The Mysterious Madam Morpho

  Her mind all but shut down, lost in panting hunger. His loose hair flashed against the starry canopy above, and she felt as if she were wrapped up in the sparkling magic that seemed to spice every moment in the caravan. Half-naked in the open, wildly writhing against an almost-stranger like an animal in heat, she had never felt more alive, more wanting. When his finger found the crux of her, rubbing in time with his grinding hips, she set her teeth in his ear, moaning and panting and muttering his name as the sweetness built inside her like nothing she had ever known.

  The tightness of the corset, the press of his body, the fire of his tongue, the wet slickness where they met; the sensations possessed her until they pushed her over the edge and into utter oblivion. Imogen arched her back and tossed her hair and screamed in release, and he plunged into her faster and faster and harder and harder. The moment went on and on forever, throbbing inside her as he groaned and pressed his face into her neck, shuddering against her.

  In the silence that followed, she heard nothing but her own desperately thudding heart and his gasping breaths.

  “Have you reached any conclusions?” she murmured, finding it hard to form the words.

  “I must admit my hypothesis was proven true. Given the chance, I will gladly be your ruination.”

  Then, without warning, he dropped her skirts and sat beside her, crossing his legs demurely and bending to throw his black coat over them both. Imogen sat up, spluttering, startled by the damp cold of the leather. Torno the Strong Man stood just inside the tent, blushing fiercely under his hat and hugging an enormous barbell to his chest as if it was an infant.

  “So sorry, my lady,” he said. “The twins hid my weights as a joke. Many times did I clear my throat, but . . . the caravan, it is so loud. Excuse me, signore. I will be going now. My show, it is starting soon.”

  She could only shake her head numbly and blush.

  “Good night, sir,” Henry said pleasantly. As soon as Torno nodded and turned away, he adjusted himself and exhaled, sliding down on the couch so that their heads were even. “Are you all right? Or do you hate me now?”

  “I’m fine. Why wouldn’t I be? Why would you think I hate you? What did you mean about my ruination?” she asked dazedly. “And where did you learn how to do that?”

  “I find a good novel can be very instructive. Where did you learn?”

  “As with the dancing, I simply followed your lead.”

  He sighed and stood to tug up his breeches and shrug on his shirt. She also sat up to put herself to rights, enjoying the sweet calm of a man who remained after the act instead of rushing away in disgust.

  Handing over her jacket and hat, he watched her dreamily for a moment before a horrified look came over his face. “Oh, my poor girl. I didn’t ask. Have you taken precautions? Do we need to . . . I’m so sorry I . . .” He gestured vaguely at her skirts, and she sat up straighter.

  “Of course I take the herbs. Stop looking at me like I’m going to fall apart like a wet biscuit. And don’t change the subject.”

  He sighed. “I am a dangerous man, Imogen.”

  He held out a hand. After buttoning the last button on her jacket, she took it, and he helped her stand.

  She wobbled for a moment before sticking her chin out and poking him in the chest. “And what if I don’t care? What if I’m just as dangerous for you?”

  “Then we’ll do what any good scientist does,” he answered, tracing one finger along her cheek. “We’ll research. And come up with a new hypothesis.”

  She smoothed her skirts and set her hat at its usual jaunty angle. “I find that I like to experiment with you. But I also appreciate firm conclusions.”

  He snorted. “Firm, indeed. Let us hope this experiment doesn’t backfire.”

  “Backfire? My dear artificer, I find I like it better from the front.”

  12

  With Beauregard, it had always been awkward afterward, like two strangers who had accidentally run into each other on the sidewalk. Sometimes, in the museum, he had handed her a handkerchief before dropping her skirts and disappearing behind a convenient stuffed mammoth, leaving her to pick up the books she had dropped or the ledger she had been marking. No wonder she had never felt fire or hunger or even warmth. Most of the time, he had shown more fondness for the mammoths.

  Not so with Henry. Although there was some strangeness to being caught, half-clad in his arms, his warmth and kindness in helping her get dressed warmed her even more toward him. Feeling his gentle fingers buttoning her hat to her collar was nearly as intimate as feeling them below her skirts. Whatever he had meant about being dangerous, right now, he was simply tender.

  “So anyone can pass the clockworks to get back here?” she asked, trying to fill the silence under the tent with something besides the pounding of her heart.

  “As you have seen, a clockwork guards each space between wagons.” He tucked his hair back under his hat and scratched his beard as if he wanted to rip it off. “And each clockwork has a safe phrase that will shut it down for one minute, long enough to allow passage through to here. I know the passcode for every clockwork, but the carnivalleros are given only one. They must enter and leave past Cadmus the cassowarrel. This is, after all, a public space. Should you ever wish to come here, simply say this to Cadmus: ‘Orangutan posthumous grotesque.’ He will freeze and allow you through, in or out.”

  “What would happen if someone unfamiliar with the code attempted to bypass one of your masterpieces?”

  He grinned. “First, they would receive a warning, and then they would face some rather dastardly consequences, I’m afraid. The clockworks are as much a defense as an entertainment, you see. The caravan defends her own.”

  “But how do they work? Do they maim or kill? Are there other commands?”

  He cupped her face to kiss her gently, surprising her. “I would love nothing more than to tell you everything I know. No one has ever shown any interest in my work, other than Criminy, and I don’t consider him nearly as kissable as you. But let us go and enjoy the last minutes of the carnival. You’ve never actually been to one before, have you?”

  “No. My father didn’t believe in idleness, and my . . . well, my subsequent education didn’t include frivolity of any sort.”

  He smiled indulgently at her, setting her hat just so and readjusting a button that was off with a gentle care that she found touching.

  “Let us go, then, you and I. It’s been a long time since I’ve enjoyed the sights.”

  He adjusted his mask and pulled down the goggles, shrouding his fine eyes in smoky gray. Together they stepped out from under the magic glow of the rainbow-streaked tent. He led her in a different direction and nudged her forward, and she spoke the passcode to the long-necked clockwork bird. It paused in the midst of laying its own egg, going still and cold so they could duck beyond its neck. Once safe on the other side, Henry paused, her arm tucked into his, until the cassowarrel came alive again, swallowing the egg in a strange, contortionist dance.

  They were in a different part of the caravan now, and they moved amid the crowd with bland anonymity. Arm-in-arm, they watched Torno lift his weights, his strength defying physics thanks to Criminy’s magic. Emerlie juggled hedgehogs and rode her unicycle high up on the wire, her lime and magenta costume glowing against the velvety night sky. Next up came Abilene and Eblick and the two-headed Bludman, each waiting behind a curtain to amuse and entertain and, in the twins’ case, terrify. A collection of bizarre creatures floating in large jars of liquid was surrounded by a crowd so deep that Imogen caught only a glimpse of the horrors within. They passed Letitia in her turban, telling fortunes in a sequin-spangled tent. She looked over an awestruck city girl’s stylishly huge bonnet to grin knowingly at them, and Imogen blushed despite herself.

  “And how are you enjoying the caravan?”

  Criminy Stain himself materialized besi
de her, his grin as mischievous as Letitia’s had been.

  “It’s a bit overwhelming,” Imogen said. She could only imagine how flustered she appeared to his predator’s eyes and hoped his sharp nose wouldn’t pick up on what had happened under the tent. Wrapped again in hat and goggles and oversized black coat, Henry was a solid but unreadable enigma at her side, his silent tension betrayed only by the tight squeeze of his glove on her arm.

  “And if it isn’t the Mysterious Mr. Murdoch,” Criminy said, falling into step with them. “I suspect everyone else believes you to be Vil in that get-up.”

  “That’s the point,” Henry said, growling.

  “But won’t it bother you, my cunning recluse, to know that everyone’s tongue will be wagging with the wrong man’s name in conjunction with our lovely Madam Morpho?”

  “Rumors are the food of fools,” Imogen said smartly, giving Henry’s arm a squeeze. “No one here even knows me, much less should they care on whose arm I walk.”

  “The caravan is a very small family, my dear lady,” Criminy said. “You’ll find that nothing goes unnoticed.” He bowed to her and doffed his hat. With a snap of his fingers, a small gray moth appeared to flutter in the air before her face. She reached out, enchanted but confused. The second her fingers touched it, the moth dissolved in a puff of glittery dust.

  “It wasn’t real?” she said, disappointment plain on her face.

  “Illusions can be deceiving,” Criminy said with a shrug and a bow. “Better to enjoy it while it lasts, rather than look behind the curtain too early.”

  Flipping his topper back onto his head, Criminy grinned and disappeared into a crowd rustling around a spotlight. Imogen was curious about which act the people waited to see, if perhaps it was the ringmaster and magician himself, but Henry pulled her around the outskirts of the throng. They walked the line of lanterns delineating the caravan’s perimeter, not stopping until they stood before her wagon. She had lost track of time and space and finally realized that it was quite late—and that Henry was farther away than he had ever been. The tender affection and clever repartee of the tent had fled, and she felt as if he might bolt away from her if she let him.

  “What does trouble you so?” she asked.

  “If I could say, it wouldn’t trouble me.”

  “Will you kiss me good night, then?”

  “Of course not. Not here. Your reputation is at stake.”

  “And it is mine to decide what those stakes will be,” she said peevishly. She stood on the bottom step of the wagon so that they would be evenly matched in height and so she could see as much of his face as possible. In the shadow, her eyes couldn’t penetrate the smoke of his goggles, although she stood looking straight into where his eyes should have been.

  “I don’t want you to regret me,” he said.

  She snorted. “Then don’t make me, you fool!”

  She flicked a gloved finger at the glass of his goggle lens before disappearing into her wagon and slamming the door.

  13

  Imogen slept deeply, waking at the nudge of a body denting the thin mattress of her bed.

  “What about my reputation?” she all but purred, flinging a bare arm over her eyes.

  “What about it, then?” said a bright and all-too-feminine voice.

  With a squawk, Imogen lurched to sitting, holding the tatty blanket up to her chin. The lights were on, and Emerlie perched on the edge of the bed, grinning. She wore yet another of her horridly bright get-ups, a short, doll-like dress and leggings of spring green, all covered with buttons.

  “What on earth are you doing here?” Imogen said, and Abilene appeared in the doorway in her dressing gown, tugging nervously on her beard.

  “Had to let her in.” She shrugged in half-apology.

  “Into the wagon, yes. But into my room?”

  “If you jiggle the door just right, it opens.” Emerlie buffed her glove on the ruffles at her neck. “Me an’ the horse-faced girl who used to bunk in here had a deal.”

  Imogen’s eyes darted around the small room, checking that what few things she owned had escaped the tightrope walker’s snooping. She had cause yet again to thank Master Stain for sending her to Henry, considering that his wagon was one of the only places in Sang where her butterflies and other secrets would be safe from prying eyes and greedy fingers.

  “Considering we have no such agreement, would you care to explain why you’ve let yourself in?”

  Emerlie leaned close, and Abilene checked the door to the outside before rushing close to huddle at the foot of the bed.

  “We have to know.” Emerlie’s kohl-ringed blue eyes darted back and forth. “What is it you do in Mr. Murdoch’s wagon?”

  “And why were you out on Vil’s arm last night?” Abilene shuddered in disgust.

  With a snort, Imogen stood and slipped into her faded black dressing robe, sorry for its shabby shape and mannish cut and noting how strange it was to be self-conscious for the first time.

  “Gossip. Honestly. Could this little interrogation not have waited for breakfast? Or at least after I was awake and dressed? Do you think me so silly and easily spooked that I would spill my secrets just because you caught me unawares? Does this stratagem generally yield results?” She stopped in front of Emerlie, staring down at the short strawberry-pink curls with her most dire and furious librarian’s glare. A staring contest ensued, Imogen’s eyes narrow and unblinking. When Emerlie looked away and hunched her shoulders, Imogen knew that she had won.

  “Folk like to talk,” Emerlie said with fake brightness. “A word here, a word there. You can’t blame us for being curious.”

  “And you’re so very mysterious,” Abilene added.

  Imogen crossed her arms. “Do not think me the heroine of one of your penny dreadfuls, Abi. I’m none so colorful as all that. I will tell you the same thing I’m sure Master Stain has yielded under your prodding. I go to Mr. Murdoch’s wagon to manufacture the necessary equipment for my act.”

  “Which is what, exactly?” Emerlie plucked at Imogen’s sleeve, as if she could pull information out by brute force, if necessary.

  “You’ll have to wait until the equipment is complete, I’m afraid.” Imogen smiled sweetly. “Where’s the fun if I tell all my secrets?”

  “But what about Vil?” Abi tugged her beard, pulling down her thick lower lip. “What’s he like, under all that leather? No one’s ever seen him without a full suit and goggles.” She took a deep breath and exhaled a sigh, ending on a hopeful note. “Is he handsome?”

  “I couldn’t say,” Imogen said staunchly. “I have never seen Vil unmasked myself.”

  “But does he hiccup so much around you? He hiccups around me something awful! And—”

  Emerlie stopped her with a dismissive wave.

  “It’s no good, Abi. She’s a steel trap, this one.”

  “Anything else?” Imogen held an arm out to the door.

  Emerlie took a long, leisurely look around the room before standing and stretching, her knuckles nearly grazing the ceiling. “We didn’t mean no harm. Just makin’ friends.”

  “And calculating worth, I’m sure,” Imogen said under her breath.

  Emerlie flounced out the door, but Abilene stopped.

  “Oh, and Master Scabrous said to tell you to stop by for costume measurements,” she said. “I really did mean to tell you.”

  Emerlie dragged the poor girl out the door by her beard, and Imogen ran to her armoire, flinging it open to check that the brooch was still pinned in place to her jacket. Emerlie knew she had secrets, but the poor girl wasn’t prepared for this level of danger.

  Emerlie would jiggle a doorknob and toss a room for the social coin of gossip.

  But for that brooch, Beauregard would kill.

  * * *

  After breakfast, Vil met her at the door of Henry’s t
railer, his hiccuping forever distinguishing him from the man she truly wanted to see.

  “He’s working with some dangerous chemicals and machinery this morning, m-m-my lady,” Vil said, blocking the door with his body.

  “I was given to understand we worked in tandem.” She stepped rebelliously onto the bottom stair, sending Vil into another fit of hiccups.

  “Not today, I’m afraid.” Even doubled over, he refused to budge his gloved hands from the doorjamb.

  She tried to look beyond him, but the frustrating little man leaned this way and that, foiling her.

  “Fine,” she said, louder than necessary. “Let him be a coward and avoid me, then.”

  With nowhere better to go, she headed for the costuming trailer of Master Scabrous, which was painted the shiny canary yellow of a wet lemon drop. She knocked on his door and was admitted to a cheerful flurry of discussions, scribbled drawings, and ticklish measurements that made her blush. Although his dark skin and light hair were rather exotic, he was much like Criminy in his good humor and gentlemanly manner. As she returned his grin and his easy banter, she realized that her feelings about Bludmen were definitely changing. She felt safer within the confines of his trailer than she had felt in her own father’s house. His snapping blue eyes laughed as much as Criminy Stain’s gray ones, and she left with great confidence regarding a costume that would complement her butterflies and their act, not to mention her own coloring and figure.

  At lunch, she bypassed Emerlie and her cronies to sit with the contortionists, Demi and Cherie, who were just as sweet but not nearly so young as they looked. By the time she had finished her stew, she had grown accustomed to their dimpled smiles and red-painted lips. The teacups of blood raised across the table from bowls of bludbunny stew were simply a part of carnival life. She was fascinated to learn that Demi was being a Stranger from much farther afield, saved from the brink of death and bludded by Criminy himself when a bludstag had found her on the moors. Aside from Lady Letitia, Demi was the only other Stranger Imogen had met, and it was all she could do not to badger the poor child with a scientist’s curiosity about a world she had only imagined before.