Turnkey (The Gaslight Volumes of Will Pocket Book 1) (51 page)

It didn't budge.

Annoyed, I dropped
my posture into a slouch, scratched my head, and extended my skinny leg to the
lock. Bang, bang, bang went the door as I tried to kick my way inside.

It didn't budge.

I tried again.
Bang, bang, bang.

“Mister Falston?”
came a voice behind me. “William?”

Bang, bang, bang.

“William?”

I stopped myself,
leg extended in mid-kick. Sheepishly, I twisted my side and glanced behind me.

That's right.
Blue-Eyes's daughter.

“Uh...” I said,
slowly lowering my foot to the floor, “...hi.”

“Hello,” she said.
“What are you doing?”

I looked at her
then looked at the door then looked at her.

“Oh, you know...”
I said casually, “just...kicking in this door.”

“Oh,” she said.
“Why?”

“It's locked,” I
said, rather stupidly, and then tried to better explain myself. “I mean, yes,
of course, it's locked. But I've forgotten something in my coat, and I need to
get at it.”

“Did you ask the
doorman to let you in?”

Of course I
didn't. No need to draw any more focus upon myself, especially when I was
trying to slip out without my “brothers” noticing.

“Didn't want to
bother him,” I said to her. “It's not my policy to be disruptive.”

“But...you're
kicking in a door.”

She had me there.
I'm a terrible liar to begin with, and there was no way I was going to be able
to mask door-kicking as proper etiquette.

I shrugged to the
young lady. “Good point.”

I was about to
excuse myself and reassess the situation, when the woman opened her mouth and
offered me a piece of luck.

“What did you
say?” I said in disbelief.

“I can unlock that
door for you,” she repeated.

“You...you can?”

“Of course. I'll
just have to ask Father for his key.”

“Your father has
the key to the coat closet?”

“No.” She promptly
curtsied and hurried off.

Apparently, no one
at this wretched party was bound to make any sense.

“Huh,” I muttered
to myself. “Odd one.”

Weighing my
options, I lifted my foot once more and kicked against the door.

Bang, bang, sigh,
bang.

The girl returned
and, sore-footed, I pretended that I had been waiting for her. She was holding
a peculiar-looking key.

“I don't get it,”
I said to her. “You said he didn't have the key for this closet.”

“He doesn't.”

“He doesn't have
the key, but he gave you...a key?”

“Yes.”

“Look, I’m a
little tired to play with riddles.”

“I don't think you
understand.”

“I agree.”

She moved past me
and pushed the key into the lock. She turned it and, with a click, the door
popped open.

“A skeleton key,”
I said, finally getting it.

“Yes,” she
replied.

“Handy thing for
your father to keep around.”

She tried to
explain to me how the gentleman had acquired the piece, but impatient as I was,
I returned the key and politely shuffled her away with a promise to soon return
to the ballroom. It was another to add to the growing list of promises I was
prepared to break that night.

I was through
playing fair.

I leaned into the
closet and began sorting through dozens of seemingly identical black coats.
Finally, as I grabbed the shoulder of one hanging towards the corner, I felt
something solid slightly weighing it down. Reaching into my coat's inner
pocket, I felt the familiar metal of the Doll's turnkey.

I grinned.

Just then, a rowdy
chorus of approaching footsteps came up from the distance, so moving fast, I
slid out of the closet and left it cracked slightly open.

The footsteps, I
soon learned, belonged to my would-be brothers, and I sighed as I watched a
slightly drunken Quill and a very drunken Jack escort an angry, also very
drunken Gren down the hall.

“What happened?” I
asked them.

“He got into a
fight!” Quill said in annoyance.

“I figured.”

“Where were you?”

“I stepped out for
a moment. Wasn't in the mood to watch Gren get into a brawl.”

“It wasn't a
brawl!” Gren slurred. “It was one punch. The ass was mocking me.”

“Yeah!” Jack
shouted in his stupor. “Down with the high and mighty, with their dirty,
cultured money!”

“Who needs them?”
Gren concurred.

“I thought
you
did,”
I dully replied. “The plan, remember?”

“Oh yeah,” Jack
said with a belch. “Well...down with them, but up with their dirty money!”

“To dirty money!”
Gren said.

“To...dirty
money!” Quill reluctantly agreed.

I was about to
complain, to make up some excuse, get out of there, and once out, never look
back. But then I did something that surprised everyone, especially myself. As I
stood there before those three, the angry gambler and the two pirates, I...I
laughed.

I laughed hard.

And, God help me,
I kept laughing, falling eventually to my knees.

“What's so damn
funny?” Hack-Jack asked.

“Yeah, sensei,”
Quill said. “Are you all right?”

I looked up at
them and smiled, because I realized something vitally important. These weren't
monsters or hardened criminals. They were just like me, simple fools caught on
the wrong side of a good intention. I couldn't abandon them with any less blame
than Kitt deserved for running away. Even if I had gotten into this situation
under Gren's false pretense, I owed them at least enough to stay around and see
this evening through.

“I'm fine, Quill,”
I said, standing. “To their money! To culture!”

The brothers
Falston clasped arms, their collective spirit renewed.

“That
was...loyal...I think.”

“Eh, who knows,
Alan? By this point of the story, I was about to give up on playing noble. It
was getting too hard to figure out how.”

My enthusiasm must
have had an effect on my companions because they seemed immediately more
focused and even more sober. Gren even vowed to find the gentleman he socked
and apologize, albeit this decision came at my demand that he do so before the
four of us were thrown out. We worked our way back into socializing, keeping an
eye open for opportunity.

“So forgive me for
asking,” I said to a young gentleman over drinks, “but I have to know. What's
with the goggles?”

“Goggles?” he said
back to me.

“Yeah. The ones on
your head.”

He looked at me
like I was a moron.

“They're for
protecting your eyes.”

“Well, sure. Of
course, I know
that.
I mean, why are you wearing them?”

“Why?”

“Yes. I mean, why
here? At the ball?”

“Oh!” he said,
replacing his confused gape with a smug and self-assured smile. “Why, because
they are the flavor of new industry!”

He raised his
glass for a toast to nobody and drank to his satisfaction.

“Uh...right...” I
said, unable to resist continuing, “but there's no dust, no debris in the air
here. So what point is there in—“

“To new industry!”
he announced, again thrusting his glass to the heavens.

“To new industry!”
others chimed in, applauding the man's enthusiasm.

“Yeah, but—” I
began.

“New industry!” I
heard Jack shout from somewhere in the room, late in joining the cheers. “Woo!”

I sighed. “Nevermind.”

I gave the man and
his pride a little privacy to develop their relationship. Dragging my feet, I
found my way over to Quill, who was conversing with a stately-looking lady in
purple on the subject of the modern woman.

“Ah, young master
William, correct?” the lady addressed me. “Excellent timing. Your brother and I
were just conversing, and I would love to get your perspective on a timely
matter.”

I glanced at
Quill, who shrugged.

“I'd love to,” I
said unenthusiastically.

The woman clasped
her hands together and spoke.

“You see, young
master William, I was putting the opinion forward that a woman of this changing
era must be prepared to change along with it.”

I chewed on my lip
a little. “I suppose that makes sense. You'd have women be more...what?”

“Masculine.”

This made me
blink. “I'm sorry, did you say, masculine?”

“In a sort of
manner, yes.”

“Manner?”

“Young William, it
is my belief that a woman must now exist as completely independent as a man to
thrive in this age. Or would you prefer us in the traditional role of slave?”

“Oh, well, of
course I'm not suggesting anyone be enslaved. But I'm afraid I don't see how
acting like a man would eliminate this problem.”

“The girlish
trappings of lace and flowers only serve to enslave ladies to a foregone image,”
the woman explained.

I glanced at
Quill, who was scratching her head.

“Forgive me,”
Quill said, in her disguised, “masculine” voice, “but what is wrong with lace
and flowers?”

The lady laughed,
taking Quill's hand with mock sympathy.

“Oh, poor, young
Laurence. You have much to learn about the other sex. Still such a backward
man.”

Quill furrowed,
obviously insulted.

“Well, pardon my
opinion, madame,” she said, “but I frankly don't see what a set of masculine
trappings has to do with a lady's independence. I've known a young lady, I tell
you, of high ability and repute, who’s commanded friend and foe, conquered land
and sea, while fully draped in ribbons, lace, jewels, and the most confident
grin a woman could wear!”

I thought upon
Madame B, upon the excited looks she wore in battle. Confident, yes, but
equally as frightening.

The lady in purple
turned her nose at Quill. “Sounds like uncouth gypsy behavior, carrying on as
such.”

“Don't let her
hear you say that,” Quill muttered.

“William,” the
lady said, “what are your thoughts?”

“Mine?” I asked.

“Yes. Would you
consider such behavior unbecoming?”

“Uh...well...”

“Yes, William,”
Quill said, a little mischievously, “let's hear your view on women. What's your
type, eh?”

“Well, I guess,
honestly, I've always admired the classical image of feminine beauty. You know,
grace and charm and such. But I could see how such a definition might be a bit
limited, so I suppose...well...I guess it is fine to me one way or the other.”

The lady in purple
sighed. “Far too wishy-washy, sir, if you'll pardon the accusation. Real men
should stand firm and take a position.”

“Well...in that
case...I suppose I find a bit of lace or a curled strand of hair over the
forehead...rather...well...cute.”

This was clearly
not the answer she was hoping for. “Hmph,” she said, walking away from us.
“Typical.”

“Or not!” I called
out after her. “Lady's choice!” I sighed and looked at Quill. “Do you think
she's mad?”

“Who knows?” Quill
answered, tugging on her mustache. “I've never come to understand women.”

She giggled to
herself as I groaned. A moment later, she nudged me in the side.

“What,
'Laurence?'”

“Look,” she
whispered to me.

At the front of
the room, I saw that two waiters were attending to the donation box. I watched
as they brought a decorated velvet lid, neatly attached it, then lifted and
carried the box away.

“Now's our chance,
Pocket!” Quill quietly and excitedly said to me.

“Okay,” I said.
“Let's stay calm about this. Keep your eyes on the box and find out where it
ends up. I'll go get Jack and Gren.”

“Understood!”

We parted ways and
I started through the crowd. Fortunately for me, Gren and Jack both have voices
that are, uh, gifted with volume, so hunting them down didn't take long.

“Stanley!” I said
as I approached.

“One second,” he
said, turning back to the man with him. “So really, it wasn't personal at all.
You just have that look about you, that look of, you know, antagonizing. Like
you were
asking
to be punched in the face.”

“Brother!” I
hissed.

“Hang on,” he
said, again showing me his back. “Now, if I had known you and known, hey, that
this is a gent that means me no harm, and just happens to make those sort of
ugly faces against his will—hey!”

I had grabbed Gren
by the shoulder and began dragging him away.

“Hands off!” he
barked. “You wanna be the next one punched?”

“They’re putting
away the box.”

“I don’t care. You
can’t just—what?”

“They’re putting
away the donation box.”

“They are?!? Hell,
we need to move!”

“My thoughts
exactly.”

I followed Gren as
he marched his way through whoever was in his path. We found Jack in the
corner, chatting up another serving girl.

“Yeah, good party,
good party,” he was saying to her. “Good crowd. You know, that business earlier
with my brother—“

“Hey,” Gren said.

“Yeah, there he
is. Anyway, it wasn’t anything personal. The guy, he had this ugly look—“

“Hey!” Gren
repeated, raising his voice.

“What? I’m busy.”

“No, you’re not.
Come here.”

We forced Jack
away, much to his very vocal displeasure.

“Thanks a lot,” he
grumbled. “I was finally making progress with that girl.”

“The box,” Gren
said.

“The what now?”

“Donations.
They’re on the move.”

“Oh,” Jack said.
“We better go after them, huh?”

“My thoughts
exactly,” Gren replied, stealing my line.

I rolled my eyes
at his mimicry and nodded.

“Mine too,” I
said.

The three of us
began moving as nonchalantly and inconspicuously as possible, which wasn’t very
much between Jack’s brashness, Gren’s scowling, and my general lack of physical
coordination.