Independent by Means of Magic

Chapter 2

Chapter 2

Three days later, in a grand, countryside estate house a few miles away, a portly, middle-aged man collected the post from his private courier. He had taken this duty upon himself as a newly married man nearly twenty-five years ago. He saw no reason to change with adult children and a young fiancé soon to join him.

A man’s business was a man’s business, no matter who passed into and out of his life.

Wilfred Abernathy carefully placed the armful of letters, bundles, and packages on his gleaming mahogany desk. The huge desk sat in the middle of his study, surrounded by floor to ceiling shelves, some open, some locked and fronted with glass. Hundreds of books and dozens of treasures from home and abroad were tastefully arranged throughout the room.

He unbuttoned his restrictive top coat as he sat, swallowed his customary afternoon snifter full of fine apple brandy, and smoothed his fringe of gray hair.

The estate had been missing a woman’s touch for far too long now. Servants kept the grounds and house immaculate, of course, but only a lady of the manor could fulfill certain duties. Women delighted in dinner parties and social engagements, and even more in arranging beautiful things around the home. His first wife Maria had excelled at all of those things.

Another thing Maria had excelled at was producing strong, healthy children.

Three lovely daughters and four sturdy boys. Sadly for all of them, and for Wilfred too, of course, Maria had not survived her last pregnancy. Neither had the baby. Several highly recommended nannies had been unable to fill the void left by her passing, not the way a new wife would.

He hoped this young Victoria would be able to take so many things on, and as successfully.

Wilfred shook his head, realizing he’d been staring out the window, daydreaming of more sons to carry on his legacy. And of the most pleasant marital activity required to make them. He turned his attention to the package on top of the pile.

The light blue box, small enough to fit in the palm of his hand, came from an address he didn’t recognize. G. Smith, London. The pink ribbons parted under Wilfred’s post knife, and a card slipped out onto his desk. Warmest congratulations on your engagement. G.

Puzzled but more intrigued than he wanted to admit, he pulled the rest of the paper away and slid the knife under the top of the box. A tiny clockwork penguin stared back at him. Wilfred grunted and tipped it into his hand. He sat it on the desk for a moment, turning it from one side to the other. The means of operation was unclear, but he was certain it was supposed to do something.

He was about to call in his second son, fourteen years old and obsessed with all things clockwork, when he spotted a tiny switch hidden under the penguin’s left wing. He used the tip of the knife to depress the switch, then put the penguin down on his desk.

At first nothing seemed to happen, but before Wilfred could pick up the toy and start over, it hitched and shuddered into life. The wings flapped at its side, and the comical yellow feet moved it forward. The toy walked to and fro across the desk, moving in an odd, spiral pattern Wilfred felt he was almost able to grasp.

This mystery gift was charming no matter who had sent it.

Smiling, he leaned in closer to get a better look.

The penguin turned to face the man, and a tiny burst of steam floated out. Wilfred sat back in his chair and folded his hands across his middle.

Anyone watching would have seen his eyes roll back to white and wondered why he was muttering under his breath.

The clockwork toy was still the whole time, but it seemed to be staring at Wilfred. Something in the tiny, painted black eyes had transformed since he started it up. It never crossed his mind to make an effort to find out what.

In fact, Wilfred’s mind was incapable of being crossed.

After several minutes, the toy gradually bent forward, hinging at the division between its belly and legs. Finally it settled back and sat on the desktop, appearing for all the world to be in desperate need of a nap. Wilfred stared at it, then got to his feet. He called sharply to his head butler as he walked through to the front door of the house.

Cheryl Mallory.

He had to see Cheryl, the second nanny who’d tried to work with him and his children. She hadn’t left because of incompetence or theft or any of the other reasons that had turned this estate into a revolving door for help. Cheryl had been called back to care for her own elderly grandmother up in Highgate, London.

Wilfred had been fond of Cheryl, but only as fond as of his own sister.

He didn’t feel that way anymore.

Seeing her wavy blonde hair and soft green eyes was an imperative now, one he could not resist or deny. Seeing her young, fertile body sprawled across his bed, her skin flushed with pleasure, was suddenly more important to Wilfred than drawing his next breath.

The face of his fiancé, her name, and her father’s name had entirely left his mind, obliterated by the mad heat of his desire.

When he did remember them in a few weeks, the recollection would not be kind.

In a respectable, long-established home in Mayfair, far removed from the smoke and soot and foul smells of the lesser parts of London, a young, beautiful woman named Cheryl opened a tiny pale blue package.

A clockwork penguin peered up at her.