Read Online Cold Stone and Ivy by H. Leighton Dickson - Free Book Online
Authors: H. Leighton Dickson
Tags: Steampunk
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Lords and yet dress like a common farrier was confounding and, therefore, suspicious. Her instincts were always correct and she wondered if he, in fact, had stolen the Clockwork Heart from Lancaster Castle.
A gentleman thief, she thought to herself. Wouldn’t be the first.
There was a knock on the door, and she was relieved to find Clarys, her best friend, with a basket of wine, cheese, and biscuits. So the rest of the afternoon was spent in much merriment, and only a little sleuthing.
Wharcombe SteamPress
September 15, 1888
Charlie Fretts, 11 year-old son of fishmonger Reggie and Bernadette Fretts, was found dead in Wharcombe today.
Chapter 6
Of Live Women, Dead Boys, and Horses at Midnight
SHE HAD SEEMED live enough.
At least, Castlewaite and Rupert had spoken with her, had interacted. All good clues, generally. And she had held her own with Rupert, which was never easy. His uncle was a cad. Brilliant with finances, with estates and horses, but not so good with people. He smiled, thinking the same could easily be said of himself.
She had left quickly, however, once she’d uncovered his name. They all did. They either fawned and prattled or fled like a house on fire. But before she’d known, she had chatted. That was different than prattling. More natural. No, this little woman of Christien’s had bared her soul, had laughed, and even shed a tear. It had been sweet, almost normal, and he’d learned to take normal whenever and wherever he could get it.
There was a loud squeal, and he turned his attention to the field where Gus was entertaining the new mares. He was prancing circles around a little bay, tossing his head and trying to impress. The mare was not impressed, however, and kept laying back her ears and snapping whenever he would dance too close. Sebastien shook his head. Five mares in a field, four willing, but Gus would naturally choose the fifth. Life was curious that way.
He laid his chin on his arms across the fence rail, watching the dance of the horses, feeling the dogs wrestle and bump at his feet. The air was quiet and he knew there would be rain in two nights’ time. There was an enormous pile of posts on his desk at First, and he knew he needed to pass them over to Rupert. Cad though he might be, Rupert would never open a post not addressed to him. The man had scruples.
The dogs whined, and the air around him began to grow cold.
There was a boy watching him.
There was always someone watching. It was exhausting, and sometimes he found himself wishing for the solitary blackness of Lonsdale. Frankow was a good man. His laudanum was by far the best.
He turned to look at the boy.
Perhaps eleven he was, with dark hair matted on one side and a very pale face. They usually had pale faces. If they had faces at all. Large, dark eyes staring at him, blood and bruising at the right temple indicating a backhanded blow. Not a hand, however. The wound was too straight and deep for that. A poker perhaps, for there was soot on the boy’s cheek.
“Where are you from?” he asked.
The boy didn’t speak. The dead rarely did. Instead, he merely flicked his large eyes in the direction of the bay.
“Dunbridge? Pelling? Wharcombe?” he asked, and at the name of the bayside town of Wharcombe, the boy nodded. “And did you die in Wharcombe as well?”
The boy said nothing. He was grateful it wasn’t Manchester. Manchester was a long ride.
“Was it your father? Was he drinking, or did you make him angry?”
Tears began welling behind those large eyes, and Sebastien looked away. Gus had found himself a willing mare, and he knew Rupert would be furious. Still, they were Warmbloods all. Any foal by Lasingstoke’s Gus would bring a good price.
With a sigh, he looked back at the boy. “I’m sorry, lad. I’ll see what I can do. Can you give me some time? My horse is rather busy.”
The boy folded up and disappeared, and Sebastien ran a hand along his face.
A gentleman thief, she thought to herself. Wouldn’t be the first.
There was a knock on the door, and she was relieved to find Clarys, her best friend, with a basket of wine, cheese, and biscuits. So the rest of the afternoon was spent in much merriment, and only a little sleuthing.
Wharcombe SteamPress
September 15, 1888
Charlie Fretts, 11 year-old son of fishmonger Reggie and Bernadette Fretts, was found dead in Wharcombe today.
Chapter 6
Of Live Women, Dead Boys, and Horses at Midnight
SHE HAD SEEMED live enough.
At least, Castlewaite and Rupert had spoken with her, had interacted. All good clues, generally. And she had held her own with Rupert, which was never easy. His uncle was a cad. Brilliant with finances, with estates and horses, but not so good with people. He smiled, thinking the same could easily be said of himself.
She had left quickly, however, once she’d uncovered his name. They all did. They either fawned and prattled or fled like a house on fire. But before she’d known, she had chatted. That was different than prattling. More natural. No, this little woman of Christien’s had bared her soul, had laughed, and even shed a tear. It had been sweet, almost normal, and he’d learned to take normal whenever and wherever he could get it.
There was a loud squeal, and he turned his attention to the field where Gus was entertaining the new mares. He was prancing circles around a little bay, tossing his head and trying to impress. The mare was not impressed, however, and kept laying back her ears and snapping whenever he would dance too close. Sebastien shook his head. Five mares in a field, four willing, but Gus would naturally choose the fifth. Life was curious that way.
He laid his chin on his arms across the fence rail, watching the dance of the horses, feeling the dogs wrestle and bump at his feet. The air was quiet and he knew there would be rain in two nights’ time. There was an enormous pile of posts on his desk at First, and he knew he needed to pass them over to Rupert. Cad though he might be, Rupert would never open a post not addressed to him. The man had scruples.
The dogs whined, and the air around him began to grow cold.
There was a boy watching him.
There was always someone watching. It was exhausting, and sometimes he found himself wishing for the solitary blackness of Lonsdale. Frankow was a good man. His laudanum was by far the best.
He turned to look at the boy.
Perhaps eleven he was, with dark hair matted on one side and a very pale face. They usually had pale faces. If they had faces at all. Large, dark eyes staring at him, blood and bruising at the right temple indicating a backhanded blow. Not a hand, however. The wound was too straight and deep for that. A poker perhaps, for there was soot on the boy’s cheek.
“Where are you from?” he asked.
The boy didn’t speak. The dead rarely did. Instead, he merely flicked his large eyes in the direction of the bay.
“Dunbridge? Pelling? Wharcombe?” he asked, and at the name of the bayside town of Wharcombe, the boy nodded. “And did you die in Wharcombe as well?”
The boy said nothing. He was grateful it wasn’t Manchester. Manchester was a long ride.
“Was it your father? Was he drinking, or did you make him angry?”
Tears began welling behind those large eyes, and Sebastien looked away. Gus had found himself a willing mare, and he knew Rupert would be furious. Still, they were Warmbloods all. Any foal by Lasingstoke’s Gus would bring a good price.
With a sigh, he looked back at the boy. “I’m sorry, lad. I’ll see what I can do. Can you give me some time? My horse is rather busy.”
The boy folded up and disappeared, and Sebastien ran a hand along his face.
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