Emma Holloway - A Study in Ashes

Her mother unfurled a clockwork fan, which opened, stick by stick, in a profusion of tiny sapphires. “And she’s the baby of the family. I can’t believe it’s already time to begin thinking about her Season next year.”

Deep inside, Poppy shuddered. The Season meant being presented to the queen—she supposed that could be endured—but then came the marriage mart with all the balls and routs and dancing parties. If the sheer dullness of it all wasn’t enough, the first man who made a decent offer to Lord Bancroft could cart her away like a goat from the livestock auction, bleating as she went. So much for her future.

“Is not Alice the very model of a mother?” Lady Bancroft said to Mr. Keating. “She did not come tonight, which is a pity, but little Jeremy caught a sniffle. She could not bear to be away from him.”

“Then you have heard more details than I, Lady Bancroft. My daughter clearly favors her mother-in-law for talk of babies.”

No doubt . Poppy couldn’t imagine writing Jasper Keating about throw-up and nappies. Although Poppy wasn’t supposed to understand such things, Alice had obviously been with child when she’d married Tobias, for all she’d been packed off to the country the moment she’d started to show. And sadly, while Tobias and Alice did their best to get along, theirs was a far halloo from a love match. It was too bad, because Poppy adored her sister-in-law.

Besides Alice the fallen angel, I have a sleeping princess for a sister, a knave for a brother, an evil queen for a mother, and Papa thinks he’s Signor Machiavelli. How did I end up in this house? Poppy knew everyone complained about one’s family, but hers had to be eligible for some sort of prize. Or a scientific study. She wondered if Mr. Darwin was still writing books.

Poppy fidgeted, her attention wandering even further. More people had arrived, filling the room with a seething mass of bare shoulders and stiff white shirts. She recognized many of the faces, although by no means all. It was going to be a miserable crush if too many more people turned up. It was already like standing beside an overperfumed furnace.

Her gaze caught on a tall, dark-haired man with piercing blue eyes standing at the far end of the room. It was William Reading, the Scarlet King, sporting the bright red waistcoat that was his trademark. He still hasn’t figured out that sort of thing went out of fashion years ago . But that didn’t seem to stop his success with the ladies, judging from the flock chirping around him.

The one woman who had never fallen for him was Imogen, but that might have been because her heart had already belonged to Bucky Penner. Then again, it might have just been good taste. The Scarlet King’s oily smile reminded Poppy of an advertisement for hair pomade.

Keating leaned close to her, making her jump. “You should go see what Mr. Reading brought with him.”

Escape! For an instant, she almost liked the Gold King—although it said how bored she was that seeking out Reading was an enticement. Poppy glanced back at her mother, who nodded—although her eyes still delivered a warning glare. “Don’t make a nuisance of yourself.”

Apparently the bar had been lowered from being charming to not causing a scandal. “Of course, Mother.”

“And don’t touch the champagne.” Lady Bancroft dismissed her with a flap of the hand.

Poppy slipped through the throng with profound relief. It was clear that Reading had indeed brought something, because the crowd was clotting around him. Only her quick reflexes got her through the mass of people in time to see what the man was holding.

Then curiosity seized her, making her forget even the hideous discomfort of her stays. Whatever Reading had, it was so bright with gold that for an instant she couldn’t make it out. She had to look away and then try again, taking in one detail at a time. On his right hand, he wore a glove that extended all the way to his elbow. It seemed to be made of spun ice—though possibly it was just chain mail so fine it rippled like silk and gleamed like polished silver. What sat on it, though, was surely a demon forged of fire.

Awe took her. Poppy chewed her lip as she catalogued every feature. Brass claws dug into the steel glove, shifting uneasily while the thing looked about with bright ruby eyes. It was a smallish eagle, perhaps, though that didn’t begin to describe the beautiful ferocity of it. Every bright gold feather was carefully etched to capture nature’s texture, and when the bird opened its wings, they fanned and quivered like a living thing. But it was the beak that caught her interest, for it wasn’t all gold. Like the claws, it was brass tipped in steel. The thing was clearly meant for hunting.

“Can it fly?” one of the ladies asked.

“Of course,” said Reading.

He had one of those low, musical voices meant to read poetry about snowy flesh and bodices. Not that Poppy ever got into her mother’s private stock of romantic novels.

“My firebird here contains a miniaturized burner for aether distillate. He can fly every bit as high as his living cousins, and his logic processor is a step above anything on the commercial market. That’s really why I made him. I wanted a means of testing the sort of decision making we’d expect of a raptor. Imagine the possibility for such creatures on the field of battle.”

The bird shifted from foot to foot, ruffling its wings back into place. It was clear how Reading controlled the creature, for there was a small box in his other hand with dials and buttons. But the exquisite artistry outweighed the need for illusion. Poppy caught her breath, wanting to ask something just for an excuse to get closer. She’d seen plenty of wondrous inventions, but this was so beautiful it was almost beyond the reach of understanding. Looking at it made her heart ache.

“What sort of decisions?” the same woman asked. She was looking at the Scarlet King with a sly smile, as if there was more to the conversation than met the eye. “Are you asking it to kill pigeons?”

He laughed, holding the bird up a notch. The gesture spoke to his strength, because the thing must have been enormously heavy. “Perhaps to roast them.”

The creature opened its beak, and a tongue of flame lashed out with a sound like ripping silk. The crowd leaped back, cries of alarm filling the room. Reading laughed again, clearly enjoying himself. “I said it was a firebird.”

The thing spread its huge wings and gave a single flap. Metal feathers whistled through the air as it launched toward the high ceiling. For a moment, all Poppy felt was a fizz of delight that raised the fine hair all down her arms. The firebird sailed in a lazy circle, reflecting the bright lights and sparkle like an orbiting sun. But her pleasure quickly soured to alarm as the thing brushed the crystal droplets of the chandeliers, making them wobble on their chains. And then another blast of flame licked out dangerously close to the drapes.

Poppy suddenly had visions of Hilliard House ablaze. Dark fear snaked under her ribs as she glanced at Reading. What she saw there made her shrink back. His bright blue eyes held an unpleasant spark—this bordered on more than mischief. He was enjoying the crowd’s distress.

The firebird swooped over the table where footmen were replenishing the refreshments. They ducked from sheer surprise, one of them dropping a bottle that smashed with a sound like a gunshot. Guests began backing toward the door.

Poppy looked around for her mother, who was open-mouthed with horror. The party was about to become a disaster, but no one was brave enough to tell a steam baron to stop playing with his toys. Like Keating, Reading was too powerful to insult.

Poppy’s fingers crushed the ruffles of her skirts, anger curdling her fear. It was unfair and wrong for grown men and women to cower before an idiotic bully. Blast him anyway! What could he do to a fifteen-year-old schoolgirl? She wheeled around and stood squarely in his path.