Thunderstruck

“Miyakit—” he popped to his feet.

  She was sitting up. “What—what happened?” she asked.

  “Oh darling girl …” he whispered. “I was so terrified … So afraid I’d lost you …”

  It was then he knew he had a serious problem. He realized he needed to keep Miyakitsu and Tsu separated.

  Forever.

  It was then he knew he’d overstepped the boundaries of rationality and made some strange deal with—had it been God, or something else? Would God have given a man like the Wandering Wallace a second chance at love or would something else have shared what he’d think was an opportunity just to open the mouth to a trap?

  He tried not to think too much about it. There was no going back.

  He had two wives. The real one and her shadow.

  He picked up a different mask, in a different mood. He settled the wolf’s head on his shoulders.

  He shook his head and said to Tsu now, “Do not worry, my love. Let us go Topside and feed you. And then you will begin to make masks for all our friends.”

  She smiled at him and stood up. Glancing over her shoulder, she spied the fox. “Oh, sweeting,” she cooed. She ran a hand across the plush black fur, watching it ripple beneath her fingers. “It has been a long day for her.”

  The Wandering Wallace’s throat constricted.

  “We must let her rest.”

  “Yes,” he agreed. “It is true. Shall we go now, beautiful girl?”

  She nodded, and he led her from the room, locking the door behind them.

  Chapter Eight

  The smallest effort is not lost. Each wavelet on the ocean toss’dAids in the ebb-tide or flow.

  —Charles Mackay

  Philadelphia

  Kenneth Lorrington, George quickly learned, was not known for throwing grand parties, or subtly working within high-ranking social circles.

  But Kenneth was known for having friends of a distinctly divisive sort. Of several ranks, groups of them drifted into his household under the guise of making social calls. But instead of drinking, or gambling with cards or dice, these men gambled their lives, slinking into the household’s library to discuss strategy and spar. They practiced sword fighting, boxing, and styles of fighting they claimed were learned as nearby as America’s Fringe and as far away as the Far East.

  Lorrington caught George watching them and motioned him forward. “Join us.”

  His chin tucked, remembering the warning to keep his head down, he obeyed.

  Lorrington slapped him on the back and said, “Do you fight?”

  “I used to.”

  “Good.” Lorrington signaled another man over. “Skellish, give him a good one-two.”

  George’s eyes widened. “I dare not hit a man of rank.”

  “You’re in luck then,” the one named Skellish said with a laugh, “I doubt you’ll land a punch at all. But, please, for the sake of my practice time, do give it a solid try!”

  Lorrington clapped, saying, “Quite right!”

  So George obeyed. After he’d landed his third body blow to the ranking gentleman (and caught a few himself), Lorrington whistled and waved his arms for everyone to stop.

  George dropped his hands, seeing how many men had gathered while he and Skellish were absorbed in sparring. The library was now crowded with men of varying ranks, and toward the group’s center, Lorrington was steering an older man with spectacles and a large box.

  “We have with us a very smart man. A few of you may have purchased watches and other fine baubles from him, but today he joins us to show us a far finer project of his.”

  The man drew up short, seeing George. “No. I cannot stay after all,” he said, shaking his head.

  Lorrington’s tone was sharp. “I promise you that you are among friends. This man,” he said, pointing to George, “is in my employ. Trust him as you would me.”

  “Kenneth,” the watchmaker whispered, “you ask much of me.”

  “No more than your nephew Rowen might.”

  George moderated the surprise he feared would show in his expression.

  The watchmaker sighed, and, his eyes never leaving George, he stepped to the library’s center and began to unpack the box.

  The library welcomed a few more guests, including Lord Morgan Astraea and Lord Gregor Burchette.

  George’s heart sped, aching in his chest. Had he still been in the Council’s employ, he would have had quite the list of collaborators to hand over. He flexed his fists at his sides. Now, though, rather than enemies, he saw potential allies. It was a strange and heady sensation, being even a small part of such a group.

  “Gentlemen,” the watchmaker said, “I have a piece of technology to show you. A project in development that gives us more options and allows us to phase out Witchery.”

  He lifted a toy carriage out of the box and set it on the nearest table. “This will take but a moment to warm …” he apologized, lighting a lucifer and sticking its burning head in a box toward the carriage’s front wheels. After a moment he withdrew the match, shaking it out as the mechanism heated.

  Steam poured out of a small chimney above the carriage’s odd box, and the wheels, attached to rods that were attached to joints, and then to other odd bits, began to turn. The carriage began to travel forward.

  The men clapped.

  “So far,” the watchmaker said, “we have been able to keep the model moving without incident for three hours. We have found that, by affixing a bellows, we can increase the carriage’s speed to rival the trot of a horse.”

  The men murmured to each other, approval clear in their expressions.

  Three hours at a trot was impressive.

  Lorrington asked, “Who is the other part of the ‘we?’”

  “Old Sir,” the watchmaker said. “A freed African with a mind for mechanics that is only rivaled by my own and a few others.”

  “That is precisely the spirit of this revolution,” Lorrington congratulated. “That free men are freer thinkers. Good show!”

  There was a round of hearty congratulations as the man snuffed the engine and repacked the box. He did not spare a glance for George, but hurried away.

  “There are more like him,” George told Lorrington as the crowd began to file out of the library, led by the watchmaker. “More inventive sorts in this city that might work well together.”

  Lorrington nodded. “I expect you know their names and locations?” he asked grimly.

  “Names, yes. Locations?” George shook his head. “I left them with little reason to stay in the same spot.”

  “We will start with names and previous addresses, then,” Lorrington said. “And we will seek to further revolution’s grasp with fine inventions.”

  ***

  Aboard the Artemesia

  It was as they again sat at the table, which was becoming far too familiar for Bran’s tastes, that Evie growled out what he supposed they were all feeling: “Trusting a single soul in this endeavor is equally as nerve-wracking as knowing I should trust no one.”

  Bran tore his eyes from where Miyakitsu sat glittering with crystal jewelry, and focused on her man instead.

  Peacock plumes twitched and the Wandering Wallace steepled his fingers together, resting the chin of his wolf mask on his thumbs, and peered at her. “You should be more than nervous,” he warned. “You should be terrified. We risk everything by overthrowing a government. This is no small feat—no mutiny of a single ship in which we might simply hand the wheel back to her captain should we decide differently about our actions. This is life-changing. Or life-ending.” He raised and dropped his shoulders. “We are rearranging all the pieces on life’s chessboard so pawns may move unencumbered—so pawns might aspire to be kings and queens.”

  “We are freeing slaves,” Evie responded, swinging her legs back to straddle her chair so she, too, leaned forward, her elbows propped on the table, her eyes grim. Or merely shrewd.

  “If you believe that is the sum of it, perhaps that is best,” t
he Wandering Wallace said. “But, believe you me, freeing slaves is only part of a grander plan. It begins what’s inevitable.” Leaning back, he pulled one leg up to prop his foot on his chair’s seat. He wrapped an arm around that leg, draping the other arm across the chair’s back. “Can you imagine it, Elizabeth Victoria? A free world? A world without ranks. A world where everyone may vote. Where everyone learns to read and write. Where no one is judged by their appearance, or background, but by their achievements and heart. Where neighborhoods have faces of all colors, people of all faiths, and many languages are spoken—freely—in public, without fear of persecution. Can you imagine it?”

  Evie snorted. “Quite an imagination you have.”

  “You are a pessimist,” he accused.

  “I am no pessimist, merely a weary realist. No matter what we do, no matter what we change, there will never be true equality. We are human. We live to subjugate others. We always complicate our existence, not simplify it. We are the only species behaving that way. We only feel safe with things—and people—we understand. And what we think we understand most—wrong though we are—are people most like ourselves. We are lazy. We do not wish to understand new things or new people. We prefer being comfortable with the evils we know rather than finding unfamiliar good.”

  “And you, Lady Jordan,” the Wandering Wallace called to her across the deck, “what say you to Captain Elizabeth’s theory? Are things so grim that true equality shall remain forever beyond our grasp? Say we free the Africans. Unionize the Irish. Free the Witches.”

  Her head snapped toward him at the last pair of words and she crossed to the table quickly, clouds darkening behind her. “You cannot truly free the Witches.”

  The Wandering Wallace’s fingers tightened, whitening on the table’s edge. “What?”

  Close behind Jordan, Caleb hung his head.

  Jordan locked her gaze with that of Bran.

  His spine stiffened, a chill clawing beneath his shirt.

  “Let him tell you why you dare not release us from our bonds,” she challenged.

  He looked away.

  Marion shook his head, dark curls falling across his eyes. With a large hand he swept them aside, saying, “Why, Maker? Why might our Conductor, Lady Astraea, Stormbringer, believe we should not be set free?”

  Jordan reached across the table, her fingers snaring Marion’s wrist. She squeezed him so tight he tore his gaze from Bran to glare at her. “You need no answer except the one you feel inside.”

  Frost glinted where the edges of her fingers dug into his broad wrist—a cold so potent she hissed, pulling back, popping her stinging fingers into her mouth. From around them she whispered, “You know it—you feel it, too.” Her eyelashes fluttered; moisture shone along the edges of her eyes. “More than any aboard these airships, our type—we Witches—cannot be trusted. We have been too ill-used to make kind decisions. We were brutalized to come into our powers and now we are brutal with others.”

  Her gaze volleyed between Bran and the Wandering Wallace. “You dare not truly free us. Use us to meet your ends, yes. But then destroy us.”

  Rowen jumped to his feet, color rising in his face.

  Jordan reached out to him, and taking his hand, guided him back to his seat with a look and a touch. “It is the only way your type will go on.”

  “My type is your type,” Rowen said.

  Jordan drew back, watching him.

  “I heard you tell Caleb the truth, that—”

  “Hush!” she cried, her eyes wide. “You know not of what you speak!” Her hands shook and she dropped them to her sides and then plunged them into the generous pleats of her dress.

  He stood again. “I do. I heard.”

  “I cannot win,” she whispered hoarsely, turning away.

  “I don’t think there is winning in revolution,” Rowen stated. “I think everyone loses something during it. But you have to still fight.” He rounded the table to stand before her. “Tell them,” he urged. “Tell them the truth—there is freedom in knowledge: the freedom of choice.”

  “No!” she shouted. “No one else must know. I shouldn’t have told anyone. It should’ve been only my burden and that of the Maker.”

  “Be brave,” Rowen whispered.

  “I am. Braver than you know.” She shook her head slowly. Sadly.

  “This secret cannot be shared,” Jordan insisted. “If others knew and used the knowledge … It would bring chaos.”

  Bran glanced down, suddenly realizing he was no longer sure how many people knew the truth about becoming a Weather Witch—that anyone could be one if they were pushed far enough…. In his haste to leave Holgate (and the confusion surrounding his kidnapping) he had left some papers behind. And he had spoken to Maude and Marion …

  If they knew, and he knew, and Jordan, Caleb, and Rowen knew … He glanced around the table. Only Captain Elizabeth Victoria, Ginger Jack, Meggie, the Wandering Wallace, and Miyakitsu didn’t know. It seemed hardly a secret now….

  “What is the harm?” Rowen pushed.

  “Only think on it and you’ll see.”

  Bran rolled it around in his own head. By telling the populace that anyone could be a Witch it did remove the stigma associated with magick. But … He shuddered. What if people became determined to have more Weather Witches—perhaps for the military. There would be more Makers. There would be more cruelty even if it was accidental in the beginning. There would be Witches that triggered without guidance because, deep down, they knew it was possible …

  Jordan was right. There would be chaos. Marion had wreaked his own havoc as the meddlesome Frost King, but he’d never done anything hugely destructive. He’d never wiped out a population’s crops, or destroyed a building with lightning, or sickened a population with an untimely chill.

  But he could.

  Almost any of them could.

  “I shall prove it,” Jordan said to Rowen, a determined crease between her brows. She spun to face Marion and Caleb. “When you are given a choice of action, do you not now turn to the darker of the paths presented? You, Caleb, who tried to gut the Maker? And you, Marion, who brought him and his family aboard this ship against their will?” They looked away from her but she was relentless as the dark that deepened in the sky around them. “Did you plan a relaxing vacation for them or fantasize where to dump his body?”

  Both men scowled at the table, taking their scolding, storm clouds gathering in their eyes as lightning snapped distantly in the clouds Jordan called.

  “This secret goes no further. And we Witches must be appropriately dealt with.” Jordan locked gazes with the Wandering Wallace. “Use us however you must for the good of everyone else—that is why we were Made—” she added with a bitter laugh, “but you must destroy us as soon as you no longer need us—and before we realize you will pull the trigger.” She groaned. “What I wouldn’t give for a world without magick. Magick ruins everything.” Regaining control of her shaking hands, she tucked them together before her. “You’ll pardon me. I have a ship to sail. Philadelphia?” She looked at the Wandering Wallace for confirmation.

  He whispered, “Yes,” and they all watched her go.

  Jordan stopped on the dais between the wheel and the sparkling stormglass, not far from where little Meggie returned to playing with her jacks and ball, the Fennec foxes dozing on Maude’s wide lap.

  He shook his head, the peacock’s feathers fluttering. “What say you, Maker?” he finally asked. “Is there redemption for such souls or must we strip them from their bodies when the moment is right?”

  Bran swallowed hard, his eyes squeezing together as he pushed out his most carefully chosen words. “Perhaps some are too far broken to be mended,” he whispered, “but do not ask me who can be redeemed and who cannot be because I, more than any, hope redemption is available to all, no matter their sins. Men can change. Men can become better, stronger, wiser. But only if we try. So you will choose who to place in your sights when the time is right—not me.?
??

  Bran watched the Wandering Wallace pinch the bridge of his mask’s snout in a vain attempt to reach his own flesh beneath the painted and fur-covered leather.

  Miyakitsu pawed at his shoulder, cooing. He shook off her affections and rose to stalk in the space behind his chair, tucking his hands behind his back and shaking his head the whole time.

  ***

  Philadelphia

  The chambers of Philadelphia’s Council were filled with men doing business and large government-provided porcelain and metal automatons wandering about as servants. Councilman Loftkin was focused on the reporter whom he’d called in. “Just write the bloody article,” he demanded, rubbing a hand across his forehead.

  The reporter, some new upstart from the newspaper who still had a fire in his eyes and an obvious inability to understand reality, leaned against Loftkin’s desk. “Begging your pardon, Councilman,” he said, not sounding like he begged at all, “we have an article about this poor girl murdered by Merrow and now this? I’ve caught no wind of this new news. Cynda Melkin’s story was strange enough—what girls willingly wander the waterfront nowadays? And at night?” He clucked his tongue. “And now you claim there has been a fire related to someone’s illegal experiments with steam, resulting in the death of the only child in a family’s line? It sounds like quite the tale—but not one I’ve heard. Do you have a source? Witnesses?”

  “Just because you have heard nothing,” Loftkin strained past the words, “of this event does not lessen the reality or the heartbreaking tragedy of it all. And, in regards to Miss Melkin and her unfortunate friend: girls can be quite stupid.”

  “May I quote you?”

  Loftkin fought down a growl.

  “And heartbreaking tragedy …” The reporter scrawled the words on his notepad and squinted at the Councilman. “You have a way with words? Perhaps you might consider penning a book compiling these tragedies?”

  The Councilman snorted. “Politicians are expected to turn a phrase,” he reminded. “A book. That is an interesting thought. Flattering even.”