The Deathsniffer’s Assistant (The Faraday Files Book 1) (3 page)

The governess didn’t seem to notice his curtness. “I see, of course.” She stretched a hand toward him. “Rachel Albany, by the way. It’s a pleasure to do business.”

“Yes, charmed, Miss Albany.” Chris took her hand. She had a good, firm grip and he found himself more willing to trust her. “She…
can
be difficult.” He felt the sudden need to warn her. “She really can, I’m afraid, but…once you start to get a sense for how she is…”

Miss Albany gave a small, tight smile, the first hint of one he’d seen. Despite the lack of generosity in the gesture, he felt it was sincere. “As I said, Mister Buckley. I’m not worried. I have a way with people, you’ll find. I wouldn’t be doing this if I didn’t.”

Really. Well. If her way with all people was as charming as it was with him, he feared for everyone who crossed her path. “No, I suppose you wouldn’t.” He released her hand, stepping away from her. “Well…good day, then.”

“Good day, Mister Buckley,” she said, and swept past him without a glance back, her attention fully focused on the girl she had yet to meet.

He desperately wanted to linger and see if Rosemary was well in hand with this tightly laced woman and her horrible shoes, but another quick glance at the clock was enough for him to abandon the notion. He scurried out the door and started down the walk.

A soft flutter of wind touched his face and hair, telling him he’d passed through the soundshield. A moment later, a cacophony of noise blasted him. Voices called, animals brayed, bells rang. A winged carriage soared close to the gate of their yard, carefully avoiding the borders of the soundshield; its great, swan-like wings flapped lazily as the car glided smoothly through the cloudless sky. People passed by on the sidewalk before him: an elegant woman riding sidesaddle on a snowy white horse, with a large black feather bouncing above her hat; a father hurrying along with a glower on his face, his tie and bowler hat askew, two shouting children hanging from his arms. A gold-trimmed black carriage rattled by, pulled by a majestic pair of turquoise and orange hippogryphs, their wings bound so as not to rip their harnesses―or worse, lift off the ground and try to fly, leaving the passengers to tumble about as the carriage dangled helplessly below.

If the papers were to be believed, the city’s dark corners, ripe with unpleasantness, were spreading. Employment was difficult to come by, hard workers were dismissed daily, and poverty grew and grew in the face of national crisis. But he saw none of that here. In the past ten years, the land that had once belonged to the Buckleys had become one of the cleanest, most respectable neighbourhoods in Darrington. Despite how he was inclined to gaze longingly at paintings from when his ancestral home had been an idyllic country estate, the chaos filled him with a strange sort of pride. Perhaps it was because he thought his father would have been pleased.
Progress
. That had been what mattered most to Michael Buckley.

Chris pushed open the iron gate and stepped into the busy street. He flagged a taxicab pulled by a twin pair of well-bred grey palfreys, their steps light and elegant.

The driver tipped his hat down at Chris. “Where to, sir?”

He didn’t remember. Chris fumbled in his pocket, holding up one finger to request the man wait. There had been an enclosed business card in the response he’d received by mail, inviting him to this interview. He found it now, pulling it out.
O. Faraday, Deathsniffer
, it read, and then, beneath that…

“Corner of Tenth and Regency Street,” he parroted off the shimmering writing.

“Something in the way of ten royals, that.”

Chris slipped the card back into his pocket and pulled out the wad of notes from inside his waistcoat. He held them up to the driver, showing he could pay. “When we arrive,” he said politely. He’d been scammed before.

The driver jerked a thumb back towards the car with an easy grin. Chris liked him. “All right, pretty boy, get up and get in then.”

It seemed like barely an instant before the hackey rolled to a halt and the driver was calling back at him.

“Ten royals, then! Don’t dally!”

They were in a quieter part of the city now, though sound still assailed his ears. He handed the notes to the driver, his attention mostly taken up by the modest building they were parked in front of. A well-tended sign in front declared this was the
Office of O. Faraday, Deathsniffer.
The structure itself was austere in design and presentation…except for the grey fog hanging artfully around it, clinging to every corner, curling up around it like a nest of wispy grey snakes. An illusion spun by a seeshifter, obviously, but the question in Chris’s mind wasn’t how, but
why
? There was enough of a bad air around the title
Deathsniffer
as it was. The way Mister Faraday seemed to embrace rather than shy away from the label was remarkable in itself.

What was the point in making the office even more ominous?

The driver squirmed as he took the notes, licking his lips and regarding Chris as if he were a dog, equally likely to wag its tail playfully or bite his hand off. Gone was the easy smile, replaced by a reverent sort of distaste. Chris darted his gaze from the cabbie to the sign, and then let out an uneasy chuckle.

“Oh, no no, it’s―it’s not me,” Chris explained in a rush. He pushed up his spectacles and straightened his threadbare coat, trying to make himself look more…respectable.
Normal
. “Christopher Buckley. I’m…I’m just a wordweaver.”

“Huh.” The driver folded the notes, slipping them into a pocket. “Someone you know meet a sad end, sir?”

No more teasing “pretty boy,” for him, then. “N-no, it’s nothing like that.” Chris smiled briefly, but the driver didn’t return it. “It’s…I just…hope to be in his employ, that’s all. We all take work wherever we can find it in this day and age, don’t we?”

The driver was clearly unsure of what to think of that response. He nodded once, tight and uncomfortable.

“If I do…ah, maybe we’ll be driving this way together again?”

“Maybe so.” The man slid his gaze away from Chris’s. He flicked the reins over the backs of the horses and the carriage lurched into movement again, starting off down the cobbled street.

Chris watched after him with a twist of worry in his gut. Would he find that cool sort of reception from everyone if he were offered this position?

But then, he couldn’t forget the rejections from a dozen other offices that couldn’t afford to pay the wage he needed, and seemed incredulous he would even ask. Mister Faraday had advertised an exorbitant sum for a simple clerical worker in his newspaper advertisement. Chris’s lips twisted. Stigma or no, he was on the cusp of graduating down from a pauper to a beggar, and beggars couldn’t be choosers. Better to relish whatever flimsy illusion of choice he had left.

He sighed, then turned up the stone-tiled walk.

nside the lair of the Deathsniffer, it was dark.

There were no windows. Most of the illumination came from flickering, old-fashioned candles scattered around the room. Their unpredictable light sent shadows dancing across every surface. A door in the far wall led off further into the building. There was a desk pushed against the same wall and several armchairs set up like a waiting room, but there was no one doing any waiting today. The room was empty of all life, and he couldn’t hear so much as a flutter of sound from deeper inside.

He walked over to one of the chairs, experimentally prodding one of the arms. It was soft, and well-upholstered with a luxurious velvet covering. Mister Faraday didn’t cut corners on details, then, not even when money was on the line. Chris stood for a moment, wondering what to do, and then he slid into the chair. This, too, was followed by an awkward period of waiting, but no one appeared.

He reached for the newspaper on the small, elegant tea table beside him.

SHORTAGE OF HIGH LEVEL SPIRITBINDERS LEADS TO RISING PRICES IN DARRINGTON,
the headline shouted in bold black print, and then, smaller, in a forgotten corner of the page,
Dr. Francis Livingstone’s Alternative Technologies Meet With Heavy Resistance
.

Chris swept his eyes over the words, and then turned to the Society section, but the words jumped around on the page and he found himself staring blankly down at the writing while his thoughts roamed. He painted the cozy sitting room of their home in his mind, putting a fire in the hearth, adding in his family. His father would have agreed with the Assembly—and its inevitable support by the formidable and powerful Lowry Academy of Proficiency Categorization. He would have told his children that proponents of “alternative technologies” were just Doctor Livingstone’s cadre of damned reformists, quick to make assumptions about the future. His mother would have quietly stated, apologetic but firm, that they were only being wise and no one should ever gain too much reliance on any one thing. Rosemary would have sided with father, and together they would have shouted gentle Julia down.

And Chris…Chris would have stayed quiet, like he always did, and his father would have been as angry about it as ever.

Rosemary still went on about “those damned reformists,” Father’s words in her mouth, while Chris just tried not to think about any of it. It always brought back the taste of vomit in his mouth and the sound of screeching steel and shattering glass.

He heard footsteps. A door opening. He sat straighter, looking up from the paper.

A woman emerged. She was small in stature, miniature looking. It made her stylish, well-made gown look like it belonged to a doll or a child. Her long, unbound, ruler-straight blonde hair swayed like a curtain of water as she took a step towards him, hand falling off the latch. She blinked at him curiously, clasping her hands behind her. “I
thought
I heard someone come in,” she said. Her voice was sing-song. “Are you waiting?”

Chris set aside the paper, climbing to his feet with as little urgency as he could manage. He wanted to look composed. Responsible. Adult. “Ah, yes, I’m here for the appointment.”

The woman’s brow furrowed. “Is that so?”

“Yes. You…” He frowned. “Do you work here?”

“Hmm?” She blinked, then laughed and flicked her wrist. “Oh! Yes, I do.” She narrowed her eyes, looking him boldly up and down. “I’m sorry, just what is the appointment for?”