“And if not?”
“Then they will be put to work.”
Unbidden, my hands curled into tight fists, though I barely stopped myself from closing the distance. Anger had a way of easing fear; Hawke might have scared me, but he was no match for the fury the thought of those girls engendered in me. “I will see you hung from the bridge, first,” I snarled, surprising even myself with my own vehemence.
He was silent for a long moment, his gaze trailing over my form, covered in soot and worse; so tense as to be practically vibrating. Finally, he let out a sigh—the sort reserved for adults who have no time for the antics of children. “You may be appeased to know, little black cat, that the Menagerie does not enslave those who do not ask for it.”
Whatever bollocks that was, he did not allow me the opportunity to call him on it.
“They will be well-cared for, and they will earn a wage. That is more than could be said for them in the stews, don’t you agree?”
I did, and the arrogant bastard knew it. I folded my arms over my chest. “I’ll be watching out for them,” I warned him.
Utterly unconcerned, he dropped his gaze to the ground at my feet. It was as if he dared me to pick up the purse thrown so casually.
I was not sure I wanted to allow him the satisfaction. “What is this?” I demanded instead.
“There is an unspoken rule of the collector wall,” he replied, although if it was an answer, I wasn’t sure how. I raised my eyebrows at him; I’m not sure he could tell, I was so filthy.
“What does that have to do with me?” I returned, deliberately goading. “I’m not a collector, remember?”
He ignored my ill-advised attempt. “Anyone posting a notice must do so in good faith. Those caught abusing the system...” His pause was telling enough that his mild, “They earn certain lack of goodwill,” covered no truths.
“That Mr. Chattersham posted a bounty as a way to execute an opponent offends you?”
His features betrayed nothing. “The intent does not matter. If he had wanted Strangeway dead, he should have been honest about it. Of all things, the collection wall must be trustworthy if the system is to flourish. Chattersham betrayed the trust of London low. He will learn what it means to offend.”
I nodded, because even then, I knew that to ask was to invite knowledge that I was not sure I could live with. Whatever Hawke or his ilk did to Chattersham for his machinations was not my business. I was left with the distinct impression, however, that something would be done. Menagerie justice.
I nudged the silk with my toe. It clinked again. “Why the purse, then?” I asked, but cautiously. My fingers itched to swoop upon it, to pocket the coin inside before it slipped away.
Hawke’s features did not soften. “Restitution.”
I eyed him. “You mean a bounty?” Smug satisfaction filled me when a muscle just by his cheek jumped. “So I’m to be paid for collecting Mr. Strangeway, am I?”
“Not my doing. The Veil has decided that your efforts are to be rewarded properly, for fear that the collection wall lose efficacy.”
“But ’tis not the Veil’s wall,” I said, frowning. “Is it?”
“It is not. That does not lessen its usefulness for us all.”
It was a strangely neutral view on things—one of many such cogs that kept London low working as it did. The Veil did not crush what it had a use for, the gangs kept to territories they carved by right of power and numbers, the soiled doves earned their keep in flesh and the bobbies tried to stay on top of it all.
It would take me a few years to get a handle on it, but it would make for a spectacularly interesting time.
“I am to be bought off, then?” I asked, raising my chin as if I were too good for the coin. A play, only. I would take it, but only after I protested just enough.
“Regardless that your reckless behavior and childish demand for attention will one day land you in more trouble than your large eyes may bat clear of, that is your promised purse.” Hawke’s tone implied that offering it to me offended him on some level.
“Charmed,” I said, meaning anything but. “So, I am a collector, am I?”
Hawke straightened, though I may have imagined the faintest quirk at the corner of his mouth. “It is custom,” he said, not so much an answer as reprimand, “to take one’s chosen collection off the wall.”
I frowned. “Why?”
He turned his back, as I was learning he was wont to do, and said over his shoulder, “Because collectors will knife each other in the back as soon as share a purse.”
He left me contemplating this gem of wisdom, staring at the silken satchel at my feet.
Neither pride nor caution could keep me from this, my earned bounty. When I was positive that Hawke was no longer in sight, I knelt, snatched the purse in hand. With the clink of coin came the rustling of paper, and curious, I opened it just enough to withdraw a torn bit of parchment.
The original notice. It had been removed.
I could not stop myself from smiling. This, I would keep for a memento, and a reminder that things could have been so much worse. Shoving it once more into the purse, I plunged it all into the pocket of my battered, stolen coat.
My first collection wasn’t as successful as it could have been; not according to the letter of the law, as it were. I did not, in fact, run my quarry to ground, and I did not turn him in. By sheer luck—and no small amount of greed, for I have since learned that pots too good to be true are often just that—I picked the notice that was nothing more than a trap set for a cunning man on the edge of desperation.
The coins I earned went to more laudanum, acquired in modest amounts so as not to alert Fanny, and some new tools that I smuggled into my room to work with later. Abandoning the trappings of science for the time being, I spent time working on plans inspired by Mr. Strangeway’s armor and Captain Smoot’s fog protectives.
There were other collections, of course, more carefully selected and taken down from the wall as I accepted them. I earned more coin for more things—leather, glass and all the back-issues I could acquire of periodicals I’d never gotten to read.
And it was not the last time I would be forced to deal with Micajah Hawke.
Yet my reputation as London’s only female collector grew, and while Hawke was the only man left in London who knew the truth, he never shared the tale. I believe to do so would, as he’d indicated, damage the worth of the collectors as a whole. Or perhaps he would use it against me later, though I wasn’t sure how.
As for Mr. Strangeway or Captain Smoot, I did not hear from them again. I did not expect to, of course. Neither man could move freely in this society, and I don’t believe London could offer them much by way of the freedoms both sought. The Fenian Brotherhood would continue their dynamite-fueled campaign until 1885, and for some time after, Irishmen were viewed with singular suspicion.
Although I never made any effort to locate Mr. Strangeway or the devil-may-care Captain Smoot, I often wondered what it was they had turned to in the intervening years. Sometimes, I thought of hiring Pinkertons to find them—deliver a message of well-being, ask them of their adventures—but I never had the coin to do so. I spent it nearly all, more on laudanum than anything else.
But I dreamed often. Of inheriting at twenty-one years of age, of taking all of my mother and father’s wealth and acquiring my own sky ship. Traveling the world, seeing what I could only read about. Perhaps one day, I would meet Mr. Strangeway or Captain Smoot again. Perhaps, when I could be free, I could share with them my adventures.
It was this dream that would carry me. This aspiration, and the desires carved into me by a childhood lost to opium dreams.
Empires had been carved out from less.
* * * * *
Author Note:
As you are no doubt aware, one of my favorite things to do in the St. Croix Chronicles is to take actual history and twine it, in mysterious and fantastical ways, with the events within a story. Sometimes I leave only
a few clues, and sometimes—such as in the case of the Fenian Brotherhood—the details are much more obvious. The Fenian dynamite campaign is truth, lasting from 1881 to 1885, perpetuated largely by two outspoken members and one silent associate of the American arm of the Irish Republican Brotherhood, which called itself Clan na Gael. Brits, with great presence of mind, did not distinguish much between the initial agitators—the Fenian Brotherhood—and their successors, as both were rather intent on sacrificing British lives to their cause.
The very train that Cherry infiltrated was among the targets, resulting in the injury of a reported two dozen passengers, though numbers reach as high as seventy. All were lower class, and among them, two schoolboys visiting from an outlying district.
The man who wrote the letter to Mr. Strangeway, Alexander Sullivan, was one of the three “action men” who appointed themselves the new leaders of Clan na Gael—they called themselves the “Triangle,” and worked in secret. The agitators split into two factions—those who supported Sullivan, D. S. Freely, and Michael Boland, and those who did not. In perhaps somewhat stranger news, Sullivan died at the well-rounded age of sixty-six, and “narrowly missed being the Republican candidate for Vice-President for Benjamin Harrison.” (New York Times, August 22, 1913)
I hope you enjoyed Cherry’s brush with history as much as I did writing it. To say she came out the wiser might be somewhat of a stretch—after all, we see how “wise” she really is in Tarnished—but I like to think she at least managed to get her footing under her. Perhaps next time she finds herself in the middle of a vast conspiracy, she may think twice before diving in.
Or, well, you know. Perhaps not so much. Some of us are simply assured that we are immortal, aren’t we?
And it’s that immortality that shall go to benefit others. Because my good friends Steampunk Boba Fett and Captain Anthony LaGrange very kindly allowed me to take their inspiration and use it in The Mysterious Case of Mr. Strangeway, I am very happy to take a portion of the proceeds I make from the purchase of this book and donate it to the Make a Wish Foundation.
Thank you, from myself, Steampunk Boba Fett, and Captain LaGrange of the Airship Archon. Thank you for helping us make children’s wishes come true.
Sincerely yours,
from the finely furnished cabin of the FCS Avonlea,
Karina Cooper
About the Author
After writing happily-ever-afters for all of her friends in school, Karina Cooper eventually grew up (sort of), went to work in the real world (kind of), where she decided that making stuff up was way more fun (true!). She is the author of dark and sexy paranormal romances, steampunk adventures, crossover urban fantasy, and writes across multiple genres with mad glee. Her steampunk series, The St. Croix Chronicles, has been nominated for an RT Award and for an RT Seal of Excellence.
One part glamour, one part dork and all imagination, Karina is also a gamer, an airship captain’s wife and a steampunk fashionista. She lives in the beautiful Pacific Northwest with a husband, a menagerie, a severe coffee habit and a passel of adopted gamer geeks. Visit her at www.karinacooper.com, because she says so.
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ISBN: 978-14268-9622-4
Copyright © 2013 by Karina Cooper
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