that,” he added, gesturing to the tool in William’s hand. “Put it down.” His speech had a slight sing-song intonation that did not sound respectful either. He took a step toward them, and William, instead of putting the tool down, brandished it like a weapon—which it was, or at any rate the closest thing they had.
The hawk-nosed man ignored him completely. “Is that Maxwell’s watch?” he demanded, pointing with a grimy finger at the timepiece that lay on the table, next to Elizabeth’s chair.
“No,” Elizabeth retorted, finding herself all at once more angry than frightened. “It’s mine. Who—”
“Ohhh,” the man said, looking from one of them to the other. “I see. Would this be your first journey, then?” At their blank expressions, he clarified impatiently, “What year was it when you awoke this morning?”
“What?”
Footsteps on creaking stairs heralded the old man’s hasty return. “Mr. Trevelyan—!”
“What in blazes have you been about, Max?” Trevelyan swung to meet him. “Bringing home guests at a time like this? I thought you were after something more important out there.”
“I was, and I got them for you, and here they are.” The old man drew a packet from within his coat and handed it to Trevelyan. “I encountered these two young people on the way back, and I could not leave them to be stomped on by constructs.”
Trevelyan made a derisive sound as he pulled a multiplex knife from his pocket and slit the parcel’s wrapping paper. “Top on the list of things we do not have time for just now—”
“That may well be, but it doesn’t matter, as they are here whether we choose it or not—”
“Excuse me,” William said firmly, beating Elizabeth to it by about half a second.
Both men turned, and the one Trevelyan had addressed as Max came forward, with a reassuring if hastily donned smile. He started to say something, but William spoke over him.
“Who are you? And where have you brought us?”
“My name is Maxwell.” Now that Elizabeth saw him in good light—well, not really all that good, but better than the dancing lantern-beams—she could tell that he was not, in fact, so very old. His hair was white, to be sure, but thick; his face was mostly unlined; his brown eyes shone fiercely alert. Nor did he move like an old man—and nor had he during the run through the alleyway. Energy radiated from him with an intensity that almost hurt the eye. If anything, he seemed fuller of life than the supercilious Mr. Trevelyan at his shoulder. “And you, sir?”
After the briefest of pauses, William took refuge in the formula. “William Carrington. And this is Miss Barton.”
“Are you feeling better, Miss Barton?” Mr. Maxwell transferred his attention to Elizabeth, regarding her with a tender sort of concern. “I have brought you a blanket, if the shock has—”
“No, I’m fine,” Elizabeth said impatiently. “I mean, no thank you, sir, I appreciate your concern, but I am quite recovered. Where are we?”
“London,” Trevelyan said, without looking up from the box in his hands.
“London?”
“London.” With a delicacy of touch somewhat surprising for such dirty fingers, Trevelyan extracted a small glinting thing and held it critically up to the nearest candle.
“Will they do?” Maxwell asked him, distracted from his concern over Elizabeth’s comfort.
“Indeed they will,” Trevelyan said with satisfaction.
“There are monsters in London?” Elizabeth demanded.
“Indeed there are.” Trevelyan raised his eyebrows as though enjoying her confusion. “You haven’t asked the right question.”
“This is my colleague, Mr. Trevelyan,” Maxwell broke in before Elizabeth could answer, “who possesses a genius for mechanical things and rather less of one with regard to social courtesies. I apologize for his manners.”
“I haven’t
The hawk-nosed man ignored him completely. “Is that Maxwell’s watch?” he demanded, pointing with a grimy finger at the timepiece that lay on the table, next to Elizabeth’s chair.
“No,” Elizabeth retorted, finding herself all at once more angry than frightened. “It’s mine. Who—”
“Ohhh,” the man said, looking from one of them to the other. “I see. Would this be your first journey, then?” At their blank expressions, he clarified impatiently, “What year was it when you awoke this morning?”
“What?”
Footsteps on creaking stairs heralded the old man’s hasty return. “Mr. Trevelyan—!”
“What in blazes have you been about, Max?” Trevelyan swung to meet him. “Bringing home guests at a time like this? I thought you were after something more important out there.”
“I was, and I got them for you, and here they are.” The old man drew a packet from within his coat and handed it to Trevelyan. “I encountered these two young people on the way back, and I could not leave them to be stomped on by constructs.”
Trevelyan made a derisive sound as he pulled a multiplex knife from his pocket and slit the parcel’s wrapping paper. “Top on the list of things we do not have time for just now—”
“That may well be, but it doesn’t matter, as they are here whether we choose it or not—”
“Excuse me,” William said firmly, beating Elizabeth to it by about half a second.
Both men turned, and the one Trevelyan had addressed as Max came forward, with a reassuring if hastily donned smile. He started to say something, but William spoke over him.
“Who are you? And where have you brought us?”
“My name is Maxwell.” Now that Elizabeth saw him in good light—well, not really all that good, but better than the dancing lantern-beams—she could tell that he was not, in fact, so very old. His hair was white, to be sure, but thick; his face was mostly unlined; his brown eyes shone fiercely alert. Nor did he move like an old man—and nor had he during the run through the alleyway. Energy radiated from him with an intensity that almost hurt the eye. If anything, he seemed fuller of life than the supercilious Mr. Trevelyan at his shoulder. “And you, sir?”
After the briefest of pauses, William took refuge in the formula. “William Carrington. And this is Miss Barton.”
“Are you feeling better, Miss Barton?” Mr. Maxwell transferred his attention to Elizabeth, regarding her with a tender sort of concern. “I have brought you a blanket, if the shock has—”
“No, I’m fine,” Elizabeth said impatiently. “I mean, no thank you, sir, I appreciate your concern, but I am quite recovered. Where are we?”
“London,” Trevelyan said, without looking up from the box in his hands.
“London?”
“London.” With a delicacy of touch somewhat surprising for such dirty fingers, Trevelyan extracted a small glinting thing and held it critically up to the nearest candle.
“Will they do?” Maxwell asked him, distracted from his concern over Elizabeth’s comfort.
“Indeed they will,” Trevelyan said with satisfaction.
“There are monsters in London?” Elizabeth demanded.
“Indeed there are.” Trevelyan raised his eyebrows as though enjoying her confusion. “You haven’t asked the right question.”
“This is my colleague, Mr. Trevelyan,” Maxwell broke in before Elizabeth could answer, “who possesses a genius for mechanical things and rather less of one with regard to social courtesies. I apologize for his manners.”
“I haven’t
Similar Books
