The Mysterious Madam Morpho

by Delilah S. Dawson

  But no. That door was locked. The cooks must have had rules about people mucking around and begging scraps between meals. As she stood there, she felt something tug her boot lace and gave a screech. She danced back and found her first adorably bewhiskered specimen of Oryctolagus cuniculus sanguinis, or the common European bludbunny.

  “Oh, hello, specimen,” she said, leaning down to look at the sodden thing. It was the tan of caramel and would surely have been fluffy and soft if not for the fact that it was soaked to the bone, muddy, and a bit blood-spattered about the mouth.

  It looked at her with bright red eyes and lunged for her boot again. She kicked it lightly, but it just rolled over and came for her with a hiss.

  “Allow me to remove that inconvenience for you, Madam Morpho.”

  She looked up from under her parasol to find Criminy Stain himself, hair streaming and cravat undone, waiting in the rain. Here, more so than in his wagon, she could see the Bludman shining through. If the wild eyes and pointy smile weren’t enough to convince her, the way he picked up the bunny by the ears and twisted its neck with a pop told her all she needed to know about the difference between their species.

  He fished a bit of string out of his waistcoat and tied it around the rabbit’s back feet before hooking the string over the dining car’s doorknob.

  “Don’t look so horrified,” he said with a chuckle. “My own wife nearly yarked, first time she saw me do that. Now she knows better. It’s one more bite of stew for everyone and a little less work for Cook. Besides”—he stepped close, cocking his head at her, and she watched the water droplets roll off the sharp planes of his face—“I think you’re too intelligent and practical a woman to start feeling sorry for bloodsuckers.”

  “I have not had the privilege of observing the bludbunny in its native environment before,” she said, bending over to pull back the rabbit’s lips and reveal the cunningly hidden fangs within. “And yet, even in the university’s labs, they couldn’t be tamed. One of my fellows, specializing in the sanguinis mutations, even went so far as to remove all of a bludbunny’s teeth. The vicious little monster still attacked everything that moved and could gum one’s finger hard enough to cause a bruise.”

  “Are you finding life outside of the city frightening, then?” he asked politely, and it was her turn to chuckle ruefully.

  “The only thing that frightens me is that my past will hunt me down and drag me back,” she said. “I would imagine you’ve heard?”

  He grinned. “There aren’t many cut out for caravan life, my girl. Most of those who stick around are running away from something or other. We’re a band of misfits, but we protect our own.”

  “I don’t want to cause any problems for you.”

  “Piffle. Problems are strictly forbidden in my caravan. How did you find our Mr. Murdoch?”

  “The man is peculiar, indeed.” She fiddled with the bludbunny’s claws. “But his improvements on the original design of my butterfly circus are rather brilliant. Tell me, is it true that no one has been in his wagon besides you and Vil?”

  With a knowing smile, Criminy held out his rain-sodden arm, and she gently placed the fingertips of her glove in the appropriate place and allowed him to lead her. Her parasol didn’t quite cover him, but he didn’t seem to mind. Although she had been raised to fear Bludmen and had never actually touched one before, she found his company oddly soothing.

  “As far as I know it, that’s correct,” he said, “but Mr. Murdoch keeps his deepest mysteries hidden even from me. He’s the only carnivallero on whom my wife, Letitia, hasn’t glanced, mainly because I’ve never met a finer hand with clockworks and can’t bear to lose him. He never comes outside, and no one but Vil ever goes in. They arrived on my doorstep together, and there’s not a loose lip among them. I’m surprised he hasn’t turned blind like a cavefish by now.”

  “No, he’s actually rather sunny,” she said without thinking, and he threw back his head and laughed.

  They were at her wagon now, and she sighed in resignation. Her first real day out of London, and there was nothing to see but rain and mutated rabbits. She didn’t want to go inside, trapped again between windowless walls.

  “I’ve taken the liberty of leaving some books in your hallway,” Criminy said with a bow. “You struck me as a thinking woman who might need a little escape. Just stay inside and away from prying eyes and sharp teeth, eh?”

  “Thank you, Master Stain,” she said, squeezing his arm before opening her door. “I don’t know why you’re being so kind to me, but I really do appreciate it.”

  “ ‘There are more things in heaven and earth . . . than are dreamt of in your philosophy,’ ” he said. “And a man knows when he’s got to do exactly what his wife says, or else.”

  With one last charming grin, he bowed and strode off into the rain, disappearing into the haze of the hills as if out for a walk on the most lovely of summer days. Neatly stacked by her door, she found four novels, all of them racy pulp romances that had been forbidden first in her father’s house and then at university and the drudgery beyond. With her own wicked grin, she grabbed them all and retired to her room to read the first one straight through in blissful, fascinated silence as her boots dried by the fire.

  7

  She stood before her mirror the next morning while everyone else was at breakfast. Emerlie had been a little too nosy at dinner the night before, and Imogen wished to avoid dancing the dance of polite society and pleasant lies. She had taken extra care getting ready, selecting a small hat and fitted sleeves that wouldn’t get in the way too much while working, although she still wasn’t sure how she could help the mechanist with his more complicated plans. Folding and gluing paper she could do; welding metal was beyond her. She glanced up and down in the cloudy mirror, tugging at her blouse. Her costume was as plain as a Londoner could get—a simple blouse, skirt, and long jacket over the requisite corset, and she had never bothered with the aggressive face paint other women so favored. The ink stain was still on her wrist, of course.

  Bugger it all, it would have to do. Why was she trying to impress him, anyway? They were partners. The kiss had been some silliness, probably as much of an experiment for him as for her. What a strange place caravans must be, if people found themselves kissing right after meeting! Shaking her head at her own silliness, she tugged down her sleeve and marched through the mud around the wagons to knock at his door before she lost her nerve.

  “Come in,” he called, and she stepped in to find him standing in shirt and trousers before the jagged, dull gray beginnings of the butterfly circus. From the looks of it, he had been working all night.

  She stared at her clasped hands, fighting a blush. “I can come back when you’re dressed.”

  “I’m dressed enough for my own wagon, I hope. You’ll find that things are different in the caravan. Not that I cared about following popular beliefs even when I lived in the city.”

  She cleared her throat. “I know that, as a female scholar, I can’t really argue propriety, but at least put on your boots. I can see one of your toes, for the love of heaven!”

  “Bother my toes, and bugger propriety. There is nothing wrong with toes, nor with seeking knowledge, regardless of your gender. I don’t think your intelligence any less moral or useful than my own. I have always had a way with metal, an ability to bring it to life that many consider unnatural. I don’t necessarily understand how or why I came to such a prodigal talent, but I’m glad for it, and it’s a part of me. Don’t you feel that way about your mind?”

  Her hands flew to her hat, smoothing the wisps of hair that had escaped it. “You wish to discuss philosophy and my dangerous past?”

  “Oh, do take off your hat,” he said. “You’re perfectly safe in here, and I’m sure that’s got to be beastly uncomfortable.”

  “Mr. Murdoch, are you being fresh?”

  “I’m being prac
tical.”

  “This is the smallest hat I own.”

  “Precisely.”

  With a sigh of long suffering, she turned back to the ornate oval mirror by the door and unbuttoned the collar connecting her hat to her jacket. He took the little topper from her and whisked it away to the octopus coat rack. Her hair, of course, was tightly bunned, just the right shape to fit within the hat, and she sheepishly tucked a few strands behind her ears. It did feel nice, the air on her neck. And it would be easier to work without the hat brim bumping into things. But he was looking at her with such intensity that she had to take a step back.

  “I had been betting myself that your hair was red, fiery as you are.”

  “Brown,” she shot back. “Sorry to disappoint.”

  “But a nice, spicy, cinnamon brown.”

  “You will find, Mr. Murdoch, that I am much like my charges. The bright butterflies get all the press, but the great majority of them are dull brown with barely an eye spot to differentiate them.”

  She arranged her collar, partly dreading his response. True, she didn’t take pains to showcase her beauty. But every woman liked to think herself as beautiful and magical as a glimmering Blue Morpho butterfly, even if she was still in pupa stage and waiting to bloom into a dull brown moth. When he didn’t immediately offer a small compliment, she hated herself for blushing and wished for the thousandth time that her eyes were a more interesting shade of brown.

  She was finally forced to look at him, and he gazed at her as if in pain.

  “Imogen,” he said, voice ragged as he stepped closer to her, his feet brushing the wide swing of her skirts. “Are you aware that I haven’t seen a woman this close in more than six years?”

  “That seems excessive,” she murmured. “Are we such fierce creatures?”

  He took another step, his knees denting her skirt. “Machines are so much easier to understand,” he said. “I can puzzle out whatever ails them. But people. So many intricacies, so many signals. It has been a long time since I’ve spoken with anyone but Vil or communicated with anything but a pen. You’re going to have to forgive me if I muck it up. I’ve lost the ways of niceties.”

  She fumbled with her gloves, forced into confession by his pressing nearness. “I don’t know that I ever knew them. I was barely raised by my father, who seemed to think women were less interesting than spent egg sacks. I went to university just to spite him. I was the only woman there and, as such, had no time for anything but scholarship if I was to keep up with men who longed to watch me fail and professors who thought me a joke. I can’t even keep up with Emerlie’s chatter.”

  He chuckled. “From what I can tell, no one can keep up with Emerlie.”

  “And how would you know?”

  He ran a hand through his hair and smoothed down his beard, but he wouldn’t quite meet her eyes. “I hear things from Vil, of course.”

  “And?”

  “And I devised a system for watching the caravan. It does get a bit boring in here, especially when I’ve burned a finger or otherwise injured myself and can’t work.”

  “You simply must show me,” she said, as solemn as an owl.

  The awkwardness fled, replaced by his mischievous smile as he led her to the workshop. There were two closed doors in the inner room, which she had assumed held a closet and a bathroom, much like her own chamber. He opened the one on the right, and it was indeed an emptied-out closet. The only thing within was a strange apparatus of pipes hanging from the ceiling and ending in a rigid set of brass goggles with well-worn leather cups.

  “After hearing Criminy mention how handy the periscope was during a submarine adventure a few years ago, I decided to make my own.” He turned the goggles toward her with the vestige of a bow. “Have a look.”

  Imogen moved past him with the fervor of a scientist approaching a new specimen, her skirts whispering against his trousers. He should have moved away to give her room, but instead, he leaned close as she set her eyes to the eyepieces.

  “There are four different lenses, one pointing in each direction. The device also functions as a megaphone, so the carnivalleros don’t know they’re being watched.”

  “Mesmerizing,” she murmured.

  The drizzle had slowed, and just the smallest slice of sun peeked out through the clouds. She could see Emerlie trying to talk to the acrobats and failing, thanks to the language barrier or the twin girls’ particular cleverness in feigning one. The two-headed Bludman was sneaking around the wagon labeled Bolted Burlesque with a sack of something Imogen didn’t care to contemplate. In the circle behind the wagons, her view was blocked by a strange patchwork tent. And Criminy and Letitia stood together, arm-in-arm and whispering as they looked far off over the hills. She could see the faintest smudge moving through the high grasses but couldn’t discern the shape.

  “Can I see more to the right, please? And magnified?”

  “At your service, Madam.”

  His arm brushed hers as he leaned forward to flick a switch and rotate a dial. The image jumped to a different view, then focused in. She gasped and pressed closer, straining against the leather.

  “Coppers! On bludmares. Criminy and Letitia look worried.”

  “Probably not half as worried as you look.”

  She was shaking as she pulled back from the goggles. “Oh, heavens. What do we do?”

  He nodded, looking determined. “The smart thing. We hide. Did you see dogs?”

  “No. Just two men on horseback.”

  “Then there’s a good chance we’ll muddle through.”

  “But my trunk! The butterflies! They’ll be found.”

  He set his hands on her shoulders, pinning her to the ground in a way that was strangely comforting. In the city, things were so big and busy and bustling, but she had known her place. Out in the country for the first time, she was dogged by a sense of her own small stature in the vast world. With no family, no money, and no husband, she was simply a misfortune waiting to happen. No matter how many times she forced herself to put her chin up and push through, she felt in that moment as tiny and hapless as a leaf on the wind.

  “Trust me,” he said with a gentle smile.

  She glanced at her trunk, which was pushed against the wall. He had stacked the pasteboard trunks of supplies from London on top of it, along with several piles of his own books. Imogen felt a brief moment of annoyance at his presumption, but it was quickly replaced with relief at the canny fortune afforded by his random mess. Perhaps the Coppers wouldn’t search his wagon at all, and if they did, there was a chance they would prefer to let the trunk go unopened rather than move hundreds of precariously teetering books.

  A coded knock sounded at the door, making Imogen jump.

  “Don’t worry yet. That’ll be Vil.” Mr. Murdoch ran to the door to whisper with Vil before returning to her side. “You’re right. They’re looking for you. We’re going to hide in a secret compartment. I’m going to go up first, and then I’ll help you ascend. How are you with small spaces?”

  “Tolerable. I sometimes hid in the dumbwaiter as a child.”

  “Fair enough.”

  He squeezed sideways into the closet, past the goggles and into the darkness. “There aren’t any rungs, sadly. Too conspicuous. But I’ll do most of the work. Ready?”

  His voice was muffled and yet echoing, and she tucked her skirts close as she slipped into the closet. It smelled of old wood and pipe smoke and just the faintest hint of the warm metal and oil musk she associated with his wagon.

  “Up here.” She could barely see his hand hovering above her, bare and waiting for her own.

  Imogen had never climbed a tree, never ridden a horse, never even enjoyed London’s notorious carousel. Her father had considered all such activities vexing to his schedule and unnecessary for the likes of a useless female. In fact, the only thing she had any his
tory at all with climbing was the ladder in the library, and so she flicked back her skirts and set her foot onto a crosspiece. She reached up, and he caught her hand. She found another foothold, and bit by bit, they managed to wedge her and her voluminous skirts onto a narrow ledge hidden by the wagon’s apparently false ceiling. Imogen maneuvered until she was on her belly, pleased to find that although the space wasn’t tall, it seemed to cover the entire top of the wagon and therefore afforded considerable horizontal room to scoot away from Mr. Murdoch’s body.

  Until the persistent man slid closer to whisper in her ear, that is.

  “We must be completely silent, should they enter the wagon. There is but a thin layer of board between us and detection.”

  Metal scraped on wood with a rustle of fabric below their perch, the sound of clothes on hangers shifting along the rail. The little sliver of light that had been shining in from the closet door was abruptly snuffed out as the door closed, and Imogen heard Vil’s footsteps tapping around the wagon.

  “Will we be able to hear them, too?” she asked.

  He leaned closer, his whisper ruffling the loose wisps of hair over her ear.

  “Every word.”

  She shifted, finding the position awkward. A woman’s required corset and skirts were ridiculous enough when one was reading or writing or dusting specimens in a museum. But climbing and grubbing about on one’s belly were both uncomfortable and rather awkward. At least her hat fit under the low roof . . .

  But no. She gasped. Her hat, coat, and precious brooch were hanging on the coatrack below, in plain sight of the Coppers.

  “My hat,” she squeaked, and he let out a low growl of frustration.

  “Men don’t notice such things, and worrying won’t change it. Don’t dwell on it.”

  Imogen sighed in resignation and tugged at her collar, feeling as if she were being choked with a man’s heavy hands and a lifetime’s worth of library dust.

  He must have misinterpreted her distress, as he urgently whispered, “I’m sorry I can’t offer more comfortable accommodations. I hate to think of what the dust will do to your lovely dress.”