Kady Cross: The Girl with the Windup Heart

“Jolly fine weather we’re having, is it not, Mr. Grapeypants?” she asked in a low voice, bouncing the left grape up and down.

“It is indeed, Lord Cabernet,” “replied” the right grape in a higher pitch. “Nary a cloud to be seen. And isn’t it a travesty, the price of tea these days?”

“Highway robbery. We’ve taken to using the same leaves over and over until the pot runs clear.”

“A sound notion.”

Mila laughed. Now, this was a diversion!

Another thump from upstairs. More laughter—and this time she heard the familiar sound of Jack’s chuckle. It ruined her fun, and made her angry.

Very, very angry, which was surprising because she’d heard that wine was supposed to make a person happy. The laughter continued. Mila reached behind her and took a candlestick from the small table. She tested the weight of it in her palm and then tossed it upward with all her strength. It broke through the ceiling, trailing plaster dust as it tore through the floor of Jack’s bedroom. The doxy screamed. Jack swore. From where she sat, Mila could see through the hole the candlestick created, to where it had lodged itself in the ceiling above. She grinned. She was still grinning when a portion of Jack’s scowling face appeared above the hole.

“What the bloomin’ ’ell was that all about?” he demanded. “’Ave you gone completely mad?”

Completely mad? That implied that he thought her somewhat mad, didn’t it? Her grasp on language might not be as good as it ought, but she knew what mad meant. She tossed Lord Cabernet and Sir Grapeypants into the bowl with their society friends and set it aside. Then she jumped up on the sofa. Another big jump and she was able to grab a handhold in the hole she had made. Jack backed up—good thing, too. She drew back her arm and snapped her fist upward, knocking another chunk of ceiling loose.

More screams from the woman. Mila was going to shove the woman’s own knickers into her mouth just to shut her up. She punched again, and this time a large enough chunk fell—onto the sofa—that she was able to bring her other hand up and haul herself through the jagged opening.

Jack stared at her as though he truly thought her insane. As if he thought she was a monster. Mila had never wanted to hit him before, but she did now. How could he look at her as if he didn’t know her? As if he didn’t understand?

“Wot the ’ell?” He was on his feet now—clad only in a pair of black trousers that weren’t fastened all the way. His naked flesh was quite captivating, though Mila wasn’t certain why. She’d seen him undressed before, but now she wanted to put a shirt—or her hands—on him. Behind him, his “companion” tried to hide her nudity with her garish gown. Her naked flesh was not so captivating. In fact, the sight of it made Mila want to toss her out the bloody window.

Instead, she turned to Jack. “You’re stupid,” she informed him. Her tongue felt thick and heavy in her mouth. “Stupid, stupid, stupid. You’re a stupid-head. And you’re loud, and pretty and...” Her attention went back to the woman. “Your laugh hurts my ears like a screeching door hinge.”

“Are you drunk?” Jack demanded.

“How should I know?” Mila shot back. “I don’t know what drunk is!”

“Right.” He took her arm. “You’re wasted.”

Waste. That was bad, wasn’t it? Mila jerked free of his hold. “I am not. I’m angry. How can you seem so smart and be so not smart?” She ran a hand through her hair; it came out covered in plaster dust. Blast.

Jack frowned at her. He was pretty even when he frowned. “I told you to stay away from the liquor cabinet.”

Mila scowled back. “You told her—” she pointed at the woman who had since donned her shift and was climbing into her gown “—that she was pretty. Obviously you are not consistent with the truth.”

The tart—Darla—gasped and Mila rolled her eyes. Surely the woman had heard worse insults than that.

“Go to your room,” Jack instructed sternly. “Later the two of us is going to ’ave a serious chat.”

“I hate it when you talk like that,” she shot back. “Speak per-properly.”

He grabbed her arm again and propelled her toward the door. Honestly, she wouldn’t have been surprised if he’d shoved her back through the hole. “Get out.”

Jack yanked open the door to reveal the new housekeeper he’d hired for Mila. Why he thought Mila needed someone to look after her when she had him, Mila had no idea. He’d said something about propriety that she didn’t understand and still didn’t quite comprehend. Basically he’d hired the woman to make sure he didn’t treat Mila like one of his “ladies.”

What if she wanted him to treat her that way?

“Beggin’ your pardon, Mr. Dandy, but is everything quite all right?” the older woman asked in her Northern accent.

Jack forced a smile. Mila knew it was forced because it looked nothing like his real smile. “Goin’ to need someone what to fix that ’ole, missus. Be a love and take care of that would you?”

“Of course, sir.” She continued to stand there. Mila grinned at her and waved. The housekeeper—Mrs. Brooks—tentatively waved back. “Are you unwell, child?”

“Wasted,” Mila replied with a grin. Jack, she noted, winced.

“Be a love and escort Mila to her room, missus.” And then, to the doxy he said, “You best be on your way, love.”

“Yes,” Mila chirped. “Do be on your way.”

“Oy.” Jack poked her. “Don’t be rude.”

“That wasn’t rude,” she protested. “Rude would be—” And then she threw up all the lovely wine and grapes all over Darla’s skirts.

Where was he?

Griffin tried to sit up, but thick straps over his chest, arms and legs kept him from rising. The spots where the straps touched him felt cool—wrong. There was something about them that separated him from the Aether, made it impossible for him to use his abilities in any way. What were they made of? It bothered him that he didn’t know what they were or how to combat them.

He was too tired to panic. He’d never gotten into a situation he couldn’t get himself out of, and he’d get out of this one. He just had to keep his wits about him. Garibaldi would want him to be afraid and off balance.

He closed his eyes. Was Finley all right? At least Garibaldi hadn’t taken her, as well. When he saw Lady Ash, and then that automaton, shoot her...well, he’d lost all reason. If he lived to be one hundred he would never regret killing that woman—something he’d never thought himself capable of feeling, but he’d slaughter an army to protect Fin.

She was probably ripping London apart looking for him.

But he wasn’t in London.

Griffin’s eyes snapped open. He was in the Aether. How was that possible? How could Garibaldi imprison him there and render him powerless? It was his element, he should be strong, but instead he was as weak as a newborn kitten trying to hold its head up. He reached out for any hint of power and felt the bands around him tighten. There was pressure on his head, as well—like a set of fingers digging into his skull. He could feel his power being siphoned through those conduits. Garibaldi was leeching the Aether from him to keep him weak. Helpless.

Still refusing to panic, he glanced around at his surroundings. The implements digging into his scalp prevented him from turning his head much, but he could see that he was in a house. Garibaldi was strong enough to construct within the Aether. Bloody hell, that was not good. The man would be practically a god in this world, while Griffin’s power was being slowly drained—probably to strengthen Garibaldi, the bastard.