The Virtuous Feats of the Indomitable Miss Trafalgar and the Erudite Lady Boone

by Geonn Cannon

  The expedition she was with hoped to find answers in a honeycomb of tunnels underneath the city. Professor Watkins of Oxford believed they were escape tunnels used by the city’s elites to escape when their people rose up against them, but the network they found was much more complex than that. There was an entire city hidden underneath Teotihuacan, and they’d explored only a fraction of it when their funds dried up and they were forced to withdraw.

  Beatrice’s strong fingers drew her back to the present. The remaining grime had been sluiced off her skin, leaving it pink and red, and Beatrice had moved on to a massage. Dorothy grunted as a particularly stubborn knot in her shoulder was deftly unwound. She lifted her head and wrinkled her brow as she moved her neck without limitation for the first time in three weeks. Beatrice squeezed with her fingertips while her thumbs dug deep into the tissue to work out long-neglected aches. Dorothy gasped and arched her back at the slight pain followed by sweet relief.

  She sighed blissfully. “Goodness. That feels wonderful. You truly are a miracle worker.”

  She could hear the smile in Beatrice’s voice when she responded. “Anything for my mistress, Lady Boone.”

  “Hm. And did you take any other mistress while I was away?”

  Beatrice hummed. “There may have been dalliances.”

  “I wish to hear all the sordid details. But perhaps later. I am exhausted, and your ministrations have made me believe I could actually succeed at taking a nap.”

  Beatrice slid one hand down Dorothy’s front. She circled a nipple with her thumb and then continued lower. She drew Dorothy back against the curve of the tub and Dorothy allowed herself to be guided, moving her legs apart to press them against the walls of the tub. Beatrice’s hand moved under the water without regard for the cuff of her blouse, and Dorothy bit her lip in anticipation. Beatrix twisted the hair between Dorothy’s legs with her fingers, stroking it before extending her middle finger to seek out the slick, pink flesh hidden by the dark red tangles.

  “Who touched you here while you were away, Lady Boone?” Beatrice asked against the shell of Dorothy’s ear. “Whose fingers ventured where mine are about to?”

  “Only myself.”

  Beatrice’s other hand stroked Dorothy’s neck. “Then I am jealous of you twice over. Both for feeling and being felt. I wish I could have been there to enjoy either.”

  Dorothy’s lips curled in a lazy smile. “As do I.”

  “Let me make up for it now.” She dropped her hand to cup Dorothy’s breast and she used her middle two fingers to press against the hidden folds. Dorothy arched her back with a gasp, bringing one hand up out of the water and reaching back to touch Beatrice’s face. Beatrice turned her head and sucked Dorothy’s finger into her mouth. She used two fingers to spread Dorothy wide as her middle finger unfurled and ventured forth.

  “Trix,” Dorothy whimpered, biting her lip, squirming so much that the water threatened to overflow the edges of her tub. “Please.”

  “I have missed you so terribly,” Beatrice murmured. “It’s time for your homecoming.”

  Dorothy came with a trembling sigh, lifting one foot out of the bath and curling her toes as water rolled down her leg in sheets. She sank down lower, and Beatrice rested both hands between Dorothy’s breasts. When Dorothy stopped shivering and the flush had faded from her throat and upper chest, Beatrice retrieved the sponge and finished bathing her. Dorothy’s skin was once again pink and pristine like every other high society ladies one might encounter on the streets of London.

  “You are once again cultured.”

  “Bully for me,” Dorothy said.

  “Up.”

  Dorothy rose out of the water and allowed Beatrice to towel her off and wrap her in a thick robe. She dressed in her softest nightgown, kissed Beatrice once more, and crawled into the blissful luxury of her own bed. It had been one of her first extravagant purchases after the house. She wanted a proper place to lay her head after an arduous journey, and the Elizabethan four-poster bed was exactly what she had in mind. The posts were thick and ornately carved and supported a sheer curtain that could be drawn to completely enclose her.

  She chose to leave the curtain open slightly. She wanted the light and sounds of the city to be with her while she slept as a reminder of where she was. Too many nights in tents, too much sleep lost to the sound of jungle birds and threatening beasts that she never saw in daylight. In the ten years since striking out on her own she had yet to grow tired of the expeditions, but the politics of setting them up made her weary. Though she could afford to fund the occasional solo expedition, she would quickly go broke paying for every member, for their travel and their bribes to the locals to act as chaperones. It was easier to find a patron willing to pay their way so she and her fellows could focus entirely on the exploration and discovery aspect of their journey.

  Her eyelids became heavy as her body accepted the fact she was actually going to let it sleep. Weeks of exhaustion and deprivation closed around her like a shadow, and Dorothy surrendered to it even as a part of her mind considered what her next excursion would be.

  #

  Beatrice checked fifteen minutes later to confirm Dorothy was indeed asleep, then went about unpacking the bags she had taken to Mexico. The mundane reference books were returned to their proper places in the library on the second floor, while the more esoteric volumes were taken next door to the vaults. Dorothy hadn’t returned from this particular journey with any new artifacts, but the weapons she had taken - a dirk, a quarterstaff, and the Colt M1909 - went back into the armory on the other side of the house. Beatrice made sure the gun was unloaded and clean before putting it away. Dorothy was always careful with her weapons, but double-checking never hurt anything.

  Once everything was sorted, Beatrice returned to the kitchen. Dorothy would no doubt be famished when she woke up. Expeditions fed Dorothy’s spirit but all too often she neglected to properly feed her body. Beatrice started a beef roast, with carrots, peas, and potatoes. There was a lot of food for two people, but Dorothy could be quite voracious. Anything left over would be donated to the urchins who often loitered in the alleys around Threadneedle Street. Dorothy had no problem being charitable, but Beatrice gave them food for another reason; until she met Lady Boone she had been one of their number.

  The idea of preparing a fine meal in a fortressed home on Threadneedle Street, and the idea of being entrusted with everything within the home while her mistress was on another continent, was quite the adjustment for her. Her earliest memory was cowering in the cargo hold of a steamer ship, clinging to the ratty and moth-eaten sweater of an old man she assumed was her grandfather. He was constantly in pain, grimacing and clutching at his bulbous gut as he tried to fight the sway of the ship. She had no memory of where they’d come from, or where they were going. Her life was the ship.

  When they arrived in Paris she clung to the same disgusting sweater as the man shuffled through the narrow and winding streets. Each step seemed to be agony for him and he put a heavy hand on her shoulder for balance. The hand was as much acknowledgement as she got from him, as he never spoke and half-dragged her through the city like she was luggage. She stumbled and lurched on legs unaccustomed to solid land. Occasionally the old man would let go of her long enough to clutch his side or to clap her on the side of the head.

  Eventually they reached a small house with a soft yellow glow coming through the windows. Beatrice huddled against the wall while the old man pounded on the door and shouted in Mandarin until someone opened the door. The man was Chinese, like her, but his wife was French. They tried to push the old man away until the woman spotted Beatrice shivering behind him. She was the only reason they allowed him to come inside. The woman took her into the kitchen while the old man went into the living room with the husband. The woman gave Beatrice a warm meal and tucked her into the first real bed she’d ever had before going downstairs to join the argument.

  The old man vanished while she was sleeping. Over th
e years she managed to dig up only bits and pieces of information about him. His name was Shen, he claimed to be her grandfather, and he said that he had fled with her to protect her from an evil mage. He never said why the mage wanted her dead, or who the mage was, but he claimed Beatrice would be safe if she was kept far away.

  Her new parents were Lin and Cosette Sek. They named her Bao Tai, but she anglicized it to Beatrice when she ran away from home. She feared her parents or the people her ‘grandfather’ had been running from would find her in Paris, so she fled to London. One city’s streets were the same as another, she decided.

  In London’s alleys and byways she learned how to steal, how to fight, how to use magic, and how to avoid being detected by the police. Her hands were quick, her mind quicker, and she quickly started earning her keep with the other thieves and hoodlums occupying London’s demimonde.

  Her life changed the day she noticed Dorothy Boone out for a stroll. She was walking briskly, her clothes indicating a modest salary but there was no denying she was wealthy. Her shabbiness was far too contrived to be real, and she wore a pocket watch that anyone truly destitute would have pawned ages ago. Beatrice followed at a safe distance until she discovered the woman’s residence. She waited until Dorothy left again, then found a way inside.

  It was the mother lode. Even before she discovered the armory, before she even knew there was a second or third wing to the home, she was trying to figure out which antiques she could carry away and which she would have to come back for later. She sincerely hoped there would be a later. Artifacts, artwork, an array of gewgaws she couldn’t begin to identify... Part of her feared that the things she saw were invaluable, which would be useless if she couldn’t find someone willing to buy them from her.

  She was still doing reconnaissance when she picked up what looked like an ordinary stone tablet to see what was inscribed on the face of it. Her lips formed the unusual words carved on the face of it as she tried to make sense of it. It was a moment before she realized her arms had become unusually stiff, and her body had acquired a new weight that made her feel anchored to the floor. She managed to unfold her arms to put the tablet down, but the damage had already been done. Her legs wouldn’t move her farther than a few steps, and her hands froze on the way up so she could see the gray stone spreading across her flesh.

  There were no windows in the room so she had no idea how long she stood there. Her confusion wasn’t helped by the fact she was forced to sleep with her eyes open and had no idea how much time passed before she woke. It might have been eons, but she never became hungry or thirsty. At first she thought that was a mercy, but the longer she remained entombed she realized it was part of the punishment. She would not die of natural causes, but she would pray for death long before her wish was granted.

  She was asleep, or more accurately unconscious, when she finally heard movement elsewhere in the house. A woman humming softly, the steady drum of footsteps on the stairs. The owner of the home went into her bedroom for a time, then finally came into the room where Beatrice stood frozen. The redhead stopped dead in her tracks and stared at the intruder as if she was nothing more alarming than a misplaced shoe.

  “Crumbs,” Dorothy Boone muttered. “Where in the blazes did you come from?”

  She stepped in front of Beatrice and looked into her eyes. Beatrice had no choice but to stare back. After a moment Dorothy nodded and began searching the nearby tables. Finally she found the tablet. “The Medusa Tablet... bloody hell. When did I leave that lying about?” She looked at Beatrice again. “Hell of a security system, however. Hello? Are you still conscious in there?” Dorothy stroked Beatrice’s cheek with the back of her hand. “Warm. Hm. Okay. Remain calm. My name is Dorothy. I’ll see what I can do to help you.”

  Dorothy left. If Beatrice had been able to move her lips she would have called out to her to stay. It didn’t matter that even if Dorothy could save her, she would in all likelihood call the police to cart her off immediately afterward. The mere presence of another person, and a touch even of flesh on stone, had been enough to overjoy her. She felt as if she was crying even though she knew that was preposterous. But Dorothy was already gone, and Beatrice could only remain standing as she had stood for untold days while her erstwhile victim sought ways to save her life.

  She returned an hour later with a shallow dish filled with a viscous fluid. “I had to cobble this unguent together from things I had lying about. Hopefully it will do the trick.” She brushed her sponge over Beatrice’s cheeks and brow. The ointment was thick, and stung like beestings where it coated her cheeks and chin. She was certain it wasn’t working, already convinced that even the homeowner’s knowledge wouldn’t be able to save her. The thought distressed her to the point that a single tear fell from the corner of her eye. It was only after it fell from her lashes that she realized it was proof the ointment was indeed working.

  “It’s all right,” Dorothy said softly. “It’s a slow process, but it will work. Just relax.”

  It took the better part of an hour for Dorothy to sponge the unguent over Beatrice’s entire body. Her clothes resisted the treatment, leaving them stiff and uncomfortable, so Dorothy retrieved a robe for her to change into. “The ointment won’t harm your skin, but it would probably be best not to let it dry. Come with me. I’ve prepared a bath.”

  Beatrice soaked in Dorothy’s bathtub, taking her time to enjoy the simple pleasure of clenching and stretching out her fist. She watched her muscles move under the skin, rolled her head forward and back, and listened to the crackle and pop of her bones as they moved for the first time in days, perhaps weeks. The movement of air on her flesh was almost sexual, almost too much for her to bear, but sitting in the water was something she could tolerate.

  Finally she put on the robe and went downstairs to face her punishment. Dorothy was sitting in the parlor with a book open on her lap, but she closed it on her finger when Beatrice appeared. She had changed out of her traveling clothes and wore a simple burgundy blouse over a dark purple skirt.

  “How long after my departure were you ensnared?”

  “A few hours.”

  Dorothy stood up and returned the book to its shelf. “Three weeks, six days, eight hours. Give or take a few minutes, of course.” She turned to face Beatrice. “I can’t imagine what an ordeal that was, but I’m certain it was...” She scoffed at herself. “I was going to say ‘unpleasant,’ but the truth of the matter is that it must have been a literal hell. I apologize.”

  Beatrice furrowed her brow. “I w-was trying to rob you.” Her voice was little more than a croak, and the air felt unbelievable cold on her skin. She realized she was swaying, shifting her weight from the balls of her feet to the heels. She felt as if a strong breeze would topple her. “I broke into your home and rifled your things.”

  “The punishment hardly fits the crime. That tablet was found on a small island in the Cyclades. There were men and women in the cavern who had been trapped in stone for centuries. Our expedition attempted to free them but... the damage to their minds was too great. They had become deranged. More animal than people. We were forced to do the merciful thing and kill them. One of our own men was afflicted, but we freed him after a few hours. Even so he required a great deal of recuperation time. Four weeks...” She shook her head. “If you would like a proper rest, I have a spare bedroom. There is food in the kitchen as I’m sure you must be famished.”

  “Why are you being kind?” Tears rolled down her cheeks. “You should be alerting the constables, you should be...”

  Dorothy crossed the room. “You’re not well, dear. The trauma you’ve gone through has left you weak in mind and spirit. I was careless with a dangerous artifact and you suffered the consequences. Shall we call it a draw?” She took Beatrice’s hands in hers. “I am Lady Boone. Dorothy. And what is your name, dear?”

  “Beatrice Sek.”

  “It’s a pleasure to make your acquaintance, Beatrice Sek.” Beatrice stared at her in disbelie
f and Dorothy rolled her eyes. “Oh, please. I’ve made friends under circumstances far stranger than these. Come now. I’ll show you to your room.”

  Beatrice sagged against Dorothy’s side as she was escorted up the stairs. She was overwhelmed by Dorothy’s kindness, and she spent the rest of the evening trying to think of the last time someone had offered to help her without expecting anything in return. It made her determined to repay her however she could in order to wipe out the debt. When she discovered Dorothy needed help around the house, Beatrice offered her services. When Dorothy off-handedly mentioned she only took cabs because she didn’t know how to drive, Beatrice offered those services as well. She wasn’t sure when her favors became a permanent occupation, but she knew her days of thieving were in her past.

  Dorothy gave her more than a job, more than a place to sleep. Dorothy gave her somewhere she could feel not only safe but welcomed. And she was needed. Dorothy could be scatterbrained and neglectful when it came to household chores. She would leave her bags beside the door from the end of one expedition to the beginning of the next. Beatrice didn’t realize how much she needed to be needed until she met Dorothy.

  She also didn’t realize her feelings for Dorothy were anything but friendship until the night the very proper Lady Boone came home three sheets to the wind and clinging to the arm of a similarly soused woman dressed like a barmaid. Dorothy feigned sobriety when she saw Beatrice watching them but her giggling gave her away. She patted her “guest” on the shoulder and said, “No need to make up the spare room, Trix. Elsie shall be spending the evening in my room. The bed is certainly large enough and there’s no need to make more laundry for yourself.”