Rich Horton - The Year's Best Science Fiction & Fantasy, 2019 Edition

“What happened?” she gasped.

“A stone,” Mr. Breen said. “Some brigand hurled a stone through the window.”

The door flew back and the coachman looked in. “Are you all right, sir?”

“We’re fine,” Mrs. Breen said.

And then, before her husband could speak, the coachman said, “We have one of them, sir.”

“And the others?”

“Fled into the fog.”

“Very well, then,” said Mr. Breen. “Let’s have a look at him, shall we?”

He eased past Mrs. Breen and stepped down from the carriage, holding his walking stick. Mrs. Breen moved to follow but he closed the door at his back. She looked through the shattered window. The two footmen held the brigand on his knees between them—though he hardly looked like a brigand. He looked like a boy—a dark-haired boy of perhaps twenty (not much younger than Mrs. Breen herself), clean-limbed and clean-shaven.

“Well, then,” Mr. Breen said. “Have you no shame, attacking a gentleman in the street?”

“Have you , sir?” the boy replied. “Have you any shame?”

The coachman cuffed him for his trouble.

“I suppose you wanted money,” Mr. Breen said.

“I have no interest in your money, sir. It is befouled with gore.”

Once again, the coachman moved to strike him. Mr. Breen stayed the blow. “What is it that you hoped to accomplish, then?”

“Have you tasted human flesh tonight, sir?”

“And what business is it—”

“Yes,” Mrs. Breen said. “We have partaken of ensouled flesh.”

“We’ll have blood for blood, then,” the boy said. “As is our right.”

This time, Mr. Breen did not intervene when the coachman lifted his hand.

The boy spat blood into the street.

“You have no rights,” Mr. Breen said. “I’ll see you hang for this.”

“No,” Mrs. Breen said.

“No?” Mr. Breen looked up at her in surprise.

“No,” Mrs. Breen said, moved at first to pity—and then, thinking of her grandfather, she hardened herself. “Hanging is too dignified a fate for such a base creature,” she said. “Let him die in the street.”

Mr. Breen eyed her mildly. “The lady’s will be done,” he said, letting his stick clatter to the cobblestones.

Turning, he climbed past her into the carriage and sat down in the gloom. Fireworks exploded high overhead, showering down through the fog and painting his face in streaks of red and white that left him hollow-eyed and gaunt. He was thirty years Mrs. Breen’s senior, but he had never looked so old to her before.

She turned back to the window.

She had ordered this thing. She would see it done.

And so Mrs. Breen watched as the coachman picked up his master’s stick and tested its weight. The brigand tried to wrench free, and for a moment Mrs. Breen thought—hoped?—he would escape. But the two footmen flung him once again to his knees. Another rocket burst overhead. The coachman grunted as he brought down the walking stick, drew back, and brought it down again. The brigand’s blood was black in the reeking yellow fog. Mrs. Breen looked on as the third blow fell and then the next, and then it became too terrible and she turned her face away and only listened as her servants beat the boy to death there in the cobbled street.

“The savages shall be battering down our doors soon enough, I suppose,” Lady Donner said when Mrs. Breen called to thank her for a place at her First Feast table.

“What a distressing prospect,” Mrs. Eddy said, and Mrs. Graves nodded in assent—the both of them matron to families of great honor and antiquity, if not quite the premier order. But who was Mrs. Breen to scorn such eminence—she who not five years earlier had subsisted on the crumbs of her father’s squandered legacy, struggling (and more often than not failing) to meet her dressmaker’s monthly reckoning?

Nor were the Breens of any greater rank than the other two women in Lady Donner’s drawing room that afternoon. Though he boasted an old and storied lineage, Mr. Breen’s was not quite a First Family and had no annual right to mark the beginning of the Season with a Feast of ensouled flesh. Indeed, prior to his marriage to poor Alice Munby, he himself had but twice been a First Feast guest.

Mrs. Breen had not, of course, herself introduced the subject of the incident in the street, but Mr. Breen had shared the story at his club, and word of Mrs. Breen’s courage and resolve had found its way to Lady Donner’s ear, as all news did in the end.

“Were you very frightened, dear?” Mrs. Graves inquired.

Mrs. Breen was silent for a moment, uncertain how to answer. It would be unseemly to boast. “I had been fortified with Lady Donner’s generosity,” she said at last. “The divine order must be preserved.”

“Yes, indeed,” Mrs. Eddy said. “Above all things.”

“Yet it is not mere violence in the street that troubles me,” Mrs. Graves said. “There are the horrid pamphlets one hears spoken of. My husband has lately mentioned the sensation occasioned by Mr. Bright’s Anthropophagic Crisis .”

“And one hears rumors that the House of Commons will soon take up the issue,” Mrs. Eddy added.

“The Americans are at fault, with their talk of unalienable rights,” Mrs. Graves said.

“The American experiment will fail,” Lady Donner said. “The Negro problem will undo them, Lord Donner assures me. This too shall pass.”

And that put an end to the subject.

Mrs. Eddy soon afterward departed, and Mrs. Graves after that.

Mrs. Breen, fearing that she had overstayed her welcome, stood and thanked her hostess.

“You must come again soon,” Lady Donner said, and Mrs. Breen avowed that she would.

The season was by then in full swing, and the Breens were much in demand. The quality of the guests in Mrs. Breen’s drawing room improved, and at houses where she had formerly been accustomed to leave her card and pass on, the doors were now open to her. She spent her evenings at the opera and the theater and the orchestra. She accepted invitations to the most exclusive balls. She twice attended dinners hosted by First Families—the Pikes and the Reeds, both close associates of Lady Donner.

But the high point of the Season was certainly Mrs. Breen’s growing friendship with Lady Donner herself. The doyenne seemed to have taken on Mrs. Breen’s elevation as her special project. There was little she did not know about the First Families and their lesser compeers, and less (indeed nothing) that she was not willing to use to her own—and to Mrs. Breen’s—benefit. Though the older woman was quick to anger, Mrs. Breen never felt the lash of her displeasure. And she doted upon Sophie. She chanced to meet the child one Wednesday afternoon when Mrs. Breen, feeling, in her mercurial way, particularly fond of her daughter, had allowed Sophie to peek into the drawing room.

Lady Donner was announced.

The governess—a plain, bookish young woman named Ada Pool—was ushering Sophie, with a final kiss from her mother, out of the room when the grande dame swept in.

“Sophie is just leaving,” Mrs. Breen said, inwardly agitated lest Sophie misbehave. “This is Lady Donner, Sophie,” she said. “Can you say good afternoon?”

Sophie smiled. She held a finger to her mouth. She looked at her small feet in their pretty shoes. Then, just as Mrs. Breen began to despair, she said, with an endearing childish lisp, “Good afternoon, Mrs. Donner.”

“Lady Donner,” Mrs. Breen said.

“Mrs. Lady Donner,” Sophie said.

Lady Donner laughed. “I am so pleased to meet you, Sophie.”

Mrs. Breen said, “Give Mama one more kiss, dear, and then you must go with Miss Pool.”

“She is lovely, darling,” Lady Donner said. “Do let her stay.”