Imperial Clock (The Steam Clock Legacy)

by Appleton, Robert

  A floodlight blazed down upon the quadrangle but caught only the left third. The rest was shielded by the high roof of the cloistered building. Meredith shoved the wallets, purses, letters and the brass document reader into the pockets of Denton’s jacket, then limped for the stairwell. “But what will happen to—”

  “They’ll think we’re victims, too, that this was a Coalition raid.” Cathy hung up a telephone on the bar counter. “Retrace your steps, and don’t waste a second. Donnelly will pick you up at the gates.”

  “Donnelly? But—”

  “I’ve just arranged it. I had told him to wait for you outside the party, but you didn’t stay there, did you.” Cathy threw Denton’s shoes across the room at Meredith. “I hope they’re your size. Now run, little leopard, run and don’t look back. And no matter what, let no one see your face.”

  By the time she heard the gunshot that pierced the shoulder of the most beautiful woman in London, Meredith was passing the empty octagonal conference room at the underground junction. Where the former occupants were—Slocombe, Kingsley, the vociferous old woman—she didn’t know, but it prayed on her mind the farther she went. Sled in one hand, pistol in the other, she limped to the magnetic tracks, an alternating limp that shifted her weight, her bloody, ribboned feet mashing against the hardest insoles ever invented. It was like running on a bed of nails. Soon she could only walk on the sides of her heels.

  Picturing Aunt Lily impaled, strewn across the corpses of the bigwigs she’d killed, and Cathy lying nearby, bleeding in agony as the Leviacrum agents burst in—

  What the hell have I done?

  No time to dwell on it now. Enemies might be circling to the cemetery exit, and that would put poor Donnelly in harm’s way as well. Good God, she was racking up quite the casualty count tonight, and all through her own bloody-minded curiosity. Cathy and Aunt Lily hadn’t even asked how she’d gained entry. That put it in perspective, told her how trivial her momentous puzzle-solving had really been. Buying books from abroad, hiring her own private investigator, staying up nights to research the history of the Atlas Club—the single greatest academic effort of her life—amounted to a childish stunt, nothing more, that had cost the lives of six people, six powerful people, and put the two women closest to her in the world at the mercy of its most dangerous institution.

  826. A number she would rue forever.

  She rode the right hand magnetic track with a grim, single-minded focus on reaching the outside world to somehow make this up to Aunt Lily and Cathy. To set the world to rights...somehow.

  The gates to the parking bays were closed, the bays themselves half empty. Several vehicles remained, including a couple of horse-drawn carriages, which meant some of the sect members were still inside the tunnels, while others had to have left. At the sound of gunfire? Where exactly were the others? She hadn’t explored the right hand passage around the octagonal room—maybe that led to other meeting places.

  Luckily her dress, coat and shoes hadn’t been moved from the storeroom through the alcove. She packed them into a pair of overalls and slung the bundle over her shoulder. Leaving any evidence that she’d been here at all might prove costly. She put the flat cap on and left via the hidden stairwell rather than the ramp, for greater stealth. It led her outside via a door to a secret room full of ivy plants in the crypt above. One had to enter one’s code for ingress, but not for egress.

  It felt chillier out—she was perspiring pints in her gentleman’s suit, so her pores were open—and a damnable lack of cloud would aid airships in their search for trespassers. She counted four small vessels circling above the cloistered building across the river, near the foot of the Leviacrum tower. They’d likely found Cathy and Aunt Lily by now. How long before they flocked to the cemetery?

  Moonlight the colour of cold steel seemed to spoil all her potential hiding places, giving hue to what should be naught but shadow. Meredith kept to the tree line as she had before. At last she reached the front gate, where Donnelly waited with a blanket and a bludgeon.

  “Which of those is for me?” she asked.

  “Depends how long you take to open this thing.”

  She entered her code onto an identical plaque on the opposite side of the gate. The iron door squealed open moments before the first airship searchlight began zigzagging across the cemetery. Donnelly hustled her into his car, tossed her bundle onto the backseat.

  “You all right, darlin’?” As the car gathered steam, he draped the blanket over her. “Swanny’s had me flying here, there and everywhere this evening. What’s all this about?”

  “You don’t know?” Meredith sighed and held the monocle up to her eye. The moonlight and the airship became pink, distant, childish.

  “I can guess.”

  “No, Mr. Donnelly. No, I don’t believe you can.”

  So she told him everything.

  ***

  “Mother, Father, have you a moment? I’ve something I’d like to discuss with you.” A little after one in the afternoon showed on the master bedroom clock, Father’s custom-made timepiece built into the top panel of the imperious cedar armoire. Odd designs like that could be found all over the Auric house, and Father was usually behind them, his penchant for standing out from the crowd extending to every minute facet of his existence, including his rigorously healthy diet and recent obsession with vitamins. Being abed with a chest cold when no one else he knew was ill had humbled the old man today, and Derek planned to take advantage of Father’s amenable temperament while it lasted.

  Mother poured a tincture of medicine into her husband’s mouth, then wiped his chin with a handkerchief. “Is it about the McEwan girl?”

  “It is.”

  Father’s blustered effort to reply excited his full-bore cough. “What about her?” He thumped his chest with the underside of a fist.

  “With all that’s happened lately, the incident at the Steam Fair, my new situation in London and all, I’ve had to ask myself some difficult questions.” His upper body went rigid, chest out while he thumbed his lapels and rocked on his heels. “And I’ve realised it’s time to make deliberate plans. I’d like you to consent to my asking for Sonja McEwan’s hand in marriage.” There, it was out of him, with them, a truth more precious than his own life. He was in love with Sonja, and the world now knew it.

  Mother reached across and clasped Father’s hands. Her brow was scrunched with a kind of sad, knowing joy, as though she’d half-expected this but was touched nonetheless. The only thing missing was an “Awww,” her sure-fire way of embarrassing him when he’d been little.

  Father’s inscrutable gaze, however, didn’t bode well. “A little tricky to ask her family’s permission first, I suppose?”

  “True. Professor McEwan will be out of the country for some time, perhaps indefinitely. It’s a dangerous thing he’s embarked on. Her aunt is her guardian for the time being.”

  “And the girl’s what...fourteen, fifteen?”

  “Sixteen, almost seventeen. The same age Mother was when you—”

  He batted the idea away. “That was different.”

  “It was?” Mother asked.

  “Yes. Your family name was without reproach, and all the proprieties were observed through and through.”

  Mother sighed, then read the label on the medicine bottle as Father chunnered to himself. “Let’s talk about Sonja for a moment then,” she said. “Strict proprieties aside—hers will always be an unusual situation after all—tell us about her, Derek. What is she like? Would we like her?”

  “I’m certain of it. She’s a spark. Quite unlike any girl...woman I’ve met. She’s bright, sharp as a tack, has this marvellous dry wit, and is curious about all the things I’m curious about. You know when you have that instant rapport with someone, as though you’ve always known them—the conversation flows, no awkward silences, and you don’t want it to end—well, that’s Sonja and I. Best friends from minute one, even though we were teacher and pupil. And she’s beautiful. M
aybe not in the obvious classical way like her sister, but obvious holds no appeal for me, never has, as you know. What else can I say? I’m in love with her, and I’m certain we’ll be very happy together.”

  Mother smiled a secret smile just for him, smuggled him a wink. “She sounds lovely”. Then she elbowed Father.

  “Yes, yes, she does. Lovely.” Father leaned forward to fluff and reposition the pillow behind him. “But—”

  “Would you like to meet her first?”

  “I don’t think that will be necessary, son. The fact is...as much as we want you to be happy, I must prevail upon you to consider the broader implications.” God, here we go. “Don’t think me heartless for saying this. Lord knows, I despise playing devil’s advocate. But it’s for your own good, boy. You’ll see the wisdom in the long run.”

  Derek bottled his urge to turn and walk out. This time he felt well-equipped to fell any argument Father put forward.

  “Firstly, your own situation in the Leviacrum, a chance in a lifetime,” Father said. “Do you really think they’d keep you on if you became Ralph McEwan’s son-in-law? The man is a known swindler, stealing patents and cheating colleagues out of their rightful discoveries.”

  “Never convicted in any court of law, nor even charged. It’s all slander, toxic slander, nothing more. You know that.”

  “Son, he’s been tried and convicted in the only court that matters—the court of public opinion.”

  “If you truly believe that’s the only court that matters, you should have your head examined.”

  “Yes, yes, we’ve heard this free-as-a-lark song and dance before. That’s all well and good when you don’t have a business to run, clients to retain, a reputation to uphold.”

  “So that’s your real objection. The business! Hang your son’s happiness as long as the pulp and ink are flowing. You really think your clients are going to sever ties with you because your son has married into a family so apolitical that its name is synonymous with a world no one else has ever seen? This girl is practically an orphan. Her father spends most of his time beneath the earth. In what dream world can her maiden name possibly bring down the Auric Empire? Tell me. I’d love to know.”

  “You’re very naive, son, and very, very foolish. Empires are built on names, reputations, public opinion, and I can tell you they’re also brought down by them. McEwan isn’t finished yet. He’s a hurricane waiting to happen. Already two scandals to his name, and that isn’t counting the rumours that persist of his Coalition hobnobbing. My God, must I spell it out for you? The surest way to self-destruct in a climate like this is to strap yourself to a ticking bomb like Ralph McEwan. I’m sure his daughter is a lovely girl, but if we’re to survive at all, given what’s looming on the horizon politically, she must never—I repeat never—become a member of this family. As harsh as it may sound, it’s for all our sakes that I insist you not pursue the McEwan girl any longer.”

  Derek widened his stance, squeezed palm around fist behind his back. “And that’s your final word on the matter?”

  “It is.”

  Derek looked at his mother, whose solemn gaze at the floor told him she wasn’t about to disagree with the old man. “In that case, I...” He turned and marched out, choking down the tirade he was dying to unleash. No, the air was thick with wrongheadedness already. Before he said something he’d regret, he needed fresh air, somewhere to think, to consider his next move.

  For without his family’s blessing, or society’s approval, what was he really subjecting Sonja to? For all love, did anyone have a good word to say about this match? And if not, would she even want it?

  In the three quarters of an hour it took for him to walk, or rather march to her house, he considered, as per Father’s command, umpteen futures in which Sonja was not a part of his life. Snowflakes in a kiln, they quickly vanished. He’d found the woman he wanted, and she was more important to him than any family business, any career-making situation, any social taboo. The idea put a spring in his step so propulsive his calves ached by the time he reached Bitker Lane.

  Mrs. Van Persie answered the door, but Sonja was standing behind her, bright-eyed and pensive. No smile, but a look of fascination, of concern. He accepted her invitation inside, wiped his feet, and waited for the housekeeper to toddle off. Sonja was about to speak when he held up his hand. “Please, let me say what I came here to say, before anything else tries to stop it.” He swallowed, then sucked in a mighty breath that left him a little lightheaded.

  “Oh my God, you’re finishing with me.”

  “No. No, that’s what they want.” He got down on one knee. “I know this is sudden, but I’ll not ask your forgiveness. With so much uncertain in this world, it’s a relief to know, know truly and without a shred of doubt, who I want to spend the rest of my life with. That means more to me than anything, except one thing—whether she will have me. Sonja McEwan, will you do me the extraordinary honour of becoming my wife?”

  Chapter Fourteen

  Net Play

  Leading Derek by the hand along the shale path narrowed by dense nettles, Sonja seemed almost to glide, weightless and effortless, into a new world. It was only the forest behind the Van Persies’, across the way—she’d walked this path a thousand times—but its excited branches above swayed and spoke in ancient whispers. Its aromas told of once-prophesised passions newly unearthed from the damp autumn soil. Its height and range took on exotic rainforest proportions, conjuring the romantic adventures of Quatermain, Horace Holly, Lady Skyhawk.

  His impromptu proposal had had a curious pursuing effect. It was constantly a split-second behind her, enthralling her in a lucid awareness of exaggerated sights and sounds and smells as if for the first time. But she couldn’t quite take them in. It was a haze, a dizzying alchemic haze suspending her a finger’s breadth from the ground. It was a mist, a delightful, teasing mist that contained all the answers to her future but refused to give them up. It was everything romantic she’d dreamed of, made real, with nothing lost in translation. A single trailing breath around a forever coil of the most wonderful pins and needles.

  If only she’d said yes right away. That would have been her heart’s only answer. But the Derek she knew hadn’t asked it—the proposal had been forced upon him somehow, an act of desperation, a way out of a situation he couldn’t control. Whatever it was, she had to get to the bottom of it before she gave her answer. If he was in some sort of trouble, maybe she could help find a solution. That would be her engagement present to him, to give him a clear conscience along with the answer he wanted.

  “Is it much farther?” he asked.

  “No. In the next clearing.”

  “I don’t see why we couldn’t have stayed in the house.”

  “Because that’s boring. And anyway, I planned this for us days ago, right after you left Aunt Lily and I under a cloud like that. Damned mysterious, Derek. Ah, here we are.”

  “It’s a...a balloon.”

  “Very observant. Come, I have Mr. Van Persie’s permission, so long as we don’t exceed the height of the mooring cables, which would be some feat, I must add.” She pointed to several heavy-duty ropes attaching the balloon’s car to iron cleats in the ground. The balloon itself, an envelope inside an envelope—a safety precaution to maintain buoyancy should one of them become torn during flight—hung limply afloat, its top circling drunkenly about, at about a half of its possible dilation.

  “Very...novel.” As he gazed up, his Adam’s apple bobbed like a buoy.

  “Not your first balloon ride?”

  “No. I just wouldn’t know what to do in an emergency. We’re completely unsupervised? Where is Mr. Van—”

  “Don’t worry, I’ll take care of you. I’m a dab hand at ballooning.”

  “Hmm, that usually means you’ve sort of maybe almost done something once before. Am I right?”

  “Twice, smartypants. The second time I crashed us into a factory chimney.” He whipped her a glance. “Only kidding. Sheesh
! And I thought this was your day for taking chances.”

  Derek thumbed his lapels, marched over to the nearest mooring cable, unwound it from its cleat, and slackened the line almost to its utmost length, to give them the greatest possible height while still being tethered. “Let’s ride.”

  Grinning, she helped him slacken the other lines to the exact same fathom mark. Then she made sure the ends were all tied securely, and hustled him into the wicker car. “You know, I had planned this as a romantic tryst, but now its use seems much more...practical. There’s nowhere more private in the world than when you’re looking down on treetops. And I think we need that.” She bid Derek hoist the anchor.

  Mr. Van Persie had instructed her in his method of achieving ascent or descent by means of regulating the temperature inside the envelopes. This she achieved through the lighting of a combustible, the flame of which could be turned to control the heating of a metal cylinder inside the balloon. This in turn dilated the gas inside the balloon, providing uplift. At a certain point of expansion the ascent became prodigious, but Sonja didn’t want that, as they were still tethered. So, while keeping an eye on the barometric gauge, in a few minutes she had the car pulling gently on the mooring ropes at a height of about a hundred feet, at more or less perfect equipoise over the glade.

  “I always pictured sandbags for ballast.” Derek gazed out toward the coast.

  Sonja slid her fingers under his on the basket’s slick wicker rim. Wonderful shivers wove through her, kite streamers in a breeze, drawing her closer to him, to the charged mystery of his manliness. So much had gone unsaid between them, especially concerning his secret liaison that night in Portsmouth, his proposal today had been completely unexpected.