Corpse & Crown

by Alisa Kwitney

  Twist put one finger under Will’s chin and leaned in, and mingled with his anxiety, Will felt an unwelcome flutter of excitement. “So let him look.”

  “What the bloody hell is going on out here?” It was Byram, appearing in the alleyway, the girl clinging to him. “Is this man robbing you?”

  “Not at all.” Twist’s smile was wry. “I never made a threat. I made an offer.”

  “Well, he’s not interested, so on your bike, friend.”

  Twist gave Will an assessing look. “You certain he’s not interested?”

  Byram lifted the elegant, ebony-handled walking stick he carried on longer walks. “Dead certain.” He smacked the cane against his hand.

  “Didn’t realize he was yours.” Twist made a mocking bow, then addressed the girl in the worn red velvet dress. “Seems we were both wasting our time, Nancy.”

  “Speak for yourself,” said the girl with a laugh. “I got free drinks. Come on, Twist, I’m in the mood for a meat pie.”

  The two strolled off, chatting, leaving Byram and Will alone.

  “Thanks, Byram,” said Will, but Byram turned on his heel and began walking at a pace that made Will have to run a few steps to catch up. “I wasn’t encouraging him,” he said, but Byram refused to even look at him.

  After three blocks, Byram’s bad foot gave out, twisting under him and forcing him to stop. Grateful for the excuse, Will put his arm around his friend’s back. “Lean on me.”

  Without a word, the two walked arm in arm until they reached the row of small houses where most of the medical students rented rooms. Then they slipped apart, even though plenty of the other students stumbled home drunk enough to need a supporting hand.

  Later, lying in his bed, Will could hear from Byram’s breathing that he was awake and in pain.

  “Is it your foot?” For a long moment, there was no response.

  Then, with a low curse, Byram snapped, “What were you thinking?”

  For a moment, Will was confused. “You mean, in the alley? I was relieving myself!”

  “So it would seem. Don’t you know the risks, Will?”

  Will flushed. “Not like that. I meant...”

  After a long silence, Byram said, “I’m going to have to get married someday. You can’t lose your head every time I talk to a girl.”

  Will didn’t know what to say. He was tired, and even though he was no longer drunk, he was certainly not sober. “If you want a girl,” he said, “what was wrong with Aggie?”

  They had never spoken about this before. Byram was silent for so long that Will began to drift off, and when he finally did speak, Will wasn’t completely sure he had heard correctly.

  “Nothing was wrong with Aggie. She just started to expect too much. Like you. I’m not built to be faithful to one person, Will.”

  It took a moment for the words to work their way under Will’s skin, but once they did, they started stinging. Byram wasn’t flirting with girls because that’s what society expected of him—he was flirting with girls because Will was not enough for him.

  Life would be easier if he could just shut off the faucet of desire and content himself with the arid consolations of poetry and books. He thought of his friend Justine, paralyzed inside an iron machine that helped her breathe. How long had it been since he’d visited her?

  I’ll see her tomorrow, he thought. He wouldn’t have anything alcoholic to drink, either. He would exercise self-control and be healthy and stop wanting what he couldn’t have. There was a French expression Byram liked to quote: If they’re not going to feed you, leave the table.

  Tomorrow.

  Tonight, however, he just wanted to be able to fall asleep. He had been on the verge of sleep before, but Byram’s confession had jangled his nerves. I’m not built to be faithful to one person. Why was the one person who upset him the only one who could make him feel better?

  “You all right, Will?”

  “Not really.” He paused. “Can I come sleep with you?”

  “Of course.” Byram pulled back the covers and made room in his bed.

  10

  People often made the mistake of thinking that just because Justine Makepiece was paralyzed, she was a sweet, childlike waif, as pure of spirit as she was in body. They walked into her room and saw her delicate pale face—the only part of her visible inside the metal cylinder that was her prison and her lifeline—and thought of her as a lucent, disembodied mind.

  Yet even though she spent most of her day lying prone in an artificial breathing machine, listening to the rhythmic pulsing of a vacuum pump, Justine was far from being some angelic creature. Untouched, yes. Innocent, no. After a mysterious childhood illness left her with weak lungs and wasted legs, Juliet’s father had become obsessed with curing his only child.

  Back in her old room at Ingold, her father kept her isolated in an attempt to protect her from any possible breath of miasmic air. As the head of engineering, Professor Makepiece had invented the negative pressure ventilator that helped his daughter breathe. For at least twenty-one hours out of every day, she had to lie inside the metal canister that forced air in and out of her lungs. There were only a few scant hours each day she could spend on the outside, free to sit up, use her arms, and speak to people without staring up their nostrils.

  Sometimes she felt like a princess who was under some cruel enchantment. But then, she had also been granted some highly unusual gifts, so perhaps it balanced out in the end.

  All in all, she felt she had done all right. At the age of seventeen, she had completed a correspondence course in history at Oxford, been published in the editorial section of the Times on three different occasions and had struck up a number of epistolary friendships with influential people.

  Her body might be trapped in this room, but thanks to her father’s experimental electromagnetic treatments, her mind was stronger and freer than most.

  Which was why it was so infuriating that she had hours and hours to wait before she could write back to Viscount Haldane. Across the room, she could see her writing desk and chair, the pages of blank paper, a bottle of her favorite dark violet ink and pen. Haldane’s most recent letter sat at the front of her decorative metal letter holder. It gave Justine a little thrill of excitement to see a letter from a member of the Privy Council displayed so openly, but she knew that it was safe. If anyone unfolded the missive and read it, it would appear to be an innocuous message about Easter egg decorating, a German tradition that Queen Victoria and her late husband had brought to England.

  It was only when the cutout paper mask was placed over the letter, blocking out some of the words, that the true message could be deciphered: Professor Moulsdale assures Lord Salisbury and myself that the Dreadnaught Class Bio-Mechanical will be rolled out before the kaiser’s Easter visit. Have you seen or heard any evidence supporting this claim?

  Haldane, who was likely to become the next Secretary of War, had concerns about whether the Bio-Mechanical program was truly the answer to the burgeoning arms race between Great Britain and Germany. After seeing how her own father had become morally compromised by his dedication to the program, Justine had her own concerns. For now, she was content to observe—and report.

  Justine glanced at the clock on the wall. Nearly 1:00 p.m. Lizzie was almost an hour late—or perhaps she wasn’t coming at all. Blast.

  Justine heard the door open. “I was starting to think you weren’t coming,” she began, and then saw that it was Will.

  “What a lovely surprise,” she said, meaning it. When she had first met Will, she had thought he looked as handsome as a prince in a fairy tale, with his slender hands and the lock of slippery blond hair that always fell into his eyes. Even now, when she knew better, she felt a little flutter when he smiled at her.

  “I realized it had been far too long,” Will said, setting down a hamper. “How’re you feeling
today, Just?”

  “About the same, I suppose.”

  You look worse, though. Will didn’t say the words out loud, but Justine heard them all the same—an unexpected side effect of her father’s unsuccessful attempt to transfer her mind into Lizzie’s body. Makepiece had used the galvanic magnetometer to strengthen the electrical impulses of her brain as part of his plan to free Justine from the prison that did her breathing for her. The treatments had been excruciating, but she did not regret them. In the end, they had bestowed an astonishing benefit—she could read minds. In a way, Justine thought, her father’s secret experiments had been successful. Even though it was only her mind that was free, at least she was no longer trapped inside her own head all day long.

  Not that she deliberately eavesdropped on other people’s thoughts. It was just hard not to hear Will’s constant background noise of Byram, Byram, Byram.

  “What have you been reading these days?” Will unpacked a thermos of tea from the basket, along with two wax-paper-wrapped sandwiches. “I miss the days when I had the time to read something other than medical texts.”

  “I’m reading the first installment of a new serial novel by Mr. Wells,” said Justine. “Martians have just invaded and are attacking Shepperton.”

  “How fabulous. I’m sure Shepperton will be vastly improved.” Will carefully arranged the lunch items he had brought on a tray. “How ever does Mr. Wells come up with these ideas?”

  “From the columns of any newspaper,” said Justine. “Every day I see a new opinion piece about the dangers of a German invasion.” Even though Great Britain still had a vastly superior navy, Germany had been steadily improving its battleships with steam turbines and heavier caliber guns.

  “Afraid I’m not much for reading newspapers,” said Will, bringing the tray over and then looking horrified as he realized that there was no way for Justine to eat a sandwich or drink a cup of tea while lying on her back. “I—ah—I just realized that...”

  “I just finished eating before you arrived,” said Justine, figuring that the sweetened egg-and-milk concoction she drank through a metal straw must qualify as lunch. “Why don’t you go ahead and tuck in? I won’t mind.”

  “Are you sure?” Will pulled a chair closer to her, then sat a bit self consciously with the tray on his lap.

  “Absolutely.”

  Will unwrapped a sandwich—cheddar with ploughman’s pickle. She watched him take the first bite and permitted herself to dip into his mind for a moment so she could vicariously savor the bite and tang of cheese. “So,” said Will, “tell me more about your new obsession.”

  “Actually, I think Lizzie is about to join us.” She could hear the clamor of the other girl’s thoughts more loudly than her footsteps as she approached the door.

  “Sorry I’m so late,” said Lizzie, sounding a little out of breath as she came into the room. “I was in the lab and lost track of the time.”

  “It’s all right,” said Justine, looking from Lizzie to Will. “I’ve had a surprise visitor to keep me company.”

  “Hello, Will,” said Lizzie, but as he replied, she glanced over at Justine and thought, very clearly: Do you want me to go and come back later?

  No, Justine thought back at her. Stay. Lizzie was the only person who knew about Justine’s secret ability, and so she was the only person to whom Justine could speak, mind-to-mind. Of course, Lizzie was under the mistaken impression that Justine’s powers were limited to the two of them. If she knew the truth, she might insist on all manner of tests and soon Justine’s telepathy would become another weapon in Moulsdale’s arsenal.

  Justine did not trust that man enough to give him any more ammunition. This was why she wrote to Haldane, to gather information and assess where the Bio-Mechanical program was headed—and debate whether its ends could justify its means.

  “Why is everyone so quiet all of a sudden?” Will walked over to the hamper. “Did you have any lunch, Lizzie?”

  “No, and I’m ravenous.”

  “Go ahead and take mine,” said Justine.

  Lizzie was already unwrapping the wax paper. “Thanks.”

  Will poured a cup of tea and then passed it to Lizzie. “So, how is life in the laboratory treating you?”

  “It’s insane,” said Lizzie, taking a sip of her tea. “There’s a big push on to create a showstopper for the kaiser, and we’ve been working on this one Bio-Mechanical who is absolutely huge—we’re talking six foot five and muscled like an ox. I think he was a longshoreman.”

  “Is that his main selling point?” asked Justine. “The fact that he’s huge?”

  Lizzie, who had just taken an ambitious bite of her sandwich, had to wait a moment before responding. “No, there are other enhancements. Dr. Grimbald is thinking about replacing the creature’s right arm with an interchangeable semiautomatic rifle, Victor is experimenting with an alloy that will protect his heart and vitals, and I’ve been working on a mechanical eye that will increase his visual acuity.”

  “Enhanced vision? That’s brilliant,” said Justine.

  “Well, it would be brilliant if only the Dreadnaught could make any use of them,” said Lizzie, walking across the room to pour herself a cup of tea. “We’ve been trying different frequencies to stimulate the brain, but so far, all he does is grunt and drool.”

  “I can just imagine it,” said Will, refilling his own teacup. “Two armies facing off against each other, armed to the teeth, but the soldiers just stand there grunting at each other.” He raised his cup in a toast. “Here’s to a war to end all wars.”

  “Unfortunately, it sounds as though the kaiser’s Bio-Mechanicals do a lot more than grunt and drool,” said Lizzie, glumly contemplating what was left of her sandwich.

  “Oh, well,” said Will, “German engineering and all that.” With a guilty look, he added, “Not that your father wasn’t brilliant, Justine.”

  “Apparently not as brilliant as the Germans,” said Lizzie.

  They all sat in silence for a moment, considering this.

  “All right, ladies, no point in stewing,” said Will, standing up and brushing off the front of his trousers. “I’m sure we’ll crack this nut. After all, we did it once. And if we managed to turn my brother into a Bio-Mechanical without compromising his intelligence, I’m sure we can do it again.”

  “Fair enough.” Lizzie drained the last of her tea and then placed her cup back in the straw hamper. “But can we do it before Easter? That’s an awfully tight deadline.”

  A terrible thought occurred to Justine. “Tell me something, Lizzie. Has anyone taken Victor to do any tests recently?”

  “We don’t have any exams right now.”

  “I mean medical tests. Has anyone asked to check his vitals or his eyesight?”

  Lizzie looked as though she regretted bolting down her lunch. “How did you know?”

  “I don’t know anything. I’m just asking questions.” She did not add, I know because Moulsdale needs a showstopper of a Bio-Mechanical, and he has a limited window of time to add all the new improvements. The firearm prosthetic, the alloy armor, the sniper-enhanced vision. So far, Moulsdale’s team had only managed to produce one superior Bio-Mechanical—Victor. It stood to reason they might start to consider using him to replace their defective Dreadnaught.

  Lizzie understood without having any of this spelled out.

  “But Moulsdale promised!” Lizzie looked from Justine to Will and back. “That was the deal. I keep quiet about the queen being a Bio-Mechanical, and he holds his peace about Victor. He can’t just turn around and decide that Victor’s nothing but a machine.”

  “Moulsdale is a politician at heart,” said Justine. “He’ll do whatever he needs to climb to the top, and then he’ll come up with some reason to justify it.”

  Will went over to Lizzie and put his arms around her. “Don’t worry, Lizzie. We
won’t let anything happen to Victor.”

  Justine said nothing. Victor was her friend, and she would do what she could to protect him, but she didn’t believe in making promises she might not be able to keep.

  11

  There was a smell to other people’s lives, thought Dodger as he sorted through the latest bundle of stolen handkerchiefs, bowler hats and gloves. An aroma composed of tobacco mingled with homelier ingredients like vinegar and slightly rancid grease, with an underlying base note of stale sweat and unfulfilled dreams.

  “What’s taking you so long?” Faygie was pinning up a tart’s red silk petticoat onto a mannequin so the stained bits didn’t show. “If you pickpocketed things as slowly as you put them away, you’d be swinging from the gallows by now.”

  “We all have different strengths.”

  “And we can’t always play to them. Sometimes, my friend, even a show horse needs to take a turn pulling the cart.”

  “That’s how you ruin a good show horse.”

  Faygie shook her head but let him have the last word—for the moment. She was only a few months older than Dodger, which meant less than it once had, but she still liked to act the mother of their group. One of these days, Bill was going to refuse to go along with the pretense that Faygie was still in charge, and Dodger didn’t know what would happen then—perhaps Nancy would talk him out of the confrontation, or perhaps the group would split in half, with Nancy and Bill going their own way. For now, though, things still felt pretty much as they always had.

  “You’re awfully quiet,” said Faygie as she adjusted the petticoat.

  “Just thinking. I like the St. Valentine’s Day theme,” he offered, indicating her latest project.

  “It’s absurd. What’s romantic about mid-February? It’s cold and gray and it gives me the morbids.” She stepped back to examine the hang of the petticoat on a mannequin’s form. “Hard to make any money from misery, though, so might as well peddle red hearts and romance.” Other pawnshops kept the same display year after year, only removing an object when it was sold or redeemed and replacing it with another one. Faygie rearranged her wares constantly, carefully placing the stolen and pawned objects as if setting the stage for a new production. Now, in preparation for the holiday, she was bringing out all the scarlet knickknacks and vermillion tchotchkes from storage, arranging a single garnet brooch in a circle of cheap red glass beads, and propping a gaudy red leather prayer book in the arms of a red china devil figurine.