Aeschylus hesitated for but a moment before inclining his head. James recognized the courtesy for what it was. He might be an Earl, but within these walls he was outranked and unknown.
Aeschylus led him to a room that wasn’t anything special to the naked eye. Used mostly as a manager’s office, its true value lay in the fact that it was sound proof. The moment the only door shut, all was silent.
A sturdy desk stood watch before a blank canvas of a wall. Setting the weighty box down, James went to work cracking the awaiting code. Gears and panels slid under his careful palms, clicking softly with each adjustment. As he labored, he kept in mind that this puzzle was for him and him alone. The design was special, so that no one, not even Aeschylus, could open it.
Even the handlers didn’t always know what the operatives were working on.
The puzzle seemed almost unraveled, but something was wrong. It resembled a kind of jewelry box that unfolded at each side, but the bottom was incomplete. James’s soul went cold when he realized there was something blocking the last panel, keeping it from unfolding completely. It was wedged on a pillar in the depths of the box that matched perfectly in color and metal. If he hadn’t recognized it, he never would have thought to remove the cylinder piece. He carefully pried it away from the rest, flipping it over in his hand. It was a shimmering case, only as big as one of his fingers, but it rattled when he shook it.
Popping the top off was disturbingly easy. He tipped the container, going still when a single bullet slid into his hand. A simple chain fused with the metal surface, offering the chance to wear it as a necklace. James closed his eyes for a moment, clenching the message in his palm.
“Ginny.” He turned back to the puzzle.
The last clasp chimed and the box unfolded with an audible hiss. Cogs and wheels spun over one another until what had been a simple square chest was broken down. Two perpendicular seams appeared on the gleaming surface. The bottom remained steady even as the top half split in two panels that slid in opposite directions.
James took a hasty step back when an inner platform raised from the space created. Pinions whistled as they whirled, revealing a studded tumbler and metal comb. After a moment, the crank that had edged forward from the dark depths began to spin.
“Hello, Prometheus.” The voice uttered in broken speech. Every time the revolving bar moved, the fine metal comb would brush against dozens of studs, giving an individual ping of sound. Together they created an automated voice.
Out of habit, James responded. “Hello, Stieber.”
The voice continued on, obviously not hearing his response. “We are certain you have heard of the recent disappearances of several young women.” There was a pause. “The Crown has taken measures to ensure this disturbing news does not get out of hand. It is neither as widespread nor alarming as it should be.”
Another pause allowed James to absorb this new information. He’d seen just this morning that the papers had indeed mentioned a missing girl or two, but the casual tone and lighthearted reporting had led him to believe it was nothing of import.
“A previous mission of reconnaissance has led us to believe the culprits are part of an organization dealing in the sale of human goods. The attackers are taking women and children of all classes. Many have been found overseas and several victims not under the protection of our country have found their way to our soil.”
James had to swallow down a rush of hot, black rage in order to continue to listen. “This deplorable crime is being committed by many different hands. Still, we have discerned that the head of this venomous snake is located within the First Quarter. It is one of our favored citizens who is committing these treasonous and immortal acts.”
It took him another moment to breathe through the disgust threatening to strangle him. He could barely grit out the words meant only for his ears. “Why am I not surprised?”
James wished he could be. Unfortunately, since he’d become a member of the Watch he’d been subjected to all kinds of depravity. It was a hard lesson to learn, but he realized that a good percentage of the most heinous crimes of London stemmed from those in the realm who were supposed to be the most respectable. Idle hands, money, and boredom were oftentimes a dangerous combination.
“It is our wish that you infiltrate this ring of criminals and find the person or persons most responsible. Upon that discovery, it is the wish of the Crown that a trial not be necessary.”
The box wasn’t a person, so the formality of his bowed head was a superfluous gesture. Still, when those words hit his ears he couldn’t help jerking his eyes upward. Unseeing, the box continued. “You have twelve hours to refuse the contract. This is a shorter time than normal, due to the nature of the crimes. Your skills are needed, Flame Wielder.”
The crank stopped but it took James several minutes to relax his jaw. His teeth began to ache from the strain before he could stop hearing the code.
The carefully disguised threat was one that he rarely heard. He should have taken comfort in knowing that it was reserved for instances where there was no choice, but mostly he was too angry to care.
“So. I am the Flame Wielder again.” His pinched throat constricted with the need to roar his denial.
He'd taken the position as an operative after some of his inventions had caught the eye of the monarchy. They were weapons, mostly, sophisticated things so complicated that even the best Tinkerers at Court couldn’t figure them out. At first, the Crown had asked him to build such things for his country. He'd refused. As a compromise, he had agreed to use his creations in service of his country, but he would not share his plans or creations. It was a shaky trust and one he had no doubt the monarchy regretted, but he’d made it clear he meant to keep his secrets.
“Like hell I’ll let you get your hands on any of my work.” James slammed his fist against the desk, chest heaving. He knew what the Crown would do with the kind of power he could create. He had no plans to look into anymore crying eyes.
He looked down to where the bullet pressed into his palm. “Never again.”
Chapter Three
“Miss Olyve! I really must object to you going out again. This makes the fourth time this week. You have neglected your studies, you refuse to take a suitable chaperone, and you return at all hours of the night. It is simply disgraceful. People will talk.”
Olyve stared down at the woman blocking her path. Those beady, disapproving eyes dragged over her body, leaving holes in her confidence. It had been like this every day for the last three. The pious housekeeper would lecture her until her ears burned, paying no attention to the arguments she provided in return.
So what if “people” talked. They would do so anyway and they both knew it. None of her money and connections would erase her last name. She clutched the fashionable bag she carried to her chest. It contained carefully wrapped Christmas presents for the girls’ home she planned to visit today, but it wouldn’t matter to the hook-nosed crone. She wouldn’t care that most of those deprived orphans would receive nothing more than what she brought, on a holiday that was supposed to be all about love and giving.
She wouldn’t care that it was all Olyve could do to keep busy. Between the indescribable ache that had blossomed in her chest and the visions, she had to do something. Anything to quiet the noise. Her visions still beat wildly in her head, images of broken skin and sobbing faces.
During her trips out, she had made sure not only to drop the presents off at various homes and shelters, but to keep her ears open. She’d listened for any tiny bit of information, any clues that would lead her to where she needed to be. She’d gone so far as to lower her first barrier time and again, even when she desperately needed to remain protected.
“You cannot go out today. You will remain here and mind your studies. Your father–”
“Is not here.”
Mrs. Jacobson blinked rapidly, as if uncomprehending the audacity of her ward. Olyve ignored her, dropping her cargo to the ground gently. “My
father is not here, Mrs. Jacobson. He hasn’t been in quite a while, and though I’m sure he left you with explicit instructions as to how I should be handled, I assure you they are expired.”
“Now, see here, young lady. You will not speak to your elders in such a fashion.”
Once again, Olyve chose to ignore her. She took a steady look at what she was wearing and frowned. “Fashion,” she muttered, more to herself than the fuming woman before her. To appease her guardian earlier in the day she had agreed to wear some ridiculous contraption of stiff material. It was the color she would expect an orange to be after it’d been set aflame. Even more than the color, though, she hated the matching hair comb that pinned her hair up under a lacy hat.
The dress itself was made up of two separate layers. A collection of folds and ruffles made up the top half, right below the line of her cuff and corset. She wore a simple, flat blouse underneath, the sleeves loose in order to hide the lines of her long gloves.
A rebellious giggle flirted with her throat but she kept it at bay.
Reaching up, she pulled the comb free, sending her tresses tumbling downward. The hat remained perched on the top of her head after a quick shake, though it was slightly askew.
“My word, what are you doing? That took a good portion of the morning to get perfect and now Annie will have to redo the entire thing.” Mrs. Jacobson turned to squawk at the doorman to fetch a maid at once.
Olyve tested the strength of the dress.
“Now, Miss. You are going to stop this at–”
With a violent tug, Olyve managed to tear the bottom of the skirt clean off. The sound of rending fabric made her smile, so she continued until the long swatch of material fluttered to the floor.
“–once.”
If she hadn’t been so intent on stripping free of her petticoats, Olyve would have laughed at the look on the crone’s face. She pulled free of the last layers of hoops before kicking the whole bunch away. Spinning, she surveyed the damage. Her corset and the upper part of the skirt remained, flaring out in the back to brush against the back of her knees.
Beneath her skirts she had worn a skin-tight pair of black leather leggings. Her pale brown leather boots had a fashionable brass buckle on either side and she had taken the care to tuck the leggings into their soft depths. The color was picked up in the remaining cuff as well as her elbow length gloves, which were revealed with another quick jerk to rend fabric.
Pleased, she retrieved her items. “I think I’ll just go out like this, then. If people are going to be talking, I may as well give them something real to talk about.”
A harsh palm connected with her face, leaving stinging redness in its wake. The blow sounded like an explosion in Olyve’s ears, knocking her teeth together and causing tears to spring into her eyes. She stumbled back a few steps, reeling from the shock as much as the pain. She gasped, not because of the physical contact, but because the blow had sent her Intuition into overdrive. As the woman railed, she struggled to replace her barriers.
“You dare, girl? You, who knows nothing of the world, would challenge years of custom and tradition? Look at you. You look like a common tart. Do you not understand what your…” she hissed the next word, her voice low and mocking, “clothing says? You look like one of those despicable Revolutionaries, calling for ‘equality’ and ‘change,’ looking for handouts.”
The older woman all but spit on the ground between them. “You don’t seem to have the loyalty a respectable First Quarter girl should possess. If those chattel are allowed their rebellion, the classes will be ruined. Just the other day, a leatherworker, of all things, tried to purchase a house within the First Quarter. A house. Some little no-account named Emily. She made a ridiculous sum of money, selling clothing that looks just like what you are wearing now, and you want to go strutting around advocating for the loss of fashion and modesty?”
Olyve smiled to herself, even as she gathered the last pieces of her consciousness. Mrs. Brett had made her fortune, and nothing would take that victory away from her. Finally in control of her overwhelming thoughts, she straightened, glaring at the redfaced woman. “Mrs. Jacobson. I had not realized how far your assumptions had gone until this moment, so let me clear something up for you. I am in charge of what goes on in this house. You may have your ideas and thoughts on propriety, but do not forget who my father is.”
Stammering, Mrs. Jacobson made an attempt to stop her, only to be silenced by an abrupt hand slicing through the air. “As of now you are relieved of your position as housekeeper. I trust you will not expect a refferal.”
The red skin that was stretched far too thin over the ex-housekeeper’s face turned blotchy and purple. “You can’t do this.”
When the woman sagged out of her way, Olyve made a point to take her time while she moved around her. “Actually, I can. You see, my father is one of those disgraceful Revolutionaries you were talking about, and you know how close he is to our Majesty. It would appear that the recent changes regarding women’s rights are going a little further for my family. It is only a trial basis, but this manor legally belongs to my sister and I. We decide who stays and who goes, and you are certainly out.”
She smiled at the wide-eyed footman who braved meeting her eyes. “Please see that Mrs. Jacobson is off the premises before I return. Another housekeeper will be replacing her immediately.”
“Yes, Miss Blackwell.”
He all but scrambled to do as she asked and the moment she was safe within the buggy of her carriage, Olyve doubled over and laughed through the ache of her jaw and the tears burning her eyes. She stretched out her feet, nodding to herself.
She could definitely get used to this. Propriety was for the birds.
* * * *
Three hours later, she was already regretting her brash behavior. No matter how she felt, in the end it was Society she had to work with, and the mindset that had come with this technology-laden era was still new and untried. Even simple changes to transportation were being met with suspicion and fear, no matter how much quicker or more reliable said options proved to be. In the end, it took her a great deal of bargaining to convince a hiring company to send a new housekeeper to her.
In addition, the reactions to her new clothing were less than warm. The snug leggings called too much attention to her backside, even as they gave her the freedom to walk.
“Bloomerism at its worst!” one stuffy old Blue Blood had huffed at her.
She’d tilted her chin up with pride, refusing to be cowed, but on the inside her organs may as well have been mush.
By time she made her way through dropping off her presents, she was exhausted. The trek to her uncle’s usual beat was a long one, thanks to one of the wheels coming off of her glide, a brass framed transportation gadget that sat on two wheels, allowing the rider to glide after a short amount of pedaling.
“Goodness me, is that little Olyve I see?”
Huffing slightly, she executed a somewhat lacking dismount. “The one and only, Uncle Cole. How are you doing?”
Inspector Cole Blackwell, Uncle Cole to her, shrugged casually, tossing her one of his rare smiles. With his serious face, smoke gray uniform, and shock of dark brown hair, he was a formidable man. The telltale Blackwell eyes were less of a start framed in his angular face. He had been lucky enough to snag a pair of the rare midnight blue irises that Olyve frequently longed for.
“I’m more interested in hearing the story for your change in wardrobe. How are you staying warm?”
Olyve waved a hand in the air, dismissing the question as unimportant. “It’s actually pretty toasty, thanks to the rather ingenious design of the leather. I’ll tell you about Emily Brett, seamstress extraordinaire, another time. As to the why…well, let’s just say I’m tired of trying to fit marbles into square holes.”
A reluctant grin spread across his face. “You were always a little stubborn, weren’t you?” He continued over the objection she was about to wage. “Besides that, why are you ou
t without a guard, little neice? It’s not safe, especially here.”
Leaning her transport against an awaiting wall, Olyve dragged her uncle into a space between buildings. The alcove provided shelter while keeping them hidden in a den of shadows. Usually, a prostitute or begger would have occupied the cramped little space, but thanks to the presence of the law, it was empty for now. After making sure the coast was clear, she quickly explained what she’d seen in her vision. “I don’t know what it means, but I know I need to help those women. It isn’t like before. I'm not just being bombarded with information this time. These are cries for help. Do you know anything?”
Cole shifted uncomfortably and Olyve knew him well enough to recognize that he was trying to think of a way to dissuade her without having to lie. “Don’t do it, Uncle Cole. I need you to help me. I’ve been searching for days but I’ve yet to find anything at all that is useful. You may be my last chance.”
“Damnit, Olyve, you know I hate it when you do that. Using honesty against me is hardly fair.”
She giggled. “Don’t blame me. If you hadn’t wanted me to know about your inability to lie, you shouldn’t have told me.”
The man scoffed. “You were six and needing a little comfort. How was I to know assuring my neice that I would never lie about monsters hiding under her bed would come back to bite me years later?”
“Will you help me or not?”
“Fine, fine.” Cole pinched the bridge of his nose with his fingers before continuing. “There have been reports of missing women all over the city. I don’t know why the papers are downplaying it, but each one of us has been told to keep our mouths shut about the whole deal.”
“A conspiracy, then?”
After a short consideration, he shook his head. “No, I don’t think so. If that were the case, the higher ups would know. I took the liberety of bending the will of my sergeant. He doesn’t know anything more than we do. It’s as if someone slipped the information into a box somewhere with a nice ‘but don’t worry about it, we’ve got it covered’ stamp.”
A Clockwork Christmas Page 3