Mission: Nutcracker

Chapter 11

11

Terminus, 18 December 1871

The farther away Fiona got from the scene of her almost-rape, the more she trembled, the images from the ball intruding and imposing themselves on the memories of the afternoon’s experiences. When she arrived home, Fiona paused at the side door and took a few deep breaths, seeking comfort in the familiarity. She would be safe there, right? She wanted to go to her mother, but she knew the consequences if Margie found out what had happened.

She opened the door as quietly as she could and tried to sneak upstairs, but she heard the dreaded sniff followed by, “Fi-OH-na!”

"Yes, Mother?"

Margie sat on her chair in front of the fire. “Oh, you were out? Tessa said you were napping.”

“I couldn’t sleep, so I popped over to see Lucy and Posey. They and Mrs. Lillet send their regards.”

“Good, same to them.” She leaned forward, and Fiona knew her mother had other things on her mind. “How did your meeting with Mister Meriweather go? He certainly is handsome, isn’t he?” Her eyes glowed with hope.

She wanted to ask if her mother even saw her as a person, but instead, with a sigh, she said, “It went well. We discussed how to find Father and the other tinkerers who have gone missing.”

Margie drew back. “Why did you do that, you silly girl? You can’t show a man how smart you are. You’ll drive him away if he thinks you’re trying to make him feel like he’s less intelligent than you.”

Not the men Fiona was interested in, but she knew that line of conversation wouldn’t get her anywhere. She decided to throw her mother a bone. Well, a sliver.

“We’ll be meeting again to discuss our findings.” At least she hoped they would. They hadn’t exactly set a meeting time or place, just promised to be in touch, but that was close enough. She wondered if he’d had any luck with Jim Blair.

A knock on the door made Fiona jump and her mother still. Did the same recollection jump to her mother’s mind—the knock when the army sergeant, a young man the same age as Connor, had come to give them the news? Connor had been killed in one of the final major battles of the war before both sides had retreated to their respective fronts and the entire war into the stalemate. How many knocks had happened after the final battle?

Tessa answered the door and appeared in the parlor. “It’s the sheriff,” she said and twisted her cap in her hands. “He says he has some questions for Miss Fiona about—”

“Yes, about the infernal ball,” Margie finished with a sniff. “I know, I’ve heard enough about it.”

“No, ma’am,” Tessa said, then gave Fiona a regretful look. “About something that happened this afternoon.”

Fiona’s stomach clenched, and she went cold from the inside out. Her hand went to her pocket where she’d kept the zap gun. Anyone in the Tinkerer’s Guild would have been able to point to her as the owner and inventor of the device.

“She’ll see him in here,” Margie said. “With me present.”

“Yes, ma’am.” Tessa curtsied and dashed out, soon to return followed by Blair. He carried something wrapped in brown paper, and Fiona feared it was the correct size for her zap gun. Was it covered in the man’s blood? Or, worst horror, was she? She glanced down at her skirts to see if any incriminating red stained the hem, but thankfully—for once—the only spots and smears came from what one would expect for a muddy street in the middle of winter in Terminus.

“Afternoon, Missus Telfair. Miss Telfair.” Blair took his hat off. His balding head reflected the watery sunlight.

“Good afternoon, Sheriff Blair,” Margie said and held out a hand. “Please forgive me, but I’m too distraught over the disappearance of my husband to stand. My knees simply won’t have it. Please tell me you’ve made some progress in finding him and the others.”

Blair wiped his head with a white handkerchief that had seen cleaner days. “No, ma’am, but it’s still early. My best men are on it. In fact, they’ve found a suspect in an alley near the airfields.”

“Oh, thank goodness!” Margie clasped her hands. “I’m sure he will give you all the information you need.”

Blair shook his head. “Can’t get information from a dead man, ma’am.” He looked at Fiona. “That’s what I need to talk to your daughter about.”

“What in the world would my Fiona have to do with a dead kidnapper?”

Fiona had to give her mother credit—she played the incredulous woman perfectly. She tended to forget that her mother had been an actress before she’d married Fiona’s father. The thought of her father made Fiona’s chest tighten.

“Well, that’s what I’m hoping she’ll be able to tell me,” Blair drawled. He unwrapped the package he held. “Does this look familiar?”

It was Fiona’s zap gun. The wires had been wrapped around it, not drawn back into it, and the grime they’d lain in made reddish-brown streaks on the paper. The metallic smell of blood wafted through the air, and Fiona fought to not gag as the sense of danger—and indignation—returned. She wanted to tell Blair off. How dare he come in here and confront her like some criminal when she’d only been defending her virtue? Oh, and by the way, when she’d gotten closer to catching one of the kidnappers than Blair and his incompetent men.

But she didn’t get the chance to speak. Margie leaned over, wrinkled her nose, and said, “Yes, that’s Fiona’s, but she told me she lost it last week. Didn’t you, darling?”

Fiona didn’t have to force the tears out. She was so shocked, they immediately came to her eyes. “I was so upset to have lost it,” she said, which wasn’t a lie, since she had been.

Margie nodded, encouraging Fiona in her sin of omission. She’d have to add that to her confession list. Both of them would.

“It’s one of my favorite devices,” Fiona told Blair and wiped her cheeks with her hands as more tears slid out. “I had been working to perfect it. You see, it doesn’t do much for defense other than shock the attacker rather than actually harming them.” For that, someone would need a pistol like the woman in uniform had had.

Blair sighed and wrapped it back up. “Well, it’s covered in filth, so I’ll just take it with me and dispose of it for you.”

“If you’re interested in the design, we’ll sell the rights to the department once Bryan has returned.” Margie gave Fiona a shrewd glance that stifled Fiona’s objection, which teetered at the edge of her tongue.

“I’ll consider that, Ma’am. Thank you.”

“It would be a good way for women to defend themselves. The streets aren’t safe with all the newcomers, you know.” Margie looked to the left and right as though criminals lurked in the corners of the parlor, waiting to pounce. “Especially all those Yankees coming down seeking opportunity, vultures circling our phoenix trying to rise from the ashes of the war.”

Fiona was pretty sure a phoenix could take out a few vultures, but she again decided to hold her tongue, as difficult as that was. She could only stand there and watch, incredulous, as her mother charmed Blair into leaving before he’d had any tea. Which was a good thing since they didn’t have much left, having given Devon Meriweather most of the leaves during his visit. Fiona had enjoyed her cup of mostly strong tea, or at least stronger than the tea-water they’d been drinking.

Once Blair had been shown out, Margie turned to Fiona.

Uh oh, here it comes.

Sure enough, Margie narrowed her eyes, put her hands on her hips, and fixed Fiona with the stare Fiona had come to associate with a tongue lashing. She cringed.

“I don’t know what you’re up to, young lady, but whatever it is, it has to stop. The police have enough on their plate without you going and messing things up.”

“Do you think I killed someone?” Fiona asked, horrified that her mother was more concerned for what Fiona had done than for the dead man.

“Of course not. You’re not a killer. Anyone who looks at you can see that. But you have to be more careful with your toys.”

“Toys? That’s a legitimate weapon.”

“That can only shock people.” Margie huffed. “Your father was so proud of you for inventing it, but he assured me you wouldn’t be able to truly harm anyone. That it was just to stun so you could run away.” Then she paused as though an idea had hit her. “You are all right, aren’t you? Did that man hurt you?”

Fiona took a deep breath. “No, but thank you for asking. I was able to get away.”

“Good, so your device worked. Something else must have killed him.”

She waved a hand, and Fiona marveled at how her mother could hang on tightly to her own version of reality, the one where there was no room for her daughter to seriously hurt anyone. Fiona didn’t want to hurt people, but perversely she wanted her mother to appreciate that she could pose a threat if she wanted to.

“Wait—who was chaperoning you?” Margie asked and glared between Fiona and Tessa, who rushed to straighten up some cushions. Tessa sent Fiona a frightened look.

Fiona swallowed. “No one.”

“No one? Do you not care about your reputation? Our reputation? That’s it.” Margie stood and stomped her foot, an affectation that had held over from when she needed to make a point on the stage. “You will not be allowed to leave the house without an escort whom I approve of. And Tessa has enough to do.”

Fiona sank to the chair beside her. “But then how can I manage to find Papa? You know the police aren’t capable of it.”

Margie again dismissed Fiona’s concerns with a wave.

“The police are working on it, dear.”

“Like they worked on Connor’s death,” Fiona muttered.

Margie’s slap came so quickly that Fiona couldn’t duck.

“Don’t say that. He was killed in battle.”

“Right.” Fiona stood and rubbed her cheek. “He was killed in battle,” She repeated dully, the family’s mantra that protected her perfect brother’s reputation from sullying. She moved toward the door.

“Where are you going?”

“To my room. Like a good child. Don’t worry, I don’t expect any supper.”

Margie winced, and guild twinged in Fiona’s gut. They didn’t have much to eat, anyway. Perhaps the gnawing in her stomach would keep her from being too upset about her father and the progress—or lack thereof—that the police seemed to be making.

She trudged up to her room, and there again stood the small nutcracker doll.

“Not today, you little…” Once again, insults failed Fiona. But she didn’t faint. She picked up the doll, and her hand tingled like it had when her father had shown her an experiment with static electricity. She set the nutcracker down and watched it for a few minutes, but when it didn’t do anything, she examined it, ignoring the strange feeling in her hands.

Although money was scarce, including for lamp oil, she lit her lamp and let out the wick as far as it would go to make the room as bright as possible. She took the doll to her small workbench, which her father had insisted she have in her room over her mother’s objections. Fiona didn’t care, and neither did her father.

“Oh, Papa,” she whispered and put the doll down so she could wipe the tears that had leaked from her eyes again. “Where are you? Are you safe? Why did they take you?” She turned back to the doll. “And why did someone leave this?” Had it been the man she’d followed? Had he been following her? The thought sent a cold shiver, like a raindrop in one’s collar, down her spine. She needed to be more aware of her surroundings, a familiar self-scold. But why would he? Were they rounding up people who had somehow escaped from the party? To do what, give them dolls?

She shook her head. None of it made sense, but she dreaded to think what someone could do with all the brainpower and creativity they now had at their disposal. And since the man in the white pants had been a man and not a machine, she now questioned her memory of the ones she’d seen at the party. They hadn’t moved like machines, as she’d told Devon. Now that she’d seen one, she was convinced that they had been men in masks whose clothing had been coated with some sort of reflective material to make them stiff and seem like painted wood.

She turned the doll over. Aside from the glowing eyes, she found it to be a rather normal nutcracker doll, designed more for decoration than for cracking nuts. No little warrior here as in the legend. Not that she feared it would battle any mice or whisk her away to a magical place made of candy.

Candy. Her stomach growled. What were they to do about food? She hated to do it, but she would have to ask Lucy Lillet if she could sneak her some from their pantry. Fiona wished she were more practical, or her mother more industrious, to have canned and put away some of the food from their summer garden. Not that they’d gotten much from it. It had been a rainy summer, and many of their vegetables had rotted or split.

Back to the doll. She grabbed her smallest screwdriver and unscrewed the tiny fastenings, then pried the thing apart to find a minuscule aether stabilizing and frequency system inside. A magnet battery powered a wheel that didn’t seem to do anything to the glass globe that contained stabilized aether. Ah, right, the little magnet fed a frequency to the aether with the speed of the spinning. Ingenious, really.

When Fiona stopped the magnet, the aether turned from golden to its typical opalescent color, and she could barely make out its ouroboros shape, a tiny opal snake biting its own tail and writhing. But what was the purpose of the aether other than to make the little man have creepy glowing eyes?

She shook her head again. She’d reassemble it in the morning, but she wished she’d thought to count the frequency of the turns before stopping the magnet battery’s wheel. Oh, well—it had been turning too fast for her to see. She’d try to see if she could get it to spin at the proper frequency to make the aether peach-gold again. There was something about that frequency, but she couldn’t remember what. Her father had the paper.

She continued to think about the puzzle as she undressed, hung her dress up for Tessa to try to clean in the morning, and went to bed. She darted under the covers as soon as she’d put on her nightdress due to the chill in the air.

She didn’t think she would, but she fell asleep right away and dreamed that she was a mouse racing around and exploring her room from an interesting new and tiny perspective. The dream was so vivid she could even smell the muck and dirt on the hem of her dress, which now looked monochromatic with her limited vision. She’d even found a piece of bread, a leftover from the small sandwich she’d eaten the day of the ball, under her workbench. The crust had been small enough to hide behind one of the legs, but to her mouse self, it felt like a feast.

And then when Tessa came in to wake her, Fiona stretched, her nightdress somehow on backward.