A Snowflake at Midnight Read online

  A Snowflake at Midnight

  Anne Renwick

  Contents

  A FREE Short Story

  A Snowflake at Midnight

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Epilogue

  The Golden Spider

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  A FREE Short Story

  Also by Anne Renwick

  Acknowledgments

  About the Author

  A FREE Short Story

  Join my mailing list to download a FREE copy of Rust and Steam—‌An Elemental Steampunk Story exclusively available as an eBook to newsletter subscribers.

  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

  A Snowflake at Midnight

  Chapter One

  London

  December 24, 1884

  “You look quite fetching, Miss Brown. Festive yet decorous.” Dr. Bracken leaned over the sturdy circulation desk that separated them and propped his chin on his hand. “I approve.” Bright eyes underscored by a curling mustache and an amused smile gazed up at her, waiting. But they’d long since lost their charm.

  Irritation prickled. Most patrons were respectful of her position, but not all. She’d learned it was best not to respond to such personal observations, lest she find herself steered into a quagmire. Before her idled the greatest repeat offender. Her grip tightened upon the rubber stamp in her hand. Hurling it was, alas, not an option. “Is there something the library can provide for you, Dr. Bracken?”

  An hour past, warm air had stopped rising from the heating grates. A gentle prodding to empty the halls of the Lister Institute. Though the building would be officially closed for the holidays, its scientists, who all but resided within its walls, required the reminder to set aside their pipettes and flasks, to shut down their aetheric microscopes, to spend time with their family members.

  Alas, one particular chemist was in no hurry to leave.

  She eyed the crisp knot of his cravat, a clear cry for attention. Unusual at this late hour in the day. Who kept a supply of such starched items in a research laboratory? A man with a need to impress. And, for the moment, one convinced of her appreciation.

  “It always provides the most lovely view.” His words oozed, sticky and sweet. “But, of course, I’ve come to see what brilliant, new ideas you have for me today.”

  Evie stamped another book as she bit back bitter remarks and swallowed, leaving them churning in her stomach. Her next words were clipped. “I’m a research librarian, not a scientist.”

  Though she was also a trained medievalist, such was her current title. All personal scholarship took place after hours, tucked into tiny spaces between other obligations.

  Of late, too much pulled her in too many directions. Work. Papa. A certain attractive young man from the botany department. A man who was—she snuck a glance at the clock—overdue. Mr. Lockwood was one particular diversion that she did not mind in the least, even if escalating flirtations left her in a continuous state of frustration. But it was their decision to speak with Mr. Davies, head librarian, about their joint project this evening that kept nervous dragonflies zipping about her stomach.

  And made ridding herself of this exasperating man all that much more imperative.

  Was it too much to hope that Dr. Bracken would take it upon himself to investigate the possibilities recorded inside the thousands of books that lined the walls? Apparently so. Throughout the vast space of the main floor and the balcony above, shelving formed semi-private nooks. Furnished with desks and chairs and bioluminescent reading lamps, students and scientists dove into the knowledge contained within the pages of books, alone or in collaboration. Five feet away stood a card catalog that would guide him. Many of the cards inside it were written and indexed by Evie herself. Not that he had ever slid a drawer open to hunt through its contents, to punch a call number into the panel of the steam attendant who would guide him on well-oiled wheels to the requested text.

  Waiting for the inevitable words, she proceeded with the tedium of desk duty. Rubber stamp to ink, then to paper, making a notation of the book’s return before moving on to the next. Dr. Bracken dragged in a long breath, and she braced herself. Here it came. First the flattery, then the demand for assistance.

  “You’re a fount of wisdom.”

  “I am,” she agreed. No more effacing her talents, no more humbling herself so that he might preserve his own sense of self-importance. She might not be a scientist, but she was a trained professional and would be treated as such.

  Stiffening, he rose from his casual slouch, and a faint scent reminiscent of apricots with the harsh undertones of unidentifiable laboratory chemicals wafted in her direction. Embedded in the man’s very skin, the aroma followed him everywhere and was fast becoming an irritant. The deadly oleander plant he studied was in bloom yet, wisely, he’d not arrived with any of its flowers in hand.

  His mustache drooped as a frown carved itself into his face. “Already students clamor to work by my side. The moment I am appointed a professor, I wish to set them to a task. Multiple projects foster a productive laboratory. I need to be ready. You have to help.”

  And so she did. Her job was to assist the scientists of Lister Laboratories in their academic endeavors. Turning Dr. Bracken away from her desk was not a possibility and, now that he’d attached himself to her, no other librarian could take her place. His devotion to her was distressingly constant.

  This past fall, she’d stolen precious hours from her days to collaborate with Dr. Wilson, a chemist, laboring over the particulars of their all-but-finished joint monograph—A Survey of Metals in Medieval Remedies, Magic or Medicine?—a re-examination of an 1865 translation of medieval medical texts. In commentary, the translator had consigned the use of gold, silver, iron, copper and brass in formulating remedies to mere superstition, but she and Dr. Wilson argued that such metals might, by means of their impact upon catalytic enzymes—or lack thereof—be key components of the prescribed cures.

  Her misfortune to have exited his office at the precise moment one Dr. Bracken ambled past.

  A pretty face. A swish of skirt. A mystery he was compelled to solve. Or such had been his honeyed words. Taking it upon himself to inform Evie that he was a contender for the Hatton Chair of Chemistry, he’d followed her back to the library with a confidence so bright it had radiated throughout the reading room, turning numerous heads in their direction.

  Handsome, well-dressed and rising through the ranks, she’d been flattered. At first. Before long he’d placed his self-obsession on full display and become a drain on her energy with his unwelcome advances and constant requests.

  She stamped the book before her “returned” and set it aside. Resigned to the inevitable, she asked, “You wish to stay in botanicals?”

  “Of course.” A flicker of annoyance crossed his face. In his mind, her most important task was to remember every detail of everything he’d ever uttered. “Work proceeds apace, and I have high hopes of synthesizing oleandrin, the bioactive compon
ent of the oleander shrub, in my laboratory. Imagine the impact of such an accomplishment upon cardiac complaints. No longer will digoxin be the sole option. The future lies in broadening our undertakings to study other related bioactive compounds.”

  So he’d explained before. Ad nauseam.

  Her ears registered naught but drivel and rubbish. If only the circulation desk was equipped with a convenient lever, that she might open a trap door, dropping him down a chute and into a waste bin.

  While he waxed poetic about catalytic organic synthesis pathways, Evie glanced over his shoulder at the clock hanging upon the wall. Where was Mr. Lockwood? Not only did they need to catch Mr. Davies this holiday eve, when the dour head librarian might be moved to squash his inner Scrooge and approve their project, but she wanted to tell him about a donation carted into the library just this morning.

  A patron disposing of his wealthy uncle’s medical manuscript collection had placed in the library’s care five large crates filled with several rare and unusual manuscripts. And the accompanying paperwork indicated that a number of the books were medicinal plant references!

  Though there were other tasks that must come first, her fingers itched to lift a crowbar. What novel discoveries awaited them? Her stomach quivered with excitement. Might one contain mention of amatiflora, a newly discovered medicinal plant growing on the banks of the Thames? The task of combing the scientific literature for any reference to its medicinal properties had landed on Mr. Lockwood’s shoulders… and brought him to her library. A most serendipitous event.

  Each time they met to work, he presented her with various botanical treats plucked from the rooftop greenhouse. A bundle of lavender. A sweet lemon. A fig. When December arrived, a twist of ivy was followed by a holly branch with bright, red berries.

  Alas, no mistletoe or kisses. Not yet.

  It was time to take things into her own hands. Her heart gave a tiny leap and fluttered at the thought of his lips brushing across hers. With the library more than half empty, could she orchestrate such an opportunity today?

  “Absolutely fascinating,” she murmured, only half-listening. Little of what Dr. Bracken said made any sense, save that he considered himself a genius at designing multistep organic synthesis processes. It was a lofty and a tenuous position to believe oneself incapable of error. The moment he encountered the slightest of impediments, she predicted a swift plummet into bitterness, an event in which she wanted no part.

  Dr. Bracken reached across the desk and tugged the rubber stamp from her fingers, hanging it back upon its stand, all while letting his gaze drop to her lips. He stopped short of waggling his eyebrows, but only just. “Take me in the stacks, Miss Brown.”

  Evie’s mind cringed at the double-entendre. There was no chance of that. She’d sooner kiss a kraken. Not that he hadn’t tried to force one upon her. She was tired of side-stepping his wandering hands, but any complaint to her superiors would only be dismissed as evidence of “delicate sensibilities” and lead them to question the wisdom of hiring women. Which was why she did her best to keep a desk between them. She could handle Dr. Bracken. Papa and his airship crew had seen to that.

  Next time she’d bloody his nose.

  For the moment, she wished only to hustle him on his way.

  “How lucky you are today.” Certain he’d not yet read the medieval text that had been the focus of her scholarship for the better part of a year, she lifted a finger. Perhaps a hint of preferential treatment would mollify him. If only it would also encourage him to read. Alone. “If you’ll permit me a moment, there’s a book that’s not on the shelf I think you’d find most enlightening.”

  Interest brightened his countenance. “Of course.”

  Evie escaped to the library office, where a volume of the Lister Library’s copy lay upon her desk—one she kept handy as a reference for whenever she could sneak a few moments to work upon her monograph. With no hesitation, she defaced library property, peeling away the acquisition label inside the cover and tossing it aside. She’d glue it back in place later.

  Returning, she placed the leather-bound tome upon the desk.

  “What is this treasure?” Dr. Bracken beamed, pleased with the special treatment.

  “Leechdoms, Wortcunning and Starcraft of Early England by Oswald Cockayne. This volume is a modern translation of the Lacnunga, an eleventh century Anglo-Saxon medical text.”

  He frowned.

  She raised a finger. “Yes, I realize it smacks of superstition, but there are researchers who are finding nuggets of truth within its pages.” A supposition that was possibly a lie, but who would know until its cures were analyzed using a modern approach? Such was her thesis. “Perhaps it will provide you with inspiration.” She slid it across the wooden surface. “For example, there is a most fascinating recipe for a wen-salve, a topical cure for tumors or swellings, involving ginger and cinnamon.” It hadn’t worked for her father’s condition, but what if its components were isolated and concentrated? It might be selfish of her, but it was not an invalid suggestion.

  Hesitantly, he flipped a few pages. “Ah, but digging out those nuggets, Miss Brown.”

  Bells and blazes. Must she place every thought in his head? “Might I propose you investigate the different efficacies of fresh ginger constituents, the gingerols, as compared to the shogaols more readily found in its dried form?”

  His eyebrows flew upward. “How can you know so much?”

  “I read extensively.” Honestly, did he know nothing about her qualifications? Well, she wouldn’t be informing him of her academic pursuits. It would be a waste of breath for this was a man who struggled with the concept of an independent woman. “Would you like me to delve into the supporting literature and have all relevant materials sent to your office?”

  “What an excellent plan. You’re my savior.” Dr. Bracken pressed a hand to his chest. “Marry me and I promise to set you up as my very own personal assistant.”

  Chapter Two

  Ash Lockwood clenched his jaw. Over his dead body.

  His lip peeled back in a snarl, but Ash knew Lister Library was in no danger of losing the treasure that was Miss Brown.

  No, he was in no danger of losing her.

  Bracken, the bane of her existence, thought himself such the catch that he missed—or ignored—every indication that she found him repulsive. The slight wrinkle of her nose. A hastily retracted hand. The refusal to meet his gaze.

  A ring burned a hole in Ash’s pocket, one that he had taken great pains to hunt down, one that had cost him a good portion of his monthly salary. By virtue of his birth, the chemist possessed resources Ash could never hope to match, a fact that stuck in his craw. Never mind. He wanted Miss Brown for who she was, not for how she could advance his career. And, when the right moment arrived, his proposal would be delivered in a far less toadying manner than Bracken’s public declaration.

  “Impossible.” Ash forced a menacing note of cheer into his voice. If the man had any sense, he’d read the challenge in Ash’s eyes. “All research would grind to a halt were you to steal her away, Bracken. You couldn’t possibly be so selfish.”

  From the dark cloud that crept across the man’s face, he could indeed. Bracken smirked. “But she’s so very tempting.”

  Miss Brown slapped a hand upon the desk. “Yet quite content in her current position with no plans, at present, to leave, should anyone care to inquire.”

  The faintest flicker of a shadow crossed her face, and uncertainty rippled through him. Her job here was secure, wasn’t it?

  Miss Brown forever worried that someone would hold her origins against her. Though most aviator’s daughters were perfectly respectable, a select few had openly consorted with disreputable airship bandits in the past, flaunting society’s rules aboard dirigibles and about the airship docks. Brazen. Immoral. Shameless. Such were the words that inflamed and colored public opinion.

  Only recently, with the rise of luxury airships and the elegant uniforms forced
upon their public-facing employees, had opinions begun to shift. Miss Brown counted herself lucky upon that last front. She might be an aviator’s daughter, but her father had risen in the ranks to captain a grand airship for Captain Oglethorpe’s Luxury Airways. Instead, her greatest concern was that someone would delve yet further into the past, that they might discover her father had spent his misbegotten youth as an airship pirate, raiding East India Company airships laden with luxuries.

  The revelation of such a secret would soil her reputation.

  “My apologies.” Chastened, Ash bowed, then produced a sprig of Norway fir tied with a red velvet ribbon from behind his back. “Happy Christmas.”

  Gratifying, the sullen look Bracken shot this gift.

  As was the way Miss Brown’s eyes danced. His gaze slipped ever so slightly, for it was impossible not to notice—or so he told himself—the festive nature of her close-fitting jacket, embroidered as it was with twists of ivy.

  She accepted his peace offering and tucked the branch into a mercury glass vase among the ivy and holly. “Thank you. The three together make a delightful holiday arrangement.” She stroked a fingertip over the soft needles of the pine branch, then met his gaze with such heat that his trousers grew tight.

  Ash fought an urge to tug at his collar.

  “Very professional of you, Lockwood,” Bracken grouched, “to leave behind the mistletoe.”

  Were they that obvious? It was all he’d thought about for weeks. Yes, he’d purchased a sprig of mistletoe. Almost tied it with the velvet bow. Holding such an item aloft to kiss Miss Brown in the reading room of the Lister Institute was untenable, but he had plans for tomorrow.