Death in the Age of Steam (64 page)

“One—
two
—three—four.”

“Like this!” Theresa cried, finding her way. She swayed into the music with a supple grace unknown among the polka dancers at the Peninsula Hotel. “Tell me, Isaac,” she said. “Would you have looked inside Etta Lansing's shack if I had not called out?”

“Etta Lansing and her great scimitar of a knife were protecting
something
in there. I couldn't have left without
finding out what.” In a sense, he had not found Theresa at all, but had allowed her to find him—and knowing she had wanted to find him felt damned good. “Face to face now,” he said. “I step back with you pursuing, then reverse.”

“The music has stopped,” she pointed out.

“No matter.”

When they stopped at last, it was to kiss. Her fingers encircled the back of his neck. His cradled her slender black waist. Each returned the eager pressure of the other's body through all the petticoats and skirts, the trousers and drawers, the plackets and flies.

If the bands had started up again, they didn't hear.

Characters appearing in these pages are fictitious, and none should be identified with any actual person, living or dead. Streets and places, on the other hand, are depicted as faithfully as possible. Their names reflect 1850s usage; some have changed over the decades since.

A novel in a new voice can never have too many friends. It is a great pleasure to acknowledge here some of the people without whom
Death in the Age of Steam
might never have reached your hands. Invaluable early encouragement and advice came from Carol Jackson, Bonnie Laing, Robert Ward and Greg Ioannou. Through the Humber School for Writers Correspondence Programme, I had the great good fortune to develop the manuscript with Paul Quarrington, and to profit from his wise and sympathetic coaching. Parts of the novel were also supportively critiqued by George Fetherling and Austin Clarke. Both were made accessible by the University of Toronto's School of Continuing Studies, and both gave more than duty required. The opportunity to work with these three authors has been an honour.

I'd like to say a special thank you to two technical experts. Professor Roger Hall of the University of Western Ontario helped me with the historical details of pre-Confederation Canada, while Patricia Cooper vetted the manuscript with the keen eye of a horse owner. Both prevented me from committing many errors, and neither can be blamed for those—few, I hope—that remain. I know I made no mistake in entrusting this novel to my agent, Tina Tsallas of Great Titles Incorporated, for she introduced it and me to RendezVous Press. Working with publisher Sylvia McConnell and editor Allister Thompson has been a joy. Finally, I would like to thank my family, who never once told me I was wasting my time by writing—or even thought it.

Photo by Brett Newsome

Mel Bradshaw
was born in Toronto, Ontario, and took his B.A. in English and philosophy at the University of Toronto. He continued studying philosophy—mostly ethics and aesthetics—at New College, Oxford.

Between degrees, he spent two years forgetting winter in Southeast Asia. Under the auspices of Canadian University Service Overseas, he taught English in northern Thailand and did odd jobs in Jakarta, Indonesia. He has also travelled to Zambia, Iceland, Poland, and points between. He now lives in his native town, devoting as much time as possible to reading and writing.