There was a deep cut in his forehead, doubtless caused by the impact of the helmet with the rock. Its edge had a dent that must have bit into Romano's skin. There was a good deal of blood now that the metal hat had come off.
Fortunately Helen was untroubled by the sight of it, unlike most women or so she was told. Her mother had once bandaged up her father from a nasty wound caused by an eccentric family member, and thus thought it wise to prepare her children for such emergency duties. Attempts to get either of her parents to elaborate on that adventure had proved fruitless, though she often thought it might have been the mysterious cousin Rivers who had died in India.
Helen shook out her good handkerchief and applied it to the wound with some pressure. "Do you feel disoriented or faint?" She examined his eyes to see if his gaze wandered, but while they were slightly bloodshot, they did not seem dazed.
Romano said, "No, signorina, but it is rather painful. Here, let me hold that in place." He moved his hand up to the handkerchief and Helen leaned back to look at him more critically.
"Any other pains? Do you think you might have injured yourself elsewhere?"
Romano laughed gently, wincing a little. "No, my head softened the fall for me."
Helen smiled. While Romano might laugh in the face of danger, she was certain he could not be badly hurt. "Do you think you're ready to stand?"
He took her offered hand and staggered to his feet, the reddening handkerchief still sopping up most of the blood. "Look!" he cried, pointing at the dirigible.
Helen turned to see Tuppence perched on the rudder at the rear of the ship. The raven croaked now that it had an audience. Squinting, Helen looked closer. There was a rupture in the frame. "Looks like my bird found something." She looked at her pilot. "Perhaps that hole has something to do with our losing altitude."
Pietro peered where she was indicating. "How strange! I shall have to investigate, at least now I know where to start looking." He groaned a little, rubbing his head.
"You should sit down," Helen said in a voice that brooked no opposition. "I'll go get help."
The Italian shrugged. "It's not so bad. I can walk."
"Nonsense," Helen barked. "You will have to move too slowly. I can get back to the house and get some of the men together to carry the ship back and a horse for you. We need to have Doctor Ponsonby look at that cut on your head."
"Per favore, it's nothing. A little alcohol to clean it and voilà."
Helen chuckled at his mosaic of languages. "Nonetheless, we should have your head examined, as we say. My pilot must be in tip top shape."
Pietro sighed. "And your airship, too. We must put off the voyage until we are certain it is safe."
Helen blinked. "What? Nonsense! I intend to keep to our timetable."
"But signorina—"
"I intend to keep to our timetable, Signore Romano." Helen's voice was not loud but there was little doubt of her resolve.
Romano sighed then looked startled. "Who's that?" he cried pointing at a rider on an immense black horse who was rapidly approaching.
Sunday, October 31, 2010
Sunday, October 24, 2010
1.2
Helen tore at the ropes with fumbling fingers. How could they have gotten so tight so quickly! With effort she finally pried her finger into the midst of the knot and loosened the bonds. Must remember to invent a knot for quick release, she thought, or some kind of device to keep passengers safe in rough landings.
"Signore!" Helen heard no responding call. Making her way between the detritus that now filled the gondola, Helen looked around her quickly at the rough face of the moor. Romano was nowhere to be seen.
She gazed with dismay at the smashed bow of the gondola. The impact had been enough to splinter some of the wood. The control panel, however, seemed sound, though the shrieks of the motors were still indicating some difficulty. That would be easy enough to repair given Romano's facility with gears -- assuming he had survived the crash, she added grimly.
The envelope seemed to be continuing to lose loft. The guide ropes were slack. That was a much bigger problem. One problem at a time, she scolded herself. "Romano?"
A groan came off to her left. Helen crossed over the edge of the gondola, sat on the wooden frame, grabbed her voluminous skirts with one hand and maneuvered her feet over it to drop to the ground. Curse, these hideous fashions for women! Madame Sand had the right idea. If it weren't for her mother, Helen might well don breeches as well. Surely they were much more practical for this kind of endeavour.
"Romano!" she cried again, this time answered by another groan that seemed to come from beyond an outcropping of limestone. She bustled over. Her pilot and engineer lay on the ground, holding the helmet, which now had a large dent in it.
"You're alive," Helen said, stooping to take a closer look at the Italian. "Any broken bones?"
"No, no," he said at last, "but this helmet! I can't get it off. Prego, signorina."
Helen gripped the edge of the helmet and gave it a pull, but the thing wouldn't immediately budge. "Did you hit the rock?"
"Yes, I think so. It all happened so quickly." A trickle of blood ran down his forehead and he tried to blink it away.
Helen felt alarm at the sight, but redoubled her determination. Taking a better hold of the helmet, she leaned back and tugged as hard as she could and suddenly it popped off.
Blood, as she would be reminded later, proved to be a good lubricant.
"Signore!" Helen heard no responding call. Making her way between the detritus that now filled the gondola, Helen looked around her quickly at the rough face of the moor. Romano was nowhere to be seen.
She gazed with dismay at the smashed bow of the gondola. The impact had been enough to splinter some of the wood. The control panel, however, seemed sound, though the shrieks of the motors were still indicating some difficulty. That would be easy enough to repair given Romano's facility with gears -- assuming he had survived the crash, she added grimly.
The envelope seemed to be continuing to lose loft. The guide ropes were slack. That was a much bigger problem. One problem at a time, she scolded herself. "Romano?"
A groan came off to her left. Helen crossed over the edge of the gondola, sat on the wooden frame, grabbed her voluminous skirts with one hand and maneuvered her feet over it to drop to the ground. Curse, these hideous fashions for women! Madame Sand had the right idea. If it weren't for her mother, Helen might well don breeches as well. Surely they were much more practical for this kind of endeavour.
"Romano!" she cried again, this time answered by another groan that seemed to come from beyond an outcropping of limestone. She bustled over. Her pilot and engineer lay on the ground, holding the helmet, which now had a large dent in it.
"You're alive," Helen said, stooping to take a closer look at the Italian. "Any broken bones?"
"No, no," he said at last, "but this helmet! I can't get it off. Prego, signorina."
Helen gripped the edge of the helmet and gave it a pull, but the thing wouldn't immediately budge. "Did you hit the rock?"
"Yes, I think so. It all happened so quickly." A trickle of blood ran down his forehead and he tried to blink it away.
Helen felt alarm at the sight, but redoubled her determination. Taking a better hold of the helmet, she leaned back and tugged as hard as she could and suddenly it popped off.
Blood, as she would be reminded later, proved to be a good lubricant.
Sunday, October 17, 2010
Airships & Alchemy 1.1
Yes, at last -- the new serial begins! I should also mention 'Kit Marlowe's' first publication, the Jazz Age novella The Big Splash is available from Noble Romance. Try it! And now without further ado, the steampunk-themed tale of intrigue and mysteries!
Helen Rochester ripped the goggles from her eyes and gaped at the controls. "Signore Romano, why are we losing altitude?"
The Italian whirred the wheel around with haste, grabbing for a lever above it. "I am not certain, signorina. Everything appears to be in order, I cannot explain --"
"Well, do something!" Helen leaned over the side of the gondola. The moors were yet a comfortable distance away, but this would not remain so if they continued to drop as they were. It was as if some kind of weight had landed upon them. "We're going to be upon Cringle in no time."
Pietro continued to frantically check the dials and wiggle the levers, but the airship dropped inevitably lower. Helen did her best to quash the fury that began to rise in her breast and instead listened carefully to the engines. They were chugging along as usual.
Helen's scrutiny was interrupted by a flurry of black feathers as a large raven perched on the side of the gondola and began croaking at her as if issuing orders from Odin himself. "Tuppence!" Helen cried, her irritation plain, "If you can't do anything useful, do get out of my way."
The raven continued to croak at her, flapping its wings to keep its balance on the edge of the frame. Helen looked more carefully at the bird. "Did you see anything up there? Can you see anything?"
Pietro looked up from the flight controls, a look of alarm on his face. "The raven -- she is a bad omen!"
"Stuff and nonsense," Helen said, watching the great black bird rose aloft to fly over the craft. "I've had Tuppence since I was a child. My father claims the ravens have always favoured our family. He had a pair of them when he was a boy, too." She looked over at her engineer, who did not seem comforted by this family history. "They are connected with royalty in this land, Signore. We are proud of our ravens."
Pietro did not seem immediately convinced, but that may have been because he had caught sight of Cringle Moor and Round Hill looming ahead of them as they continued to sink ever lower. "Signorina! You must make yourself safe. We cannot possibly ascend quickly enough to avoid the hills. Please!"
Helen pursed her lips, but had to admit he was correct. She grabbed the goggled that hung around her neck and put them back over her eyes. With staggering steps, for the airship's downward trajectory had begun to pick up speed, she fought her way back to the seat at the back of the gondola and used the rope to tie herself into it.
Pietro strapped a metallic hat on and wrapped goggles around his head as well. In the distance, Helen could hear the raven croaking yet, but its message -- whatever it might be -- was no use to them now as the ground rose to meet their ship. They braced as well as they could for the impact with the harsh limestone of the moor, but there was no way to really prepare.
The gondola made a horrible bounce upon contact and Helen gritted her teeth as the ship continued to make its ragged progress forward until banging against a cliff, the forward motion stopped and they floated downward to finally come to rest.
But where was Romano?!
Helen Rochester ripped the goggles from her eyes and gaped at the controls. "Signore Romano, why are we losing altitude?"
The Italian whirred the wheel around with haste, grabbing for a lever above it. "I am not certain, signorina. Everything appears to be in order, I cannot explain --"
"Well, do something!" Helen leaned over the side of the gondola. The moors were yet a comfortable distance away, but this would not remain so if they continued to drop as they were. It was as if some kind of weight had landed upon them. "We're going to be upon Cringle in no time."
Pietro continued to frantically check the dials and wiggle the levers, but the airship dropped inevitably lower. Helen did her best to quash the fury that began to rise in her breast and instead listened carefully to the engines. They were chugging along as usual.
Helen's scrutiny was interrupted by a flurry of black feathers as a large raven perched on the side of the gondola and began croaking at her as if issuing orders from Odin himself. "Tuppence!" Helen cried, her irritation plain, "If you can't do anything useful, do get out of my way."
The raven continued to croak at her, flapping its wings to keep its balance on the edge of the frame. Helen looked more carefully at the bird. "Did you see anything up there? Can you see anything?"
Pietro looked up from the flight controls, a look of alarm on his face. "The raven -- she is a bad omen!"
"Stuff and nonsense," Helen said, watching the great black bird rose aloft to fly over the craft. "I've had Tuppence since I was a child. My father claims the ravens have always favoured our family. He had a pair of them when he was a boy, too." She looked over at her engineer, who did not seem comforted by this family history. "They are connected with royalty in this land, Signore. We are proud of our ravens."
Pietro did not seem immediately convinced, but that may have been because he had caught sight of Cringle Moor and Round Hill looming ahead of them as they continued to sink ever lower. "Signorina! You must make yourself safe. We cannot possibly ascend quickly enough to avoid the hills. Please!"
Helen pursed her lips, but had to admit he was correct. She grabbed the goggled that hung around her neck and put them back over her eyes. With staggering steps, for the airship's downward trajectory had begun to pick up speed, she fought her way back to the seat at the back of the gondola and used the rope to tie herself into it.
Pietro strapped a metallic hat on and wrapped goggles around his head as well. In the distance, Helen could hear the raven croaking yet, but its message -- whatever it might be -- was no use to them now as the ground rose to meet their ship. They braced as well as they could for the impact with the harsh limestone of the moor, but there was no way to really prepare.
The gondola made a horrible bounce upon contact and Helen gritted her teeth as the ship continued to make its ragged progress forward until banging against a cliff, the forward motion stopped and they floated downward to finally come to rest.
But where was Romano?!
Sunday, August 08, 2010
The Good News
Tease Publishing is going to release The Mangrove Legacy this November or December. Initially it will be an ebook, though there is the possibility of a print release if sales are brisk enough. Of course that means that I will not be able to post the end of the story here, but for long time readers, I will happily send you the final chapters to tide you over until that time. The book will appear under the byline "Kit Marlowe" which is the name I will be using for stories that fall in the romance genre. Stephanie Johnson has created this lovely portrait for my nom de plume, a combination of vintage fashions and my own puss.
This also means a new serial! I'm going to take off the rest of August to contemplate the possibilities (and attend to a few other pressing matters) but I will be interested to hear what you would like to see: more Gothic? Regency? Victorian? Steam punk? Modern? I just don't know! At this point I am undecided -- take the opportunity to sway me :-)
Sunday, August 01, 2010
19.5
Alice could not stifle the laughter that bubbled forth from her lips. In fact, the exquisite tension of the perilous journey from her room to this spot gave power to the merriment and her chortles took wing and grew very swiftly into guffaws, which made her clutch her middle because of their force. It had been many a year since the carefree young woman had laughed quite that hard and it made Alice quite giddy.
From the floor below, Judith extricated herself from the sputtering kidnapper with as much decorum and dignity as she could manage. She seemed puzzled to see his arm pass through her skirts without effect, but drew herself up to her full height once more, the better to express her disapprobation.
"You, sir," Miss Wychwood said with a strong tremor of emotion, "are no gentleman."
The fellow in question, however, seemed to take no notice of her severity, continuing to mutter nearly inaudibly and pat the parquet around him in search of something. "The fiend seize it! If I have lost my sliver of Edmund's tree—"
A strange sensation seized Alice. Her body went rigid. A flush painted her cheeks. I know that voice! She hurried down the steps toward the figure on the floor and the bewildered Miss Wychwood and snatched the kerchief from the man without the slightest blink of fear.
"I knew I recognised that voice!" Alice announced with triumph.
Arthur Boylett cowered back in surprise. "Miss Mangrove, I—I—" but there he stopped for Miss Mangrove had never looked so very much like her mother, though towering at least a good half a foot higher, which made her a rather imposing figure indeed.
Alice had never imagined herself to be capable of so much indignation. It flared through her veins like a fire, as if she had swallowed a large spoonful of laudanum, the sort Miss Travers used to give her on particularly warm summer afternoons when they had both gravitated toward a internecine peevishness that had no outlet in propriety. "Arthur Boylett, I demand you tell me what on earth you have been doing! Deceiving me! Holding me captive—and with what possible purpose?!"
Miss Wychwood's face shone with admiration for her friend and she, too, rounded on the would-be kidnapper. "You mountebank! How dare you treat the lovely Miss Mangrove with such roughness and ill-will! I am shocked and appalled by your inconsiderate behaviour." The latter phrase gave the young insubstantial woman a real sensation of quickness and she appeared to grow a trifle more tangible.
For his part, Arthur had continued in vain to locate the lost saint's relic—a sliver of wood upon a wood floor after all being much in the same position as a jade earring in a clover field, he was not having much in the way of success—while gaping with growing irritation at his would-be fiancée. "It is really most provoking, Alice—"
"Miss Mangrove," Alice corrected, her voice reaching a register of frigidity unheard of below the polar regions.
"I mean to say, Miss Mangrove," he said with due emphasis on the latter two words, "that give your mother's recalcitrant nature and downright hostility to me, I feared that she would not allow our engagement."
"Hostility!" Alice said, straightening her back even further as her indignation soared. "How very rude you are being, Arthur."
He halted his fruitless search and looked up at her with patent affront. "You did not hear the unkind words she decided to fling at me that day."
Alice closed her eyes and did not deign to regard him. "My mother would not be anything but the soul of propriety. If she used unkind words, as you say, they were doubtless required by the situation." She looked down at Arthur then, folding her arms across her chest. "It makes me wonder what unseemly language you used." Alice hoped that her look was as severe as her mother's could be behind her best lorgnette. The surge of pride she experienced for her remaining parent suddenly filled her with an exquisite mixture of anger and loss. "How dare you insult my mother!"
Arthur grimaced as he strove to rise to his feet. "She did shoot me, you will recall, Miss Mangrove."
"That's no excuse!" Miss Wychwood squeaked with acute indignation, for she felt the pangs of Alice's distress most heartily.
"Who's there?" Arthur asked with some consternation and not a little fear.
"That's Miss Wychwood," Alice said with a sigh. "She tripped you."
Miss Wychwood gave a stiff curtsey, acceding to politeness but making her disapproval evident.
Arthur stared. "Where?"
From the floor below, Judith extricated herself from the sputtering kidnapper with as much decorum and dignity as she could manage. She seemed puzzled to see his arm pass through her skirts without effect, but drew herself up to her full height once more, the better to express her disapprobation.
"You, sir," Miss Wychwood said with a strong tremor of emotion, "are no gentleman."
The fellow in question, however, seemed to take no notice of her severity, continuing to mutter nearly inaudibly and pat the parquet around him in search of something. "The fiend seize it! If I have lost my sliver of Edmund's tree—"
A strange sensation seized Alice. Her body went rigid. A flush painted her cheeks. I know that voice! She hurried down the steps toward the figure on the floor and the bewildered Miss Wychwood and snatched the kerchief from the man without the slightest blink of fear.
"I knew I recognised that voice!" Alice announced with triumph.
Arthur Boylett cowered back in surprise. "Miss Mangrove, I—I—" but there he stopped for Miss Mangrove had never looked so very much like her mother, though towering at least a good half a foot higher, which made her a rather imposing figure indeed.
Alice had never imagined herself to be capable of so much indignation. It flared through her veins like a fire, as if she had swallowed a large spoonful of laudanum, the sort Miss Travers used to give her on particularly warm summer afternoons when they had both gravitated toward a internecine peevishness that had no outlet in propriety. "Arthur Boylett, I demand you tell me what on earth you have been doing! Deceiving me! Holding me captive—and with what possible purpose?!"
Miss Wychwood's face shone with admiration for her friend and she, too, rounded on the would-be kidnapper. "You mountebank! How dare you treat the lovely Miss Mangrove with such roughness and ill-will! I am shocked and appalled by your inconsiderate behaviour." The latter phrase gave the young insubstantial woman a real sensation of quickness and she appeared to grow a trifle more tangible.
For his part, Arthur had continued in vain to locate the lost saint's relic—a sliver of wood upon a wood floor after all being much in the same position as a jade earring in a clover field, he was not having much in the way of success—while gaping with growing irritation at his would-be fiancée. "It is really most provoking, Alice—"
"Miss Mangrove," Alice corrected, her voice reaching a register of frigidity unheard of below the polar regions.
"I mean to say, Miss Mangrove," he said with due emphasis on the latter two words, "that give your mother's recalcitrant nature and downright hostility to me, I feared that she would not allow our engagement."
"Hostility!" Alice said, straightening her back even further as her indignation soared. "How very rude you are being, Arthur."
He halted his fruitless search and looked up at her with patent affront. "You did not hear the unkind words she decided to fling at me that day."
Alice closed her eyes and did not deign to regard him. "My mother would not be anything but the soul of propriety. If she used unkind words, as you say, they were doubtless required by the situation." She looked down at Arthur then, folding her arms across her chest. "It makes me wonder what unseemly language you used." Alice hoped that her look was as severe as her mother's could be behind her best lorgnette. The surge of pride she experienced for her remaining parent suddenly filled her with an exquisite mixture of anger and loss. "How dare you insult my mother!"
Arthur grimaced as he strove to rise to his feet. "She did shoot me, you will recall, Miss Mangrove."
"That's no excuse!" Miss Wychwood squeaked with acute indignation, for she felt the pangs of Alice's distress most heartily.
"Who's there?" Arthur asked with some consternation and not a little fear.
"That's Miss Wychwood," Alice said with a sigh. "She tripped you."
Miss Wychwood gave a stiff curtsey, acceding to politeness but making her disapproval evident.
Arthur stared. "Where?"
Sunday, July 25, 2010
Begging Your Indulgence
Your humble narrator implores you not to think badly of her, but finds herself unable to supply the normal update to the exciting narrative that generally appears at this time of the week. The Herculean task of bringing together the disparate threads of the narrative in these few remaining episodes -- and the oppressive heat of recent days -- must serve as her excuse. Very soon the next thrilling episode will appear and you will once more gasp with surprise and alarm at the revelations to come.
If you should require reading material in the interval, may we suggest Pelzmantel?
If you should require reading material in the interval, may we suggest Pelzmantel?
Monday, July 12, 2010
19.4
The steps grew louder. Alice cast her glance around vainly hoping for some avenue of escape, but the cpacious hall revealed little in the way of concealment. The large size of the entry door suggested a need for more force than the two young women could provide. There was not a single piece of furniture behind which they might crouch. Unladlylike as that may appear, the idea held some certain appeal for Alice at that moment.
Judith Wychwood's ethereal arms wrapped tightly around her, which gave Alice some reassurance. She straightened her back. As her father would no doubt bark, she was a Mangrove and there was a legacy to that name of proud and haughty daring. Had not her grandfather faced down the savages of Orkney? Had not her uncle single-handedly triumphed over a gaggle of recalcitrant chimney sweeps in the midst of Mayfair? Had not her own father once stunned a trumpeter swan with a blow of his badminton racket? She had much to live up to and live up to that legacy she would.
"Be not afraid," Alice whispered to her friend. "I shall face him down with the courage of all the Mangroves dead and gone." Judith squeezed her hand as tightly as she could, but Alice felt a whisper of fear at the thought that she too might become a Mangrove dead and gone.
However, she straightened once more with the succeeding thought: "What would Lizzie do?"
Alice lifted her chin and tried to make her eyes blaze as heroines' eyes in novels seemingly did.
She had composed herself just in time. The repugnant shape of Gilet de Sauvinage appeared from the gloom and started suddenly. "What are you doing out of your room?" he snapped.
Alice drew in a breath, the better to calm herself. "We have decided to escape!"
"We?" the dark figure said, pausing in his forward motion.
Alice and Judith exchanged a look. "He cannot see me!" Judith crowed.
"What's wrong with you?" her captor said in a remarkably not-French accent.
"He can’t hear you either," Alice said, the triumph in her voice evident.
"Can't hear whom?" the kidnapper said, beginning to strut forward once more, his step impatient now.
"I have an idea," Judith said, then shot away with ethereal speed until she crouched most indecorously in the very path of Gilet de Sauvinage. Alice gasped. That her dear friend would go to such lengths to assist her. She pressed her hand to her heart, impossibly moved, tears springing from her eyes as if from a fountain.
Her captor stared incredulously until the very moment that he fell over Miss Wychwood and went sprawling!
Judith Wychwood's ethereal arms wrapped tightly around her, which gave Alice some reassurance. She straightened her back. As her father would no doubt bark, she was a Mangrove and there was a legacy to that name of proud and haughty daring. Had not her grandfather faced down the savages of Orkney? Had not her uncle single-handedly triumphed over a gaggle of recalcitrant chimney sweeps in the midst of Mayfair? Had not her own father once stunned a trumpeter swan with a blow of his badminton racket? She had much to live up to and live up to that legacy she would.
"Be not afraid," Alice whispered to her friend. "I shall face him down with the courage of all the Mangroves dead and gone." Judith squeezed her hand as tightly as she could, but Alice felt a whisper of fear at the thought that she too might become a Mangrove dead and gone.
However, she straightened once more with the succeeding thought: "What would Lizzie do?"
Alice lifted her chin and tried to make her eyes blaze as heroines' eyes in novels seemingly did.
She had composed herself just in time. The repugnant shape of Gilet de Sauvinage appeared from the gloom and started suddenly. "What are you doing out of your room?" he snapped.
Alice drew in a breath, the better to calm herself. "We have decided to escape!"
"We?" the dark figure said, pausing in his forward motion.
Alice and Judith exchanged a look. "He cannot see me!" Judith crowed.
"What's wrong with you?" her captor said in a remarkably not-French accent.
"He can’t hear you either," Alice said, the triumph in her voice evident.
"Can't hear whom?" the kidnapper said, beginning to strut forward once more, his step impatient now.
"I have an idea," Judith said, then shot away with ethereal speed until she crouched most indecorously in the very path of Gilet de Sauvinage. Alice gasped. That her dear friend would go to such lengths to assist her. She pressed her hand to her heart, impossibly moved, tears springing from her eyes as if from a fountain.
Her captor stared incredulously until the very moment that he fell over Miss Wychwood and went sprawling!
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