The Transference Engine Read Free

gaze in gratitude, something Romany men did not do with a gorgí female, or even one of their own females unless she was a wife or a sister.
    â€œI know what it is to have violently angry men on my trail. I could do nothing less.” I’d also seen more than enough needless death. The demise of an entire clan would have fueled a drunken vicomte’s necromancy for a year or more. “I had to warn you. Not one of you would be left alive if I didn’t.”
    â€œThat’s a risk you didn’t have to take.”
    Yes, I did
. For reasons I’d not tell him. “Still I thank you for letting me observe from your balloon this morning.”
    Up here, one thousand feet above civilization, the air was fresh and crisp; the golden light of early morning clear and sharp. None of the smells of too many people crowded into too small a space penetrated my sensitized nose. The smoke of tens of thousands of coal fires lay like a pall over the rooftops with only an occasional church spire rising toward heaven, giving a hopeful pathway for all the prayers of people trapped below.
    Steam-powered engines lightened the burdens of life, giving us many advances in transportation, communication, and household appliances. But the burning coal needed to convert ordinary water into steam left behind a filthy residue.
    Below us, the city sprawled in unruly lines and clumps, blurred by smoke. The dome of St. Paul’s stood out from the jumble of London, one of a few distinctive landmarks. But once I’d anchored my sense of direction in the eternal symbol of solidity, permanence, and hope, my eyes pushed aside the pall and found other familiar places. Tower Bridge, Westminster, Piccadilly Circus. The winds pushed us west and north, following the Thames, the heart vein of transportation and commerce of southern England.
    â€œThere be Windsor, Miz Elise,” Jimmy pointed upriver. Farther than I wanted to go.
    I winced at his use of my original name. Jimmy had known me too long. But he was useful as a pilot when I needed one, as a friend and go-between with his family of Romany spread across the entire island and half the continent.
    Since Miss Ada Byron had married, I’d transformed myself into a new personality (not with Lord Byron’s dreaded transference engine, merely a new name, a new attitude, and a new wardrobe). No more the drab, respectful governess.
    Jimmy’s people had helped me protect Miss Ada many times over the last decade—more of their perceived debt to me, which they had extended to my pupil. They also kept me apprised of necromancers taking up residence in ruined castles, and scientists moving their experiments away from the ethical and moral strictures of Oxford and Cambridge.
    â€œDeploy the ailerons, Jimmy. I need to circle the city,” I said.
    â€œBe prettier out here,” he replied, not moving his hand to the brass lever near the ring joining the firebox to the envelope. He drew in a long breath of the clear country air smelling of freshly tilled fields, trees leafing out, and meadow flowers. I mimicked his inhalation and appreciated why he wanted to linger, drifting aimlessly with the breeze.
    â€œThis is important, Jimmy. I love the green land as much as you do. I love the freedom of the roving life that you have transferred to roaming the skies. But I need to see the patterns of movement through the city. I have heard rumors. Possibly of violence at the queen’s coronation. My visions have confirmed them. I need to
know
which malevolent force drives those rumors. Or if my visions are failing me.”
    We spoke in Romany. Most of Jimmy’s country accent disappeared in his native language. He even spoke correctly . . . mostly.
    â€œAye, Miss Elise. I feels it, too. Something wicked stirs the air and the people. I’ll get you as low as I dare.” He flashed me a cheeky grin as he engaged the lever that sent semi-rigid folds of silk