Cold Copper: The Age of Steam

by Devon Monk

  He frowned while donning his outercoat. “It has never been my experience that Mr. Davis is reliable. It must be—”

  A train whistle hooted, two short, one long howl. When it softened a bit, Rose was sure she could hear the call of the conductor, urging passengers aboard.

  “—five o’clock exactly.” He tucked his watch into his pocket. “Mr. Davis should be halfway to the creek by now.”

  “Do you pay such close attention to all of Hays City’s residents?” Rose wandered up to the librarian’s desk and placed the books down.

  “Well, no. But you have to admit he is difficult to overlook. I think he quite prefers it that way.”

  That was true. Mr. Davis had a bit of a drinking habit, and by evening each night as he rambled out of town with his tinker wagon, he was usually singing at the top of his lungs.

  “Is that everything now?” Miss Bucker wore round glasses much like Mr. Wicks, only hers had glass in them as thick as a thumb. That glass didn’t appear to be strong enough to take the squint out of her eyes as she flipped each book over and took note of the title and author in the ledger at her side.

  She picked up the fountain pen and quirked her head to one side, pen raised, looking down her nose at the same time as looking up at Rose. “Name, my dear?”

  “Miss Rose Small. I’m currently at Miss Adaline’s farm.”

  “Is that so? I heard an airship came crashing into the orchard just a few months ago. Were you there to see it?”

  Rose had indeed been there. She’d been injured, very sick, and aboard Captain Hink’s airship, the Swift. They nearly hadn’t made it to the farm that was owned by the coven of witches where Mae had been raised. The Swift hadn’t so much crashed as barely limped the winds to come down less than easily in the orchards.

  “I didn’t see a ship crash at all,” Rose said quite truthfully.

  “Well, I expect such things to become common now,” Miss Bucker said. “Such comings and goings with the rail line and ships and strange travel devices. This town used to be a quiet place. A nice place.” She planted her pen back in the ink pot and shook her head. “Look at it now. New faces every day, bandits and roughs just adding to the mess of it. I wouldn’t be surprised if we burst our boundaries by next spring.”

  “Hays City is busy,” Mr. Wicks said. “That is the price for the advance of civilization, I’m afraid. But it’s not growing as quickly as some other towns. The rail connections in Council Bluff and Des Moines have more than tripled the size of those cities in under a year.”

  “Civilization can advance all it wants,” she said with a huff. “In those cities.”

  He grinned at Rose when Miss Bucker wasn’t looking, then slid his book onto her desk.

  “Oh, you can take it, Thomas,” she said more kindly. “I know you’ll have it back by the morning.”

  “Thank you, Miss Bucker.”

  Rose tucked the books inside the inner pocket she’d sewn into her heavy coat; then, knowing the books were safe from the elements, she tugged the door open and stepped out into the night.

  Wet, dark, and cold. It wasn’t snow coming down; it was waves of freezing sleet that the wind snapped out like sheets on a line.

  Rose swore under her breath. She hadn’t ridden into town. She’d stormed her way on foot, five miles or so, without once thinking how she’d get back in the dark.

  Well, she knew the way, and there wasn’t anything wrong with her feet. She’d be cold and wet by the end of it, but neither of those things would be her death.

  Time to get walking.

  She’d made it down to the end of the block when Mr. Wicks called out.

  “Miss Small.” He all-too-quickly caught up to her strong stride before she’d even reached the hardware store. “You aren’t going to travel the night alone are you?”

  “Yes, I am, Mr. Wicks. Don’t bother yourself over my welfare. I can take care of myself.”

  “It isn’t a bother—”

  A horse loped down the street toward them. Rose paused on the wooden sidewalk, squinting against the sleet catching like sparks of gold in the wedge of shop light.

  She knew that rider. Captain Hink.

  “You’re coming home,” he said, pulling the horse up short and glaring down at her.

  “Not with you, I’m not,” she said.

  “Excuse me,” Thomas said. “Are you a relation to Miss Small?”

  “No,” Rose said. “He most certainly is not. My relations aren’t lying, cheating dogs.”

  “How would you know?” Hink asked. “You run across one of your real relations lately?”

  “If I had, I wouldn’t tell you.”

  “Rose Small, I do not know what has gotten into you.” Hink pushed his hat back off his eyes a bit.

  “Give me your horse.” She held her hand out.

  “What? No.”

  “You won’t need it, will you?”

  He leaned forward a bit to drape one arm on the saddle horn and the sleeting rain shattered down like diamonds from the brim of his hat. “If I wanted to be standing in the street with my boots in a puddle, that’s where I’d be. What has gotten into you, woman?”

  “Clarity,” she said. “You don’t need the horse. You have a warm bed waiting for you right down Whore Street.”

  Hink opened his mouth, but instead of yelling, he laughed.

  He laughed.

  Rose took a deep breath and clenched her hands into fists. Hot white fury filled her, and the taste of melted metal filled her mouth. How dare he make fun of her. How dare he try to laugh his way out of his betrayal.

  Did she mean so little to him?

  “Is that what this is all about?” he asked. “My…other interests? I suppose you’ve made up your mind without once hearing my explanation.”

  “Mr. Hink,” she said through her teeth. “Do not slight me so. I am not a fool.”

  He had the sense to straighten up and lean back.

  “The only thing you have that I would even consider accepting,” she continued, “is that horse. All the rest of you is abhorrent to my eyes.”

  Hink hitched one shoulder back as if taking a punch.

  “Rose, you’re just not seeing it straight,” Hink said.

  “Excuse me, Mr. Hink, is it?” Thomas said. “The lady is obviously unwilling to entertain your company. In this weather, at this hour, a gentleman’s duty is to give up his mount so that the lady may find shelter.”

  Hink turned his single blue eye down on the slender man next to her.

  “Who the hell are you?”

  Rose had seen that look on his face before. It was the sort of look he gave men who stood between him and the Swift. Possessive, angry, and harder than iron, Captain Hink didn’t hesitate to kill men who threatened the one thing he loved—his ship.

  And it was the look he was giving Thomas.

  But not because he was threatening his ship. The Swift was safely tucked away in a shop on coven land, being rebuilt by Mr. Seldom, Hink’s second-in-command; Rose; and Hink himself, when he wasn’t drinking and carousing.

  So why the look? Because Thomas was threatening to take his horse away? Hink won that horse in a card game. As far as she knew, he didn’t care that much for the rambling old beast.

  Then what had put the calculating, killing look into the man?

  Could it be his feelings for her?

  No, he’d made it clear just exactly where, and who, he wanted to spend his time with.

  “Wicks,” Thomas said. “Thomas Wicks.”

  “Are you speaking for her now, Mr. Wicks?” Hink rumbled.

  “No,” Rose said. “Of course not. It’s—no man speaks for me. But at least he knows how to be courteous to a woman.”

  Hink nodded slowly, still looking at Thomas, who stood beside Rose, his shoulders back, stock straight. He stared Hink right back, unafraid, or unaware of just how dangerous that man could be.

  Rose was secretly surprised. Thomas had seemed a little distracted, an
d maybe a sweetly bumbling man, when they’d run into each other. But now he looked like someone who knew how to take care of himself and any situation that came his way.

  She suddenly wondered if he had a gun on him.

  Oh, for glim’s sake. She didn’t want either of them shot over this.

  “Never mind,” Rose said. “The both of you. I’ll walk. Keep your horse, Mr. Hink. I’ll find my way home on my own.”

  “I wouldn’t have it,” Thomas said. “I’ll see you home safely, Miss Small.”

  He turned half away from Hink and touched her arm.

  “I don’t need—,” Rose started.

  “Step off, now, boy,” Hink warned. “Woman said you don’t speak for her. I’d be more than happy to see that’s a permanent sort of condition for you.” He dismounted and took the three steps or so to close the distance between them.

  Now they were all huddled beneath the overhang of the hardware shop, wet and shining in yellow lamplight.

  Rose was close enough to Thomas that even in the low light she could see his eyebrow arc and a hard, cool sort of look cross his face. She decided he most certainly had a gun on him.

  “Please,” Rose said softly to him. “Let it be.”

  He glanced at her, his wide eyes shifting just over the frames of his glasses to take in the all of her face. Then he nodded and leaned in a little closer, whispering, “As you please. I do hope I’ll see you again, Miss Small.”

  Hink chucked his chin up and stared at Rose from behind Thomas. She heard the creak of leather in the seams of his gloves straining as he clenched his hand.

  “Thank you, Mr. Wicks.” She stepped back so as to lessen the chance of Hink walloping the man.

  Thomas moved out of the way and Hink pushed past him to hand Rose the horse’s reins. “I’ll see you out at the farm,” he said.

  “Don’t bother yourself, Captain.” She clomped past him, half expecting he would reach out for her, try to stop her, try to tell her that he was sorry.

  But he just folded his arms across his chest and leaned back on one foot, glowering in the darkness as she swung up into the saddle—glowering at her as she turned the horse and started away.

  The stirrups were too long, set for his legs not hers, but she pretended that it didn’t matter, just as she pretended he didn’t matter.

  She had loved him, given him her heart, even if she hadn’t said so much in words. He had broken that trust and spent weeks in the arms of other women.

  She didn’t want that, didn’t want a man who gave his affections to any pretty painted bird. But she had wanted him—so much so it had made her ache to think of leaving. But she knew she must.

  She urged the horse into a quick trot as the cold sleet scrubbed away her tears.

  * * *

  By the time Rose got back to the farm, she was all cried out and numb, both inside and out. But the numbness brought with it a certainty she hadn’t possessed before: she was going to catch the next train out of town, head up to Kansas City, or maybe St. Louis, then off to Chicago, New York, Boston.

  She had horizons to see, and she wasn’t going to let any man take them away from her.

  She walked Hink’s horse into the barn, dismounted, lit the lantern with shaking, cold hands, then put the horse in a stall and gave it a quick wipe down with a cloth before tossing some hay in for the poor thing and setting the saddle and bridle in the tack room.

  Her room was in the main house, a sort of large lodge building that housed all the people who worked the farm in the spring and summer, and fell empty during the wintering months. The witches all shared in the labor and the harvest of the land, but most lived in town or on their own smaller lots of land.

  The gathering room of the main house was empty and quiet, fists of coal from the wood fire that had burned down to ash whispering softly. The rocking chair Mae Lindson had sat in while she was recovering her mind and sanity when they’d first arrived stood empty.

  The quiet of the place just made Rose more lonely. And determined. She might have made the wrong choice agreeing to take the boilerman job on Captain Hink’s ship, but she didn’t have to sit around moping about it.

  Not wanting to disturb the coven members who might be sleeping in the guest rooms, she made her way on tiptoe across the hall.

  Halfway across the room she heard hushed voices, and almost called out softly to the sisters to ask why they were awake so late after sunset.

  Probably spells. All of the sisters had been busy lately, mixing herbs and other blessings, making trips into town for supplies come by the mail or train, and then shipping them off again. She hadn’t seen any of the things they’d made their magic with, and since they’d told her it was of both a private and business nature, she hadn’t thought it right to ask.

  Better just to pass by quietly.

  “But he’s asking for more,” Margaret said. “We’ve already fulfilled our side of the agreement. I don’t know why Sister Adaline doesn’t tell him we’re done with this business. It’s worrisome. Do you ever think what that family of his might be doing with those things?”

  “We have to think of what’s best for the coven,” Sarah replied. “Times are changing, Margaret. Witches can’t just stand by while the rest of the world falls apart. We must choose a side. Do you remember what happened the last time witches were on the losing side?”

  “I don’t see any good coming of this. Since when do witches choose sides in wars? Our calling isn’t for these kinds of…devices and curses. He can do his own dirty spells. Or buy them from someone else.”

  “Shush, Margaret. Don’t speak of him so. He’ll hear you.” She paused, then, quieter: “Sister Adaline wouldn’t lead us wrong.”

  “Something bad will come of our good work,” Margaret said. “Nothing good can come of those things.”

  “Shh!”

  Rose knew they had heard her walking, breathing.

  Then Sarah said much more loudly, “Good night, Margaret. I’ll see you in the morning.”

  The shuffle of bare feet crossed the hall floor, and two doors closed firmly.

  They had known she was there. They must have known.

  She felt a little guilty for eavesdropping, but didn’t know what they were talking about. The world was falling apart? As far as she could tell, the witches had a good communal farm, were respected citizens in a town willing to turn a blind eye to their practices, and even managed to keep their witchery mostly quiet. Outsiders would never suspect an entire coven sat right outside Hays City. And since that’s how the sisters liked it, Rose had thought things were going very well for them.

  She wondered who that man they were doing business with was, and why it made Margaret so uncomfortable. Devices and curses. That certainly sounded worrisome.

  Rose walked down to her room, shucked out of all of her clothes, and pulled a blanket around her shoulders. The finder compass hung against her chest, its burnished metal warm from contact with her skin. She tipped it up and saw the fine needle pointing northeast toward the other finder compass she had made, Hink’s compass.

  There was a time she thought she’d never want that man to be lost to her. That had changed now.

  Rose hung her wet clothes over the back of the chair and on the wall hook to dry. She dragged her carpetbag from the corner of the room and packed her clothes, her metalworking tools, and the twine, wax, oil, and bits and pieces of metal and gears she had slowly gathered up over the last few months. Finally, she draped her practical trousers and a dry pair of socks over the back of the chair for the morning.

  She considered the clothing. No. She was starting a new life. She’d meet it looking her best. She packed away her spare trousers and pulled out her best dress and underskirts. That was the way to meet her horizon: like a lady.

  The train left early. She’d be dressed and ready to meet it.

  She settled into bed, pulling the rough wool covers up over her nose. Just before she slipped into sleep, she realized with a pa
ng of regret that she hadn’t had a chance to read the books she’d borrowed from the library. There was no changing her mind now. Those books were just one more thing she loved that she’d have to leave behind.

  The Madder brothers sat at the table in the church kitchen, hats off, hair and beards still dripping wet, hands wrapped around mugs filled with tea.

  They looked as uncomfortable as schoolyard bullies under a teacher’s disapproving glare.

  The teacher, in this case, was Father John Kyne, who seemed quite at home putting the kettle on the back of the stove now that he had seen to the filling of everyone’s cup. It was proper manners, almost English manners, and not what Cedar was used to seeing from a man native to these lands.

  But then, he’d never known a native man who had taken the Almighty as his personal savior.

  “Let’s get this over with,” Alun said. “What favor do you want from us, Kyne?”

  Father Kyne paused with his teacup resting on his bottom lip. He regarded Alun Madder from over its rim. “You are not the men I expected to answer my call,” he said mildly.

  All three Madders swiveled their heads to peer at him.

  “What sort of men did you expect?” Bryn rubbed at his bad eye while staring at Kyne from the good one. “Did you think we’d be taller? People always think we’d be taller.”

  Alun snorted and Cadoc turned his head to the side a bit more, like a bird trying to sight a worm.

  “I heard stories. Stories of the noble Madder brothers. Brave, ingenious, and wise.” Kyne sipped his tea, then sat at the head of the long wooden table.

  “Stories are just that,” Alun Madder said. “No matter what your father told you.”

  “My father told me you owe my family a favor.”

  “We promised a German man named Kyne a favor. Not a man born of this soil,” Alun said.

  “Lars Kyne took me in when my family was killed. He raised me as his own and had no other.”

  “But you are not, in fact, of Kyne blood,” Alun pressed.

  Father Kyne leaned back and placed his fingers together, tip to tip, his hand curved loosely on the table. “I am not of his blood,” he agreed. “Did you give your promise to the blood or to the man?”