“What?”
“I said, ‘hey.’”
“And I said, ‘what?’”
“Don't be a sarcastic ass.”
“Gre—I mean, Stanley. Calm down.”
“I am calm! Who says I'm not calm?”
“Be...quiet...”
“Hmph. What's your problem?”
“My problem?!?” I hissed under my breath. “My problem is the three of you!”
“Whoa, whoa, what the hell?” he slurred.
“You're all drawing too much attention!”
“How am I drawing attention? How?” Gren loudly demanded.
“Shhh! Shut up!”
“No, Brother. Tell me, how am I drawing attention?”
“You're drunk!”
“So is half the party.”
“And Jack keeps stuffing his face.”
“There's plenty of food.”
“And Quill! Did you see her mustache fall off?”
“Half off. And I fixed it. No harm. You're the only one making a scene, Pocket.”
“Can you just go find the donation box, so we can get the hell out of here?”
“What's the rush?”
“Just find it!”
“I don't have to find it. It's right over there.”
He cocked his head toward a blue-violet, miniature trunk that sat open upon a small pillar. A stately couple made a show of walking to the trunk with exaggerated posture and placed a folded, white envelope on top of a stack of other folded envelopes that half-filled the box.
“Great,” I said. “Go get it.”
“I can't just walk up and take it! It's in the middle of the party. People will see.”
“Then why are we here?!?”
“Look, when the box gets full or when the rich people stop throwing envelopes of money in there, they'll probably close it up or put it away somewhere. I mean, isn't that what you would do? So then we just gotta sneak into whatever room it ends up in and, I don't know, push it out of a window or something. What? What is that look for?”
“I thought you had more of a plan in mind...than that...”
“What's wrong with it?”
“What's wrong with improvising?!?” I stopped myself and just sighed. “You know what? Forget I said anything. Carry on.”
I waved a weak goodbye to my brother Stanley and started to move away.
“Where are you going?” he said to me.
“Outside for a second.”
“Why?”
“I need some cheaper air. Plus, that young woman over there won't stop staring at me. It's a little strange.”
I was referring to the ever-present daughter of Mister Blue-Eyes, who had been, throughout the course of the evening, periodically popping up in the distance and setting upon me a constant look. And to make things stranger, it didn't seem to be a look of interest, but instead of expectation.
“Oh yeah,” Gren said. “Yeah, she was asking about you.”
I squeezed my eyes and dropped my mouth from a frown to a scowl. “Was she?”
“Yeah, but don't worry. I handled it for you.”
The scowl dug deeper into my face, a chiseled cut into stone. “Did you?”
He nodded drunkenly. “She said you were supposed to tutor her or something, and that it was important so she could come out.”
“Come out?”
“You know, be courted. Find a man,” he slurred. “Something about reaching an age of womanhood and needing to complete a lady’s education before entertaining suitors. And some other noise, but I wasn’t listening much after I promised you as tutor.”
“Hold on. I don’t really appreciate you making decisions in my place.”
“Don’t worry. After tonight, you’ll never see any of these people again. All I said is that you could teach her.”
“That’s all?”
“Yeah. I just told her that you’ve helped many girls achieve womanhood and that you’re damn good at it.”
“You said what?!?”
“Yeah, she shut up pretty fast after tha—“
“You idiot! What in the living hell is wrong with you?!?”
“What do you mean?”
“What do I mean?!? What do I…agh…you essentially have just informed a young lady that your older brother is London’s go-to man for skilled and experienced defiling!”
“What? No, no. I'm pretty sure she just thinks you're gunna show her some books or something. Tutoring.”
“And what if she doesn't?!?”
“I don't know! Then correct the misunderstanding!”
“I can’t just walk over and announce a lack of degeneracy!”
“I’m sorry, all right?!? I’m sorry!”
“Shhh. Quiet down.”
“It's too late! I feel like an ass now!”
“You're just drunk.”
“Stupid white wine, or whatever that was. Messing up my common sense.”
“Gren—“
“Hey!” he suddenly yelled to another man in the crowd. “You! What are you smiling about? Huh? Think you see some clod who can't handle his alcohol? Is that it? Ya think that's funny?”
“Gren, don't!” I demanded under my breath.
“You want to start something?” Gren challenged, ignoring me. “Because I'm in just the right mood to get my clothes dirtied!”
I gave up and let the hot-tempered drunk go as he may, which happened to be sloppily through a thick crowd of onlookers toward his very bewildered target.
I didn't stick around for the show. As men hurried past me to restrain Gren, I slipped away, dodging out of the room and making my escape down the hall.
It was time to leave.
I practically ran to the large double doors of the front entrance, and, once outside, I broke into a sprint. Soon I was back at the Prospero, and I breathed a sigh of relief as I hopped into the driver's seat.
And then...I hesitated.
Because I knew if I took off now, one of two things would most likely happen. One, the others would soon realize it, abort their plans, be stuck, and risk getting caught, or two, not realize it soon enough, steal the box, find their getaway ride missing, be stuck with the money, and definitely get caught.
But so what, I then asked myself.
They were pirates, thieves. I shouldn't have been assisting in their crimes in the first place. And Gren wasn't exactly a clergyman either. I was therefore just a victim of circumstance, I told myself. My hand was forced into this wicked plot, and I had absolutely no reason to feel guilty for abandoning it. Hell, I'd be a fool not to take the rare opportunity to escape.
But still...
I remembered the bruise that slid down the arm of the Red Priest. I remembered the way those arms worked over the wounded Doll, delicately replacing her gears. I remembered how, with a smile, he tossed aside my thanks for putting her back together.
But did I owe him enough to stick around? Was my debt that large? It was a tough call.
And with a silent apology, I ignited the engine and drove off into the night.
For a moment.
So what happened, you may ask. Did the sympathetic Will Pocket have a late change of heart and return to collect his companions?
No. Not at all.
The absentminded Will Pocket had remembered that the Doll's turnkey was still tucked away in his tailcoat, which had been taken by the doorman.
Damn.
“Plus, you still didn't know where to begin looking for the Doll.”
“Yes, Alan. We've discussed that. The thought still hadn't occurred to me.”
“Still?!? How absent is that mind?”
“Shut up.”
I went back to the ball, found the coat closet, and turned the knob.
Locked.
I looked down the hall. No one in immediate sight. Good, I thought to myself. I then took a deep breath, shifted all of my weight to my right shoulder, and rammed myself into the door.
It didn't budge.
&nb
sp; Annoyed, I dropped my posture into a slouch, scratched my head, and extended my skinny leg to the lock. Bang, bang, bang went the door as I tried to kick my way inside.
It didn't budge.
I tried again. Bang, bang, bang.
“Mister Falston?” came a voice behind me. “William?”
Bang, bang, bang.
“William?”
I stopped myself, leg extended in mid-kick. Sheepishly, I twisted my side and glanced behind me.
That's right. Blue-Eyes's daughter.
“Uh...” I said, slowly lowering my foot to the floor, “...hi.”
“Hello,” she said. “What are you doing?”
I looked at her then looked at the door then looked at her.
“Oh, you know...” I said casually, “just...kicking in this door.”
“Oh,” she said. “Why?”
“It's locked,” I said, rather stupidly, and then tried to better explain myself. “I mean, yes, of course, it's locked. But I've forgotten something in my coat, and I need to get at it.”
“Did you ask the doorman to let you in?”
Of course I didn't. No need to draw any more focus upon myself, especially when I was trying to slip out without my “brothers” noticing.
“Didn't want to bother him,” I said to her. “It's not my policy to be disruptive.”
“But...you're kicking in a door.”
She had me there. I'm a terrible liar to begin with, and there was no way I was going to be able to mask door-kicking as proper etiquette.
I shrugged to the young lady. “Good point.”
I was about to excuse myself and reassess the situation, when the woman opened her mouth and offered me a piece of luck.
“What did you say?” I said in disbelief.
“I can unlock that door for you,” she repeated.
“You...you can?”
“Of course. I'll just have to ask Father for his key.”
“Your father has the key to the coat closet?”
“No.” She promptly curtsied and hurried off.
Apparently, no one at this wretched party was bound to make any sense.
“Huh,” I muttered to myself. “Odd one.”
Weighing my options, I lifted my foot once more and kicked against the door.
Bang, bang, sigh, bang.
The girl returned and, sore-footed, I pretended that I had been waiting for her. She was holding a peculiar-looking key.
“I don't get it,” I said to her. “You said he didn't have the key for this closet.”
“He doesn't.”
“He doesn't have the key, but he gave you...a key?”
“Yes.”
“Look, I’m a little tired to play with riddles.”
“I don't think you understand.”
“I agree.”
She moved past me and pushed the key into the lock. She turned it and, with a click, the door popped open.
“A skeleton key,” I said, finally getting it.
“Yes,” she replied.
“Handy thing for your father to keep around.”
She tried to explain to me how the gentleman had acquired the piece, but impatient as I was, I returned the key and politely shuffled her away with a promise to soon return to the ballroom. It was another to add to the growing list of promises I was prepared to break that night.
I was through playing fair.
I leaned into the closet and began sorting through dozens of seemingly identical black coats. Finally, as I grabbed the shoulder of one hanging towards the corner, I felt something solid slightly weighing it down. Reaching into my coat's inner pocket, I felt the familiar metal of the Doll's turnkey.
I grinned.
Just then, a rowdy chorus of approaching footsteps came up from the distance, so moving fast, I slid out of the closet and left it cracked slightly open.
The footsteps, I soon learned, belonged to my would-be brothers, and I sighed as I watched a slightly drunken Quill and a very drunken Jack escort an angry, also very drunken Gren down the hall.
“What happened?” I asked them.
“He got into a fight!” Quill said in annoyance.
“I figured.”
“Where were you?”
“I stepped out for a moment. Wasn't in the mood to watch Gren get into a brawl.”
“It wasn't a brawl!” Gren slurred. “It was one punch. The ass was mocking me.”
“Yeah!” Jack shouted in his stupor. “Down with the high and mighty, with their dirty, cultured money!”
“Who needs them?” Gren concurred.
“I thought you did,” I dully replied. “The plan, remember?”
“Oh yeah,” Jack said with a belch. “Well...down with them, but up with their dirty money!”
“To dirty money!” Gren said.
“To...dirty money!” Quill reluctantly agreed.
I was about to complain, to make up some excuse, get out of there, and once out, never look back. But then I did something that surprised everyone, especially myself. As I stood there before those three, the angry gambler and the two pirates, I...I laughed.
I laughed hard.
And, God help me, I kept laughing, falling eventually to my knees.
“What's so damn funny?” Hack-Jack asked.
“Yeah, sensei,” Quill said. “Are you all right?”
I looked up at them and smiled, because I realized something vitally important. These weren't monsters or hardened criminals. They were just like me, simple fools caught on the wrong side of a good intention. I couldn't abandon them with any less blame than Kitt deserved for running away. Even if I had gotten into this situation under Gren's false pretense, I owed them at least enough to stay around and see this evening through.
“I'm fine, Quill,” I said, standing. “To their money! To culture!”
The brothers Falston clasped arms, their collective spirit renewed.
“That was...loyal...I think.”
“Eh, who knows, Alan? By this point of the story, I was about to give up on playing noble. It was getting too hard to figure out how.”
My enthusiasm must have had an effect on my companions because they seemed immediately more focused and even more sober. Gren even vowed to find the gentleman he socked and apologize, albeit this decision came at my demand that he do so before the four of us were thrown out. We worked our way back into socializing, keeping an eye open for opportunity.
“So forgive me for asking,” I said to a young gentleman over drinks, “but I have to know. What's with the goggles?”
“Goggles?” he said back to me.
“Yeah. The ones on your head.”
He looked at me like I was a moron.
“They're for protecting your eyes.”
“Well, sure. Of course, I know that. I mean, why are you wearing them?”
“Why?”
“Yes. I mean, why here? At the ball?”
“Oh!” he said, replacing his confused gape with a smug and self-assured smile. “Why, because they are the flavor of new industry!”
He raised his glass for a toast to nobody and drank to his satisfaction.
“Uh...right...” I said, unable to resist continuing, “but there's no dust, no debris in the air here. So what point is there in—“
“To new industry!” he announced, again thrusting his glass to the heavens.
“To new industry!” others chimed in, applauding the man's enthusiasm.
“Yeah, but—” I began.
“New industry!” I heard Jack shout from somewhere in the room, late in joining the cheers. “Woo!”
I sighed. “Nevermind.”
I gave the man and his pride a little privacy to develop their relationship. Dragging my feet, I found my way over to Quill, who was conversing with a stately-looking lady in purple on the subject of the modern woman.
“Ah, young master William, correct?” the lady addressed me. “Excellent timing. Your brother and I were just conversing, and I
would love to get your perspective on a timely matter.”
I glanced at Quill, who shrugged.
“I'd love to,” I said unenthusiastically.
The woman clasped her hands together and spoke.
“You see, young master William, I was putting the opinion forward that a woman of this changing era must be prepared to change along with it.”
I chewed on my lip a little. “I suppose that makes sense. You'd have women be more...what?”
“Masculine.”
This made me blink. “I'm sorry, did you say, masculine?”
“In a sort of manner, yes.”
“Manner?”
“Young William, it is my belief that a woman must now exist as completely independent as a man to thrive in this age. Or would you prefer us in the traditional role of slave?”
“Oh, well, of course I'm not suggesting anyone be enslaved. But I'm afraid I don't see how acting like a man would eliminate this problem.”
“The girlish trappings of lace and flowers only serve to enslave ladies to a foregone image,” the woman explained.
I glanced at Quill, who was scratching her head.
“Forgive me,” Quill said, in her disguised, “masculine” voice, “but what is wrong with lace and flowers?”
The lady laughed, taking Quill's hand with mock sympathy.
“Oh, poor, young Laurence. You have much to learn about the other sex. Still such a backward man.”
Quill furrowed, obviously insulted.
“Well, pardon my opinion, madame,” she said, “but I frankly don't see what a set of masculine trappings has to do with a lady's independence. I've known a young lady, I tell you, of high ability and repute, who’s commanded friend and foe, conquered land and sea, while fully draped in ribbons, lace, jewels, and the most confident grin a woman could wear!”
I thought upon Madame B, upon the excited looks she wore in battle. Confident, yes, but equally as frightening.
The lady in purple turned her nose at Quill. “Sounds like uncouth gypsy behavior, carrying on as such.”
“Don't let her hear you say that,” Quill muttered.
“William,” the lady said, “what are your thoughts?”
“Mine?” I asked.
“Yes. Would you consider such behavior unbecoming?”
“Uh...well...”
“Yes, William,” Quill said, a little mischievously, “let's hear your view on women. What's your type, eh?”
Turnkey (The Gaslight Volumes of Will Pocket Book 1) Page 43