“There,” said the queen, heaving herself back into her wheelchair as Aggie stepped forward to hold it steady. “That’s quite enough work for one day, I should think. Time for some tea and scones.”
Aggie shook her head in amazement. “Your Majesty,” she said, taking hold of the wheelchair’s handles. “I don’t know how I can ever thank you.”
“That goes for me, as well,” said Dodger, kneeling beside the queen’s chair. He was still bare chested, and there were dark bruises beginning to form along his ribs and underneath his left eye. But when he raised his chin, Aggie could see that he was thoroughly himself. She felt that flutter in her chest again.
How could she protect herself against a boy who could get inside her head? She had no idea, but for the first time, the idea of taking a risk didn’t seem quite so awful.
“Oh, don’t you fret about thinking up ways to thank me,” said the queen with a wink. “I have ideas enough for all of us.”
37
Dodger had never imagined that he was destined for a particularly long life. Some scheme of his would go wrong, he had assumed, and he would come to a sticky end. The best he had hoped for was that Nancy and the others would eat some berries off his grave and talk fondly of him afterward.
In a way, he supposed he had been right. He’d gambled and lost and carked it—twice, if anyone was counting. What was unexpected was the way he kept coming back.
This new life was going to take some getting used to, because it kept going in the most unexpected directions.
“Do I look all right?” He peered up at Aggie, who had been putting some salve on the swollen and split skin around his left eye. According to the doctors, he would most likely have lost a regular eye in the pounding he had gotten. Luckily for him, the Bio-Mechanical contraptions were far tougher than their flesh-and-blood counterparts.
“You look as though someone mistook you for a batch of dough. Want a mirror?”
“Don’t need one,” he said, reaching for her hand.
“If you’re thinking of hopping into my head...”
He squeezed her fingers. “Never without permission.”
“Never again without permission, you mean. Here.” She held up a hand mirror so he could see himself, but he didn’t really care to see how battered his face was. He had a feeling that his nose was never going to be quite the same, which was a bit of a shame. He’d never really appreciated it before, but it had been a nice nose.
Instead of looking at himself directly, he admired the crisp white linen shirt he was wearing, a gift from Byram. Perhaps he had been wrong about that one. “I do look rather smart, don’t I?”
“Indeed you do.” She smiled at him for a moment, and he tried to recall why he had thought briefly that she was not pretty. She was more than pretty. She was like some glorious, rosy-skinned nymph who had decided to clamber out of a painting, looked him over and said, yeah, all right, why don’t you and I give this a go?
Whatever this was. Whatever having a go meant.
There were two sharp raps on the door, and Aggie stood so quickly she nearly dropped the mirror on the floor.
Luckily, he still had quick reflexes and caught it.
“Hello, you two,” said Lizzie. “There is someone here who has asked most particularly to speak with you.”
“If it’s Twist...” Dodger began and then stopped.
The short, stout elderly woman that some called the Widow of Windsor walked stiffly into the hospital room, looking around her with patent disapproval. She wore an old-fashioned black bonnet and smelled of camphor and violets, and she looked thoroughly disgruntled, as though her corset was pinching.
Aggie sank into a deep curtsy. “Your Majesty!” Dodger bowed his head.
“Yes, yes,” said the queen impatiently. “Obsequiousness observed. Now, where is the strapping specimen of masculinity? We distinctly heard you say that he would also be in attendance.”
Lizzie smiled apologetically. “If you mean Victor Frankenstein, I’m terribly sorry. He was meant to be here but was called into an emergency surgery this morning.”
“No, no, not him. The other. The German fellow.”
Lizzie, Aggie and Dodger all stared at the queen, equally dumbfounded. Lizzie spoke first. “The kaiser?”
“No, no.”
Clearly, thought Dodger, the queen was malfunctioning again. “Not the Totenkopf that nearly rang my bell?”
“Yes, yes. Tottie.” The Queen smiled. “Was für ein schöner Mechanischer, eh? Well, never mind, we shall speak with him anon. Fetch me a stool, girl.”
Lizzie hurried to bring a chair over for the queen, and Aggie brought a cushion and helped the elderly monarch arrange herself. “Now, listen to me, my predicates. Do you know who I am?”
Oh, Lord, thought Dodger. If the old lady had been this addled in front of the kaiser, the jig was most definitely up.
“You’re the Queen of England, mum,” he said, only belatedly recalling that this was not the correct address.
“Fallaciousness. I am called the Queen of Great Britain and Ireland, and also the Empress of India,” she corrected him. “But that is not who I am.” Reaching out, she touched the electrodes on the right side of his neck. “Are you a loyal British subject?”
“Of course,” said Dodger.
“Of corpse,” she said approvingly. “Precisely. As you have died and been reborn as a Bio-Mechanical, you are no longer a British subject. Some would say this makes you the property of the Crown. They would send you to fight other Bio-Mechanicals for their own purposes. But you see, my dear, you are not a British subject, anymore than Tottie is a German one.” She pulled off the thick velvet bow that had concealed her own electrodes. “Now, speak before you think—who am I?”
“Oh, crud,” said Lizzie. “I must have messed something up when I was trying to recalibrate her electromagnetic fields.”
“On the contrary, my Yankee Doodler,” said the queen, and now her clouded blue eyes suddenly flared bright green, as if the ichor were a gas lamp that had just been ignited. “You did something very right. You and Miss Makepiece both helped wake me. But Miss DeLacey...” Here she turned and gave Aggie a nod of recognition. “You listened to me when everyone else dismissed me.”
Dodger felt a flicker of excitement, the way he used to when he was about to wade into a crowd and start picking pockets.
“Your eyes,” said Aggie, sounding concerned. “They’re turning that weird color again.”
“Look at me again,” said Victoria, stretching out one gnarled and heavily beringed finger and touching Dodger’s forehead, just above the spot between his eyes. “Look with the true eye, and tell me—who am I?”
His eyes shifted focus and he saw the glowing, vital machine inside the sagging flesh. With a swell of excitement, Dodger said, “You’re Victoria. First Queen of the Bio-Mechanicals.”
Victoria smiled and gave his cheek a pinch. “Very good. And what are you?”
Dodger grinned and spread his hands out, as if presenting himself for inspection. “Why, I’m your eyes, mum.”
epilogue
Back home, the apple blossoms were in full bloom by now, dropping their perfumed sweetness all over the boys and girls rolling around under their branches, shedding winter clothes and inhibitions. Here in London, the trees were sad and stunted things, with tight, hard buds that never seemed to flower.
Which was why, Dodger said, he was taking her out for a surprise. Aggie stumbled over something—an exposed root? A stone?
“Can I take this off now?” She tugged at the blindfold over her eyes, but Dodger took her hand in his.
“Just a few steps more.”
Of course, she could have just reached out and seen where they were going through his eyes, but she restrained herself. So much of intimacy involved knowing when to maintain your o
wn perspective and when to shift your point of view. She was better at the former, and Dodger was more adept at the latter.
In time, she supposed, they would find their balance.
“All right,” said Dodger. “You can look now.”
She pulled off the blindfold and gasped. They were in a graveyard, but one with no headstones, only simple wooden crosses or small cairns of piled stones. There were dogwood trees and wild cherries in blossom, and white flowering hawthorn bushes that scented the air. A breeze blew blossoms into her face, drenching her in their sweetness.
“Oh,” she said, unable to find any words. She looked at him and even through the dark spectacles he wore, she could sense the smile in his eyes.
Dodger pulled her hand. “There’s more.”
They rounded a corner and there they were, all her friends, old and new, seated around a picnic blanket. Faygie was unpacking sandwiches from a hamper, while Bill was trying to keep his dog from sticking her blunt nose into the opening. Justine was laughing, her hair covered by a bonnet. Byram and Will were arguing about something, but Aggie could see right off that it was a good argument, the kind that Byram needed from time to time so he could be funny at someone else’s expense.
Victor and Lizzie were discussing their preferred type of amputation saws. “You’re only saying that because you’re so physically strong,” Lizzie said. “But in emergency situations, you need the kind of blade that doesn’t require the surgeon to muscle through the cut.” Looking up, Lizzie squinted and then smiled as she recognized Aggie. Really, that girl needed to start wearing her spectacles more.
“About time you got here,” said Lizzie. “We’re all starving, and Justine keeps trying to talk about politics.”
“This is the perfect opportunity for us to discuss what’s going on in Europe,” said Justine.
“Never make plans on an empty stomach,” said Faygie. “Now, who wanted the mutton and who wanted the cheese?”
It turned out there were only cheese and watercress sandwiches.
“Budge over, then.” Dodger helped Aggie settle herself on the blanket.
As they enjoyed lemonade and sandwiches, a black-and-white magpie landed on the grass in front of them, attracted by the promise of food. It gave its distinctive chattering call and suddenly a small flock of the birds descended. Aggie tried to count them, recalling the old nursery rhyme: one for sorrow, two for joy, three for a girl, four for a boy.
“There’s seven of them,” said Dodger. “What’s that?”
“Five for silver, six for gold,” said Justine. “Seven for a secret never to be told.”
An eighth bird landed, and then Bullseye exploded after them, barking with joy, and the whole flock scattered. Bill whistled for his dog, but these days, Bullseye seemed selectively deaf to some of her master’s commands. “I don’t know what’s got into her,” he said, getting to his feet and following her. “Oi! Bullseye!”
Justine stood up. “I suppose I might as well help him.” Aggie watched her leave, wondering whether either of them knew exactly how much of Nancy was involved in the tangle of their emotions.
“Oh, dear Lord, eight magpies is totally beyond the scope of nursery magic,” said Byram. “We’re clearly going to need to consult a fortune teller for that one.”
“In the old days, they used to read birds’ entrails,” said Victor.
Will made a face. “Some of us are trying to eat, you know.”
“How are you ever going to become a doctor if you can’t bear the thought of entrails?”
Dodger leaned back, gazing up at the canopy of trees overhead. Aggie wondered what he could see up there with his extraordinary vision. “So? Good surprise?” he asked.
“The best,” said Aggie, meaning it.
“Just wait till autumn, when the blackberries are ripe. Folks say the thieves’ cemetery produces the sweetest pickings in London.”
There were a great many unknowns between now and then, Aggie thought, but perhaps you couldn’t be completely happy without the feeling that you were moving toward something new and wonderful.
And for the first time in her life, Aggie was completely happy.
“Oh, I have it,” she said, startling Dodger into sitting up again. “Eight magpies for chasing!”
“I suppose that will do until someone thinks of something better,” he said, dodging her blow before it landed.
Threading his fingers through hers, he brought her hand to his lips. Looking directly into her eyes, he smiled at her with such fierce affection that she felt unmoored.
“Aggie,” he said.
She swallowed, fighting the urge to make a joke of this moment. “Yes?”
“When do you think Bill will notice that I pinched his sandwich?”
She burst out laughing while Dodger grinned at her, both half-drunk on the promise of spring and reckless with magpie joy.
* * *
acknowledgments
Sometimes, in the time it takes to get a book from brain to printers, a lot happens behind the scenes as people take on new challenges. This was one of those books, and I am very grateful to everyone who contributed their eyes to this project: My agent, Jennifer Laughran; her assistant, Maggie; and my Harlequin TEEN/Inkyard Press Team—Michael Strother, Lauren Smulski, Gabrielle Vicedomini, Libby Sternberg, Chris Wolfgang and Natashya Wilson.
I’m also grateful to my friends. Anne Elizabeth cheered me on and sent me care packages. Carol Goodman read and reread and encouraged me and was essentially a writing Fitbit.
And then, there is Holly Harrison. Holly, who has been my friend since she was my resident advisor at Wesleyan, was my story guide. During moments when I thought I had lost my way, she found the path forward—pointing out opportunities, warning me when I nearly stepped into a crevasse and asking the questions that helped me find better story solutions. She also took me in and fed me while I worked on the book, and then took me swimming in Walden Pond as a reward. Thank you, my R.A. for life.
ISBN-13: 9781488034251
Corpse & Crown
Copyright © 2019 by Alisa Kwitney
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