Turnkey (The Gaslight Volumes of Will Pocket Book 1) (50 page)

“Yes, I'm sorry.
I'm listening. Your daughter.”

“My daughter,
yes.”

He was leading me,
I realized, toward the same girl that I had noticed looking at me earlier.

“Anyhow, William,”
Blue-Eyes said, “I'm not certain of your personal area of specialization.
Mathematics? History?”

I glanced to the
side and spotted Quill sipping sparkling wine. As she pulled her glass away, I
couldn't help noticing that her mustache was now hanging sideways down her
face.

“Quill!” I hissed
in a panic.

“I beg your
pardon?” Blue-Eyes said. “Did you say 'quill?'”

“Uh...yes? Yeah,
you, um, were asking about my studies, so...uh…”

“Ah, quills, I
see. Man of the written word. Very good.”

“Yeah. I'm sorry,
sir. I must go for a moment. Excuse me.”

Before he could
reply, I took off, jogging away from his daughter a second time and moving to
Quill, who was still somehow unaware of her dangling disguise.

But before I could
reach her, I was nabbed. A cuffed sleeve grabbed my arm and spun me
counter-clockwise into a pecking cluster of socialites.

“Ah! Young master
William!” barked the man who had snagged me, his cheeks swelling like cherries
from the corners of his mouth. “What perfect timing!”

The group agreed,
meeting me with a collection of tidy head nods.

“Young master
William,” Mister Cherry repeated, ushering me into their circle, “you are a man
of learning, are you not?”

“I'm quite fond of
books,” I stammered.

“Then perhaps you
can enlighten us. We were just in the midst of a great discussion, young master
William, on the words and works of another noted William.”

“I see. Which
William would that be?”

“Why, the great
William!” Mister Cherry proclaimed. “The timeless William.”

“Of course,” I
responded. “And...which one was he?”

They became quite
silent and Mister Cherry set a stupefied gaze upon me.

“Shakespeare,” he
said dryly.

“Yes!” I said,
jumping on the word. “Of course, the timeless William!” I forced myself to
laugh. “What other is there?” I added, milking reserved chuckles from the
others.

“Of course. Well
said. Good man.” Mister Cherry slapped my shoulder thrice. A woman with tall,
thin brows that curved like stalks of wheat raised a finger at me.

“Tell us, young
William,” said Misses Wheat, “which of the great master's works do you most
admire?”

Necks craned in my
direction. I tugged at my collar, put on my best “educated” face, and spoke
with great pronunciation.

“Why, I like the
one with all the killing,” I said.

And then they were
quiet again. They looked about at each other's faces, searching, I can only
imagine, for the face that was going to first respond. It was Mister Cherry at
last who opened his mouth. He broke into a fit of great laughter.

“Well done, my
boy!” he said, slapping his thigh. “Sharp wit on this one!”

The others took
his cue and started laughing on the spot.

“Very droll, young
master William!” Misses Wheat said.

“A regular
humorist,” remarked the woman to her immediate right, Madame Turkeyneck.

I was going to
protest, but my arm was snatched once more, and once again I spun, this time
counter-counter-clockwise...or...I suppose now...clockwise.

When my body
ceased its orbit, I found myself in the company of a tallish, dark-haired girl
about my age who was wearing a welder's helmet upon her raised hair. A
peacock's feather was worked carefully between the visor and bent out
most...well, what I suppose was fashionably. Still, a man who dons spoons has
little room to critique.

“Young master
William,” she began.

“You know,” I interjected,
“if it's all the same to you, we can drop the whole 'young master' business.
It's a little silly, is all. Please, William is fine. No, make it Will. And you
are?”

Her glazed eyes
and fixed smile stayed on me as my words whizzed past her ears and over her
helmet.

“Young master
William,” she began again, “you bring such a presence to our little affair.”

“Do I?”

“Forgive me if the
question is terribly rude, but I was wondering if there might be a young
mistress connected to this young master?”

What?

I repeated the
sentence in my head a second time and found little translation. Was she asking
if I had a sister?

“Sometimes I feel
like I'm not truly connected to anything, miss,” I finally said, “even scarcely
to the ground.”

“To the ground,
young master William?”

“Yeah,” I said,
stuffing my hands into my pockets. “I wouldn't be at all surprised to one day
look down at my feet and find them floating aimlessly through the space around
me. You understand what I mean?”

“Not at all,” she
said to me, “but it is quite fascinating.”

I sighed.
“Thanks.”

Conversation
continued in this fashion over the next hour, with yours truly being catapulted
from one chattering circle to the next. For those out there who fear that they
may at some unfortunate point in their lives end up at such a social gathering,
I will pass on what I have learned. The best way I've found to appear socially
engaging and amiable is to simply keep your mouth shut and let whoever is
talking continue to do so. People love to talk about themselves, it seems, and
should you permit them to do just that, only chiming in with the occasional nod
here or “go on” there, they will find you delightful. Anyhow, as I was saying,
things continued more or less smoothly until Gren finally reappeared. He
stumbled up to me, waving an empty glass.

“Hey,” he said,
scowling. “How's it going?”

“Fine, I guess,” I
answered. “Although it seems—”

“Quick question.”

“What?”

“This glass, what
was in it?”

“Are you drunk?”

“What was in it?”

“I don't know. I
wasn't drinking from it.”

“Hey!” he said,
angrily pointing at me.

“What?”

“I said, ‘hey.’”

“And I said,
‘what?’”

“Don't be a
sarcastic ass.”

“Gre—I mean,
Stanley. Calm down.”

“I am calm! Who
says I'm not calm?”

“Be...quiet...”

“Hmph. What's your
problem?”

“
My
problem?!?”
I hissed under my breath. “My problem is the three of you!”

“Whoa, whoa, what
the hell?” he slurred.

“You're all
drawing too much attention!”

“How am I drawing
attention? How?” Gren loudly demanded.

“Shhh! Shut up!”

“No,
Brother.
Tell
me, how am I drawing attention?”

“You're drunk!”

“So is half the
party.”

“And Jack keeps
stuffing his face.”

“There's plenty of
food.”

“And Quill! Did
you see her mustache fall off?”

“
Half
off.
And I fixed it. No harm. You're the only one making a scene, Pocket.”

“Can you just go
find the donation box, so we can get the hell out of here?”

“What's the rush?”

“Just find it!”

“I don't have to
find it. It's right over there.”

He cocked his head
toward a blue-violet, miniature trunk that sat open upon a small pillar. A
stately couple made a show of walking to the trunk with exaggerated posture and
placed a folded, white envelope on top of a stack of other folded envelopes
that half-filled the box.

“Great,” I said.
“Go get it.”

“I can't just walk
up and take it! It's in the middle of the party. People will see.”

“Then why are we
here?!?
”

“Look, when the
box gets full or when the rich people stop throwing envelopes of money in
there, they'll probably close it up or put it away somewhere. I mean, isn't
that what you would do? So then we just gotta sneak into whatever room it ends
up in and, I don't know, push it out of a window or something. What? What is
that look for?”

“I thought you had
more of a plan in mind...than
that
...”

“What's wrong with
it?”

“What's wrong with
improvising?!?
” I stopped myself and just sighed. “You know what? Forget I
said anything. Carry on.”

I waved a weak
goodbye to my brother Stanley and started to move away.

“Where are you
going?” he said to me.

“Outside for a
second.”

“Why?”

“I need some
cheaper air. Plus, that young woman over there won't stop staring at me. It's a
little strange.”

I was referring to
the ever-present daughter of Mister Blue-Eyes, who had been, throughout the
course of the evening, periodically popping up in the distance and setting upon
me a constant look. And to make things stranger, it didn't seem to be a look of
interest, but instead of expectation.

“Oh yeah,” Gren
said. “Yeah, she was asking about you.”

I squeezed my eyes
and dropped my mouth from a frown to a scowl. “Was she?”

“Yeah, but don't worry.
I handled it for you.”

The scowl dug
deeper into my face, a chiseled cut into stone. “Did you?”

He nodded
drunkenly. “She said you were supposed to tutor her or something, and that it
was important so she could come out.”

“Come out?”

“You know, be courted.
Find a man,” he slurred. “Something about reaching an age of womanhood and
needing to complete a lady’s education before entertaining suitors. And some
other noise, but I wasn’t listening much after I promised you as tutor.”

“Hold on. I don’t
really appreciate you making decisions in my place.”

“Don’t worry.
After tonight, you’ll never see any of these people again. All I said is that
you could teach her.”

“That’s all?”

“Yeah. I just told
her that you’ve helped many girls achieve womanhood and that you’re damn good
at it.”

“You said
what?!?
”

“Yeah, she shut up
pretty fast after tha—“

“You
idiot!
What
in the living hell is
wrong
with you?!?”

“What do you
mean?”

“What do I
mean?!?
What do I…agh…you essentially have just informed a young lady that your older
brother is London’s go-to man for skilled and experienced defiling!”

“What? No, no. I'm
pretty sure she just thinks you're gunna show her some books or something.
Tutoring.”

“And what if she
doesn't?!?”

“I don't know!
Then correct the misunderstanding!”

“I can’t just walk
over and announce a lack of degeneracy!”
“I’m sorry, all right?!? I’m
sorry!
”

“Shhh. Quiet
down.”

“It's too late! I
feel like an ass now!”

“You're just
drunk.”

“Stupid white
wine, or whatever that was. Messing up my common sense.”

“Gren—“

“Hey!” he suddenly
yelled to another man in the crowd. “You! What are
you
smiling about?
Huh? Think you see some clod who can't handle his alcohol? Is that it? Ya think
that's funny?”

“Gren, don't!” I
demanded under my breath.

“You want to start
something?” Gren challenged, ignoring me. “Because I'm in just the right mood
to get my clothes dirtied!”

I gave up and let
the hot-tempered drunk go as he may, which happened to be sloppily through a
thick crowd of onlookers toward his very bewildered target.

I didn't stick
around for the show. As men hurried past me to restrain Gren, I slipped away,
dodging out of the room and making my escape down the hall.

It was time to
leave.

I practically ran
to the large double doors of the front entrance, and, once outside, I broke
into a sprint. Soon I was back at the
Prospero,
and I breathed a sigh of
relief as I hopped into the driver's seat.

And then...I
hesitated.

Because I knew if
I took off now, one of two things would most likely happen. One, the others
would soon realize it, abort their plans, be stuck, and risk getting caught, or
two,
not
realize it soon enough, steal the box, find their getaway ride
missing, be stuck with the money, and
definitely
get caught.

But so what, I
then asked myself.

They were pirates,
thieves. I shouldn't have been assisting in their crimes in the first place.
And Gren wasn't exactly a clergyman either. I was therefore just a victim of
circumstance, I told myself. My hand was forced into this wicked plot, and I
had absolutely no reason to feel guilty for abandoning it. Hell, I'd be a fool
not
to take the rare opportunity to escape.

But still...

I remembered the
bruise that slid down the arm of the Red Priest. I remembered the way those
arms worked over the wounded Doll, delicately replacing her gears. I remembered
how, with a smile, he tossed aside my thanks for putting her back together.

But did I owe him
enough to stick around? Was my debt that large? It was a tough call.

And with a silent
apology, I ignited the engine and drove off into the night.

For a moment.

So what happened,
you may ask. Did the sympathetic Will Pocket have a late change of heart and
return to collect his companions?

No. Not at all.

The absentminded
Will Pocket had remembered that the Doll's turnkey was still tucked away in his
tailcoat, which had been taken by the doorman.

Damn.

“Plus, you
still
didn't know where to begin looking for the Doll.”

“Yes, Alan. We've
discussed that. The thought still hadn't occurred to me.”

“Still?!? How
absent is that mind?”

“Shut up.”

I went back to the
ball, found the coat closet, and turned the knob.

Locked.

I looked down the
hall. No one in immediate sight. Good, I thought to myself. I then took a deep
breath, shifted all of my weight to my right shoulder, and rammed myself into
the door.