Mission: Nutcracker

Chapter 14

14

Terminus, 19 December 1871

Fiona and Tessa left the Telfair house at half-past eleven. Thankfully Devon had sent a carriage to collect them in case Fiona should acquiesce to lunch, and she enjoyed watching the scenery pass from inside a relatively warm space. The cool breeze had turned into a sharp wind under leaden clouds, and she suspected it would be one of those winter days that grew colder rather than warmer as it went on. Father had called it a ghost day, a backward weather day. When they’d had money, he would send Tessa or the cook out for cider, and they’d sit in the parlor and laugh and talk in front of a roaring fire.

What would the Meriweather mansion feel like? From what she’d heard, Devon’s sister Therese was delicate, so Fiona eagerly anticipated fully built fires and warm food and drink. She was happy Tessa had accompanied her so the maid would be fed as well.

The carriage took them north of downtown along a winding road, and soon the city buildings gave way to estates that grew farther and farther apart and soon disappeared behind gates and trees and other barriers that said Keep Out, Poor People. Fiona and Tessa exchanged a grin. They’d often talked about moats and other ways the inhabitants of castles kept others at bay. This was no different, except this time the target had been slave uprisings or, as the war drew to a close, a Yankee invasion.

Once they reached the Meriweather Mansion, which had not been renamed after Pierce Meriweather had bought it, they got out of the carriage and stretched. It had taken them a good three-quarters of an hour to reach it, and Fiona felt far away from home. She noticed that the grass on the expansive lawn was brown like the rest of the stuff in Terminus, which relieved her. Not that she thought Devon or Pierce had anything to do with the automaton men, as she’d started thinking of them, but somehow nothing would surprise her.

A tall, dark-skinned butler let them in and led them to a formal dining room. The walls were hung with a burgundy damask wallpaper above the dark wood chair rail. Under it, wood molding protected the bottom part of the walls from scuffs and other damage. The walls were noticeable for the lack of art or portraiture. Did the Meriweathers like classical art, or did their tastes run to more modern paintings of landscapes with big open skies? Or, as Lucy’s cousin Veronica had told them, the strange, electricity and aether-inspired patterns that were all the rage in Europe. Fiona guessed they were still deciding how to decorate.

Indeed, the entire house lacked that certain identity that came with a place’s owners. It felt like a rented property, like the Meriweathers only slept there but didn’t really live there. She’d heard that they’d only bought it that summer, so that would explain it. And if Devon was in the market for a wife, he’d be waiting for her to put her touch on it.

If Fiona were interested in such things, she would be jealous, and she admitted that her mind was doing what it shouldn’t—placing art and decorations on the walls and shelves, painting the walls a less somber tone, otherwise turning the dining room into a happy, calming place rather than a red-walled dungeon. But he’d said he had no intention of marrying her, and even if he did, she had no intention of saying yes. There was too much she wanted to do to put herself in a prison, even if she got to decorate it herself.

The butler led Tessa to the kitchen, leaving Fiona to herself with a glass of cordial, which she didn’t sip since she’d not eaten since the day before, and that not much. She tried not to resent the difference between her lifestyle and that of the Meriweathers. Getting her father back was a matter of survival for Fiona, but an intellectual exercise for Devon.

The smells that came from the kitchen made her stomach growl, and she caught her thoughts wandering in an impatient direction.

Her feet wandered along with her thoughts, and she found a grate in the floor. It smelled of fresh wood shavings and the tang of oil. The Meriweathers must have been putting in a furnace heating system. She bent to take a closer look and see if she could detect any of the inner workings, but instead of piping, she found voices.

“I don’t want you to go,” one said, petulant and frustrated. “Our moments together are too few as they are.”

Fiona raised her eyebrows. She didn’t want to eavesdrop on a private conversation, but the woman’s tone drew her in. A lovers’ quarrel?

“I have to.” Oh! That was another woman. “He’ll see me on my way out if I don’t go before he leaves his office.”

Fiona’s eyebrows rose higher. If she wasn’t mistaken, the second voice sounded like that of a female n***o journalist she’d heard speak at the Tinkerer Guild’s monthly meeting, on the intersection of press and invention in the aftermath of war. That was before people had started disappearing. Fiona had held on to every word, both because of what the woman said and to see if she could glean a hint of what she did to be able to live and act so independently.

And who was the he she was talking about?

“Very well,” the first voice said. “But come back tomorrow.”

“I will. I’ve given myself a reason to. Your brother is getting some information for me.”

Ah, so the first voice must be Therese Meriweather, Devon’s sister. What information was he going to find? Did it have something to do with their case?

Kissing sounds floated through, so, cheeks burning, Fiona straightened and wandered back to the sideboard where the bottle of cordial and glasses stood. She didn’t need to listen in on lovemaking, but now she had a secret in her pocket—Therese Meriweather was having some sort of affair with the lady journalist. How did she manage it? Surely the pressure on someone of that station to marry would be huge.

A few minutes later, a soft voice asked, “Miss Telfair?”

Fiona whirled around to see a young woman with the same coloring as Devon, mahogany hair and hazel eyes, and a slight spattering of freckles along her nose and cheekbones. The spots were so faint as to hardly be seen, but Fiona noticed freckles, having fought against her own for so long. She’d chosen to wear a nice gray-blue dress with small bustle and white piping along the sleeves and bodice, but the young woman, who must be Therese, put her gown to shame with the elegant simplicity of her copper-colored satin day dress. Who had the money to spend on satin for day clothes? Of course the Meriweathers did.

“Miss Meriweather, I presume?” Fiona said and held out her hand. The other woman took it by the fingertips and gave her a slight squeeze. Fiona wondered what she looked like to Therese. A city mouse come to the home of the cat? Or a fellow young woman striving to live as she pleased?

“Yes, I’m Therese Meriweather. Please pardon my brother for his tardiness. He got caught by a pressing matter.” Therese smiled, but Fiona could tell the other woman sized her up. While Therese and she shared slender frames, she could see that Therese’s was more due to a delicate constitution than hunger. Right, that’s why they’d been in France during the war—the stress and bustle of Terminus had been too wearing for her. Or at least that’s what the gossip mill had said.

“I understand. He must be quite busy with everything going on.” Fiona wasn’t sure what, exactly, she meant by that, but she’d felt the need to say something. She hoped her cheeks weren’t so red as to give away her eavesdropping.

Footmen appeared and pulled out two chairs. Four places had been set in total, and Fiona and Therese sat across from each other.

“Devon said for us to start without him. He’ll be with us momentarily.” Therese smiled, and some of the anxiety in Fiona’s chest melted away.

“Thank you. Who is the fourth place set for?”

“Oh.” A shadow flickered across Therese’s face. “That’s for Pierce, should he decide to join us. He often doesn’t since he spends much of his time in the city, but we keep a place for him in case he’s home for meals.”

“That’s kind of you.” What happened to the fourth portion that wouldn’t be eaten? Would the servants get it? The dogs? All large houses like this had dogs, didn’t they?

“So Devon tells me that you’re a talented tinkerer.” Therese murmured her thanks to the footman, who set a plate of orange soup in front of her.

Fiona was so distracted by the savory, earthy smells she almost forgot to answer, but recovered herself. “I’m a tinkerer, yes. I’m not sure how talented I am.”

Therese grinned. “Well, don’t worry, I’m sure you are. What’s your specialty?”

Fiona took a spoonful of the soup and almost allowed her eyes to roll back in bliss. Some sort of squash—pumpkin, maybe?—with warm spices. Perfect for a chilly winter day. She swallowed before she said, “Clockworks, mostly tiny ones for ladies, like brooches, hand sculptures, that sort of thing.”

“Brilliant. You must show me your work sometime.” Therese lowered her voice. “By the way, the soup is one of our chef’s specialties. I’ll ask for seconds if you’re up for having them.”

Fiona nodded. “Thank you.”

“And where were you educated?” Therese continued her interrogation in her normal tone. She asked for more soup, and the footmen complied by bringing out two more bowls rather than topping off what they were eating out of. Therese barely touched her second helping while Fiona wolfed hers down. In a perfectly acceptable, ladylike way, of course. She could practically hear her mother behind her admonishing her to make a good impression.

Fiona realized she’d never answered the question. “I had private tutors while—while my brother was with us. Then the war started, and I mostly learned from my father and whoever would let me observe at the Tinkerer’s Guild.” She had almost said while we could afford them. Again, the pendulum of her emotions swung between worry for her father and anger that he’d mismanaged their finances so badly. Fiona was pretty sure she could’ve had them stick to a budget. At least they wouldn’t have spent money on dresses for a coming out that would only end in disaster.

“Sometimes informal educations are the best ones. Ah, there’s my brother.”

Fiona looked toward the entrance to the dining room from the back of the house, and there stood Devon. She could definitely see the resemblance. Which parent had given them their coloring? She knew better than to ask, both of them being deceased in a tragic manner. But worse, whereas she and Therese had been conversing easily, once Devon walked in, Fiona found herself once again unable to speak. She opened her mouth to greet him, and the only sound that came forth was a mouse-like squeak.

When Devon entered the dining room, Fiona looked up, smiled when she saw him, and mouthed the word, “Hello,” but all that came out was a squeak. Her eyes widened in horror, and her face went pale. When she looked down at her plate, his heart almost broke.

“It’s all right,” he said and slid into the seat beside Therese’s. “We’ll get you warmed up talking about technical matters.”

Therese c****d her head. “Have you spoken to a neuroticist about that, Dear? They can work miracles with puzzles of the mind, or so I hear.”

Fiona shook her head. Devon nudged Therese with his foot to drop that line of questioning. He doubted the Telfairs could afford a regular physician, much less a neuroticist. Perhaps he could enlist Claire Radcliffe’s help.

Devon waved away the soup the footman presented to him. “Please bring the next course,” he said. He smiled at Fiona. “Our cook does wonders with chicken.”

Fiona gave him a small smile, and he saw the tease in her eyes.

Therese said, “I told her the same about the soup. She’s going to think our chef is a wizard.”

“He is,” Devon said. “And his wife is an amazing pastry chef. By the way, Pierce had an interesting idea.” He felt himself wading into dangerous waters but couldn’t hold his tongue. “He suggested I give a ball to introduce us to the rest of society and to see who’s on the marriage mart. For me,” he added, seeing Therese’s stricken look. “Not for you. You still have a year or two yet, no marriage considerations until you’re better.”

Therese nodded, seemingly relieved. Fiona grinned and looked down at the lovely brown-crusted chicken with green beans and mashed potatoes that had been set before her, but Devon had the sense that her amusement was not due to the food. What could she possibly know about his household and situation? Not that she could tell him, anyway.

“By the way,” he said, “I’ve come to realize after talking with Pierce that it’s impossible that the automatons who committed the kidnappings were machines. The technology just doesn’t exist yet, and they moved too smoothly.”

“I noticed that as well,” Fiona replied. “The joint articulation was simply wrong for machines. Plus, I was attacked by one yesterday.”

“What?” both Devon and Therese said. Devon clenched his fist beneath the table so hard that his fingers caught the tablecloth, and his plate shifted. He fought the wave of rage that welled up at the thought of anyone trying to harm Fiona.

“What happened?” Therese asked and put a hand on Devon’s other arm. He relaxed slightly. Fiona had come through unharmed, but as she relayed her tale, primarily to Therese, he found his mood darkening again. He wished she’d look at him, but he guessed that if she did, she would clam up again, her words not exactly having anything to do with the technicalities of tinkering.

“Who was the mysterious woman who helped you?” Therese asked.

Devon forced himself to keep listening around the rush that filled his ears at the idea of the filthy things the man had said to Fiona. He admired her frank storytelling and her courage, if it could be called that and not foolhardiness, but he wanted to tell her never ever to put herself at risk again.

“She wore an Airship Corps uniform with trousers,” Fiona said. “She didn’t seem afraid at all,” she added with admiration. “In fact, she was the one who told me to search the man’s cloak and pockets.”

“Did you find anything?” Devon asked. He couldn’t help it—he couldn’t remain silent any longer.

Fiona shook her head. Damn, she’d gone mute again.

“But you said he had on white pants and a uniform like the nutcracker kidnappers,” Therese said.

Devon wanted to ask Fiona a million questions about the man who had lured and then insulted her, but he allowed Therese to take the lead so Fiona wouldn’t clam up. Why couldn’t she talk to him? What had at first been a charming demure characteristic had taken on a sort of hurtful insult quality—perhaps he didn’t intimidate her, but rather some part of her considered him beneath her notice. It was not a comfortable thought. Nor was his speculation that perhaps that’s what he believed, that her intelligence and simple life put into sharp relief the shallowness of his own marital quest, for money and power, rather than that which mattered.

But Therese mattered, and he needed them to be in a position for her to be taken care of should she decide not to marry. That was the other thing about being with Fiona and watching the two women. He’d known his sister was smart, but he’d underestimated how dashedly clever she could be. So if she had the intelligence to manage a deft interrogation, why wasn’t she interested in Pierce? There had to be something beyond Pierce and Devon’s similarities that drove her away. He wanted to cast his mind about into the past to find a time when Therese had shown interest in a man, but Fiona’s words dropping from her seashell pink lips kept him anchored to the present. Where he needed to be. Because someone was after her, it seemed.

“We need to go to Tinkerer Hall and look for evidence,” Devon said finally. “If they’re men, one of them may have left something behind.”

“Machines may drop parts,” Fiona pointed out, apparently once again comfortable talking about technical issues. “Gears fall out, screws loosen themselves, even materials from the costumes themselves. Buttons!” She wrinkled her nose. “They love to come loose, especially the expensive ones.”

“I don’t trust Jim Blair to have made a thorough search,” Devon agreed.

“What about the fire damage?” Therese asked. “Is it structurally sound?”

“Layla Bollington said it wasn’t too bad. I’ll send a message over to the caretaker and ask,” Devon said. “Or, better yet, we’ll go over there. At the very least we can investigate the yard.”

Fiona nodded. “And perhaps they’ll let us climb up the side of the building with a ladder and look at the roof.”

“That’s quite the climb,” Devon pointed out. “The hall is, what, four stories?”

“Yes, bedrooms on top, then workshops on two floors, and then the ballroom.”

“Perhaps you should stay behind, Fiona,” Devon suggested carefully. “It may not be safe.” He also didn’t want her to ruin her dress, considering the meagerness of the Telfair means. Although the dress she’d worn the day before had been at the height of fashion, at least from what he could tell.

“Don’t be ridiculous,” Fiona told him. “You won’t be able to tell if anything is missing from the workshops.”

Therese cleared her throat. “Do you think any of the other tinkerers will have been by?”

“You mean of the ones who are left?” Fiona asked. “Maybe. I can also check the roster, see if I can figure out who’s missing.”

“Layla Bollington is helping me to compile just such a list, and your help with that would be invaluable,” Devon said, noting for the second time how Therese gave him an interesting look when he mentioned the journalist’s name. “Very well, if you’re done, we can leave as soon as possible.”

“But do come back here for teatime,” Therese said with a sly smile. “And tell me what you’ve found. I dare not go with my lungs as they are.”

Devon felt a momentary stab of guilt. He’d been so engrossed in Fiona he’d forgotten Therese and her troubles. Or maybe it was because she looked so well and ate with good appetite. She hardly seemed the frail sister he was accustomed to protecting. Dare he hope that she was less dependent on him than he’d thought?

Then she coughed, just a delicate sound, and the little bubble of hope popped. Of course not. And so he’d have to find a suitable wife, after all. Still, it had been nice to hope, even briefly.

After Vinni and Cat had walked through the warehouse district again, looking for the source of the aether vibration, they opted to call it quits. Either Cat’s talent wasn’t active on that particular day—and it did seem to come and go at its own whims—or the aether signature simply wasn’t there.

“I think I’ll go to Tinkerer Hall,” Vinni said. “Poke around, see what I can find.”

“I’ll go stand guard,” Cat replied.

“I’m sure I’ll be fine. It’s a standard recon job.”

Cat shook her head. “I’ll go so you won’t be surprised.”

“Very well.” No escape for her there unless she could somehow manage to shake Cat. But Vinni knew better. Cat wouldn’t be thrown off if she didn’t want to be, so Vinni decided to tend to the mission at hand and hope for another opportunity. They would likely have to split up at some point, but of course Cat, after their long association, must suspect what Vinni was trying to do.

They donned regular dresses with skirts that could be split and cinched to make pantaloons that wouldn’t be as likely to drag or get caught in things, and then cloaks since the air had taken on a definite chill. Vinni hoped that to anyone watching, they’d look like two ordinary women out on an errand. Well, Cat would get glances, as she looked more like a man, but then no one would bother them. Hopefully.

Although the fire at Tinkerer Hall had been two days before, the air around it still smelled of smoke and charred things. But nothing that indicated to Vinni that anyone had been burned alive, or dead, as the case may be. She was relieved at that. She wasn’t one to see ghosts as some of her colleagues were, but she did have enough extra sense to know when spirits were near.

No spirits haunted the hall, at least none that she could sense. A policeman stood at the gate to the drive, and a wrought iron fence atop a brick wall surrounded the property, so that was their first obstacle. Another policeman guarded the back gate, which would have been used for deliveries.

Cat sauntered up to him, and Vinni hid a smile. She’d often teased Cat that her sashay was more of a go’way, and indeed the man seemed to recoil from her. A sad expression flitted across Cat’s features, and Vinni found herself regretting her smile. She knew Cat wasn’t interested in men, but it must hurt to have one shrink away. Vinni never had that problem, as she appealed to and found appeal in both sexes.

Soon Cat led the man away. Vinni slipped through the gate, which stood slightly ajar. She darted into the shadow of the nearest building—some sort of smithy, by what she could tell. Her nose told her the stables were nearby, so that made sense. She made her way up to the main hall, where the absence of a guard struck her as odd. Did that mean that the place was or wasn’t safe?

I’m going to have to use my talent. The one talent she’d been able to cultivate at the headquarters and temple of the neo-Pythagoreans. The one that had led her into the profession she’d chosen and the side jobs she was assigned. With a sigh, she closed her eyes and grounded herself by focusing on the hard-packed dirt beneath her shoes. Then she visualized a hand, the only part of a figure she could see through a dark mist. It waved in greeting, and then beckoned her forward.