Emma Holloway - A Study in Ashes

Imogen’s eyes flared wide, meeting his with an expression of astonishment so profound that Tobias looked over his shoulder to see what was the matter. There was nothing, the tiny room exactly as it had been a minute before. Yet as he turned back, she was falling, folding up like a scarf tossed carelessly to the floor. He barely caught her in time to ease her down .

“Imogen?” he cried. “Im, what’s the matter?”

She was shuddering, fighting against a force ravaging her body .

Tobias fell to his knees and bent over his sister, pulling off his jacket to cushion her head. “Surgeon!” he bellowed. “Surgeon, come quickly!”

She whimpered, her back bowing as if in some terrible agony. Her fingers clutched at him, her eyes holding his as if his gaze alone was keeping her tethered to her body .

“Stay with me!” he urged. “Imogen, hang on. You know you can. You’re strong.”

But her eyes slowly closed, the light in them dimming as if someone had turned down the wick inside her. Fear struck deep and true, shredding him to the quick. There was little he counted on anymore, but he counted on Im. She was all that remained of an innocence he’d lost .

“Surgeon!” he bawled, but the man never came .

The ship jolted again, and he knew the rigging was about to give way. He could feel the ship descending and he could only pray they’d reach the ground before they fell. And yet that wasn’t the thing he feared most right then .

His hands turned chill and clammy, clumsy as paws as he held his sister, trembling as the battle—barely worth noticing now—raged on outside. “Im?”

Her lips moved, her voice so faint he was sure he’d misheard it. “Im?”

She spoke again, and this time he bent close, putting his ear close to her mouth. “Surely I killed you?”

And then she did not speak again .

London, September 18, 1889

SPIE HEADQUARTERS

9:05 p.m. Wednesday

Visitors to London never fail to be charmed by the many-colored globes of the gaslights illuminating the public streets. Swaths of gold, green, and blue glow along the horizon, an exotic panorama of the modern age. But these delights to the eye serve a practical purpose, each hue indicating which utility supplies their gas. The owners of these companies are therefore known by the colors of their gaslights—the Gold King, the Green Queen, the Blue King, and so forth. It is an altogether quaint custom that goes far to enhance the air of charm and eccentricity already inherent in Londontown.

—The Serendipitous Armchair:

A Gentleman’s Travelling Companion to London ,

2nd edition

Mother Empire is held hostage, bound and weeping, to Industrial Vampires known as the steam barons. GOLD, GREEN, BLUE, or SCARLET, they monopolize railways and manufactories, coal mines and docks. Merchants must pay to sell their wares while the POOR PERISH in the DARK and COLD. Let it be understood that the only recourse to this TYRANNY is WAR.

—Political pamphlet, Baskerville Rebellion, 1889

THE MEMORIES OF THAT NIGHT WERE STILL WITH TOBIAS AS he walked through a dark alley, a peculiar strain of horror plucking at his soul. Anna had been Imogen’s twin, and she’d died young. Lord Bancroft, their father, had confessed that he’d attempted to save Anna by allowing Magnus to transfer her soul into an automaton. That she’d survived and tried to kill Imogen … but that was where his mind ducked sideways, refusing to engage. Had that truly been what he’d heard Imogen say? If it was, then what was he supposed to do about it? Magnus and all his creations had burned up that night. But then what had Imogen’s final words meant? Surely I killed you . Had she meant Anna?

A prickling of alarm surged through him, as it always did when he reached this point in his thoughts. Had Anna somehow touched Imogen at the very end? Was that the reason Imogen was ill? This was why Tobias hated magic with a virulent revulsion. It didn’t make sense, but then it did. The logic appealed to a dark, hidden part of himself that was more frightening than any fireside tale. And in those terrible moments, he felt strangely like the Grail King—wounded at the heart and never able to heal, even if that healing would cure the whole world.

But really, how can I fight a ghost? And surely family ghosts were the most horrible of all. It’s all nonsense. I was panicked by the battle and only imagined what she said. War plays tricks on the mind .

The click of his heels on the cobbles was a solid, reassuring sound, and he clung to it like a drowning man clutches a spar of wood. I am the Gold King’s maker. I build engines. I deal in brass and steel, not death magic .

He kept one hand on the Webley revolver in his pocket. The feel of the grip against his palm comforted him more than he cared to admit. He’d customized the gun with a magnetized action for switching between conventional bullets and an aether discharge—not as impressive as some of the hardware on the underground market, but it fit into the pocket of a dress coat. He’d carried a weapon ever since the battle in the sky, his innate sense of safety going down in flame and ash with the ships. They’d barely made it to the ground before the rigging on the Helios turned to ash.

Soldiers referred to their first battle as seeing the elephant. It was more like looking into the mouth of the Inferno. Like everything else from that night, the image of those burning airships lurked forever just behind his eyes.

And there had been no quiet, sane life to return to. London was restless, every night putting new cracks in its facade of civilization. Rumors of rebellion gave even the lowest thief an excuse for anarchy. Even this neighborhood near Bond Street was growing unpredictable.

He turned from the alley into what was little more than a passage between brick warehouses. The lowering shadows kicked his pulse into a higher gear, reminding him he was alone. Stopping in his tracks, he cursed himself for forgetting to bring a lantern of any kind, and then decided he was better off invisible.

Cautiously, Tobias forged ahead, finding just enough ambient light to keep from pitching into the mud. It had rained earlier, but now the sky had cleared and the ground glistened with moisture, a silver track sketched by a faint moon. Tobias took his time, listening to the squish of his boots—his valet was going to quit in high dudgeon any day now—and feeling the cool, wet air on his face.

Then the building to his left gave way to a tall fence, the signal that he’d arrived at his destination. The place was little more than a shack in an unkempt yard, but Tobias knew every inch of it; he’d spent half his time here only a few years ago. Candlelight shone around the circumference of the ill-fitting door, making it easy to find his way inside. The first thing he recognized was the smell—coal smoke, alcohol, rotting upholstery, and a lingering whiff of scorched wool. When he stepped inside, it seemed nothing had changed inside the clubhouse of the Society for the Proliferation of Impertinent Events, better known as SPIE. Still, Tobias took a good look around before taking his hand off the Webley.

“Drink?” asked Mr. Buckingham Penner, who was sitting in an armchair that appeared to have survived being launched by a trebuchet over enemy lines.

“You know me too well,” Tobias replied to the man who had been his best friend ever since knee pants and toffee. The sound of Bucky’s voice uncranked the muscles in his back and his breath released in a whoosh.