by Beth Cato
Through a stack of boxes, she caught sight of a familiar autocar and paused.
He glanced back, his expression unreadable. Ingrid scurried to catch up. “I suppose so, miss. Er. Well, if we’re less formal now, I suppose we should be on a first-name basis in private.”
“I’m Ingrid. I know you’re Cy. And I don’t know what to call Mister Fenris now.”
Cy sighed and nodded. He ducked behind a rubber curtain and into a makeshift kitchen that featured an archaic electric stove, an icebox, a table with oilskin tacked over the top, and chairs made of wooden orange crates. A kettle on the stove already belched steam, and he grabbed thick towels to grip the handle.
“I’ll take this to the doctor. Don’t go anywhere, please.”
Ingrid lowered herself to a crate pasted with labels for citrus fruit from sunny Tulare, California. She tugged off the scarf and set it aside. A battered metal breadbox sat in the center of the rough-hewn table, and she couldn’t help but roll back the lid. Pastries. The reminder of food made her stomach moan.
She helped herself to a yeast roll speckled with poppy seeds. Her normal breakfast would have included pickled salmon, sourdough bread with jam, and tea, but right now she was hungry enough to lick crumbs off a counter. She found some cold coffee in a carafe, and needed it; the rolls had reached an advanced stage of life where they were best suited for bread pudding or duck food. She washed down the bread before it dammed her throat.
Somewhat satiated, Ingrid took off her coat and tossed it over her crate chair. She appraised the condition of her dress. The cloth was black, standard and understated attire for a house worker her age. Red-tinged large patches spread across her sleeves and skirt. Mr. Sakaguchi’s blood. It wouldn’t be noticeable from far away, but close up, there was no denying what it was. If the doctor saw, at least he’d think it was from Fenris.
Ingrid shuddered. Why was everyone bleeding on her?
She’d also endured her own share of pain over the past day. She’d banged herself pretty well in the tunnel before that aftershock hit, not that it caused any lingering damage. She’d thumped herself on the walkway when she fled the house yesterday, too. A small seism had followed that as well.
There had been many shivers of earth when she’d had her Reiki session after the auxiliary explosion. They stopped after her treatment.
She stilled. Were the quakes all coincidences, or . . . ?
Ingrid leaned over and, taking a steadying breath, tapped her knuckle against the cooling stove burner. Horrendous heat made her jerk back a half second later, nursing the injured hand against her chest.
A few seconds later came the tingle of an earthquake. Small, easily ignored by anyone else. The blue tinge of the earth’s power lapped her feet and faded along with the pain. Yesterday’s Reiki would still help in that regard.
“Dear God,” she whispered.
Her pain provoked the earth. How, why? Even more—Mama and Mr. Sakaguchi knew, and had known since she was little. She stared at the red mark on her hand. She’d had so many little injuries over the years and had never made this connection before, but there had always been other geomancers around to siphon the energy. Plus, Mama had bustled her off to Reiki or confined her to upstairs until she was well.
The thought of injury and sickness put her in mind of Mr. Thornton. She left the kitchen.
Mr. Thornton’s distinctive autocar sat there in the shop. The glossy black hood was mottled by rust spots, the front bumper lopsided like a rogue’s smile. She hadn’t thought to look for the car at Mr. Thornton’s house. How long had it been here? This old thing broke down with regularity. The warden made plenty of money but the car wasn’t his priority. Mr. Thornton’s three principal hobbies consisted of complaining of Britain’s treatment of India, of San Francisco’s obliviousness to India’s plight, and his horrid autocar.
She cast a self-conscious glance over her shoulder as she popped open the door. The leather seat was covered by a tucked-in blanket. She frowned and looked around. No signs of sickness or blood. Maybe he left behind a note or a ticket that could tell her where he might have gone.
Her hands dug along the creases of the seat, then beneath it. After another quick look for Cy, she climbed over the front seat and into near blackness.
She was stunned when her feet found an open expanse of floor. The backseat was gone. The thin carpet underfoot had bunched up like a basset hound’s furrowed forehead, as if heavy things had been pushed about and ruined the floor. Mr. Thornton’s missing possessions, perhaps? Book boxes would be heavy enough. If so, where had he taken them—and himself?
She probed the floor again, and this time she encountered something smooth, something that tried to siphon the heat from her skin. Ingrid lurched back, not quite ready to surrender her power to the kermanite. She pulled back enough to grab a sun-yellowed city map from the dashboard and used that to roll the kermanite into plain sight.
It wasn’t just one crystal, but many—about a dozen, the largest about the size of a child’s marble. By their clarity, they didn’t hold energy yet. She used the map to scoop up one into better light, and gasped. The kermanite had a slight blue cast.
“The March batch,” she muttered.
Last month’s delivery from Boron had included a burlap bag of kermanite, all shattered to the same rough size, all with an unusual blue cast. Some hint of coloration wasn’t uncommon, but Mr. Sakaguchi and Mr. Antonelli said they hadn’t seen such a large group with blue in many years.
As of last Friday, that bag sat in the Cordilleran Auxiliary’s vault, not yet inventoried and weighed for sale.
Mr. Thornton possessed keys to the vault. She’d seen him abscond with butter mints, but to steal a wealth of kermanite? Maybe the theft happened under duress—a knife to his throat, that sort of thing. Mr. Thornton wouldn’t be motivated by money. His wife was gone, so she couldn’t be held hostage. The only thing Mr. Thornton really loved was India, and the Brits were razing that country with civilized efficiency.
This kermanite had to have been taken before the Vesuvius meeting . . . or during it. She suddenly recalled how the auxiliary’s basement had been blockaded for fumigation—under Mr. Thornton’s orders.
The basement, where the vault was. Where the explosion originated.
No. No. None of this made sense. It didn’t explain why.
“Are you looking for something, Miss Ingrid?”
She screeched as she bolted upright. The kermanite, barely perched on the map, went airborne and plunked against metal in the darkness.
She spun around. Cy leaned in the open doorway. “You nearly frightened me out of my skin!”
“I advised you to make yourself at home, but I didn’t think to exclude customers’ property in that.” His voice held an edge of warning.
A guilty flush heated Ingrid’s cheeks. “Well—no—of course not, but this is Mr. Thornton’s autocar—”
“Is it now?” His mood shifted. “The car was dropped off while I was out yesterday. I looked at the repair manifests this morning. It’s not under his name. I would have noticed that.”
“Yesterday? When?”
“I don’t recall. I’ll need to check Fenris’s notes later, if I can read them. He writes worse than a doctor.”
The mention of Fenris and doctors reminded her of the higher priorities at hand. She motioned Cy back and then climbed out of the car.
For a half second, she debated if she should pocket the kermanite then thought better of it. The evidence might come in handy later, found here inside the car. Better for Cy to be left ignorant, too.
Tucking a strand of hair behind her ear, she faced him. “I don’t make a habit of rummaging in other people’s property, just so you know. This was a special case.”
His lips quirked in a tired smile. “I hope that staying in my room last night wasn’t termed a special case, too.”
“I—you can’t think I would—”
“I’m giving you a little grief, Miss Ingrid
. That’s all. Come along to the kitchen. I could do with some coffee if we’re going to talk.”
She hunched her shoulders as they walked back to the kitchen. “Oh. I finished off the carafe. I can start the percolator on the stove.”
“Don’t fuss about it. Much more coffee, I’ll probably fly like an airship, anyway.”
“How is Fenris with the doctor?”
“He’s unconscious,” Cy said as he collapsed onto a crate that creaked ominously beneath his weight. He thrust his long legs out to one side, the toe of his boots almost brushing her skirt.
For a second, she feared he meant the doctor, then realized he referred to the patient. “Yes. He, she, passed out quickly when I started to change her clothes. I put the wig on as well, as I’m sure you noticed.” The wig of black hair had been woven into a tight bun, complete with sparkling silver pins. Ingrid had discreetly clipped it to Fenris’s short hair.
He nodded and rubbed the short bristles on his chin. “He. Fenris has never been anything but a he to me. He never had the chance to tell you anything?”
“No. But how can you look at her . . . him . . . like that and . . .” She stopped herself. Her mind was an absolute muddle. She absently touched the small burn on her knuckles and winced.
Cy pursed his lips. He had pleasant, broad, pink lips. She looked away. Damn it all. Why’d everything have to be so hellishly complicated?
“Well, Miss Ingrid, how do you look at the Japanese man who’s like a father to you?”
She scowled at the comparison. “Very carefully, depending on where we are, and people still try to make something lurid out of it.” Like that Captain Sutcliff. She hoped he found that massive chunk of kermanite and it landed on his foot.
“That’s the way of people.” He sighed. “I should start at the top, miss. I mean Ingrid. Pardon me.”
Even when he stammered, there was something charming about it. “Before you go on, can that doctor be trusted in there alone with her? Him? While unconscious?”
“We can talk just outside Fenris’s room. I said I’m his cousin, so I have every reason to hover nearby.”
A quick check on Fenris found him still asleep and the doctor cleaning in preparation for stitches. With the door propped open to vent the smell of harsh antiseptics, they resumed their chat close by, beneath the shadow of the airship.
Cy folded his arms across his chest, his shoulders bowed. “I first met Fenris at academy. I was there because . . . family connections and all, but I proved myself worthy fairly fast, I like to think. Fenris had no connections. He showed up, told them he wanted a slot. Some profs tried to stump him, but he could fix anything. Gave him a metal clothes hanger as his only tool and he used that and a smattering of train parts to re-rig a kermanite engine.”
“As handy as Hank in Connecticut Yankee,” she murmured.
Cy acknowledged this with a warm smile. “They set us up as roommates, being as we balanced one another. I work best on paper, he works best with machines. Strawberries and rhubarb, as my father liked to say.”
Ingrid despised rhubarb. “And you didn’t know he was . . . ?”
“Of course not. Any technical academy is men only. Girls aren’t supposed to be interested in intelligent things.” He spat the words. “Fenris worked damn hard. The academy—it was meant for folks with old money. Fenris didn’t fit in, didn’t try to. He learned. He played janitor every night to cover tuition till he started selling wares from the students’ shop. The secret kept for two years.”
“How did you find out?” Ingrid sat on a stepladder rung.
Cy averted his gaze, blushing. “Female business.”
“Ah. The monthly, then.” She said it aloud for the pleasure of seeing his ears turn a pretty shade of red. “How’d you react?”
He shrugged. “No pride in how I behaved that day. I was angry. Felt the fool. Vulnerable, I suppose. He’d seen me change more than once, even tagged along for skinny-dipping and never jumped in the water. We’d both talked about girls and that sort of thing. I told him I’d keep the secret, but inside, I burned like Union hellfire on Atlanta. It took me a few weeks to realize that Fenris had always been himself, the way he saw himself. He wasn’t living a lie. He wasn’t making an effort to deceive me or anyone else. He was a man. He was at his happiest elbows-deep in an engine. We had been like brothers for years, and that’s what we were. Brothers. We stayed on as roommates for the rest of our time there. I was more particular about my privacy, but nothing else changed.”
She listened as though it were some pulp novel read over the Marconi. The whole thing was peculiar, but it also made sense. Cy and Fenris did act like brothers. Ingrid recalled how Fenris had prodded her with a pole to wake her up that morning, and how sensitive he—she—had been about the whole subject of touch. Which was a sensitive issue for Ingrid as well. She would bet that Fenris knew all too well how men could be, taking liberties they ought not to, and was trying to be a better sort of man in his own gruff way.
“It’s a lot to take in,” she said. “It’s just . . . odd. I shouldn’t be one to judge, with how my own life has been.”
Mama and Mr. Sakaguchi, Mama’s baby, Ingrid’s skin such a contrast to Mama’s, Ingrid’s own strange power. To step outside her bedroom door, she had to be constantly vigilant about snide comments and leers and earthquakes. She hated living like that. And Fenris—Fenris was being true to himself amid a different set of challenges. She winced, recalling some of her sharp remarks to him.
Cy adjusted his glasses and stood there, hands in his pockets, elbows sticking out. “We’re like brothers. Like I said. Nothing more. In case you were wondering.”
Ingrid arched an eyebrow. “Now, why would I wonder such a thing?”
He shrugged, and his thumb twitched. There was something alluring in his sudden shyness. “Making sure to clarify, that’s all. Ah. Let’s do a quick check on Fenris, see how it goes.”
Neither of them made it into the room. “Out!” the doctor barked over his shoulder. “I’m halfway through, and will move a great deal faster without these interruptions.”
“Is . . . she doing well?” asked Ingrid.
“I don’t sew up dead people. Yes, she’s alive, and well enough, despite your earlier intervention. Out!”
Cy tugged her by the sleeve and they backed out. “Now, I do believe you have a story to tell me. How’d this happen, Miss Ingrid? You said you went to Chinatown?”
She studied him, hoping for another hint of his interest in her. Because, by God, she wanted more of those little looks from him. They warmed her belly like kindling, and on top of the heat she already held . . . Ingrid shivered at the pleasantness of it all.
But the subject had shifted and so had his mood. Releasing a huffy breath of disappointment, she recounted a sanitized version of events. Cy listened and nodded.
“You’re saying we need to get into your house, past soldiers and a Durendal.” Through the cracked door, they watched the doctor pack away his implements. “This is no minor thing, Miss Ingrid. Are you so anxious to play the hero?”
“I’m sick of playing any roles at all. Besides, the noble hero always dies in the end.”
“You’ve been listening to too many operas.”
“You’re the expert on Durendals. You tell me what our odds are against such a machine.”
“Maybe the odds aren’t so bad as you think. The soldiers will be more troublesome than the tank.”
She snorted in disbelief. “Are you willing to place a bet on that?”
Cy’s brown eyes sparkled with mischief. “A bet? Now, I’m not normally a betting man, but I’m curious about what wager you have in mind.”
If he was going to hint at an interest in her, then by God, she’d bludgeon him to make her opinion clear.
“A kiss.” Ingrid’s arms crossed her chest.
She was quite aware of how the posture thrust out her bosom and how the pleats of her dress draped from one uplifted hip. She’d seen such p
oses on many of her dime-novel covers and had practiced it in the mirror a time or two.
“A kiss,” he echoed, eyebrows raising in surprise. Not with displeasure, she noted.
The doctor approached. Ingrid fought the urge to scowl at the man for his timing, but she was too eager for news to be perturbed.
“Well! That one’ll need to be particular about the cuts of her necklines from now on, but she’ll live. The slice was shallow, mostly, but it was long. She’ll need to stay still and not carry anything heavy or move her arms much for several weeks as things heal. I left ointment and laudanum beside the bed. Stitches must come out in four weeks.” The doctor’s eyes narrowed at Ingrid. “And if any infection sets in, it’s not my fault. There’s modesty and then there’s stupidity, young woman. No point in ruining more than one smock and making her bleed all the more!”
Ingrid knew her place, and dipped her head in shame. Inside, she felt the profound urge to kick him—all her fault, indeed! Like she was the one who wielded the knife! But since one of her empowered kicks would likely punt the doctor some twenty feet into a tidy stack of pipes, she judged it an unwise move.
It’d take forever to restack those pipes.
“I’m much obliged, Doctor,” said Cy. “Allow me to walk you to the door.” The two men headed toward the front office. Ingrid went straight to Fenris.
As a woman, Fenris’s form would have been termed petite. But no, Fenris Braun wasn’t a woman. Not really. No more than Ingrid was a demure secretary.
She plopped down on the bedside chair. If anything could be said for Pasteurians, they left things excessively clean. There wasn’t a speck of blood to be found on the bed and floor; Fenris wore an unfamiliar cotton shift that the doctor must have brought along. He had even stripped the bed. A pile of bloodied laundry sat beside the door.
She could understand Fenris and Cy staying as academy roommates after Fenris’s secret came out, but how did they end up in San Francisco? It was a wonder that Fenris hadn’t been conscripted like most men of their age, but maybe that was a reason they had moved around so much.
