Dawn's Early Light

by Pip Ballantine

  The taste of sea salt momentarily distracted her, but the bald fact remained that while porters continued to pass by, there was still no sign of luggage or Wellington Books anywhere.

  It was the sudden honking and the cries of ladies behind her that made her spin around. Her eyes went wide in surprise. The horseless vehicle emitted a soft, almost melodic chitty-chitty-chitty-chitty rhythm from its undercarriage as it slowly pulled up next to the gangway. It was the length of a landau, but minus the elevated perch where a driver would have sat. The body was lower to the ground and ran on what sounded like and appeared—on account of the thick wisps seeping from the undercarriage—to be internally generated steam power; and Eliza begrudgingly admitted to herself the motorcar sported a rather smart, stylish look with its black, red, and brass detailing, polished to a blinding sheen. She could see her luggage sitting behind the driver in its long and luxurious velvet seat.

  Wellington waved cheerily as he brought the car to a halt right next to where she stood.

  “Good Lord, where have you been hiding this monster?” she said, adjusting the brim of her hat so as to better examine the unexpected transport.

  “In my home,” he said brightly, lifting his driving goggles and resting them against the cap covering his head. “This was my big project following the analytical engine.”

  “And you brought it with you to the Americas?”

  His eyes followed the lines of red trim within the metal and wood with obvious pride. “I finished working on it while on the trip. Granted, there are a few modifi—”

  “You mean,” Eliza began, a muscle twitching in her jaw as she pieced together what had been occupying all his time, “you’ve been spending the past five nights and days working on this contraption?”

  “Well, of course I have. How else should I have been preoccupying myself?” he asked.

  Innocence was an endearing quality—at least in young children. In a grown man, it was infuriating.

  Eliza only just restrained herself from giving him a bloody good thump. “Yes. What else? An educated mind could only fathom the possibilities.”

  “Besides, this was for our mission,” he continued, “and I wanted to have it ready for extensive and rigorous field—”

  Eliza shot her hand up, immediately silencing him. “Welly, please . . . just stop.” Wellington’s brow furrowed, a look she was growing accustomed to when he lacked a clue, particularly when it came to her. “I think we should just get to our contact. So,” she said, walking around to the passenger door, “let’s be off.”

  She opened the door and froze. Waiting for her in the seat next to Wellington was a leather cap identical to his, with two exceptions. Instead of being of weather-beaten brown leather, this cap was a bright white with pink lace around its edges. Second, on the top of the cap’s crown was a large pink bow, matching the tint given to the riding goggles that came with it.

  Her eyes looked up from the cap to Wellington in absolute horror. He looked quite pleased with himself.

  “Surprise,” he said cheerfully.

  It simply would not be born. Eliza dropped the atrocity without comment onto Wellington’s lap, snatched the goggles and riding cap off his head, put them on herself, and situated herself in the passenger seat.

  Without protest or contradiction, he took a deep breath, donned the ridiculous cap and goggles, looked over his shoulder to make sure the way was clear, and wrung his hands on the steering wheel.

  “I say,” he said on releasing the hand brake, “things do look quite . . . pink . . . through these goggles.” He cleared his throat and asked Eliza, “Do you think you—”

  “Not if the fate of the Empire hung in the balance,” she seethed. “Drive.”

  With a roar of gears and pistons, the great beast lurched forwards and soon they were off, the cadence of the car’s engine providing an oddly comforting backdrop in their drive along the docks.

  Wellington had certainly given his horseless carriage many little amenities. The seats were comfortable and the ride itself, even with the uneven parts of the road, was as smooth as their time on Apollo’s Chariot. Wood panelling enclosed the dashboard, and every stylish detail was in evidence, down to the various dials and gauges changing with every ping and pop from the motor.

  “Is it a safe assumption to make,” Eliza called over the chugging engine, “that Axelrod and Blackwell have not even heard a whisper about this fine carriage of yours?”

  “Please, do not evoke their names,” he grumbled. “I’m trying not to think of my analytical engine left to their whims and devices back in the Archives. But yes, I kept this project very much off the books. This is a personal endeavour that I want to offer to the Ministry once properly engaged and executed on a genuine mission.”

  “Welly,” Eliza said with a laugh, “it’s just a motorcar. A clever variation on horseless carriages. Hardly groundbreaking.”

  He glanced briefly at her. “Even something as simple as your corset needs proper field-testing.” Wellington’s eyes dipped down to the two gauges flanking the steering wheel. “Right now for example, I’m curious as to how far a full boiler will take us.”

  The car chugged along, and Eliza tried not to crack a smile in reaction to the looks they drew from those they passed. She wondered how many were in response to the car itself, and how many were to Wellington’s fabulous headgear.

  In the silence Eliza contemplated how Doctor Sound had made clear his intent to keep close tabs on them, having his hand forced by circumstances she and Wellington created in Case #18960128UKEA. Their results could not be denied, but the Duke of Sussex was putting pressure on Sound in turn. Regardless of the plot they uncovered, they had been working outside Ministry parameters, compelling the director to lend them as “goodwill advisors” to the American agency, the Office of the Supernatural and Metaphysical. This was hardly the first time Eliza had been shipped off somewhere until the heat of the moment blew away, but back then, she only had herself to worry about.

  Their automobile chugged and rumbled to a stop outside a small pub called the Artifice Club. As the engine settled reluctantly into silence, Wellington ripped off both cap and goggles, and smoothed his hair into some semblance of tidiness. Now Eliza could make out the sounds of boats in the harbour and the usual din of an establishment such as this one.

  “This is where we are to meet our contacts?” Eliza asked, looking up and down the street. Anyone waiting for them could not fail to have noticed their entrance.

  There was very little around the pub, save for other small establishments that catered to sailing vessels, schooners, and fishermen. The area was more dedicated to nautical professions than aeronautical ones. Eliza could see no noticeable hazards, apart from the tavern itself. The way they were dressed, their motorcar, and their manner of speech would all attract attention. It was a conundrum that did not bode well for smooth operations in the field.

  “According to the file,” Wellington said, with a shrug.

  “Any idea who we are looking for?” Eliza asked, shifting in her seat.

  “She said she would introduce herself in an appropriate fashion.”

  Eliza’s brow furrowed. “Come again?”

  “Security greeting, of course,” Wellington replied brushing his beard.

  She swallowed back a groan; she hated the formal greetings between agencies. “Lovely, we get to speak in code, do we?”

  “Proper procedure, Miss Braun,” Wellington chided. Then he reached into his coat pocket. “And that reminds me . . .”

  A ten-pound note appeared out of his wallet, and she recalled the bet he’d made that they would never be on assignment in America.

  “Oh, that is not necessary, Welly . . .”

  “A wager is a wager.” And he extended the ten pounds to her again.

  Eliza snatched the note from his hand gleefully, debating
whether she would be investing in a stunning new outfit from Paris, or a new long-range sniper rifle.

  She clambered down from the automobile, before her companion could offer a hand, and preceded Wellington into the tavern. The Artifice Club was an eclectic mix of patrons, ranging from true salt of the earth types to wide-eyed youngsters enjoying the late afternoon entertainment. One gent made eye contact with her, gave a slight nod in greeting, and then returned to his ale.

  In her survey of the pub, Eliza paused to watch the artist performing on the modest stage. The spectacled man was of considerable carriage, wearing a fine boater and impressive cravat, and behind him sat an even more impressive collection of beer, single malt scotch, and bourbon. Apparently, all for him. In front of him were three gramophones playing “Daisy Bell,” “Daddy Wouldn’t Buy Me a Bow Wow,” and “Ta-ra-ra Boom-de-ay,” all at the same time. Perhaps in the hands of a novice, this could have easily become an unforgiving onslaught of noise, but this gent possessed an intimate understanding of the three songs. Through a series of keys and cranks, the artist was altering tempo, and starting and stopping one or two of the music hall songs while the third continued, in effect creating one complete song.

  And it was quite the toe tapper coming from the stage.

  Wellington leaned in. “Exactly how is he doing that?”

  “He’s mixing. Apparently, it’s all the rage here in the Americas.”

  He nodded, tipping his head askance as he watched the man work the gramophones. “And he’s wearing a lab coat because . . . ?”

  Eliza shrugged. “Everyone needs a signature style, I suppose.”

  As they walked farther in, she noticed a slight girl seated at a table at the rear of the pub. It was not just her purple petticoats and stripes that made her stand out, but also her tidiness, etiquette, and carriage. Eliza hated stripes—though they were all the fashion. Their contact also had a pair of sun spectacles balanced on the tip of her nose. Eliza could only surmise that was her notion of blending in.

  “I think we found our contact,” Eliza whispered to Wellington.

  She made to walk to the table when the archivist caught her arm. “We are supposed to meet at the bar,” he hissed.

  He wasn’t serious. Was he?

  It’s like dealing with a child, Eliza thought, but she knew she had to pick and choose her battles. She forced a tight grin as she followed Wellington to the bar. He leaned against its weathered wood and motioned for the publican. The barkeep appeared, and his brow knotted as he looked the new arrivals over.

  Eliza realised that they stood out nearly as much as the woman in purple.

  “Sir, a whiskey, if you please,” Wellington ordered in a tone far too loud and purposeful.

  “Welly,” Eliza whispered tersely, “perhaps you should just order a beer? Same effect.” She cast a wary glance at the woman who was trying, but failing, to blend in with her surroundings. So far she had pushed her sun spectacles up to the bridge of her nose, smoothed out her skirts, and then looked at the two of them, placing a hand upon her chest, as if noticing them for the first time.

  Bloody hell, Eliza thought, burying her face in her hand. It’s Amateur Night at the Alhambra.

  Through his clenched teeth, he replied, “All part of protocol. Just play along.” The shot glass was placed in front of him, which immediately went up in the air as Wellington toasted those assembled. “God save the Queen,” he proclaimed, “and God bless America.”

  The amber dram disappeared from its glass, and Eliza crossed her arms in front of her as Wellington struggled for air. His free hand caught the bar as the other gripped the shot glass tightly. How, she marvelled, could this man have been such a master of deception during their time with the Phoenix Society and yet here be about as convincing as a street urchin running for a seat in Parliament?

  “Not quite the quality you’re used to?” Eliza asked sweetly.

  Wellington coughed in reply. At least he was still breathing—and standing.

  The waif had now gathered up enough courage and was standing before them. She looked between Eliza and Wellington quickly and then leaned forwards. “At midnight, the lion roars.”

  Oh for God’s sake. Eliza found herself frozen in disgust.

  “But at dawn,” her partner wheezed, his voice creeping back to its normal baritone, “the eagle’s cry will be heard.”

  “Subtle,” Eliza stated wryly.

  She thrust out a gloved hand, shaking theirs in an enthusiastic greeting. “Felicity Lovelace. Welcome to the United States of America. Would you care for something to drink?”

  “Another whiskey, Wellington?” Eliza asked with a sly grin.

  “I think not,” he answered quickly. “Perhaps something less . . .”

  “Potent?”

  “Volatile.”

  “I’ve read your particulars, Miss Braun,” Felicity returned quickly, and then spoke in what sounded like a baited breath. “A white wine for the gentleman, a beer for the lady, and I’ll have another . . .” She paused. “Well, I’ll have another.”

  “Right then,” the barkeep said, looking at the three of them. “Wine, beer.” And his eyes twinkled a bit as he said, “And a Coca-Cola.”

  Eliza and Wellington looked at Felicity askance. “It helps calm my nerves,” she said with a shrug, her speech getting a little faster the more she spoke.

  Calm her nerves? Then it dawned on her when the beer reached her hands. Ye gods, you must be joking. “This is your first assignment, isn’t it?”

  “No, actually, this is my tenth,” the American returned, but the tremble in her posture hardly reassured Eliza. When the woman’s bubbling tonic arrived, she took a long sip from it before adding, “I’m not necessarily in the field is all. I’m usually working on logistics, but this time the director agreed to let me accompany my partner.”

  “I see.” Eliza smiled, nodding slowly. “Doctor Sound did say we were working with our counterparts. You’re the archivist then?”

  “Librarian,” Felicity corrected.

  “There’s a difference,” Wellington contributed, “if you’d care—”

  Eliza’s eyebrows raised slightly, and he stopped mid-sentence. He was learning. “So,” the New Zealander continued sweetly, “why exactly have you reached out to the British Empire for help, Miss Lovelace?”

  “Please, call me Felicity—everyone does.”

  Eliza raised her beer at her. “Eliza.” She motioned to Wellington. “Welly.”

  “Wellington,” he muttered, taking a sip of his wine. “This joint operation is hardly a new venture. If memory serves, your agents have worked alongside ours before, yes?”

  “Before my time, and in light of that mission, there was some opposition in reaching out to you for help.”

  Eliza crooked an eyebrow. “Some?”

  “All right,” Felicity said, her fingers tapping rapidly against her glass, “there was a good amount of opposition, but I knew you had something we lack.” She looked at them for a moment, and then said bluntly, “Experience. OSM is still a relatively new department.”

  Eliza darted a quick look at Wellington. It looked like admitting that was hard, but there it was. America was a country still on the mend, yet this was a proud nation preferring to handle its own affairs alone.

  “What’s the game then?” Eliza asked.

  Their counterpart went for her coat pocket, but froze at the sound of the tavern door being flung open.

  Under a wide-brimmed Stetson, a man who was in desperate need of a shave surveyed the Artifice Club. His gaze was cold, hard, and sized up everyone in the pub in an instant. He was broad shouldered and trim, the kind of build that would have given Campbell a moment’s pause before engaging in fisticuffs. This newcomer almost faded into the intermittent shadows, dressed in dark colours of denim and leather. When he turned to where they s
at, his mouth bent into a wry grin. It made his face shift from stern to quite handsome. He pushed back the brim of his hat and gave Felicity a nod.

  “Thank goodness we’re working covertly,” Felicity said, shaking her head ruefully. “Otherwise, he would stand out.”

  Eliza got to her feet, feeling an equal smile form on her face. “I don’t think a man like that could possibly do anything but stand out.” She felt, rather than saw, Wellington stiffen at her side.

  She took her time walking around the table, closing the distance between them in long, slow strides. Eliza stopped just as the hem of her dress brushed the newcomer’s soiled, worn pants, and looked up at him. He hooked his thumbs in his belt, took in Eliza from head to toe, and nodded while his lips widened to show a smile that threatened to catch her breath and claim it for his own. Clearly, this cowboy liked what he saw.

  Good for him, she thought.

  That was when Eliza’s right hook sent him sprawling to the floor.

  THREE

  In Which First Impressions Are Proven to Be Everlasting

  “Been a while, hasn’t it, mate?”

  She could hear Wellington and Felicity scrambling out of their chairs, but her eyes remained fixed to the man on the floor. True, there had been a time when having this ruggedly handsome man at her feet would have been quite satisfactory, in an entirely different situation.

  “Do we know each other,” the man said with a slight laugh while rubbing his jaw, “or is this how you all in jolly ol’ England say ‘Howdy’?”

  “Ninety-three. San Francisco,” she hissed leaning over him.

  His brow furrowed momentarily, but then his eyes sparkled. He managed a throaty laugh.

  “The Rum Runner,” he said. “I remember now—that was a good time.”

  “My partner and I were nearly killed in that brawl!” Eliza was abruptly aware that her hands were once more balled into tight fists. She could feel the urge to clock him again swell. “And for the life of us, we couldn’t figure out why you set those thugs on us.”