“Good,” Silas’s voice said, following Sev’s departure. “I’ll show you those wings after we eat,” he added. Sev smiled. Silas knew him too well.
When Sev stopped the lift at the kitchen level, his heart jumped. Silas turned with a warm, spectacular smile. He wore a frilly white apron that Sev had a hard time imagining Heph using before him. Silas stirred a pan, holding the hot handle in his metal hand and stirring with his other. “Pretty convenient.” He must have noticed Sev’s gaze lingering on the metal appendage. “I only need half the pot holders as everyone else.” He returned the pan and the spoon to the stove before closing the space between them. Silas wrapped Seven into a firm embrace, and Sev returned it, pressing his cheek to Silas’s shoulder.
“It’s good to see you, Silas,” Sev whispered. He leaned back to look at Silas’s angular, handsome face. A lock of his normally coiffed dark hair had slipped away from its peers. Sev swept it back with one finger. No sooner had he dropped his hand than Silas swooped forward and caught Sev’s lips with his own. Sev felt the heat on his cheeks first, and then contentment spread throughout his whole body down to his toes.
Silas released his mouth and stepped back. “You look smart.” He gave Sev’s waistcoat a little tug.
Sev grabbed the lace at the edge of Silas’s apron. “So do you. This little number is quite fetchin’.”
Silas slapped Sev’s hand away playfully. “Very funny. Make yourself useful and pour us out some wine.”
“Aye, aye captain.” Sev tipped Silas a half-assed salute and rummaged about in the cupboards for glasses. Everything was mismatched. “Why don’t ye buy some new furnishins? Ye’ve access to proper shops now. Ye don’t have t’settle fer all this scavenged junk.” He found two cups that looked like they’d hold the same amount of liquid.
“It’s not junk.” Sev thought he sounded a little offended. “It belonged to Heph. Using it makes it seem like he’s not all the way gone. Does that make any sense?”
Sev pulled the cork from the bottle and nodded. “Aye, Silas. That makes perfect sense.” He poured the wine. “So what are we eatin’?”
Silas beamed with what Sev could easily tell was pride. “Roasted rosemary potatoes, mushy peas, braised beef loin and gravy.”
“Sounds delicious.” Sev sipped his wine. It was dark, dry, and complex. He looked at the bottle, unsurprised to find it was from Bordeaux. “I didn’t know ye could cook.”
Silas shrugged. “Murry showed me a bit.” He took a deep breath. “I’ve been working quite a lot lately, and I know I haven’t been as attentive as you deserve.”
“Silas,” Sev said with an admonishing edge to his tone. “Ye don’t have t’worry about all that nonsense. We’re both of us big boys. I know ye’d see me more if ye could. I’m not a weepy little lass who’ll wilt if she doesn’t get constant attention. Ye know that.”
Silas sniffed a laugh. “Oh, I know just how tough the Seventh of London is, and make no mistake. But that’s not my point. I just wanted tonight to be special.”
Sev stepped over and rested his forehead against the back of Silas’s neck. “Ye’re a fine one, Silas Kettlebent, and any time I get t’spend with ye is special to me.” Sev pressed his lips to the skin just above Silas’s collar.
“Hungry?” Silas asked.
Sev wasn’t sure if he was trying to change the subject and didn’t care. “Starving.”
“Good. Light the candles.” Silas pointed with his spoon. Sev fetched a box of matches as Silas plated the various dishes, placing them on the table, steaming and smelling delicious. After the candles were lit, Sev brought the wine and glasses over. Silas dished out the food. He sliced the beef loin, and Sev’s mouth watered at the sight of the tender, juicy, slightly pink meat. He took his seat, and Silas sat just after, still wearing his apron.
“It’s a fine garment, Silas, but were ye plannin’ t’wear it all through dinner?” Sev asked pointing.
“Wha—?” Silas looked down. “No. Um, no, of course not.” He rose, untied the strings, and swept the thing off. He stood for a moment as he draped the apron over a vacant chair.
Sev noticed Silas’s clothes for the first time. He wore a crisp powder-blue dress shirt with white pinstripes beneath an elaborately embroidered satin waistcoat of royal blue with silver accents. Silas’s cravat matched the silver in his waistcoat. His twill pants were slightly more fitted than he usually wore them and a deep, almost black, blue. Silas had rolled his sleeves up for cooking and Sev admired his muscular right arm, so vibrant and alive in stark contrast to the metal appendage that was his left arm. “How are ye makin’ out with the arm?” Sev asked.
“Brilliant,” Silas said with a smile as he sat. He flexed the fingers, displaying how precisely it reacted. Sev watched as Silas unfolded his napkin with it and lay the material across his lap. He could remember too well what Silas’s arm had looked like when he and Nikky had attached sinew and tendons to screws and metal. Sev forced the image from his mind because the grain in the beef on his plate was starting to resemble that flesh too closely. Luckily, Silas’s voice broke in on his thoughts. “I’m amazed at how responsive it is. To be perfectly honest, I thought I’d only be able to punch things with it. But if I’m careful—” Silas paused. He picked up his fork with his metal left hand and pressed it into a potato. “I can do anything with it.” He picked up the morsel and popped it into his mouth, chewed, and swallowed. “But I can do this too.” He reached out and bent the metal candlestick with apparent ease, then straightened it.
“I’m glad ye’ve gotten used to it. The bruises ye were givin’ me got t’be a might ridiculous,” Sev said with a smirk and picked up his own fork, tucking into the delightful feast Silas had prepared.
They engaged in comfortable small talk, discussing the various events that had come to pass since they’d last seen each other. Sev related his attempt to coax Rat out of his profound melancholy and the resulting, relative success. Silas chuckled at the renewal of his nickname and wondered aloud if Sev might be able to cobble together a third gearcycle because it sounded to him like a really fine time.
“I’ll see what I can do,” Sev said, pleased with his dearest friend’s interest in the new invention. “Think we can patent it?”
“I certainly do,” Silas answered with excitement. “I’ll take it to the Ministry myself, if you’d like.”
Sev chuckled. “We’ll see.” He thought now might be the time to bring up the team of training Prometheus pilots he’d run into. “Guess who I saw at the base of the tower.”
“Who?”
“Sal and Terpin,” Sev said. “It appeared as though they were trainin’ another team o’pilots. I’m curious t’the logic behind that.” Not surprisingly Silas launched into an explanation, confirming Sev’s suspicions. Silas and Murry had agreed to build a pair of new Prometheus constructs, but they also wanted to be able to offer training to the queen’s pilots if the Ministry were able to fabricate their own clockwork men. He and Murry reasoned that by offering their knowledge and training, the queen and the prime minister would overlook the fact that they had a contingent of the metal soldiers.
“That’s mighty sly of ye,” Sev said with due respect.
“I thought so.” Silas speared a bit of meat, popped it into his mouth, and chewed it, all the while staring intently at Sev. “What about you?” he asked after swallowing. “Has Midnight been keeping you busy?”
Sev shrugged. His relationship with Midnight was difficult to define at the best of times. “Jack has been keepin’ me at arm’s length lately.”
“How so?”
“It’s tough t’say. He’s been givin’ me jobs.” Sev paused and ate a bite of food. “But they’re all jobs I probably would’ve done otherwise.”
“Like?”
“Like strong-armin’ pit bosses and floor foremen who are a might overzealous. He’s been payin’ me t’do work I would’ve done for free.”
“Ulterior motive?”
“Alm
ost certainly.” Sev nodded. “Maybe he’s lookin’ to diversify, maybe start to make more than weapons and ammunition.”
“And he’s using you to intimidate the competition.” Silas guessed. “Yes. That’s quite savvy.”
“Aye. It’s just a little too obvious fer Jack. But if it keeps me flush and I’m not doin’ anything too questionable, I’m content.”
Silas regarded him with an expression that Sev found all too familiar. He knew what Silas would say before he said it. “You should really get away from that lunatic.”
“There it is.” Sev wasn’t surprised at all. “I know how ye feel, Silas, and I respect it, but ye’ve got t’respect my position.”
“I know, love.” Silas laid his fork and knife down and laced his fingers together in front of his lips. “I just wish you’d break off with Midnight. I’m sure Wrathsbury could use someone of your talents. In fact, I know he could.”
Sev recognized this conversation. He offered the appropriate response. “How is gettin’ involved with William breakin’ away from Jack? They’re constantly findin’ excuses t’meet with one another.”
Silas sighed. Sev knew he couldn’t deny it. “I know.”
“Facts’re facts, Silas. Jack Midnight is an inescapable force. He’s got his hand in everything.”
“Bloody blackguard,” Silas grumbled.
“Forget Jack Midnight fer now,” Sev said in an effort to get their evening back on track. “My work fer him has nothin’ t’do with t’night. Tonight, I’m only concerned with you.”
Silas relaxed visibly. “I’m sorry, Sev. You’re right. Tonight, you are my only concern as well.”
“I like the sound o’that.” Sev placed his silverware on his empty plate and wiped his mouth with his napkin. “You finished there?”
Silas regarded the small amount of food on his plate, dropped his utensils, crumpled his napkin, and stood. “Close enough.” Sev wasted no time. He bounded from his chair and embraced Silas, who returned his attention. They abandoned their disagreement in favor of an evening filled with physical passion and expressions of love. Their kisses were vigorous and frantic as they moved toward the lift, where Silas managed to throw the lever that lifted them toward his office and bedroom. By the time they’d made it to Silas’s large, soft four-poster bed, both young men had forgotten their familiar disagreement and their thoughts were filled with nothing but pleasing the other.
3
SEV DREAMED of shoes. Fancy shoes and plain shoes tiptoed through his unconscious mind. His father looked up from the shoes, smiling. He turned away, and when he turned back, he was Jack Midnight. Sev awoke abruptly. He groped about the empty bed for Silas, then sat up, bleary-eyed as his senses returned to him. He rubbed at his face and tousled his hair. Henry hooted from the open window. “Mornin’, friend,” Sev said as he threw the covers off and stepped onto the cold black stone of the floor. He retrieved his trousers and slipped into them, then walked shirtless into the office portion of Silas’s room and found Silas at his desk. Henry flapped past Sev and perched on the edge of the desktop. “Ye’re up early,” Sev stated as he entered the office.
Silas looked up and started. “I’ll never get used to that,” he said, nodding toward Sev’s exposed scar and stroking Henry under his beak.
Sev traced the puckered scar of his numeric brand. “You and me both,” he said. “What’re ye up to?”
“I’ve had word from the prime minister.” Silas held up a sheaf of paper.
“Have ye? What’s he say?” Sev sat on the edge of the desk.
“Not much.” Silas’s gaze traveled over the words in front of him. “But he wants me to bring you.”
Sev arched an eyebrow. “I suppose it’s fortunate I’m here.”
“That’s what’s troubling me.”
“Why?”
“Does he know you’re here? How does he know you’re here?” Silas pinched the bridge of his nose. “Am I just too paranoid? After everything we’ve been through, all the conspiracies and deception, maybe I’m too cynical.”
“Only Rat knows I’m here. And I don’t think Wrathsbury has earned your distrust. It’s just a coincidence, Si.”
“Most likely.” He sighed.
“Don’t let all this jade ye,” Sev pleaded, reaching out to stroke Silas’s cheek. “Please.”
Silas closed his eyes, leaning in to Sev’s touch. “I’m sorry, Sev. I’m sure you’re correct.” He turned his head and kissed Sev’s palm. “Will you accompany me?”
“O’course.” Sev smirked. “But after last night, I need a shower.” He laughed and Silas joined him.
“You know where it is,” Silas said. Sev nodded, kissed Silas, and then dashed off to the bathroom.
A REFRESHED Sev gazed out the window of the auto-hansom that had carried him and Silas, now disguised as Kettlebent, to Stafford House and William Wrathsbury, Duke of Sutherland and Prime Minister of the Great British Empire.
Sev studied the streets and buildings on this side of the recently opened wall. This was still Fairside where the upper crust of London society made their homes, but they weren’t the only citizens on the streets. Sev was happy to see street vendors and shoeshine stands set up here and there. What warmed his heart the most were the gangs of street kids, proper street kids, not just starving, frightened urchins trying to avoid the factory press-gangers, but small groups of cutpurses, pickpockets and pint-sized thugs. A smile tugged at the corners of Sev’s mouth. He wished a little that he could be out there with them. They ran free. Their childhoods still weren’t idyllic or proper, but at least they were no longer slaves to the factories. No one should have to experience that.
As much as he longed to join the young Blacksiders, he longed a lot more to get back out on these magnificent rooftops. That was another side effect of the reunification; Sev no longer had to hide. In fact his position within Midnight’s organization meant he was welcomed nearly everywhere in Blackside, and even on this side of the wall, he met little resistance, maybe an odd glance here and there but nothing more. Midnight’s reach was long. He made a mental note to put aside some time to dash across the rooftops tonight.
“Here.” Silas thrust a small hinged wooden box into Sev’s hands.
“What’s this, then?” he asked, slightly startled. He flipped open the lid and revealed a familiar, and slightly the worse for wear, false mustache. “Bloody hell.”
“Put it on,” Silas instructed. “We must ensure Wrathsbury’s deniability. He can’t have the notorious Seventh of London traipsing up his front steps.”
“I hate this awful thing,” Sev lamented. “It feels like a dead rat on my lip. And I’m hardly notorious.”
“Just put it on,” Silas said with a note of finality that coaxed a sigh from Sev’s throat as he stuck the manky fake mustache to his lip. Silas stifled a chuckle.
“Ye’re takin’ the piss, aren’t ye?”
“Maybe a little.” With Silas’s confession, the carriage lurched to a halt at the entrance of Stafford House. Silas strapped his voice modifier on beneath his false beard as he disembarked quickly before Sev could protest any further. Though Sev grumbled as he followed.
“Hello, boys!” A familiar voice greeted them as they ascended the steps. Jack Midnight strutted as cockily as only Midnight could down from the entrance of Stafford House. “Fancy meeting you here. All right, Benty?”
Silas’s walk turned decidedly into a stalk, and he marched past Midnight without a second glance. “Midnight,” he growled.
“Well, Benty’s his usual chipper self,” Midnight stated with a grin as he stopped in front of Sev.
“Mornin’, Jack,” Sev said. “Or should I call you Mr. Middlenight in this context?”
Midnight waved off Sev’s words. “Willy uses one name, but really what’s the difference? What brings you fellows to the eminent PM’s abode?” Midnight regarded Sev with eyes trimmed as always in smoky makeup.
Sev had gazed into those black pools on more than o
ne occasion, trying unsuccessfully to intuit what made Midnight tick. Since Sev had no time for such pursuits at the moment, he simply said, “Wrathsbury summoned Silas and asked me t’join. I’ve no idea beyond that.”
“Hmm.” Midnight smoothed down the shiny, raven locks of hair that often obscured his left eye and scrutinized Sev for a moment. “No. I suppose you don’t. Tread carefully, friend Seven. You are once more on the cusp of change. And the last one you only survived with my help and by the skin of your teeth.”
Sev nodded. “Point taken. You know what Silas’s new role is.”
“I know a great deal more than that.” Midnight’s expression oozed feline superiority. “But I’m not telling,” he whispered into Sev’s ear.
“Seven,” Silas called.
“You’d better run along. Benty’s getting impatient.” Midnight straightened Sev’s tie and then smoothed his lapel. “I’m terribly glad you’ve started wearing proper clothes. You look quite smart.” Midnight stretched, fiddled with his own tie, and turned on his expertly cobbled heel. “Keep in touch, Sev. I shall see you soon enough.” Midnight marched down the steps to an awaiting carriage. “Oh, Seven,” he called over his shoulder. “I’m glad to see you’ve coaxed old Ratty out of his shell.”
Sev turned to respond, to ask how Midnight knew about Rat’s breakthrough, but he’d already disappeared into his cab, and the carriage chugged off down the road. Sev stood for a moment longer, watching the conveyance depart and wondering how Midnight stayed so informed before another shout from Silas drew his attention away. He jogged up the stairs, joining his love at the top.
The door swung inward just as Sev arrived. “Good day, sirs. His Grace is expecting you.” The butler was typical of the British serving class, thin, neat, stiff, and aloof. He was younger than his predecessor, and Sev felt a pang of hurt, of regret. Wrathsbury’s previous manservant had been called Jeffries but was in reality the famed and presumed dead master tinkerer, Carrington, ushered into hiding by Jack Midnight. The criminal really had his fingers in every pie. Carrington had given his life for the rebellion, and Sev felt that sting as he gazed upon the new butler.
The 7th of Victorica Page 3