A Dance Like Flame (Of Magic & Machine Book 1)

by Tammy Blackwell

  Contents

  Copyright Page

  Dedication

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Chapter 28

  Chapter 29

  Chapter 30

  Chapter 31

  Chapter 32

  Chapter 33

  Chapter 34

  Chapter 35

  Chapter 36

  Chapter 37

  Chapter 38

  Chapter 39

  Chapter 40

  Chapter 41

  Chapter 42

  Chapter 43

  Author Note

  About the Author

  Acknowledgements

  Copyright ©2017 by Tammy Blackwell

  All rights held by the author. All rights reserved. This material may not be reproduced, displayed, modified or distributed without the express prior written permission of the copyright holder. For permission, please contact Miss_Tammy@misstammywrites.com

  Content editor: Gwen Hayes of Fresh Eyes Critique

  Copy editor: Lynda Short

  Cover Designer: Victoria Faye Alday of Whit & Ware Designs

  This book is dedicated

  in memory of Linda Walters.

  Chapter 1

  Daniel Ware was a plague on the world.

  Not only had his latest invention, the single-rider airship, failed spectacularly in front of the majority of the British Isles, the debris resulting from the crash had caused the rail from London to Edinburgh to be delayed for two days. And now two days’ worth of travelers were streaming toward the train cars, jostling against one another and stepping on toes.

  “Why can I not simply travel with Mary?” Lady Elizabeth Warner, more affectionately known as Bits, asked the conductor. “She is my lady’s maid, and I truly do not want to be without her.” In fact, she was close to succumbing to outright panic at the thought of spending long hours trapped in a car with strangers without her servant there to divert some of the attention. Mary may not have been particularly competent when it came to her daily tasks, but she was exceptionally pretty and friendly in a way Bits would never be. Even the stodgiest of society matrons eventually found themselves warming up to the girl, and effectively forgetting Bits existence, which was the way she preferred it.

  “I’m sorry, my lady, but due to the unforeseen circumstances—”

  “You mean an airship that had no business in the air crashing to the ground?”

  The man’s eyes grew large, but he pressed on. “Well, yes, quite. Due to the unexpected disruption in services, we’ve had to rearrange our seating on this particular trip. Ladies who had requested private cars are to now ride together while their servants will be relocated to another part of the conveyance.”

  “Then I should like to be moved to the car containing the servants.”

  The conductor’s head began shaking before Bits could even finish the sentence, and she knew the battle was well and truly lost. That didn’t mean she didn’t give it a few more tries, but eventually she resigned herself to her fate and found her way into the car she was assured was the height of style and comfort for a lady such as herself.

  As if there were other ladies such as herself.

  The conductor lingered long enough to make the proper introductions - she would be traveling with Baron Birkitt’s widow, the elderly Lady Birkitt, the young Mrs. Pearson, and Mrs. Pearson’s wide-eyed son - before making a quick escape.

  “Please, Lady Elizabeth, you simply must sit with me,” Lady Birkitt said, indicating the small square of upholstery not covered by her massive black skirt. Not wanting to be rude, Bits attempted to squeeze herself into the small space, but managed to smash the edge of the woman’s dress. Heat rose to her fair cheeks as the elderly lady eyed Bits’s middle as if it was her girth instead of the volume of the dress to blame.

  “Tell me,” Lady Birkitt said once Bits was finally settled, “did I not see you with the Earl of Braxton at the station?”

  “It is certainly possible since he escorted me here.” Escorted. Dragged. When it came to this trip they were one and the same.

  “I did not realize the earl had become engaged. My congratulations, Lady Elizabeth.”

  “Engaged?” What a laughable idea. Engaged was one of the last states of being in which Henrick would find himself unless one was referring to a lively discussion or indecent acts.

  “Yes, engaged. One would think a proper lady would have some sort of agreement with a gentleman before she allowed him to be her sole escort to the train station.”

  Bits wanted to roll her eyes at Lady Birkitt’s insult and presumptions, but she miraculously maintained control over her irises despite their desire to rebel.

  “I’m sorry to disappoint, but Lord Braxton isn’t engaged, and most certainly not to me. I am his sister.”

  Lady Birkitt’s eyes narrowed. “I thought you married a duke.”

  “His other sister.”

  And there was the story of her life in three words.

  The other sister.

  Sarah was the thin, pretty one. The talented, well-spoken one. The one who set the ballrooms ablaze during her debut and found herself wed to a duke before London could fully thaw.

  Bits was the other sister. The one who was described as plain when the speaker was feeling generous. The one who could not carry a conversation about the weather for more than a few painful minutes and often forgot which fork went with which course during a formal dinner.

  The one who was on a train bound for Scotland because her family was quite simply done with her.

  Not that she was upset by their abandonment or anything. Certainly not. She merely wanted to burst into tears every few moments because it felt like the appropriate thing to do in light of the fact she was being sent to Scotland, of all places.

  What was she to do in Scotland? She’d never been further north than Birmingham in her life. Her mind conjured images of drafty old castles and sheep, and she instinctively wrapped her arms around herself to stave off the impending cold.

  “I knew your parents,” Lady Birkitt continued, oblivious to Bits’s internal distress. “Your mother was good ton. I knew from the moment she was introduced at Almack’s she would make an excellent match. And she did. The daughter of a mere country lord landing an earl. Quite the coup, even if your father had his eccentricities.”

  “It was a love match,” Bits replied, working to keep her voice even. The “eccentricities” most of polite London enjoyed gossiping about wherever her family went were responsible for many of the luxuries they enjoyed, including the serving drone that brought tea to the train car before their departure. “My mother would have had my father if he was nothing more than a penniless Smith.”

  “Yes, well lucky for Lady Braxton he was one of the wealthiest earls in England instead.” Lady Birkitt peered down her nose at Bits as she said it, as if marrying a baron had somehow put her at a station and intelligence higher than that of the wife and daughter of an earl. Bits may h
ave thought it was all in her head, but Mrs. Pearson’s raised eyebrows made her feel as if she’d read the expression correctly.

  Bits didn’t mind the slight. Not really. Perhaps if she’d been raised by her mother until she reached her majority, she would have. But she hadn’t been so lucky. She was still in the schoolroom when her parents died, leaving her in the care of her recently married sister.

  Life with Sarah and Keaton hadn’t been a burden. In the beginning, Sarah attempted to mold Bits into yet another version of herself, but when it became apparent Bits would never fit, she simply gave up. Once Sarah had a daughter on which she could dote, Bits became nothing more than a background figure.

  Some may have thought her lot in life sad, but not Bits. She didn’t care for the spotlight or Society, and Sarah let her avoid both. Oh, she made certain Bits was prepared for her debut and dragged her to ball after ball those first few years she was out, but eventually she gave up on that as well. She allowed Bits to hide away in Keaton’s townhouse and rarely inquired how she spent her time.

  Bits was left to her own devices, which was all she ever truly wanted. And if she got a little lonely from time to time, well that was to be expected. When she found herself becoming maudlin she would seek out the company of her nieces and nephews, whom she adored. She was, in many ways, a sort of extra nanny to the children. She rocked them as they cried, answered their unending list of questions, and helped them with their sums. But as time marched on, they needed her less and less, even though her need for them didn’t diminish in the least.

  She should have known she couldn’t have gone on as a living ghost in Sarah’s home forever, yet she’d thought she had more time. Celeste was still a child, years away from her first season. Bits adored the girl and wanted only the very best for her. When she said as much, Sarah had replied that having a spinster aunt with a reputation for being odd flitting around London, just waiting to trip and fall into a scandal, would do the girl no favors.

  A week later Bits found herself sitting on a train bound for Scotland.

  What was she more apprehensive over? Being thrust into an unfamiliar and unforgiving land or the man who would be waiting for her once she arrived?

  “Are you chilled, my lady?”

  The soft words pulled her back to the present. Unconsciously, she had once again wrapped her arms around herself, her hands attempting to rub some warmth where none existed despite the close quarters.

  “I have a shawl.” Mrs. Pearson’s voice was like a hundred tiny silver bells ringing in one accord. “It’s not quite as fine as what you’re used to, I’m certain,” she said, offering Bits a plain but finely woven shawl, “but it should keep you warm.”

  Bits accepted the bundle with a smile. “Thank you. What a lovely gesture and pattern. I do believe this is some of the most impressive needlework I’ve seen in some time.”

  “Thank you, my lady,” Mrs. Pearson said as she dipped her head. A small smile tugged the corners of her mouth.

  The smile died a quick death at the nasally, vile sound Lady Birkett made as she glared at the shawl as if it had recently been plucked off a lice-infected street vagrant.

  “You know my dear,” she sniffed, “your mother was a woman of impeccable taste. I hear your sister is much the same.” The unlike you was implied. “I often look across a ballroom and miss the grace she could add to any gathering, but I must say, I envy that she is not alive to see the state that our world is coming to: men flying about in great, ungodly machines above the earth, the way young couples cling to each other as they waltz.” Lady Birkett’s nose curled as her eyes latched on a bit of ribbon adorned with charms tied around Mrs. Pearson’s wrist. “Could you imagine what your poor mother would say if she knew they were allowed to travel alongside women like ourselves?” She spat out the last with so much venom Bits wondered if the air would become contaminated and unfit for breath.

  For her part, Mrs. Pearson did not say a word, but then again, she did not have to. What Bits hadn’t bothered noticing was Mrs. Pearson wasn’t just an untitled woman, but one of them.

  They had many names. They referred to themselves as Touched, but the rest of the world called them changelings, fairies, and an entire host of names not fit for a lady’s ears. Yet, in conversation, they were most often simply referred to as them.

  I saw one of them at the shop today…

  I would never employ one of them in my household…

  Eat your stew, children, or one of them will come and carry you away…

  The last was rubbish, of course. The Touched didn’t steal children away, no matter what some less scrupulous governesses might say. Yet, old wives’ tales have a way of living long after the wives who told them turned to dust. People still shirked in fear from those who were Touched, and not just children. Shops made a fortune selling iron pendants, which they claimed was poison to the Touched, as if they were fairies in truth instead of mere mortals who happened to be able to use magic.

  Most of the time it was hard to pick out a single person who was Touched in a room full of Untouched. The only way to know, outside of seeing them work actual magic or catch a glimpse of the charms they wore around their person, was the eyes. At times, the iris of their eyes turned an unworldly silver. Bits had once heard that their eyes only changed when they were about to cast a hex. For Lady Birkitt’s sake, she hoped they were wrong, because at that precise moment Mrs. Pearson’s eyes were the purest of silver.

  “I shall be having a word with the head of the rail company as soon as I arrive in Scotland,” Lady Birkitt continued, either oblivious or uncaring to the potential danger. “A lady should not be made to travel with lesser, vile creatures.”

  Mrs. Pearson’s body shook, whether from rage or magic Bits did not know, while her son, who couldn’t have been any more than two, studied at the floor as if he wished he could discover a hole through which to disappear.

  There were a myriad of reasons Bits was the proverbial oil to Society’s water. Perhaps chief among them was her inability to keep her tongue in check when her anger had been riled.

  “You’re absolutely right,” Bits found herself saying before she could think better of it. “A lady shouldn’t have to travel alongside lesser, vile creatures. Yet, here I am.” She gave a great, heaving sigh, the type she normally reserved for the occasions her sister felt the need to lecture her on behavior befitting a lady. “At this point, there isn’t much that can be done, although I do suppose it is possible to avoid having to sit alongside someone so deplorable.” She turned her gaze to Mrs. Pearson and gave what she hoped was a winning smile. “Mrs. Pearson, do you think you and your son would have room for one more on your side of the cart? I fear this seat has become rather unappealing.”

  There was a beat of silence, and then the silver in Mrs. Pearson’s eyes receded to show velvety brown irises. Her lips quirked up, revealing a dimple.

  “We would be honored to have you join us, Lady Elizabeth,” Mrs. Pearson said, shuffling her son closer to her side.

  With all the regal bearing she could muster, Bits pushed past the mass of black skirts blocking her way and moved onto the other bench without sparing Lady Birkitt a glance. “Oh, please, call me Bits,” she insisted, allowing the Touched woman a privilege she had not extended to the baron’s widow. “We’ve a long journey ahead, and I do hope we can be friends.”

  “Friends.” Mrs. Pearson tested the word as if she had never had cause to use it before. “Yes,” she finally decided. “I would like that. And as friends, I must insist you call me Alice.”

  “It would be my pleasure, Alice.” Bits turned her attention to the young boy, who was still staring fastidiously at the floor. “And what should I call you, my lord? Or are you a sir?” She tapped her chin as if in deep thought. “I think the latter. You certainly look like a brave knight to me.”

  “This is Robert.” Alice’s fingers trailed through her son’s hair. “He doesn’t talk.”

  Bits had quite a bit o
f experience with children and knew many didn’t begin to start chattering away until they were older, but something about the way Alice had said her son didn’t talk made her think his silence wasn’t simply a case of not hitting that particular milestone yet. While Bits might flounder when speaking with other members of the ton, she had always found kindred souls in children, especially children like Robert who didn’t quite fit into the perfect, cherubic role society had made for them.

  “Ah, then a more ideal gentleman I have yet to meet, for I do so love a man who will let me do all the talking,” she said, hoping to put the young boy at ease. “It allows me to prattle on about all my favorite things. For example, I simply adore this new hairpin of mine.” She reached into her coiffure and pulled out a decorative butterfly. “I got it the other day and thought it complimented my new traveling outfit quite well.” The stained-glass wings sat in a frame of thin gold wires. Bits rubbed the bottom of the thorax a few times with her finger before sitting it on Robert’s knee. “But this,” she said as the butterfly’s wings began to flap, “is my favorite part.”

  With a few more flaps of its wings, the automaton lifted off of Robert’s knee and started fluttering around the car. Lady Birkitt squealed and swatted at it as if it were an angry wasp instead of the perfect union of fashion, science, and whimsy Bits considered it to be. Alice laughed as it circled around her head, and Robert finally looked up from the floor, the smallest of smiles on his overly-serious face.

  “Would you like to try it?” Bits offered once its flight was complete. She turned the butterfly over to show Robert where the tiny gear was located; he merely stared. Bits was just about to ask if he would rather she showed him how it worked again when Alice said, “It’s okay, love. Go ahead. No one will be cross at you for touching it.”

  It took several more breaths, but finally Robert’s finger slowly stretched out to touch the automaton. Once his finger was on the gear, his eyes filled with apprehension, as if he expected her to snatch it back or yell at him for doing it wrong.