by Morris, Tee
As they approached a new century, the British had begun to build temples to science and art. None of them was as beautiful as Rome’s, but they were certainly harder to break into. This building was impressive with its multistory stone façade, rows of stained-glass windows, and square towers at each end. A cathedral to the natural world, she mused while rain poured down her cheeks, but at least one thing it contains is most unnatural.
The thunder was getting louder and closer. She ducked her head instinctively but kept moving higher. Her master was not one to be put off—not even for a day. So, she climbed on, muttering under her breath things she most certainly would not have repeated in his presence.
Just as Sophia reached the roof, the sky lit up, as if announcing her arrival. It was nice when Mother Nature was in agreement with her own mood.
Wiping water out of her eyes, Sophia ran over the slate roof tiles of the façade towards the roofline of the Central Hall. All the museum’s windows were protected with McTighe’s annoying etheric sensors, but to the well-informed there were ways around such inconveniences.
Reaching the great barrel roof of the Hall, Sophia smiled, wiped the water out of her eyes, jerked her satchel around in front, and removed from it another of her master’s devices. Her informants had passed on the news that work was being done on the leaks in the Central Hall windows, and the sensors were disengaged for a few days.
Perfect for her purposes. As was her Maestro’s device. It was a narrow rope that looked strangely as though it were made of metal, but woven in ways she’d never seen metal worked before. Sophia liked how it felt in her hand: smooth, slick, and strong. One end she wrapped around herself, cinching it tight around her waist, while the other she snapped onto the ridge of the roof. It locked tighter than a crocodile on a person’s limb. The rope itself was very fragile looking, but she trusted her Maestro and his devices implicitly. He was more than the equal of any McTighe or Fitzroy, she thought with reflected pride.
One more thing was needed. Sophia fished out strap on soles for her boots. Sooner or later even the fools at Scotland Yard might stumble on her activities, so it was better to put another of London’s numerous felons in the frame.
Then she leaned hard into the rope, and turned on the little box that held the ropes tight about her. When she flicked the lever, the gears began to turn, the rope loosened out, took her weight, and then she simple walked down off the slate roof tiles to the windows that comprised the sides of the barrel vault.
She came to rest with her boots against the glass, as if out for a morning vertical stroll evening as thunder crashed and rain fell. In the interests of not being obvious, she crouched down and pressed another of the Maestro’s gifts to the surface of the glass. A diamond edged knife cut a small enough hole in the window that she was able to wriggle her way through.
She released the catch on her line, and dropped down into the Central Hall, leaving the wet bootmarks of Fast Nate Lowell behind. He was going to have some explaining to do.
Then she withdrew the slightly bulky goggles she had not dared to wear outside in the rain. As Sophia slid them over her eyes and adjusted the oculars on each side, a soft scarlet glow bathed her field of vision. Something about the curious illumination always made her uncomfortable, but it gave her the night vision of a cat, which was beyond useful in these circumstances.
Sophia didn’t pause at where she had landed for long. Instead she scampered up the central stairs as quickly as possible.
The lightning lit up the great vaulted ceiling through the museum’s many windows, and for a minute she saw nothing while the oculars were overwhelmed by nature’s own fireworks.
Sophia chewed her bottom lip while waiting for the Maestro’s device to compensate—which they did eventually. Now below, she could see the shapes of the watchmen’s lanterns, which in the oculars looked a deep blood red. They were triangular glows in the vastness of the room below, and there were only two of them.
These telltale lights were moving slowly enough to tell her that—like most guards—they were bored with their lot. Certainly there was not much in the Natural History museum that was worth stealing; mostly old bones and preserved skins from distant parts of the Empire. At least that was what most people thought. Sophia knew better than that.
She watched the guards negotiate around the displays for a moment. They were among the fantastic exhibits of fearsome animals from the wilds of Africa, the menagerie of beasts all frozen in time in various states of alertness, curiosity, or combat. During the day, their mechanical skeletons would resurrect them and show visitors how they lived and, considering the lions’ poses, how they hunted. It was something her master could have enjoyed or at least appreciated.
A soft rumble thrummed in her ears and flashes of white light illuminated the side of the gazelle’s snout.
Sophia smiled. The prey. She understood prey.
To the accompaniment of thunder, she turned and entered the geological gallery. Lightning illuminated all the treasures surrendered by the earth. Most were pretty hunks of rock or crystal but worthless.
However, the museum had recently acquired the Carrington Collection, a collection made by the kind of people England specialised in—the eccentric. The Carringtons had apparently cleared out the attic, and felt philanthropic enough to donate what they found to the museum. One of the items in particular had caught the eye of one of the Maestro’s collaborators. She’d seen it and known what it was immediately, but apparently lacked the courage to take it herself. Typical of many of the clankertons Sophia was forced to deal with, he’d sent her to do what they could not.
Looking down into the display case through the oculars at her prize, she was almost blinded. The square crystal looked like a pulsing heart through them, with blazing lines of lights darting deep within. Her master, not usually given to sharing information, had told her that the ancient civilisation now lost beneath the waves had once powered its cities with such stones. It was just the thing his little protégé could make use of.
Though it irked her to be an errand boy, her fear of his wrath overrode any sense of pride. She’d seen what he’d done to those who displeased him—and had tended to the mess afterward.
Lightning flashed once more, followed only a heartbeat later by the rumble of thunder. The storm was right over the museum now; and Sophia glanced instinctively up, the instinct blinding her as the nocturnal lenses compensated. Clamping her hands over her eyes to give the device time to recover plunged her into darkness, and that was when Sophia heard movement. Behind her.
Somehow one of the guards, blundering about like a drunk elephant, had by sheer chance managed to catch her unawares. Sophia spun about with a soft curse and jerked off the oculars.
The guard, a huge oafish-looking man, was staring at her—something that she was quite used to. Not for the first time her beauty saved her. While he was still gawking, his mouth hanging open fish-like, she reached into the tiny pouch hanging off her belt, grabbed one of the tiny missiles, and flung it at the man.
The British liked to play at darts in their public houses and probably thought themselves masters of the art. They had not however ventured up the Amazon to study with the Huian tribe as she had in her youth. Her aim was perfect.
The guard reached for the sudden sting in his throat, but already his knees had given up on him. Sophia heard the thump his body made as it hit the hard marble floor, but she did not see it. She was already picking the lock on the case, and removing the stone her master had sent her for. The unlucky guard was already forgotten.
The rock was warm and heavy in her hand, but without the lightning and the oculars it really did not seem that remarkable. After wrapping it in a handkerchief, Sophia pressed it under her corset and between her breasts.
She scooped up the oculars, stepped over the guard who was twitching and convulsing the last moments of his life away, and slipped from shadow to shadow until she found her exit. Outside the rain was still coming down hard, and so she had
to be cautious on the slick roof, crouching low until she reached the parapet. Then she affixed her rope to one of the stone griffons looking out over storm-tossed London, and slid down it to the ground.
The knot she flicked loose, reclaiming her equipment with smooth efficiency. As for the repelling equipment she had used to gain entry, it disappeared in a flash once she pressed the detonator’s trigger. The curators would know someone had been in the museum tonight on account of damage to a window, a dead guard, a few puddles of water, and Fast Nate’s footprints. It was a matter of professional pride, though, that she would leave nothing of hers behind.
The streets of Kensington were still quiet but definitely wetter than when she had gone in. She raced across the road and around the corner to Thurloe Street where the reinforced carriage awaited.
Sophia del Morte took a moment to smooth her hair and adjust her clothing before entering. The interior was dimly lit, and her master sat in shadow.
“I take it you were successful?” His voice came out accompanied by a series of steam hisses; she had come to think of it as his own little orchestra.
Withdrawing the stone from its intimate hiding place, she held it out to him on a trembling palm. It was terrifying how dull and ordinary it looked inside the carriage. She held her breath. Her heart was racing, her body near to aching with stress.
For the longest moment she hung suspended between pleasure and terror, until he finally released her. “Indeed, it appears you were.”
One brass gauntlet appeared out of the shadows to take the stone from her. Her master leaned forward and examined the stone through the brass helmet that obscured most of his features and expressions. Sophia suspected the articulated suit he always wore was fitted with the same ocular devices as he had given her, because he nodded. “A nice piece that will do the trick for my little investment.”
He dropped it back into Sophia’s still outstretched palm. She blinked at it for a moment worried that he would ask her to return it from where she had stolen it; he could be capricious like that sometimes.
“Take it to her,” he snapped, his voice distant through the grate of his helmet.
Sophia tightened her hand on the stone and nodded. “Yes, Maestro.”
And then, just like that she found herself standing on the street, in the rain watching the carriage disappear into the night.
No acknowledgement of her abilities. Not even a word of thanks. It was so hard to know what he thought of her, and she so desperately wanted to know.
Her body was trembling, but it was not with fear anymore—it was from accomplishment. What had begun as a relationship based on terror had begun to shift to something else entirely—but just as primal.
Sophia del Morte wondered if the Maestro had noticed that too.
Chapter Three
Wherein Our Intrepid Heroes Return Home, Our Dashing Archivist Settles into His Routines, and—Sadly—So Does Our Beloved Colonial Pepperpot
The analytical engine sounded off with a single chime, and Wellington’s morning tea tickled his nose. He took it into his hands and gave a few soft blows before enjoying its mid-morning bite. He was hoping it would clear his head of the previous morning, but all he could see were the confused, terrified eyes of that young girl trapped within the bars of the gate. He glanced at his newssheet for what could have been the fifth time, reassuring himself that indeed he and Eliza had eluded any mention. The girl was no longer nameless to him—Melinda Carnes. She had come from a family of wealth and privilege, like many in the suffragist movement. She had been part of the Ladies Auxiliary of London for three years, and her assignment to assist Kate Sheppard throughout her speaking tour had been regarded as a real honour, according to the papers. The voices of her parents and fiancé spoke in Melinda’s memory, and along with pride there was in their words a powerful sense of loss.
All the better, Wellington thought, that you did not witness her final moments as I did.
Perhaps it had not been in vain, however. She had managed to communicate the cryptic “two,” just before the light in her eyes dimmed and then disappeared altogether.
Eliza had not voiced any interest to return to Speakers’ Corner, which came as a surprise to Wellington. He believed his partner would have leapt at an opportunity to speak with a fellow antipodean, but even she appeared to want to keep a low profile. They’d escaped from the scene before a crowd could really gather and long before Scotland Yard appeared.
The Archivist blinked, and that was when he noticed the cup of tea in his hands had gone from hot to tepid. He had been sitting still, engrossed for some time.
By their desk, a small coal furnace glowed cheerfully. Wellington stoked the remaining embers within it, and then added two additional scoops. A few minutes later, he felt the coils built into the underside of the shared desk surge with a delightful warmth. He examined the Archives’ long lines of shelves, and pondered how he could somehow contrive a similar heating system throughout its cavernous interior; but coming up with such a contraption would take longer than his analytical engine.
Besides, he had plenty on his worktable back home—and even more sitting before him.
Staring back at him were his own two sheets’ worth of notes that were in reference to the archives transfered from the Scotland office. The clock residing at the meeting point of the shared desks read just shy of eleven o’clock. He looked back at the closed hatch of the Archives. Locked, as it had been when he arrived. Wellington concluded his partner would arrive sometime after lunch, as was her fashion. That suited him very well. With this recent acquisition from Scotland, there was plenty to do.
Suddenly, his stomach growled, and that was when Wellington remembered he had forgotten to eat breakfast.
“Dash it all,” he whispered.
His eyes darted up to the pillars of crates around their desk. He slipped on fingerless gloves and sighed as he looked at the top box, labeled 1891. Perhaps with Eliza alongside him, this process would take half the time; but alone as he was, 1891 appeared as the easiest place for him to begin. Stepping away from the comfort of the heated desk and into the chill of the Archives, Wellington wrapped his scarf about his neck and extended the keypad to him.
He typed:
ARCHIVE RETRIEVAL
1891
The machine clicked and whirred and then . . .
“Now just a moment,” Wellington muttered. No one about, so no need to display his “inability” to type. He double-checked the display. It was the right command.
He pressed the “Enter” key again. Again, the analytical engine clicked and whirred . . .
This time, the engine’s display responded:
FULFILMENT FAILURE.
SYSTEM CURRENTLY ENGAGED.
He looked back into the Archives, then back to the engine’s amber display. This can’t be right. Such a failure would mean Eliza is already—
Wellington took long strides as he went deeper into the Archives, looking down each year’s aisle, but seeing only darkness—that was until he reached 1892.
At the far end of the shelves was a single, familiar figure sitting at the reading table, poring over a case.
He could hardly believe his eyes. “Eliza?”
“Morning, Welly,” she answered cheerily, gathering up the open files before her.
“Good—” Wellington started and blinked. Eliza had been here? All this time? Before him? “—morning?”
“What’s wrong, Welly? Would you care for a spot of tea, or perhaps something stronger?”
“I—I already have a cup.”
“Well, I certainly could use one myself,” Eliza said, walking past him and returning to the Archive’s analytical engine. She punched in a code, and within minutes the sharp smell of gunpowder tea filled Wellington’s nostrils.
The scent seemed to provide the jolt the drink would have eventually given him. “I never programmed—”
“Oh, come along, Welly,” Eliza chided him, “did you really th
ink with all the adjustments you have made to this creation of yours, I wouldn’t follow suit?”
“But how did you—”
“I opened up your tea sequence, cracked the computations, and then adjusted it for my preferred brew. Did you not know that cryptography was a new passion of mine? You’re partially to blame for it you know, considering that trick you pulled in Antarctica.”
He felt a blush rush to his cheeks. She still remembered, and now she was interested in the art of cracking codes herself? It was almost charming.
Wellington, he snapped silently at himself, focus! She was here, in the Archives, before you!
As he returned to their desk, his colleague slid towards him a large jar of ointment across the desk. An aroma of mint, medicinal salve, and lavender tickled his nose. “I popped up to the clankertons’ lair and stole this wonderful ointment for our unexpected sunburn from the past two days.” She smiled brightly. “It really does do the job.” Wellington peered closer, and yes indeed, it did appear Eliza’s skin glowed a little less red than it had.
Before he could make a move for the jar, she had darted around to his side of the desk, sat herself down on the edge, and put one hand under his chin against his neatly trimmed beard. The Archivist was quite unsure what to do with the fact that his partner had him in such an intimate grasp. It was . . . most improper, yet he found himself allowing her to tip his head this way and that. She leaned forward and examined his injuries with an intensity that would have done Miss Nightingale herself proud.
Wellington avoided looking into her eyes.
“Yes,” Eliza finally declared. “You seem to have caught a little more of it than I did. My hat provided some shelter on that train, and then yesterday we—Kate and I, that is—were low to the ground, out of the blast radius.” She dipped her finger into the jar and began to apply it to his cheeks.
He could have done it himself, however he found at present he didn’t want to. Despite himself Wellington let out a little sigh of relief. The ointment was delightfully cool and immediately eased the discomfort of the burns. Eliza’s fingers were gentle in their ministrations, and for a couple of minutes they sat in silence while she worked her magic.