Turnkey (The Gaslight Volumes of Will Pocket Book 1) (27 page)

Anyhow, at the
moment I was drunk and, thinking upon such nocturnal incidents, was paying
little attention to Alexia as she sang about her favorite teas. The only part
of her quite lengthy song I can recall went like this:

“Low tea for the
higher ones, high tea for the low! I've never met the Earl of Grey, but I'd buy
him an English Rose! In London Town a garden sits, they'll bring you hot
Darjeeling! But I need not a garden grown, for my stock comes from my ceiling!”

She gave her song
a rousing “tee-hee-hee” and applauded her performance, nearly falling off of
the overturned wine crate that she had planted, bereft of laundry, in the
center of the main room. Alexia was far drunker than I or, I suspect, anyone
else in the room. When we had returned from collecting the laundry, Alexia had
called everyone together to make an announcement, as she put it, “of
immeasurable importance.” Before she made such an announcement though, she
insisted on drinks, and though we now sat well-filled with cider, she had yet
to inform us of anything.

“All in due time,”
she drunkenly said to Gren, who had bluntly suggested that she get on with
whatever the hell she had to get on about.

“She's going to
fall down,” the Doll whispered, sitting with her hands on her skirts beside me.

“Is this going to
take much longer?” I heard Kitt ask Gren, tapping a nearly-untouched mug of
cider.

“Better drink up,”
Gren suggested back to him. “It'll make things more bearable.”

“More bearable!”
Alexia repeated in her stupor. Then, with a laugh, she made claws out of her
hands and began imitating a grizzly. “Rawr!”

“Very nice,” Gren
said as Kitt quickly began to sip his drink. Eddie seemed to notice our
collective confusion and tugged on Alexia's dress.

“I think you're
losin' 'em,” he said, sloshed.

Alexia put on a
pretend face of sternness and shook a finger at all of us like a scolding
schoolteacher. “I will remind you that this is Britain and the business of tea
is a serious one!”

“But we’re not
having tea,” Kitt mumbled.

“Doesn’t matter,”
I responded.

“Doesn’t
matter?!?” Alexia growled, picking up on my words but not their context. “Did
you know that our late Victoria, may her spirit rest, was known to cast her
teacup across rooms and into walls if the flavor did not suit her tastes?”

“That true?” Gren
said, chuckling. “Well, good for her. You don’t meet many women these days with
that kind of fire in them. It’s attractive.”

“Attractive?” I
responded.

“Yes, attractive.
Don't raise your brow at me, Pocket.”

“I just didn’t
realize you were such the romantic, Gren,” I said wryly. “It's a shame you and
the Queen never got together. Could’ve been your kid could be sitting on the
throne now.”

“Hmph,” Gren
snorted. “Trust me. I'd never leave a child of mine with anything as mixed-up
as this country.”

“Careful how you
speak. Your poor lover's spirit may be listening in. You wouldn’t want to evoke
your Victoria’s wrath.”

“You think you're
pretty funny, don’t you? You wanna discuss
your
taste in women, Pocket?
I'm pretty sure I've got a good idea of it.”

“The hell is
that
supposed to mean?”

“Gentlemen!”
Alexia said, stamping a foot onto the crate. “If you are about done squabbling
like children, I do have an announcement to make!”

“A thousand
pardons,” I said, scratching my head and taking another welcomed gulp of cider.
“The floor is yours, lady.”

“Thank you,”
Alexia said, a wide and sparkling grin appearing on her face. She extended her
arms up and wide, palms open. “Lady and gentlemen, new friends and associates
of this tea house, I propose...” Each hand lifted up and clasped around a
hanging tea bag. With a snap, she pulled them from their strings and held them
out to us, clutched in her fists. “...a reading!”

The reaction to
this proposition was about as I expected. Confusion. Uncertainty. And a patch
of knowing laughter on Eddie's end. We all eventually agreed to the lady
mystic's request, with Gren being the most stubborn skeptic.

“I'll pass,” he
had said.

“It has to be
everyone!” Alexia had said.

“No thanks. I'll
just watch.”

Gren was
eventually persuaded, so the matter was settled. And by persuaded, I mean that
Alexia sicced Eddie on him, and another spot of wrestling began. Good times.

And
then...well...I must have passed out because the next thing I remember was
waking up on the old sofa, face down, after midnight but before dawn. It always
puts me off-balance when I sleep without dreaming. It feels like a sequence of
my life has been skipped over, as if I have jumped directly from an earlier
hour into the current one.

I lifted my head
in the dark and saw that my bottle of juice was wearing my top hat. A piece of
my parchment had been taken from me and left next to the bottle. Written on it
was a note, which I later learned was left by the Watchmaker's Doll in her
whimsy. The parchment read: “MISTER BOTTLE SAYS TO GET A GOOD NIGHT'S SLEEP!”

Cute.

I groaned upon
realizing that now that I was awake, I could not make myself fall back asleep.
And apparently I wasn't the only one. I could hear a faint clacking coming from
the front door. I lifted my body and dragged my long legs through the dark.
Sure enough, when I opened the door I found Kitt sitting on the front steps,
knocking his heels against the wood.

“Oh. Hey, Pocket.
Did I wake you?”

“I don't think
so.”

“Oh. Good.” He was
holding his fox-eared cap in his hands. His exposed hair, dark and curly,
blended into the shadows.

“Couldn't sleep
either?” I asked, sitting beside him.

“Yeah,” he said.
“All week.”

“All week?”

“Yeah. Been pretty
restless. So I've been coming out here. Didn't want to disturb anyone.”

“Then you probably
shouldn't knock your feet against the steps like that.”

“Oh,” he said,
looking down at his shoes. “I didn't realize—”

“Don't worry about
it. I'd probably do the same.”

“You do worse. You
snore.”

“Thanks.”

“No offense meant.
Ignore me. Silly Kitt the street thief.”

“The way I see it,
you haven't exactly been a thief since we've arrived here.”

“That's true.
Alexia and Eddie, they've been such a help.”

“I know. I can't
remember the last time I've eaten so well. So how does it feel, Kitt? Not
having to steal everyday?”

He hugged his
legs. “Feels lousy.”

“Lousy?” I
couldn't believe what I was hearing. “What are you talking about?”

“If I'm stealing,
I'm taking care of myself. No one else has to do it for me.”

“Yeah...well...sure,
I guess, but it’s not like these people are—”

“What? Giving us
food and shelter and risking their heads for us? I don't like being a burden.
Or a charity. Makes me feel like a bum.”

“Don't you think
you're being a little hard on yourself?”

“Just being
honest.”

“A first.”

He snapped his cap
at my face, a predictable move and one that I easily countered. I threw out my
hand, grabbed the chin strap, and quickly pulled it away from him.

“Nice job,” Kitt
said. “Now give it back.”

“Not as long as it's
a weapon.”

“Pocket...”

“Where did you say
you got this?”

“It was a gift.”

“That's right.”

“So, come on. Hand
it—“

“You know, my
bottle was a gift. You remember, I told you right before you ran off with it.”

“Okay, I get it.”

“I should keep
this. We can call it a peace offering. What do you think? Hey, there's
something written on the inside here.”

Kitt took a swing
at the cap, but could not match the reach of my stretched arm.

“This is getting
old,” he mumbled.

I ignored him and
peeked again at the inky words that were scribbled and scratched into the
underside of the leather.

“Le Petit Renard.”
I chewed on my lip and tossed the cap back to Kitt. “Sounds French.”

“Thanks,” he
huffed, pulling it onto his head. “And it is.”

“You're not
French.”

“Of course I’m
not. But the men who gave it to me were.”

“Oh.”

“Or they knew
French, at very least. I dunno. Said they were Parisians. Could’ve been an act.
They were all a fat pack of liars.”

“Fellow thieves?”

“Not exactly.”

The fog spun
around the porch. I rubbed my hands and looked toward Kitt.

“What?” he said,
watching me watch him.

“Go on.”

“Go on and what?”

“You’re going to
tell the story, right?”

“No.”

“No?!? After a
set-up like that, why not?”

“Because I don’t
do that.”

“You don’t
talk?
”

“I don’t tell
stories. It’s too much pressure.”

“Kitt, we’re not
opening act at some opera house, it’s just you and me. I’m inquiring about your
past.”

“Why?”

“Because I can’t
sleep.”

“Wouldn’t
storytelling just keep your attention and make you stay awake?”

“I don’t care. I’m
bored.”

“It’s not that
interesting.”

“Really?”

“No. It’s actually
very interesting, but I don’t want to talk about it.”

“You know, when I
ask you things like that, you can cut to the chase and tell me to mind my own
business.”

“I didn't think
you would.”

“Sigh…”

“Sorry.”

“You're a
headache.”

“I’m
sorry.
”

“Forget it. I was
dumb to—“

“Pocket!”
“What?”

“What’s that?”

“Where?”

“In the distance.”

“Oh, you mean that
thing in the total darkness behind the screen of thick fog?”

“Yeah.”

“I can’t see.”

“Well, look harder.
I think I see a rifleman!”

“Where?”

“See that pointy
piece? I think it’s a bayonet.”

“Kitt, that’s a
twig.”

“Then why does it
have a trigger?”

“Because it
doesn’t.”

“Oh yeah? Then
how…oh, no, you’re right. It’s a twig. Lucky for us.”

“Yeah. Real lucky.”

Shadows played
around in the distance, doing nothing for my boredom.

“Hey, Pocket.”

“Mmm?”
“What would you have done if it
had
been a bayonet?”

“What do you
mean?”

“Well, we’re
wanted men. That could’ve easily been a search team creeping through the mist.”

“So?”

“So I’m asking
you. What would you have done if it had been?”

“Get shot.”
“Seriously.”

“I am serious. I’m
not armed, and even if I was, I’m pretty sure any supposed militiaman is a
better shot than me.”

“You could run.”

“Is that what
you’d do?”
He shrugged. “First instinct. Hide in the bushes, run until I couldn’t. Maybe
steal Eddie’s bike if I could get to it.”

“Just run away?”

“Why not?”

“What about the
others?”

“It’s us they’re
after.”

“And the Doll.”

“How do you know
she wouldn’t run, wouldn't leave us? And anyway, what could they do to a tea
house?”

“Burn it, for one.
Do you think the King’s army is just going to knock and give a ‘We’re sorry,
but you aren’t harboring any fugitives inside here, are you? You aren’t? Well,
thing is, we saw two chaps running away from here, and they did seem to be
coming from this direct—‘”

“I get it.”

“And you'd still
run?”

“I’m not
heartless. It’s just instinct. In a panic, you do unflattering things.”

“I don’t know.
I’ve never had to make such a choice.”

“People are
selfish. I learned that the hard way.”

“Oh?”

“I was in a sky
circus when I was a kid.”

“Seems fitting.”

“It was fun for
awhile, barnstorming with clown pilots. Learning a little about ships and
skies. But they were bums. One of them got drunk once, crashed, nearly took out
half of the audience. When the authorities came around to investigate, he
pinned it on me, said I did something funny to the engine, and tried to beat me
senseless.”

“Lousy thing to do
to a kid.”

“Served me right
for trusting them. I ran off, taking with me this stupid cap and some money I
found stuffed in a ticket booth. Been on my own since.”

“I’m sorry.”

He shrugged it
off. “I don’t really care. I guess what I’m trying to say, Pocket, is that
sometimes you just have to take what you have access to and run.”

“Hmmm…hey, Kitt.”

“Yeah?”

“You do realize
you just told me a story.”

“What?”

“Yeah. You did.”

“No, I…damn it,
you tricked me.”

“I didn’t do
anything.”

“Hmph.”

“Would you like me
to pretend I didn't hear it?”

“Don't bother. All
you know, I could've made the whole thing up.”

“It'd still be a
story.”

“Nope! It'd be a
lie!”

“Some of the best
stories are well-told lies 'Fiction'
is just a fancy word for it.”

“Have you told any
lies and called them stories, Pocket?”

“All of them.”

“Really?”

“Yeah.”

“How come?”

I could taste
winter in my mouth.

“Waking life has
never provided me with anything worth writing down.”

“Oh. Well, that's
too bad.”

“I'm content
speaking of dragons to children and lovers to city wives.”

“Well, hey. Maybe
one of these days, something worth remembering will happen. Then you can pen
the Great Tale of Will Pocket.”

“Heh. A nice
thought, but I think that story needs a better hero.”

“You may be
right.” Kitt got up and yawned. “Hey, I'm getting sleepy at last. I'm heading
in. If you find a star in this fog, wish on it.”