Arcadia Snips and the Steamwork Consortium (31 page)

"Here," she growled, shoving the book back into his arms;
it was the small story book that the other boys had violently taken
from him. He looked down to it, then back up to her, trying to
figure out what had happened.

"Um—"

"It’s yours, isn’t it?" she said.

William nodded.

"Then take it," she said, pressing it against his palms. At
last, he did as she said, accepting the book up and pulling it up
against his chest.

The girl sank down next to him, leaning against the wall;
William didn't know what to say. He had never talked to girls
before, never mind one like this. He struggled for something
meaningful, but all that he managed to blurt out was the first
thought in his head.

"Uh, so, what's your favorite color?"

"Green," she said without thinking, as if she had been
expecting the question all along.

He hesitated, then opened his mouth to say something else,
but she cut him off.

"My father used to read me that book," she said. "Sir
Gawain and the Green Knight, right?"

William nodded again.

"I like it," she said, and then she added: "I heard your
parents died a week ago. I’m sorry. I’m running away to find my
father in the city. Do you want to come with me?"

William blinked, at a loss for how to respond. "I’m—I’m
sorry?"

"Yes or no," she said, clearly agitated and wanting an
answer. "I’m leaving tonight, so I can’t wait around, okay?"

"I—I don’t know," William said. "Why are you running
away?"

"Because I want to see my father again," she said.

"Because I haven't seen him since I was a little girl. Are you 
coming or not?"

Arcadia and William meet as children.

"I can’t," William said. "My grandmother will come for me,
soon; I’m sure of it."

"Suit yourself," she said, and then she rose back up to her
feet. "My father’s a very rich and important person, so when I find
him, I’m sure we can come back to adopt you."

William watched as she walked off, then turned back to his
book. The very next day, the girl was gone; from then on, he could
not help but secretly wish he had told her yes.

~*~

More astute members of the audience (an esteemed group to which
you
, dear reader, undoubtedly belong) may have noticed that until this point, we have talked much about Count Orwick's nature but little of his appearance. This is not without reason.

Count Vladimere von Orwick was a scoundrel.

He was a creature of such abhorrent character that, for fear of your health, our censorous editors have banned us from describing him to you. We cannot write a word of his nose (which had caused several persons of weaker constitutions to faint), nor spend a moment dallying upon his eyes (which were under investigation for their involvement in the tragic death of Mr. Penrose). We have been forbidden from so much as even mentioning his mouth (beyond, of course, noting that we shan't mention it).

So when called upon to imagine Count Orwick, we ask you to think instead of an innocent and helpless fruit. In particular, a deliciously ripe, juicy orange—with skin that parts beneath your fingers, sliding away like frost from a window on the first day of spring.

It was an orange that Count Orwick now worked upon, peeling it with great relish. Miss Primrose could not prevent herself from shifting uncomfortably in her chair; the Count had a way of making you pity his breakfast.

"A clever trick," Count Orwick observed, finishing the orange with calm delight. "Disabling the calculation engines to prevent them from resetting."

"Mr. Daffodil was instrumental in both the realization and execution of the plan," Miss Primrose explained. "I have requested in my report that he be recognized for—"

"Done," Count Orwick said, waving his hand dismissively.

"Mr. Daffodil will be taking over the Steamwork, filling in for the now-deceased Mr. Eddington. He will be instituting the very same plan that Mr. Copper had proposed—wiring all calculation engines together so we may prevent these sort of financial disasters in the future."

"That brings me no small degree of comfort."

"Of course. The next order of business, please."

"Just a matter of clarification," Miss Primrose said. "We wanted to know exactly where you were during these recent, ah, events."

"Mr. Peabody foresaw my interference and sought to eliminate me as a potential threat. He poisoned me shortly before launching his insidious plan's final stroke," Count Orwick said.

"You were poisoned?" Miss Primrose said. "But then, how did you—"

"Poison is a regular occupational hazard in my profession. I carry several different antidotes on my person at all times," Orwick said. "It was a simple matter to ferret out which poison Mr. Peabody had employed. Although he had done well to hide his true loyalties from me, I knew him enough to realize he would choose his instrument of murder on the basis of absurd irony."

"He poisoned you with hemlock," Miss Primrose said.

Orwick's smile grew several sizes larger. "Indeed."

"But, ah," Miss Primrose said, hesitating. "Sir, there
is
no cure for hemlock."

"Oh, yes," Count Orwick agreed. "That is what those botany books say, isn't it?"

Miss Primrose fell silent for quite a while.

"If that is all, Miss Primrose—your check is, as they say, in the mail."

"That's it, then?"

"There is still the matter of Mr. Peabody's accomplices, and the matter of Professor Hemlock himself, as well as the damage this whole affair has done to our already lagging economy—but yes, Miss Primrose. As far as you are concerned, that is 'it'."

Orwick paused, then added with a wickedly gleeful smile: "Unless, of course, I could interest you in a job. Mr. Peabody did leave a rather unfortunate vacancy."

The speed with which Miss Primrose left Count Orwick's room could not be described with any term besides legendary.

~*~

Snips waited for her outside of Count Orwick's office.

Above them, the morning airships swept up into the sky to peddle their wares. Below, marketplaces buzzed with life; steam-driven devices hummed as they trudged down the streets. Over, under, and through it all, the trains began to move—pumping equal parts prosperity and corruption through the city's brass-lined veins.

Miss Primrose noticed a growing pile of discarded bandages at Snips' feet. The thief was unraveling the wrappings that Orwick's men had put on her.

"That is not particularly wise, Miss Snips."

"Probably not."

Miss Primrose stepped forward. Rather than press on with her complaint, she thought it over, and reached to up to unwind the bandage that had been placed over her own forehead.

"Count Orwick could likely have been convinced to grant you some manner of reward," Miss Primrose said as she folded the bandage up. "You have gone above and beyond the call of duty, Miss Snips. Perhaps you should seek audience with him."

"I don't want to encourage him," Snips said. "I hate his type. He wants to control everything. Maybe he's the best person for the job; maybe he
should
control everything. But it still ticks me off."

"Hm. I think that I might be starting to understand your point of view," Miss Primrose admitted.

Snips sighed. "Listen—don't get any wrong ideas. It was fun, but I just wanted to get that devil off my back."

"I see. I imagine, then, that you would never consider coming to work with me."

Snips looked at Miss Primrose. "Huh?"

"I've begun to think that the Watts Detective Agency could do with a little illegitimacy," Miss Primrose admitted. And then she waggled her eyebrows.

"You're—are you serious?"

"Quite."

Snips laughed. "One condition."

"Name it, Miss Snips."

"No more 'Miss'. Just Snips."

"As you wish, Snips." Miss Primrose said. "Don’t you have somewhere to be?"

"Yeah," Snips said. "I’ve got an appointment with a mummy." She made a face.

~*~

William stared with slack-jawed shock at the smoldering wreckage of Napsbury Asylum.

A hole had been torn through the side of the facility; behind it lay a rubble-strewn path occasionally interrupted either by a bruised and groaning asylum inmate or a dazed looking feline dressed in smart formal attire.

William followed the path for as long as he dared; when he realized where it was going, he turned and hunted down the first doctor he could find.

"My grandmother," he said, pinning an elderly physician to the wall. "What did she do?!"

"D-Daffodil?" the gentleman stammered, wheezing. "We couldn't stop her! She was like—she was a demon! She was atop of some monstrous, mechanical thing—"

"But that's impossible," William said. "How could she have powered it?! There's nothing here to run a machine on—nothing but potatoes and—"

He cut himself off as he felt something brush up against his feet. Looking down, he caught sight of Mr. Snugglewuggums; the feline in the tophat and monocle busily purred and shoved his face against William's ankle.

It was then that William noticed the smell of singed fur mixed with fried potatoes. He reached down and touched Mr. Snugglewuggums' head. Immediately, a burst of electricity crackled up from between the cat's ears, shocking William's fingertip.

"It couldn't be," William said. "She couldn't have—"

Sensing his distraction, the doctor used the moment to slip away from William. Rather than pursue the man and continue with his interrogation, William turned back toward the path of destruction and followed it to its source. When he arrived at his grandmother's room, he found the blueprints for the machine underneath her pillow.

The paper described an immense ambulatory engine powered on one side by a cauldron of potatoes and on the other side by a barrel full of static-generating cats. A stick-figured version of Mrs. Daffodil sat at the engine's helm, beside what William assumed was Mr. Brown and Mr. Wanewright.

Mr. Snugglewuggum meowed. William carefully folded up the designs and placed them in his pocket, then reached down and pulled the cat up into his arms. As he carried the feline to the door, William started to twitch.

By the time he left the room, the twitch had become a spasm; by the time he reached the asylum's exit, the spasm had become a giggle.

By the time he was walking down the street, the giggle had become a genuine mad cackle.

~*~

"He has been expecting you," Starkweather said, leading Snips into Nigel's study.

"I bet he has," Snips replied.

Starkweather waited by the door until Nigel waved him away.

"Can I help you, Arcadia?" Nigel asked, pressing his bandage-wrapped hands together.

"You already did."

"I beg your pardon?"

"You meddled," Snips said, her voice like a frost drenched dagger.

Nigel spoke slowly, choosing his words with care. "And exactly how did you reach that conclusion...?"

"Peabody. Even if he hadn't said what he did, there was no reason for him to keep me alive back on the train. Not unless you cut him a deal."

"I see. And what if I did? My actions may have saved your life."

"Maybe," Snips said. "No, not maybe. Definitely."

"And so you came here to reprimand me, then? For

'meddling'?"

"No," Snips said, her eyes drifting to the jars that lined the shelves of his study—as if the answers to her questions could be found among the preserved remains of extinct species. "No, I didn't come here to reprimand you. But I didn't come here to thank you, either. I'm not sure what I came here for. I just wanted you to know that
I
know. And that it doesn't change anything."

"Why would I think otherwise?"

"I don't know," Snips said, shaking her head. "Look, what do you want from me? Do you want me to to forgive you? On behalf of the thousands upon thousands you've killed? Do you want me to give you a big, warm hug? Put on a dress, act like a

'good daughter'? Do you want me to come back home?"

"Are any of those things on the table, Arcadia?"

"No," she said, and there was a murderous force behind the word. "No. None of those things are on the table."

"Good," Nigel said.

"Good?"

"Good," he repeated. "As for your question, I will answer it, in exchange for you answering one of my own."

Snips glared, but nodded. "Go ahead."

"Why do you hate me?"

"You're a murderer."

Nigel snorted. "Have I killed anyone you knew? Have I killed someone close to you? Your hatred is far too intimate for the callous scorn we heap upon killers and tyrants."

Snips shook her head. "Do you know what it was like, growing up and admiring you? Reading the articles about all the wonderful things you'd done, the wonderful things you built?