Mission: Nutcracker

Chapter 15-1

15

Terminus, 19 December 1871

Fiona and Devon sat facing each other in the carriage. The last time she’d made that trip to Tinkerer Hall, she’d been full of enthusiasm and optimism. Now she shivered, the memory of the fire and her father’s kidnapping playing over and over again in her mind. Could she have done something differently to convince him to stay with her? To not rush back to Lillet and Hollowell and therefore get caught up in the fury of the invasion of the fake automatons?

And the imposter automatons were yet one more thing to be angry about. Bryan Telfair had been a proponent of automaton technology, hoping that the uses of aether to enhance emotional experience could somehow be turned to giving devices a sort of will or impetus of their own rather than the mindless motions they already had. Walking, repeating a certain phrase, attacking when a certain stimulus was presented… All were in development, and she’d heard that in England, young ladies had automaton companions that accompanied them. That fashion hadn’t made it to the States yet, but she hoped it would. It sounded like a marvelous opportunity for freedom, to go places unaccompanied by a maid or chaperon. Or maybe it would be more stifling.

And there her mind went into a dozen possibilities, all designed to give her more freedom like that which she was enjoying now. Or was she? Devon sat brooding and looking out of the window to his right at the long drives and estates that they passed. Tinkerer Hall had been such an estate until it had been donated to the Guild by an aficionado of the engineering arts, as they called them, much to the chagrin of the widow, who’d had to move to a townhouse. Could the resentful widow be connected to the disaster? She’d spoken many times against the use of machinery…

But those hadn’t been machines. And the incident had contributed to the further uproar against the technology, which many were suspicious of. Fiona sighed and drummed her fingers on her knee. She didn’t want to follow her thoughts to that direction, to the worst-case scenario of the tinkerers being dead to show that their creations would be harmful, not helpful.

Devon continued to scowl through the window. Fiona dared not speculate what he was thinking about. There was no knowing what was in a man’s mind and heart. See: her father, and his ruinous financial decisions. How had he allowed her mother to convince him to spend the family savings on her coming out? Or had there been something else? That was always a possibility. Gambling? Out of the question. An investment gone sour? Goodness knew there had been plenty of those, especially once the war had ended and Confederate money had turned into worthless paper, not even good for burning since the ink made such a smell. So what, then? And if it had been a bad investment, why hadn’t they just told her?

The carriage arrived at Tinkerer Hall, and Fiona’s heart fell when she saw an armed policeman standing guard at the gate. He stopped them, and Devon peeked out of the window, which he’d lowered. The shade from a large tree dappled through the windows and created dancing shadows on the carriage’s inhabitants.

“Oh, Mister Meriweather, you’ve returned,” the guard said. “Did you not find what you were looking for this morning?”

Devon hesitated, and Fiona held her breath. Had he already been there? No, the guard must be talking about Pierce. Indeed, Devon pitched his voice slightly higher when he responded, “Need to take another peek. Sorry to bother.”

“No trouble at all, Sir.” But the man didn’t move. Devon pulled a bill from his wallet and handed it to the guard, who took it, tipped his hat, and opened the gate for them. Devon closed the window and sat back, his expression bewildered.

“If Pierce had been here, he would have told me,” he said. “We’d agreed to investigate together.”

“Could someone else have been impersonating one of you?” Fiona asked. So apparently curiosity could break through her block.

“Perhaps, but I doubt it. I don’t know of anyone who looks like the two of us.”

Fiona didn’t know what to say to that. “What do you think he was looking for?”

“I don’t know, but I’ll ask him later. And see if he found anything.”

The carriage pulled up to the front of the house, and Fiona swallowed the hot, prickly knot of panic that rose in her throat. She reminded herself that she was safe here, and Devon wouldn’t allow anything to happen to her. At least she didn’t think so. He’d come for her during the fire, although she didn’t know why.

He handed her down, and she forced herself to take deep breaths as they ascended the stairs. The charred smell of wood and textiles still hung in the air, smoky and chemical, like a barbecue experiment gone horribly wrong. The front hall showed little damage, mostly smoke stains on the white walls. The ballroom, however, was a different scene altogether. The walls had been blackened, the curtains and decorations all burned to ash. Fiona could barely make out the now-melted and twisted frames of the trees.

Debris lay scattered across the floor, and Fiona picked her way through it gingerly. Most of it was unidentifiable, although it appeared that the conflagration had not spread across the carpets. Perhaps the fire brigade had done some good, after all, although the whole place would have to be gutted. It wouldn’t take long for mold to set into the wet floor coverings underfoot, the patterns darkened to what looked like a mysterious cipher.

“If you’ll start at that end of the room, I’ll start here, and then we can go back and forth and meet in the middle,” Devon suggested.

Fiona nodded. When would her tongue loosen again? It seemed to tie up at times of its own choosing. Would her ability to speak return when her opinion of him warmed further?

They worked as Devon had suggested, Fiona careful to keep her skirts as above the muck and debris as possible. Occasionally she would find something shiny and stick it in her reticule in a special pocket she’d sewn for her tinkering tools. It kept them and now her finds safe, padded, and away from the purse’s main contents. She resisted the urge to examine things too closely, and just made a cursory glance and mental note of where she’d found it.

Silver button—corner of room by former tree decorations.

Brass gear—likely part of a costume, center of outer wall.

Link of copper chain—interesting, by secret door to kitchens under punch table.

The punch table itself had been turned over, and she nudged through the broken crystal and glassware with the toe of one foot, reluctant to risk being cut. This was no place for an injury, and her family didn’t have the money to afford a doctor should it become infected. While the discovery of animalcules had opened up the source of diseases, they still lacked the ability to do much about them.

Twist of wire—center of wall, about ten feet away from the hidden door.

Shoe button—about three feet away from previous.

Brass button that looked like it would have come from a military uniform—interesting, about fifteen feet away from hidden door; right near where Fiona had seen her father for the last time.

“What is it?”

Fiona hadn’t noticed that Devon had reached the center of the room and now looked at her from about ten feet away. She held out a button, and he took it, then turned it toward the light from the wall of windows.

“This definitely doesn’t look like something from a costume. Do you recall anyone at the ball being in military dress?”

Fiona shook her head.

“Me, neither. And they wouldn’t have used their uniforms as a costume anyway. As I recall, the goal was not to call forth memories from the war.”

Fiona nodded vigorously.

“So that means this button must have either been from a costume, which is unlikely, or may have come off one of the automatons.”

Fiona thought back to the day before and the red coat—with. yes, brass buttons—that the man had worn. And the awful things he’d said. Started to say. Rage loosened the constriction in her throat—barely.

“The fake automaton yesterday,” she forced out. “He wore those.”

Devon nodded. “So another piece of evidence that our automatons from the party weren’t.”

“Drop the button!”

Devon and Fiona whirled to face the formerly secret door that had been beyond the punch table. A figure in a nutcracker mask and dark cloak—like the one from the day before—leveled a gun at them.

“Run!” Devon grabbed Fiona’s hand and pulled her from the ballroom, pushing her ahead of him even though he had the advantage in speed and length of stride. She tucked the button in her reticule and lifted her skirts so as not to slow him down. A shot blasted behind them, and something whooshed just above Fiona’s left ear.

“Don’t make me shoot you. That was a warning!”

Another figure came through the front door, and yet another from the kitchens to the back of the building. That left one direction—up the stairs. They didn’t waste any time, and the balustrade burst into wooden shards. One of them grazed Fiona’s cheek, which only made her hasten her steps. They raced to the second floor, and a shadowy figure gestured for them to run around and keep climbing.

“I’ll hold them,” she said. When she moved into a gray sunbeam, Fiona saw they were of about the same height, but the woman had dark hair pulled into a bun. Today she wore a dress and cloak, not uniform and trousers.

“You!” Fiona said.

“Why am I not surprised to see you here?” the woman asked. “Now go. I’ll join you in a minute.”

Fiona didn’t wait to ask questions but now led Devon up the stairs.

“Friend of yours?” he asked.

“I don’t know yet,” she replied. “But I’m guessing we’ll find out soon.”

Vinni followed her instincts into the ballroom. She wanted to stay and search for clues, but they led her farther up the stairs to the third floor. At that point, the damage was mostly from smoke, and the structure felt sturdier under her feet. Just as she could feel the air currents around her when she flew, she could sense the solidness of the wood and stone around her. She released some of the tension she’d been carrying, that which prepared her to jump out of the way of a falling beam or dodge a hole that may open in the floor.

She wandered along the hallway, ever mindful of the nudge at the base of her skull. Her talents had never manifested so strongly before, so why now? Was it her desperation to get away from Cat and the neo-Pythagoreans? Or was she finally, at twenty-five, figuring them out? And did they have anything to do with the reason she’d been left—abandoned—so near the cult compound? Some might consider her abilities to be from the devil, not from the gods, which those detractors considered to be the same thing. After her experiences of the previous spring, Vinni might not argue.

A groan alerted her to a bedroom, the door of which had been locked. She opened it, or tried to, but found it to be stuck. She pushed harder, and it popped open with a loud crack. She paused, waiting to hear if anyone had overheard it and if she’d drawn attention. She guessed not when no one came, and she pushed her way inside.

A young man lay on the bed, and she hesitated. What if he was armed? Or otherwise intending to hurt her?

“Help,” he squeaked out. She rushed to his side and saw he’d been beaten. His lower lip was swollen, as was one eye.

“How long have you been here?” she asked.

“Two sunrises.” He coughed, a thick, wet sound. “So… Thirsty.”

She pulled her water canteen from her belt and lifted his head gingerly so he could drink.

“What’s your name?” she asked.

“Hollowell.” He coughed again. “I work for Mister Lillet.”

Vinni nodded. She’d find out who that was later. “I have a million more questions, but we need to get help for you.”

“Wait. Caprice! Come out.”

A little n***o girl of about five emerged from the closet.

“Is she yours?” Vinni asked, then added, “No, don’t talk anymore. It doesn’t matter. I’ll get you both to safety.” She helped him to sit, and then to stand. He seemed to breathe better when he was upright. Did that mean more or less damage? She was a pilot, not a medic, for Pete’s sake, but she’d help him as best she could.