Of Steel and Steam: A Limited Edition Anthology

by Pauline Creeden

  “I peeked over the hieroglyphs quickly, though, and there’s something strange about it.” Maximillian pushed his glasses further up his nose, and removed the protective glass from the stand. He carefully removed the first scroll, showing me the one hidden underneath. “I have to admit that my knowledge on hieroglyphs is rather basic at best, but something about these markings tells me that this scroll doesn’t give away the location to the burial place of Amenhotep III.”

  I stared at the Necronomicon, my breath gasping in my throat.

  A black, upside-down pyramid was drawn on the second page, and the symbols next to it were a mix of hieroglyphs and ancient Sumerian, the language the Egyptians based their own writing system and symbolism on. I saw the hieroglyphic symbol for a mummy—a person lying down—but strangely enough, no drawing of a bird symbolizing a king.

  There was, however, a symbol of a snake coiling its tail: the hieroglyph for a queen.

  “A queen.” I pointed at the snake symbol.

  “Exactly. I didn’t notice it at first, because my attention was focused on that black monstrosity,” Maximillian said, obviously indicating the upside-down pyramid, “but then I saw that there’s no mention of a king anywhere on this scroll.”

  “So, this Book of the Dead provides locations to the burial place of a yet unnamed Queen…” I paused, the cogs in my head turning as I tried to figure out if I should spurge on the Necronomicon or not. Finding the tomb would no doubt provide me with riches, if it hadn’t been raided yet over the last several thousands of years. On the other hand, I was a bit rusty on my Sumerian, and I wasn’t even sure yet if the scribbles contained instructions to find the tomb at all.

  Besides, the upside-down pyramid was strange too, and it made me wonder if the Book was even real. Not that Maximillian might try to trick me, but he himself could’ve been tricked.

  “Hm.” I couldn’t decide, and a book like this would come with a hefty price tag that I couldn’t enforce now anyway. I decided to wait until I got my payment from Dr. Moore, and depending on how well that turned out, I could still make up my mind.

  “I’ll check my research to see if this can fit in anywhere,” I told Maximillian while he put the glass back on. “If it does, I’ll gladly buy it from you.”

  He probably realized too that with ‘research’, I actually meant ‘budget’, because he nodded understandingly and said, “Funds are tight for most of us, and I paid quite a lot for it myself. I can’t sell it for an apple and an egg. I have to admit that I couldn’t pay the seller enough to purchase the whole package: there are two other scrolls in this set as well.” He sounded apologetic about it, but if anyone understood lack of funds, then it was yours truly.

  “Don’t worry, I get it,” I tried to reassure him. “It’s an interesting find.”

  “First Necronomicon I’ve come across in my career,” he told me while we walked back to the counter. “And I just feel there’s something exciting about it. Call it a sixth sense.” He moved behind the counter. “Anyway, I won’t contact any of my regulars about it just yet. Give you some time to get back to me first.”

  I felt my smile growing wider. “Thanks.”

  An awkward silence lingered between us for a few seconds, and then I barked out a nervous laugh. “Anyway, we ought to go. I promised Mac I’d stop by the fish market to buy him some tuna.”

  “Ah, I see. You’re a lucky cat, you know that?” Maximillian said while patting Mac on the head. “Oh, wait, before I forget, someone came to look for you.”

  His words didn’t register at first, but when the realization settled in, the blood drained from my skin. “What do you mean?”

  “Someone came in and asked if I knew anyone by the name of Arabella Blake. A middle-aged man, mustache, black hair, never saw him before. He was impeccably dressed, had one of those fancy pocket watches that he kept checking. I wasn’t sure what I should tell him or not, so I stayed rather vague, said I might have seen you around but I couldn’t say for sure.”

  Maximillian studied the expressions on my face. His voice sounded worried when he said, “Did I say too much? Arabella, are you in trouble?”

  “No, no.” I shook my head. “I just… I have no idea why anyone would be looking for me. Next time someone comes knocking, just tell them you’ve never seen me before, okay?”

  Before Maximillian had time to say anything, I grabbed Mac from the counter and twirled around. “I’ll see you later.” I hated how much my voice trembled while I dashed out of the shop, hugging Mac against my chest.

  Maximillian yelled something after me, but I already slammed the door shut.

  “What’s wrong?” Mac asked, scanning our surroundings. “Why are you running?”

  I realized I had already crossed half a block in the wrong direction. Taking a deep breath, I stopped and put Mac down. “Sorry.”

  “What’s got you so spooked? So, someone came in and asked Maximillian about you. What’s the big deal? You’re finally starting to get a reputation. Maybe this guy had a proposal for you to dig around some graves, find some lost family treasure.”

  “How? It’s not like I leave calling cards around. I work with a few regular purchasers only, and that’s it.”

  “Maybe they recommended you to someone else. It’s nothing to get upset about.”

  “But the description…”

  The memory flashed in front of my eyes, as clear and vivid as if I had lived through it yesterday instead of several years ago. A black-haired, middle-aged man with a mustache, and a pocket watch that was probably supposed to make him look sophisticated. The man who came to our house the day before my father died, whose visit rattled my father so much that he began packing everything he could and sent me away to friends of his.

  Was it a coincidence that this man’s description matched the man I had let into our house that day?

  When he came knocking, I was the one who had opened the door. I had asked him to come in while I called for Father, had allowed him to wait in our parlor. Then, the moment Father had come in and saw the man, he had turned as white as three-day-old corpse. I should’ve known right then and there that something was off, but I only figured it out when it was too late.

  Mac seemed to catch on to my worries. “Arabella, there’s bound to be more than one man in the whole of London who is obsessed with a pocket watch and sports a moustache. I mean, look around.”

  He gestured his head at the busy street around us, where people were walking up and down and hurrying in and out of shops. At least half the men had a moustache, and about as many of them wore suits allowing for a pocket watch.

  “Don’t get yourself riled up,” Mac told me. “It’s not the same guy, I’m sure. And even if an unsavory type is looking for you, it’s not like Maximillian could divulge your actual whereabouts. He has no clue where we live.”

  That was true again, but if the man had already tracked me down to one of my haunts…

  It was like being chased by a phantom without having an inkling of an idea as to why.

  “Come on.” Mac nudged me to start moving. “Let’s head to the market. You promised me tuna, remember?”

  I gave the feline a shaky smile and followed after him. He was probably right and I was overreacting but still, I couldn’t help but feel as if the past was right on my heels, and about to catch up with me.

  Chapter 5

  After strolling around the market for a few hours, Mac and I headed back home. Mac licked his lips, pleased with the delicacies he had managed to devour; the rascal had persuaded me to buy him a variety of fresh fish species: salmon, tuna, codfish. His constant babbling had temporarily diverted my thoughts from the person who had come looking for me at Maximillian’s bookshop. Odds were Mac was right and it was simply someone who had heard about me through the grapevine and wanted my help recovering some lost family treasure.

  The other option was unthinkable. I had Father’s notes, but I hadn’t made much progress on them—not for lack of tryi
ng, though. If the people from Father’s past came back to haunt me now, there were no answers I could give them.

  I had almost managed to shove the anxiety to the back of my mind when Mac and I snuck through the boarded-up door leading to the monastery. The sun was high in the sky, indicating it was halfway through the afternoon. Dr. Moore would’ve responded by now, and then I could go claim my money and get rid of those archbishop’s knickknacks once and for all.

  “Hm.” Mac stopped walking and looked at a patch of grass. “That’s new.”

  I turned to where he was pointing at, a cold finger running up and down my spine. The grass had been trampled, right off the path leading to the buildings. I was always careful to stay on the cobblestone path, and I was sure neither Mac nor I had caused this.

  Besides, it didn’t look like footprints. Bending my knees, I let my hand glide over the grass, trying to make out a possible footprint after all.

  “It looks more like wheels,” I said, furrowing my brow. Why would there be tracks here?

  “Some kids trying to break in, riding those fancy new bicycles?” Mac asked. “I think they look ridiculous, with those gigantic wheels up front and miniscule wheels in the back.”

  “It would be very impracticable to get through the entryway with one of those.”

  “I’ve seen people do impracticable things all the time,” Mac said. “Anyway, it’s probably nothing. I don’t hear anything now.”

  “Okay.” It didn’t feel like nothing. In fact, it felt pretty significant: tracks in the grass, strange noises in the night… It felt like a bunch of different clues that would all make sense if only I could tie them together somehow.

  “Let’s see what Moore says.” Mac was already running along. “Come on.”

  Normally, Mac liked getting to the bottom of things as much as I did, so that he was now pressing to forget about this and get inside, worried me also.

  Still, maybe I was reading too much into it. Maybe some kids had dropped by for the famous ghosts, or a painter had sat down here to make a painting of the dilapidated building, and I had completely misinterpreted the trampled grass. Some people, myself included, found beauty in abandonment, and the artist could’ve sat here for hours on a stool…

  Yes, that must be it, I told myself while I chased after Mac. There was a perfectly rational explanation for all this, and I was just getting wound up over nothing.

  The pigeon was waiting for me on my desk. I opened up her beak, and rolled the letter open that had been sent back by Dr. Moore.

  Dear Miss Blake,

  I am overjoyed to hear from you about your latest discovery, which has definitely piqued my interest. I would be delighted to purchase these from you, after inspection.

  Please join me at my mansion tonight at 6 p.m. There shall be dinner with some other guests who will no doubt appreciate your line of work as well, and afterwards, we can discuss business.

  Yours truly,

  Dr. Richard Moore.

  I let out a string of curse words that would make a sailor proud while crunching the letter in my hand.

  “What’s wrong?” Mac jumped on the desk, following me with his gaze.

  “Moore invited us to dinner.” I turned around, leaning against the desk. Going to a fancy dinner party was about the last thing on my wish list, ever. Father had hosted a bunch of those back in the day, more out of duty than out of enjoyment—a proper gentleman had no choice but to entertain guests every now and then—so I had a decent grasp of etiquette, but I didn’t feel like being gawked at.

  No doubt Dr. Moore had invited guests who would be most interested in a female tomb raider: someone to stare at, like a monkey in a zoo.

  “Dinner?” Mac’s ears shot up. “Sounds good.”

  “You just ate half the market,” I snapped at him. “Besides, that’s not good. I just want to sell these miters and get it over and done with, not waste my time on idle chitchat with posh ladies who otherwise don’t give us the time of the day.”

  “Hm. Is there a way to decline?”

  I sighed, staring at the letter still crunched up in my hand. Part of me wanted to decline; I didn’t want to be another curiosity for Moore to introduce to his friends, in the same way he would no doubt show them the miters, chains and rings, or the myriad of other items he’d purchased from me over the years. On the other hand, he was a loyal customer. I didn’t have to worry he would try to steal from me or backstab me, and those kinds of customers were invaluable.

  “No, I guess not,” I reluctantly admitted. “We’ll have no choice but to go.”

  “Maybe it won’t be that bad,” Mac said, obviously trying to cheer me up. “I’ll entertain them with witty stories about my life. A talking cat, they’ll love that.”

  “And have an old, lonely heiress try to buy you from me?” I arched an eyebrow.

  “Hey, I’m not for sale!” Mac’s tail veered up, displeased at the thought.

  “They will think you are. To those people, everything is for sale, and everyone.”

  I moved away from the desk, dragging myself toward the bathroom. “Come on, we better get ready. We don’t have that much time left, and we’ll probably need to take a coach from here to Dr. Moore’s estate.”

  “Good.” Mac jumped on the floor, and then stretched his front paws. “I’m not in the mood for another long walk.”

  Neither was I, but walking was free and a coach cost money. Nevertheless, I didn’t want to bother Mac with our money troubles, not now. We were so close to getting new funds anyway, as soon as Dr. Moore paid up.

  “I’ll lounge here while you get ready,” Mac said while he lay down in front of the clock, bathing in the sunlight. “Oh, and do something about that hair of yours. If we’re going to dine with respectable company, you shouldn’t have a bird’s nest on your head.”

  I gaped at the cat, flabbergasted, but Mac ignored me, licking his paws as if he hadn’t just insulted me.

  Resisting the urge to insult him back, I hauled myself toward the bathroom. One look in the mirror made me cringe and reluctantly forced me admit Mac was right: my hair did look like a bird had nested in it.

  Mac and I were traveling in a coach toward Dr. Moore’s mansion, on the outskirts of the city. After spending about an hour trying to comb my hair and putting on the only dress I owned, I had little time left for anything besides grabbing the backpack with treasure, and hurrying off.

  The dress had once belonged to my mother. It was her favorite, but over the years, tucked away in the corner of my closet, it had turned into an orphanage for moths, and it smelled moldy too. Still, I guessed it was better than my usual attire of practical pants, corset and blouse. This dress too came with a corset, and Mac had pulled it so tight I could scarcely breathe.

  The burgundy red dress matched well with the interior of the coach, and was decorated with black trims on the sleeves and bottom. If I inhaled deep enough, the dress still carried a faint whiff of mother’s perfume, but that was probably my imagination running tricks on me.

  The carriage hobbled onto the pathway toward Dr. Moore’s house, stopping in front of the impressive wrought-iron gates. A guard walked toward the driver, they exchanged a few words, and then the guard walked up to me. The coach’s window was open, and I handed the guard my note with the invitation from Dr. Moore.

  Without further ado, the guard opened the gate so we could pass through. A driveway of at least five hundred meters long stretched out in front of us. I wondered about the amount of gardeners required to keep the acres of land in top-notch shape.

  My hands trembled a little, and my heart hammered in my chest.

  Mac, on the other hand, seemed as fine as ever, the epitome of relaxation. I doubted the cat ever worried about anything besides food.

  The carriage halted in front of the enormous two-story mansion counting twenty windows on the ground floor alone. Five curved steps led to a grand entrance with double-doors tall enough to let a giant through. Valets flanked the d
oor, and one of them opened the carriage door, holding out a hand for me.

  I felt as tiny as Thumbelina in the fairytale while I crossed the steps and headed to the entrance, helped by the valet. Mac bumped into me a few times, no doubt on purpose, trying to remind me that he was still here and had my back no matter what.

  A black-clad butler opened the entrance door, and gestured for me to go inside. The parlor was magnificent: marble encrusted the walls and floors, statues of Roman heroes were placed throughout the room, and an enormous painting by Leonardo Da Vinci decorated the wall on the far left. A staircase fit for a queen led to the second floor, its marble tiles shining so brightly they hurt my eyes.

  “Please wait here, Miss Blake.” The butler gestured at a lounge chair I could sit on. “Dr. Moore will be with you in a minute.”

  As I sat in the parlor, I felt small, insignificant, a mouse caught under an elephant’s paw. The decoration in this room alone cost more than I had earned in my entire life. Suddenly, my dress felt too big and old-fashioned, and I was a fool for even coming here.

  I struggled to get up, nearly tripping over the hem of my dress, and was about to walk back out, when the doors at the other end of the room jumped open and Dr. Moore appeared.

  Dr. Moore was in his late sixties or early seventies, smartly dressed, his grey hair kept short and trimmed. He had a full beard, glasses, and looked every bit the part of a retired professor.

  “Miss Blake,” he said, a smile appearing on his features. “I’m so glad to hear you could come.”

  “Oh, uhm…” I didn’t know what to say, but Dr. Moore grabbed my hand and shook it enthusiastically.

  “The others are already waiting for you before we can start dinner.” Dr. Moore linked my arm through his and began escorting me toward the dining room. “I’m most intrigued by your discovery, Miss Blake. I have to admit, I always thought the hidden archbishop vault was something of a myth, but to hear it is real!”