The Peculiar Adventures of Miss Abigail Crumb Trilogy: The Peculiar Adventures of Miss Abigail Crumb, #4

Night of the Clockwork Dragon Extended Edition

Night of the Dying Moon second edition

Night of the Thousand Voices

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Eye of the Eagle

P.O. Box 2078

Portola, CA 96122

www.Eye-of-the-Eagle.com

The Peculiar Adventures of Miss Abigail Crumb Trilogy One

Copyright © 2020 Louisa Swann

Night of the Clockwork Dragon Extended Edition

Copyright © 2019 Louisa Swann

(Original Edition published 2018)

Night of the Dying Moon Second Edition

Copyright © 2019 Louisa Swann

(Original published 2018)

Night of the Thousand Voices

Copyright © 2019 Louisa Swann

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which includes the right to reproduce this book or portions

thereof in any form whatsoever except as provided

by the U.S. Copyright Law.

Cover Design by Brandon Swann

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This is a work of fiction. All characters and incidents in this

book are fictional, and any resemblance to real people or incidents

is purely coincidental. This book, or parts thereof, may not be

reproduced in any form without permission.

THE

PECULIAR ADVENTURES

OF

MISS ABIGAIL CRUMB

#1

Eye of the Eagle Publishing

Would YOU say no to your mother? What if that same mother just happened to be the world’s most powerful sorceress and a necromancer to boot?

At seventeen, Abigail Crumb wants no more than a normal life and a good cuppa tea, not that difficult to find in 1850 London. But when Abby receives Mother’s Summons, she responds, even though it means sailing halfway around the world.

Surviving Mother Rule #1: Never say no to a sorceress.

After six months of murderous seas and women-hungry men, Abby finds herself mired in people-eating San Francisco mud with nowhere to go and no Mother in sight. This not-so-fragrant New World boasts hooligans and muck and not much else to Abby’s way of thinking.

Until earthquakes, flying mini-demons, and a mechanized beast straight from the pages of Myrcoff’s Clockwork Beasts of Myth and Legend strikes fear in the locals’ hearts.

And everything changes.

Join Abby and her ensemble of quirky friends in this action/adventure fantasy with a dash of steampunk thrown in—set in the historic wild, wild west!

Find out more about Abby Crumb and her intrepid companions at www.louisaswann.com. Be sure and sign up for the newsletter to keep apprised of the latest Crumb news!

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To those who often feel abandoned and misunderstood. You are not alone.

WHEN I GOT my hands on the man who proclaimed California weather to be the utmost in propriety, I was going to throttle the truth out of him. I hadn’t seen a ray of sun all day nor breathed a speck of air that wasn’t laced with the stench of dead fish, stagnant marsh, and unwashed bodies.

Welcome to San Francisco, the captain of the steamship Raven had said the previous night. We had sailed uneventfully through the mouth of the bay—a wide stretch of water nicknamed the Golden Gate, though I didn’t see anything golden about it—full moon high overhead, fog looming like a specter behind us.

Journey’s end—or so I had thought.

For almost six months we had slogged through irascible seas on what turned out to be the steamship’s final journey. Her decks had been loaded with supplies from the east, half of which washed overboard during a violent storm that almost ended the ship as she rounded the Horn.

Nine crewmen and a passenger were also lost during that storm.

A grand total of four women had made the perilous journey—myself and three other women. Those other women had seen the rougher side of life and had come to the conclusion that they could ply their wares more effectively in a place where laws had been cast aside, where men weren’t under societal constraints, and where there was a definite lack of women.

I hadn’t endured murderous seas and women-hungry men for any of those reasons. I wasn’t even here for the gold that drew the ravenous male hordes.

I was here to find my mother.

Chapter One

THE SOUNDS OF clanking harnesses and clattering hooves mingled with the encouraging shouts of obviously frustrated drivers drifted down sandy banks, oddly muffled by the ever-thickening fog. The broad back end of a delivery wagon presented itself briefly before fading like an apparition, swallowed by dank San Francisco fog. The aroma of horse dung added its opulence to the stench of decaying fish. Off in the distance, a sea lion offered advice to his companions.

The sailor who had rowed me over from the ship unceremoniously hauled my luggage from his small boat, splashing through calf-deep water seemingly without concern. He dumped my leather Goyard trunk—purchased specifically for this voyage—and two valises in the sand, then waited—rather impatiently, it seemed—for me to extricate myself.

I remained in the rowboat and pretended to absorb the atmosphere, hiding the fact I was—in reality—struggling to regain my wits.

Our little rowboat had had no choice but to land onshore which seemed easy enough. Once the sailor—an enormous man with upper arms the size of tree trunks and a head the size of an apple—assessed the lack of docking space, he gave several mighty pulls on the oars, launching our boat across the distance of several ship lengths, seeming to barely skim the surface of the water. Before I had the chance to adapt to the change in speed, the boat’s hull ground against sand, coming to a stop so abruptly I was nearly jarred from my seat.

Most of our little rowboat—all but the prow where I clung to the bench seat with all the ferocity of a stubborn leech—remained in the water, a fact that presented a challenge to my immediate disembarkation. Not only was I half a man’s height above the sand, there appeared to be no alternative to scrambling over the side like a common hooligan.

Neither graceful or refined.

I inhaled as deeply as I dared in the odiferous fog—which wasn’t all that deep, truth be told—and forced my hands to relinquish their stranglehold on the bench seat, hoping all the while that the sailor would weary of waiting and offer his assistance.

The stubborn man folded his massive arms across his chest, evidently determined to wait me out.

With an exasperated sigh, I stood, gathered skirts and cloak in hand, clambered up on the rowboat’s gunnel—assuring that I remained sufficiently far enough forward in the bow to avoid ending up ankle-deep in water—and attempted to vault over the side.

Neither vault nor landing went as planned. I ended up sitting on the hard sand, pain radiating up my spine into my skull.

Welcome to San Francisco, indeed.

Ignoring the pain in both bum and head, I scrambled to my feet and straightened my skirts in as dignified a manner as possible, turning my back on the sailor and studying the next stage of my journey. Unfortunately, the rugged banks before me did not offer a convenient way for a lady to ascend without adding more dirt to her skirts.

Thanks to the grumpy young sailor—the man could not have been much older than my seventeen years—my skirts had already been sullied, though the dark brown wool of both skirts and cloak hid the fact quite well.

Hauling the Goyard trunk up that bank was an entirely different proposition. I gnawed at my bottom lip, considered asking the sailor for further assistance, and abandoned that notion. I’d had quite enough of the man’s dour attitude.

Somewhere in all this fog, clocks were ticking. Mother’s internal clocks. At the ripe old age of six, I had learned that keeping Mother waiting was a very bad idea.

Is there a delivery service I can hire or perhaps a porter? Someone who can— I turned back to my companion, only to find both rowboat and sailor rowing rapidly back toward the ship.

I ground my teeth in frustration, resisting both the urge to stomp my foot—an action guaranteed to increase the pain ricocheting inside my skull like a demented fly—and pull out my hair, though the local gulls would more than likely appreciate the donation.

Clocks are ticking.

It was already past midafternoon. It had taken half the day to take leave of my shipmates—including several new friends I hoped to see again in the not-too-distant future—and beg the captain himself for my transport. The captain had granted me the services of a rowboat—complete with a man to row the blasted thing.

The trip to shore had taken another unanticipated chunk out of the day as the sailor—evidently displeased with his new assignment—had moved the oars like a recalcitrant cat, maneuvering so slowly through the forest of ships carpeting the bay I had begun to wonder if the trip to shore would take longer than the trip around the Horn.

We had wandered between galleons and barks, clipper ships and schooners, ships with two-mast and three-masts and some, like the Raven, outfitted for both sail and steam. Some ships bustled with crew readying their ship for disembarking, but the majority of the vessels had apparently been deserted, leaving behind a virtual graveyard of motley ships.

After what felt like an eternity, I had realized the poor sailor was seeking a place to dock. He maneuvered toward one wharf, then another. After a long moment, the oars went still in the water.

I opened my mouth, intending to inquire as to his reasons for stopping, but a quick glance at our surroundings forestalled such a useless question.

The wharves—all two of them—stood off to our right and were both surrounded by ships of all sizes, which made them completely inappropriate as a means for getting me to shore. Apparently, the docking facilities in Valparaiso, Chile—a decidedly primitive port—were more convenient than in the so-called Port of San Francisco.

So the sailor had chosen to run the boat up on shore . . .

Then desert me.

A seagull’s forlorn cry penetrated the fog. The sound, as heartrending as a baby’s wail, sent chills rippling across my skin. I clenched my jaw, determined not to let feelings of abandonment cripple me to the point of inaction.

A conglomeration of buildings erupted from the shoreline to my left, seemingly straight out of the water. I blinked to clear my eyes, uncertain if the fog was playing tricks with my vision. At the far end of the largest building was a . . . ship! Grounded, of course. The access to both ship and building appeared to be a series of ladders dropping straight down to the water.

I scanned the bank directly before me. Shadows slipped in and out of the fog. Presumably, the shadows of men as they moved about their business, a presumption confirmed by the sound of men arguing further up the bank.

Not completely abandoned, then. I merely had to scramble up the bank and find someone who could help.

The bank was soft and crumbly, the sand mixed with an enormous amount of mud, creating a concoction designed to streak a lady’s skirts and muddy her hands—

Beg pardon, ma’am. Looks like ya could use a hand.

Startled, I glanced to my left. A dark-skinned boy stood there, hat in hand, looking at me with hope in his wide eyes, eyes the color of . . . sassafras, I decided.

The boy couldn’t have been more than ten years old, though he was a bit tall for his age, with long legs that reminded me of a colt. When he realized he had caught my attention, he blinked, the hope replaced by what I could only interpret as a business-like attitude.

What’s your name? I asked with a smile.

Dillon, ma’am. He worked the hat—an odd affair with a broad brim and flattened crown—in his hands, reminding me of a baker kneading his dough.

Do you think you could manage my luggage?

To his credit, the boy took a moment to study the Goyard trunk, a lovely yet sturdy camelback. The trunk was almost waist high when I stood beside it. It came midway up the boy’s chest.

Two valises—one large enough I could barely carry it, the other of more reasonable size—lounged in the sand next to the trunk.

The boy finally nodded. Yes’m. I gots a cart.

I quickly retrieved a shilling from the reticule dangling from my wrist and tossed it to the boy. You’d best get to it then. Before we lose more daylight.

The boy settled the hat on his mat of close-cropped curls, turned, and raced up a ramp I hadn’t noticed. Judging by the thuds accompanying his running, the ramp had been lined with wooden planks.

The sound was reassuring.

Before disembarking from the Raven, I had overheard one of the agents—said agents had the dire reputation of being a motley bunch of mountebanks and swindlers who spirited away prospective gold miners with the ease of illusionists shoving rabbits into their assorted hats and so I had not retained the man’s services—talking about the heavy winter rains they had just experienced. The discussion left me more than slightly worried about the possibility of having to wind my way through muddy streets.

Looked like I could put that concern out of my mind. Wooden walkways rendered the mud issue obsolete.

The boy returned in good order, cart rattling behind him. The cart was an awkward-looking thing, with enormous spoked wheels as tall as the boy. The bed of the cart was a simple box with walls tall enough to keep most things from toppling off.

Dillon slipped from behind the handle—a thick wooden bar stretched between two bars attached to the front of the box, far enough forward the boy could stand between handle and box—and moved to the back of the cart. He quickly and efficiently tipped the bed so it was practically touching the ground and managed to topple my trunk onto the cart bed without spilling the whole lot. The valises fit neatly on either side of the trunk.

He reclaimed his position behind the handle and pulled the cart up the ramp, gesturing for me to follow. We paused at the top of the ramp and I moved up beside the cart, surreptitiously checking the latches on the smaller valise, assuring they were slightly loose. That valise was doing double duty, serving as both a bearer of my belongings as well as providing a mode of travel for one of my new companions.

Where to? Dillon asked.

The fog had thickened during my search for further aid and now obscured much of our environment beyond the immediate surroundings. We appeared to be on a street or perhaps in a loading area. It was difficult to tell. Men of all shapes, sizes, and mode of dress ghosted in and out of the fog, going about their various businesses. Except for Dillon, there were no children, at least none in sight. A testimony to the newness of the town?

With a sigh I reached into the silk reticule dangling from my wrist and tugged free a sheet of well-worn paper. For the umpteenth time I read my mother’s instructions.

I’m to meet my . . . Reluctant to let the world know I was off to meet my mother, I hesitated for a brief second before continuing. "friends at The Niantic Hotel," I said, folding the paper and tucking it back in my reticule.

The boy squinted as if about to question my decision, then decided better of it. Without another word, he took hold of the cart’s handle and pushed off into the fog.

With my left hand, I fingered the reassuring bulk of a diminutive firearm pressed against the underside of my right forearm. The derringer was fitted to a sliding mechanism that had been strapped to my forearm. In theory, the derringer would valiantly spring into my palm with a simple flick of my wrist.

The mechanism was a product of an ongoing experiment that had been loaned to me by a friend. Unfortunately, every time I tried to use the contraption—barring the initial practice session with the mechanism’s creator—things had not gone well.

That did not mean the infernal contraption wouldn’t work the next time I tried it, however.

Hup, hup, chin up, Miss Beauregard—head mistress at my finishing school—would say.

Assured that I was as prepared as I could be, I followed after the boy, forcing confidence into my steps. Where my confidence was feigned, Dillon’s confidence seemed born of experience. The lanky boy worked his way through the press of unwashed bodies, creaking wagons, and sweating horses without hesitation—through fog so dense I lost all sense of direction as gray murk consumed the entire waterfront.

This was not my first encounter with fog. Far from it. London fog, however, had been more . . . sinuous. More fluid. Eerie and secretive, as fogs often are. But somehow—lighter.

The fog currently enveloping San Francisco and the entire bay weighed heavy in lungs and on skin. The moistness stank of dead fish and sea instead of coal fumes, though faint traces of burning coal trickled through the fog like drool down a drunken sailor’s chin. Underlying the odiferous miasma bubbled the hauntingly familiar aroma of horse dung.

Watch yer step, ma’am, Dillon warned as we reached the end of the wooden walkway.

Then the boy stepped off . . .

Into a river of seemingly endless mud.

Chapter Two

AFTER AN HOUR of studious slogging—there appeared to be more water in the so-called streets than beneath the ship I’d left behind earlier in the day, only the water now caressing my ankles was mixed with the most noxious mud I’d ever had the displeasure of encountering—we still hadn’t reached the establishment where my mother expected to find me.

Where she had expected to find me, at least.

A month ago.

I wasn’t going to dwell on my tardiness. Not now. Mother had made the plans, after all. I had simply followed them.

How much further? I asked.

Should be ’bout there, Dillon mumbled.

So we slogged on.

The fog grew impossibly thick, hanging in the air like a phantasm seeking the grave. I’d assumed the stench would disappear as we put more distance between ourselves and the water. Unfortunately, that assumption was erroneous. Whatever held the fog encapsulated around the city kept every smell—be it fish carcass, week-old sock, or mule droppings—locked in with it.

Luckily, I had packed three vials of rose water and two of lavender, enough to keep my delicate senses appeased—for the time being.

I sniffed the rose-scented kerchief tucked into my left sleeve and sighed, trying to dismiss the tiny seed of anxiety sitting in my stomach. It was early spring, daylight was almost gone, and I still hadn’t located my mother. Light bled from the fog-drenched sky, rapidly shifting from muted gray to gunmetal gray which would soon give way to gray-black. The once-busy streets seemed deserted.

Apparently, the denizens of this grand town were all at home, more than likely preparing for supper.

Except, of course, for those who indulged in activities prudently ignored by Proper Persons of Society. Judging by the ribald laughter, raucous music, and occasional scream that managed to penetrate the water-laden air, we were now such a section of town, an area no lady, especially a Lady of Society, wanted to spend the night in.

Was this a challenge, then? Was Mother testing me to see if I was—finally—worthy of her consideration?

Mother wouldn’t be worried about my safety, of course. The woman could locate the tiniest worm in the middle of the jungle if she so desired. I had no doubt she knew I was safe—for the moment—despite my ship having arrived almost a month behind schedule.

Yes, Mother knew exactly where I was and how uncomfortable my current predicament was proving to be. Failing to meet me at the docks was her way of punishing me.

In Mother’s eyes, I was late. No matter that she had made the arrangements or that I had no control over the weather. When Mother makes plans, she expects those plans to be followed to the letter—or someone will pay.

You see, Mother is a Necromancer and a Sorceress of the Highest Order. She does not belong to any alliances or leagues or guilds. Mother does as she pleases and expects everyone around her to hop like a cloud of grasshoppers when she speaks. One does not want to make her angry. Not if one values one’s person.

In my experience—experience based on having survived Mother’s company for over twelve years—there are three things that send the woman into a blinding rage. Being late is one of them.

Talking back is another. I learned that lesson at a very young age. All it took was one little No and suddenly I was watching my nose melt off my face. Of course, Mother put my nose back where it belonged, but not before my young mind—I was three at the time—had decided that a) no one could ever love a noseless child, and b) I would never have to smell Mother’s cooking again. One realization broke my heart; the other gave me hope.

That hope was dashed when Mother restored my nose to its prominent position.

The experience solidified into Surviving Mother, Rule #1: Never say no to a sorceress.

I held the rose-scented kerchief to my nose and breathed deep, dismissing the memories and longing for brisk, clean ocean air and the sunshine promised by advertisements the world over. Sunshine that would, more than likely, never materialize. Every passing minute confirmed my growing suspicions that here in San Francisco—newly dubbed by me as the Land of Fog, Mud, and Misery—dreary weather held rule.

Not so different from England, really, only London’s fog was even more disgusting, being infused with coal smoke and the rank stench of rotting sewage. I had looked forward to getting away from all the dreary druffle that London called weather, looked forward to sun that actually shone long enough to dry things out.

If the state of goo sucking greedily at my boots was any indication, the sun had been absent from this not-so-fair city for months. Not so different from London, then.

At least London had cobblestone streets . . .

and cutthroats . . .

and plague . . .

Suddenly it felt like my collar was too tight. I reached up and ran a finger around the stiff lace, then let my hand linger in the hollow of my throat, feeling the reassuring presence of the pendant nestled beneath my woolen cape.

I’d had that pendant for as long as I could remember, a gift from Mother (who claimed she’d gotten it from her mother) with the admonition to always keep it safe. It reminded me of a metal cage, really. Protecting a thumb-sized vial containing an odd green liquid with something mysterious hidden inside. I loved to play with it when I was younger, imagining the pendant contained all sorts of strange creatures swimming around inside. As I grew older, it became a source of comfort, security.

I had promised my young self that someday I would figure out how to release those creatures from the pendant, and then, during my time of greatest need, they would sweep out to protect me—most likely from Mother.

The pendant was with me always, more of a talisman than a necklace to my way of thinking. I’d briefly considered leaving the pendant behind when Mother shipped me off to finishing school in London, locking the heirloom someplace safe, but the very thought had made my stomach turn into a twisted knot and so the pendant had gone to finished school with me.

It had come in handy whilst I was in London—the pendant, not the twisted-knot stomach—especially while I was struggling to figure out how to fit in with the other girls. Just touching the vial—feeling the familiarity, the warmth—helped calm my rattled nerves.

Finishing school was where I had learned how to deport myself with feminine propriety. Where I had become a Proper Lady of Society.

Where I’d learned how beneficial a rose-scented kerchief could be—

I stopped woolgathering, breathed courage and fresh air from the perfumed kerchief, and called to Dillon. The boy stood in front of the handcart, looking small beneath the pile of luggage. The handcart was slowly being swallowed by the muck in much the same manner as a snake swallowing its prey. I likely should have found someone with a bit more bulk to haul my worldly possessions through the city.

In spite of his dark skin, the boy looked almost as washed out as the fog. His chin drooped to his chest, leaving only the top of his hat rising behind the mound of luggage. The boy probably needed my coin, but I should have simply given him a proper donation and then hired a man used to hauling belongings through man-eating mud up and down these man-eating streets.

From within the mound of luggage, a pair of tiny black eyes twinkled beneath the lid of my valise. I shook my head and the eyes disappeared from sight. A dull snick! reached my ears as the valise closed, seemingly of its own accord.

I smiled to myself. No need to let Dillon know he had a passenger as well as the luggage, even if said passenger was small enough to fit inside the smallest piece of luggage in the pile.

No matter. Time was wasting, and I still had to find Mother.

Surviving Mother, Rule #2: Never keep a sorceress waiting.

A rule I had—through no fault of my own—definitely broken.

Before I could ask the oft-repeated question regarding our anticipated arrival time, an apparition materialized to one side of the cart without so much as a whisper. The illusion had me quite puzzled in spite of the fact I was well versed in matters of disappearance and illusion, having personally experienced both during Mother’s regularly scheduled practice sessions.

’and over the Golden Pea, the apparition demanded.

Golden pea? Did the man mean a peculiar member of the pea family? Or a pea made of real gold?

Startled speechless, I studied the apparition who had magically appeared. A whiff of the odor emanating from his person convinced me this was not an apparition, but a giant of a man at least six and a half feet tall with shoulders that looked like they belonged on an ox. He wore a coat that appeared more sack than apparel and a loose set of trousers tucked into knee-high boots.

It was obvious this man hadn’t been to see a tailor in quite some time which gave me a good idea of his worth.

Dillon, poor soul, took one look at the man standing before me and dropped the handcart’s handle, squeaking one word, Hounds! before scuttling off through the mud as fast as he could unstick his feet. The fog rapidly swallowed the sound of his slurp, slurping up the street, leaving me alone with the demanding apparition. I thought I heard the boy call out from somewhere up the street but couldn’t make out a word he was saying.

I’m afraid I haven’t a clue as to what you’re on about, I said, not bothering to keep the exasperation from my voice.

Come on, lady. ’and it over.

I tensed my right arm, reassured by the feel of metal against skin, and decided to wait until the last possible moment before once again putting the mechanism to the test. If I could puzzle out precisely what the man was looking for, I might be able to end this strange confrontation without further conflict.

Gnawing on my bottom lip, I glanced at the cart that had unceremoniously been left behind. Nowhere amidst the tumble of valise and trunk was there a golden pea. Unless I had a second—very tiny—stowaway.

The man reached out a hand. Even in the dimming light I could see the hand was as dirty as the rest of the man.

I forestalled his action by raising a hand of my own, bringing the hidden weapon into position. I held my breath, waiting to see if it would be necessary to deploy the derringer, but determined to make the infernal contraption work if it was needed.

Whether the man sensed the strength of my resolve or caught a whiff of lavender-scented cloth, I’ll probably never know. He did, however, cease his attempt to soil my person with his less-than-spotless hands.

I took a breath and loosened the drawstring of the reticule dangling from my wrist, stuck my hand deep into the silken folds, and felt around.

There had been plenty of stowaways on board—from cockroaches to rats to several cats I’d conspired to hide from the captain, thinking the man would throw the felines overboard only to find the cats, when they were discovered, turned out to be more welcome than any of the passengers. They took care of the rats, you see. Or so went the current mode of thinking.

I’d made friends with all the cats, most of the rats, and a few of the cockroaches, though I thought I’d left most of the cats, rats, and cockroaches behind on the ship—except for the rat in my valise who had been reluctant to part with my personables.

One of the cats and a very special friend had left the ship in the care of the other three women who had shared our voyage around the Horn. I had promised to look them all up after I had reunited with Mother.

During my time on board the SS Raven I had learned never to assume anything. Items disappeared from my person, then reappeared somewhere else. No magic involved. Just a lot of mischief, more than likely perpetrated by sailors with nothing better to do.

There was a chance something had snuck or had been snuck into my reticule without my knowledge, more than likely a cockroach or two.

The rat who refused to say his goodbyes and was currently taking up space in my valise was about the size of my hand—not counting his tail, of course. Needless to say, I was more than aware of his presence.

Said rat was unique in that he was black and white instead of all brown or all black. He could also talk—which had come as quite a surprise, surprise that had dwindled when he had confessed to being a kobold during one of our shipboard adventures. Kobold or rat, he was quite a bit larger than a pea as were all of his relatives.

And none of them had been golden.

I kept my facial expression serene while inwardly I cringed at the thought that one or more of the ship’s cockroaches might have decided my reticule was the most appropriate method of getting themselves to land. If so, maybe the cockroaches had kidnapped this pea. I’d heard of stranger things.

Finally, I pulled my hand from the reticule and tightened the drawstring, relieved to find nothing more disturbing than an old lint ball that made my heart skip a beat when my fingers first encountered it. I’m sorry to disappoint you, sir. There’s not a pea—golden or otherwise—to be found on my person or in my luggage.

Another ruffian—looking like the first man’s twin, only shorter and broader—stepped out of the fog, parting the heavy mist like an actor parted a curtain. She givin’ ya trouble, mate?

And here I’d thought the fog blanketing this unruly city—if San Francisco could even be called a city—was a somewhat normal ground-hugging cloud, consisting of nothing more than tiny droplets of water suspended in the air like a horde of hungry mosquitoes.

I was coming to realize the fog was more of an airborne river, oozing down mud-lined streets and depositing hoodlums in its wake. A very real, very noxious living sludge that not only clogged a person’s lungs, it played havoc with a lady’s hair.

The second man smiled at me, a mirthless grimace that revealed teeth blacker than a coalman’s stove. Could be she’s needin’ a bit ’o convincin’.

I haven’t the faintest idea what you’re talking about. I turned to the handcart, intent on gathering my smallest valise and proceeding on my way, but the first hooligan, who had definitely NOT been schooled in the ways of a Proper Person of Society, stepped forward and grabbed my arm in a very unfriendly manner.

Ya’ll not be goin’ anywhere until I gets me ’ands on that Pea.

I had had enough of these men and their pea.

It’s only fair to warn you that if I so much as twitch my wrist in a certain manner, a deadly derringer will catapult from its hiding spot under my sleeve directly into the palm of my hand.

My assailant raised an eyebrow. I gave a quick nod, satisfied I had impressed upon him the severity of his situation. Of course, the raised eyebrow could also be an indication that he believed me to be stark raving mad. Either way, he would have been close to the truth.

I strongly suggest you release me before my hand decides to get nervous. I twisted my arm, the arm I needed to free in order to use the derringer. The more I thought about what I was attempting, the more I realized it took someone who had completely lost her mind to put her faith—and her life—in an infernal contraption without having practiced enough to assure at least a modicum of success.

On the other hand, the device had been impressive in the demonstration I’d witnessed during my stopover in New York. Just because it hadn’t functioned in an appropriate manner whilst on board the Raven did not mean it wouldn’t function now that both feet were planted safely on land.

"Sure, we’ll be lettin’ ya go. After ya cough up that little pea." His partner moved up on the other side as the not-so-gentle man yanked me closer and smiled. A charming smile reminiscent of a boar that had just caught scent of fresh slop headed his way and was in porcine heaven.

Time to extricate myself from what was rapidly becoming a very uncomfortable situation.

Feet slurping in the mud, I executed a neat pirouette, swinging my incarcerated arm down and out to the side, breaking my assailant’s grip, and freeing the derringer’s slide. Without hesitation, I performed a reverse pirouette, dancing—or rather, slogging—out of arm’s reach of both men.

If Miss Beauregard, who had filled the shoes of dance instructor as well as head mistress, could only see me now. She had long been frustrated that I would never learn the steps to the various waltzes—the Viennese, the minuet, the quadrille in all its varied forms, even the gallop and the polka—she had taught them all. What she hadn’t understood was that I had learned the proper steps long ago. I just hadn’t appreciated how those useful those steps could be—until now.

Freed from the leech’s grasp, I snapped my wrist to release the derringer, keeping a cool smile on my face, expecting to feel the tiny gun slide into my hand, cold and slick as pond ice in winter.

It took only a second to realize that the pond ice had suffered an early melt, leaving me pointing my empty trigger finger at the men like a mother about to admonish her sons.

Not sure what kinda games yer playin’, lady. The surprised look that flashed momentarily across my opponent’s face was once again replaced by that boorish look of anticipation. I gave another not-so-subtle flick of my wrist. Still nothing.

Time to pursue my next option.

I will give you the pea, I said, gracefully wrapping my arm about my waist so I could unobtrusively fiddle with the release mechanism whilst keeping my opponent occupied with my sharp and witty verbal sparring. The reticule dangling from my left wrist bumped against my stomach as I tugged at the slide mysteriously trapped beneath my right sleeve. However, you must do something for me in return.

Wat makes ya think yer gots anythin’ to bargin wit? the second man said, though his accent was so heavy as to be nearly indecipherable. Uncertain how to reply, I chose instead to ignore the comment. I rubbed at my wrist as if it were sore, finally freeing the spring snagged on a thread and making the under-sleeve device functional once again. Triumphantly, I pointed my hand at the closest hoodlum’s head and flicked my wrist.

A tiny ping! erupted from my sleeve, followed by a rather alarming ripping sound.

I glanced down at my arm and stared in horrified fascination at the gap in my sleeve. The derringer had stopped its journey halfway between my wrist and my hand and sat there as if awaiting further instructions.

Hoodlum Number One squinted as if he couldn’t quite believe what he was seeing.

Good then. I had him right where I wanted him—as uncertain and frightened as a rabbit caught devouring a carrot in Her Majesty’s Royal Garden.

Now, why . . . don’t you . . . go . . . on . . . your . . . way. I tugged at the derringer, struggling to get the blasted thing into firing position. I glared at the reticule banging back and forth as I wiggled the tiny gun on its slide.

If all else failed, I could bludgeon the hoodlum into unconsciousness with my reticule, in which case it would behoove me to rename the accoutrement: the Reticule of Immobility.

Hoodlum Number One sought to take advantage of the situation by rushing me in a frontal assault, a move I adeptly averted by letting the hand attached to the infernal mechanism droop out of the way and using my rather awkward left hand to thumb back the hammer. Not a pretty maneuver, but the noise was enough to bring said hoodlum to a stop so I could continue fiddling, switching from poking and prodding to forcefully shoving the derringer forward with my left hand.

After an eternity or two, the reluctant beast popped free and slipped into position, but not before delivering a severe pinch to the sensitive tissue between the thumb and forefinger of my opposite hand, at which point Newton’s Third Law—for every action there is an exact and opposite reaction—abruptly came into play, causing my trigger finger to contract at the same time a few choice epithets I had picked up from the crew of the Raven spewed from my lips.

Though the derringer was tiny, it produced a dramatic flash along with a rather loud pop! as the firing mechanism engaged, causing my ears to ring from the unexpected assault.

I’m not quite certain whether it was the shot careening through the fog—somehow managing to bounce off a bucket, a wheel hub, and what might have been a spittoon—until the bullet simply collapsed, exhausted, in the mud, or whether I had finally hit upon a language the hoodlums understood, but when I recovered my composure along with a portion of my dignity, both men had disappeared.

All right, then. I forced the derringer along its slide until the diminutive weapon was once again hidden beneath my sleeve. As luck would have it, the device was more cooperative in the retirement phase than it had been during the deployment phase, else I might have abandoned it then and there. Besides serving as a delivery mechanism, the slide kept the hot barrel from directly touching my skin.

I tugged at the edges of my torn sleeve. The derringer had not only sliced through the fabric, the device had managed to snag several strands of thread and drag them along with it, unraveling the sliced edges and leaving behind a nest of mangled fabric in its wake.

It was time to face reality—the device had been rendered utterly useless, as had my sleeve. Both had suffered a near-fatal catastrophe. More than likely device and sleeve were equally salvageable, but further repairs would have to wait until after I found Mother.

Most of the light had fled from the sky, turning the fog into a soggy darkness filled with hazy shapes, disconcerting textures, eerie sensations, and throat-clogging smells.

Another foray into my imposing Reticule of Immobility produced a hollow metal stick about the size of an average man’s middle finger. I held one end of the stick and rapidly tapped the other end against my leg until the end of the stick itself began to softly glow. Another of my friend’s experiments that had needed field testing.

This one most definitely worked. I had used it numerous times on board the Raven. I had even given the captain a demonstration, after which he requested that I only use the stick in cases of dire emergency, there being more than enough lighting strategically positioned about the ship.

The other three women on board had been delighted when I revealed the light stick, though the oldest one had looked at me wisely when I repeated the captain’s words.

Bad enough ’aving women on board, them being bad luck and all. But a woman who kin do somethin’ what looks like magic’s a witch for certain and a sure sign of impending doom.

I had assured the women that I was the furthest thing there was from a witch (being a sorceress’s daughter didn’t correlate with anything witchy, mind you) only to find they weren’t worried in the least.

We all gots our talents, the oldest had said, giving me a broad wink.

The stick was intriguing. There were no visible seams that would allow access to internal workings, which presented a bit of a conundrum. Fire needed to be fed wood to keep burning, candles and oil lanterns eventually burned themselves out if not refueled, but the stick never seemed to run out of whatever was making it glow. The glow would fade if the stick wasn’t kept active by tapping it now and again, but the glow always brightened the next time it was tapped.

My one and only friend prior to finishing school had been one Owen Funk—a Dabbler in the Arts of Mechanical Convenience, as he called himself. I made a mental note to ask Owen, creator of both stick and derringer device, what kept the stick illuminated and lifted the now-glowing stick to find myself once again surrounded . . . by creepy, gray fog.

At least I could see the mud sucking at my ankles.

I heaved an audible sigh and slurped toward the cart, almost tripping over the next specter who materialized before me, the muck having provided no audible warning of his approach. I quickly tucked the light stick into the folds of my skirt, unwilling to call the attention of a total stranger to the experimental device.

Oh, I said, feigning dismay. I stared forlornly at the mud. That was my last match.

It was the best explanation I could come up with on the spur of the moment—for the vanishing light, that is.

There was still enough illumination oozing through the fog that I could see the look of incredulity on the man’s face. He stopped beside the cart and eyed the luggage that had endured heavy seas and frigid storms only to end up perched in a handcart that was inexorably sinking into the mud.

The man’s wool topcoat sported clean lines and his bowler, though perched at a rakish angle, looked to be new. His face—what I could see of it—was clean-shaven, his hair neatly trimmed, and, more importantly, he smelled faintly of chrysanthemums and . . . hyacinths? . . . instead of manure and dead fish.

All in all, this new arrival appeared to have all the qualities of a Proper Person of Society.

I gave him a sharp nod. If you will direct me to the Niantic Hotel, sir, I would greatly appreciate it.

The man looked me over from head to toe, and again I was aware of the tightness of the collar around my neck.

Chapter Three

THANKFULLY, MY NEW guide proved to be a man with navigational skills and intimate knowledge of the morass that had the audacity to call itself a street.

Watch your step, Mademoiselle, the newcomer said with an accent that suggested the man might be French. Ze road is ze worst I have ever seen it. Only last week, three entire wagons were swallowed by ze mud. You are lucky, there is now a layer of brush and branches filling in ze holes and giving ze peeple something to walk on. Unfortunately, some spots swallow up ze branches like ze snake swallows ze mouse. Turns ze slippery mud into ze death trap.

A chill ran across my skin that had nothing to do with the fog.

Mother and I had spent six months in France before she had decided to send me to finishing school. If this man was French—a possibility intimated by his accent but not by his syntax—I was, as the saying went, a monkey’s aunt.

I did not, unfortunately, have the luxury of grilling the man.

Thank you for the warning, I said. I nodded at my disconsolate pile of baggage. One wheel of the handcart was sunk halfway to the hub, causing the entire pile to tilt. I noted, with more than a little despair, that my precious trunk was close to taking a nose dive. I’m afraid my porter deserted me, though I can’t say I blame the poor boy. Do you know someone . . .

"Your bags are safe for ze time being. Ze Niantic is only a short distance away. There are plenty of peeple who will be happy to lend ze hand. For ze price, mais non?"

Torn between not wanting to leave my larger bags unattended in this land forgotten by law and civilization alike and not wanting to be left behind myself, I surreptitiously tucked the light stick back into my reticule, securely fastened the latches on my small valise—the one that was also occupied—and took the valise in hand. I gave the handcart a frustrated—and very unladylike—kick, then scurried after my rapidly disappearing guide.

Or rather, I tried to scurry. Suffice to say I made progress, lifting my skirts as high as possible with one hand while holding the valise in the other hand for balance and slurp, slurping in the general direction of the vanishing guide.

After what felt like an interminable distance but was more than likely a mere ten steps or so, I found a set of steppingstones I hadn’t noticed before.

The first stone squooshed instead of squished when I stepped on it and a foul smell twisted my stomach. Not a stone then. A sack of potatoes. Extremely rotten potatoes, judging by the stench.

A corner of the bag disappeared into the muck as I teetered in the center, trying to balance on a mound that should have been buried months ago. The valise in my hand refused to cooperate, shifting weight from one side to the other and causing the handle to twist in my hand.

Hush. I shifted the valise so I was holding it in both arms. Unless you want me to dump you into the muck along with everything else.

The valise immediately stopped scritching. Are you following him, then? Why are you following him? I hate it when I can’t see.

Even though muffled, the voice managed to convey a sense of teenage vexation even though—to my rather-limited knowledge—the rat who belonged to the voice was long past his teenage years.

I stepped from the disappearing sack onto what appeared to be the top of a barrel. Now the challenge was not so much a matter of balancing on half-dead potatoes, but rather keeping my feet from sliding off the slippery wood.

Picturing myself back on the Raven, I drew upon my sailing experience. Balance was key to getting around on the slippery decks, striving to maintain flexibility in the knees and hips in order to absorb the ship’s movement. After accumulating a set of bruises more befitting someone engaged in the art of fisticuffs than a Proper Lady of Society, I had finally mastered the art of absorbing the movement of the ship rather than fighting it.

Ahoy had witnessed it all—without saying a word.

I had known Ahoy for months before he revealed his true nature—that he was a kobold in rat’s clothing. He could have chosen any form he wanted, but decided a rat suited his nature. He could also disappear and reappear at will.

I was quite certain he could do more, being a magical creature, but the little rat refused to demonstrate the rest of his abilities.

The barrel lid tipped as I stepped to the next stone. I let go of the valise with one hand, flailing to keep my balance with the other. After a moment spent beating the fog in what looked to be a vain attempt at avoiding a mud bath, I regained my balance and returned to a more dignified, upright position. I took a deep breath, adjusted my composure, then rapped on the valise.

You’re the magical one, I hissed. Why don’t you just magic us out of this mess?

He couldn’t, of course. We had already discussed this.

Mother was somewhere close by. She had to be. Any use of magic would draw her attention just as surely as the proverbial moth was drawn to a flame, only the moth in this case was a death’s head hawk-moth, the size of a raven, capable of devouring an entire beehive in one sitting while Ahoy was a single bee.

Yes, I was trying to find Mother. No, I did not want Mother to feast on my friends, rat or otherwise.

"You are more magical than I, Ahoy said. You just refuse to admit it."

I jiggled the valise hard as if about to drop it, suddenly furious. I forced myself to remember that I had been the one to bring the subject up. Struggling to maintain my composure, I tamped down my fury and regained a semblance of mental equilibrium. Ahoy, rat that he was, had only capitalized on the opportunity I had presented him with. Or so I reasoned.

We had had the you have magic discussion only once during what I had dubbed The Eternal Voyage. Ahoy insisted that I possessed much the same abilities as my mother. I counter-insisted that it did not matter. I was not like my mother, nor would I ever be.

End of subject.

Discussions concerning magic of any kind tended to set my teeth on edge. Implication that I was in any way magical set me off like an unplanned fire in a fireworks factory. Throughout my rather unusual childhood, Mother had force-fed me various lessons, forcing me to witness events a child should never realize are even possible as she demonstrated her own form of power.

I had resisted the only way I knew how—by learning just enough to avoid losing body parts.

Out of all those lessons, there was one lesson I took to heart: magic—especially Mother’s kind of magic—corrupted a person, drawing them deeper into a darkness from which there was no return.

Just as it had done with Mother.

I was not going to follow in Mother’s footsteps. End of discussion.

Something snapped beneath my feet. The mud gurgled and I experienced the odd sensation that the world was sinking. I glared down at the mud and sighed.

"Perhaps Mother did send someone to pick me up, I mumbled. And that someone was swallowed alive by the muck."

Pardon me? said the valise. I missed that last part.

It really was rather odd talking to a valise.

Never mind, I said, resisting the urge to spring the lock and dump Ahoy into the muck. After all, he deserved to suffer as much as I did, did he not?

I stepped from the pile of muddy sticks onto what appeared to be a box of tobacco leaves and started when I spotted a figure in the darkness not far ahead.

I thought California was supposed to be sunny and warm all the time, I said, raising my voice in order to be heard by my guide.

Ze rains are a little heavy this year. We just broke one of ze longest dry spells in history with one of the wettest winters—according to the local tribes. He took another step, turned, and held out his hand, waiting for me to catch up. I moved from the box to another pile of sticks, then froze, gaping at the fur he was standing on. The shape bulged at the top, like maybe there was more to the package than met the eye. It had a peculiar shape, quite possibly because it had once been living.

Is that a . . . a . . . I swallowed. Is it dead?

Oui, the man said. It is definitely dead. It is my old . . . how you say? . . . rug.

Smells like a dead bear, Ahoy said, his muffled voice suddenly clear.

One more word and you’ll be joining the bear, I growled through my teeth, then smiled at my guide who again looked perplexed.

Just talking to myself, I said by way of explanation. It’s a family tradition.

The man shook his head and moved on, withdrawing the proffered assistance. I sighed. It would be rather difficult for him to take one of my hands, since one was filled with skirts while the other was holding the valise.

Relieved I wasn’t treading upon the carcasses of half-swallowed mules and horses, I stepped onto the rug, mentally berating the person who had gotten me into this mess in the first place.

Mother.

The woman had sent a letter via a very elite messenger service, demanding my appearance and setting out all the details of my trip. My dearest Abigail, the letter had started.

That’s when I knew the news was not going to be pleasant. I hate being called Abigail and Mother knows it.

Accompanying the letter was a ticket for a berth on the good ship SS Raven—a three-masted steamship that claimed to be able to navigate any type of weather, windy or calm, due to its combination of sails and paddlewheels, a vessel that looked, smelled, and lumbered through water like it had been around since the Roman Empire—along with strict instructions to proceed directly to the Niantic Hotel upon reaching San Francisco.

Granted, our ship was almost a month behind schedule, as I’ve mentioned, but Mother had ways of keeping tabs on me. As such, I was not worried that she would be worried. Although I was beginning to question her sanity.

Why would a woman who had the entire world at her beck and call choose to reside in this muddy slice of Hell?

Why hadn’t she stayed someplace civil, like New York?

I froze as a thought occurred to me—was it possible that New York had an organization similar to London’s famed League of Extraordinary Sorcerers, an organization that oversaw both sorcerers and sorceresses within the city’s confines?

Mother had butted heads with the League one time—that I know of—and they hadn’t been able to force her to abide by their regulations. The confrontation had taken a lot out of Mother, though, and she had stayed away from London from then on, virtually abandoning me there when she’d sent me away to school.

It was possible that New York had presented Mother with a similar predicament—

Are we there? the valise asked. Is that why all the jouncing and jolting has stopped?

I scowled and tried to focus.

My guide had faded from sight once again, leaving me wrapped in damp, odiferous fog with no idea which way to go. I shivered and hugged the valise to my chest. If the air grew any chillier, all this fog would become snow, I was quite certain of it.

Not only was I cold, but I could hardly see. Night had come on with a vengeance, extinguishing all natural light . . .

And then it grew impossibly dark.

The skin on the back of my neck tightened and the breath caught in my throat. I shoved the valise under my arm and fumbled for the light stick in my reticule, panic wrapped around my chest tighter than an ill-laced corset.

There was only one person who could obliterate light in such a manner.

Mother?

I had meant to sound challenging, determined. Instead, my voice was that of a small child, timid with scarcely any volume. I cleared my throat and tried again. Mother!

This time I managed to squeak instead of quake.

Squeak or quake—the night remained black as a sealed tomb.

Without air. Without life—

Not sure why you stopped, the valise said. I could use a bit of a break, though. Open the lid. Let in some air. That sort of nonsense.

I blinked. The fog was back in all its nightly glory, dark, but not impossibly so. A yellow halo glowed somewhere ahead. A light, then. Illuminating some form of establishment, preferably the Niantic Hotel.

There you go again, I said, pleased to hear my voice had also returned to normal. Ruining the moment.

"Moment? What moment? Were you having a moment without me?"

Don’t be silly. I said absently. "You were at my side during the entire momentous event."

Whatever that event had been.

I returned the light stick to my reticule, releasing the stick from the death grip that left my fingers aching, and took stock of the situation.

Not Mother, then. Mother would surely have shown herself if only to prove whatever point she had been trying to make.

"Hello? Monsieur?"

The fog swallowed my words.

Mother or my all-too-vivid imagination, it didn’t matter. I couldn’t stand here in the mud and fog all night, hoping the Niantic Hotel would miraculously appear before me.

I tucked the valise snugly into the crook of my left arm, lifted my skirts as high as possible in my relatively free hand, and took an enormous step. With any luck, my foot would find something other than mud to land on.

My foot complied with my wishes, and—fortunately—landed on another pile of branches. One more enormous step found us perched atop what appeared to be a wheel hub.

Someone should give you lessons in valise carrying, Ahoy said. This certainly wins the award for the Most Erratic, Bumpy, Jostle-the-Teeth-Loose journey.

I ignored the little rat.

Are we there, then? I called, managing to keep my voice somewhat mellow and serene, an illusion I maintained for several more steps. I squinted over my right shoulder, back the way I had come, wondering if perhaps I was headed in the wrong direction.

"Mai oui, mademoiselle. We have arrived."

I almost melted into the mud at the sound of the now-familiar voice. I hopped from the last bit of flotsam I had been tottering on and found myself standing on the edge of a wooden platform. In the center of the platform stood our guide.

Thank goodness, I started, but all words—along with the immense sense of relief—fled like a fox being chased by hounds at the sight of an enormous dark shadow looming in the fog beyond the platform.

Our guide didn’t appear to notice. He gave a nod, turned on his heel, and mounted the wooden plank extending upward from the platform. Without a backward glance, he opened a door, flooding the fog with noise and light.

The light, though limited in scope, revealed the dark shadow wasn’t simply a shadow, but the prow of an enormous ship. I stared at the