Read Online Turnkey (The Gaslight Volumes of Will Pocket Book 1) by Lori Williams, Christopher Dunkle - Free Book Online
Authors: Lori Williams, Christopher Dunkle
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loony. Whoever wrote it...it was, let me think...kind of a
feminine script, the way the L's were looped...and it was kinda formerly
perfumey.”
“How can something
be formerly perfumey?”
“Hard to explain.
See...it’s as if, well, when you put your nose to it, you don't smell the sweet
scent of...um…”
“Young love?”
“Sure, the scent
of young love. But the oily spotting around the paper suggests that it
had once been doused, the way the adverts hanging in a perfumist's are.”
“Hmmm...you
realize, Pocket, that it's possible you were only reading mildew spots.”
“Sigh...well, how
do you want the spots to be remembered? I'm not revising this story after—“
“Perfume is fine.
Perfume is fine.”
“Good.”
I held the
cherished scrap in my hand, the once scented paper bereft of any fragrance. A
lover's note. A few humble phrases I would never forget.
“Yeah, Pocket. You
just said though that you don’t remem—”
Softly, I put it
aside and continued through the mess. I scanned the room for the shape of my
bottle, only to see more scattered half-gadgetry. I nearly stepped into a kettle
that was wired to what looked like a mousetrap. This watchmaker, I decided,
must've gone a little eccentric in his later years.
A few steps more
and I saw a glassy spark, the very same kind of glassy spark my bottle
regularly made under favorable starlight. I grabbed at the shine.
Oh.
Damn.
I held in my hands
what appeared to be a prototypal music box. It was encased in a thick shell
that reflected the shine that had caught my attention. I grumbled something
stupid and dropped it. The jolt knocked unexpected life into the relic, and the
damned thing started to serenade me.
“It was that woman
singer, Alan. The one you're so fond of.”
“I’m fond of a
few. You mean, Miss Tiffany....Tiffany Chandler?”
“No, no. The one
you mentioned at the Railthe night I got thrown out of it.”
“Ah. Lady Jay.”
“Right.”
“I see. What song
was she singing?”
“I don't know, but
she wouldn't leave me alone with it.”
I cursed under my
breath and pushed forward through the cluttered room. Behind me, the music box
sang like a songbird looking to peck my eyes out.
“I think I went
to bed too early, far too early for a dream...”
Not a bad line. I
took a few more steps.
“Hang on, Pocket.
You've got the wrong words.”
“What?”
“I recognize the
song. ‘Far Too Early . ’A classic. And you're doing the wrong
lyrics.”
“You sure?”
“Completely.”
“Sigh...does it
really matter in the story?”
“Does to me. I'm a
fan.”
“Well, I'm trying,
Alan. I wasn't paying that close of attention at the time and—”
“Wait. How about
this? I'll sing it for you.”
“I'm sorry?”
“You didn't know I
sing, did you, Pocket?”
“No.”
“Well, now's your
chance. Go on. Keep talking and I'll fill in with the appropriate musicmaking.”
“I don't know. I
don't generally work with other entertainers.”
“Go on, go on.
You'll love this.”
“Eh...”
I cursed under my
breath and pushed forward through the cluttered room. Behind me, the music box
sang like a songbird looking to peck my eyes out.
“I think I'm
singing this too early, far too early for this tune.”
Not a bad line. I
took a few more steps.
“But I find
myself here crawling, searching beneath an autumn moon.”
Step, step,
tiptoe, step. Foot in an electric bedpan. Shake. Step.
“And I've got
my worst foot forward, yes, this time, I'm on my own.
Spun and
shaken, I am looking, waiting just to be shown.”
Then I saw it,
sitting between a...I'm not sure...let's say a gyroscopic molecular
proto-stabilizing machine and a beautiful, leather-bound book, its hide only
slightly worn and its pages only slightly yellowed. Anyway, cradled between the
two was my bottle, intact and without a single visible scratch. I was a little
surprised and, for some reason, a little proud.
I
feminine script, the way the L's were looped...and it was kinda formerly
perfumey.”
“How can something
be formerly perfumey?”
“Hard to explain.
See...it’s as if, well, when you put your nose to it, you don't smell the sweet
scent of...um…”
“Young love?”
“Sure, the scent
of young love. But the oily spotting around the paper suggests that it
had once been doused, the way the adverts hanging in a perfumist's are.”
“Hmmm...you
realize, Pocket, that it's possible you were only reading mildew spots.”
“Sigh...well, how
do you want the spots to be remembered? I'm not revising this story after—“
“Perfume is fine.
Perfume is fine.”
“Good.”
I held the
cherished scrap in my hand, the once scented paper bereft of any fragrance. A
lover's note. A few humble phrases I would never forget.
“Yeah, Pocket. You
just said though that you don’t remem—”
Softly, I put it
aside and continued through the mess. I scanned the room for the shape of my
bottle, only to see more scattered half-gadgetry. I nearly stepped into a kettle
that was wired to what looked like a mousetrap. This watchmaker, I decided,
must've gone a little eccentric in his later years.
A few steps more
and I saw a glassy spark, the very same kind of glassy spark my bottle
regularly made under favorable starlight. I grabbed at the shine.
Oh.
Damn.
I held in my hands
what appeared to be a prototypal music box. It was encased in a thick shell
that reflected the shine that had caught my attention. I grumbled something
stupid and dropped it. The jolt knocked unexpected life into the relic, and the
damned thing started to serenade me.
“It was that woman
singer, Alan. The one you're so fond of.”
“I’m fond of a
few. You mean, Miss Tiffany....Tiffany Chandler?”
“No, no. The one
you mentioned at the Railthe night I got thrown out of it.”
“Ah. Lady Jay.”
“Right.”
“I see. What song
was she singing?”
“I don't know, but
she wouldn't leave me alone with it.”
I cursed under my
breath and pushed forward through the cluttered room. Behind me, the music box
sang like a songbird looking to peck my eyes out.
“I think I went
to bed too early, far too early for a dream...”
Not a bad line. I
took a few more steps.
“Hang on, Pocket.
You've got the wrong words.”
“What?”
“I recognize the
song. ‘Far Too Early . ’A classic. And you're doing the wrong
lyrics.”
“You sure?”
“Completely.”
“Sigh...does it
really matter in the story?”
“Does to me. I'm a
fan.”
“Well, I'm trying,
Alan. I wasn't paying that close of attention at the time and—”
“Wait. How about
this? I'll sing it for you.”
“I'm sorry?”
“You didn't know I
sing, did you, Pocket?”
“No.”
“Well, now's your
chance. Go on. Keep talking and I'll fill in with the appropriate musicmaking.”
“I don't know. I
don't generally work with other entertainers.”
“Go on, go on.
You'll love this.”
“Eh...”
I cursed under my
breath and pushed forward through the cluttered room. Behind me, the music box
sang like a songbird looking to peck my eyes out.
“I think I'm
singing this too early, far too early for this tune.”
Not a bad line. I
took a few more steps.
“But I find
myself here crawling, searching beneath an autumn moon.”
Step, step,
tiptoe, step. Foot in an electric bedpan. Shake. Step.
“And I've got
my worst foot forward, yes, this time, I'm on my own.
Spun and
shaken, I am looking, waiting just to be shown.”
Then I saw it,
sitting between a...I'm not sure...let's say a gyroscopic molecular
proto-stabilizing machine and a beautiful, leather-bound book, its hide only
slightly worn and its pages only slightly yellowed. Anyway, cradled between the
two was my bottle, intact and without a single visible scratch. I was a little
surprised and, for some reason, a little proud.
I
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