weed-choked, but the front door was an impressive barrier of thick oak with shining new fixtures. Trafalgar knew from experience that the building was nigh impenetrable, knew the crumbling facade hid a steel box full of traps set to dissuade the curious, and she knew its owner did everything possible to dissuade curiosity.
Trafalgar climbed out of the backseat and took a moment to adjust her goggles. They had brass frames and the leather strap rested snugly against her temples. Her silk-smooth black hair fell straight down her back to rest on the mantle of her coat. She tugged her gloves on more securely and stretched out her fingers to make sure she had freedom of movement. The real reason for her dawdling was so she could scan the street for anyone who might be watching the building.
Confident that she could approach unseen, she tugged the lapels of her coat and continued up the fractured stairs. Adeline and Leola would remain behind to watch the car, as the neighborhood was rough and their host didn’t particularly like multiple guests. Trafalgar gave the prescribed knock and stepped back to count off thirty-three seconds. Then she knocked once more, went back down the steps, and entered the alley. A rust-devoured fencing protected a staircase leading down to a basement entrance. The gate opened with a screech of protest. She descended, knocked once again on this hidden door, and twisted the knob to find it was unlocked.
She removed her goggles as she entered the darkened room. She gave her eyes a moment to adjust before she ventured deeper. Shapes took form in the shadows to either side of her; dust cloths and tarps creating unusual landscapes and vistas in the cluttered basement. The entire space was filled with row upon row of shelving with extremely little room left to serve as aisles. Trafalgar was forced to turn sideways so her jacket didn’t snag on anything. After a few yards the aisle widened to reveal a staircase leading back up to the ground floor.
This entire level had been cleared of furniture or trappings of home, save for a few columns left to bear the load of the upper floors. Though the windows had been covered by several layers of curtain, there was enough early-afternoon light filtering through the seams that Trafalgar no longer had to strain her eyes to see. The home looked abandoned, but she knew the truth. She went past the vacated front rooms to the next highest level, the place where lay the house’s true purpose.
No matter how many times she visited the Crafter’s workshop she was always in awe of its inventory. The walls were lined with bookshelves that overflowed with calipers, micrometers, shears, clamps, gauges, tap and die sets, hammers, mandrels, and any number of other tools she couldn’t hope to identify. Half-formed objects in the vague shape of arms, legs, torsos, and faces lined the many tables of the room. Tools and parts orbited these incomplete items, sometimes draped with oily rags or wrinkled sheets of paper with blueprints scrawled on them.
Threnody emerged from the back of the house with a wooden case cradled under her right arm. She wore a collarless blue mandarin vest and a flowing dress that looked like an inverted black tulip as it swayed with her movement. Her hands were hidden by kid gloves, but the most remarkable aspect of her ensemble was the plague doctor’s mask, its avian beak extending out like a dark brown hook made of oiled canvas. The two round eyepieces were filled with opaque lenses to prevent anyone from seeing even a glimpse of her face. Trafalgar had once seen what the Crafter was hiding beneath the mask, and it was an experience she wasn’t soon to forget.
“You’re early.” Threnody’s voice was filtered through her mask and came out muffled, hollow, as if she was speaking through a radio. “I don’t like early.”
“I overestimated the travel time. It won’t happen again.”
“Hm.” Threnody cleared a space on her worktable and put down the case. She opened it and withdrew a pair of long slender blades connected at their base by a thin golden ring. At first glance they looked like the hands off a clock face. Threnody adjusted the blades until they lined up against each other, then she turned and held the item out to Trafalgar. “Your emei piercers. Traditionally the blades are fixed in place, but this allows you to collapse and conceal the blades up your sleeve until you are ready to use them. Be careful; the ends are very sharp.”
“Interesting.” Trafalgar slipped the ring over her middle finger and flicked her wrist. The blades snapped into place extending out several inches from either side of her hand. She closed her fingers around the blades and gave a few twists of her wrist. The blades would slic
e both on approach and retreat so that no motion was wasted. She released the blades and pushed down with her index and little finger to snap the blades back down. They slid along their axis so she could push the blades up into her sleeve where they couldn’t be seen.
“Marvelous.”
“I thought so. It should do nicely for your close-quarter purposes.”
“Yes, quite. Thank you, Threnody.” She withdrew a small pouch of money from her coat pocket and handed it to the Crafter. “How are you progressing on the electrical weapon I inquired about?”
“Ah, slowly. Slowly. I am consumed with work for other clients.”
Trafalgar sneered. “Lady Boone, no doubt.”
Threnody chuckled. “No jealousy, Miss Trafalgar. I can’t play favorites with my clients. Besides, if I did, you would be the one left out in the cold. Lady Boone was referred to me by her grandmother. If I was the sort to let petty rivalries dictate my business, her business would take preference and you would be forced to find a new Crafter. I wouldn’t want that, and I’m sure you wouldn’t either.”
“Heaven forfend,” Trafalgar said. “Very well. I shall be in touch.”
Threnody folded her hands in front of her chest and bowed slightly before she turned back to her work table. Trafalgar practiced with the emei piercers a bit more as she left the building, determining how best to manipulate her wrist and the movement of her hand to get the most out of the weapon. Leola pushed away from the car and straightened her jacket when Trafalgar emerged from the alleyway.
“Did you get your new toy, Miss Trafalgar?”
Trafalgar smiled and replaced the goggles over her eyes as she climbed back into the car. “When has Threnody ever disappointed us? Take us home, Adeline, and when we arrive I will show you how to use our new weapon.”
#
A handful of airships buzzed above the Thames as they crossed London Bridge, like fat bumblebees scooting from one side of the river to the other. Some of them were taking longer journeys and used the river as a shortcut to avoid the uneven skyline. The gondola of one low-hanging ship buzzed them, its gondola swaying like a metallic dragonfly. Once off the bridge they turned right into Bankside, past the brothels and workhouses to the tenement they called home. The windows were barred and the brick was crumbling. It looked like any number of buildings in London, and a fair sight better than some that had suffered from night raids during the war.