Queen's Menagerie: Crown and Country, #1

1

Upper Walsingham, East Angelía

Reign of Her Majesty, Queen Vittoria – 1887

Stop! Thief!

Mordecai Pope looked up from the missive in his hand as a pint-sized cutpurse ran away on nimble legs from the scene of his misdeed. Following the thief, with one hand holding her oversized hat in place and the other lifting her ample skirts, was a lady of fine style and breeding.

If she hadn’t been so ridiculously outpaced in her high-heeled boots and bouncing bustle, he might have laughed at the sight.

Without thought to personal injury or propriety, Mordecai took off in pursuit, cutting across late-afternoon carriage traffic as he made his way to the east-bound side of the boulevard.

Horses screeched in protest. Carriage drivers shouted obscenities. Chaos ensued as bystanders jumped out of the way or tried to stop him, unaware he pursued the culprit and not the lady.

Hands grabbed for him, trying to gain purchase on his coattails. They fell away without slowing him. The frustrated Samaritans yelled for the constables to intercede.

He let the insults and threats roll off his back as he gained speed on the cobbles.

Foot traffic at this particular time of day was generally heavy along Mint Row, the most prestigious avenue of shops and other businesses in Upper Walsingham. All it took was one thief with a little ambition and no sense to cause havoc in the streets. As evidenced by the commotion the thief, the lady, and Mordecai left in their wake.

A block ahead, he saw the woman stop and bend at the waist, holding her side.

He ran past her but didn’t bother to reassure her he’d catch the thief. He was too involved in the thrill of pursuit to utter the words.

The young man was fast—Mordecai would give him that. Not fast enough to outrun an animute. Even without allowing himself to turn into the four-footed entity that lived inside him, he naturally ran faster and jumped higher than the normals.

One young footpad, not far from manhood, was no match for one of the Queen’s own.

A fresh surge of adrenaline pumped through his veins, giving Mordecai an extra burst of speed. He was almost to the thief.

Threadbare clothes fluttered on the breeze. Feet black with dirt and only the Gods knew what else slapped over the uneven bricks of the sidewalk. The thick stink of fear and neglect filled Mordecai’s nose and mouth as it filtered back in the breeze the thief made.

They turned down an alley behind the shops. A large delivery wagon pulled up at the back of the confectioner’s. The young man came up short. Mordecai saw the disaster unfold as if the world and everyone in it had suddenly been plunged into thick molasses.

Just as the thief tripped and started to fall under the wagon’s rear wheels, Mordecai snatched him up and rolled in the opposite direction, careful not to crush the lad under his superior weight.

Animutes’ increased strength and ability to shift species gave them thicker, denser bones and heavier muscles. One fall in the wrong direction could injure or kill a child the thief’s size.

They rolled for a few turns, landing up against a rack of women’s frilly garments that tipped over and landed like silken treasure over them. The delivery men carrying the rack into the back of an exclusive ladies’ apparel shop were not amused.

Mordecai pulled a corset from his head and moved slowly to ensure the child was all right. He didn’t, however, let go of his quarry.

You’re gonna have to pay for those, mate. A rough-looking man with a bristly beard and brows like a brush bent over to start picking up the ruined garments off the ground.

Mordecai gave the man an annoyed expression. Send the bill to Headquarters.

The man’s eyes grew wide, and he gave a brisk nod. There was no mistaking the meaning of the word Headquarters. Not in all of East Angelía.

Mordecai turned the pint-sized thief to face him, making his expression as stern and unrelenting as possible. He’d faced down the Queen’s enemies across battlefields. One small, half-starved waif was no match for an agent of the Crown.

Large brown eyes stared into his, but instead of fear Mordecai saw only admiration.

Lords, I thought I was done for. He poked Mordecai in the chest a few times. You have on armor plating or somethin’ under your clothes?

Mordecai looked down to ensure his gold pocket watch remained in place. No. I assure you, I do not.

He stood and held the boy by the shabby collar. You are going to come with me, return the purse to the woman from whom you stole it, and apologize most humbly.

A mutinous expression covered the boy’s face. I would rather drink acid, if you don’t mind.

I can arrange that.

C’mon. I grabbed it fair and square. The boy hefted the purse in his palm, making the coins inside clink. A haul like this will feed me for a year. Might even give me a place to sleep besides whatever stable or warehouse I can break into of a night. It’ll sure beat the blazes off a cold alley.

A pinprick of conscience scored Mordecai’s heart. There were so many children in the city with the same horrible story. He wished he could save them all, but unfortunately, resources only went so far.

Still.

I will make you a deal...Mr., Mordecai paused and held up his hand, waiting for the boy to give his name.

Suspicion grew, darkening the thief’s eyes. I’d rather not give you my name, sir.

I can’t rightly make a deal with a stranger, can I?

The child shifted nervously from one foot to the next as if trying to determine if it was worth it to break free and bolt. His gaze wandered to passersby who hesitated long enough to stare at the two of them before hurrying away.

Finally, the lad looked up. John Smith.

Mordecai wasn’t fooled for a moment. Well then, Mr…ah…Smith, if you return the purse and apologize to the owner, I might be persuaded to find you some honest work.

Smith’s eyes narrowed. You aren’t putting me on now, are you?

Mordecai reached into his pocket and pulled out one of his calling cards then handed it to the child.

The lad took it, mouth moving silently as he read the words: Mordecai Pope, Special Attaché to Her Majesty’s Service.

The card was embossed in the royal warrant.

Smith looked up. You’re for real.

As real as it gets. He turned the boy and started walking back the way they had come.

Perfumed air teased his alpha senses as they walked by the chemist and the tobacconist. With a deep lungful of air, he could tell the exact flower or herb used in the varying concoctions. Also, how long the tobacco had set to dry and what other leaves were used to alter the flavor of the smoke.

A tiny knot of people stood in front of the tea shop. Over their heads, he could see a large feather wiggling from the top of an elaborate hat. There was no mistaking the dowager duchess for anyone else. Her fondness for all things avian was only one of her many endearing eccentricities.

He tightened his grip on Smith. Never tell me that you cut the purse from the dowager.

Smith gave him a horrified look and shook his head. Oh no, sir. She scares even me.

Mordecai choked down a laugh and continued on. The dowager was a very commanding presence, but to her friends and acquaintances, she was a truly virtuous and kindhearted woman.

The group shifted and Mordecai was treated to a sight that stirred his blood and took his breath. The woman who had tried in vain to catch Mr. Smith now stood beside the dowager with a look of consternation and annoyance on her face. Her gloved hands were knotted into fists at her sides. When she noticed Mordecai staring at her, she came forward.

Her gaze only stayed on him for a moment before transferring to Smith. You’ve caught him.

Saved him from getting run over by a dairy wagon that pulled up in front of the confectioner’s. He firmed his hold on Smith. Our deal, Mr. Smith.

The boy handed over the purse. I’m sorry, ma’am. But I wanted something to eat, and well, the vendors, they have mouths enough to feed and work hard for what they do make. I figured I’d steal from someone who had more than enough to share.

The dowager fanned her face with a huge feather-laced fan. Well, really.

The young woman glanced to the dowager before turning her attention back to Smith. My good man, you should never assume one has more than enough by the way they dress or carry themselves. I might have been a ward one step from the poorhouse myself, and you may have taken all the money I needed to pay the taxman. One theft short of destitution.

Mordecai heard Smith swallow.

I never thought of it that way, ma’am.

Hmm. She held her hands in front of her, fingers laced. You look a strong lad. Make a muscle for me.

Smith complied, shoving his shirt up his arm to show a scrawny bicep.

Think you can carry some packages for me?

Smith nodded.

Good. I have a lot more shopping to do today, and I need someone strong and able to carry them for me. At the end of the day, you’ll have a full day’s pay and a hot meal. Is that acceptable?

Oh, yes, ma’am.

Before Mordecai had wrangled an introduction or given Smith instructions on how to contact him, the lady and the thief walked off down the street, engaged in conversation.

The dowager moved up beside him, her fan fluttering. Lady Evangeline Murray, she said as she too watched the pair walk away. Don’t worry about the lad. He’s in good hands now.

As always, I bow to your judgment, Your Grace.

She closed her fan and hit him on the shoulder with it. How many times must I tell you to address me by my given name? To you I am Constance.

As many as it takes, Your Grace. Mordecai smiled as he continued to watch Lady Evangeline and young Smith walk down the street carrying on a constant chatter.

Evangeline Murray. He knew the name. Had heard it repeated in drawing rooms and men’s clubs. Somehow the reality of her did not quite fit the picture he’d conjured of her in his mind.

The infamous disappearance of her betrothed had made her turn her back on convention and forgo the yearlong mourning period. Instead, she honorably waited for his return from an expedition where there were reportedly no survivors. Mordecai never knew any of the particulars of why she chose to believe him missing and not dead, but the whispers were she had been entirely devoted to him. It was said that her betrothed was a man without peer. Judging from the forthright manner and proud tilt of her head, Lady Evangeline Murray wanted solid proof before she began her mourning period.

Will you be attending Lord Garrick’s ball on Friday?

Mordecai winced internally. A ball? A necessary evil while gathering information for Her Majesty. He’d never really liked or appreciated the need for crowded rooms, noisy people, and stifling temperatures. At best, such events were an exercise in his ability to restrain his inner beast. At worst, they were hot spots of madness.

He’d learned to tame his baser instincts in polite society. But it had come at a price.

He patted his pocket. A paper crinkled inside. Oh, hell. The missive from Headquarters.

Smoothing his hand over the paper, he turned to the dowager. I shall see you at Lord Garrick’s. He gave her a formal bow. Your Grace.

Mr. Pope.

He crossed the street to his awaiting carriage. To Headquarters, Higgins.

Higgins tugged the brim of his cap and waited for Mordecai to settle before he cracked the reins and the horses took off with a jerk of the carriage.

Mordecai sat back against the cushions and retrieved the missive from his pocket. It was a little worse for wear as he’d shoved it inside when he took off after young Smith.

The Lord Chamberlin wanted to see him at the earliest convenience. That was as good as a command performance. Who was the man trying to fool? As if Mordecai was going to send word that he had previous engagements that hindered him from attending the L.C.

All the polite requests had been lost on him when he’d first come to the Office of Defense as a candidate for Her Majesty’s service. Where he was raised there were no delicate words, only commands. Most of those were delivered with a healthy cuff on the ear to curb any willful disobedience.

Mordecai suppressed the memory and glanced out the carriage window. Who’d have thought a boy raised in such dank and depressing surroundings could ever be elevated to such a station simply by virtue of the odd blood that ran through his veins.

Until the day he’d first started his turning, he’d never heard of an animute. Mr. Grayson, the headmaster at the boys’ home where he’d lived, had never mentioned such a thing in any of their lessons. But he’d sure as all hells hurried to sell him off to the highest bidder once Mordecai’s secret had been revealed.

Being sold like so much cord wood was no life for a child.

And sold off into only the Gods knew what fate. Thank the heavens above the purchaser had been a kindly man who knew the ways of animutes and the limits of their powers. Farraday had also known quite a bit about how to make a successful living straddling the species divide.

Mordecai ran a hand over his chest, feeling the medallion he wore to indicate he was one of the few chosen as part of the Queen’s Menagerie.

The pendant gave him comfort, made him feel as if he belonged in a world that until Queen Vittoria’s reign had shunned his kind.

The carriage pulled up in front of a large white building complete with stout columns and a flight of stairs that were a challenge for those who were not at their physical peak. Mordecai thought the design was more to keep the public out. A not-so-secret entrance was located down a side street, though he’d never used it nor felt the need to. He enjoyed the fact his very nature allowed him to climb the steep incline without losing breath or breaking a sweat.

He started up the steps when a familiar scent caught the breeze a second before someone called his name.

Mordecai waited for Gideon Aldridge to catch up. The Lord Chamberlin?

Gideon gave a curt nod and pulled down his waistcoat. It makes me nervous when he summons me. I fear he’s to send me back to the continent.

Mordecai put a companionable hand on Gideon’s back as they climbed. Terrifying memories of that dark time stirred the air. Neither of them mentioned the continent much—what was the point? It had happened and they both bore the scars, though Gideon’s were much deeper. The marks scored his soul as they had his flesh.

If he tries to send you, I’ll volunteer to go in your place.

Gideon frowned. You’d do that?

To keep his best friend sane, he’d cross a lake of fire.

Mordecai gave a gallant shrug as if it was of no moment. I think a trip might be long overdue. At least for a matter of revenge, but it was hard to seek restitution from a phantom. The man responsible for Gideon’s imprisonment and torture had faded into obscurity, leaving no trail to follow.

They entered the building in silence. The hard soles of their shoes striking the marble floor were the only sound as they made their way through the warrens of the Menagerie Headquarters. The Lord Chamberlin’s office was located on the top floor of the building, overlooking the massive gardens of Canterbridge Square Park.

As Mordecai and Gideon entered the outer office, the Lord Chamberlin’s clerk looked up over his little half spectacles. Gentlemen, he said by way of greeting then rose to open the door for them. His lordship is waiting.

And it was never good to keep Lord Wexford—the Lord Chamberlin of the Menagerie— cooling his heels.

The inner sanctum, where Her Majesty’s secrets were kept and enemies vanquished, was bathed in warm afternoon sun as it poured in the large windows. Lord Wexford stood facing the view, his fingers shoved into the tiny pockets of his waistcoat.

Wexford was an imposing man. Round as a barrel and twice as rough. His craggy features were partially concealed by a rather impressive display of silver facial hair. He was not a man one wanted to anger or disappoint, though Gideon seemed to enjoy the sport of goading the L.C. on a regular basis.

I have rather distressing news. Lord Wexford did not turn from the window but continued to stare outward as if searching for the answer to some arcane problem in the blue skies and treetops. Airships floated by on their way to and from the skyport located just off the Taming River.

You might as well be seated. We’ve a lot to discuss and plans to make. I must report to the Queen on our progress.

Mordecai and Gideon exchanged glances and waited for Lord Wexford to come to the point. This could not be good. For such a busy and commanding presence, he believed in setting the stage before he revealed his reasons for a summons. The worse the assignment, the bigger the stage required.

Lord Wexford turned; his expression solemn. "Someone is abducting and killing animutes."

Gideon tensed beside him but otherwise didn’t react.

Mordecai sat forward. He’d not heard that rumor. Not even the first ripple of gossip. Who? Where? As inarticulate as he sounded, they were the only questions he could form at the moment.

Dunn. Morely. Carthers. Lamley. Lord Wexford ticked off the dead agents on his fingers as he spoke. Each one highly decorated and accomplished in the art of ferreting out spies and double agents who had infiltrated the royal court.

As to the where—right under our very noses. He moved to his desk and sat behind it. This close Mordecai noticed the pain in the Lord Chamberlain’s eyes. The deaths had hit him hard. The impact of the losses would definitely be felt throughout the ranks, both professionally and personally.

Now we only need to know the how, Gideon said.

Lord Wexford made a face of great distaste. Mutilated with surgical precision. Samples of internal organs were removed before the bodies were dumped like rubbish for the dustman to collect.

Gideon wiped his hand around his mouth. He’d gone a little pale. Any chance it was the same fiend who worked the continent?

"It’s a slim chance, Aldridge. The ones responsible for the atrocities on the continent were out to gain state secrets. These current attacks on your kind suggest they wish to uncover the secrets of your animute nature."

There is no secret. We were born this way, Gideon defended.

Lord Wexford patted the desk blotter. Those of us in power realize your value. We’d never think of you other than fine and decent men. But there are those out there who still hold to the old prejudices and believe the lies told by their ancestors.

Mordecai wanted to get the conversation back on track. If they were to find these killers, they had to stick to facts. Are there any other distinguishing features of the murders besides the precision and location of wounds?

Lord Wexford nodded and held Mordecai’s gaze. The victims were half-changed to their animal form when found. As if they’d attempted the transformation but were unsuccessful.

Mordecai couldn’t stand it a moment longer. Bile already rose to the back of his throat. He’d had to swallow it down more than once while Lord Wexford spoke. May we see the bodies? If you still have them.

Lord Wexford rose. I had hoped you’d offer.

The morgue that housed the dead agents’ remains was located in the lower levels of the building. Beneath the basement and sub-basement stood an annex where tall brass drums belched frigid air out into the room proper. A separate section housed the steam engines that contained the hydrogen plasma and palladium used to affect a chemical reaction to keep the morgue temperature stable and cold.

Mordecai shook off the chill and studied the bodies.

The corpses were lined up on tables, covered by gray sheets. Here and there, brown stains speckled the shrouds. Blood. Not a lot of it either, indicating the majority of it had been left at the scenes of their murders. Finding the bodies away from the actual scenes of the crimes would not answer a few key questions: were the agents left to bleed out or had the blood been siphoned off?

The thought was too chilling to contemplate for long.

Mordecai made fists at his sides. He gave a nod to the morgue attendant to pull back the sheet on the closest victim. The scent of death and slow decay clung to the fabric. A sickly sweet smell stirred the air as he uncovered the rest of the body.

Lamley.

Mordecai recognized him immediately. He’d never cared for the conceited braggart but had never wished him dead. Regardless of the personality faults, Lamley was a brilliant agent. Gifted in sensing trouble before it materialized made his murder all the more disturbing.

The evidence of Lamley’s partial turning wasn’t noticeable until the forearms, where dewclaws protruded from skin and long tufts of fur sprouted in shaggy disarray down to his hands.

The area of his left chest where his talis once identified him by animal cast now stood a gaping wound. Removed from his flesh by a blade so sharp the tattoo appeared to have been punched out by a cylindrical object.

But why remove the talis?

As trophy? As power symbol? It was hard to tell. The body presented very little information in its current state. Without blood, they could not test for chemical reactions to see if the agents were poisoned before being killed.

Mordecai leaned over and sniffed around Lamley’s nose and mouth. Oftentimes, poisons left trace scents behind that normals could not detect but were potent to animutes. If that were the case, then Lamley would have smelled it. Sensed it.

His gaze traveled to the hands that were forever locked in animal form. Lamley had been a gray wolf animute. If he hadn’t caught the scent of a lethal dose of drug, no one would have.

Pope, come here for a moment. Gideon stood at the back of the morgue, looking over another of the corpses. His face was pulled into a frown. Raven hair fell over his forehead in a thick lock.

Mordecai made his way over, expecting to see something particularly gruesome. There was nothing. What is it?

Do you recognize him?

Mordecai studied the face for a moment. He’d never met Carthers before so had no idea if the corpse was of that particular deceased agent or not. Is it Carthers?

No. Carthers was a slight man.

Mordecai looked at the man’s chest. "There’s no talis. Could he be unregistered?"

Lord Wexford never mentioned they’d brought in unregs. Gideon grabbed the dead man’s arm and a leg. Help me lift him. Maybe he had it placed on his shoulder.

Mordecai stood on the opposite side of the table while Gideon hefted the unidentified corpse up onto its side. He watched as the other agent searched the body from shoulder to buttocks.

I don’t see one.

And yet the man was indeed an animute. The silky ears and hooves where feet used to be suggested his animal cast was equine in nature. He recalled no horses in the Menagerie.

The agents as targets, he understood. They put themselves in the line of fire for Crown and country every day. They gained more enemies on a single mission than most people obtained in a lifetime.

An unregistered animute presented an entirely different and puzzling aspect to the case.

I wonder why Lord Wexford left this detail out of his briefing. Gideon gently rolled the corpse to its back. He looked down at the man. Poor bugger. He probably lived in fear of his caste all his life.

It never surprised Mordecai to learn that others had been raised as ignorant of the presence of animutes in society as he’d been. It was harder to believe in the cities, but not out in the surrounding environs where superstitions ran rife and old traditions were still honored. Out there, it was common to find individuals who made symbols of protection against those who could change to animal form.

It was neither curse nor demonic possession. It was a function of biology. A mystery that scientists worldwide sought to solve.

And yet …

He looked down at the corpses.

Tissue removed. Loss of blood.

Mordecai returned to one of the agents and forced open a jaw stiff from cold and rigor mortis. He inspected the teeth. There were a few missing. One area the gum was open and nerves dangled where a tooth had been recently pulled in a violent fashion.

"Our murderers weren’t completely surgical in their precision. It seems they had a much harder time with tooth extraction than with removing the talis."

Gideon bent to look into the dead agent’s mouth. I see what you mean. But why a tooth?

Mordecai studied the body for any more unusual marks. Some of the nature religions use teeth in their rituals.

Gideon looked skeptical. Yes. One of the Reavers’ spells claims it’s possible to raise the dead by collecting the canines. Believe me, I have great respect for the Reavers, but most of their beliefs are nothing more than campfire fairytales passed down through the generations as truths.

What is truth and what is fable? It’s all a matter of perspective. Mordecai returned to the unreg and bent over to sniff the body. There was something different present, something not found on Lamley. A distinct hint of river water. I wonder where this one was found.

Gideon called for the attendant, who had returned to his station near the door. The man shuffled over, his bushy moustache twitching while he waited for instruction or request.

Do you know where this corpse was found? Gideon pointed to the unidentified animute.

The attendant inspected the tag on the toe and then consulted his list. Bridge Row. Lord Vants’s estate. Washed up on the riverbank.

Has Lord Vants’s steward or another of his staff been here to identify the body? Did they do so when the body was found? Mordecai got down close to inspect the epidermis in minute detail.

You’ll have to ask the constable in charge at the scene.

Name? Gideon prompted.

Energy whirled in the air. Mordecai glanced up to ensure Gideon was still in control. His eyes had grown brighter, greener. He was slipping into a change.

The attendant glanced around nervously. He must have felt the tension in air. I … I’ll go find out.

When he’d gone and only the tapping sound of his shoes retreating on the stone floor remained, Mordecai caught Gideon’s gaze and held it. When you have the name, go and speak with the constable. I’ll finish up here.

Gideon’s nostrils flared. This sickens me. I just want to find the bastard responsible and sink my teeth into his throat and rip it out.

Mordecai knew the feeling. Intimately. There was something more sinister, more insidious to this case than the one that nearly killed Gideon.

Hand me my bag. I left it over by Lamley.

Give the man something to do and it might staunch the need to explode into a snarling mass of fangs and fur. Mordecai watched as Gideon stalked to the far side of the room.

This case cut too close to the bone. Exposed too many raw emotions.

He returned to his examination, pushing the unwanted thoughts to the back of his mind. Facts. They must concentrate on the facts and not get caught up in memories of things they couldn’t change.

Gideon returned and set the black bag on the floor. Mordecai unlatched the top and reached inside, pulling out a pair of magnicles—specially designed spectacles that not only magnified but also used mirrors to direct light in poorly illuminated rooms.

He curled the stems around his ears and adjusted the spring for better magnification. Since he didn’t know what he looked for, he didn’t want to miss anything. Sometimes the smallest of evidence yielded the greatest results.

Starting at the victim’s head, he moved down slowly, inspecting the skin for hairs or other debris left behind. For being found washed up on the riverbank the body was surprisingly free of mud and muck, save the hair. That looked as if he’d been used to dredge the river bottom.

It was a poor end you met, my friend. He studied the neck and chest area then moved to the arms. On the left, inside the bend of the elbow, two small-gauge puncture marks were nearly hidden by a skin crease and dirt.

He retrieved a small atomizer of water from his bag and misted the area.

Did you find something? Gideon bent close.

Punctures. Symmetrical, but not spaced nor inflamed as if they were caused from bites.

I can barely see them. Gideon turned the arm to face the dim light from the gas lamps. Definitely not from transfusion. The bore is too small.

It’s possible he was an addict. Mordecai thought that explanation too easy, though. Most opium addicts took their hits via flavored smoke or as a tonic. Very few, in his experience, used syringes.

He had seen a rather barbaric contraption at a drug den they’d raided during a case the previous year. Clockwork gears and a water column compressed the barrel of a syringe to deliver a load of a drug without the user actively participating.

Mordecai had wondered at the time about the desperate soul who invented that heinous killing device. As long as a man felt pain, he would try to find ways to dull the senses. Is that what this poor bloody bastard had tried: to dull the effects of being born an animute?

Not all those who carried the gift for transformation integrated well with their powers at puberty. Some did try to escape the animalistic tendencies through death. And if not for Farraday, Mordecai might have chosen that path as well.

He slipped the magnicles off his face, folded the earpieces, and placed the delicate device back into his bag.

The attendant returned from the office. The constable who found the body was a James Reedy. Works out of the North Downs branch.

Gideon thanked him and headed for the door.

Let me know if you find anything interesting.

Gideon waved his hand to show he’d heard. His steps never slowed, nor did he turn and look over his shoulder.

Mordecai nodded to the attendant and left the morgue.

He needed more information and knew only one place to start: the river.

2

Evangeline Murray studied the ratty boy as he tried to balance her packages in his spindly arms. Any moment and the tower of boxes would turn into a bad juggling act. The boy’s face was drawn into lines of perfect concentration. His tongue protruded from between his lips, sticking out to the side.

He needed a hot meal.

A bath and a place to sleep.

Her heart ached when she imagined what he’d been through.

Where to now, ma’am?

To the coach. I promised you a meal and I mean for you to collect.

His face lit, and he looked away as if to hide the naked want. If you say.

She walked in front of him, guiding the way to the corner where she’d parked the locomotion coach. At least that was what her father called it. He’d taken an old carriage and added a few gears and a double-boiler. The design was along the lines of the tread carriages used by various warehouses and suppliers, delivery services, and now more frequently public transportation over the city. Instead of the telegraph-line conducted guidance used by the tread carriages, the locomotion coach had a bar that allowed her to steer the vehicle in the direction she wished to go.

Granted, the horses from passing carriages didn’t always appreciate the noise produced by the steam engine or the clacking of the gears that turned the wheels. But it was infinitely more independent than using a driver to convey her around town.

She stopped in front of the locomotion coach. You can store the packages in the boot.

The lad didn’t move. A glance to his face showed nothing but pure excitement and admiration. This is your carriage?

It belongs to my father. She unlatched the door and started into the cab. Now go and put away the packages. Quickly.

She climbed into the driver’s seat and waited. There were a couple of bangs, a crash, and then a muffled expletive before he completed his task.

His face appeared in the window. Where do I sit?

In here with me.

The lad took a place beside her and closed the door. With a bubbling burp, the screech of metal gears, and the whirl of belts, the engine came to life.

The entire vehicle shook as it began a forward crawl. She pulled a lever and the front panel slid down, giving her an unobstructed view of the street. Mirrors positioned at key points reflected scenes back into the cab to provide a three-hundred-and-sixty-degree view of the outside.

It took a few moments to get up to speed as the steam engine pumped heat and pushed pressure into the servo motor.

Evangeline didn’t necessarily understand all the mechanisms for propulsion, but her father had gone over the diagrams with her in his glowing enthusiasm enough so that she had memorized at least the flow and function of the energy and parts.

Unfortunately, the engine was a lot louder than the clack of horses’ hooves. She’d have to shout to be heard. That was no way to carry on a conversation, yet she wanted at least one thing straightened out before they got to the Tower.

Smith isn’t your real name, is it?

He gave her a surreptitious glance. Sams. Jonas Sams.

Evangeline nodded in approval. Where are your parents?

Don’t have none, ma’am. They died a long time ago. Both my mom and sister died when she was born. My da had his neck broke by a shylock when I was five.

Good heavens.

I was thrown into the boys’ home and got thrown out again when I turned twelve.

Visions of all manner of offenses sprang to mind. Why were you thrown out?

Jonas turned to her as if she was the first wonder of the known world. ’Cause that’s the age they turn ever’body loose.

Criminal. That’s what it was. A boy of twelve needed guidance and direction. Did they not find positions and situations for them before opening the doors and tossing them to the street?

I see. She pulled the handbrake as they came to a cross street and a tread carriage bore down on them. We’ll discuss this over dinner. After your bath.

Jonas was no longer listening. His head swung