Dawn's Early Light (5 page)

Eliza cocked her head to one side. “The what?”

“That is how we refer to your most recent case,” Felicity said with a perky smile. “The Janus Affair.”

“A bit melodramatic, don't you think?” Wellington said with a groan. “Typical Americans.”

“Look, I know we're all good friends now,” Bill said, giving Eliza a wink just before continuing. “That don't mean we trust you all blindly. We're both in the business of keeping tabs on each other. Best to keep an eye on and an ear out for what your good friends are up to, right?”

“I would agree,” Wellington said, his colour seeming to return as he fixed his eyes on Felicity, “but I would imagine your own experience—was it, six years ago? Yes, I do believe it was six—with the Dudleytown Experiment would have prepped you for this most admirably.”

Eliza felt a surge of pride in her partner. The Dudleytown incident had been big news, even in the Ministry, and quite the mess for OSM. Wellington mentioning it was a nice way to take down their American counterparts a peg or two.

Wellington had apparently decided two pegs wasn't enough. “But perhaps lacking any comprehension of transdimensional technology matters little to your office, but it did cost your government, what, an insignificant Connecticut hamlet, yes?”

Bill leaned forwards, his eyes seeming to be on fire. “You watch yourself, Johnny Shakespeare. Dudleytown was
my
case.”

“Why not see if we can fold space and time with the peculiar rock composition of the area? So what if it drives a few people mad?”

Bill was abruptly on his feet. “How about you and I go outside and discuss the laws of science, just the two of us.”

“I sincerely hope we're just getting all the posturing out of the way early,” Felicity chimed in, “so that we could make some progress before another sea or air vessel disappears?”

Wellington turned to the librarian and gave her a delightful smile. “Yes,” he said, raising his glass of wine, “but I would prefer to pick the next meeting place, as this wine is hardly what I would call . . .” He paused, considering the glass, and then said, “. . . wine.”

Bill grunted and slowly lowered himself back into his chair.

“Let's get back to the reason we reached out to the Ministry of Peculiar Occurrences.” Felicity looked around at them all, as if with her smile she'd mend everything. “Apart from Bill's Dudleytown experience, we know very little of the mechanics behind transdimensional teleportation.”

Eliza caught Wellington's glance, but she spread her hands wide; she had no idea how much to share with them. “Right then—what is our next move?”

“We have accommodations waiting for us at Swan's Retreat. It's an exclusive hunt club in Currituck County, North Carolina. We'll be posing as an American couple,” Felicity said, motioning to herself and Bill, “showing friends from England the local duck-hunting grounds.”

“You know how to shoot at all, pard'ner?” Bill asked.

“Yes,” Eliza said with a smirk, “he does.” Wellington tugged at his collar, his gaze not meeting hers. “But something tells me he will probably not partake of the game North Carolina offers.”

Bill nodded as if he'd expected it. “That's too bad.” He turned to Eliza. “What about you, Lizzie? You know your way around a gun?”

Eliza crooked an eyebrow at the smirk on Bill's face, but managed to control the desire to wipe it off violently. “Looks like you've already made up your mind about that,” she replied sweetly.

“Your firearms expertise is irrelevant, Eliza,” Felicity said dismissively. “Women are allowed at the hunt clubs as guests of their spouses, but not allowed to shoot, ride, or partake of—”

“We will just have to state the obvious at Swan's Retreat,” Eliza interjected. “I'm not from around these parts.”

“Oh, I think we're going to have a grand ol' time in Carolina,” Bill said, giving a satisfied sigh.

“Well then,” Wellington said. “Let us gather your belongings. Our chariot is outside.”

“Got everything I need on my horse so I'll just meet you all there.” Bill motioned to Felicity. “My partner, on the other hand . . .”

“It's just a few things,” she protested.

“Like the kitchen sink,” he retorted, counting off on his fingers, “the bedroom vanity, the ballroom chandelier . . .” He paused. “Am I missing anything?”

Eliza looked between Felicity and Wellington. And Welly had dared to call her and Wild Bill “pot” and “kettle”?

“A glimpse of things to come, Mr. Books,” Eliza whispered pointedly to her partner. “I would wager you'll be requesting a recall to London before the week is out.”

V
an's words echoed around her church, even as she closed the door behind her parishioners.

“Life is short and we do not have too much time to gladden the hearts of those who travel the way with us. So be swift to love; make haste to be kind. Swifter still to forgive,”
she had said to her flock only seconds ago.
“And may the blessing of the one who made us, who loves us and who walks the way with us still; the one, holy and undivided Trinity be with us this day and remain with us always. Amen.”

As she leant against the doors, she wondered if anyone had heard those deeply meant words. She kept repeating them in the hope that someone would. If just one took her words to heart, to practise the Gospel she imparted, that would make everything worthwhile.

This was, as she called it, the chance for everyone to get a better look at the one and only female missionary daring to start a church in this area of Virginia. It was one thing to be a servant of God, but women were
not
supposed to be preaching in churches. At least, that was the general consensus.

However, Van had never been one to follow the general consensus. She'd heard it all when she was in the seminary. The South was too humid. The congregations would be backwards in their line of thinking. The folk earning a living there were tough and preferred the fire and brimstone sermons over the gentle hand of a woman.

Those things might have well been true. Virginia—particularly in the summer—was not for the faint of heart.

When the last person funnelled out, she was alone in the modest but inviting church.
Lord,
she prayed silently, her grip tightening on the Bible,
grant me the strength to carry on and continue your work, and bless our little town with peace and understanding. Amen.

Van took a deep breath and opened her eyes once more. The peace of the Lord was with her. She felt it inside, much like the ember that would soon give life to a bonfire. Wrapped in faith, she left the church for the office just across the lawn.

Her eyes immediately fell on Everett, the head pastor of their church for coming on two years now, outlasting any of the other men that came out here to run things by a year. He was counting the money from the offering plate, his face stern as he jotted down a few notes in a small ledger.

That expression of his told her the piano would remain out of tune for some time yet.

“How was the service this morning?” His deep baritone voice echoed, even though he was speaking at a conversational volume. To Everett, gravitas came naturally, which was a real asset when giving sermons.

“The same.” She took her seat at the smaller desk. “The same faces as always.”

He nodded, touching the pencil to his tongue before continuing with his ledger keeping. They both wished attendance had improved, but in fact it had dropped off once the novelty of a female priest had worn off. Van settled into her desk to work on her next sermon when the sudden
clank
from the pneumatic messaging tube made her freeze. Despite her travels back and forth across the country, Van still could not get used to the fact that even out here in the breathtaking majesty of God's great Shenandoah Valley, their church was connected to a pneumatic messaging system.

She opened the canister and pulled out the single slip of parchment within it.
Noon
, the message read, followed by a simple stamp of a raven.

Her eyebrow arched sharply and then her eyes went to the sole clock in the shared office. Eight minutes before twelve o'clock. They obviously knew when she would be walking out of service to the minute.

She tore up the tiny note into several pieces and threw it into the little potbelly furnace. Thoughtfully, her fingers strayed up to the cross she always wore around her neck. This tiny symbol of her faith was adorned with a single gear where the two arms of the cross met. It had been a gift from a clankerton who'd been smitten with her when she was just about to enter her training. He had given up on her by the time she'd emerged from it. The cross reminded Van of the frailty of humanity, and the strength of faith.

So then, why did she feel such hesitation whenever she accepted an assignment? Was she still not doing the work of the Lord, after all? Sometimes, you had to be the shepherd to the lambs. Sometimes, you had to be healer to the sick.

As her thumb turned the gear, she also understood sometimes you had to be the sword of God.

The bottom arm of the cross extended to its full length with a quick
click
. Swiftly she slipped the chain of the cross over her head, inserted it in the keyhole on the top surface of her desk, and gave it a single turn. Before her feet, a small trapdoor popped upwards, and slowly a wooden staircase unfurled, extending underneath their office.

Van made the mistake of glancing at Everett before descending into the dark; his expression said that he was most definitely not pleased. He returned his disapproving gaze to the remaining paperwork for the morning's offerings, completely ignoring what his fellow cleric was up to.

She reached for the lantern hanging at the bottom of the steps, struck a match, and then turned up the light once the flame caught. The sconce's glow pushed aside the shadows to reveal a small analytical engine, her pride and joy, sitting in the corner of the room.

Perhaps it was an indulgence, but she was guaranteed a small amount of privacy and confidentiality when using it. The money should have gone to the church, but this device was in a sense keeping the church together. It was her personal line of communication with those who called upon her for specific talents.

When noon struck, the green light on the panel before Van switched to red. She threw a few connectors forwards, awakening the amber display in front of her. It squeaked lightly when she adjusted it to a more comfortable reading position. Yes, along with the piano, her analytical engine was also in need of some maintenance.

TARGET IS FAST APPROACHING NORTH CAROLINA.

APPREHENDING OF TARGET ALIVE—TOP PRIORITY.

ELIMINATE ANY OPPOSITION.

RESPOND IF AVAILABLE.

-HOU

Van tapped her lips as she thought about the shadowy organisation. It had been at least six or seven years since the House of Usher had been active in America. What could it mean that they now wanted a hunt and retrieval from her? Whoever this mark was, the House wanted him or her badly, considering the terms of the bounty.

The term “Eliminate any opposition” would be her judgement call—and solely hers—in the field. She had made a pledge to herself that in these assignments, her sword would only take a life if her own was threatened. She was not an assassin. She was a tracker and a retrieval specialist.

Accepting this commission would see to the many needs of their church. The piano would finally be tuned, and the roof fully repaired in time for next winter. There could even be some money in the coffer for a garden. Meals for the poor.

Her fingers had already begun typing before her eyes returned to the screen.

ASSIGNMENT ACCEPTED.

PLEASE FORWARD AVAILABLE IMAGE OF TARGET.

WILL LEAVE IMMEDIATELY FOR N.C. ON DELIVERY.

Van's thoughts scattered when the signal returned to red. She flipped the switch underneath, and the display began to assemble itself, line by line. In an hour's time she would have the face of her latest assignment. Even the telegraph could not offer that.

As the image assembled itself, she would have plenty of time to pack for an unexpected journey south. Van connected two more leads, and flipped a switch that would provide a printed copy of her screen once the image finished its travel through the æther. She turned towards the wall to the left of the machine and gave a section of its moulding a gentle push. The top half of the wall slid away, revealing several rifles and handguns. After a moment's consideration, she took down the quad-barrelled Winchester-Henry-Armstrong 1892, and felt the weight in her hands. Stopping power and distance were guaranteed, provided the target's weight was not an issue.

Van propped the '92 up against the wall and looked over the handgun options in front of her. Her fingers ran along the edges of a wide, rosewood case. She tapped the sides of the box, wondering if these would be needed.

Apprehending of target alive is the top priority,
she recalled from the message.
Eliminate any opposition.
The House of Usher wanted this target with no expense spared. The order was brief, but told her so much. There was no suspicion of opposition. It would happen. Without question.

Van pulled the box free of the wall case and flipped open its brass latches. The pair of .38 Smith & Wesson revolvers within duly reflected the lantern light. She had not picked up either pistol yet, but the wooden grip under her brushing fingertips felt warm, as if expecting her touch.

Closing the lid to the case and then hefting the rifle free from the wall, Van ascended the staircase, her speech to Everett already prepared. Two weeks. She'd only be away two weeks. Three weeks, at the most. For that amount of time, she would be able to do so much good for the church and their little town. Even her stoic partner would see that. The reappearance of the House of Usher could provide a welcomed windfall, and a gift from above.

Van had to keep the faith that was why the House of Usher had returned to America. She didn't dare contemplate the other possibility.