Dawn's Early Light

by Pip Ballantine

  However, Van had never been one to follow the general consensus. She’d heard it all when she was in the seminary. The South was too humid. The congregations would be backwards in their line of thinking. The folk earning a living there were tough and preferred the fire and brimstone sermons over the gentle hand of a woman.

  Those things might have well been true. Virginia—particularly in the summer—was not for the faint of heart.

  When the last person funnelled out, she was alone in the modest but inviting church. Lord, she prayed silently, her grip tightening on the Bible, grant me the strength to carry on and continue your work, and bless our little town with peace and understanding. Amen.

  Van took a deep breath and opened her eyes once more. The peace of the Lord was with her. She felt it inside, much like the ember that would soon give life to a bonfire. Wrapped in faith, she left the church for the office just across the lawn.

  Her eyes immediately fell on Everett, the head pastor of their church for coming on two years now, outlasting any of the other men that came out here to run things by a year. He was counting the money from the offering plate, his face stern as he jotted down a few notes in a small ledger.

  That expression of his told her the piano would remain out of tune for some time yet.

  “How was the service this morning?” His deep baritone voice echoed, even though he was speaking at a conversational volume. To Everett, gravitas came naturally, which was a real asset when giving sermons.

  “The same.” She took her seat at the smaller desk. “The same faces as always.”

  He nodded, touching the pencil to his tongue before continuing with his ledger keeping. They both wished attendance had improved, but in fact it had dropped off once the novelty of a female priest had worn off. Van settled into her desk to work on her next sermon when the sudden clank from the pneumatic messaging tube made her freeze. Despite her travels back and forth across the country, Van still could not get used to the fact that even out here in the breathtaking majesty of God’s great Shenandoah Valley, their church was connected to a pneumatic messaging system.

  She opened the canister and pulled out the single slip of parchment within it. Noon, the message read, followed by a simple stamp of a raven.

  Her eyebrow arched sharply and then her eyes went to the sole clock in the shared office. Eight minutes before twelve o’clock. They obviously knew when she would be walking out of service to the minute.

  She tore up the tiny note into several pieces and threw it into the little potbelly furnace. Thoughtfully, her fingers strayed up to the cross she always wore around her neck. This tiny symbol of her faith was adorned with a single gear where the two arms of the cross met. It had been a gift from a clankerton who’d been smitten with her when she was just about to enter her training. He had given up on her by the time she’d emerged from it. The cross reminded Van of the frailty of humanity, and the strength of faith.

  So then, why did she feel such hesitation whenever she accepted an assignment? Was she still not doing the work of the Lord, after all? Sometimes, you had to be the shepherd to the lambs. Sometimes, you had to be healer to the sick.

  As her thumb turned the gear, she also understood sometimes you had to be the sword of God.

  The bottom arm of the cross extended to its full length with a quick click. Swiftly she slipped the chain of the cross over her head, inserted it in the keyhole on the top surface of her desk, and gave it a single turn. Before her feet, a small trapdoor popped upwards, and slowly a wooden staircase unfurled, extending underneath their office.

  Van made the mistake of glancing at Everett before descending into the dark; his expression said that he was most definitely not pleased. He returned his disapproving gaze to the remaining paperwork for the morning’s offerings, completely ignoring what his fellow cleric was up to.

  She reached for the lantern hanging at the bottom of the steps, struck a match, and then turned up the light once the flame caught. The sconce’s glow pushed aside the shadows to reveal a small analytical engine, her pride and joy, sitting in the corner of the room.

  Perhaps it was an indulgence, but she was guaranteed a small amount of privacy and confidentiality when using it. The money should have gone to the church, but this device was in a sense keeping the church together. It was her personal line of communication with those who called upon her for specific talents.

  When noon struck, the green light on the panel before Van switched to red. She threw a few connectors forwards, awakening the amber display in front of her. It squeaked lightly when she adjusted it to a more comfortable reading position. Yes, along with the piano, her analytical engine was also in need of some maintenance.

  TARGET IS FAST APPROACHING NORTH CAROLINA.

  APPREHENDING OF TARGET ALIVE—TOP PRIORITY.

  ELIMINATE ANY OPPOSITION.

  RESPOND IF AVAILABLE.

  -HOU

  Van tapped her lips as she thought about the shadowy organisation. It had been at least six or seven years since the House of Usher had been active in America. What could it mean that they now wanted a hunt and retrieval from her? Whoever this mark was, the House wanted him or her badly, considering the terms of the bounty.

  The term “Eliminate any opposition” would be her judgement call—and solely hers—in the field. She had made a pledge to herself that in these assignments, her sword would only take a life if her own was threatened. She was not an assassin. She was a tracker and a retrieval specialist.

  Accepting this commission would see to the many needs of their church. The piano would finally be tuned, and the roof fully repaired in time for next winter. There could even be some money in the coffer for a garden. Meals for the poor.

  Her fingers had already begun typing before her eyes returned to the screen.

  ASSIGNMENT ACCEPTED.

  PLEASE FORWARD AVAILABLE IMAGE OF TARGET.

  WILL LEAVE IMMEDIATELY FOR N.C. ON DELIVERY.

  Van’s thoughts scattered when the signal returned to red. She flipped the switch underneath, and the display began to assemble itself, line by line. In an hour’s time she would have the face of her latest assignment. Even the telegraph could not offer that.

  As the image assembled itself, she would have plenty of time to pack for an unexpected journey south. Van connected two more leads, and flipped a switch that would provide a printed copy of her screen once the image finished its travel through the æther. She turned towards the wall to the left of the machine and gave a section of its moulding a gentle push. The top half of the wall slid away, revealing several rifles and handguns. After a moment’s consideration, she took down the quad-barrelled Winchester-Henry-Armstrong 1892, and felt the weight in her hands. Stopping power and distance were guaranteed, provided the target’s weight was not an issue.

  Van propped the ’92 up against the wall and looked over the handgun options in front of her. Her fingers ran along the edges of a wide, rosewood case. She tapped the sides of the box, wondering if these would be needed.

  Apprehending of target alive is the top priority, she recalled from the message. Eliminate any opposition. The House of Usher wanted this target with no expense spared. The order was brief, but told her so much. There was no suspicion of opposition. It would happen. Without question.

  Van pulled the box free of the wall case and flipped open its brass latches. The pair of .38 Smith & Wesson revolvers within duly reflected the lantern light. She had not picked up either pistol yet, but the wooden grip under her brushing fingertips felt warm, as if expecting her touch.

  Closing the lid to the case and then hefting the rifle free from the wall, Van ascended the staircase, her speech to Everett already prepared. Two weeks. She’d only be away two weeks. Three weeks, at the most. For that amount of time, she would be able to do so much good for the church and their little town. Even her stoic partner would see that. The
reappearance of the House of Usher could provide a welcomed windfall, and a gift from above.

  Van had to keep the faith that was why the House of Usher had returned to America. She didn’t dare contemplate the other possibility.

  FOUR

  In Which Our Dashing Archivist and Elegant Librarian Come to an Arrangement, Much to the Dismay of Our Colonial Pepperpot

  Their arrival at the Outer Banks, Wellington Books decided, was quite the triumph.

  For one thing, that rather brash American, Wheatley, was nowhere in sight. He had to be behind them by a few good hours at the very least.

  Second, the couples either on the veranda or walking the grounds of Swan’s Retreat enjoying the light, salt-kissed air and bracing breezes of North Carolina barely noticed Wellington’s motorcar as it approached. Some engineers designed motorcars merely as retro-fitted horse carriages, creating in the process noisy, vapour-spewing monsters. However, Wellington had been paying close attention to the works of Karl Benz in Germany. Much like Benz’s aerocraft, Wellington’s motorcar was a streamlined, self-contained transport, able to vent any excess steam from a series of pipes through a single exhaust at the rear of the vehicle. The end result was a body less square and more rectangular, the wheels nearly half the diameter of a typical carriage. He had also taken several designs of combustion engines from Benz, Diesel, and Everett; and then incorporated several “Fox Corrugateds” to increase both heat transfer and overall strength. Through a series of struts, chassis, and insulators, Wellington invented a solution to the noise his mechanical marvel would have produced, the end result a delightfully soft medley of chugs, pops, and pings that barely drowned out the sounds of the local fauna.

  At least until the boiler’s pressure release values would reach critical and expel any excess gases. Birds took flight when the engine’s quick, concussive bang-bang shattered the solitude of the resort. The first two times it happened on their trip between Norfolk and the Outer Banks, Eliza’s pounamu pistols appeared seemingly from thin air. By the time it happened on the causeway to Swan’s Retreat, Eliza merely pinched the bridge of her nose, apparently not happy with the announcement of their approach.

  “Subtle, Welly,” she grumbled.

  “I would agree,” he replied smugly. “As subtle as it can be.” Whatever was her problem now?

  “I don’t see why, having made this motorcar of yours practically whisper silent,” she said, shooting veritable daggers from her eyes, “you haven’t been able to silence the two pops that sound more like gunshots. You have made us all the talk of the resort—and we’ve only just pulled up. Truly, this thing is—”

  “Absolutely delightful!” squealed Felicity. “And it was such a comfortable ride compared to your average stagecoach.” Felicity’s eyes were dancing with delight as her hands gently ran along the motorcar’s cushions. The backseat, where the librarian sat, resembled a chez lounge built into the rounded back of the car. The plush, red velvet couch folded upon itself, completely hidden from view until needed.

  Wellington glanced pointedly at Eliza, and then craned his neck to say over his shoulder, “As you are the first to try the tumble seat, thank you for saying!”

  Eliza opened her door, muttering just loud enough for Wellington to hear. “Two peas in a pod . . .”

  While Felicity did not catch what she said, she did look at Eliza askance when she slammed the motorcar door shut. She blinked, then looked back to Wellington. “I’m sorry? The tumble seat?” Felicity looked around her. “Why is this called the ‘tumble’ seat?”

  He opened his mouth as if to speak, but paused. Eliza was carrying her own luggage, capturing the attention of many on the porch. “Well, it’s a bit difficult to explain presently.” He watched her ascend a few more steps before going back to the luggage in the trailer. He recognised his portable analytical and his own suitcase. There were eight others stacked neatly in the wagon.

  “I beg your pardon, Age—” And he caught himself. He was a field agent, and out in the field he had to maintain secrecy. “Er, Miss Lovelace, but exactly what is all this?”

  “I was not certain what resources we would have out in the—” Then it was Agent Lovelace’s turn to pause. She cleared her throat and continued, her voice far louder than necessary. “I mean, I was not sure what reading material I would have while on vacation. While I may seem like a simple woman to you, my studies do matter.”

  “No reason for the theatrics, Lovelace,” a voice whispered from behind her, causing the librarian to jump slightly. Eliza glared at her. “If you want to blend in, just act naturally. You can act naturally, can’t you? Or is this natural for you?”

  Felicity blushed. “I suppose I am a bit nervous, Miss Braun. Considering circumstances.”

  “See? That wasn’t hard, was it?”

  Wellington glanced away from the two ladies and looked over the suitcases again. Across these suitcases, Felicity Lovelace had packed a small library. A part of him appreciated, and even admired, her for doing so. The practical part of him looked at her with abject terror. Books were heavy to begin with. Packed in suitcases? They would be a labour of Herculean standards to move.

  And Felicity was so . . . tiny.

  “I suppose we should call for a porter.” He cleared his throat. “Preferably one of an automated, mechanical nature.”

  “What’s the problem, Johnny Shakespeare,” called a voice from the top of the steps. “Can’t handle a few suitcases?”

  Impossibly, “Wild Bill” Wheatley stood at the top of the steps. Wellington determined not to ask how he’d managed that feat.

  “Glad to see you all made it here,” Bill said, motioning along the length of Wellington’s motorcar. “So that contraption of yours held together?”

  “It performed beyond expectation,” Wellington said proudly.

  “So I heard,” he quipped with a smirk. “I thought we were under attack or somethin’ . . .”

  Wellington pressed his lips together lest something uncouth escape him. “Allow me to offer a hand with Miss Lovelace’s luggage.” He examined the suitcases, and selected the two closest to him. Yes, they were heavy, but nothing he could not manage. He then motioned to Bill with one of her suitcases. “The sooner you assist your companion here with her bags, the sooner you can all regale us with how you beat us here from Norfolk.”

  The cowboy guffawed. “First beer’s on you, pard’ner.”

  Wellington managed to get Felicity’s bags up to the top of the stairs, where he remained to enjoy the sight of the OSM agent nearly topple from the weight of the one bag in his grasp. Wheatley blinked as he contemplated the solitary bag that nearly brought him to the ground. He glanced back over to Felicity, now unfurling a pink lace parasol as she took in the Carolina landscape, shook his head in disgust, and heaved the bag again. His face was quite ruddy by the time he reached the step where he had earlier postured for Wellington’s benefit.

  “Still wish to forgo the Portoporter, Mr. Wheatley?” Wellington called.

  “No,” he grunted through gnashed teeth. “I’m—fine. Just—’cause—we’re—” The suitcase landed on the step above Bill with a thud so heavy Wellington felt it at the top of the landing through the soles of his shoes. “—comin’ to the Swan’s—don’t—mean . . .” Bill huffed as he looked up to where Wellington stood, looked back to the car, then back up to Wellington, Felicity’s two suitcases flanking him. He took a deep breath, heaved, and resumed his slow ascent. “Don’t mean—we can’t—fend—for ourselves.”

  Wellington grinned, and he straightened his own vest and descended the stairs, giving Bill a nod as he passed. “A true frontiersman spirit. Well done!”

  He had returned to the lodge’s lobby with his own bags just as Bill reached the top of the landing with his first bag. Wellington’s grin was now a brilliant smile as he watched from the corner of his eye the American groan as he stood, tur
ned, and slowly descended towards Felicity’s remaining suitcases.

  “Aren’t you a lucky sod?” Eliza quipped, joining him in the foyer. “Lovelace packs bricks in her suitcases, and you choose the two that just happen to hold her clothes and sundries?”

  Wellington fixed his eyes on her, and then couldn’t help but wink. “Luck, Miss Braun, has nothing to do with it. I watched both the Portoporter and that rented cart hitched to us. Easy to deduce which ones were ladened with the heavy burden of knowledge.”

  Another shudder came from the landing. Bill’s face was now a deep scarlet.

  “Much like our American adventurer is at present.”

  After another fifteen minutes or so, Bill finally set down the last of Felicity’s packed library with a thud. He was breathing as if he had just played several sets at Wimbledon.

  “God save the Union! A fine specimen you are,” Wellington said, motioning with his walking stick at Bill’s shoulders. “Atlas himself would be impressed at the weight you carry.”

  Then he turned to survey their new accommodations. Swan’s Retreat was, even by Wellington’s standards, quite impressive, far from the wilderness hunting lodge he had envisioned. If he had not known the outside was on the Outer Banks of the Carolinas, Wellington would have thought himself on the deck of a White Star cruise liner. However, rather than the drone of air motors around him or the sound of a sea vessel’s whistle, he was instead surrounded by the casual conversation of men in hunting jackets and ladies gossiping with one another.

  He and Eliza had just made eye contact with the concierge when Eliza suddenly stood between him and the desk, threw her arms around his neck, and squealed, making many a head turn.

  “Oh, Reginald!” She beamed and gave him a rather fervent kiss that nearly toppled him over. “You have made me the happiest newlywed in all of the Empire!”