Supernatural Devices

Supernatural Devices: A Steampunk Scarlett Novel

Published by THE EDGE

THE EDGE is an imprint of Sparklesoup Inc.

Copyright © 2011 Kailin Gow

All Rights Reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, graphic, electronic, or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, taping or by any information storage or retrieval system, without the permission in writing from the publisher except in case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles and reviews.

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First Edition.

Printed in the United States of America.

ISBN:
9781597480116

For those who have their eyes on the future, appreciate the past, yet live in the present. For those who are dreamers who do, and doers who dream, this series Steampunk Scarlett is for you.

“
M
iss Seely, Miss Seely!”

Scarlett tried very hard not to show too much annoyance at the approach of one of the porters to the tent where she was currently keeping out of the Egyptian sun. No doubt the young man thought that whatever errand her parents had sent him on this time was vitally important.

Scarlett generally thought that her parents’ interest in things buried in the ground was rather less important than they tried to make it sound. Father might have come out here to follow in the footsteps of Sir William Petrie, and Mother might have acquired a small obsession of her own with the myths and folklore of the place, but that didn’t make the fashion for antiquarianism any more exciting to a girl of seventeen.

Yet they had insisted that it would be a valuable part of her education, and Scarlett had to admit that she had learned a lot out here. It was just that she would much rather have been back in London. In London, things were always happening, and pieces of broken pottery counted for very little. In London, the sun wasn’t hot enough to burn a pale skinned blonde like herself every time she stepped out into it.

Oh, Egypt had its compensations. Its monuments were truly magnificent, while the wildlife here was awe inspiring. Scarlett hadn’t shot lions or elephants, preferring to paint them the way her parents did, but she had certainly been close to them. She had seen the great Nile crocodiles slide into the water from the banks, and watched the ibis gathering. And being so far from the stuffiness of Society meant that Scarlett could learn what she wanted, rather than merely those things thought appropriate for a young lady of good breeding. Even today, in the brisk modernity of 1890, people could have some very old fashioned attitudes.

It was just that Scarlett knew perfectly well that London held adventures of its own. Adventures that she had heard since she was a little girl from her parents’ friend Mr Holmes, and which she had tried to keep up with by having copies of the
Strand
shipped over, letting her read John Watson’s accounts of them, even if it was several months behind everyone else. Not that Scarlett was entirely happy with Mr Holmes at the moment. He had made her a promise before she left, and so far, he had not kept it.

“Miss Seely.”

Scarlett turned her attention to the young man who had arrived in the tent. “Yes, Akim? Is it about the clock?”

Ah, the clock. Her parents’ great find. Six months of work, and their greatest discovery was an elaborate water clock made from silver. It was certainly impressive, and the inscription marking it as sacred to the Egyptian sky-goddess Nut presumably made it important as well, yet Scarlett couldn’t help feeling a little resentful towards the thing, given that it was the reason her parents had extended their work here.

“No, Miss Seely. There is a telegram for you. From London.”

The young man held out a sealed envelope. It would have been received at the office back in town perhaps yesterday, meaning that whatever information had been so urgent was already out of date. Still, it was better than waiting for a boat to carry a letter. And it was from London.

Scarlett opened it impatiently and read.

Scarlett,
it read,
I promised before you left for Egypt that I would send for you if ever I had a case that needed the talents of a young lady of good upbringing, rather than my usual collection of Irregulars. Such a situation has now arisen. Please return at once. Sherlock Holmes.

Scarlett read the message twice more just to be certain. She refrained from letting out a whoop of joy, but only barely. The young porter was watching her, after all.

“Is there a return message, Miss Seely?” he asked.

Scarlett shook her head. “No, but could you tell me where my parents are? I need to speak to them urgently, if I am going to be on a boat today.”

W
hen Scarlett and her parents had left London, it had been a city of mists and freezing fogs. Now that winter had given way to spring, however, it was just about possible to make out the sky above as she rode towards Baker Street in the back of a hansom cab. The night was warm. Warm enough that the coat she wore over a simple, dark travelling dress was almost too much.

Scarlett listened to the rattle of the cobbles beneath the wheels, trying to remember some of what Sherlock had taught her. In theory, the different street surfaces of the city were as unique as the new fingerprints that had caused Scarlett such excitement. No one might have been convicted on the strength of them yet, but the idea of such a clear way of solving mysteries was tantalizing.

Though also possibly a little dull. Scarlett had heard the stories of Sherlock and Dr Watson’s escapades, and had marvelled at the idea of a science of deduction. She had even spent time trying to perfect the fundamentals of it in preparation for the day when she would be ready to assist with one of those adventures. She didn’t want some new science making things too easy. Although secretly, Scarlett suspected that things would never be that easy. Even with such new ideas, there would always be a place for confusion, which was why people like Sherlock would always be needed to cut through it. People like her.

Persuading her parents to let her go had been easier than Scarlett had thought it would be. Apparently, they thought enough of Mr Holmes that he could simply send for their daughter and they would allow it. Or perhaps they had simply sensed how much Scarlett had desperately wanted to go. After all, parents who had thought nothing of taking their daughter to explore the farthest reaches of the Raj and Malaya when she was just a child would hardly balk at the idea of her having an adventure or two in London.

Though they had insisted on one or two precautions. Firstly, a young woman named Miss Pettingell had travelled with Scarlett for most of the way as a companion, taking the boat with her from Alexandria over as far as Marseilles, then accompanying her on a succession of trains across France to Calais. Only when they had reached Dover had the two parted, with Scarlett completing her journey to London while Miss Pettingell had gone off to see family in Kent. She had been pleasant enough company on the journey, even if her French had not been much use when put beside Scarlett’s, meaning that Scarlett had spent most of the trip serving as her translator.

Secondly, and perhaps rather more usefully, her parents had presented Scarlett with a bronze dagger taken from one of their earlier sites, which currently sat at the base of her purse. It was presumably intended to be as much a memento of the time in Egypt as anything, but Scarlett didn’t doubt that her parents intended her to use it in her defense if necessary. After all, they were the ones who had insisted that she had learned to fence and to shoot. They were the ones who had occasionally sought out teachers of obscure fighting arts on their travels, and used their money to persuade those teachers to teach Scarlett. No daughter of theirs was going to go undefended in a dangerous world.

Now, if only they had found some art that made cab rides go faster. The journey back to London had been a long one. Too long, really. It was possible, far too possible, that whatever mystery Mr Holmes had been working on would have been resolved by now, leaving her unneeded once more. Scarlett wasn’t going to risk that. She had actually sent her luggage on ahead of her to the family’s town house, simply so that she would be able to go straight to Baker Street and save a little time. Mrs Hudson, the landlady of the place, would undoubtedly allow her in, despite the hour.

The hansom came to a halt, and Scarlett alighted, fishing around in her purse for the correct coins with which to pay the driver. That was easier said than done when it was hard to pick apart the francs and centimes from the pounds, shillings and pence by the light of the gas street lamps. Scarlett managed to locate the fare, and she stood there for a moment or two as the cab drove off, staring up at number 221b. Above, the place would undoubtedly be its usual mess, with the remnants of some experiment or other of Mr Holmes’ scattered around, and his violin propped carelessly on the mantelpiece. Scarlett had been there enough times over the years to picture it easily, and the mess had only gotten worse in the months before she and her parents had left for Egypt, after John Watson had moved out to marry his wife Mary.

Of course, Scarlett realized afterwards, it was utter foolishness to just stand there staring, with her purse in her hand like that. Not the sort of thing she would normally have done at all. Her only excuses were the long journey, combined with the joy of finally arriving at the door of her parents’ great friend. It still did not excuse the way she made things so very easy for the thief, though.

A hand snatched at her purse, while another pushed her back. Scarlett had good enough reflexes not to stumble, though she wasn’t able to catch her assailant in a joint lock, as she briefly intended. Instead, she was left watching as a figure sprinted from the scene.

Scarlett ran after him, of course. She wasn’t about to let some ruffian take her things. She was hardly dressed for a pursuit, given the length of her dress, and Scarlett momentarily cursed propriety under her breath as the young man ahead of her started to pull away. She kept running though, refusing to admit that she might not be able to catch him. She would simply have to be patient. Be determined. And if she happened to pass a constable to whom she could shout “Stop, thief!” then that would be so much the better.

Sadly, there didn’t seem to be any sign of any constables around, though, and Scarlett suspected that she was rapidly getting to the stage where she was going to have to admit that she wasn’t going to catch the thief. How would that look? Her purse taken from her on the very day she was meant to be proving how useful she could be to Mr Holmes? She stayed with the thief a little longer, hoping that perhaps providence would provide a way. Though Scarlett had to admit, she was still more than a little surprised when it did.

A man stepped out of a side street ahead of the thief, sticking out a leg and tripping him neatly, almost casually. As the thief hit the cobbles, the newcomer reached down and plucked the purse from him.

“I would run along, if I were you,” he said. The young man who had stolen Scarlett’s purse took one look at him and fled, obviously deciding that discretion was the better part of valour.

Scarlett could not blame him. The newcomer was really quite impressively built, as far as Scarlett could tell beneath the elegantly cut expensive suit he wore. He wore his dark hair a little longer than the current fashion. He appeared to be only a little older than her. Perhaps twenty or so. Other details leapt out at Scarlett as she struggled to observe, from the silver cufflinks of his shirt to his delicate, almost feminine hands. It wasn’t difficult, and the young man was hardly a chore to look at. Quite the opposite, in fact.