Emma Holloway - A Study in Ashes

“Why wouldn’t I be with you whenever I could?” She wanted to fall into his arms. She could feel his embrace already, that strong, steady warmth healing her from the bones outward. But first she had to make sure he understood. “The message from the clock is real. I need your help if I’m going to make it home.”

His eyes suddenly lost their unfocussed look, replaced by the sharp intelligence she knew so well. But he still took her hands, engulfing them in his as he drew her close and pressed his lips to her brow. His touch was like a lifeline, saving her when she hadn’t even known she was drowning.

“What do you need?” he murmured. “Just ask, and it’s yours.”

She caught his scent—male and redolent of freshly cut wood. His presence was making it desperately hard to concentrate. And he kept looking at her as if she had descended from the heavens on a glittering cloud, her bedraggled dress a gown of moonbeams. Suddenly shy, she babbled an answer, barely aware if she was making sense.

His expression turned thoughtful. “Are you sure?”

“I don’t have any other weapons,” Imogen replied, aware that the room seemed to be fading around them, so that they were the only solid things there.

“Then I have what you need,” he said, releasing her hands. “Wait here.”

And he walked into the darkness of the workshop. Alone and slightly disoriented, Imogen clasped her hands. They felt lonely without his answering grip, like half a set.

Hurry , said Mouse, startling her. She’d forgotten all about him. We don’t have much time before we need to move .

“Bucky?” she called plaintively.

And then he was suddenly there again, holding an object in both hands. It was the size of a pineapple and covered in many overlapping plates of silver metal. “Be careful with this.”

She took it from him, the weight surprising her. In the way of dreams part of her understood everything it could do while the rest of her could not. “Thank you. I think you just saved my life.”

“Then open your eyes so you can save mine,” he whispered, leaning over. This time he kissed her on the lips, cradling her face as if she were a flower. The living warmth of his breath thawed her, returning color to her soul. She’d been lost and starving for touch, and his touch most of all.

“Don’t let me go,” she pleaded. “Let me stay with you here!”

His gaze met hers, and she saw his heartbreak there. “If only I could,” he whispered.

Imogen trembled as he kissed her again, and she tasted him thoroughly and long, but eventually the pressure of his mouth on hers began to fade. She became aware of the ache of fatigue, the heavy, incessant ticking of machinery, and a heavy weight on her stomach.

“No!” she cried softly as her eyes opened and she found herself back in the clock.

I feel as if I have been caught between the pages of a penny romance. There was enough sticky sweetness there to ice a dozen tea buns .

Imogen narrowed her eyes. “If you don’t like my dreams, stay out of them.”

At least your steely jawed hero has some useful talents .

“Of course he does,” she said automatically as Mouse shifted, making her sit up.

It was then she looked down to see what was sitting on her stomach. Her fingers ran over the chill metal of the silver plates. A wave of triumph made her laugh out loud and she scrambled to her feet.

The bomb Bucky had given her was still in her hands.

London, October 9, 1889

THE VIOLET QUEEN’S RESIDENCE

2:15 p.m. Wednesday

“YOU ASSUMED RESPONSIBILITY FOR MRS. LOREN’S HOUSE of pleasure, did you not?” said the Violet Queen to Miss Hyacinth, motioning for her to take a chair in the overstuffed, overbaubled purple velvet parlor. The decor was at once titillating and inappropriately amusing. Purple might have been the color of sin in the Empire—Hyacinth had dyed her own hair the lightest shade of lilac—but this sitting room was too much. All in all, the place was a bit like the inside of a grape.

“That is so, madam,” Hyacinth replied with excruciating politeness, settling on the edge of a chaise longue. She was wearing a dark blue corded silk that spread like an ink stain across the plush fabric.

“Which is why I asked that you come to see me.” The Violet Queen resumed her own seat, nearly sitting on a peach-colored Pomeranian, which yapped querulously at the descending bustle. “It’s customary to pay a courtesy call, my dear, just for the sake of being good neighbors. We are in the same line of work after all. Better yet, Mrs. Loren should have brought you around for an introduction. But there you are. Times just aren’t what they once were.”

Hyacinth smiled apologetically at the so-called Queen of Whores. Indeed. Once upon a time, my parents’ footmen would have tossed you down the front steps in the unlikely event that you set foot on our property .

And then, of course, there was the fact that a piece of the metropolis had been blasted to smithereens. Not here, well north of Russell Square, and not in Whitechapel, where Hyacinth kept her establishment, but right around where the ill-fated Green Queen had counted her coin. The morning had brought a queer mood to the city, as if everyone was holding his breath for what came next. Hyacinth expected business would be hopping. Danger brought out the need for pleasure.

“I apologize for my tardiness in paying my courtesies, madam. Unfortunately, there was much to do and learn. I must say that I’m surprised you thought to keep this appointment, with everything else going on.”

“Our business doesn’t stop for war.” The Violet Queen tilted her head slightly. She had once been a beautiful woman, but time had reduced her valuation. Lines bracketed her mouth, and no amount of powder could substitute for the flawless sheen of youth. But her dark hair was still glossy and elegantly dressed, and her dark rose gown was the latest in French couture. Hyacinth filed away the details for future reference. It was good to know a whore could age so well. If she lived long enough, she might need the pointers.

“But never mind all that,” said the Violet Queen. The woman pulled the dog into her lap, stroking its puff of fur. “You are here now, and we can catch up our acquaintance. I have it on good authority that revenues have gone up in your establishment. You are to be congratulated.”

“My clientele sets a high premium on novelty,” Hyacinth replied. “There had been a shortage of fresh ideas in the establishment before I arrived.”

The Violet Queen narrowed her eyes. “And where would you have got such ideas, Miss Hyacinth?”

“I was always good with a riding crop.”

“And you have no qualms about applying it to human flesh?”

“None. In fact, I have laid in quite the selection of aids. I had, um, acquaintances who were quick to instruct me once they realized I had an aptitude for such work.”

“And I take it word has spread of your particular talents?”

“Indeed it has.” Hyacinth allowed satisfaction to creep into her voice. “It is quite gratifying to see one’s efforts rewarded, especially at the higher levels of Society. It seems a good beginning to a satisfying enterprise.”

“And your business grows?”

“It has trebled, madam.”

The Violet Queen dumped the dog from her lap, her manner suddenly cool. “Such fiendish ways, and a young beauty to boot. I was once such as you, winning favor. Showers of jewels one day, a journey to Paris the next.”

She’s jealous. Best watch my step .

“I understand the Duke of Morton has become one of your clients.”