The Art of Murder and Flower Arranging

The Inside Man

23 March 1873

We had been two days in flight when the storm first hit.

At first, I could scarcely believe what my uncle was telling me. Sailing ships met their share of obstacles upon the water, but I doubted air could roll and tumble about a large vessel the way the ocean’s waves did.

But when the Sadie Blue’s crew, Uncle Silas and I sat down to supper on the evening of the twentieth, I found out for myself that air itself could, in all actuality, be a powerful force.

Powerful enough to tilt the floor and send a soup plate skidding across the table.

Over to me.

And then upend it all over my chest and neck, effectively ruining one of the few bodices I had so carefully selected.

I bit back a howl of pain as the hot stew soaked through my clothing and made contact with my skin, which resulted in my cheeks ballooning out and my eyes bugging like that of a frog’s. This, of course, amused the ship’s crew to no end. Even my uncle was smiling, the traitor.

At night, the storm was especially bad. For two nights I could scarce sleep for the winds howling against the body of the ship, the endless creaks and clatters of the vessel’s insides.

And then last night, I finally succumbed to it.

I dreamed I was sitting on that sandy shore, but now, instead of the all-consuming darkness, a pale dawn light broke through the clouds, illuminating my surroundings. I could see flecks of gold reflected on the water, a beautiful sight.

One that, for some reason, filled me with terror.

I knew that soon that stench would assault me, that terrible figure out rise from the waters and beckon to me…

“Miss Mathers.”

I awoke. It was dark in the common area of the Sadie Blue, but I knew the sun had come up, judging by the stripes of watery pink light I glimpsed dancing across the grimy floor. The storms had calmed some overnight, but the scent of fresh-fallen rain hung in the air all the same.

Sasha sat at the old dining table, puffing away on a hand-rolled cigarette. I wrinkled my nose as a curl of heady tobacco smoke cleared the sleep from my mind.

Why was he up at this hour? And more importantly, what was he doing in a room with a sleeping lady? I wished I had the tact necessary to reprimand him for his rather boorish behavior. But before I could speak, he stood up and crossed over, coming to a halt perhaps a yard away from where I lay in the cot.

“Mr. Thackeray sends his regards,” Sasha remarked, his accent lending an ominous aspect to even the most innocent of words. It took my foggy mind a moment to place the name.

“Mr. Thackeray–”

“Sssh, Miss. Wouldn’t want to wake up everyone else.” He grinned at me and ground his cigarette out directly on the tabletop. Reaching into the back pocket of his trousers, he pulled out a small red envelope and tossed to me. It slipped through my numb fingers and landed on my lap. I picked it up and pried off the gray wax seal.

There was no letter inside, much to my surprise. Only a single dried flower.

“What in the…” I trailed off, lifting up the blossom and squinting at it. The shape and size of the petals, the color was familiar to me. I recognized it as being one of the many flowers in the vase decorating the table he and I had shared at the Café Royale. 

A black-eyed Susan. 

“He’s having a bit of fun with you. Leaving little clues and all that,” Sasha remarked. I looked up with a start, having forgotten he was sitting there for a moment. He shrugged a brawny shoulder. “Don’t let it vex you too much. It’s how he works.”

I sighed and tucked the envelope away under my pillow, feeling, for some reason, as though I needed to conceal it. “I can’t imagine why he wants to play some sort of detective game with me. Or why he thinks I would make a good pawn. It is my opinion that he is a demented and rather disagreeable man, and if you have some means of contacting him, I bid you to ask him to stop all of this foolishness.”

This seemed to amuse Sasha. He considered me as a mule would a fly for a long moment before turning away.

“I don’t claim to know how Ezekial Thackeray’s mind works, Miss,” he finally replied. “I suppose you and I are both pawns in his little game. And wouldn’t it be interesting to find out who else aboard this ship is?”

“Are you suggesting–”

“I am suggesting nothing. Forgive me. I think it best we both get back to sleep.” Pushing in the chair he had occupied, he left the room without another word.

I waited until I was sure he wasn’t returning before flopping back onto the bed. Sleep eluded me, and I think I was rather grateful for it.

The Peculiar Crew of the Sadie Blue

18 March 1873

The HMS Sadie Blue is a rather remarkable vessel, I must say.

I’d estimate it to be about the height of a three-story building, and the width of a small city block. The Sadie Blue is a rigid airship, meaning a hard shell surrounds the body of the gas bag itself, preventing any outside force from rupturing it, be it a flock of seagulls or a giant flying blade, or whatever it is airship captains must be on the lookout for. 

The outside shell is painted a muted bronze, and the shape and hue of the vessel gives it the appearance of a giant, floating bullet when the sunlight hits it. The rudders rise like shark fins, sleek and gleaming, adding somewhat of a predatory aspect to an otherwise benign exterior. 

The gondola is about the size of the floor of a small boarding house. A narrow corridor with a floor of scuffed black wood cuts through the length of the gondola, and on either side are the various rooms, a tiny kitchen full of all sorts of blackened, oily-looking contraptions, belching an array of unpleasant odors. I saw the sink piled high with grimy dishes and realized that an airship crew is not particularly concerned about things that, say, my mother would have fretted herself to death over. 

Next to the kitchen, or kitchenette, rather, are the showers. A room of grayish-green, lime-caked tile sports a row of about six rusty, guttering showerheads, a drain set in the middle to suck away the water. Tiny cubbyholes held sadly abused cakes of soap, and a line of similarly rust-covered sinks took up the wall opposite the faucets. Two water closets take up a corner. I hope I rarely need to use the facilities whilst on this voyage.

A laundry room scarcely bigger than a coffin has been squeezed up against the wall, there being little space left over from the kitchen and the bathroom, little as they both may be.

The wall opposite held two rooms, one being the dormitory, the other the lounge/meeting area/dining room. The dormitory holds wall-to-wall bunk beds, all of them looking liable to collapse at any given moment. The men keep their clothing shoved under the bottom bunk. There are no lockers. 

The lounge holds an old wooden dining table, part of what may have once been a grand set, and a collection of mis-matched chairs, each looking as though it had been stolen from a different house. A shelf seats rows of moldering books, and a small desk crammed into the corner is piled high with maps, compasses, pencil stubs and the like. I noticed a sagging little cot tucked into the corner.

“Is that where the captain sleeps?” I asked my Uncle Silas, as he led me on what he called the ‘grand tour’. I’d met him down at the airship dock an hour prior, and we had breakfasted together, during which he filled me in on the names and occupations of those I was to be travelling with, but I shall get to those in a moment.

“No, my dear.” He looked at me and smiled slightly. Uncle Silas bears an overwhelming resemblance to my mother. They both have (or had, in her case), the same tall, lean build, the same dark grey eyes surrounded by an etching of fine lines, the same long, somewhat prominent noses and expressive mouths, though Uncle Silas’ black hair holds a great deal more gray than my mother’s had, and his mustache obscured much of his mouth.

“Then who is to sleep there?”

“Why, you are. I thought it…” he frowned. “Inappropriate, entertaining the possibility of you sharing quarters with a large group of men.”

I was glad to know we agreed on that.

My uncle crossed to the wall and hit a small buzzer. “The crewmen and the members of my expedition team are outside. I’m going to call them in for a…formal introduction.”

My stomach gave a little flip at this. I had heard many a story about sailors being rather rough around the edges. I pictured them all being squinty-eyed and hairy, knuckles dragging on the floor as they lumbered around.

We waited perhaps a minute after he finished pressing the buzzer, and everyone filed in and took a seat at the table. Aside from the scuffing of their shoes on the ground, the shifting of their moving bodies, they were silent. No talking, joking or yelling accompanied their entrance.

I will go on endlessly about the men my uncle introduced me to, but there were a few that, in a sense, made an impression.

There was Doctor Amos Phelps, a man of some twenty-seven or twenty-eight years. He was tall as my uncle, and of a thin, wiry build, the strength visible in his arms and shoulders. He wore a brown suit, lacking in any great embellishments but well-cut and of an expensive-looking cloth. A pair of round spectacles hung on a chain from his vest, and a shock of auburn curls crowned his head, hanging in a pair of the lightest blue eyes I have ever seen. His skin was rather pale for an archeologist, as he claimed to be, but I suppose some might have called him comely. He seemed to be the only man who looked to have any manners aboard the ship, my Uncle aside.

Alexander Kiershov, whom I was told to refer to as ‘Sasha’, was a burly lad of about twenty. He had a pleasant face under a head of short black hair, dark eyes alight with good humor, jaw square, mouth smiling. He stood at about six foot, narrow in the waist and broad in the chest and shoulders (and yes, I will admit to admiring his rather brawny build. Judge me not). He was our ‘wildlife expert’, I was informed. I am hoping wildlife means adorable, fuzzy little creatures and the occasional mosquito.

Towards the end of our introductions, I heard what sounded like a muffled cough, as though someone had a hand over their mouth. My eyes landed on a hulking figure, leaning against the wall next to the door.

My uncle had not yet introduced me to this man, and I could scarcely see him in the shadowy corner he occupied, away from the circle of illumination provided by the singular bare bulb lighting the room. “And this is…?” I prompted politely.

Uncle Silas looked uncomfortable for the first time since we’d boarded. “This is Mr. Clearwater.”

“Oh. I see.” I gave him the sweetest, most polite smile I could muster, walking towards him and extending a hand. “A pleasure to meet you, Mr…”

He stepped from the wall and came into the weak pool of light, and my words died in my throat.

Mr. Clearwater stood taller than my uncle, looking to be only a fraction under seven foot tall. I could not discern his age, because I could see next to nothing of his face.

His mouth was covered by a mask of reddish leather, with a tube of some thin, flexible metal protruding at mouth level and lying across his chest. The end of the tube seemed to connect to something behind his back. His eyes lay hidden beneath a pair of goggles with round lenses tinted the opaque gray of smoke. A black bowler hat rested atop a head of dark brown hair that hung nearly to his shoulders, effectively hiding what little of his face lay uncovered.

“…Clearwater, though most here call me the Surgeon.” He spoke through the mask, voice somehow echoing through the apparatus and emerging a raspy, metallic growl. A large, square hand thrust forward, dwarfing mine. He wore no gloves and I could see–and feel–the scars criss-crossing his palms, fingers, wrist and arm up to where it disappeared beneath the sleeve of his tattered coat. 

Just behind near this man, who seemed more a creature, the nightmarish offspring of a human and a machine, made me feel lightheaded, as though the floor were tilting beneath my feet.

Then my uncle stepped forward. “Let’s get you situated, hmm? We’re scheduled to take off soon.”

AUTHOR’S NOTE: This was exceptionally fun to write, so I hope you all enjoy. And I’m working on accompanying illustrations, so expect those sometime in the near future!

Mona’s Packing List

18 March 1873

I will admit to usually being more punctual in my packing, but as of late, I’ve been rather scattered.

I know very little about traveling by airship, the Americas, or life in the jungle. Therefore, I can only pack as though I were going to the seaside. I have never been outside of the continent, so trips to the ocean make up the most of my travels. And while I assume that there will be little use for fashionable tea-gowns or jewelry, I really must strive to look my best in the hope that it will reflect well on both myself and my uncle.

I think.

So far I have packed:

Three {3} whalebone corsets

One {1} Crinolette–truly, I am packing lightly.

Six {6} bodices

Six {6} complementary overskirts–nothing with a train, for I fear I’ll step on it.

Three {3} ruffled underskirts in neutral tones

Eight {8} pairs of drawers. I wanted to pack my nice pairs. I’ve some made of silk, and they feel like heaven against my skin, but I chose to forego comfort for the sake of practicality. Cotton and cambric it is.

Five {5} chemises, also sadly plain.

Stockings and gloves {some innumerable amount}

One {1} pair of leather walking boots

One {1} pair of leather kid shoes

One {1} pair of silk house slippers

Three {3} nightgowns, one of flannel and two of cotton

And yes, two {2} wrappers. They are so ugly and shapeless, I pray I have no reason to wear them.

And finally…

One {1} Necklace, a moonstone pendant on a golden chain. It is the only piece of jewelry I will be bringing.

It was my mother’s.

Mona Dreams Again

17 March 1853

I found myself on the seashore once more, standing at the lip of the water. Barefoot, my toes sank into damp, gritty sand. The air was neither cold nor warm, and I found it soothing against my skin. 

Some part of my mind must still have been sentient and stirring, because as I peered out over the water, silvery, glinting ripples slithering across my vision, I thought to myself: I have been here before.

I have stood upon this sand and gazed upon this sea. What am I doing here once more?

Even my sleeping mind, I suppose, knew that I had never before had a repeating dream in my life. 

A few moments of wondering, eyes alternating between the gleaming surface of the ocean and the solid black of the night sky, and the red light returned.

Like wisps of spiderweb, the tendrils of scarlet stretched through the dark sky, clouding the black with its vibrant, garish hue. I could think only of a drop of wine in a glass of water, its color slowly spreading in blooms, tinting its surroundings.

A splash brought my eyes from the sky to the water. The sea stirred and boiled around one specific spot, frothing anxiously, the bubbles gleaming crimson in the unearthly light.

And then that terrible smell came to me again. I wanted to cover my mouth with my hand, but I could not will my limbs to move. I could only watch, frozen as a statue and inwardly trembling, as the waves parted and a dark form broke through the surface, clouds of that nauseating odor washing over me. I could taste bile in my throat, and something else–fear, its metallic edge like a knife against my tongue.

A beam of bloody light illuminated the form, and my insides turned to water.

Standing there was a woman, height just above average, her build curvaceous, soft and plump. Her flesh was a greenish-brown tint, like the borders of a healing bruise, webbed underneath with a network of black veins, and lank rust-colored hair hung down her broad shoulders and back. Her breasts hung heavily, areola a scummy green, nipples so dark they seemed black. The hair between her legs closely resembled moss.

She advanced towards me, walking until the water receded, from her wast to her thighs, and then her knees. The stink was stronger now. My head was reeling, eyes losing their focus as they latched onto her bloated form.

She smiled at me. Her teeth were little and numerous as a small child’s, stained a yellowish brown. An ink-blue tongue whipped out, dragging along her top teeth.

And then she spoke.

“Mona…”

A gentle, motherly croon. Like a kind parent, or the good witch in a children’s fairytale.

Somehow, that terrified me the most.

My mouth opened, and all I could do was wail and sob, shrieks of fear so potent they were like the gibberish of a madman.

“Miss Simona! Miss Simona!”

Adrienne, the maid, was shaking me. I was awake, and still screaming. With what felt like a tremendous effort, I closed my mouth, feeling unable to breathe.

I travel tomorrow with my uncle, or rather, later today as it nears three in the morning. I am not one to believe in omens, but if I were superstitious, I would have canceled my trip without hesitation.

Rudbeckia Hirta Part II

The sommelier came with our wine, and we talked.

“What business do you have with me?” I asked. Rather direct, I will admit, but I was sick of the smoke and mirrors.

“I wouldn’t call it business with you personally, dear,” he replied. I frowned at his condescending tone of voice. “My dealings lie with your uncle. You, however, make for an excellent conduit.”

I sipped my wine, unsure how to reply.

“I regret not being able to give you the letter personally at the sideshow. I was away on yet another business errand. Poor Armando hated the dark so. It was rather brave of him to wait in that empty showroom.”

“How did he know I would come in?” I pressed.

“Oh, he didn’t.” Mr. Thackeray smirked. “He had to tail you for quite awhile, recording your patterns of travel, until he at last deduced that you would go down that corridor. He’s a brilliant boy for his age and…background.”

“And what background might that be?”

The waiter came with the first course of our suppers, a mouthwateringly delicate shellfish broth. Mr. Thackeray waited until we were alone to explain.

“South American. Snatched from the heart of the deepest, darkest jungles.” He chuckled. “Sounds like something from an adventure novel, hm?”

I wanted so badly to berate this man, tell him, no, demand him to cut to the chase. The way he prattled on, I had a feeling I would know nearly nothing by the time dessert came around.

“Anyway,” I persisted. “Your dealings with my uncle, sir?”

“Ah. Yes.” As if he had forgotten, the smug devil. “Your uncle departs by airship in a few days’ time. Do you know the nature of this journey? Surely he’s told you something, considering you’re to be accompanying him.”

I did not bother to ask how he knew all of this. “He’s told me little, aside from the fact that we were going to some dangerous place.”

“Dangerous? That’s putting it mildly, I’m afraid.” He ate his last spoonful of soup and pushed the platter aside. “Silas Breckenridge seeks to travel not far from Armando’s homeland, another dark and perilous jungle, thick with all sorts of nightmarish flora and fauna.” Mr. Thackeray’s eyes shone brightly, hard and sharp as steel. That grandfatherly warmth had disappeared. “But it is not where he goes that concerns me. It is what he goes there for.”

“Being?” I prompted.

He smirked. “You are a very direct young lady, Miss Mathers.”

I gave him my sugariest, sweetest smile and waited for him to continue.

He did, sighing as he picked up his wine glass and lazily twirled the stem. “Your uncle hopes to catch a creature once thought to be purely fantastical.”

I reached for my wine glass, taking a measured sip, anything to occupy myself until he tired of his own theatrics.

Finally, he spoke once more, leaning so close to me I could smell the wine on his breath.

“Mermaids, Mona,” he whispered, eyes glittering with predatory excitement. “He’s off to find mermaids.”

NOTE: I’d like to thank all the wonderful people following me, who have expressed interest in this bizarre little brain-child of mine. Without you, I’d have no reason to keep going with this. Thanks so much!

Rudbeckia Hirta, or Mona’s Dinner Date

14 March 1873

It was with extreme trepidation that I opened that strange red envelope. The letter was sealed with gray wax and a length of black ribbon, rather elegant, I supposed. The wax bore those same initials–ET.

I extracted the paper inside, a square no bigger than a calling card, but made of some strange material, thin and slick as onion skin. The letter, if you could call it that, took up a space the size of a postage stamp in the middle of the rectangle of parchment.

It read:

Miss Mathers–

Café Royale

Half past six

Look for the eye.

Respectfully,

Ezekiel Thackeray

So this was a dinner invite, it seemed. But could it have been more? I must have spent a quarter of an hour reading and re-reading the tiny message. I attempted to extract some hidden code within those three lines, scrambling the words, rearranging letters, reading the first and last letter and so forth, until I could only conclude that this letter was exactly as it seemed–an invitation to dine at the Café Royale, half past six.

But what did this Mr. Thackeray mean, ‘look for the eye’? Everyone had at least two eyes. Unless he had an unusual amount of them in his head, I doubted I would be able to single him out because of this vague suggestion.

I spent the better part of an hour debating whether or not I should really do this. He could be a con-man, or some sort of kidnapper. And what was he doing, running around with some little foreign boy–Armando?

When the clock struck six, I realized that I had unconsciously already made my decision. Propriety aside, my curiosity had simply gotten the better of me. I ordered Anisse, the maid, to help me dress for the occasion. Anisse had been in our house’s service for some four or five years, and she seems quite able to keep a secret.

I spared a look in the mirror on my way out of my bedroom and could not help but sigh. I know it is vain to say so, but it is hard to look elegant or graceful in black. In my opinion, I looked somewhat sallow. But I was in mourning, and vanity aside, I respected my mother’s memory enough to disregard my coloring.

On my way out of my room, I spied the little silver and mother-of-pearl box I’d left on my dressing table. Crossing over, I opened it up and felt my eyes grow hot and stinging. My mother had left me a good sum of her favorite jewelry before her passing, and the sight of it was enough to submerge me in memories. I could see everything in my mind, from the littlest things, like the beauty mark under her right eye, to the sight of her in bed, blanched and panting, skin clammy, eyes feverish as she suffered through her final moments.

I blinked and dabbed my eyes with a handkerchief, and then sifted a moment through the collection of adornments, finally selecting a simple piece, a rose-gold chain with a single white moonstone, carved in the shape of a rose. Something about its basic beauty reminded me of the woman who’d worn it, and it eased my nerves somewhat as I set about on this unusual dinner date.

I took a hansom cab down to Regent street and went inside. The place was abuzz with its usual dinner crowd, and I prayed no one would recognize me as I stood just in the doorway, straining to catch a glimpse of anyone with an ‘eye’. I felt foolish. What was this ‘eye’? A pendant? A brooch?

“Miss Mathers?”

I turned. The maitre d’ stood there, a robust-looking man in his middling years. “Yes?” I asked, feeling my heart skip. I felt vulnerable here, at the whim of some stranger. It was hard not to think that everyone was looking at me.

“I believe you’re wanted in one of our private dining-rooms. A gentleman by the name of Thackeray. If you’ll follow me.” He waited for my coat to be taken before leading me past the main dining-room and up a flight of stairs.

It was quiet above the normal hubbub of the restaurant, almost eerily so. The air seemed to grow cooler with every step I climbed. When we reached the top of the flight, I realized that I could barely hear the voices and clinking of silverware downstairs. My heart was thumping so hard in my chest I thought my guide could hear it as well.

The maitre d’ led me through a small corridor and to a doorway at its end, an archway shrouded with a velvet drape. “He’s been expecting you. I’ll send someone up shortly with your meals.”

He turned and disappeared down the hallway before I could inform him that I hadn’t ordered yet, or seen so much as a hair of the man I was supposed to be joining for dinner.

Now I was alone. Some childish part of me wanted to run back downstairs and out the door, back to the house, with its lights and its laughter and its people.

But I had come all this way.

I took a deep breath and pushed the curtain aside, slipping into the private dining-room.

This room was small, holding about a half dozen tables, all of them unoccupied. I squinted as I moved further into the room.

“Hello?” I called. “Mr. Thackeray?”
No response. The room was completely empty.

I took another deep breath, feeling the fear coursing through me, and forced myself to think rationally. Mr. Thackeray had most likely simply stepped outside for a moment.

So which table was ours? I set about walking between them, looking for a man’s coat or gloves, anything that would indicate the presence of another diner. Nothing. Frustration and anxiety growing in me, I was about to turn away when something caught my eye.

I looked back towards the table I had been examining a moment ago. Something about it was different. What was it? I scrutinized it, eyes narrowing. The place settings were all there, the napkins, everything.

But the flowers were different. While the other tables held small Venetian glass vases with tasteful daffodil blooms, this table’s vase held a small bouquet of a different sort of flower altogether, a larger, gaudier bloom.

I reached for one of the flowers and brought it closer to my face for inspection, and that was when I heard the chuckle.

“Black-eyed Susans. You’ve keen eyes to spot the difference, Miss.”

I whirled around, dropping the flower. A man stood in the doorway I had come through. He looked to be around my Uncle Silas’ age, and was tall and stately, broad-shouldered, still in peak physical condition for his years. A head of snow-white hair peeked out from beneath a bowler hat, and his eyes were a mild, clear blue.

Something about those eyes sent chills down my spine. They were perhaps too kindly, too gentle.

“Ezekiel Thackeray?” I guessed, finally finding my voice.

“Indeed, Miss Mathers.” He touched the brim of his hat and moved forward, pulling my chair for me with such easy chivalry you’d have thought we’d been in eachothers’ acquaintance for years. “Now let’s have a seat, hm? I’ve a great many things to discuss with you, and I’d rather do it over a nice Claret, if it’s all the same to you.”

A Visit to the Sideshow

March 14 1873

Today a few dear friends of mine decided to treat me to a trip to the Egyptian Hall. I suppose it was a going-away gift, in a sense. I was surprised initially because it seemed rather out of character of my particular social circle, wanting to ooh and ahh over such attractions as ‘Leona the Human Lion’ and ‘Annabelle Leigh, the Two-Headed Woman’. Nontheless, I agreed to go, reasoning that I knew not when I would see them next.

We took a hansom cab down to Piccadilly and joined the queue outside. There were a great many people, an unusual amount for something as commonplace as a sideshow. I began to wonder if there was another reason my friends had been so insistent I accompany them here. The four of us, Sybelle, Marion, Felicity and I (Esther the maid accompanied us on Marion’s grandmother’s orders, but we slipped her money for the magic lantern show) waited for the better part of twenty minutes until the line began to move, and by then I was so chilled and rain-dampened I would have been grateful to see anything upon entering the building, if it meant being warm and dry.

My companions paid my fee for me and we advanced further into the Hall. I was surprised by the low lighting. For a moment I wondered if it was meant to be atmospheric, but I had been to exhibitions at this location previously and the interiors had all been well-lit.

The exhibition was comprised of a series of adjoining rooms, each dominated by a wooden stage, and then four or five rows of wooden chairs, about five chairs to a row. People flocked eagerly from attraction to attraction, and Sybelle and Felicity hurried off to see Barnabas Green, a man advertised as being ‘half human, half tree’, whatever that involved.

“His poor mother,” I remarked as the two pored over the programme.

Sybelle looked up. “Whatever do you mean?”

I bit the inside of my cheek. Sybelle was one of the most easily shocked young women I had met in my rather brief lifetime. “I mean, it must have been no easy task, raising a child who was half tree.”

“Yes,” she replied with a brief nod, already disinterested. I exchanged a glance with Felicity, who knew what I meant–whoever this woman was, her wedding night must have been…leafy.

Marion and I wandered on as our other two companions deserted us, ambling from room to room. Some things were disturbing, some silly, some so obviously fabricated one could not help but roll their eyes. After a time, Marion tired, and I left her seated on a bench while I went on, admittedly much more intrigued about this whole affair than I had been this morning.

About half an hour later, I was sure I had completed my circuit of all the attractions, when I spied a room hidden in a shadowy alcove, one I must have missed during my initial tour. Unlike the others, there didn’t seem to be a single person in this room at first glance, but I poked my head inside, squinting at the darkness. While the other exhibits had been dim, this room was scarcely lit at all, the only illumination coming from a kerosene lamp placed on the tiny wooden stage. Nothing else inhabited this somber space. With a feeling of unease, I turned to duck back out again.

” ‘scuse me, miss…”

I turned. A small boy with honey skin and a neat bowl cut of black hair stood at the entrance to the room opposite mine. He looked to be no more than six or seven.

“A-are you addressing me?” I asked, though there was no one else in here save the two of us. I suppose I reasoned that many more people could have been hiding in the shadows, since this small child certainly had no difficulty doing so.

The boy nodded, looking up at me with enormous dark eyes. ” ‘e wants t’see you tonight.”

“Excuse me? He? Who might ‘he’ be?” I assumed the child had confused me with someone else.

The youth came forward and dug something out of his pants pocket, placing it in my hand. It was a red envelope, no larger than my palm. The seal bore the initials ET. I inspected it, looking alternately at the boy.

“Why does this man request my presence?” I questioned, trying to remain polite, though this whole strange ordeal had me almost too curious to mind my manners.

He shrugged his little shoulders. “Don’t know, miss. Reckon it’s in th’letter.”

The boy turned and made his way once more to the door he had come from, one I had thought locked to the public because it, unlike the other doors in the exhibit area, stood firmly closed.

“Wait!” I called. “Who should I say, er…sent me this?” It seemed a silly question, but I confess I was rather befuddled by the situation as a whole, and could think of nothing better to ask.

He glanced at me briefly over one shoulder. “Armando.” His pronunciation held none of his previous Cockney slur. He rolled the R, gave the name a melodious sound. Was he Italian? It certainly didn’t sound Indian. Perhaps French? But his coloring was too dark…

By the time I snapped to attention, Armando had slipped away behind that door. After a moment’s pause, I hurried after him, trying the knob. It wouldn’t turn.

Looking down, I realized I was still clutching the red envelope. I tucked it into my handbag and went off to reunite with my group.

A Letter from Silas Breckenridge to his Niece, Mona Mathers

12 March 1853

Mona–

I could scarcely believe it was you when I received your letter. If I am not mistaken, the last time I saw you, you were no taller than my knee. And now you are a woman grown, and one in the throes of misfortune.

I will not hesitate to admit that your mother and I were not under the best of terms, but I am willing to overlook those unfortunate years. You are my family, and thus, your well-being takes priority any day over petty and bitter quarrels.

All the same, I hesitate to bring you along with me for your own safety. The places I go are, to put it bluntly, no place for a woman. My team seeks out dark and terrible things, and our safety ‘on the job’ is never guaranteed.

Ultimately, it is your choice. It would be my pleasure to have you if you insist upon accompanying me. If not, you will probably, in all honesty, be better off. But it is your future that hangs in the balance, and thus, you must choose.

All my love,

Silas Breckenridge

P.S: I hope you don’t get airsick easily.