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Authors: Arthur Slade
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seasickness.”
“Funny, when we were married you were a husband with a rather delicate constitution.”
Modo often relived that trip! On their last assignment,he and Octavia had crossed the Atlantic to New York City. He’d had to pretend to be her husband—chastely so. He’d spent most of his time behind a privacy screen in the cabin feeling nauseated. Octavia slept on the couch. Since that mission he’d sometimes found himself wishing Mr. Socrates would arrange for them to be married again. “Perhaps it was married life that made me ill,” he said, smiling his cheekiest smile.
“And maybe your French mistress cured it.” Octavia seemed to have lost her lightheartedness.
“What do you mean by that?” he asked, though he knew full well.
“Oh, nothing,” she said. “I’m only blowing hot air. I’m feeling a little flushed—I shall return to my cabin, cousin.”
Modo watched her sashay away until he could no longer pick her out in the crowd of passengers on the deck.
French mistress my eye
, he thought. In the days after he had fought alongside Colette Brunet, a French agent, Octavia had often given him the cold shoulder. Perhaps that was why she had chosen not to see him over these past few months.
Modo would never understand Octavia. One moment they were best of friends, the next she was angry at him for some perceived slight. And yet, when they were apart, he couldn’t stop thinking about her.
Given how things between them had started off, it was going to be a very long trip.
One Last Passenger
V isser followed his targets up the gangplank of the RMS
Rome
, carrying his portmanteaus in either hand. He’d dyed his blond hair black and dressed himself in a derby hat and jacket, adding gold-rimmed glasses to give himself a bookish, artistic appearance. All this was to prevent the young female agent from recognizing him as being from Westminster Abbey. In his pocket were papers that said he was Albert Carpenter, an American citizen. He always enjoyed mimicking an American accent.
It had been a simple enough task to hire several urchins to watch the house of his enemy and, once alerted, he followed the targets to the port and purchased tickets to Sydney, Australia. He’d even had time to send a telegram to his masters providing details regarding the group. He was the last to board the ship.
He recognized Mr. Socrates from sketches in the Guild files. He was a brilliant and accomplished enemy. His Indianservant, Tharpa, was the deadlier of the two. Best to kill him from a distance. Perhaps, to be safe, to deal with both from a distance.
Not that he’d been instructed to kill them. Visser’s orders were to follow Mr. Socrates and report on his progress. He didn’t know the names or backgrounds of the other three people with Mr. Socrates, but he would uncover their secrets soon enough. He’d already seen what the young woman was capable of with his clockwork falcons. He’d also be wary of the other two, who were most likely agents. The older woman might have a trick or two up her sleeve.
As he walked across the deck he heard the occasional click from within the portmanteau. Had he wound down the falcons properly? Though he’d had several lessons about their intricate levers and gears, there were still a few things about the birds that perplexed him. They were more than just machines, that much he knew.
He noted the cabins of his targets, then followed the steward to his own.
A Game of Cricket
B ecause Modo couldn’t maintain his appearance for longer than five hours, he was forced to spend much of his time in his cabin. Each morning, after a breakfast of rolls and eggs in the dining room, he would return to his room and let his Doctor face slide into his real one. Then he’d spar with Tharpa, earning new bruises every day.
In the afternoons Mrs. Finchley would arrive for his acting lessons. Modo was reminded of his days in Ravenscroft, and his heart ached for that simpler
“Funny, when we were married you were a husband with a rather delicate constitution.”
Modo often relived that trip! On their last assignment,he and Octavia had crossed the Atlantic to New York City. He’d had to pretend to be her husband—chastely so. He’d spent most of his time behind a privacy screen in the cabin feeling nauseated. Octavia slept on the couch. Since that mission he’d sometimes found himself wishing Mr. Socrates would arrange for them to be married again. “Perhaps it was married life that made me ill,” he said, smiling his cheekiest smile.
“And maybe your French mistress cured it.” Octavia seemed to have lost her lightheartedness.
“What do you mean by that?” he asked, though he knew full well.
“Oh, nothing,” she said. “I’m only blowing hot air. I’m feeling a little flushed—I shall return to my cabin, cousin.”
Modo watched her sashay away until he could no longer pick her out in the crowd of passengers on the deck.
French mistress my eye
, he thought. In the days after he had fought alongside Colette Brunet, a French agent, Octavia had often given him the cold shoulder. Perhaps that was why she had chosen not to see him over these past few months.
Modo would never understand Octavia. One moment they were best of friends, the next she was angry at him for some perceived slight. And yet, when they were apart, he couldn’t stop thinking about her.
Given how things between them had started off, it was going to be a very long trip.
One Last Passenger
V isser followed his targets up the gangplank of the RMS
Rome
, carrying his portmanteaus in either hand. He’d dyed his blond hair black and dressed himself in a derby hat and jacket, adding gold-rimmed glasses to give himself a bookish, artistic appearance. All this was to prevent the young female agent from recognizing him as being from Westminster Abbey. In his pocket were papers that said he was Albert Carpenter, an American citizen. He always enjoyed mimicking an American accent.
It had been a simple enough task to hire several urchins to watch the house of his enemy and, once alerted, he followed the targets to the port and purchased tickets to Sydney, Australia. He’d even had time to send a telegram to his masters providing details regarding the group. He was the last to board the ship.
He recognized Mr. Socrates from sketches in the Guild files. He was a brilliant and accomplished enemy. His Indianservant, Tharpa, was the deadlier of the two. Best to kill him from a distance. Perhaps, to be safe, to deal with both from a distance.
Not that he’d been instructed to kill them. Visser’s orders were to follow Mr. Socrates and report on his progress. He didn’t know the names or backgrounds of the other three people with Mr. Socrates, but he would uncover their secrets soon enough. He’d already seen what the young woman was capable of with his clockwork falcons. He’d also be wary of the other two, who were most likely agents. The older woman might have a trick or two up her sleeve.
As he walked across the deck he heard the occasional click from within the portmanteau. Had he wound down the falcons properly? Though he’d had several lessons about their intricate levers and gears, there were still a few things about the birds that perplexed him. They were more than just machines, that much he knew.
He noted the cabins of his targets, then followed the steward to his own.
A Game of Cricket
B ecause Modo couldn’t maintain his appearance for longer than five hours, he was forced to spend much of his time in his cabin. Each morning, after a breakfast of rolls and eggs in the dining room, he would return to his room and let his Doctor face slide into his real one. Then he’d spar with Tharpa, earning new bruises every day.
In the afternoons Mrs. Finchley would arrive for his acting lessons. Modo was reminded of his days in Ravenscroft, and his heart ached for that simpler
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