Twincy Quinn and the Eye of Horus Part One (23 page)

And perhaps
she had.

Could I
possibly bring myself to believe Jennifer Fairmont's extraordinary
tale? Could I actually consider the possibility that Twincy Quinn
had saved her?

Maybe I had
all the evidence I needed that the woman was more than capable of
it. She had held herself in that fight expertly, and as for the
incident barely moments ago when the horses had run amuck, she had
moved frighteningly fast and she had resolved it in the time it had
taken me to push myself up onto my feet.

But . . . could she be the one who had saved
Jennifer? And why?

Eventually I
pried myself away from that lane way and away from that roof,
slowly, reluctantly making my way back to work.

And all the
way I thought. I also watched. Not the streets, not the people
around me, not my feet as I walked along quickly. I stared at the
roofs. Perhaps I was hoping to catch a glimpse of that beautiful
white lace and silk. Or perhaps I was trying to convince myself
that what I thought had occurred simply could not be.

Yet no matter
what the true motivation behind my actions, I could not help but
stare.

And wait.

Wait for any
opportunity to run into her again.

For next time
I would not be so naive. I was now sure that no matter what Twincy
Quinn wore, I would recognise her, for her eyes felt as if they had
bored into my soul. Tonight I could easily dream of them, and
tomorrow, if I passed them in the street, I would recognise her at
once.

Or at least I
hoped so.

Twincy
Quinn

I was sitting
on a section of roof on a building that was higher than the rest. I
came here often. There was a little flat part nestled between the
slate that was perfect for sitting upon, and a raised section of
wood and metal where one could rest their back. Well right now I
huddled there. I didn't dare risk going home yet. I wanted to wait
for the cloak of darkness before I tried that. So as I sat there, I
brought my hands up, and rested them tightly over my eyes, blinking
hard, and letting my eyelashes trail across the skin.

I tried to let
it distract me. It could not.

Nothing could.
For nothing should. What had I just done?

Had he
recognised me?

Had he seen
me? I tried to convince myself that he couldn't have. When I had
jumped up onto the roof in that lane way, I had done so as quick as
I could, and I had scampered off much quicker than usual.

Yet that did
not change one fact. Regardless of whether he had seen me clamber
up that wall, he would have noticed that I had disappeared into
thin air.

‘
You should not let this get to you,’ I tried as I mumbled out
loud, my voice hardly carrying.

Though there
was a chill in the air, I huddled down and brought my legs up,
thankful that my skirts were so voluminous, and that I could easily
arrange them around me. Locking my hands over my ankles, I pressed
my eyes closed for a blessed second.

I tried to
take heed of my advice, for it was solid advice. I had handled that
situation as best as I could. It had been pure dumb luck that had
seen me run into Detective Michael F. Stanford. Or maybe it hadn't
been? Maybe he had been following me?

As that rather
horrible thought ripped its way through my mind, I clapped a hand
over my chest, and felt my heartbeat rattling away underneath.
Still squeezing my eyes tightly closed, I realised it was going to
be a very long afternoon. Too long. Staying here until dark with
nothing to entertain me save for my gloomy, guilty thoughts, I
would most definetely go insane.

If only I knew
for sure how much he had seen and how much he knew. Was this
Michael F. Stanford after me? Or was he simply a curious detective
doing his work?

Though it
pained me to admit this, he seemed decent. The conversation we had
shared had been almost pleasant. And his smile, though it had been
obscured by that silly moustache, had been charming. Warm even.

The kind of
smile an girl like me was not used to receiving.

Shaking my
head as I realised that thought was distracting me, I closed my
eyes and banged my head into the small wall behind me.

I had ruined
this disguise. Hadn't I?

Well at least
I had ruined it as far as Michael F. Stanford was concerned. He had
tried to get such a good look at me, and likely had managed to on
several occasions, that he would be able to draw my picture in
perfect detail. I could remember the wide look to his eyes as he’d
kept on glancing my way, and that keen focused edge to his
attention.

‘
Oh dear,’ I managed, and perhaps it was the most truthful
thing I had said yet.

Because,
seriously, oh dear. Things were taking a strange turn, and at just
the point in time they should not be.

I could not afford to be distracted now. I had too much to do,
and too much to protect. From the upcoming exhibition, to my
unending war against Doctor Elliot Esquire and his
suitables
, I didn't have
time to look over my shoulder for a certain detective.

I couldn't let
the memory of him wheedle into my mind either, and distract me.

Because it
was.

My memory kept
on throwing up strange facts, like the exact edge to his eyebrow as
he had raised them in faux indignation after my jibe about his
moustache. I would also remember perfectly the look of his
well-polished though old shoes. And the sound of his voice. That
was a prominent one. For it was so deep, and had such a pleasant
Scottish brogue, that one could feel it almost in one’s stomach as
he spoke. Like any other deep sound, it appeared to travel through
you.

No.

These were not
the thoughts I should be entertaining. And this was certainly not
something that should be grabbing my attention.

Gritting my
teeth harder, deciding it was time to take control of my wandering
mind, I took a deep breath.

Perhaps I
could not stay here until nightfall.

Perhaps I
really needed to get home.

Deciding I
most certainly did. I pushed myself up, and, hardly looking around
me, considering there could be no witnesses, I pulled off my dress,
and stood there for a moment, staring out at London in nothing but
my underwear.

Then I
reversed the dress in a neat move. I also decided it was time to
take my necklace off. John, fortunately, had told me the necklace
had a redundancy, and could be taken off, and hooked around my
upper arm, and hidden from view. Sure enough, I quickly unclasped
it, and found several neat hooks and other clasps along the chain,
and hooked it around my arm. Then I pulled my jacket back on,
thankful that the sleeves were sufficiently puffy that they hid the
bulk of the necklace underneath.

It was now
time to change my hair.

I brought a
hand up a little hesitantly, considering some of John's inventions
could misfire, grasped the hairpin, and gave the jewels on top a
twist.

Then I felt
it. And my oh my was it a strange feeling.

The hair that
had bounced and jumped around my cheeks and chin all day moved. It
just snapped up, like it wasn't so much hair and more like
wire.

Shivering at
that strange thought, my hair quickly twisted itself up and around
and into an extremely tight bun.

I patted it
neatly.

It felt,
appropriately, perfect.

Still
shivering at the strangeness that was John's latest invention, I
now undid my parasol. Though John had initially told me it was
nothing more than an umbrella, it of course was not. Thankfully it
was not some strange device either. However, if I undid it, I could
manufacture a tight, cute bonnet that had a thick rim that could
hide my eyes. The fabric for it was hiding on the underside of the
parasol, and I quickly pulled it apart, tucked it together, and
clamped it down on my head. Then I tugged the remaining fabric from
the parasol, yanked up my skirts, and placed it into my rather
useful garter.

The rest of
the parasol I disassembled, and essentially threw away. It was
nothing more than wood and a few pieces of taut wire.

Feeling better
now that I once again had a disguise, I stood up, straightened my
back, and patted at my bun as I felt a breeze sweep over the
rooftops and play at the edges of my dress.

I did so like
the view of the city from up here. For it felt private, it felt
personal. It also felt as if I could connect with it. There was
nobody to spit or shout or chase me up here. Though there was the
occasional pigeon, and though they often cooed softly, I could most
definitely put up with that.

No, up here it
was just me and the view, and more importantly, the sky. It
stretched up above me, and it brought everything into perspective.
When the stars were out and the moon was high and full, it reminded
me that my problems, however large to me, had to be small compared
to everything else.

It also
reminded me that no matter how dark and twisted and shadowy
something appeared, the stars would always shine from above. No
amount of hatred or danger or ignorance or human cruelty could
change that fact.

And that was
somehow comforting.

Michael F.
Stanford

I was pacing
back and forth in the main room of my small apartment. Hands
clutched far too tightly behind my back, I would get to one end,
then turn sharply on my heel, and stamp over to the other end, only
to turn again.

I was meant to
be going out on a date in only half an hour, with my own, genuine
Miss Stanton, yet I could not get the fake Miss Stanton out of my
mind.

This situation
was turning out to be far more complex than I had originally
imagined it to be. This Twincy Quinn character was turning out to
be, rather than fictional, far more mysterious than I could have
guessed.

She was
clearly capable. Possibly trained, I fancied she knew more than a
thing or two about combat. She appeared to have extremely quick
senses too, and, well, frankly, that wasn't leaving out the most
fantastic part. She could scale a wall quicker than I could fall
off one.

Though I
wanted to say it was impossible, though I wanted to say there was
no known explanation for her abilities, that was a lie.

There was a
potential explanation, though it was exceedingly uncomfortable to
think of.

In the past
several months, and certainly, the past several years too, as
modernity had swept through England, it had brought with it
individuals with peculiar abilities. Individuals who had devices
implanted right into them. Why, I still remembered a rather grisly
murder I had attended on the docks. A man had been dragged out from
the depths, a man whose right eye had been replaced by the end of a
spotting scope.

This was no
tale, this was no half-remembered nightmare that I was confusing
for fact.

It had
happened, and I would never get that image out of my mind.

I had seen
other human beings riddled with these devices since then too. In
the last several months, perhaps in accordance with the
kidnappings, the sightings of devices had increased.

Strange brass
and gold and silver contraptions with spinning cogs and wheels. Men
who’d had their hands replaced with magnetic swords. I had heard
numerous stories, all of them equally as frightening as the next.
It wasn't just the police that were recounting these tales, either;
if you listened hard enough whenever you sat down in one of
London's numerous taverns, you would soon hear conversations
turning to the strange objects and the far stranger people
populating the streets. Almost everybody had run into such strange
sights or knew of someone who had. Sights of humans with devices
encrusted into their faces or their legs or their hands or their
chests.

It was grisly.
It was nightmarish, and if you believed the press, it was nothing
but rumour and hysteria.

The official
press, that was. For the word on the street had a far darker
interpretation of events.

London was
changing, that was a certainty. Yet at what cost? These machines
and this mechanical finery were bringing with it greater ease and a
sense of far more power in one's life. Yet what were we giving
away?

These were all
pertinent questions, but they were missing the point.

Could Twincy
Quinn be assisted by such devices? Could that account for her
extraordinary skills?

I had seen her
face, and remembered it perhaps a little too well, and could
confirm it had been normal. There had been no spinning cogs or
shining metal discs crackling with that new form of energy named
electricity.

Just a face,
pleasantly round, pleasantly warm, and one etched quite carefully
into my mind's eye.

I had seen her
hands also, and could confirm they were not
devices . . . . Or perhaps they were? Because I
had only seen the form of her hands, the actual palms and fingers
had been hidden away underneath a set of elegant pearly white
gloves.

Yet I somehow
doubted her hands were devices, I also doubted they were encrusted
with machines, however small, because she had brushed into me on
more than one occasion, and I could confirm the touch of Twincy
Quinn almost certainly felt just as real as it did pleasant.

I could easily
be missing something though. Perchance under those voluminous
skirts and that intricate bodice were the spinning lights and
machines I was after.

I stopped,
midway through a turn, and shook my head as though trying to
dismiss the thought.

It was a
little inappropriate. Yet again, however, it hid my true point. I
could not confirm from the sight of Twincy's unmarked face that she
was free from the effect of the modern machine.