“Good to know.”
Evening came and the Priest invited me to come view the fruits of his labor.
I was stunned.
On both sides of the Prospero there now stood two tall poles welded and rigged with wires that fed out from the engine. And at the end of the poles?
Miniature propellers.
Gren was sitting behind the driver's wheel, and he smiled as the Priest puffed out his chest with pride.
“Not bad, right?” Gren said.
“You expect us to fly this thing?!?” I asked. “This steam car?!?”
“Yep,” the Priest said. “We worked the engine so it'll spin the blades. Clever, yes?”
“It'll get off the ground?”
“Well...I wouldn't go zipping around the sky like a maniac, but yes, it'll get you up enough to clear the sea.”
“Are you sure it's safe?”
“Not completely.”
“That's not the right answer.”
“It's the honest one. I thought that would be the one you'd want.”
“So did I.”
But despite my complaints and reservations, I knew I was stuck in this arrangement. So I held my tongue and helped the gents push, pull, and awkwardly drive the Prospero up stairwells and corridors to the open deck of the ship.
Before I knew it, I was climbing into the backseat of the vehicle with Quill as Gren and Jack took the front.
“Move,” Jack said to his friend. “I'm driving.”
“The hell you are!” Gren snapped.
“Why not?”
“Because I know where we're going, Jack! That's why! Now shut your mouth. We're on our way.”
Gren ignited the engine, and once it started evenly chugging, he pulled a lever. The propellers started spinning. Before long we were lifted, however slightly, off of the deck.
The Red Priest and Madame B were there to see us off, and as we wobbled off over the sea, they called out to us with the encouraging words: “Don't botch this up.”
The oil sea was below us. Closely below us. The Prospero bucked and bounced as we slid through the air.
“Gren, are you sure you can pilot this thing?” I inquired.
“Don't worry about it,” he answered, steering towards land. “Driving's a passion of mine. I can handle a carriage like it's an extension of me. Sure, this is a little different, with the propellers and the sky and all of that, but put that aside and it’s basically the same principle.”
Ug.
Miraculously, we made it to the shore alive. Gren dropped us upon an empty stretch of road, roughly, killed the propellers, and turned the wheels toward the city lights.
As we drove, I found myself very quiet. I tried repeatedly to keep my mind on the present, but my thoughts kept drifting back to Kitt and the Doll. Looking out a window at the evening sky, I began to search amongst the stars for the silhouette of the Priest's stolen shuttle. I wondered how far Kitt had gotten them in a day's time and became suddenly impatient. Every moment that I sat around and waited was another step further they became. I needed to act, to start moving. To get away from these pirates and do something.
And then I remembered that I was sitting in the back of a steam car.
A steam car that would be unattended during the investors' ball.
And I had the Doll's folded turnkey tucked into my coat. For luck.
“Pocket!”
“Don't look at me like that, Alan. Men get desperate.”
“It just surprises me, that you would—“
“Well, what would you have done?”
“I guess I don't know. But still...”
“It was just a thought. Don't vilify me.”
“So did you do it?”
“Don't get ahead of me either.”
FINLEY AEROWORKS ANNUAL INVESTORS' BALL – 1888
I swallowed the lump in my throat as I watched the banner waft in the windy night.
“Well,” Quill said, reaching for the door's marbled handle, “here we go.”
And thus I entered the ball, trailing skeptically behind Gren, Jack, and Quill, or as they would be known, my brothers Stanley, Dominic, and Laurence.
This, I decided, was going to be a long night.
As soon as we passed through the doorway we were met by a thin man in a long tailcoat. Gren gave the gentleman our pilfered invitation, and he took our coats. Our party was then led through the hall to the main ballroom.
My eyes widened.
The room was a sight, as large as it was gorgeous. Tall, tinted windows cut into tall, ivory-colored walls that curved around the circular room. Grand chandeliers hung above us, bouncing light off of a million tiny pieces of glass. The floor was some caramel-colored wood, polished to a shine smoother that I had thought possible. Waiters and serving girls moved about the room, weaving in and out of gossiping clusters of sharply-dressed individuals of note. There was a harpist in the corner. I had never in my life heard a harp played, and the music was beautiful. And throughout this grand ballroom, long, vertical banners hung, singing flash and pomp about Finley Aeroworks's role in “the new age.”
It was, to sum up, a pretty nice place for a party.
The one quirk, however, I immediately picked up on concerning the guests of this ball was the strange way that they were each dressed. Well, perhaps “dressed” isn't the correct word. More like...“decorated.” You see, nearly every socialite that I could see, every man of industry or lady patron, wore upon his or her person some bizarrely ornate piece of mechanical equipment. Gentlemen and ladies alike wore thick flight goggles raised upon their neatly-trimmed hair. Goggles! In such a stately room, free from the dangers of airborne debris. Others had thick cogs and gears pinned haphazardly to their formal wear, leaving slight oil stains upon the white of their costly evening shirts. I remembered one elderly madame sitting to my immediate left who had draped over her frail arms not a lavish set of silk opera gloves, but rather a thick, black pair of men's welding gloves, as if after the night's festivities, she was planning to march off to the nearest smithy and pick up a torch! My first impression of this lot, clinking and clanking about, was what I similarly first thought of the Lucidia's pirate crew. Pack of complete loons. I eyed the words “modern age” on a banner across the room from me and began to question where in fact this human race was headed. I glanced at Gren, who I could tell was equally perplexed. He shrugged at me and I tried not to laugh.
“Not to interrupt, Pocket, but I do feel that I should point out the obvious.”
“Go ahead.”
“Well, if you're going to criticize the fashion choices of these people, I will remind you that you walk around with a spoon in your hat.”
“True, yes. But that's different. That's necessity.”
“Necessity? How?”
“Well, I don't really have access or means to acquire a more appropriate replacement.”
“Eh...and what about Kitt?”
“What about Kitt?”
“Well, wasn't he running around the streets in a pair of pilot goggles?”
“Again, necessity. The kid's a thief, remember? Stolen ship parts? Airman's disguise? Haven't you been listening to any of this?”
“Sure, sure.”
“Besides, I may wear a spoon, but at least I had the sense not to wear it to a formal ball.”
“Heh, yeah. And Kitt had so much fashion sense, he skipped the party altogether.”
“Hilarious.”
The thin gentleman cleared his throat in a surprisingly loud tone that carried instantly through the room. A hush fell through the crowd, and all eyes were suddenly upon us.
“Gentlemen, ladies, esteemed guests,” our escort spoke, “introducing the brothers Falston, investors.”
We were met with a round of quiet, polite applause.
“Hey there!” Jack brashly shouted. “How are ya?”
The onlookers stared for a moment and then returned to their own conversations.
“Friendly bunc
h,” Jack commented to the usher, who bent his thin lips into a smile, bowed, and left us alone.
Thrown to the wolves, it would seem.
“Well!” Jack said, loudly clapping his hands together. “Let's find the food.”
Or maybe, I considered, the wolves were us.
I turned to ask my “siblings” what they thought we should be doing, only to find that they had already disappeared.
Great.
With nothing else to do, I took a breath and started to work my way through the ball, trying my best to appear relaxed while not meeting anyone's gaze.
“Be witty,” I remembered B had told me. I looked up and saw a young lady smiling and looking my way. I smiled back as I approached her...and kept on walking. Be witty, huh? Not unless I have to.
As I weaved through the party, I noticed that whoever I passed would seem to immediately break into a fit of whispering as I strode by. Perhaps, I thought, it was just my imagination.
A banquet line had been set up at a row of tables along one wall. A line of hungry guests, looking particularly annoyed, waited quietly as Jack moved around the banquet, dumping half of it onto a single plate. An angry hand soon grabbed his collar and yanked him away. Fortunately, that hand was mine.
“What?” he said, mouth already full of potatoes.
“You think maybe you could tone it down a bit?” I whispered.
“Tone what down?”
“I mean, blend in, for God's sake! You're drawing attention.”
“So? There's food, so I'm eating. I thought that was blending in.”
“Just do it quietly, okay?”
“Boys,” a third voice said. We looked up to find a portly, blue-eyed man extending his hand. Instinctively, I took it and shook.
“Uh, good evening, sir,” I said, trying to sound proper.
“You know,” Mister Blue-Eyes said to us, “I was hoping I'd get a chance to speak with you this evening. It's William, correct?”
“Yes,” I replied. Great, someone who knew these brothers. My heart sped up.
“And this must be...”
“Dominic,” Jack said while chewing on a goose leg. “Hey, this stuff's not bad.”
“Of course,” Blue-Eyes said. “Little Dom. My, how long has it been?”
“Couldn't tell ya,” Jack truthfully replied.
“You boys probably don't even recognize me, but I used to know your father, years and years ago. Why, the two of you were just babies when I last saw you. He was a good man, your father. But I'm sure you know that.”
“Right, sure,” I said. “Good man. Absolutely. Wouldn't you say, brother?”
“Huh? Oh yeah, Father,” Jack said. “Good bloke. Hell, better than good! Great bloke! And don't you forget it!”
“I...won't, son,” Blue-Eyes said, surprised.
“You're damn right, you won't!” Jack said, raising his voice and swinging his goose bone in the air. “In fact, I'll bloody fight whoever says elsewise! I'll knock 'em cold!”
Again, those around us stopped and stared for a moment.
“So,” Mister Blue-Eyes said, “anyhow, which one of you is the scholar of the family? I had wanted to ask a few questions.”
I was about to offer up Gren's name as an escape, but Jack was quicker.
“He is!” Jack said, elbowing me. “Now if you'll both excuse me...”
Blue-Eyes and I watched as Jack wandered off toward a well-shaped serving girl who was wielding a tray of sparkling drinks.
“He, uh, he suffered an illness as a child,” I said.
“Oh, I see,” Blue-Eyes said. “I'm very sorry to know that.”
“Yeah. So was I.”
I grabbed a drink myself from a passing server's tray and downed it in one swallow.
“William,” the man said, leading me through the room, “my daughter is of age now, and I have been trying, so far unsuccessfully, to acquire for her a proper tutor.”
“Uh-huh...” I said, eying the crowd for my companions.
“Anyhow, I know you are a learned young man from good stock, and I was hoping...ah...William?”
“Yes, I'm sorry. I'm listening. Your daughter.”
“My daughter, yes.”
He was leading me, I realized, toward the same girl that I had noticed looking at me earlier.
“Anyhow, William,” Blue-Eyes said, “I'm not certain of your personal area of specialization. Mathematics? History?”
I glanced to the side and spotted Quill sipping sparkling wine. As she pulled her glass away, I couldn't help noticing that her mustache was now hanging sideways down her face.
“Quill!” I hissed in a panic.
“I beg your pardon?” Blue-Eyes said. “Did you say 'quill?'”
“Uh...yes? Yeah, you, um, were asking about my studies, so...uh…”
“Ah, quills, I see. Man of the written word. Very good.”
“Yeah. I'm sorry, sir. I must go for a moment. Excuse me.”
Before he could reply, I took off, jogging away from his daughter a second time and moving to Quill, who was still somehow unaware of her dangling disguise.
But before I could reach her, I was nabbed. A cuffed sleeve grabbed my arm and spun me counter-clockwise into a pecking cluster of socialites.
“Ah! Young master William!” barked the man who had snagged me, his cheeks swelling like cherries from the corners of his mouth. “What perfect timing!”
The group agreed, meeting me with a collection of tidy head nods.
“Young master William,” Mister Cherry repeated, ushering me into their circle, “you are a man of learning, are you not?”
“I'm quite fond of books,” I stammered.
“Then perhaps you can enlighten us. We were just in the midst of a great discussion, young master William, on the words and works of another noted William.”
“I see. Which William would that be?”
“Why, the great William!” Mister Cherry proclaimed. “The timeless William.”
“Of course,” I responded. “And...which one was he?”
They became quite silent and Mister Cherry set a stupefied gaze upon me.
“Shakespeare,” he said dryly.
“Yes!” I said, jumping on the word. “Of course, the timeless William!” I forced myself to laugh. “What other is there?” I added, milking reserved chuckles from the others.
“Of course. Well said. Good man.” Mister Cherry slapped my shoulder thrice. A woman with tall, thin brows that curved like stalks of wheat raised a finger at me.
“Tell us, young William,” said Misses Wheat, “which of the great master's works do you most admire?”
Necks craned in my direction. I tugged at my collar, put on my best “educated” face, and spoke with great pronunciation.
“Why, I like the one with all the killing,” I said.
And then they were quiet again. They looked about at each other's faces, searching, I can only imagine, for the face that was going to first respond. It was Mister Cherry at last who opened his mouth. He broke into a fit of great laughter.
“Well done, my boy!” he said, slapping his thigh. “Sharp wit on this one!”
The others took his cue and started laughing on the spot.
“Very droll, young master William!” Misses Wheat said.
“A regular humorist,” remarked the woman to her immediate right, Madame Turkeyneck.
I was going to protest, but my arm was snatched once more, and once again I spun, this time counter-counter-clockwise...or...I suppose now...clockwise.
When my body ceased its orbit, I found myself in the company of a tallish, dark-haired girl about my age who was wearing a welder's helmet upon her raised hair. A peacock's feather was worked carefully between the visor and bent out most...well, what I suppose was fashionably. Still, a man who dons spoons has little room to critique.
“Young master William,” she began.
“You know,” I interjected, “if it's all the same to you, we can drop the w
hole 'young master' business. It's a little silly, is all. Please, William is fine. No, make it Will. And you are?”
Her glazed eyes and fixed smile stayed on me as my words whizzed past her ears and over her helmet.
“Young master William,” she began again, “you bring such a presence to our little affair.”
“Do I?”
“Forgive me if the question is terribly rude, but I was wondering if there might be a young mistress connected to this young master?”
What?
I repeated the sentence in my head a second time and found little translation. Was she asking if I had a sister?
“Sometimes I feel like I'm not truly connected to anything, miss,” I finally said, “even scarcely to the ground.”
“To the ground, young master William?”
“Yeah,” I said, stuffing my hands into my pockets. “I wouldn't be at all surprised to one day look down at my feet and find them floating aimlessly through the space around me. You understand what I mean?”
“Not at all,” she said to me, “but it is quite fascinating.”
I sighed. “Thanks.”
Conversation continued in this fashion over the next hour, with yours truly being catapulted from one chattering circle to the next. For those out there who fear that they may at some unfortunate point in their lives end up at such a social gathering, I will pass on what I have learned. The best way I've found to appear socially engaging and amiable is to simply keep your mouth shut and let whoever is talking continue to do so. People love to talk about themselves, it seems, and should you permit them to do just that, only chiming in with the occasional nod here or “go on” there, they will find you delightful. Anyhow, as I was saying, things continued more or less smoothly until Gren finally reappeared. He stumbled up to me, waving an empty glass.
“Hey,” he said, scowling. “How's it going?”
“Fine, I guess,” I answered. “Although it seems—”
“Quick question.”
“What?”
“This glass, what was in it?”
“Are you drunk?”
“What was in it?”
“I don't know. I wasn't drinking from it.”
“Hey!” he said, angrily pointing at me.
Turnkey (The Gaslight Volumes of Will Pocket Book 1) Page 42