Read Online Turnkey (The Gaslight Volumes of Will Pocket Book 1) by Lori Williams, Christopher Dunkle - Free Book Online Page A
Authors: Lori Williams, Christopher Dunkle
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carefully dusted
it off and admired it.
“I found a hole
deep in my pocket, and what I put in there is gone.
Because of you
I am down crawling, and I've been down here far too long.”
Huh. I don't know
if it was the lighting, or lack thereof, in the room, or the sea of interrupted
progress I had swam through to get here, but in the moment, my bottle seemed
suddenly...plain.
I really don't
know why.
Well, I told
myself. I can adapt to this evolving age, can’t I? Of course. I am perfectly
able to exist in Alexander's grand Britain.
Progress. That was
the key. So...
I rummaged around
in the nearest lump of metal and cut myself. Ouch. But I am nothing if not
persistent. I found a broken piece of...something. Perhaps an old birdcage or a
candle tin or a lantern bottom. I bent it into a makeshift bottle holder and
lodged my collection of green into it. There was also some rough leather belting,
probably from one of those convenient conveyor contraptions the papers are
always promoting. I worked it into a sling and tied it through the bottle's
small handle loop. Wearing the faerie juice proudly at my side like a
paperboy’s satchel, I smiled. I am William Christopher Pocket! Modern man!
I modernly sneezed
and waded back over the junk.
“And I think
it's far too early to admit that I have lost.
I'm a fool and
you are lovely, so I'll search at every cost.
You're a beauty
on a string, hiding somewhere in the night.
And I need you
hanging on me, so I…ah…so I….sorry, Pocket. Can’t recall the rest.”
I strolled down
the stairs and into the front room, repeating the song to myself.
“…can’t recall the
rest,” I sang.
“What's that,
Pocket?” Kitt said, still sitting on the floor.
“Nothing. Just some music I picked
up. What are you doing?”
He held up a mess of papers.
“Checking this bin.”
“I found my bottle.”
“I see that.
What'd you do to it?”
“Just...you
know...fashioned it to this, eh, bit of metal and strap. Keeping with the
times.”
“How's that
keeping with the times?”
I thought about
it. “I guess I don't know.”
Kitt laughed and
got up. “You're a strange one, Pocket.”
I took in a
mouthful of stale air and made a show of moving to the front door. Kitt got the
idea.
“Leaving?”
“I suppose so.
Nothing personal. Breaking and entering isn't really my kind of sport.”
“Yeah. I
understand.”
I pushed the door.
Still raining.
“Don't you want to
wait for that to clear up?” Kitt asked. I counted drops on a windowpane, which
turned out to be much like counting beer foam bubbles, except without the
entertainment of making the bubbles disappear.
“Maybe,” I said.
“It's your call.”
Eleven window
drops. Twelve window drops.
I pulled an old
wooden chair from behind a corner desk and sat down. Kitt returned to the
floor.
“So...” I said.
“So.”
Twenty-three
window drops. I let myself laugh.
“Pretty awkward,
isn't this?”
“Yeah,” Kitt
agreed. “Why is that?”
“I really don't
know.” I leaned forward, took off my hat, and scratched the mess of dark hair
beneath. “It's been a rather strange night for me.”
“I'm sorry.”
“I wasn't blaming
you.”
“Oh.”
Thirty-nine drops.
Kitt's mouth remained shut.
“I've got to ask,
Kitt. The outfit.”
“Hmm?”
“The whole
bombardier look. Not exactly subtle for a thief. What's the story there?”
And then, without
warning, the crafty, animated smile crept back onto his face.
“Bombardier,” he
repeated. “I like that. I like that a lot.”
Not the response I
was expecting.
“So...” I said,
trying to prompt a story.
“Did you hear
something?” he said instead.
I heard the
silence of Kitt not answering my question. It was roaring.
“No,” I answered
dryly.
“I'm serious,
listen.”
I did. Sure, some
light squeakiness beneath the floor. Sounded like it was coming from the
basement. Probably a loose hinge on a window or door or something. I
it off and admired it.
“I found a hole
deep in my pocket, and what I put in there is gone.
Because of you
I am down crawling, and I've been down here far too long.”
Huh. I don't know
if it was the lighting, or lack thereof, in the room, or the sea of interrupted
progress I had swam through to get here, but in the moment, my bottle seemed
suddenly...plain.
I really don't
know why.
Well, I told
myself. I can adapt to this evolving age, can’t I? Of course. I am perfectly
able to exist in Alexander's grand Britain.
Progress. That was
the key. So...
I rummaged around
in the nearest lump of metal and cut myself. Ouch. But I am nothing if not
persistent. I found a broken piece of...something. Perhaps an old birdcage or a
candle tin or a lantern bottom. I bent it into a makeshift bottle holder and
lodged my collection of green into it. There was also some rough leather belting,
probably from one of those convenient conveyor contraptions the papers are
always promoting. I worked it into a sling and tied it through the bottle's
small handle loop. Wearing the faerie juice proudly at my side like a
paperboy’s satchel, I smiled. I am William Christopher Pocket! Modern man!
I modernly sneezed
and waded back over the junk.
“And I think
it's far too early to admit that I have lost.
I'm a fool and
you are lovely, so I'll search at every cost.
You're a beauty
on a string, hiding somewhere in the night.
And I need you
hanging on me, so I…ah…so I….sorry, Pocket. Can’t recall the rest.”
I strolled down
the stairs and into the front room, repeating the song to myself.
“…can’t recall the
rest,” I sang.
“What's that,
Pocket?” Kitt said, still sitting on the floor.
“Nothing. Just some music I picked
up. What are you doing?”
He held up a mess of papers.
“Checking this bin.”
“I found my bottle.”
“I see that.
What'd you do to it?”
“Just...you
know...fashioned it to this, eh, bit of metal and strap. Keeping with the
times.”
“How's that
keeping with the times?”
I thought about
it. “I guess I don't know.”
Kitt laughed and
got up. “You're a strange one, Pocket.”
I took in a
mouthful of stale air and made a show of moving to the front door. Kitt got the
idea.
“Leaving?”
“I suppose so.
Nothing personal. Breaking and entering isn't really my kind of sport.”
“Yeah. I
understand.”
I pushed the door.
Still raining.
“Don't you want to
wait for that to clear up?” Kitt asked. I counted drops on a windowpane, which
turned out to be much like counting beer foam bubbles, except without the
entertainment of making the bubbles disappear.
“Maybe,” I said.
“It's your call.”
Eleven window
drops. Twelve window drops.
I pulled an old
wooden chair from behind a corner desk and sat down. Kitt returned to the
floor.
“So...” I said.
“So.”
Twenty-three
window drops. I let myself laugh.
“Pretty awkward,
isn't this?”
“Yeah,” Kitt
agreed. “Why is that?”
“I really don't
know.” I leaned forward, took off my hat, and scratched the mess of dark hair
beneath. “It's been a rather strange night for me.”
“I'm sorry.”
“I wasn't blaming
you.”
“Oh.”
Thirty-nine drops.
Kitt's mouth remained shut.
“I've got to ask,
Kitt. The outfit.”
“Hmm?”
“The whole
bombardier look. Not exactly subtle for a thief. What's the story there?”
And then, without
warning, the crafty, animated smile crept back onto his face.
“Bombardier,” he
repeated. “I like that. I like that a lot.”
Not the response I
was expecting.
“So...” I said,
trying to prompt a story.
“Did you hear
something?” he said instead.
I heard the
silence of Kitt not answering my question. It was roaring.
“No,” I answered
dryly.
“I'm serious,
listen.”
I did. Sure, some
light squeakiness beneath the floor. Sounded like it was coming from the
basement. Probably a loose hinge on a window or door or something. I
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