Time's Mistress Read Free Page B

wandered down toward the river, and then hailed a hansom cab to take him the rest of the way to Greenwich. He would be early but that didn’t matter. It would give him time to study the arachnoid. The ride was unpleasant, the iron-rimmed wheels seeming to hit every crater in the road as they clattered toward the glass house of the Mechanicum.
    Josiah lay back in the leather banquette, folding his arms behind his head. The driver lashed the horse on with cries of “Hie!” and slowed her with an occasional “Whoa, girl!”
    Josiah listened to the steady clip-clop of the hooves on the cobbles, letting the sound lull him. He spent the short ride thinking through what he knew: the Mechanicum, scholars of machine, cog and motor, were promising to show their ultimate creation to the world, but had chosen not to do it amid the fife and drum of the World Fair where so many other grand creations were being unveiled. Why? What could be their motivation? No doubt it bore some relationship to the long running argument with the Aesthetics.
    He took out his time piece; all would be revealed in little over four hours.
    Crowds were already in place, he saw, clambering out of the cab. He paid the driver, tipping him well in return for the promise to return to collect him after all of the pomp and circumstance was over. The driver, a hunch-backed, thin-faced, pock-marked man tipped the brim of his cap and assured Josiah he would meet him in the alleyway behind the observatory in six hours.
    Josiah saw a few familiar faces in the crowd, Dorian Carruthers stood beside his latest fling, wrapped up against the elements and flapping his arms to keep the blood circulating. The woman on his arm was some elfin-faced doyen of the theatre world Bloome half-recognised. No doubt she was treading the West End boards in some production or other; unlike some, he didn’t keep up with the comings and goings in The Stage. He tried not to stare, but she was beautiful, and the way she met his gaze suggested she rather enjoyed the attention of his eyes.
    “Fancy seeing you here, old man,” Carruthers said, stepping away from the actress to pump his hand.
    “Seems like a whole lot of fuss for nothing,” Bloome said, looking beyond him at the glass construction: the Palace of Illusion.
    “But isn’t that always the way? Still, one can’t help but wonder what the mad scientists have up their sleeve,” he cocked an eyebrow toward the building behind him. In daylight it was a spectacular thing to be sure, but after the mystery of the night, seeing it so bold and lit up seemed almost to diminish it. Beyond the throng Josiah saw a number of men identically costumed in immaculately tailored Savile Row suits, great coats and top hats, he counted thirteen in all: the gentlemen of the Mechanicum. It was no surprise that they would choose to match the precision of their machines with their dress. They were identical down to the smallest detail, taking the similarity to the extremes with the neat trim of their facial hair. He recognised a few of them from back in the day when they had called him brother, but others were new. Bloome wanted to laugh at the preposterousness of it all, but there was something almost fascistic about the regimented appearance that placed a chill in his heart. It was decidedly fascistic, in truth. There was no individuality or uniqueness to it, as though the scientists were saying look at us, we are all the same, built from the same building blocks.
    A hush fell over the throng as one of the Magisters raised his hands. Behind him the Palace of Illusion opened. The London fog supplemented the magic perfectly, reinforcing Josiah’s notion that the Mechanicum had somehow conjured it for their own nefarious purposes.
    “Welcome to our little show,” the man said, his voice carrying easily across the heads of the crowd. “Consider this a glimpse of the world to come. Please, enter two by two, side by side, so to speak, and gaze upon the