128
Like a Corset Undone
Erotic Steampunk
Edited by J. Blackmore
Circlet Press, Inc.
Cambridge, MA
Like a Corset Undone: Erotic Steampunk
edited by J. Blackmore
Copyright © 2009 by Circlet Press, Inc.
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Introduction by J. Blackmore
The Pretty Horsebreaker by Peter Tupper
Adventures Underground by Carlanime Bligh
The Skydancer by R.E. Bond
Skyway Robbery by Angelia Sparrow and Naomi Brooks
The Tinker's Lady by Jasmine Dale
The Zeppelin Raider by Roxy Katt
Submission by R Blacknett
The Coming Age by Angela Caperton
Revolution is a knife. The same knife is used to cut the corset's strings as is used to slit the despot's throat. When people decide that what is should not be, and that their vision is what’s to come, they plan to change things. When lovers are told that they cannot moan with the lights on, that they cannot seduce whomever they wish, that they cannot fuck with joy and abandon, it’s only a matter of time until they have their way. Desire, and surrender to it, is the most revolutionary act of all.
There are many ways to live a rebellion. Once the fire has caught within, it simply becomes a matter of how to face it, how to serve it, and how to serve oneself. Those among us who are more easygoing, who do not enjoy making waves, may decide to find some way to work within an oppressive regime. There are always corners, in every society, where those who do not belong can thrive. Sometimes, they are sanctioned by the very people that keep them in corners. Miss Ccri, in Peter Tupper's "The Pretty Horsebreaker," lives in the Half-World, a place where the moral strictures of society are relaxed, and perfectly respectable people can act out their fantasies. But all sanctioned behavior has limits, and in order to survive, outsiders like Miss Ccri have to fight every day to live within them.
There are quieter, more desperate ways to thrive in a world that does not want you. It's simply a matter of going through the motions, doing what is expected, and keeping what you truly are inside your head, acting out your impulses in only the darkest and most furtive moments. R Blacknett, in "Submission," explores what happens when the interior landscape overtakes the exterior. Two people become lost in their own fantasies, and this threatens to destroy them both. Secrecy and discretion may both be conducive to survival in a place and time that does not understand you, but ultimately they lead to self-destruction, or madness.
The alternative is forging ahead, living as you choose. There will always be like-minded individuals to seek out and share your time with. Start a career that does not examine your personal life, hoard your free time jealously, and never be afraid to face the next adventure. Lady Abigail Barkley, in "The Skydancer" by R.E. Bond, is a Scholar. She finds meaning in scientific study, but is also young and seeking her fortune. By simply being herself, in the most respectful and civil manner, she finds herself aboard the airship of a handsome privateer, who has much to teach her. However, all this presupposes that the world you are living in has some tolerance for little quirks. It is just as likely that a daring person with an active mind will find herself surrounded by people who will not understand.
So, what's a lusty, able-bodied rebel to do when her staid and respectable world refuses to let her breathe? How can someone so full of fire, so enslaved to ideals, possibly cope? She can't. If she wants to live, she'll have to tear the world apart. This is where it gets tricky. Revolutions are always violent, and if you're planning one you must decide if you're ready to deal with the body count. One person's glorious and just uprising is another's act of terrorism. This is the stark truth. How important is your freedom to you? Is your desire strong enough to justify burning down everything that prevents you from acting on it? Will the world you create be worthy of the loss? Molly Thistle, the heroine of "Adventures Underground" by Carlanime Bligh, decides that a few deaths are no great sacrifice in exchange for her goal of bringing a certain aesthetic into being. Her youthful arrogance will have consequences she could never have predicted.
Is it possible to be an ethical terrorist? Can you choose your victims from those who deserve it and pick the battles where good and evil are clear cut? We all know about Robin Hood, and his theories about the equitable exchange of currency between the classes of Merry Olde England. Could such a man live in a time of wealthy merchants grown fat on Edisonian technology and the exploitation of the working class? Angelia Sparrow and Naomi Brooks, with their "Skyway Robbery," theorize that, given an airship and a sky full of the complacent rich, Robin Hood and the crew of the Sherwood Forest would indeed become the sort of moral outlaws one always hopes exist.
Maybe this can be taken a step further. Is it possible to simply impose freedom on people? What are the ethical implications of stripping people of their inhibitions against their wills? Elizabeth Newkirk, in Angela Caperton's "The Coming Age," finds herself blindly following the charismatic Dr. Mason in his sexual crusade. The doctor is intent on bringing pure, unfettered lust to society at large, in order to usher in a time of peace, prosperity, and pleasure. However, such a plan may be too good to be true, since Dr. Mason does not account for human nature, and its rejection of anything new.
That may be the critical issue here: revolution is violent because it's often not wanted. When society decides, all together, that an ideal is not worth the effort, those that champion it are usually driven out. This brings us to the last way a rebel can survive: on the borders, in hiding. There's more than one way to do this. If you have been hounded out of your home, away from your family and friends, a literal kind of hiding may be the only way. Salvatore is a man who made this choice and, in Jasmine Dale's "The Tinker's Lady," he finds himself confronted by Georgie Preston, a haughty, spoiled young woman—and a member of the class that drove him underground. Their inability to understand each other, even in the face of their mutual attraction, is a perfect illustration of the struggle between the Old Guard and the New Thing. Their situation is as impossible as it is appealing and tempestuous.
Hiding in plain sight, however, may not be a bad idea. If who you are, even your genetic makeup, is unsettling to those around you, perhaps it's best not to make that clear. Of course, there will always be brazen individuals who think they have nothing to hide, like Captain Eyre, the zeppelin captain in "Zeppelin Raider" by Roxy Katt. She becomes the object of Constance Farkins-Peabody's obsession, and learns not to underestimate those who are intrigued with the rare and strange. Should she have kept herself to herself? Would it not have been better to go through life unaccosted, unchallenged in her propriety? But then, she never would have fallen into the hands of Constance, or been able to dare the skies.
In the end, for those in the throes of desire, unable to shake their need to live as they please, and be exactly as they are, it's a matter of balancing the risk against the rewards. All the characters you're about to meet chose the riskier path, and their stories are inspiring, even as they are disturbing and strange. Of course, we couldn't have steampunk without the punks, the rebels and rogues whose dark adventures remind us of what we're capable of. So, a toast, dear reader: to mile-high lovers, and soft-hearted terrorists, but also, and most importantly, to you. Thank you for traveling the skies with us.
J. Blackmore
October 2009
or The Adventure of the Twenty-First Chapter
Peter Tupper
Adapted from My Curious Profession: Memoirs of Miss Branwyn, Ccri sept, Mael clan
1. No man is hero to his valet
The Hero of the Empire kissed her foot.
Miss Ccri enjoyed the attention he lavished on her sandal-clad foot. The Razor Lotus’s largest assignation room had been redecorated as an Oriental fantasy, draped with linen sheets and decorated with Eastern bric-a-brac: a fan here, a (fake) tiger-skin rug there, a water pipe, a curved sword. At the center of it all was Miss Ccri, dressed as the Savage. It wasn't the most unusual attire she had ever worn for a client, but it was certainly one of the best made. The gold and crimson silk and linen robes swirled around her body, while the beads and chains jingled with her slightest movement.
Named Hero of the Empire less than one day ago, Captain Rhisiart, Braen sept, Dyvyr clan knelt before the couch where she lounged decadently, swishing her horsehair whip this way and that.
"What brings you to my court, pale stranger?" She had practiced making her voice sound like the speech of the dancing girls imported for the Grand Exhibition.
Captain Braen stopped kissing her instep. "I bring greetings to Your Majesty from a great Empire far to the north of your lands. Your beauty and grace are renowned throughout the world, and everything I have heard is true."
She smiled at the flattery. "You must be uncomfortable in your strange foreign clothing," she said. "Allow my consorts to relieve you."
Two heavily veiled players emerged from behind the curtains and gracefully slid to either side of Captain Braen. They delicately undressed the man, turning the mundane action into a sensual pleasure as the silks brushed his increasingly exposed body. Dark, kohl-lined eyes flirtatiously glanced at him over translucent veils.
When he was naked before her, she rose sinuously from the couch, and playfully brushed the horsehair whip against his broad shoulders, still brawny despite his age. He shuddered in pleasure.
"Make our guest from far away feel welcome, my consorts," she said, continuing to tease him with the whip.
The veiled figures moved closer, their fingers touching the man lightly. He responded, reaching for the silk-covered figures. "They are most beautiful."
Miss Ccri stepped even closer, brushing his sex with her veils. She dropped the veil that covered her lower face and kissed him, then used the whip handle to gently push his face so he was facing one of the consorts. The other veil slipped down, revealing a beautifully made up visage, except there was something off about it, almost a puzzle for the eye, a jaw line just a little too strong, a brow just a little too prominent—
Captain Braen jerked back, almost knocking over the second consort in his haste to get away. Miss and the other two players stopped, not sure what had just happened.
"This isn't—No, I can't—I'm sorry, this is all—" Captain Braen seemed on the verge of tears.
Bloody hell! Miss Ccri thought, dropping the horsehair whip and rushing to his side. Everything so far had been exactly as specified by the client, and yet here he was, having some kind of fit.
The two men looked at her, the principal player, for orders. She discreetly tapped her first and second fingers against her thumb, the traditional gesture of, Make an exit. They obeyed, quietly slipping out through the hidden players' entrance.
Captain Braen sat hunched on the floor. He had pulled the blanket off the bed and wrapped it around himself, covering everything except his head.
"Are you all right?" she asked.
He looked up at her, his face pale and his dark eyes blazing like some kind of fever victim, desperate and desolate.
This was the familiar moment when Miss Ccri's role shifted from player to alienist or confessor. A large portion of her curious profession was just listening with sympathy, or at least without judgment. "Please, sir, come and lie down," Miss Ccri said, dropping the accent as she walked over to the bed. She patted the mattress beside her, and smiled invitingly. Perhaps the assignation could be salvaged.
He shrugged out of the blanket, then climbed into the bed next to her and lay with his arms and legs crossed, not bothering to cover himself. His body hair was white, making him look frosted by light snow. It didn't conceal the marks of a lifetime of travel, exploration, and combat.
"You've been through a lot," she observed.
"A lot's been through me," he quipped nervously.
She pointed at one scar on his forearm. "What's this?"
"Blowpipe dart." She touched the gash down his side. "Curved dagger." The puckered scar on each cheek. "Spear went clean through my mouth, took out all my back teeth." Numerous healed gashes on his legs. "Once my legs were so swollen, I had to slash them just to let the pus out." Marks on his ears and fingers. "Frostbite." Scars around his left wrist. "Nearly had my hand cut off." She kissed each one tenderly in turn.
He turned over. "Then there are the various flora and fauna. Rat bite... lioness mauled me here... elephant stepped on me." This display was a confession, not a boast. "And that doesn't even count the fevers and the malaria."
"And this?" She kissed the slashes that covered his buttocks.
His shoulders tightened in fear again. Instinct told Miss Ccri she had been too familiar. She said the first thing that came into her head. "I read about your travels in Arimaspia and Samarah. I'd love to hear more about them."
He relaxed and turned over to face her. She snuggled close and rested her hand on his broad chest while he told her of entire cities carved into the earth, lands with millions of gods, men who rested on beds of nails, a nation ruled by the concubines of a senile king, a queen's mausoleum in perfect white marble, cities no white man had ever seen.
"Did you really find the source of the White River? Some people still say Captain Spelt's report is the truth."
"Do you know what I was really looking for?" He closed his eyes, and spoke as if from a dream. "Everywhere I went in Arimaspia, they spoke of the Rain Queen, She Who Must Be Obeyed, she who has both husbands and wives, she whose eyes burn like the sun, she whose milk flows like the White River, she who remembers tomorrow. Armies have changed their course not to intrude on her lands. Countries have been ravaged by droughts for provoking her displeasure."
"She sounds magnificent," Miss Ccri said, picturing a vastly grander version of her own costume and setting under brilliant sunlight, like in the Academic paintings.
"I wanted to go where no white man had gone before. Know her. Capture her image. Maybe even bring her home and show her off in the Grand Exhibition." He opened his eyes and sighed. "I was obsessed. Spelt never bothered to learn the local languages, so it was pathetically easy to lie to him. Spelt and I spent months searching for her, deeper into the wilderness and we found nothing but charlatans and transvestites and whores. Maybe the guides thought I was mad." He spoke with an accent. "'Let us have a jest at the white man's expense. Why of course, sir, the Rain Queen is five day's journey in that direction, a very easy trail.'
"The only thing we found was a ruined city, full of smashed statues of women. Slavers, most likely," he said bitterly. "Any survivors would be scattered across the world now, their languages forgotten, their bloodlines diluted to nothing. Lost to history." He stroked her curly black hair and looked into her dark eyes. "If I may ask, where were you born?"
"Choked Pool, but I've lived in the City for years." Now it was her turn to be wary, a long standing habit.
"Ships from across the world pass through Choked Pool. Even slave ships in the old days." His fingers delicately traced her cheek and jaw, seeking some clue hidden in the curves and angles. "Your features are striking, almost..."
She damped down the beginnings of her panic and curled around him again, hoping to distract him. "You were saying about yourself and Spelt?"
Captain Braen raised a heavy eyebrow. "As you like." He stretched and resumed his tale. "We were lost among the ruins; racked with fever, starving, getting drunk just to get through the day, porters abandoning us in droves, insects the size of your hand, no other white men for a hundred miles. Spelt saved my life, you know. He went back for me when the rest of the party thought that spear had killed me. The only solace out there was what we found in each other." He grew silent again.
Miss Ccri decided there was something more than friendship at work here.
"He and I went to the edge of the map," he said.
"And?" she pressed, curiosity outweighing discretion.
"I went off the map." He stopped stroking her hair and rubbed his forehead. "When we got back, he wrote his report, I wrote mine. We never spoke again. Then that hunting accident... Poor bastard. He would have made a better Hero of the Empire than I. Certainly wanted it more than I ever did."
He sighed and stretched, his joints cracking audibly. "And here I am, the champion of this damp, smug little island. I thought I was done traveling, and I could give Ysabeau the family she wanted. She deserved it after all she's endured.
"But when I close my eyes, I see the desert."
He got up off the bed, a little too hastily for Miss Ccri's comfort. "I really musn't keep you," he said, picking up his clothing and dressing hastily.
She got up herself and stood near the bed. "There's still a few minutes left, if you like." She posed invitingly, palms out and head to one side.
"Oh, no, miss, please. You are pearls before swine." He shrugged into his waistcoat, then reached into his pocket and laid four silver coins out on the bedside table in a precise square. The money was a necessary protection for both of them, to maintain propriety. "Your gratuity," he said.
"Of course," she said, and curtsied. "The Razor Lotus thanks you for your patronage, Captain."
He bowed and kissed her hand, a lifeless gesture compared to earlier. "Good evening, Miss Ccri." He left, not hastily, but with a finality that left her wondering what had been left unsaid.
Miss Ccri picked up the coins and jingled them in her hand. So many of the men she saw seemed lost, particularly the ones of the greatest accomplishment, plagued by doubt, regret, guilt. Did they feel that way all the time, or was her true role in this scene to see a side of them she imagined no one else did, not at home or at their work?
A chime rang, indicating that the assignation was over. Feeling sadder than she had been in a long time, Miss Ccri left through the player's entrance.
2. Is There no Help for the Widow?
Miss Ccri released the brake lever in her kid-gloved hand and pressed her high-heeled boot onto the throttle pedal. The compact steam engine behind her whirred into life and propelled the auto-carriage forward onto Muster Row.
She had driven this particular path through the City's largest park many times before. One of her earliest jobs in the City had been as a "pretty horsebreaker," hired by stables and carriage makers to drive their wares on Muster Row, the best way to advertise to the smart set. What was different on this sunny afternoon in the middle of the Season was her vehicle. Instead of a well-appointed carriage driven by a pair of impeccably groomed ponies, today she drove the latest in engineering, a four-wheeled auto-carriage with kid-leather seats, polished brass and mahogany fittings, and a tiny, remarkably quiet steam engine.
Pushing the brass steering bar, she passed another driver and her set of horses, which whinnied in fear at the mechanical device. On either side of Muster Row, people stopped and stared. Auto-carriages were becoming a common sight in the streets, but few had seen one so elegant as Miss Ccri's, and certainly no one had ever driven one on Muster Row. It just wasn't done, just as one did not announce a visit over the Wire.
Back straight, chin held high, Miss Ccri drove the auto-carriage as if it were something any smart woman of the respectable classes would do. Her dark curls were concealed by a driver's cap set at a jaunty angle. Her amber-tinted goggles provided an accent for her maroon leather riding habit, cut so tight as to show off her tightly-corseted waist—so tight that she had been stitched into it that morning.
This was her performance, as carefully rehearsed and staged as a diva's aria. Last season, she had driven a team of horses along this same path while wearing a hat of particularly masculine design. Today, at least one in five of the women in the park, respectable wives and mothers who weren't even supposed to know who Miss Ccri was, wore that same style of hat. She, in turn, received small but significant payments from several milliners in the City.
After making a complete circuit of Muster Row, Miss Ccri pulled the auto-carriage to the side of the road and descended to the ground via the tiny step attached to the side. She would leave the auto carriage for people to look over for an hour or so, then do another circuit.
A large man with a brilliantly brocaded waistcoat approached her through the throng of people. He peered at her through thick-lensed spectacles and tapped the auto-carriage's wheel with his walking stick. "You're frightening the horses, Miss Ccri. Wherever did you get this infernal device?"
"Hats, auto-carriages, it's all the same, Mr. Wycke. I am the foil that complements any jewel."
"You, my dear, are the jewel that obscures the foil," he said, shaking her hand. On her arrival in the City years ago, she had appeared in private performances of Mr. Wycke's banned plays, and the man's many connections in both Society and the Half-World had served her well. "I take it you have returned to your earlier ventures while you are on leave from the Razor Lotus?"
"All part of negotiating my new contract." She smiled at one of the men who couldn't take his eyes off her shapely form.
"The director wishes to present my Judith in the fall. I could insist that no one could play the female lead but you."
That would solve many of her problems. "And in exchange?"
"Merely be companionable to someone. Let me introduce you," said Wycke, beckoning her towards one of the pavilions.
"I don't think the men in your circle would find me companionable, sir," she said, following him anyway. Wherever Wycke went, she knew, something interesting was bound to happen.
"Not that kind of companionship. Ah, here we are."
A slim woman all in black mourning dress sat in a folding chair at the back of the pavilion, as far as possible from the sunlight. Her face hidden beneath a heavy veil, she looked up as Miss Ccri and Mister Wycke approached.
"Mrs. Braen, this is Miss Branwyn, Ccri sept, Mael clan. Miss Ccri, may I introduce Mrs. Ysabeau, Braen sept, Dyvyr clan."
Captain Braen's widow. The man's death last month had been all over the papers and on the Wire. Reading the obituaries and looking at the pictures of the man in native dress or on the deck of an air-dreadnought, she found herself thinking of the odd, sad man she had known briefly five years before. Somehow, out of all her clients before and since, she remembered him the most.
Miss Ccri looked for any sign of recognition or hostility, having run across more than a few resentful wives, but the woman's mourning veil revealed nothing. She remained on guard, prepared to deny or flee if necessary.
"Hello, Miss Ccri." Mrs. Braen lifted her veil, revealing a small pale face, framed by fair hair. She was perhaps forty, but had a sad fragility that made her look younger. She extended her hand in a black lace glove, and Miss Ccri shook it cautiously.
"Well, you two are getting along famously." Wycke waved goodbye and left the pavilion. Miss Ccri watched him walk over to a cluster of young, well-dressed (perhaps excessively so) men, then returned her attention to the widow.
"My condolences regarding your late husband, Mrs. Braen. I was most impressed with his service to the Empire, his explorations, his translations," Miss Ccri said.
"Translations." Mrs. Braen looked like she had eaten something sour. "Have you read any of them?"
"Well, his The Myriad Nights, for one." That was the truth, though she had skipped his many footnotes and appendices.
Mrs. Braen sighed. "Do you know how much trouble he stirred up with his translation?"
"I know it was more suitable for the commedia than for the nursery."
"When my husband passed away, he had nearly completed the translation of an Eastern work of erotic art known as The Perfumed Garden. I have assembled as much of the manuscript as possible, but it is still incomplete. The only copy of the twenty-first chapter and the accompanying notes is in the possession of Lord Hough. You know him?"
"Not socially," Miss Ccri answered, "though I've heard of his collection of erotic works. Quite famous in the Half-World."
"He collaborated with my husband. I asked him to return the manuscript, and even offered to compensate him, but he has refused."
"I take it you have not gone to the police. Is this a matter of blackmail?"
"No, though it could be one day. I would rather resolve this discreetly. There is enough controversy surrounding my husband's legacy. I am his sole heir and I must dispose of his estate properly. Mr. Wycke suggested that you might be of assistance."
"I sympathize with your situation, but I'm really not the person to help you."
"If it's a matter of payment, please name your rate—"
"Mrs. Braen, I am not a consulting detective you'd read about in The String..."
"My husband believed that, when moving in unfamiliar territory, one should always retain a native guide. His legacy is lost in the Half-World, Miss Ccri. I need a person who is familiar with it."
Miss Ccri knew this was the "companionship" the playwright expected her to provide. And she still thought of Captain Braen, who had the same kind of sadness in him. "I cannot promise you anything, Mrs. Braen, but I will make some inquiries."
3. A Sojourn in West Badger
The next day, Miss Ccri took the train to West Badger, quite a ways from Muster Row, literally and figuratively. It was her first visit in some time, since she'd quit the Blood Blossom for the Razor Lotus, and she realized she didn't quite look the part anymore. Her brand new riding habit looked nothing like what the people wore as they bustled about on their daily business.
As she moved through the crowd, she remembered what she had read in one of Captain Braen's books: In hostile territory, one is always seen, but not always noticed. There are myriad ways of altering one's exterior to match one's surroundings, but the true art is to adapt the interior. That inner belief of belonging is conveyed in every expression and gesture, so convincing to the observer that external discrepancies are ignored. With that in mind, she walked through the streets unopposed to her destination.
The shop sign read, "Carrig & Co," with no other indication. She pushed the door open and found herself in a narrow space between bundles of blank paper piled to the rafters and a large printing press. A pair of feet in boots stuck out from beneath the press. Metal clinked against metal, and there was a bright spark that left purple blotches in front of Miss Ccri's eyes. Miss Ccri walked over and tapped one of the boots with her brolly.
A young woman slid out from under the machine and looked up at her. "Wot yer?" she said in the street accent that Miss Ccri had spent years suppressing. The young woman wore rationals—loose trousers tied at her ankles with a short apron in front—and a corset over her dirty jersey, with a dozen assorted tools hanging from loops at her waist. Her hair was a forest of metal clips, pins, and barrettes. She lifted her chipped and scratched goggles, a real tinker's pair, up over her face, darkened from dirt and sunlight.
Suddenly, the tinted glass goggles resting on the brim of Miss Ccri's driving cap seemed frivolous. Determined to retain control of the interaction, she stated, "Mr. Carrig is expecting me."
Sourly, the tinker girl led her up the stairs to the loft that also functioned as an office. Without knocking, she pushed the door open, releasing the scent of ozone and hot lead, and led Miss Ccri into a room packed with a desk, books, manuscripts, and typesetting equipment. One wall was covered with ambrotypes of commedia players in costume. A tall, stick-thin man bent over a linotype machine, pressing its keys with remarkable speed. Without looking up, he muttered, "What is it, Tangwen?"
"Lady t'see yer, boss," said the young woman.
Carrig stopped typing, turned around in his swivel chair, and barked out laughter. "That's no lady, that's Skittles!"
"And you're no gentleman, Carrig," she said with measured affection.
"Bloody right." He cleared a pile of manuscripts off a chair so she could sit. "Get back to work, Tangwen. I don't hear that press running!"
"Yer won't hear it 'til yer pay us for the parts," the tinker girl complained as she left, stomping down the steps.
"I'm sure she's a delicate flower underneath all that," Miss Ccri commented, sitting across his desk from him.
"She's on time for work and keeps her hand out of the till, Skits." He slipped a straight razor from his pocket, flicked it open, and began carving slivers of callus from his fingers. "How can we exploit one another?"
She knew better than to be intimidated by Carrig. "You've heard of Lord Hough's other library?"
"Oh, I like where this is going."
"I need a book that will get me into it."
"Hmm." Carrig rummaged through the piles of merchandise, then extracted a book and dropped it on the desk before Miss Ccri. "There you go, Skits. One brand new genuine rarity, hot off the press. I've got a hundred-weight more of them ready to hit the streets next week."
"Travels of Sir Ioan, by Lord Yron." Miss Ccri opened the book. The frontispiece gave a publication date more than thirty years ago, in a city on the continent.
"I remember selling this one when I was a lad," said Carrig, picking up the straight razor again. "Just when Decency started sticking its nose into everybody's business. Me boss back then wound up in court on copyright, but he was such a sly fox, he told the Honors that a book had to have 'artistic merit' to have copyright, and obviously it didn't, right?"
She paged through it, appreciating the sensual illustrations, and commented, "This should do." She passed the book back to him.
"Now, how are you going to ingratiate yourself with His Lordship?"
"I'll deploy my usual charms."
"No, no. Remember, Skittles, we're not selling books—" he said.
"We're selling stories," she finished his adage for him. She thought a moment. "My disreputable uncle passed on, and left me only the contents of his footlocker."
"Better, better," he said. "Add a little damsel-in-distress and you're in."
"Please help me, sir, my sick niece needs the cure, and this is all I have to sell." She pushed two silver coins across the table towards him.
"Three, and that's wholesale," he said, pointing the razor at the coins.
She added a few copper coins to the pile.
He accepted them and pushed the book to her. "Oh, Skits, if you weren't like a dau—"
"Don't say it," she cut him off, tucking the book into her clutch. "Thank you, Carrig. Now I just need an introduction."
* * * *
"I've been such an admirer of your verse, Mr. Munb," said Miss Ccri, clutching her newly autographed copy of A Servant's Love. "And to be brought into your home, you're so generous."
"Oh, it's nothing my dear," the man said, seated on the armchair in his sitting room. Thanks to her trusty copy of Who's Who, Miss Ccri found that one of Lord Hough's associates was Mr. Munb, an attorney and minor poet. She had purchased a volume of his verse and skimmed through it the day before, then sent a request for a meeting through the evening post. A little flattery went a long way with the man, and he invited her for tea the next day through the morning post.
Munb's maid of all work, a large, kind-faced woman, laid out the tea and scones between them, then retreated to stand by the sitting room door.
Miss Ccri sipped from her cup and said, "My uncle passed on recently. All he left me was his footlocker, and the only thing of possible value in it is this book. However, I wasn't quite sure whether to sell it to the Grand Museum or dispose of it before Decency hears of it.” She took the copy of Sir Ioan out of her clutch and passed it to him. "The verse and the illustrations are a bit, er, spicy."
"Yes, I can see," he said, his cheeks already turning pink under his beard as he turned the pages.
"I have heard that Lord Hough has some expertise with such works, and I thought you could arrange an introduction, Mr. Munb. I'd be ever so grateful."
Munb turned the page to the illustration of Sir Ioan dressed as a maiden of the sultan's harem. Apparently startled by the lasciviousness of the image, he choked on his scone.
Miss Ccri rose to help him, but his maid was on her employer in a flash. She asked, "Massa, are yer a'right?" and pounded on his back forcefully until he coughed and resumed breathing.
"Thank you, Caethes," he said, smiling back at her concern. "I'm sorry, you were saying?"
"I hoped you could prevail upon Lord Hough?"
"Certainly, miss," said Munb, shutting the book hastily and returning it to her. "I'll write an introduction for you. I'm sure he'd be most interested in your find,"
"How kind of you, sir," she said.
* * * *
Wilf, Miss Ccri's husband when it was convenient for her to have one, was in the City for a few days, before the External Office sent him off on another diplomatic assignment. As Miss Ccri had little to do until and unless Lord Hough responded, she spent a lazy morning with him in her townhouse. They sat at opposite ends of the sofa in the parlor, their legs entangled, and read the newspapers.
"Look, darling," he said, passing his paper to her. "You made the editorial page."
The engine-stippled image showed a crazed-looking woman, which Miss Ccri supposed represented her, driving a smoke-belching auto-carriage, about to run down the children who ran screaming from it. She laughed and read aloud, "'The presence of this unnamable woman on her infernal device in public venues shows that our Empire is deep moral decline. Tinkers of what was once called the fair sex will be the ruin of our society, with their auto-carriages, their typewriters, and their goggles.'"