The Transference Engine Read Online Free Page B

coattails. Today he just disappeared, cain’t find him in any of our usual places.”
    â€œWhere did you lose him?” I demanded, seriously worried now.
    â€œBy the Circus.”
    Not far from Trafalgar Square where the black balloon hovered.
    â€œPiccadilly,” I sighed. For some reason the circular road around a looming statue that connected Regent Street with Shaftesbury always fascinated Mickey but frightened Toby. He saw the winged bronze statue on its tower pedestal with a nocked arrow—often called
The Angel of Christian Charity
, though it was intended to be Anteros
,
god of requited love—as some kind of vengeful monster about to break free of its bronze casing and devour him.
    â€œWhat were you doing there, Mickey?” I tapped my toe impatiently, hoping he’d enlighten me to something unusual that the black balloon might spy upon. Maybe Toby was at nearby Trafalgar Square, lost in the open spaces, using the statue of a warrior to protect him from the vengeful angel at Piccadilly.
    Inside the darkened café the bronze clock bonged the three-quarter hour. Time was slipping away, and I needed to prepare for tonight’s gathering.
    Where was Violet?
    â€œWe was watchin’ t’ nobs, like you tell us to.” Mickey sounded defensive, building a bit of courage, I hoped. Courage to go back out into the twilight and search for his lost charge and maybe Violet as well.
    â€œDid you see anything interesting? Or useful?”
    â€œAye, Missus. Aye, that I did. Heard things, too, I did. Seen the beggar with the withered right hand, and heard him say somethin’ odd, too.” Now his eyes became cunning. I’d have to pay for whatever information littered his brain in scattered fragments. Organization was not Mickey’s best talent. He showed signs of needing greater order, like touching his fingers as he recounted things, building lists in his mind, but so far hadn’t mastered it.
    â€œThere’s bread in the pantry, butter and cheese in the stillroom.”
    â€œCream?” His eyes brightened in anticipation.
    Did I say he was like a feral cat?

    â€œTighter, Mickey,” I ordered as the little boy tugged feebly on my laces. I could manage my corsets most of the time. Tonight I needed to go tighter, almost to not breathing, in order to fit into my gown. Made two years ago, before I began to fill out.
    Where the hell was Violet? She’d lose her job the moment she poked her nose in my door. I had to trade Mickey’s report on the odd comment about the black balloon by a beggar with a withered hand for assistance in dressing. By the time we finished, Mickey would have forgotten what he heard.
    â€œIf’n I pull any tighter, you won’t be able to breathe,” Mickey protested. Puzzlement colored his voice rather than embarrassment. He was only eight and I showed little more skin in my nether garments than I did fully clothed in evening wear.
    â€œThat is rather the point: keeping women from breathing deep enough to speak their minds, or getting up and leaving fast enough to avoid being restrained by a man.”
    He gave another weak tug and I resigned myself to looking a little stout, with less of a distracting shelf shoved above my corset to hold male eyes this evening. Maybe if I only ate two sugar buns with breakfast instead of four . . .
    â€œYou are fed. You are warm. You are clean, and I’ve given you
three
ha’ pennies. Tell me about the black monster in the sky above Trafalgar Square and what the beggar said about it.”
    â€œMaking me your lady’s maid’s going to cost you extra, Missus.” He looked sullen and embarrassed after all.
    â€œYou may have two each of the savory pastries.” I’d saved out some of the broken ones just in case.
    His smile brightened a bit. “An’ you won’t go a-tellin’ me mates about this? Cain’t have ’em thinking I’ve