Waistcoats & Weaponry
Page 43
She cracked it, careful to shield the opening with her body, worried that even the dim light of early morning would creep in and alert those inside. She put an eye to the crack and waited patiently for her pupils to acclimatize to the gloom. The coach was empty. She flipped the hatch open completely and stuck her whole head inside. She was now bottoms up, like a duck, on top of a moving train. She wedged her shoulders to block out the light so her eyes could adjust and see as much of the interior as possible.
She stifled a gasp. There was someone inside! Fortunately, the gentleman in question was asleep—slumped sideways over the arm of a chair, mouth slightly open, snoring softly. He was a very handsome man, with long, wavy hair and an oval face. He was dressed well. Almost too well. It made Sophronia think of Lord Akeldama. She dragged her eyes away to examine the room.
The inside of that shed was awfully familiar.
Sophronia had seen something like it before, only smaller, on the roof of Bunson and Lacroix’s Boys’ Polytechnique during her debut at finishing school. Vieve called it a communication machine. Then it had looked like a deformed cross between a potting shed and a portmanteau. The appearance of the technology had not improved. The one at Bunson’s was divided into two human-sized compartments, each filled to bursting with a peculiar assortment of tangled machinery. Sophronia would wager good money that those two were now represented, in larger form, by the two freight carriages. This one was filled with hundreds of tubes and dials. In front of the sleeping man was an upright glass box filled with black sand. Nothing was happening, but Sophronia knew the receiver of an aetherographic transmitter when she saw one. An aetherographic transmitter on a train, oh dear.
She wished fervently that Vieve were with them. Why had she brought a toff, a sootie, a lady, and a werewolf’s daughter, but not an inventor? Of course the inventor would be the one she needed. Sophronia tried to remember what Vieve had said about Bunson’s aetherographic transmitter. She had been so excited about point-to-point messaging across long distances. One thing was certain, it wouldn’t function while the train was moving. Vieve had insisted it needed silence to operate. For another, it needed aether to communicate from one transmitter to another. So that fairly explained why the freight carriages had no proper roofs. Was this some kind of communication train? However, they were hardly close to the aether now, so there must have been improvements to the prototype if that were the case. Vieve was now at Bunson’s, with the original prototype, and Sophronia wouldn’t put it past her to have worked on an upgrade herself. Was this train from Bunson’s, then? That explained its presence at Wootton Bassett. In which case, were there Picklemen on board?
Sophronia narrowed her eyes, straining to focus.
Is that…? Oh, yes, of course it is. Why should I be surprised? Sitting in the cradle next to the receiver, all innocent and unassuming, was one of the crystalline valve prototypes that everyone was constantly fussing over. She supposed that transmitter technology had probably evolved to require the prototype at this point. Although it wasn’t technically a prototype anymore, but was now officially in production. The vampires had tried hard to stop that, but Picklemen had won the day. And now, there it was, in use, bright as may be.
Sophronia gave the interior one more cursory glance, then withdrew her head, closing the hatch behind her. She lay back on the roof to think, eyes closed, enjoying the weak sun on her face.
Vieve used two crystalline valves to communicate commands from her hands to her sputter-skates. Perhaps the transmitter in the freight carriage is somehow steering the train in a like manner? Communicating with the engine? Why bother? And why put a man to sit watch over the receiver portion under those circumstances? It was very confusing.
Then a horrible thought occurred to her. Felix! Does Felix know? Did he come along because Picklemen are involved? Did he know it would be their train in the station? Sophronia quelled anger and a keen sense of betrayal at that idea. She tried to stay logical. She had no direct evidence as to who was in charge; no need to take it out on Felix, just because she didn’t like his politics.
The train closed in on the junction box. Sophronia flattened herself to the roof and waited to see if a green-banded top hat came walking up. They stopped at the switch and the door to the engine popped open. A stocky driver with a gargantuan mustache swung himself down and lumbered over to fiddle with the switch. No top hat. No green band. Sophronia couldn’t tell for certain, but she thought he was turning the direction toward London.
“No,” said a demanding female voice from the cab door. “We aren’t going back yet.”
The man looked up, unhappy with this order. “But miss, we’ve not much coal left, we need a restock.”
“Do it in Oxford,” commanded the unseen woman.
Sophronia frowned; she was certain she knew that voice.
“But why? This is a London train. Besides, other lines will be starting up soon. We can’t risk it, not on a popular track, not during the day. We’ll be seen, or worse, cause a collision. We’ll certainly slow everyone else up if you keep us at this snail’s pace.”
“That’s enough,” barked the voice. “Orders are orders. Oxford, my good man. The path is clear this morning, I checked the schedule.”
The man muttered to himself but muscled the switch back over with impressive ease. This was a great relief to Sophronia; they wanted to go toward Oxford, after all.
Still, that voice. She’d definitely heard it before. Unfortunately, the lady in the engine room did not get out.
She stifled a gasp. There was someone inside! Fortunately, the gentleman in question was asleep—slumped sideways over the arm of a chair, mouth slightly open, snoring softly. He was a very handsome man, with long, wavy hair and an oval face. He was dressed well. Almost too well. It made Sophronia think of Lord Akeldama. She dragged her eyes away to examine the room.
The inside of that shed was awfully familiar.
Sophronia had seen something like it before, only smaller, on the roof of Bunson and Lacroix’s Boys’ Polytechnique during her debut at finishing school. Vieve called it a communication machine. Then it had looked like a deformed cross between a potting shed and a portmanteau. The appearance of the technology had not improved. The one at Bunson’s was divided into two human-sized compartments, each filled to bursting with a peculiar assortment of tangled machinery. Sophronia would wager good money that those two were now represented, in larger form, by the two freight carriages. This one was filled with hundreds of tubes and dials. In front of the sleeping man was an upright glass box filled with black sand. Nothing was happening, but Sophronia knew the receiver of an aetherographic transmitter when she saw one. An aetherographic transmitter on a train, oh dear.
She wished fervently that Vieve were with them. Why had she brought a toff, a sootie, a lady, and a werewolf’s daughter, but not an inventor? Of course the inventor would be the one she needed. Sophronia tried to remember what Vieve had said about Bunson’s aetherographic transmitter. She had been so excited about point-to-point messaging across long distances. One thing was certain, it wouldn’t function while the train was moving. Vieve had insisted it needed silence to operate. For another, it needed aether to communicate from one transmitter to another. So that fairly explained why the freight carriages had no proper roofs. Was this some kind of communication train? However, they were hardly close to the aether now, so there must have been improvements to the prototype if that were the case. Vieve was now at Bunson’s, with the original prototype, and Sophronia wouldn’t put it past her to have worked on an upgrade herself. Was this train from Bunson’s, then? That explained its presence at Wootton Bassett. In which case, were there Picklemen on board?
Sophronia narrowed her eyes, straining to focus.
Is that…? Oh, yes, of course it is. Why should I be surprised? Sitting in the cradle next to the receiver, all innocent and unassuming, was one of the crystalline valve prototypes that everyone was constantly fussing over. She supposed that transmitter technology had probably evolved to require the prototype at this point. Although it wasn’t technically a prototype anymore, but was now officially in production. The vampires had tried hard to stop that, but Picklemen had won the day. And now, there it was, in use, bright as may be.
Sophronia gave the interior one more cursory glance, then withdrew her head, closing the hatch behind her. She lay back on the roof to think, eyes closed, enjoying the weak sun on her face.
Vieve used two crystalline valves to communicate commands from her hands to her sputter-skates. Perhaps the transmitter in the freight carriage is somehow steering the train in a like manner? Communicating with the engine? Why bother? And why put a man to sit watch over the receiver portion under those circumstances? It was very confusing.
Then a horrible thought occurred to her. Felix! Does Felix know? Did he come along because Picklemen are involved? Did he know it would be their train in the station? Sophronia quelled anger and a keen sense of betrayal at that idea. She tried to stay logical. She had no direct evidence as to who was in charge; no need to take it out on Felix, just because she didn’t like his politics.
The train closed in on the junction box. Sophronia flattened herself to the roof and waited to see if a green-banded top hat came walking up. They stopped at the switch and the door to the engine popped open. A stocky driver with a gargantuan mustache swung himself down and lumbered over to fiddle with the switch. No top hat. No green band. Sophronia couldn’t tell for certain, but she thought he was turning the direction toward London.
“No,” said a demanding female voice from the cab door. “We aren’t going back yet.”
The man looked up, unhappy with this order. “But miss, we’ve not much coal left, we need a restock.”
“Do it in Oxford,” commanded the unseen woman.
Sophronia frowned; she was certain she knew that voice.
“But why? This is a London train. Besides, other lines will be starting up soon. We can’t risk it, not on a popular track, not during the day. We’ll be seen, or worse, cause a collision. We’ll certainly slow everyone else up if you keep us at this snail’s pace.”
“That’s enough,” barked the voice. “Orders are orders. Oxford, my good man. The path is clear this morning, I checked the schedule.”
The man muttered to himself but muscled the switch back over with impressive ease. This was a great relief to Sophronia; they wanted to go toward Oxford, after all.
Still, that voice. She’d definitely heard it before. Unfortunately, the lady in the engine room did not get out.
