Wrong on both counts.
Imogen realized she’d been huddling under her paltry parasol in front of Mr. Murdoch’s wagon, frowning into the rain, and she hurried off toward her own car, although she had no idea what she would do there. Abilene was a nice girl, to be sure, but a simple soul with interests running to embroidery and the collecting of out-of-date fashion books. And Imogen herself had little to do, considering she had hollowed out all of her books to house the butterflies. Perhaps some other carnivalleros were keeping dry in the dining car?
But no. That door was locked. The cooks must have had rules about people mucking around and begging scraps between meals. As she stood there, she felt something tug her boot lace and gave a screech. She danced back and found her first adorably bewhiskered specimen of Oryctolagus cuniculus sanguinis, or the common European bludbunny.
“Oh, hello, specimen,” she said, leaning down to look at the sodden thing. It was the tan of caramel and would surely have been fluffy and soft if not for the fact that it was soaked to the bone, muddy, and a bit blood-spattered about the mouth.
It looked at her with bright red eyes and lunged for her boot again. She kicked it lightly, but it just rolled over and came for her with a hiss.
“Allow me to remove that inconvenience for you, Madam Morpho.”
She looked up from under her parasol to find Criminy Stain himself, hair streaming and cravat undone, waiting in the rain. Here, more so than in his wagon, she could see the Bludman shining through. If the wild eyes and pointy smile weren’t enough to convince her, the way he picked up the bunny by the ears and twisted its neck with a pop told her all she needed to know about the difference between their species.
He fished a bit of string out of his waistcoat and tied it around the rabbit’s back feet before hooking the string over the dining car’s doorknob.
“Don’t look so horrified,” he said with a chuckle. “My own wife nearly yarked, first time she saw me do that. Now she knows better. It’s one more bite of stew for everyone and a little less work for Cook. Besides”—he stepped close, cocking his head at her, and she watched the water droplets roll off the sharp planes of his face—“I think you’re too intelligent and practical a woman to start feeling sorry for bloodsuckers.”
“I have not had the privilege of observing the bludbunny in its native environment before,” she said, bending over to pull back the rabbit’s lips and reveal the cunningly hidden fangs within. “And yet, even in the university’s labs, they couldn’t be tamed. One of my fellows, specializing in the sanguinis mutations, even went so far as to remove all of a bludbunny’s teeth. The vicious little monster still attacked everything that moved and could gum one’s finger hard enough to cause a bruise.”
“Are you finding life outside of the city frightening, then?” he asked politely, and it was her turn to chuckle ruefully.
“The only thing that frightens me is that my past will hunt me down and drag me back,” she said. “I would imagine you’ve heard?”
He grinned. “There aren’t many cut out for caravan life, my girl. Most of those who stick around are running away from something or other. We’re a band of misfits, but we protect our own.”
“I don’t want to cause any problems for you.”
“Piffle. Problems are strictly forbidden in my caravan. How did you find our Mr. Murdoch?”
“The man is peculiar, indeed.” She fiddled with the bludbunny’s claws. “But his improvements on the original design of my butterfly circus are rather brilliant. Tell me, is it true that no one has been in his wagon besides you and Vil?”
With a knowing smile, Criminy held out his rain-sodden arm, and she gently placed the fingertips of her glove in the appropriate place and allowed him to lead her. Her parasol didn’t quite cover him, but he didn’t seem to mind. Although she had been raised to fear Bludmen and had never actually touched one before, she found his company oddly soothing.
“As far as I know it, that’s correct,” he said, “but Mr. Murdoch keeps his deepest mysteries hidden even from me. He’s the only carnivallero on whom my wife, Letitia, hasn’t glanced, mainly because I’ve never met a finer hand with clockworks and can’t bear to lose him. He never comes outside, and no one but Vil ever goes in. They arrived on my doorstep together, and there’s not a loose lip among them. I’m surprised he hasn’t turned blind like a cavefish by now.”
“No, he’s actually rather sunny,” she said without thinking, and he threw back his head and laughed.
They were at her wagon now, and she sighed in resignation. Her first real day out of London, and there was nothing to see but rain and mutated rabbits. She didn’t want to go inside, trapped again between windowless walls.
“I’ve taken the liberty of leaving some books in your hallway,” Criminy said with a bow. “You struck me as a thinking woman who might need a little escape. Just stay inside and away from prying eyes and sharp teeth, eh?”
“Thank you, Master Stain,” she said, squeezing his arm before opening her door. “I don’t know why you’re being so kind to me, but I really do appreciate it.”
“ ‘There are more things in heaven and earth . . . than are dreamt of in your philosophy,’ ” he said. “And a man knows when he’s got to do exactly what his wife says, or else.”
With one last charming grin, he bowed and strode off into the rain, disappearing into the haze of the hills as if out for a walk on the most lovely of summer days. Neatly stacked by her door, she found four novels, all of them racy pulp romances that had been forbidden first in her father’s house and then at university and the drudgery beyond. With her own wicked grin, she grabbed them all and retired to her room to read the first one straight through in blissful, fascinated silence as her boots dried by the fire.
7
She stood before her mirror the next morning while everyone else was at breakfast. Emerlie had been a little too nosy at dinner the night before, and Imogen wished to avoid dancing the dance of polite society and pleasant lies. She had taken extra care getting ready, selecting a small hat and fitted sleeves that wouldn’t get in the way too much while working, although she still wasn’t sure how she could help the mechanist with his more complicated plans. Folding and gluing paper she could do; welding metal was beyond her. She glanced up and down in the cloudy mirror, tugging at her blouse. Her costume was as plain as a Londoner could get—a simple blouse, skirt, and long jacket over the requisite corset, and she had never bothered with the aggressive face paint other women so favored. The ink stain was still on her wrist, of course.
Bugger it all, it would have to do. Why was she trying to impress him, anyway? They were partners. The kiss had been some silliness, probably as much of an experiment for him as for her. What a strange place caravans must be, if people found themselves kissing right after meeting! Shaking her head at her own silliness, she tugged down her sleeve and marched through the mud around the wagons to knock at his door before she lost her nerve.
“Come in,” he called, and she stepped in to find him standing in shirt and trousers before the jagged, dull gray beginnings of the butterfly circus. From the looks of it, he had been working all night.
She stared at her clasped hands, fighting a blush. “I can come back when you’re dressed.”
“I’m dressed enough for my own wagon, I hope. You’ll find that things are different in the caravan. Not that I cared about following popular beliefs even when I lived in the city.”
She cleared her throat. “I know that, as a female scholar, I can’t really argue propriety, but at least put on your boots. I can see one of your toes, for the love of heaven!”
“Bother my toes, and bugger propriety. There is nothing wrong with toes, nor with seeking knowledge, regardless of your gender. I don’t think your intelligence any less moral or useful than my own. I have always had a way with metal, an ability to bring it to life that many consider unnatural. I don’t necessarily understand how or why I came to such a prodigal talent, but I’m glad for it, and it’s a part of me. Don’t you feel that way about your mind?”
Her hands flew to her hat, smoothing the wisps of hair that had escaped it. “You wish to discuss philosophy and my dangerous past?”
“Oh, do take off your hat,” he said. “You’re perfectly safe in here, and I’m sure that’s got to be beastly uncomfortable.”
“Mr. Murdoch, are you being fresh?”
“I’m being practical.”
“This is the smallest hat I own.”
“Precisely.”
With a sigh of long suffering, she turned back to the ornate oval mirror by the door and unbuttoned the collar connecting her hat to her jacket. He took the little topper from her and whisked it away to the octopus coat rack. Her hair, of course, was tightly bunned, just the right shape to fit within the hat, and she sheepishly tucked a few strands behind her ears. It did feel nice, the air on her neck. And it would be easier to work without the hat brim bumping into things. But he was looking at her with such intensity that she had to take a step back.
“I had been betting myself that your hair was red, fiery as you are.”
“Brown,” she shot back. “Sorry to disappoint.”
“But a nice, spicy, cinnamon brown.”
“You will find, Mr. Murdoch, that I am much like my charges. The bright butterflies get all the press, but the great majority of them are dull brown with barely an eye spot to differentiate them.”
She arranged her collar, partly dreading his response. True, she didn’t take pains to showcase her beauty. But every woman liked to think herself as beautiful and magical as a glimmering Blue Morpho butterfly, even if she was still in pupa stage and waiting to bloom into a dull brown moth. When he didn’t immediately offer a small compliment, she hated herself for blushing and wished for the thousandth time that her eyes were a more interesting shade of brown.