There Will Be Phlogiston Read online

  They hurt a lot.

  And she hated it. She wanted to be angry. It would have felt so much better to be angry. A cold blue flame burning inside her, keeping her safe and untouchable, instead of what she was, which was small and pathetic, and on the verge of tears.

  As she was making her way back to her room—comporting herself with the composure that befitted a lady—a footman approached her with a letter. She had not seen the rough, bold scrawl before, but she recognised it nevertheless. She knew only one man who would write so carelessly. Who wouldn’t realise his hand presented him as vulgar, untutored, and practically illiterate. Someone to be despised.

  All it said was: Come riding with me tomorrow—AJ.

  She had declined his calling card. (He had kissed her at a ball.) She had no place accepting his invitation. But accepting the invitation of an unsuitable man would make her feel strong—wilful, as her father had claimed—in a way that crying in her room most certainly would not.

  It was an act, of course. But what else did she have?

  So she said yes.

  It was only Anstruther Jones, but she wore her favourite riding habit anyway. It was navy cashmere, with an elongated jacket one shade lighter, fitted tight to the waist and flaring over the hips. It was trimmed in the military style, in dark-blue silk, and it made her feel . . . wonderful. Invincible.

  At the appointed time, she settled her top hat over her hair, tucked her cane under her arm, and swept downstairs to meet Jones. He was waiting for her in the courtyard with two horses, one a soft-eyed bay, no doubt suitable for a lady, and the other . . .

  “Oh!” She could not quite hold back her shock, her joy. “You bought her?”

  Jones grinned, broad and ridiculous. “Aye. Xanthos is her name.”

  Xanthos. The golden horse from the Clockwork Circus. She gave a whinny of something that might have been recognition, and Rosamond reached up to stroke her neck, a gloved hand gliding over that strange, unnatural patchwork of metal and flesh. Surely she should have been sickened, or at the very least apprehensive. She had, after all, seen this animal tear a man’s arm from his body. But she wasn’t. She simply wasn’t.

  Maybe it was because she was strange and unnatural too.

  “She can be ridden?” she asked.

  “Not by me she can’t,” returned Jones, laughing. “I wouldn’t dare.”

  What a peculiar man he was. Rosamond cast him a rather scornful look. “You’re frightened of horses?”

  “I wouldn’t say frightened. There aren’t very many of them in the undercity or up in the blue.”

  “Do you mean to tell me, sir, you expect me to ride her? Are you not even the slightest bit concerned I may be unable to control her? That I could suffer some fall or fright or injury?”

  He shrugged. “Are you?”

  Rosamond knew herself to be an excellent horsewoman. It was the only one of her accomplishments from which she derived any pleasure. “No.”

  “Then why would I be?”

  She was sure there was an obvious retort, but she was unable to work out what it might be. “Help me up,” she said, instead.

  He cupped his hands for her and lifted her easily into the saddle. Xanthos stood steady. Oddly calm for a creature that reeked of blood and oil and burned hot beneath her. She gathered up the reins and pressed her leg against the animal’s side, urging her to move. And, to Rosamond’s surprise, she did.

  It was like, and not like, riding a living horse. The motion was similar, but the sense of power was greater. She felt not the tightening of muscle, but the shift of metal parts, the creak of clockwork and the pulse of pistons.

  Extraordinary. Quite extraordinary.

  It made her almost want to laugh.

  Jones had mounted and come up—carefully—alongside. He did not look well in the saddle at all, hunched and awkward, bundled in his coat.

  She might have laughed at that, too, but she was moved by an impulse of benevolence, and didn’t.

  “Where are we going? To the park?”

  “How about Ashworth?”

  “Sir, one might think you wished to get me alone in some secluded woods.”

  “You’re riding a half-mechanical marvel that eats only raw flesh. I’m sitting on an elderly lady called Sandy. If anybody’s getting left on their own in the woods, it’s me.”

  And now she really did laugh. She couldn’t help herself. “But aren’t you ashamed?” The question slipped out before she could prevent it.

  “That I wasn’t born rich? That I didn’t grow up like you, or people like you? No.”

  There was no rebuke in his voice. If anything, it was as kind as she had ever heard it. But she blushed regardless. She had always known that she was better than some people, and not as good as others, but she had never before realised how arbitrary it was, the flimsy tissue of wealth and position and circumstance and history. She almost wanted to apologise, but that would have made her look weak. “What if I think less of you for it?”

  “You’ve already told me I’m not good enough for you.”

  “Well, it’s true.” It was meant to sound dignified, but it came out huffy.

  And made him smile again. (How white his teeth were in that sun-weathered face.) Damn him.

  They walked on in silence. Or, at least, as close to silence as they could manage with the clopping of hooves and the clanking of steel.

  People were staring at Rosamond. Moving hastily out of her way. It ought to have made her feel uncomfortable. It was not good attention. But she found she liked it. Knowing they were afraid of her and her monstrous steed.

  Though Anstruther Jones, apparently, was not.

  “Why are you so nice to me?” she heard herself say.

  Oh God, what was happening? What was she thinking?

  “Because I like you.”

  For some obscure reason, she was disappointed. She had somehow come to rely on the idea that he was not the sort of man to lie. “How . . . how can you possibly like me? I have been grossly unpleasant to you.”

  “You were honest. I liked that. I know you don’t want my money.”

  She was unsettled, not so much by him, but herself. But enough was enough. “On the contrary, I want your money very much. It’s you I wish to dispense with.” She tried to give him an arch look, but so much of his concentration was focused on his horse that he entirely missed it, which was a shame.

  “You didn’t seem to be dispensing with me that time you kissed me.”

  Oh, outrageous! She was going to tell him it had been a mistake—he certainly deserved to be told such a thing—but somehow she couldn’t bring herself to utter the lie. “Well, you have some facility in that area.”

  He laughed, and she thought about kissing him again. Feeling the shape of his smile against her mouth.

  “Tell me what else you like about me,” she said.

  “You’re spoiled,” he offered, after a moment, “proud, headstrong, stubborn, a little unkind.”

  “And this is why you like me?”

  “Yes.”

  “You are very blunt, sir.”

  “I am.”

  “And vulgar and uncouth.” And kind, and likerous, and strong and clever and and and . . . “I think I should like to gallop now. Do try to keep up.”

  They had reached the edge of the Ashworth Valley, a slender ribbon of green around which Gaslight sprawled black, grey, and brown. Sometimes Rosamond’s governesses had brought her here to practice her watercolours. She had only been permitted to paint the decorous scenes, the gentle slopes and the pretty hills, but she liked best the scarlet woods in autumn and the hidden waterfalls that thrashed between glistening black rocks.

  She urged her horse into an easy canter and from there faster, and faster still, until they were galloping, the world falling away beneath Xanthos’s long, hard strides. It was such a visceral thing, the way the wind bit at her cheeks and ruffled her skirts, the wild scattering of leaves in their wake, the crack of branche
s, and the jolting thud of hooves. Her heart leapt and her breath caught at the sheer, shocking speed.

  Not effortless, this power, not graceful, or beautiful. She could feel it gathering, working, struggling almost. The grate and grind of metal. The clicking of an artificial heart. And, just then, it didn’t seem like less, or imitation, or even limitation. It was triumph and freedom and hers.

  She was Prometheus. And this was stolen fire.

  Ever burning.

  She had no idea how long or how far they galloped. Xanthos was tireless, her steps unfaltering, her pace never slowing. It was Rosamond, in the end, who reined her in, and that was only because the path had grown too steep and narrow to be navigated so quickly.

  Excellent horsewoman, yes. Foolish, certainly not.

  They followed the grey-blue brook as it wound its way past abandoned paper mills and lumber factories, these moss-covered remnants of Gaslight’s fairly recent past. The light was silver-edged as it slid through the trees, spreading its dusty glister over the water. And, finally, there was the waterfall, smaller than she remembered, skittering restlessly over a haphazard pile of algae-slick stone, rushing past her in a flurry of silky white.

  She dismounted, looping the reins over an overhanging branch. Xanthos nuzzled at her with a rough, metal-bridged nose, and Rosamond stroked her, murmuring rather self-consciously about what a fine horse she was, so fast and strong and lovely. No matter what anyone else might think.

  Then embarrassment got the better of her, and she headed a little way upstream, looking for somewhere she would watch the waterfall and wait for Anstruther Jones. She realised she was glad she had never tried to paint this. Its beauty was in its motion, its transience, the fact that every moment belonged only to itself, and then was gone forever.

  She found a rocky ledge that was not too damp or dirty, and sat down on it, folding her skirts over her arm and tucking up her feet so that her boots didn’t get splashed. She was thinking about Jones and how strange it was to be liked for being unlikeable. For all the things she wasn’t supposed to be.

  It made rather a nonsense of her entire life.

  But, on the other hand, it felt so wickedly good, she could hardly resent it. And she wanted to be kissed again. For being Rosamond. By the uncouth, vulgar, horrible commoner who saw her.

  It was a good twenty minutes before Jones joined her on the rock. What she nearly said was I would like to be kissed now. But she just about managed to be rude instead. “You took your time.”

  “If it’s my pride or my neck, my neck is going to win every time. Enjoy your run?”

  Rudeness faltered in the face of undeniable gratitude. “Oh yes. She’s perfect. The best of horses. Thank you for . . . for . . . saving her. I can’t . . . That is . . . Thank you.”

  Good heavens, now she was blushing? How insanely infuriating. It was the last thing she wanted.

  Jones shrugged. “I did it for you. She’s yours.”

  “Sir, I couldn’t possibly.”

  “Don’t you want her?”

  Yes. “It wouldn’t be proper.”

  “Why not?”

  “A lady not does accept gifts from a gentleman who is not her husband or a member of her family. People would think I was your mistress.”

  He made the oddest sound, almost a laugh, but too sad. “Not you as well.”

  “I don’t understand.”

  “Me neither. People keep saying that to me.”

  She didn’t like the sound of that at all. “Why?” she asked, coldly. “Are you in the habit of giving inappropriate gifts to other ladies?”

  “No. No gifts.” Jones stared at the water, his eyes full of its reflections. “He was a friend.”

  Rosamond’s mind whirled. He? A friend?

  Then: Arkady told me.

  Memory snapped into place. Images in a fresh context. The way Lord Mercury’s eyes rarely strayed from Jones. The way they stood together, moved together, unspoken intimacy in all the spaces between them. Touching in all their nontouching.

  So why the fuck had he kissed her?

  She swallowed fury. Bitterness. Betrayal she surely had no right to feel.

  “Well.” She was proud of the steadiness of her voice. “You are one of those men who prefer men.”

  “Not prefer, no.”

  “What does that mean?”

  “It means up in the blue you don’t turn away love. However it comes.”

  “Even if it is wrong?”

  “How can love be wrong?”

  “Perhaps,” she snapped, “if one was kissing one person when one had already given one’s heart to another.”

  There was a long silence. Jones picked up a pebble and skimmed it across the stream: one, two, three, plop. “Arkady has never wanted my heart.”

  Rosamond scowled. She had intended to be very cross with him, and now she didn’t want to be. Couldn’t be. Not when he sounded so very . . . hurt. “Why ever not?”

  “He doesn’t believe a man can feel for a man the way a man can feel for a woman.” He glanced at her and grinned. “And don’t sound so surprised, sweet Ros. You don’t want my heart either.”

  “Lady Rosamond, if you please. And I have a sensible reason.”

  “What’s that, then?”

  “Well, there’s the fact you’re a commoner, and I am a lady. There’s my duty to my family. There’s . . . there’s . . . other things that are very important.”

  “And happiness?”

  “I’m sure I shall be terribly happy when I am a marchioness.”

  “I hope so. But I still think you’re making a mistake.”

  She stiffened. “Why is that?”

  “Because if you married me, you’d also get a carnivorous horse.”

  The mingling of their laughter felt strangely intimate. As natural as the splash of water over stone.

  “You’ll just have to take care of her for me.”

  “I will,” he said, grave again.

  They were quiet awhile, Rosamond tossing stones idly into the pool. After a moment or two, Jones passed her a handful of smooth, flat pebbles and showed her how to make them fly across the water. It was childish sport, but she found it satisfying and grew rather accomplished at it. Her greatest attainment was seven consecutive bounces, though Jones maintained it was six because the final one barely arced at all.

  “Why aren’t you frightened of anything?” It was something she had often privately wondered as she watched him (not that she watched him, most certainly she did not), but she had never imagined she might have the opportunity to discover his secret. She rather hoped it might be something simple. Something she could use herself.

  “Only madmen and monsters aren’t frightened of anything.”

  “But you don’t care what other people think.”

  “I care what some people think.” He glanced her way, eyes holding hers for a moment, unflinching. “I don’t want to be alone.”

  So she flinched for him. It was such a blunt, naked thing to say. “What do you mean?”

  “There hasn’t been much room in my life for companionship. I want to know what home feels like again.”

  Rosamond’s time had been spent mainly in Gaslight and a little bit at finishing school. “Does it feel like anything?”

  Jones nodded. “Yes. You always know.”

  She thought of her father’s house. Grandeur and the scent of roses. A library where nobody read now that her half brother had fled. “What’s it like?”

  “It’s been a long time. Not since I was a nipper, back when my mothers were still alive.”

  “Your mothers?”

  “Aye, whores both of them. Raised me right though. Never doubted love or happiness or what family meant till the dustlung took them.”

  Rosamond didn’t know what to say. All she could think of was, “I’m sorry,” but it seemed so hideously banal she barely saw the point of uttering it. The reality of his life was very distant just then, whoever and whatever had made him
who he was, this man who had come from nowhere and made a fortune from the sky. It was hard to imagine he had ever been young or uncertain. Harder still to understand the things that drove him, must have driven him still: ambition, loss, poverty. Things she had never known.

  She climbed off the rock and walked slowly away from the waterfall. The leaves turned under her feet, cracking like carapaces, fresh red flashing from beneath their dull-gold backs.

  She didn’t want to go home.

  Anstruther Jones fell into step beside her, hands in his pockets. “Did I do it after all?” he asked. “Make you think less of me?”

  She stopped, turned, closed the sliver of distance between them until she was flush to his body. Gazed into eyes softened by sunlight. “You should kiss me now.”

  “I should, eh?”

  “Yes, and also remove your coat.”

  His laugh was a little shaky. “Why?”

  “You should kiss me because I want you to kiss me, and you should remove your coat because I wish to see you in your shirtsleeves again.” Her lips felt a little dry, so she moistened them. “You have very pleasing arms.”

  The coat landed on the leaves with a flump. And his arms were even better than she had remembered, all the more so because she could admire them at her leisure, without fear of censure. Touch them even. She ran her fingers up to the crook of his elbow. The linen was soft, his forearms tough and sinewy beneath. She wondered what his skin would be like. Smooth, perhaps, on this side of his arm. Rough, hair-stippled on the other. “Will you kiss me after I am wed?”

  His eyes had closed beneath her touch. “I . . . I don’t know.”

  “Lots of married women have affaires.” She spanned her hands across his biceps, enjoying the reflexive tightening of muscle beneath her palms.

  “Aye, but—”

  “What? Or do you think I will belong to my husband then?”

  “I think you belong to nobody but you, and that I’ll want to kiss you until the day you die.”

  “Then why do you hesitate?”

  “Because I think it could hurt me, love. Because I think I’d want more than your kisses.”