Imperial Clock

CHAPTER Twenty

Flying the Colours



Nothing could ever return to the way it was.

High above, terrific winds bullied the grey clouds eastward, yet Derek felt only a pleasant breeze on his face. The wedding congregation before him somehow managed to appear wholesome despite a pervading atmosphere of mistrust. Who here was Leviacrum? Who was Coalition? The entire wedding scene could be a microcosm of 1915: duplicitous, reticent, yet desperately wanting to be optimistic, sharing a deep-down need for happy endings in a climate that was increasingly rendering them obsolete.

The flustered steam-organist fine-tuned his impressive instrument, at Derek’s behest, to the left of the arbour.

He really ought to have left the organising to his parents, who were after all dab hands at arranging elaborate functions, or even to the professional planner they’d hired from Brighton, but no, Derek had taken it upon himself to be general of his own ceremony, nit-picking at every little detail he’d had no hand in until now, changing things he had no real artistic conception of. Maybe it was the shocking nervousness that had overcome him these past few days—the need for distraction from that—or it could be, as Mother had remarked, his fussy nature finally becoming tyrant after a lifetime of being consigned to the laboratory. Either way, by the time the ceremony arrived, the planner had long since caught the train back to Brighton in a huff, Mother and Father—the latter in his uniform ready for departure in a few days—had hugged each other for several long minutes to dispel their exasperation, and Derek felt certain he’d singlehandedly worked wonders on the entire show.

The organ music soared over the grassy seaside setting. Things that would have been sadly misplaced had he not intervened—chairs, flowers, coloured drapes, the vicar—were correct and even vaguely geometric in their placement, he didn’t mind saying with a proud adjustment of his bowtie. The ingenious machine that formed coloured steam into wispy mid-air letters spelling DEREK & SONJA had drawn oohs and ahs from guests as they’d entered.

Everything ran like clockwork. Well, almost...

“No Meredith yet, so Sonja won’t have even arrived. Where are they?” he said to Brunnie, his best man by right, definitely not by choice—one of the concessions Derek had made to keep his family content.

“Just what I kept saying when Melissa seemed to all the world a no-show, but she arrived in the end. They always do.”

“And if she doesn’t?”

“Then there’s always Tabitha Carson, Melissa’s sis—”

“Forget I asked.”

Brunnie held up his hands in surrender. “Say, isn’t that the beanpole vixen you were telling me about, sitting next to Bill Taylor?”

“Don’t call her that.”

“She’s splendid. Who is she?”

“Nessie Fallon, from Astrophysics.” And secretly one of the most important people here, a Coalition spy second to none in the Leviacrum tower, a woman he admired greatly, even if she had struck him with that impossible dilemma on the day of his induction. A woman he would be trusting his life to for years to come, unbeknownst to almost everyone else here.

But whom on the bride’s side was not who they claimed to be? The African man, Simeon? William, the boy from Norway? Maybe even the Van Persies, for all he knew, for all Sonja knew!

“Ah, here we go.” Brunnie nudged him, and the organ-led orchestra began its rendition of Beethoven’s Ode to Joy.

Meredith appeared first, dropping petals as she went, looking extremely feminine in her peach bridesmaid’s dress—thankfully not a hint of the continental apparel she regularly wore these days and that more and more London women were copying. Behind her, Lady Catarina Fairchild, who had become a lovely surrogate aunt to Sonja and Meredith. She’d also become something of an inspiration in the way Sonja had begun to carry herself of late, at least in public—it was a real credit to them both.

He gasped when Sonja herself drifted onto the aisle. Slim and veiled and angelic, she carried a bouquet of her mother’s pink roses. Her flowing dress was a miracle trail of white and silver over the maroon carpet. She appeared almost to float. His nerves strangely settled when she drew near, and he heard nothing but his heartbeat, saw only a delicate promise of beauty under a thin layer of lace.

My bride.

He heard himself repeat the vicar’s words without error but it was somehow not him, moment to moment, speaking them. Sonja’s clear vowels followed, over-enunciated and proclamatory, almost defiant, so that he was a little in awe of her until the moment came when he lifted her veil and saw the wet trails of tears on her cheeks and the brilliant radiance in those large, fierce, loving eyes he’d fallen in love with. As natural as heat following light he kissed her in their own private centre of creation, where nothing could ever return to the way it was before they’d met.

He thanked God for that.

And they were married.

Accompanied by generous applause, and the first stiff gusts of the day, they walked the aisle together in an exhilarating hail of confetti, petals, and hearty cheers. The funniest moment came when Sonja stopped, licked her finger and held it up to measure the wind, then, to compensate for the gust, hurled her bouquet forwards rather than over her shoulder, and still managed to find her sister in the crowd. Meredith reached out to grab it but ducked at the last minute instead, letting it pass. This sparked a mad scramble among the single women, each of whom wanted to be the one to save it from blowing out to sea, an ill omen for their future marriage prospects if ever there was one.

Aunt Lily snagged the bouquet with her foot, having not moved an inch. The first thing she did, however, was march over to Meredith and tie the bouquet to her sash, which made everyone laugh, Meredith included.



***



I’m Mrs. Auric?

Every time she looked at Derek and realised she bore his surname, an unimaginable excitement overcame her. What better way to express that than to dance? At the ceremony’s end they all migrated to a pavilion in an open field, where the famed Auric fortune was on full display. A half-acre, raised wooden dance platform rotated slowly on some kind of iron, steam-powered wheel framework. Sonja had to be the first one to try it out. She dashed up the steps and immediately bungled a pirouette, almost falling on her backside like some drunken music hall hoofer, straight into Derek’s arms.

In the three months since her illness she’d had precious little strenuous exercise, on the advice of Dr. Marsan. Her pulmonary system had come close to packing in altogether, and might never again be what it had been, but if she took care not to get unduly cold or over-exert herself too often—a game of tennis a week was fine—she could live a long and healthy life. So a career of adventuring abroad was out of the question. Well, there were plenty of other ways a woman could get into trouble here in England if she wished. Merry had found a few during her brief stint in the capital, a few absolute corkers: she’d already given Sonja Donnelly’s telephone number, in case she wanted his help for anything.

Ha! Little did they know she planned to start her own private detective business just as soon as she and Derek were settled in London, an investigation service to help untangle the webs of deceit, skulduggery and treachery ordinary people had to contend with every day in that snake pit. Hearing Merry’s account of her Atlas infiltration had set Sonja’s mind spinning, and it had spun all the while she’d coalesced, week after week of bedbound imaginings and plotting. Yes, it was something she had to do while Derek was off playing the dangerous game on enemy turf. She would help him in any way she could, and the rest of the time she would right wrongs one small case at a time, build her reputation that way, or at least her professional reputation; a pseudonym might be advisable. Merry would laugh out loud if she heard that, knowing her kid sister’s penchant for talking and dreaming big with no follow-through; but her heart was set, as it had been on winning Derek for a husband.

And anyway, if she couldn’t keep herself busy with something exciting, something cerebral, she’d waste away in no time.

The orchestra playing under the pavilion roof belted out several lively tunes that drew to the dance platform, from her list of guests, such agreeable partners as Parnell and Ethel, Cathy and Mr. Van Persie, Aunt Lily and Donnelly, Cathy and another man, and another, and two more who almost erupted into fisticuffs until she waltzed with each in turn.

Derek’s family were more reserved at first, content to observe, but when his mother dazzled everyone by requesting and performing a particularly energetic Irish jig with Donnelly, the others made up their minds to not be outdone.

Shortly after, while a game of one-upmanship was underway between Derek, his father and Donnelly on one side, and Brunnie and his posse on the other—a dance contest fuelled by sherry and exuberant maleness—Merry appeared on the seaside bluff, well away from the party. She was alone, dressed in her adventurous femme fatale costume, and beckoned Sonja to follow her down to the beach. She also carried two deckchairs and a large beach umbrella. She dismissed a bold male guest’s advance with a curt remark Sonja would have given anything to hear.

The levity soon gave way to a profound, heavy sadness as she realised this might be the last time she and Merry spent time alone together. Losing her to London was one thing, but Merry’s heart was now set on leaving Britain altogether, perhaps indefinitely, to see what life held in store for her. Under foreign moons, on strange meridians, oh-so-far away. Seeing the extraordinary costume in which she’d get to do all those things, and the way the breeze billowed her blouse sleeves in the manner of a lady pirate’s, hit Sonja hardest of all—the girl she knew had become a woman, a formidable woman who no longer depended on her kid sister. For anything.

And, regrettably, vice versa.

Oh Merry, if only we could go together.

No one else accosted them, and they set the chairs on the beach facing the sea, with the umbrella shielding them not from the sun but from the party inshore. Merry’s idea, and a good one, typical of their old misanthropic view of the world. The surf broke a good sixty feet away, the high tide having deposited enough driftwood and ragged ballonet canopy from a recently wrecked airship for them to build a raft if they’d wanted, complete with sail, across the Channel.

“So this is it.” Sonja offered her hand. Merry held it. “When everything changes.”

“Hmm. But I think it changed a while ago.”

“Agreed,” said Sonja.

“Really? You felt it too?”

Sonja recalled, “From the first time I saw Derek as more than a teacher, I think. March 2, 1913, I tripped into him on purpose, and he caught me, called me Sonja for the first time, without thinking. I knew from that moment we’d been wrong, you and I, to hate the whole world without giving it a chance. That’s my version anyway.”

“Very interesting, you little dark horse, you. Ha! And you know the exact date!”

“The exact time as well—12:03, just after first bell for lunch. My life changed on an empty stomach. How about you?”

Merry raked up a fistful of damp sand and tossed it away. “Not so precise as yours. I think it had been nagging me for a while before our second trip to Niflheim. But I felt it strongly on the tram ride back from Parnell’s; you know, after we saw him with Ethel, how happy he was, and what we seemed to be missing. I had no idea you’d set your sights on a member of the faculty.”

Sonja laughed. “No. I’ll bet. But you know my story now, inside and out. What about yours? You have some rather devoted followers if I’m not mistaken, that’s if they’re still at bat, so to speak.”

“Kingsley’s a sweetheart. I could fall for him in a big way.”

“Well?”

“I’ve already told you, he’s Atlas.”

“Yes, but only because his father and grandfather were members. Aunt Lily told me he’s there in an administrative capacity, and to help with recruitment at his university. It’s duty with him, rather than ideology. He’s not the sort to kill for the cause. His heart isn’t in it.”

“But how do I know that? I could never marry a man I’m unsure of.”

“You could find out. I’m willing to bet he’d tell you anything.”

“Oh, I’ve no doubt of that.” Merry groaned in frustration. “Why can’t anything be straightforward? If he hadn’t flashed that blasted pin, and if Donnelly weren’t already spoken for, and so on and so on. Cursed, I’m telling you. Maybe I’ll have better luck in Timbuktu, or wherever the heck the wind takes me.”

“Seriously? You’re going that far?”

“Not right away.”

“Then you’ve decided to meet with the Coalition chiefs?”

“Not right away.”

“Why not?”

“God, maybe you should instead—you’d make one hell of an interrogator.”

“Maybe I already have, and this is me interrogating you on their behalf.” Sonja’s evil villain cackle elicited a thump on her arm and a spluttered laugh from her big sister. “Ouch! Consider yourself uninvited from all future engagements, unless they’re held at Auric Manor, and then you’re to bring Kingsley and his pugilist cricketers to beat Brunnie to a whining pulp.”

“I don’t need them for that.” Merry pretended to pull her sleeves up.

“We’ll take turns.”

Then Merry shifted position on her chair so that she lay on her side, facing Sonja, knees tucked up. “I’ll miss you, you know.”

And Sonja assumed the same position on her chair, facing her sister, watching her mournful eyes for tears, for the excuse they needed to let all the years they’d shared together spill out in one heart-rending gush. “Not as much as I’ll miss you.”

But the gentle rhythmic thump and fizz of the surf spoke through them. The longer they gazed at one another, holding hands, the more her pain banked against the thorns behind her eyes, the more ready she was to cry, the less she wanted to cry. After all this time, that thing they shared, and they alone, against the machinations and habits of the world, proved inseparable. Insuperable. Their strength had always been in their stubborn uniqueness. Their defiance. So they forced themselves not to cry.

It was the most painful but beautiful few minutes of her life.

At last they let go, and watched the wind-shorn waves rolling in under slowly breaking clouds. Sunlight glinted on the metal hulls of scattered fliers miles away. And shortly after the first midday rays lit the beach, two young girls scampered over the sand from a nearby house, overdressed but barefoot, and made straight for the airship wreckage. In no time at all they gathered all the bits they could drag or lift and piled them high. One of them produced a box of matches and tried, unsuccessfully, to light a bonfire.

Sonja and Merry shared a knowing grin, and without a word they sprang up, each grabbing a few fistfuls of dried grass, twigs and branches from the sandy slope behind them, before racing to show the youngsters how it was done. How to kindle radiant fire where none should rightly burn.

They would always remember those flames.



***



“All aboard for Calais!”

Meredith pinched her one-way ticket between her gloved finger and thumb, and watched it flap in the air stream caused by the docked airships’ propellers. One flimsy, life-changing bit of paper she could simply let go, then maybe she could stay home in England forever.

Hisses from the giant dirigibles’ steam exhausts, and from the elevators rising inside the docking towers, did their best to loosen the pull of home. These bustling, cosmopolitan wharfs showcased every fashion from around the world, every skin colour, every type of person she would find on her travels. A palpable excitement rushed through her as she led the porter pushing her trolley of suitcases out onto the platform.

“Which one was it again, miss?”

“The airship to Calais.”

“Let me see your ticket there.” She handed it to him. “Ah, well in that case you get to choose, miss. First Class gives you that privilege unless one of them’s over half full. So there you go, both the 14 and the 37 are less than half full, and they’re both destined for Calais.”

“I see. But why have both go to the same place at the same time?”

“The 14 is making a quick stop off at London. It’s a more modern design, though, much faster, so it shouldn’t lose you more than twenty minutes, all told. It’s up to you, miss. Whichever you like.”

“Hmm, I think I’d like—” As if from nowhere, William Elgin appeared at the front the queue for the 14. He was on his own, the only one in Portsmouth harbour wearing a slicker, and an ill-fitting one at that. What did he know that they didn’t?

“Number 14, thank you,” she told the porter, and promptly joined the queue.

“Righty-o, miss. And what shall I do with this? I’ve only just noticed it, wedged on top, behind the valise.” Puzzled, he held up a thin rectangular item wrapped in cloth and tied with string. “I’m sure it weren’t there a minute ago.”

“Let me see, man.” She cut the string with her penknife, opened the cloth and found...a book inside. But not just any old book. No, it was a gift, a farewell gift from one sister to another. She would keep it with her wherever she went.

Forever.

Moon and Meridian.

“It is yours, ain’t it, miss?”

“Yes, it is.”

“Then how did it get there? I’m certain it weren’t—”

“What time is it, man? The precise time.”

“Eight minutes past eight, miss.”

She thought for a moment, then smiled, touched her hat in recognition of the silent partner ahead of her, a boy—or rather a man—no one here had seen until he’d appeared at the front of the queue. At five past eight.

As if by magic.

“Have a nice flight, miss.”

“Thank you.”

“Be sure to watch your footing on the gangway at Calais. Apparently it’s bucketing down over there. It’ll be slippery.”

“I will. Goodbye now.”

“Bye, miss.”

By the time the iron elevator began its final rattling ascent of the evening inside its brass scaffold, lifting Meredith over the smog, a brilliant molten sunset poured onto the horizon. Its light reflected blindingly off the airship’s minted ribs, bathing her in a stunning array of new colours.

She looked down from the gangway and couldn’t see the wharf through the smog. Behind her an impenetrable steam cloud hid any inland view. The airship’s foghorn sounded ahead, big and loud and nautical. Aeronautical.

She thought of Mother as an adolescent girl, emerging from her dark cave into a frightening world of wonders. A world she had never known. A world she would never return from. No, there was never any going back to that cave. To that adolescent girl.

There was only what lay ahead—in the dazzling light of day.