by Tee Morris
“That shot was a once-in-a-lifetime shot. Even at my best, I don’t know if I could have made it.” Her voice was calm—though tinted with simmering rage.
The Archivist scoffed as he pushed the remaining memory cases back into the Archives’ engine. “As usual your attempt at humility is failing miserably.”
“We were plummeting to the Earth, Wellington!” she snapped, slapping her hands against the desk.
Eliza rose from her chair and got in close to him. She was angry; and as such, she would never bother about his particular physical boundaries. Wellington took in the scent of her perfume. He kept his knees steady and hoped she didn’t notice his jaw twitching slightly.
“Bruce, Maulik, Brandon—I’ll even wager Harry—none of them could have made that shot. Yet you did.” She had been holding on to this since their return to the Ministry, and there was no way she was letting him loose without an answer—that much was plain.
“Yes. Yes, Eliza. I did.” He placed a protective cover over the brains of his portable engine and secured the carrying case. Hefting it off his own desk, he was quite pleased at the balance and lightness of its thirty-five pounds.
“You. An archivist with basic field training.”
Wellington shuffled awkwardly past Eliza, crossing to the base of the Archives’ entrance where an open satchel awaited. He placed the packed analytical device beside it and peered inside the second bag. Not much left to pack from the Archives, apart from what waited back at his house.
Then there was the matter of his work-in-progress, but that was something he could complete while in the air. Tonight he’d been able to call in a favour from Brandon Hill, who owed him a few shillings from their bridge games together. His colleague was more than eager to pack and deliver the items that Wellington requested from his workshop.
In fact, that eagerness made him a tad nervous.
“As you may recall,” Wellington said, brushing his hands together, his eyes focusing on his desk, “from the odd conversation between independent investigations and cataloguing properly sanctioned cases of Ministry agents, I have prior experience with the military.”
He attempted to open the main drawer in order to retrieve his new journal. The drawer stopped on hitting Eliza’s rear. Still he gave it a slight tug, hoping the subtle gesture would politely nudge his partner out of the way.
Eliza’s hips shot back, her rear end slamming the drawer shut.
“Since when does the Queen’s Army train its soldiers to shoot like that?”
Go on, his father whispered to him. Wellington closed his eyes, pushing back the migraine threatening him. Tell her. Let’s see just how learned this colonial tart of yours is.
“Very well then,” Wellington sighed, sinking into his chair. He looked up at Eliza, a wave of exhaustion wrapping around him. “Eliza, my father was a right bastard. The worst of his kind.”
You ungrateful shit, his father spat. His temple throbbed with a sudden jolt of pain, but Wellington merely swallowed back the bitterness in his mouth and continued.
“I—” He still couldn’t prove anything about what really happened. At least, he had not found anything yet. “I lost my mother when I was very young. My father preferred occasional companionship versus something more permanent. I was raised, for a time, by my butler and nanny; and then my father decided after his ‘mourning’ to take a more vested interest in my upbringing. He trained me for survival. At least that is how he referred to it. While boys my age were trained in sport and etiquette, I was trained in physical endurance, sharpshooting, and the regimental lifestyle. Hardly befitting a boy at eight years of age, but such was life in the Books manor.”
Eliza took her seat, staring at him as if he were a total stranger. Taking the opportunity, he opened the desk drawer, removed his new journal, and waved it lightly in his hand. “You never know when we might need this, yes?”
“Wellington,” she said softly, but insistently.
He cleared his throat, and continued. “When I served in the African campaigns, I found out just what my father had intended—he wanted me to be his gift to the Crown. I was to be the example of a new breed of soldier. I would take my childhood upbringing and train others in the same manner, only my discipline would be of a different manner.” He laughed dryly. “Ingenious, if you think about it. My father’s legacy would be a new generation of unstoppable killing machines and I would cement a place in proper society with my own contributions. Not that I would be completely comfortable in said proper society, as my skills in mixed company are tenuous at best.”
Eliza chuckled lightly at that. It was not meant as malicious or insensitive. He could see that in her eyes. It was lovely to make her laugh.
“After my service, I decided on a different path for myself, a path my father did not approve of. So here I am, in the Archives, applying the skills I had honed on my own. Without my father’s influence. I called upon many favours owed to my father’s name to bury my test scores and the odd military record or two. Here, I was out of the way. I was out of sight. And I preferred both to what my father intended.”
Wellington stopped. Eliza remained silent. She wanted to know more. He shook his head in disgust, snatching up his journal and tucking it in his coat pocket. He then reached over to Eliza’s side of the desk, glanced at the case summary provided by the Americans, and nodded.
“Right then,” he said, turning back to the analytical engine. His fingers quickly danced across the keys, and the machine awakened, sending puffs of steam in several directions as its wheels spun faster. On the monitor, lines began to slowly appear, forming what he recognised as a map of the Archives.
“No mistakes?” He didn’t look over at Eliza, even when she clicked her tongue. “Really, Mr. Wellington Books, after your speeches about trust and faith in your partner, and yet you live by a different set of standards.”
“I have to,” Wellington said, tracing a path on the screen from where he stood to a tiny X blinking somewhere in the 1857 shelves. “It was how I was raised, and the best way to protect you.”
“Protect me?!”
Perhaps Wellington should have thought that statement through before uttering it.
“Eliza, we have a four-day journey ahead of us, and our airship leaves promptly in a matter of hours, and I for one would not care to miss our quickest passage out of London, lest we spend a week at sea.” He gave his desk a final look, glanced at the map, and headed for 1857.
Eliza remained on his heels. “Please tell me: when did I represent myself as some sort of delicate flower in need of protection?” Wellington suddenly felt himself turned on his heels. Eliza had always been stronger than she looked. “Dammit, will you look at me when I talk to you? I have earned that much at least.”
Wellington stared at her a moment before replying. “I beg to disagree. You have earned my respect in what we have accomplished together, but if you believe yourself entitled on account of my deception, I believe you are mistaken. Gravely, I will add.”
Her eyes narrowed. “What are you on about?”
It was high time to reveal all. Both of them. “Eliza, I will ask this once and only once. Your answer will, in truth, guide me.” He took a deep breath, and adjusted his spectacles, fixing her with a stare. “Were you sent to rescue me in Antarctica?”
When she blinked, he had his answer. Her response, perhaps if it was said in another place at another time, might have made him laugh in its absurdity. “I was sent to retrieve you from the House of Usher.”
“We have only been partners for a year, but I do think you should not take me for a fool, nor should you mince words with me.”
“God damn you, Wellington!”
“He already did, when my mother was taken from me.” The hum of the generators seemed louder than ever. He broke the silence again. “Tell me truthfully—were you sent to rescue me?”
It was impossible to read Eliza’s eyes in the dim lighting, but her posture told him all he needed to
know. She was shaking.
“No,” she finally ground out.
Wellington smiled. He didn’t expect to, but he was sincerely relieved. “A spare pair of goggles, and those were your only considerations for someone kidnapped from the Ministry?”
“You suspected?”
“Of course.” Wellington turned back to the terminal for the 1857 aisle and punched in the reference code he had earlier accessed on the engine’s screen. “I’m sure I could have confirmed my suspicions by accessing confidential Ministry records, but that would indeed be a most slippery slope.” A basket lowered from the darkness above, coming to a jerky stop beside them. “I would have rather got the answer from you instead.”
Eliza’s brow furrowed. “Why?”
“It would have meant more. Granted, I would have preferred to discuss this under different circumstances, not as we plan for an unscheduled journey to the Americas.” He sighed, turning his attention to the evidence from the Ministry’s previous case. “So, you see, we all had our secrets to keep, didn’t we?”
He felt himself shoved away from the basket. Eliza was approaching some kind of boiling point.
“You have got some polished brass balls!”
“Whatever do you mean?”
“You chose to keep your abilities a secret from me when we were investigating these forgotten cases throughout the year when at any time—”
“I am not in the Archives because I was ordered. I volunteered, because I did not want to put anyone at risk. Not the Ministry. Certainly, not you.”
“I can take care of myself,” she said punching him hard in the shoulder, “but it would have been jolly nice to have an ace up the sleeve like you!”
Wellington winced, rubbing the spot where she had hit him. Why did she always hit him there? “And then, once it became known in our clandestine circles of my abilities, how many would stop at nothing to recruit me into their ranks? How many would attempt to use you as a ways and means to do so?”
“That’s very sweet of you, but please, there’s no need to fret like a hen over her chicks. I am perfectly capable of protecting the Ministry and its secrets—even you.”
He reached out and grabbed her, pinning her shoulders against one of the nearby shelves. “Dash it all, Eliza, this has nothing to do with protecting the Ministry! I could give a flying toss presently about any of them. The Ministry can fortify itself with a simple push of a red button, but you—” He drew closer to her, making sure he could see her eyes. “It’s you. I don’t want them to hurt you in order to get to me.” He released her, slowly shaking his head. “I could not bear that. Not for a moment.”
They stood before each other, the generator thrumming low in their ears. Perhaps he had finally got his message through. Maybe now she understood his intentions.
“Sorry, mate,” she replied, “but you’re still saying I can’t look after myself!”
Was he completely invisible to her?
“Bugger it,” Wellington swore.
He pulled her towards him and kissed her—rather hard and with great urgency. No, perhaps it was not the way a gentleman would have kissed a lady; but it was the way he wanted to kiss her in that moment. For all Wellington knew, this would be the one chance he would have to kiss her, so he would bloody make it count.
He felt her embrace tighten on him, her hands running along his back, her breathing deeper and wilder. Eliza’s curves against his own surpassed any fleeting expectation he nurtured previously. Wellington prolonged his kiss by nibbling and nipping on her lips. They were soft, faintly tasting of strawberries. A delicious surprise, to be certain.
With a final touch, he pulled away. His heart was now pumping at full steam, so much so that he felt quite lightheaded. He hoped that any physical reaction he outwardly displayed to such an erotic embrace (which, being human, he could not help) did not offend Miss Braun. Her brilliant blue eyes were now blinking quickly as she looked at him. Wellington hoped that, at best, she would simply slap him for offending her morality and making assumptions that were far beyond any intended or welcome by her.
Knowing too well her fondness for explosives, he preferred not to think of the worst reaction she could have to this.
“You stopped,” she stated, her breath short and laboured.
“Um . . .” Not quite the reaction he expected. “Yes. Yes, I did, Eliza.”
“Why did you do that? Did you want to stop?”
“Well . . .” Brash honesty. It was what he wanted. “No.”
Her hand grabbed the back of his neck and pulled him close, so quickly, he gave a little yelp as he found himself nose-to-nose with his fellow Ministry agent.
“Then don’t,” she whispered just before bringing her lips back into his.
Wellington had never quite taken much notice of the smell of the Archives. Perhaps the smell of ageing wood and paper was something that he had grown accustomed to. Eliza’s light touch of perfume—far too faint to have been freshly placed on her skin this morning—reached him. The two scents complimented each other quite well. In fact, the smells of old books and her skin, the feel of her hands running along his arm and back, and his own fingers feeling the softness of her cheek and curve of her bosom, and the faint taste of strawberries and tobacco—
Tobacco? Did Eliza smoke cigars?
He was in his own domain, deep within the shelves and stacks of the Archives, and yet, Wellington found himself quite lost. Lost in sensations, emotions, and an unending list of things needing to be done before catching an airship to the Americas. They would not miss that last flight to the former colonies, as he hated transatlantic travel by sea. The soft moan escaping Eliza scattered his thoughts once again, and he found himself enjoying the feel of her pressing harder against him. She was, indeed, a lovely woman; and it was quite a pleasant thing to kiss her. Better than he could ever imagine.
The Archivist still did not want the kiss to end. At least, not yet.
Wellington covertly checked his watch. A few more minutes wouldn’t hurt.
Acknowledgments
There is always that daunting task after you write a book, people want more. Sure, it’s always good when people want more. It means they like you. (They really, really like you!) So you get started on the sequel . . . and that’s when it sinks in—you’ve got to clear the bar you’ve set for yourself.
The good news about a sequel: You’re not in this alone. There are so many people out there pulling for you, and it is that drive that keeps us going.
To our friends and fans on Twitter, Facebook, and social networks far and wide, thank you for your unending support in letting people know about Agents Books and Braun, and The Ministry of Peculiar Occurrences. We owe a lot of our success in part to you. To Laurie McLean, our full-time agent, part-time cheerleader, and eternal friend—thank you for keeping us on the right track. To the writers (past, present, and future) of Tales from the Archives, thank you for opening up our world to the steampunk curious and encapsulating the global scope of this Neo-Victorian era. To the steampunk community for their accolades in the 2011 Airship Awards and the 2011 Goodreads Choice Awards. Your praise and admiration mean we must be getting something right.
A book can’t happen without an editorial staff behind it, and we are so fortunate to have the talents of Diana Gill, Will Hinton, and Eileen DeWald at HarperVoyager. This is the team who helped us get the Ministry in order. And a special thank you to Stephanie Kim and Pam Jaffee for opening doors and opportunities for us in our first year of the Ministry and making us feel like steampunk rock stars. We look forward to what you have in store for us and The Janus Affair.
About the Authors
PIP BALLANTINE and TEE MORRIS have been collaborating since 2006 in podcast productions, including Chasing the Bard, Weather Child, Billibub Baddings and The Case of the Singing Sword, and Morevi. Their collaborations have won them a variety of acclaim, including a Sir Julius Vogel Award and a Parsec Award. Their first writing collaboration was Phoen
ix Rising: A Ministry of Peculiar Occurrences Novel. The book went on to win the 2011 Airship Award for Best Steampunk Literature of the Year. Together they enjoy life in Virginia alongside their daughter and five extremely playful cats.
Pay a visit to Pip and Tee’s Ministry of Peculiar Occurrences at www.ministryofpeculiaroccurrences.com.
Visit www.AuthorTracker.com for exclusive information on your favorite HarperCollins authors.
By Pip Ballantine & Tee Morris
Ministry of Peculiar Occurrences
Phoenix Rising
The Janus Affair
Copyright
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously and are not to be construed as real. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, organizations, or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.
Cover art by Dominick Finelle
THE JANUS AFFAIR. Copyright © 2012 by Pip Ballantine and Tee Morris. All rights reserved under International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions. By payment of the required fees, you have been granted the nonexclusive, nontransferable right to access and read the text of this e-book on screen. No part of this text may be reproduced, transmitted, downloaded, decompiled, reverse-engineered, or stored in or introduced into any information storage and retrieval system, in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereinafter invented, without the express written permission of HarperCollins e-books.
Epub Edition JUNE 2012 ISBN: 9780062049797
Print Edition ISBN: 9780062049780
FIRST EDITION
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