by Anthea Sharp
The nearby guardsmen scrambled back, and with a whoosh of air and a steady hum, the Yxleti ascended. The orb hurtled away nearly as quickly as it had come. Kate followed its flight until it was swallowed by the searing brightness of the larger sphere.
Blinking away tears, she dropped her gaze.
“Oh my,” Queen Victoria said under her breath. “Whatever have we done?”
“Either saved all of humanity, or doomed it.” Prince Albert slid his arm about the queen’s shoulders. “I prefer to think the former. Steady on, my dear.”
The queen nodded, then turned to the dozen people gathered on the terrace. Kate glanced about, to see that everyone wore half-stunned looks that no doubt mirrored her own. She still could not quite credit what she had just witnessed.
“Everyone,” Queen Victoria said, “attend me inside. We must draw up our accounts of this momentous event. On this day, the course of the word has turned.”
She swept regally toward the French doors leading into the palace. The captain of the guard followed close behind, and then the astronomers and queen’s attendants.
Kate hung back a moment, casting a final look over her shoulder at the sphere that had once been nothing but a bright speck in the sky, and now was the harbinger of an unimaginable future. It cast its silvery reflection over London, offering no answers—only strangeness beyond compare.
***
The London Universal Times, August 1907
Obituary Notice: On 10 August, Lady Kate Danville, member of the Royal Society and bestowed the title of Baroness of Canticus by Victoria I, passed quietly in her sleep. She is survived by her younger brother, nieces and nephews. A long-time advisor of the prior queen, Lady Danville was one of the few still alive in this century who witnessed the glorious arrival of the Yxleti, and was part of the council which helped usher in the new age of space exploration and global prosperity. Queen Victoria II has commissioned a statue of Lady Danville to be placed in the First Greeting sculpture garden on the landing site at Buckingham Palace.
Per Lady Danville’s request, her ashes will be scattered between the stars, to float forever at peace beneath the eternal suns of the British Empire.
~*~
Originally published in ALT History 101 – a stellar collection of Alternate History tales!
The Perfect Perfume
She had not meant for her concoction to explode.
Charlotte Barrington buried her nose in her sleeve and took a step back from the smoking vial on the laboratory table. A spark flew from the vial and singed a hole in her poplin skirt. Despite her goggles, her eyes burned. Damnation.
She was missing some essential component. None of the normal stabilizers were effective—and she certainly could not have her perfume exploding.
Perhaps it was the pinch of golden dust she had added, advertised as Genuine Powdered Unicorn Horn. The small cobalt jar had cost more than she could afford—but she was desperate to find the unique ingredient that would secure her commission as Parfumier to the Queen.
Several perfume makers were vying for that title, to be bestowed during Victoria II’s upcoming Silver Jubilee celebration. It was Charlotte’s last chance to preserve her parents’ legacy, to prove that, despite all assertions to the contrary, she could carry on the name of Mlle Violetta, Parfumier Extraordinaire.
To do so she must take reckless chances.
Three days. That was all the time remaining until her appointment with the queen. Before then, Charlotte must discover the unique ingredient that would make her perfume not just a scent, but an event.
She had observed in the laboratory how some substances took on curious properties when viewed through restricted spectrums of light. Her goal was to formulate an elegantly refreshing perfume that, when combined with a dark glass filter, created a spectacular effect about the wearer. A silver glow, in honor of the queen’s twenty-fifth year of reign.
It was an ambitious, some might say impossible, endeavor.
At first, Charlotte had tried incorporating traces of precious metals into her perfumes: silver, platinum, white gold. While some of them created a faint opalescence, none of them reacted under lights, no matter the spectrum applied.
Saffron and exotic spices likewise proved invisible, as did all botanicals. She soon moved into experimenting with odd and rare ingredients: powdered peacock egg, ground malachite, distilled virgin’s tears, soot from burnt silk, persimmon seeds. Powdered unicorn horn.
None of those had been effective. But at least she had achieved a lovely explosion.
She rang for her maid. “Hetty, we are going out.”
In addition to Hetty, she would bring along one of the burlier footmen. Ben, perhaps. There was one last place she had not yet tried. Dante’s Diabolical Diversions, an unsavory shop at the edge of the Seven Dials district
“Shall I have the driver ready the carriage?” Hetty asked.
Charlotte tapped her lips with one finger. The squalid alley housing Dante’s was not a locale frequented by the upper gentry, and she wanted her visit there to go unnoticed. Not to mention that announcing the presence of wealth in the worst slum in London was hardly wise.
“No,” she said. “We do not wish to call attention to ourselves, and there’s no good place for the carriage to wait. We shall take the omnibus. Now, fetch my black cloak—the wool, not the satin-lined.”
Hetty brought the cloak, and her gloves and hat, and a gorgeously ruffled parasol that Charlotte left propped beside the door. An afternoon in the June sun would not damage her complexion beyond repair, especially if she wore her new top hat. She donned the hat, tucking up a stray curl of her dark hair, and surveyed herself in the hall mirror. Upon consideration, she removed the lavender-dyed ostrich feather from the hatband. It was entirely too remarkable.
Once outside the sheltering walls of Barrington House, the screeches and smells of London assaulted her senses. Charlotte wrinkled her nose as they went down the street. Rotting garbage mingled with horse manure, coal smoke, and the tang of sulfur. Some days she cursed the gift of her superior sense of smell.
Soon enough, though, her nose became numbed. She and Hetty, trailed by the reliable Ben, made their way past the summer-green of Hanover Square and over to Oxford Street.
“Hail a cab, mistress?” Ben inquired, nodding at one of the horse-drawn conveyances.
“No, we shall take the omnibus. Here it comes.”
The plume of steam was unmistakable, a white billow announcing the omnibus’s route. They might be no less conspicuous, but it would be easier to blend in with the crowd and slip off when they reached their destination.
The bus lurched to a halt as Ben flagged it down, the driver operating the levers and brake. Two dandies rose and offered Charlotte and Hetty their seats. Charlotte heard her maid muffle a laugh the gentlemen’s ostentatious clothing. The chartreuse stripes on one of the gentleman’s coats clashed horribly with his scarlet waistcoat, while the second fellow sported a bright orange necktie done up in a puffy, cascading bow. The Andrew, she believed the style was called, named after Victoria II’s eldest son.
The omnibus carried them out of Mayfair and into the streets that marked the beginning of Seven Dials. Charlotte tapped Hetty on the arm and caught Ben’s eye.
When the conveyance halted to admit a pair of laundresses, the three of them slipped off. Under cover of the plume of steam, Charlotte drew them back against the stained brick of a nearby building. Satisfied no one was following, she nodded to her companions, then led the way down a side street.
They darted across another well-trafficked street and fetched up at the mouth of an alley.
“Odhams Walk, mistress?” Ben peered dubiously into the dank recess.
“Indeed.” Charlotte kept her tone brisk, though the back of her neck prickled.
Perhaps it had been a mistake to come. Regardless, she must make the best of it. If the missing ingredient for her perfume was to be found, she could not let squeamishness stand in h
er way.
“Come along,” she said. “Watch your step.”
The light faded as they progressed, with only a slice of cloud-studded sky overhead providing illumination. Nasty things were strewn in the alley, things she had no wish to examine more closely. Grateful for her well-made boots, she stepped over them and skirted the noxious puddles. Ben, expression grim, took Hetty’s arm. He would have taken Charlotte’s but she had made it clear in the past that she needed no such assistance.
After passing three weathered doors, she halted. Although Odhams Walk was mostly residences—no doubt overcrowded and unsanitary—the window beside her bore lettering in chipped white paint. Dante’s Diabolical Diversions.
She had been there twice before—years ago, and in the company of her father. Charlotte squared her shoulders, then lifted the black knocker on the door and gave three taps. The knocker left a smudge on her white gloves.
After a long minute with no response, Ben shuffled his feet.
“Nobody’s home,” he said, glancing up and down the alley. “Best we leave now, mistress.”
Hetty remained silent, her eyes wide, her grip tight on Ben’s arm.
“Not yet.” Charlotte tapped thrice more.
This time, footsteps sounded. Slowly the door opened, bringing a waft of dry air scented with ylang-ylang. A tall, thin man stood at the threshold, his black hair slick with macassar oil. His prominent nose overshadowed thin lips that looked as if they did not often take the shape of a smile.
“Mr. Dante,” Charlotte said. “May we come in?”
He looked her up and down, then flicked a glance at Ben and Hetty.
“Certainly, Miss Barrington. Please, enter.” His voice was low and sonorous, and echoed strangely. She suspected him of using some kind of device to enhance the effect.
Dante stepped back and opened the door, and she and her companions hastened inside. Despite her apparent calm, Charlotte had felt the watching eyes as her party lingered overlong in the rank alley of Odhams Walk. Another minute or two, and they would have had to fend off thieves, or worse.
“I was sorry to hear of your parent’s tragic airship accident,” Dante said. “I understand you are attempting to continue the Parfumerie by yourself?”
His tone held disbelief that she would succeed in doing so; a sentiment echoed by most of the gentry.
“I am running the business,” she said, her voice resolute.
It had been nearly a year since her parents had died while searching the South Pacific for exotic ingredients. Charlotte folded one arm across her stomach. She did not think she would ever recover from the searing pain of their loss.
And now she had run out of funds. Her uncle, Lord Barrington, had been generous to a point, but his patience was growing thin. There was only so far he would go to assist the daughter of his flighty younger brother. Soon she would be seeking employment as a governess or lowly lab assistant, her dreams—her legacy—smashed like broken perfume bottles at her feet.
“Scrumptious!” a harsh voice called.
Hetty gasped, and Charlotte jumped, just a little. She had forgotten the clockwork myna bird Dante kept in his shop. Ebony-feathered, it hopped down from a stack of dusty books and surveyed them, head cocked. It looked quite real, but for the large brass key set in its back.
“What may I do for you this afternoon?” Dante asked, a hint of morbid amusement in his tone. “I do not flatter myself by thinking this is a courtesy call as you passed through the neighborhood.”
Charlotte lifted her chin, projecting a confidence she did not feel. “I would like to see your most exotic ingredients.”
“Indeed. Dare I ask what it is you are attempting to formulate, Miss Barrington?”
“Salubrious!” they myna screeched.
“Nothing in particular,” Charlotte said. “I am conducting a small experiment.”
Dante paused. When she did not elaborate, the corner of his mouth curled up in the beginnings of either a smile or a sneer.
“I believe the contents of this case will interest you.” He led her past the skeleton of a fanged feline, around a huge marble urn holding a bouquet of colorless hydrangeas, and to a gleaming mahogany display case. A gasolier in the shape of an inverted lotus hung directly above, casting a clear light over the contents.
Through the glass top she could see an array of fascinating items. She leaned forward, her gloved fingertips resting on the glass.
“What is that bright red liquid in the vial?” she asked.
“Distilled venom from the coral cobra, found exclusively in deepest India.”
“And the blue granules?”
“Tears of Amariko, formed when molten stone meets the ocean. They can only be gathered twice a year at lowest tide, on a remote Oriental island.”
“And that?” She slid one gloved finger to the upper right corner, where a shimmering stone lay in a small velvet-lined box. Against the burgundy velvet, the stone shone nearly silver—a pearly gem that one moment resembled hematite, the next pure opal.
“That, my dear girl, is starstone.”
Charlotte slanted a look up at him. She had never heard of such a thing.
“Fallen from the sky,” Dante said, “in a glittering flash of silver. Would you like to hold it?”
“Is it… dangerous?”
He let out a sharp bark of laughter. “A bit of wisdom hides behind those pretty blue eyes of yours. You may handle the stone with no ill effects.”
Dante rounded the case and slid open the back panel. Withdrawing the box containing the stone, he held it out to her.
Carefully, Charlotte touched it with one gloved finger. It was not hot, nor did anything spark or flare at the contact. She took the stone—no bigger than a quail’s egg—between her forefinger and thumb, then nearly dropped it again from the unexpected weight.
“Ah yes,” Dante said. “I should have warned you it was heavy.”
She had the impression he was laughing at her, though no mirth escaped his still features. The stone weighed as much as a piece of lead three times its size. Perhaps the proprietor was telling the truth, and it had indeed fallen from the heavens.
“How much?” She attempted to keep her voice nonchalant. She did not think she succeeded.
“Sarsaparilla!” the myna called from directly behind her.
Charlotte jerked, her movement causing the gaslight to dance in broken reflections over the starstone.
“Careful.” Dante waved the box and, reluctantly, she deposited the stone back on the velvet. “How much, indeed? I could ask no more than twenty-five gold pieces.”
Hetty let out a gasp, and Charlotte blinked.
“That is a large sum,” she said. “I am not certain I can pay so much.”
“But your uncle can.” Dante leaned forward. “Send that brute of a footmen back with the money, and I will give him the starstone.”
“I—”
“Send him, and three of his friends. This is not the most savory of neighborhoods. I fear you might have lingered overlong, Miss Barrington. I would not want you to come to any… harm.”
At this, Dante did smile, an expression Charlotte would have been just as happy to miss.
“We will be off, then,” she said. “Expect Ben—and his friends—to call upon you later this afternoon.”
“Not too late,” Dante said, ushering them to the door. “Seven Dials at dusk is not safe for even four intrepid servants.”
Ben glanced at her, throat moving in an unhappy swallow.
“Then we had best make haste,” she said. “Good day, sir.”
She motioned her companions over the threshold, and they hastily complied. As Dante shut the door behind them, she heard the mynah yell once more.
“Sedition!”
“What a nasty bird,” Hetty said. “And man, and shop. Please, promise we shall never visit again, mistress.”
Charlotte patted her arm (which was not a promise) and marched down Odhams Way. Though the skin be
tween her shoulder blades prickled, she refused to look behind her. Anyone watching would receive no satisfaction from seeing her unease.
Upon their return to Barrington House, she went directly to her uncle’s study to plead her case.
“Twenty-five gold pieces! Do you think I’m made of money, girl?” He scowled, his monocle glinting with reflected gaslight from the lamp in the corner.
She twisted her fingers in the smooth silk of her skirt. “This is the final ingredient, I’m sure of it.”
“Your hobby is growing bloody expensive.” He picked up the glass of scotch sitting on his desk and took a long swig.
Charlotte said nothing. Lord Barrington did not like beggars.
He replaced his glass on the cluttered desk, between the gem-encrusted monkey skull and the tiny automaton of a ballet dancer. Charlotte disliked the clockwork figure. It was an older model, and despite being wound at regular intervals was unpredictable. For days the dancer would stand there, unmoving, staring with painted glass eyes at nothing. Then it would suddenly burst into motion, twirling en pointe and performing manic grande jetes that scattered the papers across the carpet.
“Well then,” her uncle said. “If you are so certain, I expect repayment. With interest.”
“That will be amenable,” she said, though her stomach churned at the prospect of failure.
“Then send Ben in, and I will see to procuring this ingredient of yours. You do understand this is the last time I will aid you, do you not?”
She gave him a tight, dry smile. “I understand.”
So much depended upon the starstone.
She dropped her uncle a curtsey, then retreated to her laboratory. Who knew how much longer she would have that luxury? Her future was a dark sky—no moon, no stars to navigate by. Only hope. And the tremendous weight of fear.
If she lost the Parfumerie, she lost everything.
Two hours later, Ben knocked at the laboratory door and delivered the starstone, encased in its velvet-lined box. After Charlotte sent him away, she held the heavy box and pondered. So very much rode on the contents. How was she to incorporate the starstone into her perfume?
