Mission: Nutcracker

Chapter 3

3

Boston, 17 December 1871

The summons crinkled in the pocket of Henry’s trousers, and the months-old injury in his leg throbbed to the rhythm of his steps. Known as Inspector Davidson to some, as Agent Davidson to others, and as words he couldn’t repeat in polite company to yet more, he kept his gaze on the rain-slick cobblestones. He’d been trained to better monitor his surroundings, and a fall wouldn’t kill him, but he didn’t need any more pain—physical or mental. And if he’d guessed correctly about the summons, he’d soon experience plenty of the latter.

This time, Violet and Hobbes had chosen a teahouse that was tucked in a neighborhood, indistinguishable from the residences around it except for a discreet sign advertising high tea by reservation only. The garden in front would have been lovely in spring or summer. Henry almost smiled at the thought of taking tea with a certain hazel-eyed woman who would be likely to drop into the place from an airship, her trousers keeping anyone from a scandalous view of her legs but giving anyone watching more than a hint of her slender waist and muscular build. Or she might surprise him and walk in from the road like a normal person.

Henry shook his head and smiled, but barely. He didn’t associate with normal people. Nor did he smile much. And he had no time to dwell on old mistakes.

The wooden door, swollen with the damp, took an extra tug to open. A blast of warm air smelling of fresh-baked scones and the bitter green of wilted watercress greeted him. In the late afternoon light, candles flickered on the tables, and lamps along the wall did their best to defend against the sodden gloom. Henry almost felt the chill melting off him, and he paused to soak in the heat. But he knew he stalled to avoid the biggest challenge that was yet to come. He could face down villains and their nefarious intentions and inventions, but he feared his superiors and what they would tell him to do.

No, this time he would take the upper hand, insist on his retirement. He’d been in Her Majesty’s service for twenty years, ten of them with an organization so secret he wouldn’t ever be able to be honest about what he did. And now he had this annoying leg injury. But he also knew agents in his field rarely retired. They were more likely to be killed, and according to rumor, eliminated by their own bosses.

But hadn’t he earned his rest?

“This way, sir.” A server dressed impeccably in tails and a white tie—fancy even for a teahouse—took Henry’s overcoat and hat. He led Henry through the front room and a hall, into which other rooms opened. He caught glimpses of staid matrons and young ladies sipping tea out of delicate cups in a parlor and drawing room. At the end of the hall, a curlicued sign pointed to the Private Rooms. Its tilt told Henry stairs—and pain—lay around the corner.

Henry suppressed the grimace that wanted to emerge whenever he had to step up with his bad leg. The cold damp had settled into it, and the stiffness refused to leave his thigh muscles in spite of the teahouse’s comfortable warmth. He paused at the landing, but not for too long. Alas, they’d not yet reached their destination. The second set of stairs led to a wider hall, which opened on to bigger, airier rooms, probably former bedrooms.

The waiter paused in front of the only closed door and knocked. After a soft, “Come in!” floated through the wood, the man opened it with a bow.

Blue-and-white striped wallpaper with pink roses rivaled the tan-bricked fireplace for its air of forced cheeriness. Henry didn’t attempt to hide his limp when he walked in, but he didn’t stand in front of the fire, as he would have liked. Instead he bowed to his handlers. Violet somehow managed to appear brighter than the decor in her yellow dress and hat, and her blonde hair and blue eyes shone. Dark-haired Hobbes wore a gray suit, remarkable only for its elegant simplicity—but then, he never tried to stand out. He left that to Violet, whom Henry had long ago surmised was his partner in more than a professional sense.

“Ah, Henry, come in.” Hobbes rose and shook his hand.

“Thank you.”

Henry finally made himself look at the table. Just one teapot and plate of pastries. He didn’t know whether to be relieved or disappointed he wouldn’t have to play their old game of, Is the second teapot poisoned?

Violet smiled but didn’t rise. “It’s a new world, Henry. And a new game. But we have exciting news. Please, have a seat.”

Henry did so, and Hobbes poured him some tea. Henry helped himself to cucumber and watercress sandwiches and an iced cranberry scone. There was a second plate of little cakes in dainty paper wrappers, but they hadn’t been touched, and Henry didn’t dare. A new world and new games, indeed. And new threats.

“What news, Violet?” Henry asked after tasting his scone, which had the exact right balance of butter and sugar.

Violet leaned forward and put her teacup on its saucer. With the wide-eyed delight of a matron sharing a juicy tidbit of gossip, she said, “Paul Farrell has been spotted in Terminus.” She paused, her expression eager.

Henry sighed, feeling the figurative bonds tighten on his wrists.

Violet drew back and c****d her head at him. “What? Aren’t you excited? You hate loose ends.”

Henry tried to figure out how to tell her he didn’t care about Paul Farrell anymore, but in a nice way. “I can’t help but feel there are others who are better suited for tracking him down, Madame.” He found himself massaging his leg over the injury. “And I have no desire to return to Terminus.”

“Right, that’s where you were injured. Too bad.” She snapped her fingers. “Hobbes, the file.”

Henry hadn’t expected sympathy, nor was he surprised when Hobbes reached into his ever-present briefcase and brought forth a folder, which he handed to Violet, who, in turn, gave it to Henry.

Henry took a bite of a cucumber-dill sandwich—again, perfectly made—and studied the contents of the dossier on Paul Farrell. He skimmed over the line, “Allowed to escape by H. Davidson in Boston” and returned to the latest information, which he found himself drawn to in spite of his desired disinterest. Farrell, a damned fine inventor, had always come up with creative ways to not only skirt, but challenge the law. But this time…

“So there are rumors of him using aether to build some sort of automaton army?” he asked. The idea, while not out of the realm of possibility, seemed farfetched, even for the mad inventor. “The Clockwork Guild, as always, comes up with creative means of mayhem.”

Hobbes replied, his soft voice too low for a woman but too high for a man, “With the War Between the States just over, several factions with different motivations are jockeying for position. We think he’s going to sell his services to the highest bidder. And maybe start another war.”

“It wouldn’t be the first time he colluded with someone with dangerous ambition.” And Henry had no doubt that some of the former Confederate planters could match or exceed his old foe Parnaby Cobb in nefarious schemes. Cobb had almost sacrificed his own stepdaughter.

Henry suppressed a shudder. His superiors might take such a reaction as a sign of weakness…or interest.

Violet helped herself to one of the small cakes and held the plate up for Henry to take one. Rather than choose the one closest to him, he took one from the middle. Violet winked. Hobbes, however, took one from the edge that had just been offered to Henry, and heat that had nothing to do with the rapidly warming room lit Henry’s cheeks. He’d just demonstrated a certain degree of paranoia. Warranted, assuredly, but had he failed at the game? At least the petit four was good, its frosting hard but not too much so, and the layers of cake and soft icing inside practically melted on his tongue. Was that arsenic he tasted, or almond extract?

Did he care anymore?

“Plus there is another interesting wrinkle,” Violet said. “Tinkerers and other mechanical-makers have been disappearing, along with members of their families.”

“Disappearing? Including children? And are there any leads?” Now this piqued Henry’s interest. Of course innocent lives would be involved somehow. His mother had long-ago joked he must have some Round Table knight blood in him since he couldn’t resist the chance to jump in and defend the helpless.

“Yes, women and children. They’ve been simply vanishing from their homes. No sign of forced entry or exit, no blood or signs of struggle. They’re just gone.” Violet lowered her voice and her lashes. “Our contact in Terminus told us that clothing has been found rumpled on the floor like the bodies have somehow come out of them without undressing. And it’s both colored and white families, although the police only investigate the white kidnappings. And then this morning, this…” She laid a newspaper on the table, the afternoon edition of the Boston Times. TINKERERS TAKEN BY AUTOMATONS, the headline blared with a subheadline, Nutcrackers gone amok.

Henry put his teacup, which had been raised halfway to his lips, back on its saucer, and scanned the article. A mass kidnapping by automatons. Damn, that was intriguing. “Are there traces of aether or other substances?”

“Our contact unfortunately doesn’t have the equipment to test for that, but your clever Professor Bailey and Mister O’Connell should by now.”

Henry neither confirmed nor denied the implied query as to his team’s progress. He only sipped his tea. Its bitterness was well-balanced with floral notes, unlike the bitterness in his gut. They’d roped him in again. But perhaps if he could capture Paul Farrell and find the missing tinkerers, they’d agree he had earned the right to retire.

“I believe they are working on it as we speak.”

“Good.” Violet nibbled on a cucumber sandwich. “We’ve arranged for you and your staff to be embedded as a security team in the home of one Devon Meriweather. He’s been abroad with his sister, ostensibly due to her poor health. But you’ve probably guessed he had a greater role in managing perceptions of the war abroad.”

Henry’s mind ticked through the scenario. “Right, a rich young man escaping a horrible war abroad to protect his ill sister would draw sympathy. I assume he was working for the Union?”

“You assume correctly,” Hobbes told him and took another cake, this one next to the spot where the one Henry had eaten had been. Was Hobbes taunting Henry in his own subtle way? “Although France supported the South, the people didn’t like how it drained their treasury. Meriweather helped that perception. His parents moved south about twenty years ago, but he was born in the North and has always identified more with that part of the country.”

“And now he needs security?”

Violet spoke. “He has returned to Terminus to take advantage of the opportunity to help rebuild and expand the infrastructure, specifically the railways. Some are happier about this than others. Plus his cousin Pierce is a talented tinkerer, and with men like that disappearing, there is added concern. So…” She raised the pink and white teacup to her lips, her eyes sparkling. “What do you think?”

Henry sighed, realizing he had been doubly trapped, both by his superiors and his own curiosity and hatred of loose ends. “When do we leave?”

Rural Massachusetts, 17 December 1871

Lieutenant Davinia Crow—Vinni for short—placed the last of her uniform shirts in her valise. Outside the window, the rain and wind danced in a swirling, howling frenzy that rattled the casements. Raindrops—or maybe sleet—tapped against the windowpanes like insistent fingers. No matter how many times the rattling and tapping ebbed, the noise startled her when it resumed with the next gust of wind. But not in a frightening way, more like the surprise kiss of a lover on the back of her neck.

She walked to the window and pressed her hand against the pane. “I’ll be with you soon,” she promised the sky she couldn’t see. Was it her imagination, or did the wind pause as if to acknowledge her words?

It would be a miserable day to travel, but she didn’t care. Soon she’d be rising above it all, back as first officer of the Sun Dog, a passenger airship but also one of the many sky-level eyes of the neo-Pythagoreans, the religious organization that had raised and sheltered her. And who now tried to smother her. Grounding and coming “home” threatened Vinni’s sanity. Being in the air freed her, especially since the crack in her faith from the events of the previous spring had turned into a fissure.

But would she claim the freedom of the skies soon? She’d woken with her nerves alert. The crackling, electric feeling reminded her of when she encountered danger while engaged in her ground-level “work.” And told her to be ready for a change of plans.

The rap on her bedroom door made her jump higher than the weather had.

“Come in!”

Cat, Vinni’s partner, filled the door. On first glance, many mistook her for a man with her short haircut and square jaw, but Vinni knew her softness. It came out occasionally, but not today. Vinni looked for the rueful smile that Cat typically wore when it was time for them to leave, but instead her lips pressed together in a grim line.

“Uncle Dross wants to see you.”

Uncle Dross—their leader, and not anyone’s uncle, although there was speculation that he may be a few of the children’s father—rarely summoned someone as junior as Vinni. Her shoulders straightened with the tension that gripped her upper back and neck. She breathed against her heartbeat, which accelerated like a runaway train’s wheels.

“What does he want?”

“Dunno.” But Cat wouldn’t meet her gaze. Then Vinni remembered—Cat was older than she, and she’d been summoned the year before and had refused to talk about what had happened. In fact, since then, she’d not spoken much at all, only uttering words that were absolutely necessary.

Cat jerked her head, and Vinni followed. She thought about running, but after a prisoner had escaped the year before on horseback, security around the perimeter had become tighter. She knew better than to press for more about what to expect. While the airship corps had Vinni’s loyalty, the neo-Pythagoreans had Cat’s.

They wound through the estate house, past cold spots that Vinni had always suspected were ghosts. She didn’t have the talent for seeing them, thank goodness. Nor did she have any ability for predicting the future, manipulating aether, or any of the other so-called high callings. No, she’d only demonstrated mild precognitive abilities and the keen powers of observation that a child abandoned to the hands of a cult needed, and sometimes she suspected she’d seen too much. Hence why she’d been sent to the airship corps, her main mission being to look for signs of their rival organization, the Clockwork Guild, in the sky.

Vinni followed Cat into the basement and the tunnels to the temple complex and Uncle’s offices. As per usual, the stone and dirt walls felt like they pressed in on her, and she sensed the weight of the earth above them, each ton a barrier that separated her from the freedom of her beloved sky. She didn’t take a full breath until they emerged above ground-level, the gray walls drab in the rain-drenched light. The lamps flickered in their sconces, but their glow turned from warm to why bother? in a few feet and barely touched the shadows.

They ascended the steps through the gloom to the offices, and Cat gestured for Vinni to precede her on the landing.

“He only wants you,” Cat said, her tone grim.

Vinni couldn’t resist a nervous look at the two guards outside of the dark wooden office door. “Oh?”

Cat shook her head. “Watch out. See you at the carriage. I’ll load it.”

“Thanks. For both the warning and the packing.”

Cat nodded once, a jerk. She never wasted a movement, either.

Vinni took a deep breath and knocked on the dark wooden door.