by Sadie Swift
“We need to get you to a doctor, Sir Percival.”
“Yes.”
I look up at the machine held up by the blocks, its purple aether-infused forehead still glowing, the light reflecting off the puddles around us.
Sir Percival follows my look and also looks up at it. “It’s a marvellous piece of machinery.”
I think about the airship we were meant to be on, “Do you think they’ll allow it on board?”
“No.”
I sighed, already knowing the answer to my next sentence. “We can’t allow it to fall back onto the Men of the Cog’s hands.”
“No.”
After walking Sir Percival to a safe distance away and behind one of the large rectangular blocks, I use my customised gun on the machine and yet another aetheric explosion fills the night air. The machine falls to the ground between the blocks with a ground-shaking thump! and then I make sure it’s a useless lump of slag.
Slowly, and with many gasps of pain, I help Sir Percival as we walk under a curving series of arches and I see tall trees ahead of me. Feeling like nature would be a balm to all the man-made destruction behind us I decide we should walk over to them. They seem to have been deliberately planted to form an avenue leading into the distance. Would their other end be at the dock? With one direction being as much use as any other I decide to follow them and enjoy their scent in the night air.
Behind us the ruins of the church sends smoke into the sky obscuring the stars above. The burnt remains of the fat man lies on the ground like a piece of rubbish. It’s somehow fitting that he died on the cemetery island.
Thirty-two
Other paths lead off from the one we’re following. But they look smaller, giving me hope that we’re heading in the right direction. Tiredness begins sapping my strength as we come to a crossroads with a fountain in the middle. I need to do something to wake myself up or I’ll fall asleep and crumple to the ground. With a free hand I scoop some of the water up from the fountain’s pool and splash it on my face.
“Sir Percival?” I offer a handful of water to him.
“Thank you, no. Miss Lovelady.”
We continue walking, but something’s niggling at me, something I’ve been puzzling over ever since we first saw it and as we’ve nothing better to do other than walk I decide to get Sir Percival’s thoughts on the matter. Hopefully it will keep me awake until we reach the other end of the avenue. And maybe help take his mind somewhat off his arms.
“Sir Percival, why did the Men of the Cog put an aether conduit through the Grand Canal?”
“Hmm?”
“It seems… overly obvious. Advertising the fact that something very strange is going on.”
He is silent for a moment and I wonder if he’s drifted off already. But the faint gasps of pain tell me he’s certainly wide awake.
“When I was tied to the machine I had a very good view of their aether mechanism. Did you notice something different about the aether as it left and as it returned?”
I thought about it, but couldn’t remember any such difference. “No.”
“It was a slightly different hue.”
He either doesn’t add any more either because he doesn’t know, or is overwhelmed with pain.
“And?” I prompt.
“It was something I never thought I’d see. The aether was cooled by travelling through the water.”
“They were cooling the aether? But why?”
“Imagine cooling it down so it can be safely stored and then used without specialised machinery, or the current high risk of explosion. What would that do for the energy industry?”
The idea overwhelmed my mind – such a simple question, but the ramifications were enormous - Coal and gas would be considered stone-age fuels, clean aether would push manufacturing, transport, virtually everything, into a new age! But if the Men of the Cog didn’t like what you, or rather, your government, did they’d just cut the supply. They’d be even richer and more powerful than whole countries!
Sir Percival glanced at my face, possibly seeing the slowly growing horror on it. “I knew you’d understand, Miss Lovelady.”
We cease talking, but continue walking towards the end of the avenue. Another building faces us, but this isn’t, or perhaps now, wasn’t as grand as the burning wreck we left behind. We enter a large gatehouse and see Venice across the water in front of us. Lots of boats of all sizes are in the water, far more than I’d expect at this time of night, whatever the time is. Maybe it’s some sort of night-time carnival? Or maybe the explosions have driven people to take shelter on the water? A wide stone dock extends a short way out from the island, with steps down both sides into the water. But no boats are available for us to use. Everyone out on the water seems to have far more important things to be dealing with than picking up two accidental visitors, who may just have had something to do with the evening’s excitement.
I’m so tired that I just want to curl up and fall asleep. I get the feeling that Sir Percival feels the same way. Without talking we turn back into the building, find the nearest wooden bench, and almost collapse onto it. Sleep comes almost immediately.
Thirty-three
Something gently touches my lips rousing me from a dream. Thinking it’s some insect I move my head to scare it away, but it’s a persistent little devil. Eventually I’m forced to raise a hand and try and wave it away but it grabs my wrist and kisses my palm. My eyes open in surprise and a blurry face looks at me. Initially I think it’s Katherine, but it quickly resolves into a smiling Francesca. This time I welcome her lips against mine.
After what seems like far too short a time she breaks away and looks at me. “How are you, Alice?” she whispers.
In the morning sunlight streaming into the building I see she’s ditched her gondolier disguise and is wearing a far nicer pinky-orange velvet dress. She looks much, much, better in it. Her hair is loose and wavy and it caresses her shoulders, rather like I feel the urgent need to do so as well, but not forgetting to add a well-placed kiss.
Seagulls call to each other about fish they’ve seen in the water.
“Tired and bruised and… who’s that?” I add, spying a man looking concernedly down at Sir Percival. For one of the male species I believe he would be considered quite good-looking. His dark, almost black, hair is short and thankfully, apart from the merest of moustaches, he’s clean-shaven. It’s a shame that Sir Percival is deeply asleep and can’t appreciate him, as only he could.
Francesca whispers, to not awake Sir Percival, “He’s Guido, my brother. A doctor. I thought he might be of use. It appears I’m right. Although I know how to deal with these grazes,” she adds, taking my chin in her hand and turning my face towards her. Leaning forward she gently kisses parts of my face.
She has a brother? Filled with the spirit of Casanova? I start to shuffle away in case he has designs upon my body, but Francesca catches my hands and smiles. “You’ve no need to worry, like that.”
“No?”
She shakes her head.
“Oh. He’s more into…?” I indicate Sir Percival with a tilt of my head.
She smiles again.
Phew!
“What about the elderly lady you carried away? Is she… dead?”
“No. She’s doing quite well. Between you and me I don’t think the devil wanted her yet,” she smiles.
Fair enough. But Sir Percival is in a bit of a bad shape. “I think both his arms are dislocated,” I whisper to Guido.
“It looks as much,” he quietly replies in a warm tenor voice. “He seems to have been through quite an ordeal.”
Should I wake Sir Percival up, or just enjoy the knowledge of what he’s missing? But the decision is taken out of my hands when he gives a shiver and blearily opens his eyes. Slowly he perks up, as if tea is being poured directly into his bloodstream, at the attention Guido is giving him.
“I need to fix your arms. This will hurt, but I have something that may help.” He reaches into a p
ocket and brings out a thick piece of leather. “If you will bite upon this?”
From the look in Sir Percival’s eyes it doesn’t look like he’d be adverse to such a request.
“Ladies, if you’ll help me?”
I stand up and Francesca and I place our hands upon Sir Percival as instructed, to brace him for what’s to come. For his part he already seems partly anaesthetised by the sight of a handsome man looking after him. Biting upon hard leather may also play a part, but I can’t be sure.
I look away and hear Sir Percival’s grunts of pain as Guido does things with his body.
“It is finished,” Guido says after Sir Percival’s last grunt. “He will need care and attention. The full use of his arms will come back slowly.”
“We are due to leave Venice shortly on an airship,” I say sadly.
“Not yet. At the request of the Venetian authorities the Captain has agreed to use it to help with the disaster.”
“Disaster?”
“The aether explosions along the Grand Canal made the city’s foundations unstable and some of the buildings have subsided. It’s needed to fly above the city and find out the full extent of the situation.”
“How long?” I ask, my hopes rising.
She smiles and her eyes glitter, “A few days.”
My soaring heart makes me stand up and hug her.
To my side Guido helps Sir Percival up and looks deeply into his eyes. Possibly checking he’s alright. Or possibly not.
“Sir Percival, this is Guido, Francesca’s brother and a doctor. Guido, this is Sir Percival, a well respected aetheric scientist.”
“Fascinating, you must tell me all about it,” Guido says.
A miraculous tonic seems to course through Sir Percival’s veins at explaining to a (supposedly) handsome man his life’s work.
With our arms entwined Francesca and I leave them to it and lead the way out to the dock.
My stomach rumbles and I realise the last food I had was at the meeting prior to travelling over to the island. How long ago was that now?
“Alice, we really must find you something nice to eat,” Francesca says with a mischievous smile on her face.
“I think I know just what will suffice, Francesca,” I reply, pulling her in for a quick kiss.
But she responds by ardently kissing me like there’s no-one around, and considering the two men behind us are birds of a different feather, that seems quite apt.
Eventually we pull apart gasping for breath, and share a certain look.
***
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Snow Beast
After arriving back in Britain from Venice Sir Percival and I are sent into hiding by the secret Government Department we work for. Rumours have reached them that our lives are in even more danger from the Men of the Cog after destroying their experimental cold-aether apparatus.
The secret house we are sent to is located in a remote village in the midst of the Snowdonia mountains of North Wales. In this splendid isolation Sir Percival has been instructed to recreate from his memory the machinery we most recently destroyed.
However, mysterious, violent, deaths plague the village, for which we receive the blame as our arrival apparently woke the monster.
But the reality is far more inexplicable than we’d ever imagined.
One
The usual cold looks and silence met our entry to the village pub. If it weren’t for the roaring fire I’d feel as cold as I would outside in the freezing wind coming down off the mountains.
I hustled through the smoky air and beer smell to the fire and warmed my hands while also surreptitiously lifting the skirt of my heavy winter dress to get some warm air where it was needed the most.
“’Ello, Darlin’!” came a cry in the wonderful Welsh accent from behind the bar. It originated from Glenys, the barmaid, who was looking after the pub while the landlord was away. She had taken quite the surprising shine to Sir Percival, perhaps due to his polite manner towards her, or that he was a new male face in the village she’d not had a romantic liaison with. Yet.
“Oh, hello,” he replied worriedly, hoping she’d not go anywhere near him. I could tell he was cringing inside at her attention. He’d only agreed to accompany me to the village’s sole public house after I’d threatened to down tools after seemingly working several days straight. There was only so much copper tubing, glass blowing, and potentially catastrophic aetheric explosions that a girl could take in this godforsaken place.
The only reason this village existed in the middle of nowhere was because of the gold seams in the local mountains. Glenys told me that the village used to be far more populous but people drifted away when the larger seams petered out. Now less than a hundred people permanently lived here.
My eyes were glued to the fire as I heard her bustle towards him, and then his small squeak of fear as she asked, “What’s your pleasure, dearie?”
I could imagine her wide smile and the unladylike amount of décolletage showing at her words.
Slowly the other patrons went back to their pints of beer and conversations. A few quiet laughs at Glenys’ antics found their way to my ears.
After hearing movement indicating Sir Percival was now seated and Glenys was back behind the bar I untied my deerstalker and removed it, letting the warm air find my short black hair. Turning round I idly noted that he’d made sure to sit at the far end of the booth table so as to be as far away from his unlikely admirer as possible.
His own deerstalker was on the table in front of him. It was still disconcerting seeing his bare face and short grey hair. I wasn’t sure how long he’d had his beard and extreme hirsuteness, certainly before I’d first met him and began my assistantship to his aetheric experimentation. Quite to my surprise he decided to continue with his virtual hairlessness after we’d returned to Britain from Venice and our contretemps with the Men of the Cog. Maybe his relationship with one of the male descendants of Casanova had changed his mind about being so extremely hairy. I knew that my memories of Francesca, a female descendant of the legendary lover, would always have a place in my heart, and… other female areas. For many nights to come.
Blithely I ignored his wounded look as I removed my heavy coat, lay it on the seat opposite and joined him at the table, thereby blocking Glenys’ potential route of attack.
“Miss Love… Lemon?” he whispered, in a hurt tone of voice at my failure to protect him from Glenys. Thankfully he was slowly remembering to use the alias the Department had given me.
“Oh, a white wine, please, Mr Peach,” I replied with a smile, deliberately misunderstanding him.
He sighed, knowing he’d have to gain Glenys’ attention to be served.
Could he now be considered ‘handsome’? He hadn’t used the hair to hide any facial disfigurements. Mentally I shrugged, perhaps Glenys knew something I had not one whit of interest in.
Even though the reception was frosty (apart for Sir Percival with his unlikely admirer), I reluctantly believed that this was the safest place in the country for us to be. Who would ever think of looking for us here, in a small village with only an old winding dirt track, laughingly called a ‘road’, for access in the midst of the highest mountains in Britain? Hopefully not the Russians, or the Men of the Cog, or some Venetians who seemed to believe Sir Percival and I had something to do with the recent destruction of parts of their city. In fact at the way our luck was going I’d not be overly surprised to learn that the Southend-on-Sea town council had put a bounty on my head for the damage to their pier.
The arrival of a frilly white cotton blouse that appeared to contain two jostling blimps broke me from my grim reverie. Glenys had arrived with our drinks.
“Ere, you done summat with your hair?”
“Sorry?” I replied, looking up into her face.
“Seems to be a different colour.”
My eyes met those of Sir Percival. One of the conditions of our hiding while Sir Percival attempted to recreate the cold a
ether apparatus from Venice was that I dyed my hair so as to hide its usual, highly recognisable, pink. I’d often toyed with the idea of a rich auburn, but now having the motive to try it soon discovered that it just made it look a horrendous mess. So plain black it was.
“Um, no black. As normal.” I resolved to re-dye it again as soon as we got back to our accommodations.
“Oh.”
She turned away after Sir Percival didn’t take the bait of her ‘come hither’ smile aimed in his direction. I rather suspected she enjoyed the challenge. I hadn’t the heart to inform her that she had the wrong equipment for it to ever be a challenge in the first place. Not to mention that it would be dangerous for Sir Percival as homosexuality was illegal.
I took a sip of my wine reflecting on the fact that no-one that knew Sir Percival would ever believe the smooth cheeked, short-haired person I sat with could possibly ever be him. In fact his alias - Mister Peach - seemed to fit his new persona.
Suddenly the door opened, releasing a cold gust of snow-laden wind to play among the clientele’s ankles. Everyone’s eyes, including our own, looked to see who had entered.
“Dewi!” came a glad cry from behind us at the sight of the large figure outlined at the doorway. But for some reason he didn’t respond. Or move. The tavern’s gas lights showed that his face seemed to be strangely white, or at least what I could make out of it atop his large bushy beard (albeit one that couldn’t hold a candle to Sir Percival’s previous effort). The long dark coat he wore was speckled with snow and his deerstalker hat had the ear flaps down.
