Mina Wentworth and the Invisible City

by Meljean Brook

  She backed up, studied the building. Wilbur the Reacher built automated machines for factories, but something of that size wouldn’t be loaded through the front doors. “Let’s have a look around the back, Newberry.”

  Though not wide, the workshop extended far into its lot. On the side, small, barred windows were set high in the walls, too high to peek through. Wide, doubled doors opened to a narrow lane that circled back round to the Alley.

  “The loading area, sir,” Newberry said.

  Mina nodded. She pounded on the metal doors, heard no response. Shuttered windows on either side of the doors were probably opened during the heat of the day. Was this where Anne had seen Geordie? She searched for signs of a scuffle, but the cobblestone lane hadn’t left much evidence for her to see.

  “We’ll go back to the side windows,” she said. “You can give me a boost up so that I’ll at least have a chance to look through—”

  She broke off. A faint noise came through the doors. Click click click.

  Unease ran in a ripple up her spine. “Do you hear that, Newberry?”

  “I do, sir.” He moved smoothly out of the path of the doors. “Weapons?”

  Click click click.

  “Bullets.” She drew her gun, backing slowly away. Opium darts wouldn’t have much effect on a brass wheel.

  Click click click. Growing louder. Closer to the door.

  “Away from there, constable. Behind me.”

  Weapon steady, Newberry backed toward her, his giant body all but blocking her view of the doors.

  Click click click. Coming faster now, as if accelerating. Clickclickclick.

  “Behind me, constable,” Mina repeated.

  Clickclickclick—and something more? A muffled shouting, perhaps—

  The doors blew open in an explosion of fire and shrapnel. Shouting, Mina dove to the ground, covering her face and ears. Shards of metal rained to the cobblestones. Burning pain sliced through her forearm.

  Coughing, she looked up. Her constable had thrown himself beside her, his huge form like an unmoving boulder beside her. “Newberry?”

  “Here.” It was a groan.

  “All right?”

  “I think so, sir.”

  Clickclickclick.

  The brass wheel rolled through the swirling smoke. No, she realized. It didn’t all roll—only the track that ran around the outside. The rest of it remained upright. Not all of the triangular sections on the side were closed.

  Inside the wheel, a sandy-haired boy looked through the missing wedge, his color high, freckled face streaked with tears. “I didn’t want to! I didn’t want to!”

  What? Mina scrambled to her feet, ignoring the ache in her knees, the pain in her arm. “Didn’t want to? Come out of there!”

  “I can’t!” He was rocking slightly from side to side, shouting between huffs of exertion. Pedaling, Mina realized. “Take Billy! And maybe I can stop!”

  Billy? But the boy had closed the wedge, and the wheel suddenly started off down the lane, racing over the cobblestones. Oh, no. Mina sprinted after it. The clicking filled her head, but there was another sound now—a steam engine. A lorry waited at the end of the lane, a ramp leading up to the bed. The wheel rolled up. In a great huff of steam, the lorry lurched forward.

  Oh, blast it! She couldn’t shoot the damned thing, not with a boy inside. Tucking in her elbows, she ran behind the belching steam lorry—through Birdcage Alley, almost closing the distance between, until the lorry turned onto Newington Road, and began to gain speed. No traffic slowed it down. Though she could have run farther, Mina knew she’d lost it.

  She needed the cart. Mina turned to look for Newberry, frowned. He wasn’t as fast, but the constable ought to have been behind her. She started back, jogging at first, then sprinting again as worry settled into her gut. He’d said he was all right.

  He wasn’t. Still on the ground, sitting, but his face pale and his mouth in a grimace of pain. His hand pressed to his upper thigh. Blood pooled on the cobblestones beneath him.

  “Newberry!” Mina knelt beside him, trying to stop the shaking of her hands. “Let me see the wound, constable.”

  “Yes, sir.” He sucked a breath through his teeth. “And I’m sorry, sir. I thought I was all right until I pulled that shard out. Did you catch him?”

  “No.” Oh, sweet heavens. Blood pumped in small rivulets from a deep gash in his thigh. The artery nicked. Newberry’s bugs would heal it . . . if he didn’t bleed out first. Heart racing, she ripped off her shirt sleeves, bunching one and shoving it against the wound, then tying the other around his massive thigh. The sleeve wouldn’t hold tight enough, but it would hold the wadded cloth on after the bleeding slowed. She pressed down on the cloth again when the white quickly turned red.

  The constable seemed to choke. “I don’t think this is proper, sir.”

  Mina looked up in disbelief. “What?”

  “Your hand.” He still had enough blood to blush a deep red. “There.”

  “You ought to thank the blessed stars that the shrapnel didn’t damage something a few inches higher, constable.”

  She knew he was going into shock when he replied, “My Temperance will be glad it was not damaged, too.”

  “I’m sure she will.” Taking his hand, Mina shoved his palm against the bunched cloth. “Hold this. Hold it hard. I’m going to bring the cart around, all right?”

  “No, sir. I’ve seen you drive it before. You’ll kill us both.”

  She’d take that chance. “Hold it hard. Don’t let up. And don’t you dare faint on me, constable, or I will give you a reprimand of the likes you never seen.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  Mina ran for the cart. Blasted double-locks. They took extra time. She hauled them off, jumped in, closed the valve. Gears shrieked in protest, but she got it going forward. Down the lane around the workshop. Oh, faster, faster.

  Her heart dropped to her stomach when she rounded the bend. He’d fainted. Sprawled out, no longer holding the cloth bunched at his thigh.

  A little boy was. Perhaps seven years of age, sandy-haired and freckled, he pushed down on the cloth so hard that his arms shook.

  Mina stopped the cart, jumped out. Newberry still breathed, his heartbeat quick but steady. She looked to the boy. “Billy?”

  “Yes. Am I doing it right?”

  “Perfect.” She slid her arms under Newberry’s shoulders. “The bugs should have closed the artery up by now, but I need to get him into the cart. Can you help me with his legs?”

  Billy nodded, scooted around in his threadbare trousers and bare feet. Though skinny, he was strong. He grabbed hold of each of Newberry’s ankles like a boy pushing a wheelbarrow.

  With Newberry’s upper half braced against her chest, Mina backed to the cart. “Was that your brother in the wheel?”

  Billy only shrugged.

  “Can you tell me his name?”

  Nothing.

  “Is it Geordie?”

  Though the boy didn’t reply, the surprised flicker of his lids was answer enough.

  “Will you come with me? When he left, Geordie asked me to ‘Take Billy.’ Does he have reason to want you away from here?”

  The boy’s gaze moved to the cart, as if he were considering it.

  “I’ll take you,” Mina said, lifting Newberry onto the passenger bench. She braced a hand against his chest to prevent him from sliding out. “And then we’ll find him and help him.”

  Uncertainty chased across his face.

  “I could use the help, too,” Mina said. “You could keep my assistant from falling out of the cart.”

  He finally nodded. “I’ll do that.”

  * * *

  God. Rhys leapt from the steamcoach, raced to Rockingham’s front door. He pounded on it, but when a second passed and the door hadn’t opened, he barreled through—almost trampling a headless clockwork butler. Standing next to it, holding the butler’s head in one slender hand and a wrench in the other, the countess
looked at him in surprise.

  “Anglesey,” she said. “How unexpected.”

  He had to catch his breath. “Mina—”

  “Is with her father in his medical office, and is perfectly well. So am I, thank you.”

  Had she just chastised him, or was she merely amused? Rhys couldn’t be certain. He never had any idea what Mina’s mother was thinking. But it hardly mattered whether he’d just made an idiot of himself—nothing mattered but seeing Mina.

  Still, Scarsdale had impressed upon him that the one woman he should never anger was a wife’s mother. So he bowed and said, “Thank you, my lady,” before leaving her in the foyer and rushing down the hall. Mina opened the door before he reached it, her eyes widening up at him.

  And she was all right. No blood soaked her white shirt. Relief replaced panic. Pulling her into the hall, he gripped her waist, hauled her up to his mouth. Just one long kiss, just to be certain. She wrapped her arms around his neck, opened her lips to his.

  From inside the office, Rockingham cleared his throat. The man couldn’t see anything, but Rhys probably shouldn’t anger the father, either. Her soft body slid against his as he set her down again, and he was pleased to note that her flush wasn’t embarrassment, but need.

  “I’m so glad you’re here,” she said softly. “Come.”

  Mina’s father stood near his desk, observing a freckled boy who was devouring a plate of apples, bread, and cheese. In his shirtsleeves, Newberry sat on Rockingham’s examination table with a blanket over his legs and his face red. “Your Grace,” he said. “Forgive me for not getting up.”

  Rhys didn’t care whether the other man got up or not. Obviously, the constable had been injured—and was likely the reason Mina wasn’t. If Newberry wanted it, Rhys would hire a team of men to carry him around so that the constable could sit all day.

  “His wife is coming with another pair of trousers,” Mina said, and grinned when Newberry’s blush deepened. She looked to Rhys. “What did you hear?”

  “That you’d driven the police cart over Trahaearn Bridge with your uniform soaked in blood.”

  “Not mine.” Mina confirmed what Rhys had already guessed. “But Newberry’s, because he can’t follow an order. I told you to get behind me, constable.”

  The constable didn’t blink, didn’t blush. “My apologies, sir. I didn’t hear your order.”

  “You’re a good man,” he told Newberry. “Thank you.”

  Mina narrowed her eyes at them both before gesturing subtly to the boy—who was, Rhys realized, staring at him in open-mouthed astonishment. She lowered her voice.

  “We’ve got every police station on alert to look for Wilbur the Reacher and his wheel,” she said. “Geordie was inside it, but I think he might have been forced there. Billy isn’t talking, though. Is Anne with you?”

  Because children from the Crèche would speak to each other. Rhys had to disappoint her. He shook his head. “No. I can have her brought here, though.”

  “We’ll try something else, first. Will you talk to him?”

  He’d do anything she asked, but he wasn’t sure what she was asking. “Like I did with Anne?”

  “No.” She smiled a little. “Not as a father. As the Iron Duke. And Rhys . . . he likes to help.”

  He nodded. This, he could do for her. He’d had cabin boys as young as this one, and though life on a pirate ship was difficult, the way through it was never coddling them. Direction and order was all they needed—and were two things Rhys didn’t have to even think about giving. He faced the boy, crossed his arms over his chest, set his feet.

  “Billy.” The same voice he’d have used on his decks. “You come and stand here now.”

  The boy hastily complied, looking up at him, eyes wide.

  “You know who I am?” When the boy nodded without hesitation, Rhys said, “You know Anne the Tinker? You know she’s mine?”

  Shaking a little, Billy nodded again. “Yes.”

  “Did Geordie hit her?”

  The boy’s knuckles were white. Terrified, but still standing. “Yes.”

  “Did he have a reason for that?”

  Billy nodded.

  “Speak up!”

  “He was helping her! So Wilbur the Reacher couldn’t use her, too.”

  Rhys nodded. He’d still have liked to thrash Geordie for calling Anne a jade whore and hitting her, but he might have thanked the boy for trying to help her, too—and followed it up by telling Geordie a few ways to help someone without hurting them.

  “But Wilbur the Reacher’s still using Geordie, isn’t he? And now Geordie needs our help.”

  The boy’s mouth set. “Yes. He does.”

  “And you’re going to help us, too, Billy. You’ll talk to this inspector and tell her what you know, and you’ll help us find him.”

  Billy looked to Mina and nodded. “Yes, sir.”

  * * *

  By the time she’d finished interviewing the boy, it was apparent that he’d seen and heard almost everything that had taken place in Wilbur the Reacher’s workshop—and outside of the workshop, too. Geordie hadn’t been the only boy Wilbur the Reacher had used: He’d made Billy climb over the wall and unlock Redditch’s gate, and a threat to the boy’s life had convinced Geordie to follow through on the murder. Now that they’d removed that threat, perhaps Geordie would be able to escape . . . but Mina would still be looking for Wilbur the Reacher. Billy offered her a solid picture of the Reacher—though given the man’s actions, it was a picture that Mina could barely wrap her head around, and not the one she’d expected.

  Wilbur the Reacher wasn’t driven by money or the fear of losing his workshop. He wanted to liberate all of the children in England.

  “It was because of a friend who’d been killed in one of the Horde’s factories when they were hardly older than boys,” Mina told Rhys as she walked with him to their steamcoach. After Billy had begun to talk, Rhys had left her and Newberry alone with the boy—not wanting to interfere with her investigation, she knew. “And after the revolution . . . well, you know how many are hurt in the factories every year, and some of them too young to be working at all. At least the Horde kept them in crèches until they were older.”

  “Yes.” His voice was rough, his gaze on the jacket in her hand.

  Oh. Mina glanced down at the black wool. Under the gray sunlight, it was visibly stained with Newberry’s blood. As her parents’ home was so near to headquarters, she kept an extra uniform on hand and had changed out of her ruined shirt before Rhys had arrived.

  “It’s not mine,” she reminded him.

  “I know.” But his expression told her that he couldn’t help imagining that it was. “It’s all right. Go on.”

  She stepped into the coach, and through the window she saw a journalist peering their way from across the square. They’d scented the blood, apparently. They wouldn’t get Newberry’s; she’d already sent him home. Shaking her head, Mina drew the curtains over the windows. Tomorrow, she’d be back at work, and they could sniff around all they liked. The rest of the evening was hers.

  Mina waited until Rhys settled onto the bench beside her, his hard thigh pressing against hers. She relaxed against him with a contented sigh and continued, “Wilbur the Reacher believes that if the factories are automated, it means fewer injuries, fewer deaths—and no jobs for most children, anyway. Redditch stood in the way of that.”

  “And if the children didn’t have money to eat?”

  “I don’t think it matters.” She stared at the empty seat across from them, but in her memory she was seeing so many bodies, hearing the echo of so many confessions. “Murder is a selfish thing, isn’t it? And it’s not really about the children; it’s about Wilbur the Reacher, and what he wants. He doesn’t give a thought to Geordie and how it might be hurting him.”

  “Why is he using Geordie?”

  “So that ‘a child frees them all from the tyranny of labor.’” She quoted Billy, who she didn’t think had even underst
ood what Wilbur the Reacher had meant by it. The boy had listened well, though—and no doubt he’d soon tell his story again. “My father is taking Billy back to the Crèche tomorrow morning. I need to find Wilbur the Reacher before the children do.”

  Rhys’s short laugh rumbled against her side. “What are your chances of that?”

  “Not very good,” she had to admit. The children of the Crèche took care of their own. If they found Wilbur the Reacher and extracted their brand of justice from him, Mina might never know about it—and would never know whether Wilbur the Reacher was still out there, hiding. “And I don’t think even Anne would break their silence and tell me what happened.”

  The coach lurched forward, rocking her against him. His muscles were like steel, his body tense. With gentle fingers, he pushed up her sleeve, exposing the still-healing cut on her forearm. “And if I find him?”

  Oh, but she’d have loved to let him. Not just for Redditch, but because she could still see Newberry on the ground, his blood pooling on the cobblestones.

  “You can’t,” she said, and laced her fingers through his. “But I wouldn’t be adverse to your people keeping an eye out for him—and Geordie.”

  “We will,” he said, and his voice hoarsened. “Mina.”

  She knew. Even before his strong arms dragged her over his lap, her back against his chest, she knew that he needed this. By the blue heavens, she did, too.

  “Tell me no,” he rasped into her ear. “If not in a carriage, if you don’t want it now, tell me no.”

  She couldn’t. Angling her head, she leaned back against his shoulder, her mouth seeking his. With a harsh groan, he bent and opened his lips over hers, plundered. His hands slid up her sides, cupped her breasts, but that wasn’t fast enough, hard enough. Mina’s fingers tore at the laces of her trousers. He lifted her, and she felt his hand working beneath her bottom, felt his ragged breath against her mouth.

  “Touch yourself, Mina.” Need hardened his voice. “Are you wet?”

  Fearing that his great size would hurt her, he never came into her unless she was ready—and he apparently meant to have her now. Anticipation shivered over her skin. Her hand slipped down into slick heat. Her breath escaped on a hiss. “Yes.”