Turnkey (The Gaslight Volumes of Will Pocket Book 1) Read online

  The Gaslight Volumes of Will Pocket:

  Turnkey

  By Christopher Dunkle

  With Lori Williams

  Text copyright © 2012 Christopher Dunkle and Lori Williams

  Illustrations copyright © 2012 Derek and Phillip Marunowski

  All Rights Reserved

  For those who’ve helped shape this world, those who’ve encouraged its creation, and my lovely Lori, without whom the Doll and this work would never exist.

  - Christopher

  Table of Contents

  Prologue – The Story of New London

  Chapter One – Pocket and Dandy

  Chapter Two – The Bottle and the Fox

  Chapter Three – Watch Shop

  Chapter Four – The Girl Behind the Glass

  Chapter Five – Beggar’s Vacation

  Chapter Six – Enemies to the Crown

  Chapter Seven – The Bulletproof Gambler

  Chapter Eight – Piece by Piece

  Chapter Nine – The Gaslight Tea House

  Chapter Ten – Tea Dreams

  Chapter Eleven – Lucidia

  Chapter Twelve – More Than Capable

  Chapter Thirteen – The Oil Sea

  Chapter Fourteen – Pocket the Gentleman

  Chapter Fifteen – Gifts and Goodbyes

  Chapter Sixteen - Chase

  Chapter Seventeen – The Doll’s Diary, Part the First: Dreams I’ve Had

  Chapter Eighteen – The Red Flower

  Chapter Nineteen – Return of the Motorists

  Chapter Twenty – The Great Comedy of the Windmill

  Chapter Twenty-One - Damnable Pity

  Chapter Twenty-Two - Catch

  Chapter Twenty-Three – The Doll’s Diary, Part the Second: Steps I’ve Walked

  Chapter Twenty-Four – Racing Moonlight

  Epilogue – Something More

  Prologue

  The Story of New London

  England. June 1840.

  Two months into her marriage and pregnant with her first child, Queen Victoria is taking a public carriage ride with her husband, Prince Albert. A mad tavern worker named Edward Oxford interrupts the Queen's ride and fires two shots at the couple, striking both in the head. Both die along with Victoria's unborn daughter. Oxford is deemed insane, but because of the severity of his crime, is sentenced to death by hanging. The Queen's assassination, however, throws the country into a fevered panic, and with no direct heir left to claim the throne, England enters its “Black Period,” a time of civil discord, international disapproval, and broken government.

  England. 1850.

  England barely survives a decade under the rule of a string of temporary figureheads. Determined to find a proper heir to the throne, Parliament hunts down the man they believe to be the closest living blood relative to the late Queen, a man named Alexander Renton. Absolute evidence of Renton's royal lineage is never presented, yet the public accepts him as a successor. He ascends the throne, becoming Alexander I, and the great suffering of Britain finally comes to a close. What follows is England's “Bright Period,” a time of incredible societal and especially technological advancement. Brooding heavily on Victoria's fate, Alexander becomes obsessed with preventing the country from falling into another decline, and pushes the advancement of medical, mechanical, militaristic, and scientific studies. The British Empire soon evolves into an empire of machines, primarily built upon the developments of the forgone Industrial Revolution. Alexander's motivations and drive to improve results in a greater acceleration in these developments, particularly the commercial use of steam power, burning gas, and even a select few, limited, and experimental uses of electricity. Thanks to Alexander's fervent enthusiasm, England progresses over the next thirty years into a technological marvel. To make an example to the rest of the world, who had lost great faith in the British Empire over the preceding Black Period, Alexander I decrees the rebuilding of London, once the centerpiece of the empire that had since fallen into horrible disrepair. The entire area is rebuilt very nearly from the ground up and becomes what poets of the period call “a monument in steel and brass, a city alive with the perpetual turning of clockwork.” Alexander proudly titles his city “New London.”

  Victoria's death also stirs in Alexander the importance of security. Under his command, the monarchy becomes heavier guarded and far more secretive. While this creates a feeling of detachment amongst the citizens, there is no great protest against this change. The public as a whole accepts these measures, wanting dearly to prevent another chance at assassination. Alexander becomes increasingly private, almost never appearing in public. He also creates the Royal Magnate Militia, a highly-trained, heavily-armed group of advisors who exist primarily as direct protection for the King, but also as general peacekeepers upon the streets on the city. The Magnates, as they are commonly known, become a symbol to the public of the King's unwavering dedication to security.

  New London, England. 1888.

  New London continues to grow and prosper, and by 1888, it is again a culturally-vibrant city and political hot spot. Steamships and zeppelins fill the sky, electric carriages and steam-fueled motorbikes zip through the streets, and gaslight lanterns glow upon every corner. As the city grows, however, so does the inevitable backlash against the aging Alexander I. People grow uncomfortable and suspicious of the King's secretive demeanor and demand to be more informed of the country's international dealings. Alexander takes great offense to these protests and in response becomes even more private with England' affairs. Further complaints are silenced publicly thanks to the intimidating presence of the Magnates, but discontented conversation continues behind closed doors. It is a period of achievement and discord, of growth and isolation. Of those pushing forward toward modernity and those left behind by it. Contrast is the flavor of the times.

  New London, England.

  October 1, 1888.

  Twelve-fifteen A.M.

  It is the meeting of the seasons, as crisp autumn changes into frigid winter. Snow has begun to fall and at this silent minute the city seems dead. It is a moment of bleeding in the city, as the last of the lively pubs open their doors and drain their patrons out into the streets. In one block of shops, down one such street, stands one equally-bled tavern, the Good Doctor. The last of the Doctor's customers are plodding through the door, and the establishment is quickly emptied, save for the two remaining at the bar. One's a customer, one's a tender, and between them is only air and time and a sticky glass mug.

  Oh, and one of them is me.

  I suppose that's relevant to add.

  - W. C. P.

  Chapter One

  Pocket and Dandy

  October 1, 1888

  “You ever fall in love with the end of the world, Mister Alan?”

  “That more of your poetry, Pocket?”

  “Not this time, I'm afraid.”

  “Because it's getting a little late for poetry.”

  “Then don't worry.”

  “I won't.”

  “Good.”

  “All right. I'll bite.”

  “It's a long story.”

  “You finish your drink?”

  “Wait...yeah. Done.”

  “Then go ahead and talk. Your tab's due.”

  “Normal price?”

  “Normal price. A story for a round. But tell it good, Pocket. Lots of flash and pop and romance. Give me my beer's worth.”

  “The beer was a little watery tonight.”

  “Then you can give me a weak ending. I don't care. Just start entertaining. It's getting
dull in here.”

  “Of course it is. It’s closing hour. I should be leaving, not spinning stories.”

  “You think I’m letting you away with an unpaid tab? Bah. Start spinning.”

  “All right, fine. If you’re so desperate for it, then…let me think. It all started more than a few weeks ago...in a bar much like this, come to think of it. You were there. I was—“

  “No, no, no, Pocket. You can't just start off a good story with 'I was sitting in a bar and then this happened.' You've gotta start strong.”

  “All right then...um...Ah. Got it. The cold British wind never feels quite so present as it does between the cracks of your fingers as you claw your way, tired and broken, to the tip of the highest steeple you've ever seen, your hands charred and dirty, your eyes on the figure poised on the point, framed in her tragedy by that divine moon.”

  “Whoa, whoa. Wait a minute. Now you're on a steeple? On top of a church?”

  “Well, yeah.”

  “How did you get up there? What happened to the bar?”

  “You said you didn't like the bar. And the steeple scene has flash. It's the big climax.”

  “You can't just give me the big flash right away like that! You've got to work forward to it!”

  “Well, I thought I could work backward and—“

  “No, no, no. That's terrible. Look, just stick with the bar scene. Go from there. And none of that 'divine moon' talk. I've heard it a thousand times.”

  “Okay…”

  “And at least give this thing a title. Something that sticks with your audience.”

  “You're a demanding critic for a bartender, Mister Alan.”

  “I'm demanding when I'm bored.”

  “Okay, okay. This…uh…okay…this begins the story of a girl.”

  “Oh, good. I like those.”

  “Will you let me tell it? Okay…this is the story of the unlucky. Of those select, unfortunate few that funny Mistress Fate picks like fallen cherries from the dirt and throws together under the baking heat of a fantastical pie. A pie of confusion and adventure. A pie of curiosity and pursuit and danger and, uh, vivacity! A pie of heartache and joy, of danger and revelation! A pie—“

  “I thought you were going to tell the girl story.”

  “This is the girl story!”

  “Not the way you tell it. Sounds more like a cooking story.”

  “Look, the image of the pie is there to paint a picture in the imagination of the audience.”

  “So they'll be thinking about pie?”

  “Okay, forget the pie. This is...sigh...this is, Mister Alan, the story of the most beautiful girl I have ever seen and the most ugly ride I have taken at her side. This is the story of your humble narrator, and above all other things, Mister Alan, this is the story of the turnkey girl.”

  It was the dead of night in the golden city and I was off hiding from the cold and my own boredom. A few yellow-brown bubbles popped on the surface of my beer, I remember because I was counting them for entertainment while I waited to be drunk. Alcohol and I have an understanding. We keep the relationship professional. While a lot of gentlemen and even ladies I've met hold onto the philosophy that fun lies at the bottom of a glass bottle, I still maintain that the pastime of drinking is merely a stand-in for enjoyment, not a source.

  I could, of course, be wrong in this theory. It is equally plausible that I'm just not a very fun drunk. At any rate, it wasn't stopping me from emptying my glass that night.

  “Another round, Pocket?” the barkeep asked, leaning over the worn, wooden counter, his elbows hovering centimeters above the splinter-ridden surface. The Brass Rail wasn't known for much, and…something…something witty about its atmosphere, lack of atmosphere...sorry, I'm still drunk. Anyhow, it was a room with two ceilings, the lower of which was an artificial layer of grey-black smoke provided by the pub's exhaling clientele.

  The bartender asked again if I was interested in another glassful of distraction. I don't recall what answer I gave, but if I decided on another beer he must've quickly forgotten about it, as I never received it. Just as well. I was content sipping on the remainder of my glass and watching the bartender not serve me a drink.

  “Okay, Pocket. I get it.”

  “Stop interrupting. You're about to make your debut.”

  The barkeeper left his post and began fiddling with a rickety music box that was rigged up in the least cobwebbed corner of the place. A few kicks to its worn casing and a flourish of semi-sour notes filled the room.

  “Ah!” the bartender announced, pride in his eyes. “What did I tell you?”

  I raised my glass to him as he slid back behind the bar top. No one else I've met could ever get that box to spit a song.

  “I was an idiot to ever doubt you, Mister Alan.”

  “Yes, you were.”

  I caught myself grinning and hid it behind my glass. The playing needle hit a particular bump in the turning wax cylinder, and the vocals began. Alan cracked open a new bottle of something and began singing along.

  “Black sky tonight, and it ain't gettin' any brighter. Ships fly this night, but I think they're gettin' lighter…”

  Alan Dandy. Good man, really, and an acquaintance I've made over time with very little effort. He's…I guess you could call him a freelancer, though it's unusual for such a profession. He works nights, tending bars across the city. I suspect he only takes jobs at dumps like the Brass Rail to mess around with the music boxes. Guy's got a soft spot for music. Like I said, I've never considered myself to be a career drinker, but he must think I am by now. I keep managing to run into Alan at various corner pubs and taverns all over New London. I don't know why. Call it fate. Sometimes I wonder if there's some reasoning behind which people you get stuck around in life, but then that's a storyteller response, isn't it? I'll leave it up to you. Anyway, the night rolled on and Alan rolled along with it, slapping bottles onto the counter for his whisker-riddled customers.

  “Hold off a second, Pocket.”

  “Now what?”

  “Why are you telling me about myself? I know who I am.”

  “Look, if I'm going to tell this whole story once, I may as well be prepared to tell it again. I've got to get used to setting up characters. This is my meal ticket, you know.”

  “All right. Just move on, already. You've talked enough about me.”

  “You shy, Alan?”

  “Just get on with it.”

  “Okay, so where was I…”

  I wobbled on my stool for awhile and tried hard to listen to the music instead of the inebriated claims of female conquest that were being wheezed around me.

  “I like the song,” I said to Alan.

  “What's that?”

  “I like the song. The singer, she's got a nice voice.”

  “Yeah, that's a classic. Lady Jay.”

  “Hmm?”

  “The singer. Lady Jay.”

  “Haven't heard of her.”

  “You should. Great string of hits.” He poured something wet and rust-colored into a tumbler and slid it to a customer.

  I took another uninterested gulp and realized that someone sitting next to me had been tugging on my shoulder for a good, I'd say, two minutes. It was a blonde someone and she smiled at me. I smiled back out of courtesy. The blonde someone was spinning her ankles around the edge of the stool and spitting peanut shells. She must have been seven, eight at the oldest.

  My luck, the first woman to ever approach me in a pub…

  “Hello, hello!” the little thing said.

  “Hi,” I replied.

  “What are you doing?”

  “Sitting.”

  “Oh. Me too!”

  “Congratulations.” I took another swallow of beer and watched the child spin in her seat. “Aren't you a little young to be in a place like this?”

  “My daddy says it's okay. I have ta' wait for him ta' finish doing daddy things.”

  “Ah. Good man.” I tried, without success, to
return to my drink.

  “My name is Annabelle.”

  “Hi Annabelle.”

  “What's yours?”

  Sigh. I fished around in my coat pocket and produced a small, dog-eared, white calling card and handed it to the girl. She took it in both hands and furrowed her brow.

  “Can you read?”

  “Of course I can read!” She furrowed some more, then traced her thumbs over each printed black letter that spelled out: WILL POCKET, THE ABSYNT BARD OF NEW LONDON.

  “You misspelled 'absent,'” she finally said.

  “I didn't print it myse—”

  “What's a bard, then?”

  At that point, Alan returned to my spot on the bar to collect empty glasses and sweep up Miss Annabelle's peanut shells. I shot him a look, hoping for a little assist in escaping my present company. He grinned and nodded back to me.

  “Yeah, Pocket,” he said. “What's a bard, then?”

  My mood, my face, and, somehow, my beer instantly soured. I met Alan's question with restrained annoyance and began to tap on the bar.

  “Well…” I said, surrendering to this barstool interrogation. “It's like a performer.”

  “Like an actor?” asked the girl.

  “Sort of, but more of a storyteller. With tricks and songs and such.”

  “Oh! Do you sing, Mister Pocket?”

  “Well…not really. I mean, not extremely well.” That was slightly understated. I am horrible.

  “Oh,” she said. She stood up on her chair and tried to reach over the bar top to grab at more peanuts. Alan restrained her and she began a very noisy protest. I thanked the heavens for the opportunity and tossed the only bills in my pocket on the counter.

  “I'll see you around, Alan.”

  “Whoa! Pocket!” he shouted back to me, now clinging to the girl's ankles as she thrashed at him. “Get back here! This isn't going to cover your rounds!”

  “That's all I've got at the moment. Can't I owe you the rest?”