Colleen Gleason - The Clockwork Scarab

He led me through a darker salon and then to a small stairwell. This area of the museum was cluttered and dusty, with crates and boxes stacked in haphazard fashion. Presumably, it was one of Miss Adler’s duties to unpack, arrange, and catalog the contents.

I have an excellent sense of direction, and even after several turns and descents, I still knew our whereabouts in the museum. So when Dylan paused outside a small, dingy room, I recognized that we were on the west side, two levels below the Assyrian Basement.

“In here,” he said.

I pulled the slender illuminator from my reticule and flipped its switch. The beam of light created a large yellow circle that danced on dark gray walls and a low ceiling. A collection of small objects—a knee-high statue of Bastet, a vase missing a large chunk, a piece of rock, and other pieces of rubble and dirt—littered the floor. Some long-tailed rodent moved in the shadows, darting into the corner.

I spun the dial to set the illuminator on its brightest level and walked into the chamber.

“The statue was there.” Dylan pointed to the far corner.

Bringing the light down with me, I hunkered on my hands and knees as I’d seen my uncle do at various crime scenes. This is much more difficult when you are a female, dressed in layers of crinolines and skirts, along with a restrictive corset. Nevertheless, I managed to do so with a modicum of modesty and commenced to examining the floor.

Faint scrapes on the stones—something heavy had been moved.

Clean, no dust or dirt—it had been moved recently.

Suddenly, a strange noise blared into the silence. It sounded like nothing I’d ever heard before. A sharp, high, screeching sound that might have been attempting to be music.

Dylan, who’d been standing off to the side watching in fascination, jolted to attention. His eyes wide, he began to fumble through his waistcoat and then his outer coat and in his agitation and excitement, the sleek “telephone” erupted from the depths of a pocket and tumbled onto the ground.

He ducked to the floor and snatched it up, but by then, the noise had stopped. “Oh my God,” he said, staring at the object as if he’d never seen it before.

The device had come to life—it was illuminated and I was close enough to where he was kneeling that I could see tiny words on the front of it.

BenBo text (3)

Jillian text (5)

Flapper missed call

“I’ve got two bars,” he exclaimed, looking around the small, dark space, then down at the shiny telephone. “How can I have bars? One bar. Now I only have one. How the hell can I have b—they’re gone!” He stared at the device, shaking it, jabbing at it with his finger, bolting to his feet to point it in different directions. “They were there a minute ago. Did you see that? There’s no way. No way.”

“What is it? What happened?” Leaving the illuminator on the floor, I gathered up my skirts and pulled to my feet.

I understood little of what he was talking about, but his emotions—excitement, disbelief, and hopefulness—were obvious. And then they gave way to despair. I’d never seen anyone with such an expression of bewilderment, hope, and sorrow.

“For a minute,” he said, “for just a minute I was . . . somehow . . . connected with the future. My future.”

Silence reigned as we both stared at the device.

I heard him swallow hard, and he looked away. His knuckles were white and his jaw moved, shifting from side to side. “I have to figure out how to get home,” he whispered. “My mom and dad must be going crazy.”

“Dylan,” I said, groping for words I didn’t have. Trying to manage emotions I didn’t know. I didn’t know how to act, to even be a friend. But at that moment, I wanted that connection. It wasn’t just curiosity about who he was and from where he’d come. It was empathy: a feeling that was just as foreign to me as he was.

I’d spent much of my life feeling lost and out of place. An overly educated, brilliant young woman in a world owned and managed by men. Dylan seemed nearly as misplaced, and I wanted to help him.

“I’ll do anything I can, Dylan. Whatever I can.”

He nodded, his handsome face grim and his eyes bleak.

Then I did something I’d never done before, never even imagined doing. I opened my arms and pulled him into an embrace.

There was no awkwardness, no fumbling of words, no mortifying flush burning my cheeks. He was warm and alive, and I could feel grief and despair emanating from his body.

“Thanks, Mina,” he said, his chin moving against my shoulder.

And inside me, something shuddered and cracked, like a door opening.

Miss Holmes didn’t contact me the day after the Roses Ball. Nor the next day, nor even the next. Her silence didn’t concern me . . . in fact, I almost welcomed the rest from her bossiness.

But when it got to the fifth day after our adventure with the Society of Sekhmet and I’d had no word from her or Irene Adler, I began to wonder. What a nuisance.

Miss Holmes must be sulking.

I took out my aggravation on Mr. Jackson’s Mechanized-Mentor, beheading his metal self in an explosion of gears. As I was picking up a dented cog before Florence came to investigate the noise, I was struck by an unpleasant thought.

What if my outburst had put Miss Holmes in danger with the Ankh and the Society of Sekhmet? What if she hadn’t been in communication because something happened to her?

I wouldn’t be worried for myself. But for Miss Holmes? The awkward, brain-beaked young woman spent too much time thinking and not enough time in action. She’d probably deduced herself into a trap.

Or maybe she was still sulking.

I supposed I’d better look into the situation.

However, that afternoon, Florence reminded me it was her day to stay in and receive social callers. She insisted I stay in and help her serve tea and converse with whomever came to visit. I was only able to beg off by claiming I had plans to meet an acquaintance at the British Museum and by forcing Pepper to accompany me so I wasn’t going unchaperoned. I wasn’t lying about my destination, and Florence was thrilled that I actually had a social engagement.

“Who are you meeting, Evvie?” she asked, arranging a vase of flowers in the parlor.

“Miss Banes absolutely loves the Greek Wing,” I said.

“Miss Venicia Banes?” Florence perked up, her bright blue eyes widening. “The very eligible Viscount Grimley’s sister?”

“Yes, she is,” I said, adjusting my bonnet. I avoided looking at Pepper, who stood by, attempting not to giggle. She was just pleased she’d be able to walk to the livery and visit her beau while I was at the museum.

“Perhaps the viscount will be chaperoning his sister today,” Florence said.

“It’s possible,” I called, rushing out of the parlor. “So I don’t dare be late! Good-bye, Florence.”

By the time I got to the museum, it was near closing. The guard warned me I had less than half an hour with the artifacts and antiquities as I breezed past and into the echoing halls.

I made two wrong turns, but I finally found myself at the Special Office of the Keeper of the Antiquities. Below the sign was the Royal Seal of Her Majesty the Queen.

“Evaline,” said Irene Adler when she opened the door. She removed her spectacles, blinking as if she’d been reading for a long time. “Come in.”

I stepped into the office. The last time I’d been there was the night Miss Holmes and I met, a week ago. Then, the office had been neat and organized, but today was a different story. Books and papers littered the large round table, as well as the floor, desk, and every other available surface.