Dawn's Early Light (29 page)

“Crafty old bastard, isn't he?” Eliza suddenly blurted out.

He stared at her in disbelief. Where did
that
come from? “I beg your pardon, Miss Braun?”

“Look at how he operates. He visits cities and towns, puts on a fancy show for the locals, and then sets up a permanent business for himself. With all the excitement this codger is cooking up, he will bleed communities dry supplying them with all his latest baubles.” Eliza gave a bark of a laugh. “Edison's no mad scientist. He's a shrewd businessman wrapped in the sheep's clothing of an innovator.”

With a final look of disgust at the wall of crates, Eliza walked past Wellington and headed for a staircase leading up to the second floor.

“Sounds as if you do not approve of Edison's business ethics,” Wellington ventured as the two of them ascended the staircase.

“Wellington, when you grow up in the farthest reaches of the Empire, you meet many an opportunist who manage to cloud your judgement with a delightful turn of a trick or two.” She shook her head as she stepped back before the closed door in front of her. “Edison's bringing the promise of a brighter tomorrow, at a cost that may send some honest people into ruin.”

This was something Eliza apparently had seen before as the kick she dealt the door carried a good amount of fury behind it. The hatch and its frame did not stand a chance as it flew open, revealing an office with two desks, one at each end of the room. By the window, spent cigarettes littered the windowsill and floor.

“And there's where the lookout man had stood,” Eliza said.

The floorboards creaked underneath him as he walked around one of the desks, his eyes moving from it to the chalkboard hanging between the two desks. He stood mere inches from the slate, reaching up to touch the board.

“Eliza,” Wellington said, looking down at the eraser and two sticks of chalk resting in the board's cradle, “this has been cleaned recently.”

“Why wouldn't it?” she asked in reply. “I'm sure the workers here need to wipe down their boards after a week or so, if Edison's the slave driver that I think he is.”

“Yes, but . . .” His voice trailed off. There was no dust even in the cradle. He expected to see, at the very least, sketches for incandescent lightbulbs, lamps, or other conveniences he would not have recognised. “This is a workshop. Where ideas are realised.”

“Welly, what are you getting at?”

Something was tickling the back of his brain. “Eliza, both desks are clean. Impeccably. Nothing in the desks' boxes—in or out. We heard the meeting room underneath us also in use, but there was no outward evidence of any work currently in development.” He held his hands out wide. “Eliza, you have seen the basement of my home. Even R&D at the Ministry is more cluttered than this.”

“The workroom—” Eliza began.

“Boxed up? No sign of any bother or toil whatsoever?”

“I put this away too soon,” she grumbled, pulling out the Remington-Elliot. “Shall we see what is waiting for us up here?”

Wellington stepped behind Eliza, who was slowly crossing over the one threshold to stand before the other. If the layout was consistent, this would be a second production room of some kind as it would be directly over the other one they had seen. With her free hand, Eliza tried the doorknob, which turned freely in her hand.

“And Wellington?” Eliza whispered, looking at him over her shoulder. He shrugged in reply, earning him a groan. “You're in the field, in a hostile setting. Are you going to arm yourself?”

“With what?” he said, feeling a dry prickle in his throat. “The Jack Frost? What shall I do, give our Usher opponents a cold?”

“A second gun?”

“From where?” He then followed Eliza's gaze to the folds of her skirts. “Oh.”

“No booby traps down there, I assure you,” she said, her smile quite unnerving.

“Right then,” he said, clearing his throat, “as I am a field agent now . . .”

His hand fumbled along the folds of Eliza's skirts until he found the opening where she could access a second Derringer. His hand reached forwards; but instead of touching the butt of the Derringer straightaway, his fingers grazed by a butt of an entirely different kind. He continued down, and found Eliza's thigh far softer than he imagined. How low did she keep this gun?

“A bit to the left,” she said with an arched eyebrow.

And there it was. With his thumb, he flipped the strap from the holster and slipped the second pistol free.

Wellington gave the Remington-Elliot a cursory glance. Indicators were at green. And the gun was warm. Delightfully warm.

Hoping he wasn't blushing too hard, he pulled back the hammer, hearing the internal compressor hiss to life. “Ready then.”

The door groaned from the hinges as Eliza pushed. They both heard the door knock against the inner wall, but neither of them moved.

“Eliza . . .” Wellington whispered, not in order to keep his voice down, but because his throat had suddenly gone incredibly dry.

“Yes, Welly, I know,” she whispered back. She splayed her fingers around the butt of the Derringer and swallowed. “In for a penny?”

The room was completely barren, save for a single crate placed in the centre of the room. In front of the crate, a crowbar had been set. Eliza lifted up a hand, and both of them froze halfway across the room. Wellington knew his partner was still breathing, although she moved more like an automaton as her eyes swept the room, her head moving slowly from one side of the room to another.

“It's all right, Wellington,” Eliza said, lowering her weapon. “It's just us and whatever is in this crate.”

“This crate and its phonograph, you mean?” Wellington asked, eyeing Edison's creation as if it were his Archimedes curled up and peering down from the top of his dresser. “So what would this room be, the dance hall?”

“And the crowbar? I suppose that's needed to motivate people to relax and be social?”

“Or pry apart couples too amorous with one another,” he quipped.

Eliza gave a laugh and proceeded to walk around the crate, while Wellington crept towards the window. He peered out over the street. Wagons and carts continued past while townsfolk strolled along the streets.

He cleared his throat. “No one appears to be lingering outside.”

“And no sign of any activity in this—”

He heard the board creak under Eliza's step. Then it clicked.

That was when the door slammed shut on its own accord. It locked itself, as well.

Wellington knew this all served as one grand, ill omen when the phonograph on top of the crate suddenly came to life, and Edison's voice echoed in the room.

“Well hello there. Now I must first give you all my most heartfelt appreciation for your tenacity, whoever you are. I always regarded myself as being driven, on the verge of stubborn, but for you to follow me all the way from the Outer Banks, to the Paris of the West, to the Arizona Territories?” Edison's laugh was genuine. Even the cylinder's recording made his admiration quite clear. “That truly is impressive. I applaud you.

“However, I cannot abide your pursuit of my person—flattering and inspiring as it may be—any longer . . .”

“Wellington,” Eliza spoke, “crowbar.”

Edison's words were drowned out as the iron wedge dug into the wood. Together, Eliza and Wellington pried open one corner, drove the wedge lower into the opening, and continued to force the opening until finally the wooden panel ripped free.

Once the crate panel settled on the floor, Edison's voice was now audible. “. . . made this detonator a bit more layered than the one in the Carolinas. I've connected it with the crates downstairs which have enough collected explosive agents and incendiaries to level this building and, I am afraid with the amount of wood structures surrounding my workshop, its neighbours too.”

“The old bastard's right,” Eliza said to Wellington as she studied the interior of the crate, its complicated array of wires, gears, cogs, and pins slowly ticking in time with the phonograph's cylinder. “This is going to take some time.”

“If my theory about your skills is correct,” Edison's recording continued, “and I have no doubt that it is, judging from how you not only kept Currituck Light intact and disarmed my first security system, I gather it would take you roughly twenty minutes to crack this enigma of mine—”

Eliza snorted. “Tosh. Fifteen minutes if I take my time.”

“—which is why I have the timer—this recording—set to send a charge to the detonator in ten.”

“Bugger,” she swore. “That means we have roughly seven minutes.”

“Seven?” Wellington asked. “But Edison said ten.”

“Yes, but he's been talking for roughly three minutes. I'll wager you Edison's timer started the moment that phonograph started playing.”

Edison sounded very smug. “So we all have our gates to pass through, I suppose. My only regret is that we did not find the opportunity or means to work together. Seeing as I really can't afford the final phase of my project to suffer another delay, off you go.”

“All right, empty your pockets,” she said, removing her watch fob and primary belt pouch before the crate. “It may take a miracle to manage this, but I think I can make do.”

“Make do?” Wellington asked, unsheathing the Jack Frost and placing it next to Eliza's belongings alongside his own watch fob and a few coins. He rummaged his pockets as he added, “This is your speciality, isn't it?”

“Yes,” Eliza said, looking over the items, “provided the gent or lady who built said explosive device didn't go from his thumb to his pinkie via his elbow which is what Edison did.” She picked up the nail file from Wellington's items and gave him a wary glance.

“Manicured nails are a trait of a gentleman,” he stated.

She palmed it, along with one of the American half dollar coins, and both their watch fobs. “Let me see what I can do with these.”

“Fine, I'll tend to the door,” Wellington said.

He picked up the Derringer and checked its indicators, but he knew they were green. He would have to make the angle count. As this was hardly an armoured hatch or a heavy bolt, each bullet ripped through the wood. He stepped back once the '81 was empty, and gave the door a kick. It budged but only a little. Wellington took a step back, growled, and kicked again, this time freeing the door.

“Right then,” he huffed, “one dilemma solved. Your turn, Eliza. Disarm the bomb.”

“No,” she said, returning to her feet and facing him.

Wellington ran over to Eliza. “Eliza? What's wrong?”

“I want to talk,” she insisted. “About us.”

The phonograph suddenly spoke up. “Three minutes, if you're wondering.”

“You want to talk about us?
NOW?!
”

“I want to finish this morning's chat.” Eliza's calm was utterly terrifying. “I want to talk about our feelings. More to the point, your feelings. About me. About us.”

“Do we really need to do this at this
precise
moment?”

“I think we do,” she stated. “And I suggest you make it quick because you're wasting time.”

“ELIZA!” Wellington screamed, throwing the spent '81 to the floor.

“OUT WITH IT!” she shouted in return. “I'm done with these silly games, the distractions from that tart Lovelace, and you skirting about the issue.”

“And if I tell you, you will turn the bomb off?”

“Of course, but I need to know. Now.” She took a step forwards, crossing her arms. “Why did you kiss me? Like
that
?”

“Because I wanted to,” Wellington stated. And it was true. He did want to kiss her after that business with the Culpeppers. Badly.

“And that's it?”

He blinked. “You want . . . more?”

“You just wanted a kiss?” she asked, tapping her fingers against her biceps.

“I'm not very good at this,” he whimpered.

“Whatever you're doing, better make it count,” Edison's voice said from the phonograph. “One minute to go . . .”

“I'd start getting better at it then.” Eliza sighed. “And with the way you kiss—”

“All right then!” Wellington blurted out, “I wanted more than just a kiss. I wanted
you
. I wanted you so much in that moment, and I still do.”

“Even after my blunder with Bill?”

“Yes, about that,” he said, waving a finger in the air. “Did that hurt? Yes, deeply. Has anything changed in how I feel about you? Don't be ridiculous. No.”

“So why not show a little interest on the airship?”

“Because I wanted the car to be perfect.”

“Oh, that sodding car!” Eliza swore.

“I made it for me, but I wanted it to be perfect for you. Perhaps you would not appreciate the lost time, but I wanted to assure that we would have a return trip. And there would be a return trip assured, provided I had the car properly assembled and operational. I wanted to show you that regardless of the adventurers, the nobles, and the oil and rail barons you have loved, whether for Queen and Country or just as a passing fancy, I was just as resourceful, just as worthy of your attention. I am!

“And, yes, I am horrible at this because the one person in my family that I loved unconditionally, the people I have trusted in my military days, everyone I held dear has been taken from me, and I don't know if it was on account of the monster my father created inside of me or just my bad luck, and I couldn't take that chance with you. You awakened passions in me without unleashing what my father attempted to engineer since birth. I discovered that I could actually embrace life and not be terrified by it, terrified by what I was supposedly destined for. I was truly in control of my fate, and I could not, nor would not, risk losing you.” He was rambling now, and he just didn't give a toss. “Yes, it was selfish, but I did not want to lose you too. I just couldn't bear it, Eliza. And that's why I wanted the sodding car to be perfect! So we could enjoy a return trip together. I wanted to show you that I could keep you safe, and I was worthy.”