The Transference Engine Read Free Page A

outward and tacked back to the city, much as a sailboat would move against the wind. “Used fog gray for the envelope just so we’d stay invisible a bit longer.” A true Romany at heart, flamboyant and audacious when needed, equally quiet and hidden when skirting the law and distrustful
gorgí
.
    He really was attractive in his slender, olive-skinned, and dark-eyed way. Alas, he was much too young for me, and though his tribe respected me for my visions and thanked me for my help, I was
gorgí
: an outsider, forbidden to touch.
    â€œRomany know how to hide.” I returned his grin, grateful for the lessons they’d taught me.
    We drifted back over the city, taking in more of the dark, poverty-stricken jungle of Southwark, south of the river. Evil could hide in the open streets and opulent houses on the north side just as easily as in the tenements. Armed military men were reluctant to enter Southwark. Criminals lived openly there, protected by neighbors who closed in on themselves like any impoverished ghetto. The military might of the country was put to better use protecting our new queen, young and beautiful Victoria. I had my own ways of making sure her upcoming coronation occurred on time, without the blemish of an assassination attempt.
    It would be an attempt only. My enemies would use it as a diversion for other nefarious activities.
    â€œThere, Jimmy!” I pointed to a dark object hovering in the lee of St. Paul’s.
    Another balloon. Black envelope, black basket, seemingly empty.
    â€œHovers, it does,” Jimmy said quietly on a long exhale. “Balloons need to move, flow with the air which is never still.”
    I dropped a single magnifier over my flying goggles. The black basket jumped into sharper detail. Not a lot of room between the rim and the firebox.
    Then a long telescope snaked out over the edge and pointed down. Whoever was in there looked at individuals, not large patterns.
    â€œPointing that thing toward Trafalgar Square, they be,” Jimmy muttered.
    His young eyes were better than mine. I hated admitting that I needed spectacles.
    â€œWhat is there? Besides a monument to a beloved but fallen admiral and his mighty victory over the French.”
    A memorial to the dead. Necromancers needed death to fuel their magic.
    And then the light patterns shifted, and I spotted the glint of sunlight on a brass circular opening in the bottom corner of the basket. A musket barrel? Or a small cannon? Aimed directly at Westminster Abbey where the coronation would take place in a matter of three weeks.
    We descended rapidly, away from that black monster.

    By the time I got to the Abbey and the Parliament buildings, all was normal and the black balloon had disappeared. I could neither see nor smell anything out of the ordinary. If Jimmy hadn’t corroborated my view of the situation, I might think I’d dreamed it.
    So I returned to my home amid the morning bustle along Charing Cross Road.
    â€œThat’s Madame Magdala,” a stout woman dressed in black from bonnet to boots to lace parasol whispered, (a widow of minor means, I guessed from the classic cut of her gown that would take time to go out of style), jabbing her younger companion in the ribs with that wicked parasol. I wondered if she could extend the tip into a knife. I knew I wasn’t the only woman in London who’d purchased such an instrument from
Georges’ Emporium of Fine Imported Lace
. “She may be a widow and allowed some leeway in propriety, but she takes it too far.” The woman in black sniffed in disdain.
    â€œThe natural daughter of the Gypsy king?” asked the slight woman in awe. She wore a traveling gown in dark green, a fashion at least two years out of date. Must be the daughter, goddaughter, or niece of the widow, down from the country for the coronation—and the opportunity to meet an eligible man.
    The girl continued in a whisper, “I heard that