The Tin Rose Read online

  The Tin Rose

  An Elemental Steampunk Story

  Anne Renwick

  Contents

  A FREE Short Story

  The Tin Rose

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Epilogue

  The Golden Spider

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  A FREE Short Story

  Also by Anne Renwick

  About the Author

  A FREE Short Story

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  A speeding train. A determined villain. A reconciliation of broken hearts.

  Lady Alice Hemsworth wasn’t supposed to fall in love. It was her duty not to. Alas, she’d failed miserably. Mr. Benjamin Leighton—despite being turned away by her steam butler—can’t stop thinking about her. Alone, both are miserable—until a deadly encounter throws them together on the night train to London.

  Anne's Newsletter

  The Tin Rose

  Chapter One

  The Dover Coast

  June, 1884

  Would she come?

  As the first rays of the setting sun struck the gleaming windows of Knowlton House, Luca stood beside the sole remaining campfire, one hand clutching a handful of viridis powder ready to cast it into the flames. If all went as planned, his bride would soon abandon the only life she’d ever known, trading it all for a new one among the Roma. With him. At last, he would feel whole.

  That is, if they’d not been discovered by her father, the Duke of Avesbury. The man had eyes everywhere, and with a single word in a carefully chosen ear, he could throw a wrench into all their plans.

  Luca smoothed down the front of his indigo waistcoat, the only one he possessed that hadn’t been patched or darned.

  What Emily saw in him—a gypsy with a knack for fixing enormous balance plows and a side talent for crafting clockwork creatures, both pragmatic and frivolous—he’d never understand. To the manor she was born, but aspired to trade polished silver spoons and fine silk gowns for brass and rough wool. And him. Her love humbled him.

  He’d made a few weak attempts to discourage her notions, but in the end selfishness won. Besides, she was of age, and he would not deny her the freedom to choose the life she wished.

  And so tonight they leapt into the future, together. Consequences be damned.

  Already the rumble of the other vardos—gypsy caravans—grew distant, muffled by the evening hum and buzz of insects. His finest clockwork horse, Tesio, was hitched to his grandmother’s vardo, its springs wound tight in anticipation of the journey ahead. Their exit from her family’s country estate would be silent and swift and—aether willing—unnoticed.

  Tomorrow, the duke and duchess would wake to find their daughter gone, deserting the very house party they hosted with the express intent of finding Emily a blue-blooded husband. A husband they no doubt hoped would put an end to her association with the old gypsy herbalist. And him. Would they touch a match to tinder and mount a furious pursuit of their daughter? Or would they silently ink her name from the family records? Not that it mattered. She would be his, and he would not surrender her without a fight.

  A dark silhouette appeared in a window of the great hall. Though indistinct at this distance, the feminine form stood with determined anticipation. His heart leapt. It could only be Emily.

  A gust of wind blew through the leaves of the nearby trees. In the distance, storm clouds gathered to blot out the navigation lights of silver dirigibles making their way to and from Captain Oglethorpe’s great boarding towers at Dover. He took a deep breath, steadying his mind. It was time.

  Time to turn the fire green and call his bride. But as he lifted his shaking hand toward the fire, a familiar form slid from the door of Grandmother’s vardo. How had he missed her return to camp? Distaste crept over his skin, but he forced himself to meet her gaze. Nothing good ever came of Rayka’s presence. Luca let the viridis powder slide between his fingers to the ground in hopes she would not notice, but her sharp ears caught the soft hiss of sand as it fell.

  “Second thoughts about stealing away?” Rayka sauntered to his side, exaggerating each step to make the various metal trinkets slung about her hips jingle. A traveling night, yet she dressed to dance? “I can’t say that anyone would hold it against you. You’ll forever be a fugitive, the gypsy boy who kidnapped his bride.” She fanned her fingers and stretched a sinuous arm toward the flames before spinning a quick turn upon her toes to flare her full skirts. “Ruined, they call it when a nobleman compromises a noblewoman.” Her voice taunted. The flickering light of the flames tossed shifting shadows across her features. “What do they call it when a gypsy does the same? A crime. You’ll be lucky not to hang.”

  “Rayka, always a bright spot in the darkness. What business with my grandmother keeps you from joining your family?”

  Once they’d been friends. Once his father considered her a potential bride for his son. Once she’d been his grandmother’s only apprentice, sole successor to all her herbal lore. Then lightning struck.

  Years ago, Emily had first traipsed into the gypsy camp on the heels of her brother Ned. Though he visited to consult with a gypsy clockwork master, Emily arrived with an apron brimming with wildflowers and a mind full of endless botanical questions, to the great delight of his grandmother. She soon won herself a place as his grandmother’s second pupil.

  At the time, she was nothing but a silly, little girl. But time passed and after one particularly long winter, Emily had arrived back in their encampment with the same bright blue eyes and wide smile—but with all new curves. He’d done his best not to stare, but Rayka caught the direction of his furtive glances and grew bitter and resentful.

  Now, she lifted her chin and her dark eyes flashed. “I came to tell her I’ve found a new mentor in another tribe.”

  The night Luca’s father had gifted Emily with pliashka, placing a necklace of coins about her neck, a formal acceptance of her as a bride, Rayka had disappeared. No one had seen her since.

  “You don’t need to leave us,” Luca said softly. Tradition dictated Romani women stay with their families until they took a husband. To leave was tantamount to exile.

  “Impossible. She stole your affections from me,” her gaze darted toward his grandmother’s vardo, “and I’ll not cede my status to a gadji.” Drawing a single finger slowly across the base of her throat, she spun backward out of the circle of light. “Choosing such a bride is a mistake you’ll soon regret.”

  Worry slithered into his stomach and tied a knot. “What have you done?”

  “I left behind a token of my esteem.” The bitter words fell from her lips like drops of acid. “Goodbye, Luca.”

  A sharp cry echoed in the night.

  Puri daj! Grandmother!

  He lunged for Rayka, his hand fisting about a flounce of her skirts. “Answer me.”

  “Time runs out,” she mocked. “Slipping away like sand through an hourglass. A few hours, no more.” Firelight glinted off a blade, and the cloth he held fell limp in his hand. He let it fall to the dirt as she disappeared into the shadows, calling over her shoulder. “Best hurry!”

  The hard leather of his soles crunched over stones and dirt as he ran for the vardo. With two strides he mounted the stairs and threw open the door. A crude metal box lay upon the floor, its lid thrown wide. Discordant notes plucked out upon a rotating metal cylinder played a sinister tune as spring-driven gears turned, unfurling a jointed and rusty vine. His stomach clenched in recognition and ice slid down his spine, for at its end bloomed a tin rose. The very
same bloom stolen from his workbox several weeks ago.

  “Careful,” his grandmother warned from the dark corner into which she’d retreated. “It is marhime.” Impure.

  Muttering under his breath and minding the thorns, Luca reached out, catching the stem between his thumb and forefinger to draw it carefully away from her.

  He squinted at the vine in the lamplight. Thorns with hollow points were slotted into a still-writhing vine that was coated with a faint—and glowing—liquid sheen. Tiny hairs on the back of his neck rose. Every instinct screamed ‘poison’ as the twisted perversion of his own design continued to grow, coiling toward his arm, resisting every attempt to return it to its case.

  A gust of wind rocked the vardo and the vine sprang free. Pain raced along nerve endings as razor sharp thorns sliced into his skin of his palm. Cursing, he stuffed the aggravating vine and its dull rose back into the box. He slammed the lid closed, ignoring the slight tingle in his fingertips.

  “Did it touch you?” he asked her.

  “No.” His grandmother waved at the basin of water. “Hurry. Wash your hands. I should never have accepted her gift.”

  He scrubbed away the blood and lathered his hands with soap, recalling the old adage ‘the dose makes the poison’. He prayed Rayka meant only to injure, not to kill. But his now-pounding heart filled him with dread.

  Grandmother clutched at his hand, clucking her tongue at the multitude of tiny slashes that now marked his palm, and reached for a bandage. The odd tingling grew stronger and an unpleasant numbness overtook his thumb, but a new, chilling fear had congealed in his mind.

  “The fire,” he said. “I never threw the viridis powder to call Emily.”

  Sweat broke out across his forehead. Rayka had been dressed to perform and where else could she be headed but the manor. His heart gave a great thud. Bent on revenge, what might she do Emily?

  He yanked his hand away. “I need to go. Now.”

  Turning, he bolted from the vardo.

  “Lady Emily,” Lord Attwater called. “Come join the game!”

  Voices raised in forced lightheartedness echoed off the vaulted ceiling of the great medieval hall of Knowlton House. Emily allowed the gentleman to believe the sound swallowed in the thick wool of the rug that idly stretched itself across the room.

  Marriage was by far Mother’s favorite conversational topic of late, evidenced by the ludicrous assortment of foppish gentlemen she had assembled here for her daughters’ consideration. To her dismay, even Father conspired against her.

  “Choose a husband,” he’d instructed her as steam carriages began to pull down the drive. A hearty greeting of Lord Attwater upon his arrival and a pointed stare in her direction made it clear whom he favored. Though the gentleman was handsome enough, her heart belonged to another. Best to escape before he grew more bold and forthright. Or Father discovered her secret.

  Ignoring the company in a manner that would leave Mother wishing to rap her daughter’s fingers, Emily pressed her palm against a warm glass of the diamond-paned glass window. Though she moved not an inch, she was breathless with excitement, not minding the butterflies turning aerial acrobatics in her stomach a single bit. Dusk would soon fall, and she couldn’t let her gaze stray from the flickering glow of the Romani campfire that burned in the center of their encampment. Not now. Any minute now it might flash green, signaling the all clear.

  Soon she would quit this ridiculousness, fling herself once and forever into Luca’s arms and fold herself into the fabric of the Romani community.

  Luca worried she would miss the luxuries afforded the nobility, such as the small army of steambot servants that patrolled her father’s various estates, forever at her beck and call. She fingered the silver-coined necklace tucked beneath the edge of her bodice to remind herself of the hard-fought campaign they’d waged—together—to convince his father that she would make a worthy bride for his only son, a near impossible task. If not for the support of her mentor Nadya, Luca’s grandmother, she might not have received his blessing.

  Her eyes slid briefly to the gathering at the far end of the room. Her sister, Amanda, wore a pained smile as the men huffed and puffed at a feather, attempting to keep it airborne. Olivia simpered at Lord Snyder’s side, careful of her behavior, lest it deprive her of his regard.

  Though Emily loved her family very much, the iron-clad rules of ton society would crush her by constricting first one freedom then another. She could not bring herself to relinquish her plans to compile and publish a compendium of Britain’s medicinal plants and herbs. Nor would she abandon her ill-advised fascination with all things gypsy—her sister Olivia’s words, not hers.

  The door swung open and in danced… Rayka?

  Emily’s heart flipped and dove toward her knees. With a single word, the gypsy woman could ruin everything. Mother would lock Emily away until a special license and a reverend could be summoned. Then, Father would see Lord Attwater march her down the aisle.

  Colorful skirts swirling about her bare ankles, and ruffles at her elbows fluttering, Rayka spun into the room. Each twist, each bend was calculated to exhibit her many curves—all enhanced by the tightness of her bodice—to the assembled gentlemen whose eyes lit with delight.

  All were taken with surprise when the dark-haired gypsy pranced across the room to stop before Lady Emily. Rayka curtsied deeply, her knowing smile hidden from the guests by the black hair that curtained her face. As she rose, she produced a stack of tarot cards from a well-hidden pocket and began to shuffle them.

  “What lies in Lady Emily’s immediate future?” Rayka queried, her voice cloying as her eyebrows rose in direct challenge. Palm outstretched, she presented the deck. “A one-card reading, milady?”

  All eyes were upon her. To refuse yet another game would only serve to focus more attention upon her. She forced her hand to move, to turn over the top card. A woman upon a horse, black wings spread wide, a sickle in her hand. In the background, a man held a rose.

  Death.

  Rayka tipped her head. “Interesting. An end. Mortality. Loss of marriage prospects. The prick of a thorn, the release of a bane, and a heart stops beating.” Her eyes lifted to catch Emily’s gaze, and her next words came on a whisper, “No doubt you hoped for the Ten of Cups, a happily ever after. Alas, I find the reading uncannily accurate. I wonder. Luca or Nadya? Either way, my deepest sympathies.” And then she was gone, a disorienting swirl of color spinning across the room to her next victim.

  All the air in Emily’s lungs left at once, and her chest felt as if her ribs might cave inward to crush her pounding heart. Open-mouthed, she struggled to draw another breath. Luca. Had he been unable to use the viridis powder? Her heart leapt and took off like a runaway train that might derail at any moment.

  Only Amanda noticed. Her sister hurried across the room to her side. “What’s wrong?”

  She needed to be at Luca’s side. Now. “Something I ate earlier doesn’t agree with me,” she lied, pressing a hand against her stomach. “If you might help me to my room?”

  “Of course.” Amanda wrapped an arm about Emily’s waist and, making excuses, led her into the hallway. “What is wrong? Did she threaten you?”

  “Not directly. But Luca…” What lengths might Rayka go to steal away her happiness?

  Lengthening her stride, she unhooked the waistband of her overskirt, one fashioned to mimic a bustle, and thrust it into her sister’s hands. The tightness in her chest wouldn’t subside, she expected it would last until she reached Luca’s side and found him unharmed.

  She stalked across the library heading for the doors that opened out into the gardens. Dark clouds rimmed in a faint orange loomed on the horizon. Her hand was upon the handle when her sister caught her arm.

  “Do you want me to come with you?” Amanda’s eyebrows drew together as she searched her face.

  “Two missing Ravensdale sisters?” Emily shook her head. Their elopement would end before it could start. Besides, it had year
s since Amanda spent any significant time in their camps. If there was a situation, the Roma would resent and refuse any so-called help from her blue-blooded gadje sister. They barely accepted hers. “I’m leaving. Of my own free will. You can help by returning to the party, by delaying the search…”

  “If that’s what you want.” Amanda’s lips formed a flat line.

  “More than anything.”

  “Consider it done. Have your honeymoon, but then you must write. We need to discuss our brother’s condition. Ned grows restless.”

  Their brother. A growing problem ever since the accident. Nagging guilt prompted her to prod her sister. “You once said a certain neurobiologist could help. There must be a way to leverage my disappearance, to force Father’s hand so that you might enroll in medical school.”

  A glimmer of an idea sparked in Amanda’s eyes. “If you don’t mind…”

  “Whatever it takes.”

  Her sister dropped a kiss onto her cheek. “May you find every happiness.”

  “And you,” she called, already halfway out the door.

  Neatly raked gravel of a garden path crunched under her feet as the weight of the indoors fell away from her shoulders. Nearly free, unless… Her mind dissected Rayka’s warning. Death, loss, thorns. All ominous words, but one in particular worried her above all.

  Bane. Death, destruction, misery, ruin. The night of her engagement to Luca, rather than wish her well, Rayka had hissed a curse in her ear, vowing revenge.

  Bane. A more archaic interpretation was deadly poison. Wolfsbane. Sometimes used medicinally, it was frequently deemed too dangerous. Though it flowered in fall, all of it was poisonous, particularly the roots. A deadly poison if ingested, the aconitine toxin was also readily absorbed through skin. In tiny doses, it could slow the pulse, but in larger doses, it could stop the heart. Dread pricked her skin for she could not recall an antidote, and Rayka was not one for half-measures.