Authors: Sharon Joss
Zollo quickly pocketed the thick wad of banknotes, minus a
substantial ‘reward’ to the capo and his men for their trouble.
Then, with his hand firmly gripping
Simon's shoulder, they waved goodbye to the officers and crowd of onlookers,
and set off at a pace so brisk, Simon had to trot to keep up.
“They’re watching us, boy,” the showman muttered. “Make it look good.
They already think you’re a liar and a thief. I don’t want them thinking I’m
one as well, eh?”
Zollo's wild hair and exotic manner of dress seemed larger than
life, but as they distanced themselves from the onlookers, his grip tightened
painfully. With no breath to protest, Simon could only jog alongside, as Zollo
kept up the brisk pace until they reached the Royal Gardens, where the circus
was encamped.
“Lucky for you I saw your greenfire through the window. You’re a
latent, aren’t you? Child of a fire mage, but without the magick.”
Trotting to keep up with the taller man’s longer stride, Simon
could only nod.
“Yes, yes. We’ve got a couple others traveling with us."
Simon’s heart skipped a beat.
Others
like him?
The guard stationed at the entrance waved Zollo through with a
friendly salute. They passed beneath the shade of grand spreading oaks and
manicured lawns. Ahead of them, the path widened into an open area where an
immense canvas tent had been set up, far larger and more grand than he'd ever seen.
This one had two main poles, instead of one. To the side were a series of
smaller pavilions, and beyond, he glimpsed the brightly colored caravans. The
rich scent of fresh manure reached him, and Simon immediately wondered if the
elephant he’d seen on the poster was in fact, part of the circus. He had never
seen a live elephant.
A strong feeling of nostalgia swept over Simon. The summers he
spent travelling with Benoit and the far smaller Luxembourg circus had been
enjoyable. For all his faults, over the years, the old man had become more than
a friend to him—he’d been like a father. Simon mourned his passing more
than he cared to admit. In Benoit’s company, he felt safe, something he sorely
missed these days.
Even so, he had no desire to serve another master. He wondered
what Zollo was planning to do to him. And what about his money? He could get
more, but not until tonight. The policeman had eaten his breakfast, and he was
hungry
now
.
Almost as if he’d heard his thoughts, Zollo stopped and held up Simon’s
now much smaller roll of lire. “Yes, yes, I haven’t forgotten. So what will it
be, thief?”
“It’s Simon,” he said, as he reached for his money.
But Zollo raised the notes above his head, out of reach. “You’re
on your own, yes?”
Zollo’s dark eyes seemed to see right through him. The man’s
energy was palpable. Instinctively, Simon felt that he would know instantly if
he lied. “Yes.”
The tall man gave a single nod, and seemed to come to a decision.
“I cannot abide thieves, Simon. I will not tolerate them in my circus. Give it
up, and I’ll give you a job with Zollo Brothers. The Flying Parettis have a boy
your age, and I think you and Arvel will get along nicely. You’ll have a place here,
for as long as you’re willing to work for it. You can have your own juggling
act, or learn something new. We’re family here. Everyone works, and everyone
benefits.”
Zollo held out the wad of notes. “Or, I’ll give you back the money
you stole and you can walk away.”
Unexpectedly, Simon found himself blinking back tears. Until this
moment, he’d been thinking of nothing but how soon he could get his money and
get away. But the thought of returning to the drafty, rat-infested attic where
he’d been staying held no allure. His skills kept him fed, but would not allow
a boy his age to purchase respectable lodgings or keep him safe from a footpad
on the stair. He was free, but his age and size made him a target—for
robbers and worse. Much worse.
It wasn’t fair. His lips trembled.
Zollo’s face softened, and a gentle smile spread across his face. He
slipped the cash into his vest pocket and tousled Simon’s hair. “Welcome to the
Zollo Bothers Circus, Simon. Come with me. I’ll show you around and introduce
you to your new family.”
#
Neither Father Otto, the strongman, nor Mother Mona had children
of their own, but by some twist of fate, orphans appeared regularly at the door
of their wagon. Mother Mona had lost an arm in a trapeze accident, and the old
scars, when she showed them to him, were truly frightening. Simon’s
apprenticeship with Master Benoit had given him plenty of experience scaling
balconies and running across rooftops—he had no fear of heights. But the
idea of being responsible for holding the lives of the beautiful flyers,
sisters Lilliana and Lucia, made his stomach queasy.
He had failed his father. He had failed
Benoit. He dared not trust himself with the twins’ tender lives.
But as it turned out, he didn’t have to—because Arvel, the
ginger-haired lad who ran the hot air balloon, had different ideas.
Cubitt Town, Isle of Dogs
May 1871
The Cubitt Town council met every Tuesday afternoon in
the upstairs game room of the Cubitt Arms, a newer pub on Manchester Road.
Roman climbed the stairs, but the door was closed, and shouting could be heard
from inside the room. Better to wait for Superintendent Wickes in the pub
downstairs.
He didn’t have to wait long.
A few short minutes later, the councilmen trooped down
the stairs to replenish their drinks. First at the bar were
Sam Trickett, the
wharfmaster and shipbuilder Robb Symes, accompanied by the island’s largest
rope-maker, Erik Tipson. A few moments later, Dean Claridge, owner of Claridge
Asphalte, Sir Magnus Vetch, and the Mayor, Sir Palmer Nash entered the room,
with Superintendent Wickes trailing behind.
As the barman refreshed their drinks, Mayor Nash and Claridge continued
their ongoing hostilities; this time over expenses associated with the upcoming
airshow. Sir Magnus, ever the smooth-tongued diplomat, made murmured
suggestions, attempting to placate both men and broker a compromise.
Sir Magnus, the retired royal wizard, was active in island politics
and highly regarded. People said he could settle differences between the most
hostile of foes, and it was rumored that he could mesmerize someone with just
his words and gaze. With his thick white shock of hair and piercing dark eyes,
it was easy enough to believe.
Whatever it was, it seemed to be working; Claridge suddenly
laughed and shook the Mayor’s hand. An agreement of some sort had been reached.
Although they had both served in Balaclava, and Vetch had been the
driving force behind building the new station house in Cubitt Town, Roman never
liked the man. Perhaps it was the itch of his earth magick that crawled across
his skin whenever they were in the same room.
From the far end of the bar, Roman caught Wicke’s eye and the Superintendent
sauntered over.
Roman explained his concern for Stackpoole’s disappearance. “I
fear he may have come to harm, sir.”
Wickes response was lukewarm, at best. “Unless you’ve
got hard facts to back it up, Inspector, don’t waste my time.
Most likely the lad will
show in a few hours. And if not…” Wickes did not appear particularly concerned.
“It wouldn’t be the first time a new recruit became disillusioned by their
assignment. Between the stink and the boredom, who can blame them, eh? Easy
enough to fall into gaming or drink.”
Roman stiffened. “With all respect, Superintendent, I believe
Stackpoole’s character is such that he would not be tempted by such a trap.” The
lad hailed from Portsmouth, a city at least as rough and randy as the Island. Before
today, he would have characterized the constable as a bit staid and plodding,
but he had a sharp intellect and asked the right questions. And as to his
wariness of magick—that was no surprise either. Many mainlanders,
including Wickes, were suspicious of things Islanders accepted as part of
normal life. “He seems to be made of sterner stuff.”
Wickes waved him off. “Enough.
Alderman Fitzhugh of Millwall stopped by to see me today. While he was
sleeping, a sneak thief broke in and stole a good deal of money from his
wallet. He’s certain it wasn’t one of the servants. That’s where you should be
focusing your attention, Greenslade.”
“Yes sir.” Fitzhugh was a notorious gambler, and well-known in
folly houses all over London. No doubt he’d been robbed by one of the men whose
money he’d taken earlier in the evening. Probably staggered home in his cups
and left his front door wide open. Wouldn’t be the first time the manager of
the coal plant had claimed such a thing. “I’ll get right to it, then.”
Inside his cabin on board the
Il Colibri
, Simon slipped into his padded banker suit, which added
a good two stone to his general appearance. At this stage of the game, he did
not want to be recognized. The padding was uncomfortable, but it changed his
walk to a ponderous sort of swagger, and his girth to a prosperous profile.
Life was easier when he and Arvel used the Zollo
Brothers hot air balloon for their jobs. In those days, he needed no disguise,
relying instead on moonless nights to hide their approach to the balconies and
rooftops of wealthy estates.
The nearly-silent stabilizing propellers Arvel designed gave the
balloon pinpoint control over the balloon’s positioning. All Simon needed to do
was to slip down a rope, take what he came for, and climb right back up the
rope again. No one ever saw them.
As Simon applied fish gum to the mutton chop side
whiskers and pressed them to his face, he could not stop thinking about how
close he’d come to kissing her.
Welsie
.
He regretted not doing it.
She’d wanted him to. Of that, he was certain. Every
time he thought of that moment it felt like a broken promise. He wondered if
she felt the same. What had she been thinking about that moment? Had she felt
it too?
Of course she had.
They had
an almost physical connection between them. Would she even admit, even to
herself that she’d wanted it?
Hard to
say.
Or did she hate herself for a momentary slip? Or worse, was she one of
those women who—
no
. She wasn’t
like that.
I should have
said something. After.
He studied his reflection in the mirror and set the
brown bowler firmly on his head. The blonde facial hair appeared natural, and
made him look a good ten years older. His own father would not have recognized
him. He shoved down the familiar pangs of melancholy. His father would have
been deeply shocked to discover his only son had become a thief. Extraordinarily
successful, but a thief all the same.
Civil servant or no, Sir Hillary had been a loyal
supporter of Queen and country. He and his father had never discussed politics,
but Simon had no doubts that his father would have also disapproved of the
circus, Acting, Italy, and most of all, his plans to go into business with
Arvel. Although admittedly, he would have been intrigued by the
Il Colibri,
and fascinated by steam
technology.
A now familiar pang of guilt, which hit him whenever
he thought of his father, made again him question his return to England. He’d walked
away from his father’s body as it lay in their burning home. Twenty years later
and he still had no idea where his father was buried. Yet, when the air show
came up, he hadn’t hesitated. But what if his father’s murderer somehow
discovered he was back in England? Could his presence jeopardize the crew?
When he’d asked Arvel about it, his friend pointed out
that wizardry was no longer in favor; in Britain or anywhere. The wizards had
killed each other off, mostly. A mage in this day and age was most likely a
hunted man, as the few remaining wizards were looking to consolidate their
power.
Attitudes toward the use of magick in modern warfare
had changed drastically in Europe after the Crimean War. Victoria was the last
of the crowned heads of Europe to agree to the ban against using wizards on the
battlefield. Some said all the remaining wizards had died off, or retired.
Simon checked the hangar, to make sure that none of
the crew was about, then slipped outside, walking briskly north through
Millwall. He was pleased to note that no one else in the hangar one seemed to
recognize him. This was his third trip past the docks to the mainland, and he
was growing more familiar with the busy patterns and crowded streets of London
traffic.
He caught a cab in Limehouse, which took him across
the London Bridge and dropped him off at the Greenwich Observatory. He moved briskly
past the brick building, heading toward the park. A few short minutes later, he
stepped into a crowded pub facing the dock.
At this time of the morning, the pub was fairly empty,
and he found a table in front of the picture window where he had a good view of
the much smaller steamship docked behind the
Victoria and Albert II
. The name of the familiar-looking ship, painted in
gold letters on the bow, was the
HMY
Alberta
.
As he sipped his pint, one of the other patrons, a
local coachman, explained that the
Alberta
was a royal tender to the
Victoria and
Albert II
, and the Queen’s preferred personal transport to her summer
residence at Osborne House. far preferred to travel on the smaller ship, and
all her most personal possessions and maids traveled on the
HMY Alberta
, while most of the household
staff and furniture trailed behind on the much larger ship.
Less than half the length of the
Victoria and Albert II
, the
Alberta
was much more the sort of ship he remembered seeing out on the Solent as a boy.
Low and graceful against the waterline, with three masts and twin smokestacks.
Portholes at the waterline and a shallow draft meant that, for a fellow of some
agility, she could be boarded from the water.
He learned even more from the proprietor of the pastry
shop two doors down. Although her exact schedule was never announced, the
meteorologists at the observatory were predicting clear skies and calm seas for
the rest of the week. The Queen was expected to make her annual departure to
the Isle of Wight to celebrate her birthday within the next few days. A large
order of baked fancies and tea cakes was to be delivered to the
Alberta
the following day.
Simon spent the rest of the afternoon studying the
Alberta
, memorizing the layout. Handsome
carriages carrying trunks decorated with the Queen’s coat of arms arrived and
departed at regular intervals throughout the day. By keeping a close eye on the
portholes, he was able to determine which cabins the luggage was being
delivered to, and able to identify the location of the Queen’s suite. Hard to
see the any of the room details from his vantage point, but even allowing that
the
Alberta
was a tender to the
larger ship, there was a very good chance that the Queen’s cabin contained a
safe. He made note of the guards at their posts and watched to make sure of
their movements.
A familiar thrill rose within him. It was perfect.
Better even than he could have hoped. If there was a
safe inside the Queen’s quarters, he’d know for certain tonight. Chubb &
Son’s had been the exclusive supplier of safes, locks, and strongboxes to the
royal family for decades, because of their reputation for patented,
‘unpickable’ locks. Only a handful of men on the planet had the ability to
crack a Chubb lock.
Thanks to Benoit and his training, he was one of them.
The timing might be tricky. He’d established a pattern
by making an appearance at the Steam Dog Tavern every night. If he didn’t show
tonight, people might wonder. Not to mention that he wanted to speak to Welsie.
Alone.
Later, then. He’d speak to Louie about the timing
first. As the plan came together in his head, he grinned.
It’s going to work. I can’t wait to tell Arvel.